A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  The young woman's irises, just visible through swollen slits, bounced from side to side. “I can handle it. That man downstairs—the pale one with the guns. He beat me up and killed Peter. You came by, ran him off, and called for help.” She squeezed his wrist again. “Really, I'll be fine.” She paused. “Downstairs, I told you to run and you didn't do it. Now I'm telling you—run. I don't want to cause you pain. I couldn't stand that. Please, run.”

  Scott pushed up off the bed and walked to the door. “You need anything before I go? Water? Or . . .”

  She pointed at the door. “Run.” Rurh.

  As he stepped off the elevator, Scott could hear commotion in the street outside. He walked forward to unlock the front door. But as he pushed it open, he saw the mix of swirling emergency lights on the street. Some red, some white, and some blue. Blue meant the police. He stepped back inside, flattened his back against the wall, and tried to think. His brain wouldn't work. The pieces wouldn't fit. No way had the cops gotten there so quickly after his emergency call.

  Maybe Click had called the cops to set him up for Budzik's murder. Maybe someone in the neighborhood had heard the gunshots. Maybe . . . he didn't know. But he couldn't give up. There was too much left to do.

  Sprinting through a graveyard of abandoned workstations, he hit the elevator just as the warehouse door slammed open. Scott punched the top button. The elevator creaked and shimmied and seemed to take minutes to rise four floors. Finally, he stepped out into a brick cube on the roof, turned, and punched the 1 button so the cops and paramedics could get to Cindy.

  Now what?

  Panic began to overtake him. Scott's heart felt as though someone had reached into his chest and gripped the muscle. He fought to slow his breathing, to control the flow of adrenaline flooding his bloodstream. His eyes came to rest on the rusty metal door leading out onto the roof.

  CHAPTER 27

  Scott ran to the edge of the warehouse roof and peered down through the night into the alley below. Uniformed cops flanked the back door. He crouched down. He needed to think. If only for a few seconds, he needed to concentrate.

  Across the alley and at the back left corner of the roof—a short ten feet away—sat another warehouse that was shorter by one floor than the one where he stood. Scott got to his feet and glanced down into the alley once more. A policeman looked up. Scott ducked down and waited. He needed only one unobserved second.

  Scott glanced down to see one of the patrolmen disappear into the building. He had no more time. He checked the lone cop in the alley once more, backed up twenty feet, and ran hard for the edge of the roof.

  Sunrise. Purples, yellows, and blood reds streaked the distant horizon of lead-gray waters. A light breeze rolled off the Atlantic, bringing the scents of the sea and—it seemed to Kate Billings—of life. She sighed.

  “Feeds your soul, doesn't it?”

  The voice startled Kate. She turned to see Charles Hunter standing behind her. She nodded. “It's so peaceful here. I grew up in Boston, but, even if you ever see a sunrise away from buildings and cars, it's still sort of busy with ships and planes and . . .” Her voice grew softer. “Always something. Not like this.”

  “I've decided to say good-bye to Sarah here on the island. There's no school today, so there's no need for the two of you getting a chill on the boat.”

  Kate thought the temperature was perfect, but she nodded again. “Okay. We'll go over to the bay side with you. Sarah can watch your boat cross over.”

  Charles turned and walked inside. Kate paused to drink in the sunrise for a few more minutes before going in to rouse Sarah from sleep.

  Forty minutes later, Kate stood on the bay-side dock with Charles and Sarah. The father had dropped to one knee to gather his little girl up in his arms. When their good-byes were done, Charles turned to Kate. “Here.” He handed her an envelope and smiled. “There's three hundred in there. Should be enough to last the few days I'll be gone. If something comes up, and you need more, just drop by the office and see Carol Petring. She'll advance you whatever you need. I'll call around dinner every night. Please have Sarah available so I can speak with her.”

  Kate smiled. “No problem. Have a nice trip.”

  Charles nodded. He picked up Sarah for one more hug, then stepped into an idling Boston Whaler.

  As the boat cut a white curve through dark water, Kate put her arm around Sarah and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  Kate looked down. “What's wrong?”

  “You're squeezing too hard.”

  “Oh.” Kate looked back at the receding boat. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I was thinking about something else.” She kneeled down to look into Sarah's eyes. “We've got a whole day ahead of us. No school. Nothing. I was wondering . . . Is there anything here on the island that you've always wanted to do? Something”—Kate winked—“that maybe your dad wouldn't let you do. Some kind of adventure maybe?”

  The little girl's eyes shimmered. “Uh, Dad told me to quit asking until I'm older, but . . .”

  Kate nodded encouragingly. “It's okay. What is it?”

  “I've always wanted to take the Sunfish out by myself. I need somebody to show me what to do first. You know, I can sail a little. I go with my dad all the time. But you know . . .” Quiet pleading filled the child's eyes.

  Kate reached over to gently massage the shoulder she had hurt. “If you don't tell your dad . . .”

  Sarah squealed. “Oh, I won't, Kate! I promise, I won't.”

  Kate smiled. “Then I think we can definitely get you in a boat. Don't worry, Sarah. We're going to make that wish come true.”

  Kate stood and walked down the dock toward Charles's Jeep. Sarah looked out once more at her father's boat chugging toward the mainland, then the ten-year-old turned and ran after her nanny.

  Time passed slowly inside the abandoned warehouse. For endless hours, Scott's heart jumped every time a rat scuffled through the storage closet where he hid from the police. A dozen times, some muffled street noise or a distant creak convinced him that Lieutenant Cedris had entered his hideout.

  At sunup, he crept out of the closet, crossed a tangle of flophouse mattresses, plastic syringes, and broken crack vials. He peered through pollution-caked windows to see the cop cars still parked outside Budzik's loft. An hour later, he ventured out again to find the streets empty.

  Scott rolled his shoulders to squeeze out some of the tension. He started carefully down rusted metal steps. On the first floor, metal doors with busted locks had been chained shut. But someone had been using the mattresses upstairs during warmer weather. They'd had to get in somehow.

  Methodically working the perimeter of the building, he finally found a wide, loading dock door that was loose enough on one side for a man to squeeze through. He glanced through the crack and pushed out.

  The jump down from the loading dock sent shocks of pain through cold ankles and knees. Scott moved out though the dock to the street, where he paused. The same hooker he'd seen before leaned against a soiled brick wall across the street.

  She caught his eye. Scott shook his head. The woman stared back hard. He was about to step into the street when she shook her head.

  He pointed to his chest.

  She nodded again and, keeping her hand down next to her hip, angled up a palm as if to say stop.

  Scott eased back a few feet. The woman turned her head from side to side and then pushed off the wall. She crossed over a few paces north of the loading dock, turned, and casually strolled to the edge of the dock. The streetwalker stood only a few feet from Scott now, and he could see that the woman he'd seen from a distance was, at most, sixteen.

  Keeping her back to Scott, she fished a cigarette pack out of her purse and placed a white filter between deep red lips. As she did, the girl said, “The cops are still here.” She pushed the pack of cigarettes back into her purse and long-nailed fingers came out with a lighter. She cupped her hands around the flame. “Gimme a second. Just maki
n' sure they ain't lookin'.” The girl took a deep drag, blew a stream of smoke into the air, and turned to walk into the loading dock.

  Scott's eyes moved over the heavy makeup and dirty hair, over a faux-fur coat to black hose in high-heeled pumps.

  She grinned and opened her coat to reveal a black bustier and red leather miniskirt. “Gettin' a good look?”

  Scott shook his head. “How old are you?”

  Her grin faded. “Older than you'll ever be.”

  “Did the police see you come in here?”

  “I know what I'm doin'.” She gathered her coat around her. “Never been arrested. Not once in three years turnin' tricks.” She glanced back out at the street. “But they're out there. Inside the building where that bald geek lived. One's watchin' that old Jeep of yours.”

  “Damn.”

  “Ain't that the truth.” She sucked in a lungful of carcinogens. “I oughta be mad at you.” Smoke puffed out of her nose and mouth when she spoke. “Fucked up my whole night. Not that there's much business this early. But you had them fuckin' cops here all night. And, you know, even this late I can usually pick up a trick or two—old guys gettin' off the night shift down at the lightbulb factory on Twenty-eighth. But you got the cops swarmin' the place. So, what? You kill somebody or somethin'?”

  Scott shook his head.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Right.” She stepped toward Scott. “Whatever you did, you look like shit. You okay?”

  “No, I'm not. I need to get across town. To Boston Hospital.”

  She sniffed a runny nose. “You sick or hurt?”

  “Both,” he said, “but not the way you mean.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “You got money for a cab?”

  “Sure.”

  “Got some extra for me?”

  “Yeah.” Scott tried to focus on the task at hand. “Get me to a cab and I'll give you a hundred dollars.”

  Her eyes moved over Scott's face. “I must be fuckin' stupid. First of all, I ought not to be screwin' around with some guy probably a murderer. Second, I guess I could hold you up for two or three hundred, kind of shape you're in.” She paused, then turned toward the street. “What the hell. Wait here. I'll tell you when to come out.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Cannonball Walker sat in the restaurant of the Tutwiler Hotel. Outside, the oaks in Linn Park were starting to bud. He watched a group of first graders heading for the downtown library, each child holding tightly to a bright yellow rope that stretched from one teacher in front to another in the back, the children decorating the middle like carved beads. The old man tried to feel good about what he was seeing, but a bitter taste twisted his throat. Scott wasn't answering. Canon had tried the number six times after his meeting with Pastings.

  The waiter brought iced tea. Canon took a sip and thought of his mother's perfume; the tea was mostly something like Luzianne, but with just a hint of Earl Grey. He punched in Scott's number for the seventh time and got nothing. But, as he hit the END button on the cell phone, it rang in his hand.

  “Scott?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doc? Where the hell are you? Been tryin' to get you all day.”

  “Sorry. I'm . . . Well, I'm in the apartment of a sixteen-year-old hooker at the moment, but . . .”

  The old bluesman snorted. “We ain't got time for that now.”

  “I'm not up here getting laid, Canon. She's calling a cab for me. I can't go into everything here, but we found the computer hacker who set me up at the country house.”

  “Good.”

  “Wait. We found him, but he found us, too. The other hacker. The one who was helping me. Budzik. He's dead.”

  Canon sighed. “And the cops think you did it.”

  “Probably. I'm going to the hospital as soon as the cab gets here. There's someone there who I think might help me with this.”

  Canon glanced up as the waiter put a club sandwich in front of him. “Sounds to me like you fixin' to screw up.”

  “Maybe. Tell me about your meeting with Mr. Pastings.”

  “Man don't care about you, Doc. That's the way it looks. Kept me waitin', wouldn't show me your bank records, nothin'.”

  “What about the power of attorney I sent you? He doesn't have any choice but to—”

  “He got a choice. And he took it. Said he'd get back with me in a few weeks after his legal folks looked over the paper.”

  “What'd he say about Bobby? Did you tell him I think Bobby's alive and here in Boston?”

  “Man said good-bye.”

  “What?”

  “That's what he said. I asked him about Bobby, the way you told me to. And that old fat banker just looked at me and said, ‘Good-bye, Mr. Walker.'” Canon took a sip of tea and thought again of his mother. “Looks like you're payin' me for nothin', Doc. Figured I'd load up and head out this afternoon.”

  “No. Please don't do that. We've just got to come at this from a different angle. I know about the thirty thousand, and Pastings is pretty much out of my business now. My problem is what they're saying about the fire that killed my parents.”

  Canon heard the hooker's voice in the background, saying, “Cab's here. You need to go.”

  “Canon? There's a street there called Roseland Drive. It's in Homewood. A suburb. I don't know addresses, but our neighbors there were named Pongeraytor. That's a pretty unusual name. Yugoslavian or something. Anyway, if you could run them down, maybe they know what happened. I mean, your next-door neighbor's house burning down has to be a big event in anybody's life.”

  Canon looked out the window at passing traffic.

  “Canon?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I'm here. I'll see what I can do.”

  The teenage girl spoke again. “Come on! Cabbies don't even like comin' to this neighborhood. You make him sit, he's gonna take off.”

  Scott said something unintelligible to the girl, then said, “Thank you, Canon. I know this is more than you bargained for.”

  “Don't worry about it.” Canon looked down at his lunch. “Take more than a fat banker to knock me out of this.”

  Scott stepped out of the backseat into a wet gray afternoon, then leaned back inside to pay the cab driver. He hurried to get under a canvas awning, out of the March mist. Three doors down, a hanging sign read JOEY'S ITALIAN-IRISH EATERY. He trotted through hard mist and pushed through heavy double doors.

  A college-age girl with masses of curly black hair showed him to a back booth. Scott hadn't eaten since the night before. He ordered lamb stew and Guinness. When the same girl brought his check, Scott asked about a barber shop in the area.

  “No. But Judy cuts men's hair. Just two blocks down. Tell her Casey sent you.”

  Five minutes later, he stepped into Judy's Style Shop—a one-woman beauty parlor slash barber shop slash tanning salon. Judy—a petite woman with overprocessed hair and a silicone chest—was experiencing a midafternoon lull.

  He sat down, and she spun the chair so that Scott faced the mirror. In traditional male shops, they usually have the decency to face you the other way. Scott examined his sorry reflection.

  Judy make a tsk-tsk noise. “First thing we have to do is wash this out.” She tugged gently at a wayward curl. “Who's been cutting your hair?”

  “Different people. But it's going to curl like that no matter what you do.” Scott looked at the reflection of Judy's eyes. “So I was thinking I want it cut off.”

  “I could fix it.”

  Scott smiled. “No. I'm tired of fooling with it. I want it short.”

  “Okay.” She sounded doubtful. “But listen to me on this one. You're too cute to have that scraggly beard all over your face.”

  Scott looked at his week's growth. “I kind of want to keep it. Think you could shape it up for me?”

  She brightened. “Absolutely. I'm good with a razor. Just this past Valentine's Day, I shaved eight regulars . . . you know, down there”—she pointed—“in the shape of a heart.” Judy blushed a bit. “Onl
y women, of course.”

  Judy sprayed Scott's hair with warm water and started to work in handfuls of lather. Scott leaned back and tried to relax. “You think you could point me at a decent men's store around here? Somebody who has a tailor on the premises. I need a suit for a meeting this afternoon. And”—he glanced at a desk near the front—“could I use your phone for a local call? A friend of mine is in the hospital. I want to make sure she's okay.”

  Judy cocked her head to one side. “Sure.” She winked. “But you've gotta let me shave your beard in the shape of a heart.”

  Standing on the sidewalk outside the hospital, Scott removed his gold-rimmed glasses and tucked them inside the breast pocket of the white dress shirt he'd purchased to go with his new suit and tie. Uncreased oxfords pinched his feet.

  Without his glasses, the world had turned a little squiggly around the edges, but he only had to make it in and out—just this one trip—without being recognized. He found the main entrance—the one with the most visitors and the fewest doctors and nurses—and stepped in out of the mist.

  Moving quickly past the information desk, he made his way to the fire door leading to the main stairs. He reached for the handle, and the heavy door swung open untouched. Two doctors in white coats charged through, nearly running him down as they stepped into the hallway. One he knew, a surgeon named Smithers, glanced at Scott and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  Scott couldn't move. He tried to get past them, to look purposeful but unhurried, but he geeked out—frozen in place like a frightened child. Dr. Smithers had already turned away to continue a conversation with his friend. Now, as Scott stood frozen in place, the doctor turned back. “I said I was sorry.”

  Finally, Scott's brain kicked into gear, and he brushed past the doctors without answering. Before the door closed, he heard the doctor say one more word. “Jerk.”

  Scott trotted down one flight of stairs and pushed the release bar on a door leading into the hospital's IT section. He'd been only part time—nothing but a student counselor, or “baby doc” as they were known around the hospital—and he'd had almost no interaction with the hordes of worker bees in Information Technology.