A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  Scott reached for a towel. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She held her hand over her heart. “Jeez. You've been in here forever, so I looked in to check on you. I was just gathering up your clothes. This”—she held up a wadded pile of clothing—“is no way to treat a suit.”

  Scott wrapped the towel around his waist. “Why didn't you answer me?”

  “Didn't hear you. Shower running, I guess.” Natalie nodded at the sink. “There's a fresh disposable razor there for you.” She smiled. “I see you've warmed up. I never really believed men when they said temperature made that much difference.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Natalie turned to leave.

  As she stepped through the door, Scott's face colored. All he said was “Oh.”

  After shaving and brushing his hair, Scott stepped out into the bedroom. She'd taken his clothes. A set of blue doctor's scrubs was laid out on the bed. He dropped the towel and pulled them on.

  Natalie was curled up on the living room sofa. She glanced up as he came in. “They fit okay?”

  “Yeah. Perfect.” He examined her smiling face. “Old boyfriend?”

  “Dated a doc last year.” She shrugged. “Too little time, too much ego.”

  He nodded. “My clothes . . .”

  “Your suit is hanging in my closet. You should steam it later in the bathroom. I threw your shirt and underwear in the wash with some things of mine.”

  Scott walked over to sit on the sofa beside her. “Thank you.” He could see a plate of eggs and toast growing cold on the kitchen counter.

  “No problem. You're a guest, and . . . well, you've been through hell. The least I could do was toss your clothes in the wash.”

  “You've done a hell of a lot more than that.”

  She turned to face him on the sofa, crossing her legs Indian style. Leaning forward, she said, “I've been thinking about that. Some guy recognized you at the hospital, right?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Saw you with the beard and shorter hair. Saw your new suit.”

  “So much for the disguise.”

  “Right, but . . . I think I'm gonna have a problem. The cops are eventually going to talk to the guy who said he saw you. When they do, somebody's very likely to realize that the guy's description of you in your disguise is identical to the description the cops have of the man I was”—she cleared her throat—“caught with in the help desk room.”

  “But there's no way for them to prove anything. You can't be arrested for making out with a guy who resembles someone who may look like me. Problem is—”

  “The problem is,” she interrupted, “I might not get arrested, but I can get fired. Forget for a minute that I have no name to go with my bare-assed beau—which will not make the cops happy—the hospital's not going to put up with an employee having sex in her office. Particularly one she shares with seven other people.”

  “What about Jim Mardy? He nailed some nurse in front of a security camera. A guard finally turned on the intercom to tell Mardy he was on camera. Hell, everyone in the hospital knows that story, and Mardy's still on the fast track to chief resident.”

  “Mardy's a physician. I'm a lowly computer jock.” She shook her head. “Different rules. And it's not worth debating. Look, I made a couple of calls while you were in the shower. Everything you say about this Kate Billings checks out. There's even been some gossip around the hospital.” She hesitated. “Some of it—to be honest—about you and her. But more than a few people thought her leaving was . . .” She struggled for the word.

  “Opportune?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I guess the word is uncharacteristic. Apparently, Nurse Billings was not really known for her tender heart. People liked her—that's what my friend says—but the word is that she wasn't particularly emotional, and she didn't scare.

  “I'm getting off point here. The bottom line is that I'm going to have a problem as soon as the cops get hold of whoever ID'd you. I won't get arrested. At least, I don't think they can do that. But I'm going to have a very uncomfortable meeting with my supervisor. And the cops are going to come see me. No way around that.”

  Scott got to his feet. “I can't believe I didn't think of that.”

  “We were both exhausted when we got here last night.”

  “I need to get out of here, fast.”

  “We.”

  “Huh?” His mind was elsewhere, already planning a return to Click's neighborhood.

  “I said ‘we.' We need to get out of here fast.”

  Now she had his attention. “No way.”

  “Scott . . .”

  “No way in hell.” His voice rose. “This could screw up your whole life. Mine is probably already screwed. I'm just trying to stay out of jail. My future is already shit. Just forget—” A bell ding-donged somewhere in the apartment, and Scott stopped short.

  “Someone's at the door out front. Hang on. It's probably nothing.” Natalie walked to the apartment door and pressed an intercom. “Yes?”

  The voice came, full of static. “Police, Ms. Friedman. We have a warrant. The backyard is covered. We don't want to damage the door or upset your neighbors. Please open up.”

  She glanced back at Scott, who sighed audibly then nodded. She pressed the entry buzzer.

  Scott walked quickly across the room and took Natalie's shoulders in his hands. He locked his eyes into hers. “Listen. I only have time to say this once. You knew I was a suspect in Patricia Hunter's murder. You did not know I was wanted by the police. Got that? You didn't know.”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I came to you in the hospital asking for help. You refused.”

  “They're going to find the printouts. They'll know—”

  “No they won't. You just printed off some e-mail lists, checking for dummy addresses or something.”

  A loud knock startled them.

  “Listen!” Scott whispered, but his tone was sharp. “The sex was real. We've been to lunch together a couple of times, always liked each other. Okay? And—with everyone gone for the day—we just got carried away when we were alone together in the office.”

  A fist sounded as though it would shatter the door. “Ms. Friedman! Open the door. This is your last chance. Open up now!”

  Natalie unlocked the dead bolt. As she twisted the knob to let the police inside, she simply nodded at Scott.

  CHAPTER 32

  The interrogation room at Boston PD looked like the ones on TV—gray walls, metal chairs, and a folding table with a top that was supposed to look like walnut. Across the tabletop, wisps of particleboard showed through plastic woodgrain in the forms of obscenities and initials. A few of the previous accused had gouged out creative anatomical sketches. Some of the more offensive pictures and phrases had been blacked in with Magic-Marker by someone trying to maintain some minimal level of decency, but not trying very hard.

  Scott sat and looked at the two-way mirror built into the wall—again, just like on television. He stood and walked around the room, stopping in front of the mirror.

  Gazing hard at his reflection, Scott said, “I'd like to make a statement. I'd like to make it now. Otherwise, you can get me a lawyer. Your choice. But I don't plan to sit here any longer.”

  Three minutes later, the door opened. Detectives Cedris and Tandy—the same cops who had questioned him the night of Patricia Hunter's murder—stepped into the room. Cedris had led the arrest team at Natalie Friedman's apartment. This was the first time Scott had seen Tandy since the night of the murder.

  Tandy began the conversation. “Hello, you sick fuck. Kill any helpless women lately?”

  Scott trained his eyes on Cedris. “I'd like to make a statement.”

  Tandy kept it up. “We don't give a shit what you want. We're here to ask you some questions.”

  Lieutenant Cedris sat in a chair opposite the one occupied by Scott.

  Tandy walked around the table and perched a fat butt cheek on the table six inches
from Scott's elbow. He leaned over Scott, saturating the younger man with sour breath. “So, we hear you got caught at the hospital last night fuckin' the Friedman woman.” A nasty wet grin spread across his face. “Course, I always figured you was nailin' the Hunter woman before you snuffed her out. Most of this kind of shit is sex related.” He turned his head. “Ain't that right, Lieutenant?”

  Cedris shrugged.

  Scott leaned back, crossed his arms, and studied the two officers.

  “So that's my first question,” Tandy persisted. “Were you fuckin' the Hunter woman?” He winked. “You know, havin' sexual relations with the victim while she was under your care?”

  Scott looked across at Cedris. “You two need a new act.”

  Cedris didn't answer. He just studied Scott's face.

  Scott pointed a thumb at Tandy. “He's got to go.”

  “You ain't in charge here, Harvard boy.” Tandy was going at it full bore, playing the crazy mean cop to perfection.

  Scott kept his eyes on the lieutenant. “It's up to you. But if you want a statement, the bad cop in your little scenario has to leave. I want to make a statement, but not like this. If Detective Tandy stays, I'm done. And I'm formally requesting legal representation. On the other hand, if he leaves we can talk, and I'll forget about the lawyer. For now, at least.”

  Tandy jumped down off the table and slammed an open hand against the tabletop. “Fuckin' little brainiac, ain't you? If it wasn't for my partner, I'd be bouncin' that brain of yours around inside your skull.”

  Cedris simply said his partner's name.

  “I'm leaving.” Tandy kept his eyes on Scott. “I'm leaving, but I'll be back for my turn. Guess I got some time to kill. Let me see if I can't line you up a big black buck with a hard-on for a cell mate.”

  “Tandy!”

  “I'm gone. I'm gone.” Tandy's eyes went to Scott, and he winked. “See you later, smart boy.”

  The door slammed. Cedris still didn't speak.

  “Someone should explain to your partner that graduate students don't really consider ‘smart boy' to be a putdown,” Scott said.

  Cedris took in a deep breath. “I'm pretty smart myself, Scott.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Detective Tandy has a temper, especially when a woman's been hurt. Sometimes it's a useful trait.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  The young shrink shrugged.

  “Maybe what? Maybe he doesn't like women being hurt? Or maybe it's a useful trait?”

  “I've been sitting in here for two hours. Could I get something to drink? A Coke or something?”

  Cedris shook his head. “You give me something first. Answer my question about Detective Tandy.”

  “Okay. You're not exactly playing good cop. You're the . . . let's call you the ‘smart cop.' Maybe ‘reasonable cop' is more accurate. You make it clear that you are the path of reason. I'm supposed to believe that if I can only explain my problem to you logically, then you'll understand—maybe even come over to my side.”

  “I didn't ask about me.”

  “But your partner, Detective Tandy, he's not nearly so sly. Tandy is playing the bad cop to perfection, probably exactly the way some old cop taught him when he joined the force ten years ago. It's ridiculous. Yelling, threatening. Hovering over me and invading my personal space. His job is to shoo me to you—like a faithful spaniel flushing a covey of quail for his master to blow out of the sky.”

  Cedris leaned back again and smiled. “My, my. You really do think you're smart, don't you?”

  “Not really. But smart enough to know that Tandy wanted me to ask him to leave. That's why he was pushing so hard. And—give him credit—he is irritating. So, when I said I wouldn't talk until he left, that gave you the opening to be Reasonable Cop and take over the interview alone.”

  Cedris allowed himself a small laugh. Scott couldn't tell whether it was appreciative or derisive. “Anything else, Dr. Thomas?”

  The lieutenant was smart. He had remembered that Scott had asked at the hospital not to be addressed as doctor. Tandy had used the unearned title to needle Scott the night of the murder, and Cedris was using it now for the same reason.

  “Just one more thing.” Scott breathed deeply to control the fear expanding inside his chest. “You don't care what I think—except as it applies to Patricia Hunter's murder. You asked me to explain my comment regarding Detective Tandy to get me talking. You wanted to open a dialogue—to pry open my mind and get me comfortable sharing my thoughts with you.”

  Cedris smiled again. “Seems to have worked.”

  Scott tried to smile back. “Could be. Could also be that I wanted you to know that the statement I'm about to make is being made because I want to make it. Because it's true, and because I have nothing to hide. Not because you and your hypertensive partner ran some B-movie scam on me.”

  Cedris didn't smile now. He got stiffly to his feet. “You said you wanted a Coke?”

  “Please.”

  “But when I get back, I want that statement.”

  “You'll get it.” Scott held his gaze. “You could have had it ten minutes ago if you'd just asked for it instead of trying the Abbott and Costello routine.”

  The lieutenant nodded once and exited the interrogation room.

  Scott sat very still. He was pretty sure he'd throw up if he moved.

  Scott told his story to Lieutenant Cedris. He rattled off the litany of anonymous phone calls, break-ins, and threats. He told all about Click, about Kate Billings and her connection with Patricia Hunter, about Peter Budzik and his abuse of Cindy Travers. Scott even talked about the wax-faced watcher, without speculating to the detective about the man's real identity. The only things he left out were the e-mails from Click to Kate and Dr. Reynolds. Discussing those would have implicated Natalie.

  Cedris listened and took notes. When Scott was through, the detective asked him to repeat everything. Finally, Cedris disappeared and Scott thought he was through talking until the lieutenant came back with a court reporter. Scott drank a second Coke as he relayed everything again.

  Cedris left. The court reporter followed. Scott was alone.

  The nausea faded.

  Talking to the detective had made him feel better. But talking could be a dangerous antidote to nerves. He rolled his shoulders to release tension and glanced at his watch. He and Natalie had been picked up four hours earlier—just after 9:00 A.M. He felt jittery and weak from having nothing in his stomach all day except two Cokes. But a case of the jitters was better than puking, which was where he had been headed earlier in the day.

  Scott stood and walked to the mirror again. “Don't you guys have to feed me?”

  Nothing.

  At four that afternoon—seven hours after being nabbed at Natalie's place—Scott saw the knob turn. A skinny woman with dishwater blond hair stepped into the room. Her blue lawyer suit was worn at the hem and shiny across her butt. She looked tired and official.

  Cedris stepped in behind her and closed the door. “Scott, this is Assistant District Attorney Anne Foucher. She wants to speak with you.”

  The woman sat on the edge of the table, not in an intimidating or energetic way but as if she didn't have the energy to lower herself into a chair. “You tell a good story, Mr. Thomas.” She leafed through a stack of papers—some looked like the detective's notes, others were typed. “Very consistent from one version to another. Just enough changes in wording, just enough little errors, to make it look believable.”

  “The truth's funny that way.” Scott studied her face.

  Some small energy flashed in the ADA's irises. This one had a short fuse. “Don't get smart with me, Scott. I may even be smarter than you are.”

  “I doubt it.” It had been seven hours of this crap. Scott had had enough. “Lieutenant Cedris tells me he's smarter than me, too. Looks like I should get to be smarter than someone around here.”

  “Listen to the mout
h on this one.” She glanced back at Cedris, then turned her eyes on Scott. “I'm smart enough to know that several of your hairs were found in Patricia Hunter's hand.”

  Scott bounced forward in his chair. The reaction was involuntary, and he hated that he'd let them see it.

  “Uh-huh. Ready to quit being cute now?”

  “Mrs. Hunter was my patient. I imagine you can find trace evidence all over the room showing I was there. Look—I volunteered a statement and gave it three times. You're the ones trying to get cute. Someone—Kate Billings or this Click guy or both—is trying to ruin my life. I don't think there's anything cute about this. Everything I've worked for is falling apart, and all I get from you people is some bullshit act you've seen on Law & Order.”

  Anne Foucher's face colored. “Oh, we're just getting started here, Scott.” She tossed his typed and handwritten statements onto the tabletop a little harder than she intended, and two sheets floated onto the floor. She ignored them. “Tell me about your bare-assed adventure with Natalie Friedman.” She motioned at the spilled papers. “You managed to leave that out of your statements.”

  “Nothing to tell. Natalie and I have always been attracted to each other. I was hoping she could explain—”

  The ADA interrupted. “I heard she was blowing you when the officers interrupted. Tell me, you manage to get your rocks off?” The ADA knew her facts were bull. She was angry and pushing to get Scott to say something he'd rather not say.

  “This is getting tiresome. The detective's partner already tried that route. At least he was trying to get thrown out so his partner could get me talking. I'm not sure what you think you're trying to do.”

  The ADA jerked her thumb at the door. “Friedman is in the holding room next door. She claims you two were just getting started—kissing and petting—when the officers caught you. Now, I can understand why that's the version she wants to put out there. I mean, hell, she's probably gonna lose her job over this as it is. Throw in that she was gulping tube steak, and—”

  That was enough. “You aren't a very attractive person, are you, Ms. Foucher?”

  “I'm not here for you to like me, Scott.”