by Mike Stewart
“I know about the house. I've been there, but I never rented it. I swear. Somebody's setting me up for the murder of one of my patients.”
“Save that for later, Scott. Just listen. Lieutenant Cedris has contacted the Birmingham police, and he's got someone down here listening. They're talking about reopening the investigation into the fire that left you alone in the world.” He paused. “You understand what I'm saying here?”
“You think I killed my family.” It was a statement.
“Do you have any memory of that night? Has it ever come back?”
“Just nightmares.” Scott reached under his glasses and massaged his eyes.
“You don't want this investigation opened back up, Scott,” the old man said. “Take my word for that. If you can make this mess in Boston go away, then do it. Turn yourself in there, and the cops here are going to let a fifteen-year-old fire go into history.”
Turn yourself in. Scott turned the phrase over in his head. “Who are you protecting?” The banker tried to speak, and Scott spoke over him. “‘Turn yourself in?' I mean, advising me to work with the police to clear myself is one thing. But you're worried about the fire. More worried about that than a murder charge in Boston.”
“I'm trying to do what's best, Scott. That's all. That's all I've ever done.”
Scott glanced at a sheet of paper. “I need the rest of my funds. Wire everything to First Farmers in Marion, Massachusetts.” Scott relayed the account and routing numbers. “Can you do that today?”
“As soon as I hang up.”
“I'm going to come down and see you. I don't know when. As soon as I can make some headway in clearing up this mess up here.”
The old banker didn't respond.
“You know something about my family that I don't, Mr. Pastings. I'm going to come down. And we're going to have a talk.”
“I can't tell you . . .”
“Oh, you're going to tell me. I've lived with nightmares and questions for fifteen years. Whatever it takes, believe me, you're going to tell me. And the money better be in Marion today. Are we clear on that, Mr. Pastings?”
“We're clear, Scott. We're clear.”
When he hung up, Scott crossed the room to rummage again in his nylon bag of burglar's tools. This time he came out with the Motorola phone he'd stolen from Click.
On the chance that his voice mail at the hospital hadn't been disconnected, Scott punched in the number. He entered the code and got the usual recording. “Press one for current messages.”
The first few messages were “involuntary leave of absence” notices from the hospital and from the graduate program. Finally, a friendly voice sounded through the little cell phone.
“Scott. This is Canon. Cannonball Walker. Your lady friend, Kate, she called from down in North Carolina. Said the po-lice got an arrest warrant out for you.” The old man sighed. “I don't know why I'm fuckin' with you, boy. Guess you're my stray puppy or somethin'. Look, call me. I'm stayin' at the Madison Hotel in New York.” He gave the number. “You're in a world of hurt, boy. Call me. Let me see if I can help you out.”
Scott shut the little phone as a light knock sounded against the motel door. “Housekeeping.”
He walked to the door and used the peephole. A round-faced Hispanic woman stood placidly waiting. He opened the door.
“Come back later, sir?” Her accent was heavy. Spanish was her native tongue, but the accent didn't sound Mexican.
He smiled. “No. Please. Come on in.”
The woman pushed a stainless steel cart into the room. Towels covered the top shelf, sheets were on the bottom. Cleaning supplies stood in a well in front of the handle.
Scott dropped into the foam rubber guest chair. He tried to think. “What's your name?”
The maid froze. Her head turned so that she could examine Scott out of the corner of one dark eye. Seconds passed before she said, “Rosalita.”
“Well, Rosalita. Mind if I ask you something?”
“Sir?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sí. Yes, sir. If you need something, I can get it for you.”
“No. I just need an answer. What, dear Rosalita, is the only thing that can defeat evil?”
“¿Que?”
“Yeah.” Scott nodded. “That's the same answer I got.”
She frowned and emptied his wastebasket. He picked up the stolen Motorola and punched in the number of the Madison Hotel in New York City. The hotel operator connected him.
“Canon? Yeah, it's me. Thanks for the message. Listen, I've got a proposition for you. How long has it been since you were in Birmingham?”
The day passed slowly. For hours Scott hunched over the tiny motel desk, making lists, drawing diagrams on lined notebook paper, and then wadding up most of it for the trash can. At six he turned on the TV.
The nightly news in Boston looked pretty much like a broadcast from Phoenix or Nashville or Dallas, with a few local names inserted and a different guy with too much hairspray mouthing bad segues. Tonight, though, the news felt different. Tonight, Scott heard his own name announced as the primary suspect in the “murder of socialite Patricia Hunter, wife of internationally acclaimed Boston architect Charles Hunter.”
CHAPTER 24
Morning came and went. The flight from New York descended into a mist that seemed to swallow the plane whole. The clunk of the landing gear lowering resonated inside the cabin, and the lights of Birmingham emerged from pale gray nothing.
Minutes later, Cannonball Walker eased his battered Gibson out of the seat next to his. The flight crew smiled their generic smiles, and the old musician stepped into the suspended orifice leading into the terminal. It was the first week of March, and Canon remembered the South being warmer.
Inside the terminal, he pulled out a brand-new cell phone and punched in a Boston number. Scott Thomas answered on the second ring.
“That you?”
Scott smiled. “It's me, Canon. You get the phone I FedEx'd?”
“Talkin' on it. Just landed in Birmingham. Standin' in line at the Hertz counter right now.”
“Get out of line.”
The old man stepped to one side and lowered his backside onto a plastic-coated metal bench.
Scott went on. “Grab a cab. There's a room waiting for you at the Tutwiler Hotel; it's downtown across from the gas company building. That'll put you within walking distance of Mr. Pastings's office at the bank.”
“I thought you hadn't been here in fifteen years.”
“I haven't. But I've got my computer up and running, and I just pulled up a map of the Birmingham business district on the Internet.” He paused to think. “You got the phone; so I guess you got the power of attorney, too.”
Canon's fingers traced the outline of a thick envelope inside his overcoat. “I got it. Gonna be shocked out of my mind if anybody lets me use it. Old black blues player walkin' in a bank, sayin' I'm the personal rep-re-sent-a-tive of some white kid at Harvard. Be lucky if I'm not arrested.”
Scott laughed. “Too late now. You're there.”
“I don't know. Lookin' like this little trip might be the hardest five grand I ever earned.”
“Not bad for a week's work, though.”
“No.” Canon stood and walked toward the cab stand. “Not bad. Hell, stealin' is more like it, considering how much good I'm likely to do.”
“Canon? Having someone I can trust checking things out down there would be worth twice that.”
“Fine. Then pay me twice.”
Scott Thomas closed the map of Birmingham and gathered up his notes from the day before. Nothing made much sense. Not yet. But he was getting organized. He was thinking.
Scott spread out his notes on the bed and started work again. Hours passed. He ran across the street for a take-out sandwich, hurried back to the room, and kept working. Something was just out of sight. Something vital was there in the blanks, between the lines of his notes.
He jumped wh
en the phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. “Canon?”
Lots of static, then, “No. It's Budzik. I need to see you.”
Scott hesitated. “You sound strange.”
“Cell phone. Breaking . . .”
“What?” Scott raised his voice.
“Come . . . warehouse. My place. Come to my place.”
“Why? What's happened?”
Scott thought he may have heard the word “hurry” before the line went dead. He punched a button on the cradle to end the call, then immediately entered Budzik's home number. The answering machine picked up. Scott left a message for the little hacker to call the motel, then hung up.
He spoke to the room. “Probably finally getting what you deserve.” But two minutes later he grabbed his coat and ran out the door.
Cannonball Walker arrived early for his afternoon appointment with John Pastings. A young black woman brought him coffee. She had rhinestones set into fake fingernails and a beautiful smile. He smiled back.
“Mr. Pastings will be just a few more minutes.” She straightened up after setting his coffee on an end table. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Just had to figure out which one y'all were. Never seen so many banks all set together like this.”
“More banks headquartered here than anywhere outside New York City.”
Canon didn't care, but he smiled. “How 'bout that.”
Time passed, and no one came to fetch the old man. Bad coffee turned cold. Eleven o'clock came and went. Canon went looking for the girl with the rhinestone fingernails. He found a plump little peach of a woman sitting behind a large desk. Behind her, next to an oak door, a brass sign read EXECUTIVE OFFICES.
The old man nodded. “I'm Canon Walker. I was supposed to have an eleven o'clock appointment with John Pastings.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Regarding?”
“Regarding”—he raised his voice a bit—“thirty thousand dollars missin' from the account of my client, Scott Thomas.”
“What do you mean missing—”
“This bank lost thirty thousand dollars of his money. That's what I mean. And this John Pastings agreed to talk to me about it. Here it is”—he glanced at his watch—“eleven-forty-eight, and I'm gonna be sittin' out here coolin' my heels while he leaves and takes a banker's lunch. I flew down from New York for this meeting.”
The woman's round face flushed. “I'm sure Mr. Pastings has every intention of seeing you. If you could just be patient . . .”
“I guess maybe when I called from New York Mr. Pastings didn't know I was black. Tell me. How long you think I'd be waitin' if I had white skin and a thousand-dollar suit?”
Beads of perspiration had begun to form above the woman's thick lipstick. “I can assure you that has nothing to do with it. Mr. Pastings is a busy man. If you'll just wait here for one more minute, I'll step back and see what I can do.”
Three minutes later, Cannonball Walker was ushered into John Pastings's office.
Now Cannonball was all smiles. “Good mornin', Mr. Pastings. Thank you for seein' me.”
The banker sported three chins and rosy drinker's cheeks. He reached out to shake Canon's hand. “Scott told me you'd be coming. We'll get to business in a minute, but first I want to know what kind of crap you thought you were pulling with the receptionist.”
Canon just smiled.
“Don't play the race card with me, Mr. Walker. It's counterproductive.”
Canon studied the banker's rosy jowls. “Got me in here.”
Pastings's eyes narrowed. “So would have stamping your feet and crying. What you've got to ask yourself is how much good that sort of tactic is going to do you once you get through the door.”
Canon's smile broadened. If the man wanted to lecture, that was fine. So long as he got what he wanted in the end. “About Scott Thomas's account and the missin' funds. Scott wanted me to get copies of all transactions—”
“Sorry. We can't do that.”
“Oh.” Canon reached inside his coat and pulled out the folded power of attorney. “Scott made this up. Said it'll give me authority to look into his business here.”
Pastings reached out for the document. His eyes scanned down to Scott's signature. “I'm afraid this won't be sufficient.”
“And why is that?”
“Well”—he dropped the document on his desk—“first of all, our legal department would have to take a look at it. Then, of course, we'd have to verify Scott's signature.”
“You tellin' me you don't have a copy of Scott's signature here at the bank?”
“No, no. It's just that this could take a few days—maybe even a few weeks—to process your request.”
“It's Scott's request, not mine.”
“Right.” Pastings leaned back in his leather chair and laced his fingers over a painfully round gut. “In any event . . .”
Canon waited for Pastings to finish his thought. He never did. “Is this 'cause we got started on the wrong foot?”
The banker shook his head. “No, no. I understand Scott's concerns, and I understand that you're apparently here as his representative. The whole thing will just take a while to work through.”
Canon leaned back in the guest chair and sighed. “So long that I might as well go back where I came from. Is that what you're sayin'?”
“That's completely up to you.”
“What if I get a lawyer?”
“That's certainly your prerogative. Although, if you don't mind my saying so, it's not really the way to go if you want this information as soon as possible. Our litigation attorneys would have to become involved. Scott would no doubt have to put in an appearance. No, no. Now you're talking about turning weeks into months.”
Canon rose to his feet. “I'm not leavin' town.”
“That's totally up to you.” With some difficulty, Pastings managed to push his poundage into a standing position. “If you do stay, be sure to check out our Botanical Gardens. Not much longer till azalea season, you know.”
“Yeah.” Canon turned to leave. “One more thing.”
Pastings flashed his banker's smile.
“Scott told me to tell you that his brother, Bobby, is in Boston.” He tried hard to make the statement sound more certain than it was. It was Scott's guess, maybe just his hope. But no more.
The man's features went slack. He took a step backward and steadied himself against the chair. As he regained composure, Pastings's eyes fell to the desktop. Still, he didn't speak.
Canon studied the banker. “Scott wanted to know what you think about that.”
Slowly, Pastings's eyes rose to meet Canon's stare. All he said was “Good-bye, Mr. Walker.”
Scott arrived at Budzik's warehouse a little after six. He was hungry, and apprehension stabbed at his empty stomach. He parked and sat still to watch.
Transfer trucks rumbled over broken pavement. Three shabbily dressed men wandered from alley to dumpster to steaming grate. The same hooker he'd seen before worked a corner two blocks up.
Scott popped open the door and stepped out into cold evening air.
At the entrance to the hacker's building, everything looked the same. He punched the second-floor buzzer and the front door clicked open.
He whispered, “Shit,” then stepped inside and paused for his eyes to adjust to the dim, yellow lighting. Everything looked fine. He had just rounded the boarded stairs, when he heard her voice.
CHAPTER 25
The shadows changed, almost imperceptibly at first. Then a dark leg appeared behind the stairs. Scott moved around the stairwell for a better look.
“Cindy?”
Cindy Travers nodded. Scott stepped forward and gasped in a short, quick breath.
Budzik's girlfriend had come back for more, and she'd gotten it. Both eyes were swelled into purple globes. Blood trickled from the slit of one eye, and a thick red mass bathed her chin beneath mashed and swollen lips. Her clothes were torn. Her
arms and legs, her shirt and pants, all looked as though someone had used her to mop the floor.
“Oh, my God. Cindy. What did he do to you?”
Tears rolled out of slits that had been eyes, mixing with a rouge of smeared blood on her cheeks. She shook her head hard and reached out with a hand where two manicured nails had been ripped from the flesh.
“Come on, Cindy. It's all right. My car's outside.”
He stopped as she began to tremble with exertion. She was trying to speak.
“Don't. We'll talk later. Just come—”
“Rurh!” It was a guttural sound, one that seemed to physically shoot her pain into Scott's chest. He shook his head, and she tried again. The swollen slits of her eyes gaped open. Her head tilted back, and Cindy Travers screeched out one horrible word.
“Run!”
Scott could feel the danger, even before his mind translated impressions into thought. He kept his voice even. “Where?”
“Here,” a man's voice said, behind him.
Click stood twelve feet away. The outlaw hacker held a stainless steel automatic pistol in his right fist. “You know who I am?”
Scott nodded.
“Say it.”
“I know you're Darryl Simmons.” Scott motioned over his shoulder at Cindy. “I don't know if you're the piece of shit who did this.”
“Keep talkin'. Gonna shoot your ass, anyhow. Might as well say what you want.”
“I want to know why.”
Click shrugged. “Why what? Why'd we decide you looked good for the murder of the Hunter woman? Or”—he pointed at Cindy Travers with his gun—“why'd I fuck up Budzik's girlfriend?”
“Her, I understand. You're a sadistic asshole.”
“That a professional analysis?” The hacker grinned.
“Yeah, it is.” Something moved in the shadows behind Click's left shoulder, and Scott felt his eyes flicker. Maybe it was Click's backup. Maybe it was Budzik. Whoever it was, Click seemed unaware of the movement. Scott tried to control his line of sight. “What I want to know is why set me up. Why so complicated?”