by Mike Stewart
“No, no. That's not what I mean. Obviously, you're a waste of oxygen as a human being. But I was talking about your physical appearance. I'm not talking about the shape of your nose or the width of your butt. I'm talking about someone who looks like she didn't bathe this morning. Someone whose hate and bitterness flows out of every pore.”
Cedris stepped up. “Shut up, Thomas.”
“She started it. I thought Anne here wanted to get personal.” He turned his eyes back to the ADA. “No ring on your finger. What are you, thirty-six, maybe thirty-eight? Spend all your time at work. No social life to speak of. Talking about sex is about all you've got, isn't it? I mean, when life's been as disappointing for someone as it's been for you . . . who can blame you for wanting other people to be as miserable as you are? Sure, you could get out there and meet someone, but then you'd have to quit hating everyone you meet. You might have to admit that life hasn't turned out the way you expected.
“What happened to you, Anne? When did you go from being a woman to slumping around—pissed off at the world—in a frayed, ten-year-old suit? I'm sorry. I'm getting off the subject. You wanted to talk about sex. Preferably something degrading? Something that makes you feel better about your own miserable little life? Is that it, Anne? You want to degrade Natalie and me because we were doing something that you've either forgotten about or never could handle to begin with?”
ADA Foucher was on her feet now. She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Finally, she blurted out one word—“Asshole”—and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
“That was shitty.” Lieutenant Cedris leaned against the far wall, studying Scott's face. “You happy with yourself?”
“No.”
“Then what was that performance supposed to prove?”
“You people come in here and insult me and everything I stand for. You play with my mind. Try to degrade me. Try everything nasty you can think of to make me angry enough to say something incriminating, when I haven't done a damn thing wrong.” Scott fought the queasy knot working around in the pit of his stomach. “I thought Assistant District Attorney Anne Foucher needed to see what it feels like.”
“And,” Cedris said, “she insulted your friend.”
“Yeah”—he leaned forward—“she did.”
The lieutenant pushed off the wall. “Okay, come with me. We're cutting you loose . . . for now. The ADA you just attacked says we don't have enough to hold you.”
“Then what was all her trash talk about?” Scott stood. “If anything, that makes her comments about Natalie that much worse.”
“Oh, she thinks you did it. No question about that. We just don't have enough to indict you on either the Hunter or the Budzik murder. Not yet, anyhow.”
As Scott followed the lieutenant through the door, he asked about Natalie.
“You trust this Friedman woman?”
“Why wouldn't I?”
Cedris didn't answer. He just started walking again. “She's waiting for you out front.” He spoke without looking back. “Both of you will be expected to stay in the Boston area, by the way.”
The young shrink mumbled, “Expect away.”
“What?”
Scott didn't answer.
CHAPTER 33
Outside the taxi, the hint of spring gently pushed against winter air. The wind was up, the afternoon sun shining brightly. Inside, Scott and Natalie rode in silence, the scents of mold and perspiration wafting up from nylon seats and carpeting. Natalie looked pale. Her fingers trembled when they weren't clenched.
Scott spoke first. “I didn't tell them anything about your helping me.”
She glanced over without speaking.
“I think all you're going to have to deal with is the sex thing. Improper behavior. Whatever.”
“The police station.” Natalie swallowed. “It was horrible, Scott. Horrible,” she repeated in a husky whisper.
Scott thought back to his plan to use Natalie's friendship to break into the hospital's computer system. Not a lot of thought there for anyone else. He looked out the window and silently agreed with the district attorney. Asshole.
Without looking back, he said, “We need to eat.”
Nothing.
“I'd like to take you to dinner. If you can stand it.” The passing buildings had turned residential. He watched concrete stoops flash by.
Natalie reached over and patted his knee, but the contact felt stiff and mechanical. “Sure.” She quickly withdrew her hand. “There's a place up here on the right. See. There.”
Scott leaned forward. “Pull over.”
The cabdriver swerved to the curve. Natalie got out. Scott paid and stepped out. Natalie was looking up at the sky, breathing deeply. “I'm feeling a little sorry for myself. Just gotta get my mind around this. Bottom line is I helped a friend in trouble. I mean, a reputation for getting laid at the office is a minor thing. Even if it costs my job, it's a minor thing.” She nodded at Scott. “You're free. You've got the names of two people at the hospital who were in cahoots with this Click guy. And,” she said, “the cops had to let you go.” She looked off down the street. “I think you're ahead of the game. At least, you don't have to look over your shoulder anymore. The cops have had their shot. They can't do anything else to you without more evidence. So”—she turned to face Scott—“if nothing else, you're free now to find out what happened without having to look behind you every other second.”
Scott tried to smile. All he said was “Yeah,” but even that didn't sound convincing.
Warm sunlight cut through the window over the sink, throwing bright shapes on kitchen tile. The tiny TV on the counter was tuned to the NBC affiliate out of Raleigh—some story about a terrorist bomber who'd been hiding out in the North Carolina mountains.
Kate Billings was aware of voices floating through the television speaker, but not much else. She chopped lettuce for a salad. The kid was having hot dogs for dinner. Not something Kate planned to put into her body. Not after all the work she'd done to make it perfect. Now more than ever, she needed to look perfect.
Charles is coming home tomorrow, she thought. I'll make steaks. Maybe asparagus . . .
The phone rang, snapping her thoughts in half. She reached for the receiver. “Hello?”
A man said, “We have a problem.”
As he finished the sentence, a child's voice came from another extension in the house. “Hello?”
Kate said, “Hang up, Sarah. It's for me.”
“Is that you, Dad?”
“Hang up, Sarah.”
“I want to talk to him. I'm not going to hang up.”
Kate's face flushed. “Sarah! It's not your father. It's a private call for me, and you're being rude. Now hang up the damn phone!”
A sharp click sounded over the line, and a faint hum went away.
Kate fought to calm her temper. “What is it?”
Click said, “We've got a problem.”
“You said that.”
Click let some silence settle into the line. Seconds passed before he said, “Your boyfriend—the Harvard shrink—got arrested.”
“Which—”
“Which one? Is that the question?” Click chuckled. “You're somethin' else, Katie. I'm talking about Thomas. He was picked up by the cops early this morning.”
Kate cut her eyes around the kitchen to make sure no little ears were listening, then spoke into the receiver in a harsh whisper. “You were supposed to get rid of him. This is exactly what you were supposed to prevent.”
Click ignored her. He'd called to convey information, not to listen to Kate Billings bitch. “He's out. They didn't hold him.”
“You dumb fuck!” Kate spat the words into the phone. “That means they believed him, at least enough to put off any indictment.” She stopped to breathe—to try to regain control—but a new wave of fury washed over her. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” She was screaming now.
“Kate?” Sarah Hunter stood in the doorwa
y. “I'm sorry.”
Kate spoke into the phone. “Hang on.” she smiled. “I'm not mad at you, sweetheart. That was a bad word. I shouldn't have said it, but I'm not mad at you.” She leaned down to look into the child's eyes and found tears forming. “A friend of mine in Boston is in trouble. I'm just upset. That's all. It's not you, Sarah.” Kate smiled again. “Now go back in the other room. Please. I need to talk to my friend.”
Sarah swiped at a tear, turned, and left the kitchen.
“Goddammit, Click!” Her tone was venomous but muffled. “Now Scott's got his side of the story on the record. Goddammit! This is exactly, exactly what we didn't need. I cannot believe you fucked this up.”
“Careful, Kate.” Click's voice was quiet, but his tone scattered chills across Kate's spine. “We've known each other a long time. Been through a lot. Don't fuck it up now.” He paused. “Kate?” She didn't answer. “Kate? You had best answer me.”
“What?” The volume of her speech was lower still, but contempt was piled heavy.
“You speak to me like that again, and you can quit worryin' about Scott Thomas. I'll take a trip. A vacation. Come see you.” He let the idea sink in. “You understand, Kate? You remember who you're dealin' with? I will fuckin' end you you lip off at me like that again.”
Kate's anger turned cold inside her gut. Some day she would kill Click. But not now. He was bought and paid for, and she needed him. “I'm sorry, honey. You know me. Emotional, right? I just thought Scott was dead meat the minute you said you'd take him out. You're usually so . . . so efficient. I was surprised, that's all. Okay?”
He didn't answer.
She tried to put a friendly lilt into her voice. “Anything else?”
“It gets worse.” Click almost sounded bored. He wasn't. “Thomas was picked up at the apartment of a chick named Natalie Friedman.”
“So?”
“She works in the IT department at the hospital.”
Irritation began to creep back into Kate's voice. “I still don't see what the problem is. I guess she could've been helping Scott erase some of the porno you put on the hospital computers, but other than that . . .”
“No, Kate.” Click was continually amazed at how dumb people could be. “That's not all she can do. If the Friedman woman's any good, she's probably already found something to connect us. Phone calls, e-mails. Something.”
Kate fought hard to hold her temper. “You told me that couldn't be done, Click.”
“I was using a safe IP address. Safe as you can get, anyway. But Thomas got help. A hacker here in Boston named Budzik. Little squirrely asshole used to teach over at MIT. Guy spent days tracking down my IP address, and—”
“What the hell is an IP address?”
“It's a number that identifies your computer every time you log on the Internet.” She tried to ask something else, and he cut her off. “Don't worry about it. You understanding what I'm talking about ain't gonna change anything. All you need to know is that I hid my e-mails to you behind a dummy address that no one should've been able to trace to either one of us.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“I told you. The boy shrink tracked down Budzik. Weak, but—tell you the truth—man would've been the best hacker up here if it wasn't for me.”
Kate stepped around the counter to make sure Sarah wasn't eavesdropping. “Would have been?”
“I cut his throat.”
“Good.” She didn't miss a beat. “What about Scott?”
“We had a run-in.” Seconds ticked by while Click thought back on his fight with Scott and the wax-faced man. “Truth is, I'd kill him now even if you begged me not to.”
“You hear any begging?” Kate stopped to think. “What about the girl?”
“Friedman?”
“Uh-huh. Could be a loose end.”
“It ain't gonna be gratis.”
“I don't have much more cash, Click.”
“Shit.” He paused to think. “But you will soon.”
The thought triggered a pleasant tingling sensation in Kate's stomach. She said, “You're right. I will.” And hung up.
The café was dark. A recording of an old Rat Pack stage show played over the sound system. No one interrupted Frank, but he and Dean interrupted every line Sammy sang with a joke. The waitress smiled, but the food had no taste. Natalie ate little. Scott devoured a twelve-ounce ribeye.
They lingered at the table after the dishes were cleared. Natalie was lost in thought. Scott watched the woman who had ruined her life for him. He examined the shape of Natalie's face and the curve of chestnut hair where it touched her shoulder. He allowed his gaze to linger on her eyes—eyes so pale green that the irises looked almost transparent in profile. And, despite the frown of concentration and the shadow of sadness, this woman still pulled at something deep inside him. He reached out to touch her hand. “I'd feel better if you'd let me sleep on your sofa again tonight.”
She'd been studying the tabletop. “I'm sorry. What?”
“I'm sure you're fine. As fine as you can be after what happened. But still, I'd feel better if you'd let me stay over tonight on your sofa.”
“You planning to protect me?” Her voice was tired.
“I'm sure it won't be necessary.” His eyes roamed over her face. “Forget it. I've imposed . . .” He almost ended the sentence with “enough,” but what he'd done to her was a hell of a lot more than an imposition.
“Why would anyone want to hurt me? I'm just your dumb squeeze.” She tried a smile. “Natalie Friedman, sex machine.”
Scott smiled back. “Another good reason to stay over.”
“In your dreams.” She drank some coffee. “I've got things to do. Some other time.”
He nodded and motioned at the waitress for the check. Scott needed to find Click, but tonight would be spent lurking outside Natalie's apartment building—watching.
CHAPTER 34
The afternoon breeze had turned hard at sunset, gaining speed as the night wore on and sweeping the street outside Natalie Friedman's apartment with bone-chilling gusts. Scott huddled inside the wet mouth of an alley, his suit coat pulled up around his neck like a GQ model, his shoes awash in scattered trash. He glanced at his watch: 11:03.
Earlier he'd ventured over to find a way into Natalie's back courtyard. It would be tricky . . .
A Mercedes SUV—one of the boxy, ninety-thousand-dollar jobs—rolled to a stop outside Natalie's building, and Scott stepped farther back into the shadows. Dr. Oscar Phillip Reynolds—e-mail address reyn13o—stepped out onto the street. The old man's dark topcoat flapped in the wind; leaves and candy wrappers tumbled past his shoes.
Reynolds slammed the door and took two steps. Then the famous shrink just stood there frozen in place, his hands pushed deep into overcoat pockets, his cotton-ball eyebrows squeezed down low over his eyes.
Scott could have sworn that the old man fairly radiated fear. And fear makes people do things they'd never do otherwise. Fear causes accidents and death. Fear can push a gentle man to violence.
Just as Scott decided to step out and confront the older man, Reynolds trotted around the front bumper of his vehicle and mounted the steps to Natalie's building. It seemed that someone inside had been waiting for him. He'd barely touched the doorbell when the door clicked open.
Scott looked both ways down the empty street and then sprinted to a brick wall that connected to the apartment building. He checked the street again, pausing this time to scan lighted windows for curious faces. Turning, he hooked his hands over the top of the seven-foot wall and bounced high onto his palms. After quickly looking over into the inside courtyard, he worked his left knee onto the wall and got to his feet. The wall was a foot thick, capped with slabs of limestone, and it was easy enough to walk along the top.
The first courtyard belonged to apartment A on the building's front right corner. Scott made his way around the edge to the second square of bricks—the one outlining the small, formal courtyard outside Natali
e's apartment. From atop the wall, he could see into her living room, where the back of Dr. Reynolds's head was visible. Natalie was nowhere to be seen, but then most of the room wasn't visible, either. Scott took a breath and dropped the seven feet into the yard.
Boxwoods and dormant grass are the same color at night—especially if you've just been staring into a lighted apartment. His left foot hit grass. His right caught on a waist-high boxwood, flipping him sideways into a concrete urn filled with leftover potting soil from last summer. A gust of air and a guttural “ugh” escaped from Scott's throat as the urn's lip caught him in the ribs.
He felt the urn hit and flipped hard in midair, managing to trade broken ribs for what was going to be a hell of a bruise. The ground came up fast, and Scott rolled to break his fall. Less than a second after carefully jumping down off the wall, he stopped rolling and sat up in a bed of dormant tulip bulbs. Severed boxwood limbs protruded from one leg of his pants. He spat, and potting soil came out mixed with saliva. He touched his ribs. It hurt to breathe.
Scott got to his feet. Natalie was alone inside with Dr. Reynolds.
Pressing a hand against his ribs, trying to hold in the hurt, he trotted across the small yard and mounted the back steps. The screen door creaked. Deciding that a short squeak was better than a long one, he yanked the door open and reached for the inside knob. It turned in his hand, and he was inside Natalie's kitchen.
Tiptoeing across the tiled floor, Scott got a glimpse of both Natalie and Reynolds. The doctor was facing away from Scott at a forty-five-degree angle. Natalie was facing the kitchen at the same angle. Neither of them seemed to have heard his Jerry Lewis approach through the courtyard, which, as pitiful as it was, had taken less than a minute.
Reynolds's deep baritone floated into the kitchen. “. . . called me. Asked me to come out here.”
Natalie said, “You came.”
“You've been through a traumatic day, Natalie.” The old man was using his analyst's voice. Smooth. Understanding. Gently dominating. “I felt you needed to talk to someone. To vent some of your feelings in private.”