A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  “How could this happen?”

  “We've heard some disturbing rumors, Scott. Are you sure you didn't . . .”

  A tiny alarm at the back of Scott's mind broke through the day's panic. “What have you heard? Has someone contacted the bank?”

  Static again. Seconds passed before the banker said, “Well, yes. The police asked us not to say anything, but the way I see it our allegiance is to you . . . and your father's memory. I still think of your dad, Scott.”

  Scott tried to think. “What police? Who contacted you?”

  “The police up there. Boston or Cambridge. I'm not sure which. Guy with a funny name. Greek or something.”

  “Cedris?”

  “That's it. He called late yesterday. Said you were mixed up in a homicide, Scott. Of course, I didn't believe him. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  Pastings cleared his throat. “This Cedris was asking about how your father died.”

  “And Bobby.”

  The old man hesitated. “Of course. Bobby, too. We'll never forget any of it. Such a waste.”

  “So.” Scott looked out the motel window at a jumbled parking lot. “What did you tell him?”

  Pastings didn't answer.

  Scott drew a deep breath. “Yesterday—for the first time in my life—somebody . . . not even somebody. It was a frigging web site. This web site said I had gotten away with torching my whole family when I was ten years old.” The banker remained silent. “Is that what Cedris wanted to know about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Pastings? Was that the first time you'd heard me called a murderer?”

  “Look, Scott . . .”

  Scott's voice came more loudly than he'd expected. “Was it?”

  “No.”

  “Is that what everyone down there thinks?”

  “Of course not, Scott. I set up this trust for you after your father died. Divided the money. Got you out of town. I did the best I could for you.”

  Scott screwed his eyes shut. He rubbed hard at his temples with thumb and forefinger. “So you got me out of town, huh?”

  “People gossip. That's all. People gossip, and a kid who'd lost his family didn't need that. I did what I thought best, Scott. I hope you believe that. You had no competent relatives. No one, really. So I managed to get appointed your guardian. Your dad's life insurance didn't pay out, so I sold off everything your parents had and put it all into a trust fund. Scott, you've been to two of the best boarding schools in the country on that money. Vanderbilt, too. And now Harvard. I think you should appreciate what I—what the bank has done for you all these years.”

  “Back up a minute. What do you mean you ‘divided the money'? Divided it with whom?”

  “Are you questioning my honesty, Scott?”

  “This isn't about you, Mr. Pastings. And changing the subject won't work.”

  The banker remained silent.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  “No, Scott. I don't think I am.”

  Acid churned Scott's stomach. “I need whatever money is left. I need it now.”

  “Nothing we can do about the thirty thousand. I mean, we can investigate if you ask us to, but right now that money's gone. . . . Of course, the twenty-nine thousand and change is available to you.” The old man stopped to think. “May I make a suggestion? Find two banks there in Boston, both a good distance from your home. Let me send you two separate wires, one at each bank, for nine thousand dollars.”

  The old man understood more than he was letting on. Scott stood and walked to the bed. “Something about ten thousand triggering a report to the feds?”

  “I don't know how much that matters to you. But if you're concerned about keeping your assets, well, keeping them private . . .”

  Scott sat on the bedspread and lay back against stacked pillows. “Two wires totaling eighteen thousand? What about the other eleven thousand?”

  “I'll stand ready to wire it anywhere you ask. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Why? No. I don't like the things.”

  “Get one. Then give me the number. If anything comes up, I'll call you immediately.”

  Scott closed his eyes. “Why would you do that?”

  The older man sighed deeply. “Good-bye, Scott. Call me with those banks so I can wire the funds. Do it today.” He hesitated. “And I'll close out your Internet banking account, if you want me to.”

  “Yes. Please do. Can you restrict any future withdrawals to require your signature?”

  “Sure. I'll take care of it the minute I get off the phone.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Pastings?”

  “Yes?”

  “You're hiding something from me, aren't you?”

  The old man hung up without responding.

  Scott lay on the motel bedspread, looking up at a framed picture of the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. The cardboard print had fake brushstrokes pressed into its surface. Sleep caressed his thoughts. His arms and legs went limp just before he jerked awake and sat up.

  Scott's brain was trying to shut down, trying to protect emotional circuits from overload. His unconscious wanted to give up.

  Scott sat up and swung his feet onto cheap carpet.

  By noon, Scott Thomas had cashed out wired funds at two branches of two different national banks. At the second bank—a NationsBank branch—he leased a safe deposit box and left eight thousand in cash locked inside. The rest of the afternoon he spent driving south from Boston.

  Forty miles down the coast, in the tiny town of Marion on Buzzard's Bay, he found what he wanted.

  Nestled in among the cedar-shaked bookstores and quaint eateries, he found an old-brick cube with FIRST FARMERS stenciled across the front window. Inside, two tellers manned the counter. A loan officer sat in one corner behind a tiny desk still trimmed with plastic pine needles and Styrofoam berries from the Christmas season months before. Scott approached the birdlike woman at the desk.

  He pointed at the decorations. “Festive.”

  She glanced up over half reading glasses. “What?”

  Scott smiled. “I'd like to speak to someone about opening a checking account.”

  She returned his smile as if it hurt. “Yes. Sit down.”

  “I need the ability to wire funds here as they're needed. Is that going—”

  She rifled through a file drawer. “Not a problem.” She dropped the form in front of him. “You can fill that out at the counter. One of the tellers will process it.”

  First Farmers was not part of a huge conglomerate that could search every branch transaction in seconds, and the personnel were accustomed to dealing with well-heeled vacationers who regularly transferred large sums for the yachting season. It was, in short, the best place he could find to cash out a quick eleven thousand from Mr. Pastings if the need arose.

  After filling out the paperwork with an invented address, he deposited two thousand dollars, took his imprinted counter checks, and left.

  Five miles outside town, Scott swerved onto a grassy shoulder and stepped out into winter air. Leaning over, he vomited into snow-frosted grass.

  Lingering sunlight still tinged the Boston skyline as Scott rolled to a stop outside Peter Budzik's warehouse loft. Half a block down, a grizzled old man in a black topcoat carried on a casual conversation with a hooker. As they spoke, the old man unzipped his pants and turned to urinate against Budzik's building. The hooker walked away laughing as the man stumbled and then slumped on the sidewalk next to his steaming puddle.

  Scott stepped out into bitter air, steadied himself against a cold fender, and breathed deeply. When he looked up, the hooker was walking in his direction. Scott shook his head at her, but she kept coming. He turned and walked into the alcove to Budzik's building, where he was immediately buzzed inside.

  He was, after all, expected.

  The service elevator opened as he approached. Upstairs, the stainless steel door to Budzik's apartment was already open when the
elevator doors parted. But this time little Cindy was nowhere to be seen.

  Scott paused outside the door and tried to shake the growing sense that something had changed. He jumped when Cindy appeared. The chipper Junior Leaguer he'd met the day before was gone. The tiny woman before him looked physically and emotionally bruised. Makeup covered an oblong lump over her right eye.

  Scott spoke first. “Hello.”

  “Please come in.” She stepped aside.

  Scott first pretended not to notice her condition. “Peter is expecting me.”

  “Go on up.” She hesitated as if gathering her thoughts, but all she added was “Please.”

  He started for the stairs, then turned back. “Are you all right?”

  She shrugged.

  Scott looked around the room. “Get your things together. When I come back down, you're leaving here with me.”

  “I can't.” Tears began to roll down swollen cheeks, cutting crooked paths through heavy makeup. “You don't understand. He needs me.”

  The phrase “born victim” floated through his mind. But Scott knew better. Not born. No. Someone had made her this way, someone long before Peter Budzik. The hacker had only spotted a wounded bird and then taken the opportunity to stab, pull, and pick at the existing wound.

  Some people you can't help. Some you have to help in spite of themselves. “Be ready when I come down.”

  She visibly trembled. “You don't know what he'll do to me—”

  “Cindy!” Scott snapped her name. “You'd do better to worry about what I'll do to both of you if you don't leave here with me. Now get your butt to wherever your stuff is and get packed. I'll be down shortly.”

  Her face softened. “You won't hurt me, will you?”

  Nausea began to gnaw at his gut. “Get ready.” He turned to leave. By the time he'd reached the stairs, Cindy had disappeared.

  On the fourth floor, he found Budzik bent over the same computer screen.

  Scott said, “I have your money.”

  The little man turned. His shoulders relaxed. “Show me.”

  Scott reached inside his coat and fished out a plain envelope. He thumbed it open with one hand to show the bills.

  “Okay.”

  Scott tossed the envelope onto the computer table.

  “Scott Thomas. I got your man, but”—Budzik smiled—“you are in a world of shit.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Cannonball Walker's stomach growled. The bellman should have come up by now. The old man had held the hotel room late—paying for a night he wouldn't sleep in Boston—waiting by the phone, needing to hear from Scott Thomas and dreading it at the same time. Now there was just enough time for dinner if he was going to make it to New York and a soft bed by midnight.

  The old man walked into the bathroom. He filled a squat glass with tap water and drank. A knock sounded on the outside door, and he walked out to answer.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Walker?”

  The old bluesman opened the door and studied the visitor in the hallway. “You a cop?”

  The detective nodded. He let his eyes wander over the old man's dark clothes. “Can I come in?”

  “Got a name?”

  “Cedris. Detective. I met you at Scott Thomas's apartment.”

  Walker nodded and stepped aside. “Waitin' on somebody to carry down my bags.” He turned and walked into the room, leaving the door open behind him. “Gettin' ready to leave.” The old man sat down in the only chair. “Hope you ain't gonna mess that up.”

  “Have you heard from Scott Thomas?”

  “You saw me with him.”

  “Today. Have you heard from him today?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Nope.”

  “You're not being very helpful, Mr. Walker.”

  “Like it better if I lied to you?”

  “Well, if you do see him, tell him he needs to turn himself in to the police. Can you do that?”

  Walker smiled. “I can tell him that's what you say.”

  Cedris grunted and walked out. The door was still open when a uniformed bellman appeared. The young man put on his tip face and stepped into the room.

  Peter Budzik's fingers played over the keyboard like ants swarming an anthill.

  Scott's eyes searched the screen. “What's his name?”

  “It's not that simple.”

  “That doesn't sound like a five-thousand-dollar answer.”

  Budzik shook his head and pushed back from the screen. “We're just getting started. I said I could get you what you need for five grand, five hundred, and that's what I'm going to do.” He crossed one leg over the other and began to wiggle his foot. “I want you along for the ride, Scott. I want you to know when you get a name that it's the right name.”

  Scott studied the little man's face. “Okay” was all he said.

  “Let's start with the web site, The Ones Who Got Away dot com. Yesterday when we talked, I'd already downloaded the code from the site. What I did earlier today was print everything out and take a more thorough look at it.” He pushed nervously at the nosepiece of horn-rimmed glasses, and Scott saw that the little man's delicate knuckles were red from hitting something or someone. “You see, whenever anyone creates a web site, that site has to be registered with a service that is approved by the federal government. Understand?”

  “So far.”

  “Nobody can create a site without registering it. And you can't register a web site without a valid e-mail address. Of course, the registration group requires a hell of a lot more than that. Names, addresses, lots of stuff. But the only thing they ever check is the e-mail address. The registering company always contacts the listed e-mail address to verify that the web-site administrator is, in fact, at that address.”

  The guy turned Scott's stomach. He tried to cut the lecture short. “So we've got the creator's e-mail address, right?”

  Budzik shook his egg of a head. “Would that it were that simple. What I have is one of the creator's e-mail addresses. I mean, if it were a legitimate site, like a business or a school or something, we'd have a valid address.”

  “I thought you said it had to be valid to register the site.”

  Budzik shook his head some more. “That's why I'm explaining all this to you. You've got to listen. The registered e-mail address has to be a valid address. It doesn't have to be the creator's only address. Neither does it have to be registered in the creator's real name.”

  “So,” Scott said, “all we've got is an e-mail address that can't be tied to anyone.”

  Budzik sighed. “Not exactly. We've got an e-mail address that can be Googled. And we can search news groups—which, by the way, are the nastiest places on the Internet. We can do a lot.

  “Also—and this is our second clue—you need to understand that every time anyone visits a web site, they leave a fingerprint.” The little man picked up a sheaf of papers from the desktop and leafed through the pages. “Here, look at this.”

  Scott took the sheet and studied a page-long list of abbreviations and strings of numbers separated and punctuated by slashes and brackets. “Okay. Now, what the hell am I looking at?”

  “That”—he grinned—“is what you leave behind every time you visit a web site.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “Nope. All that. And right there at the beginning is the IP, or Internet Protocol, address of the computer that logged onto the site. Every computer on the Internet is assigned an IP number whenever it logs on. That means that if you're using a dial-up connection—you know, a regular phone line—then you've got a different IP number every time you log on. But—and this is the good part—if you have cable access or a DSL connection, then you're always connected.”

  “And you've always got the same IP number.”

  “Right. And no self-respecting hacker uses a dial-up connection. So, in that one way, hackers can be easier to trace than a casual user. And here's something tha
t could come in useful in the future if you want to check who this guy is working with. Every e-mail ever sent contains the sending computer's IP address.”

  “I've never seen anything like that on my e-mail.”

  Budzik rolled his eyes. “That's because almost every ISP—America Online, Earthlink, Yahoo, the Bell companies, pretty much everybody—hides the IP number as a default setting. It's there, you just don't see it.”

  “And how's that . . .”

  “You've got the IP address, right? Well, if you think the guy is communicating with someone at your hospital, for example, you can go to the system administrator and ask him to run a search for the number. The printout should show which e-mail addresses at the hospital the guy's been contacting.” He shook his head as if trying to rattle something inside. “But we're getting off the point. You want to know how I found your guy this time.”

  “Actually, I just need a name.”

  Budzik seemed not to hear. “Okay, now we can narrow the search by going to the American Registry of Internet Numbers at arin dot net. See here.” He typed the IP address into a box at the upper right of the screen. “Look.” He pointed to a reply line reading: OrgName: BellAtlantic.net Inc. “So it's looking more like the hacker's in Boston, since he's on Bell Atlantic. But we can check this further by doing a nslookup from a Windows 2000 DOS prompt.” He changed screens and typed in the IP address again.

  This time, along with the usual geek-speak, the reply read: Server: ns.bos.bellatlantic.net.

  “You see the b-o-s?” Budzik tapped the screen excitedly. “That verifies that your guy is right here in Boston.”

  “And his name is?”

  “Okay, okay. We're getting there. Here's the deal. Nobody—and I mean nobody—ever created a web site without logging on to check out his or her handiwork. You know, to make sure the thing looks good and works the way it's supposed to. And”—he changed web sites and tapped the screen where Scott's own disturbing little page was displayed—“this site just ain't been up that long. So”—he beamed—“I managed to find a frequent visitor that I could trace to the registered e-mail address.” Budzik reached back and laced his fingers behind his head. Clearly, the little man felt some sense of accomplishment that Scott did not share.