A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  “You mean, instead of accusing you in public of involvement in Mrs. Hunter's death.”

  “Come now, Natalie.” He was using her first name to establish an intimacy that didn't exist. “We both know you don't want to become involved in making slanderous accusations.” He paused. “You said something about an e-mail . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Good. I'm glad we're through with the I'm-here-because-I'm-so-good-and-caring crap. You want to know what I have on you.”

  “Natalie . . .”

  “Save it, Dr. Reynolds. What I have is an e-mail to you at the hospital from a man named Darryl Simmons.”

  “Natalie, I get hundreds of e-mails a day . . .”

  “You may know him better as Click.” She paused. But he either didn't or couldn't respond. “Yeah, I thought that might get your attention.”

  Seconds passed. Finally the old man said, “Natalie, you may not know this, but I'm an on-air analyst for CNN. Psychological profiles of terrorists, kidnappers, that sort of thing. In any event, since I took on that job, I've been getting tons of e-mail from . . . let's say, disturbed individuals all over the country. Now, if you could tell me what this e-mail said, maybe I could try to remember if it was one of the ones I answered.”

  Natalie stood and walked to the fireplace. Gas logs burned too perfectly, throwing dancing flames across the rug. “As I'm sure you know, the content of the e-mails was nothing but a series of numbers.”

  “Well, you can't expect—”

  “I expect you to remember communicating with Kate Billings's insane friend.” Natalie's eyes searched the old man's face. She was gambling.

  Some time passed before Reynolds asked, “How much do you know?”

  “I know she used you.”

  “Some might say I used her. A man in my position with the hospital, ah, dating a young nurse under my supervision. It's . . .” He breathed deeply. “It's an embarrassing situation. Nothing else.” Now he was gambling.

  “I don't think so.” Natalie propped her elbow on the mantel. Yellow light from the fire silhouetted her tight upper body through a cotton blouse, and Scott wondered whether she knew what she was doing—whether the revealing view was planned to manipulate an old man who like younger women. “Did you know, Dr. Reynolds, that Mr. Simmons—you know him better as Click—did you know that Click is famous? Really. He is. If you were a computer jock like me, instead of a head shrinker like you, you'd know that Click may be about the most famous outlaw computer hacker in Boston.” She paused for emphasis. “And he's violent, Dr. Reynolds. Did you know that? Click isn't a backroom hacker. He's what we call a street hacker. Self-taught. Brilliant. And the word is that the man will kill you in a heartbeat.”

  The old man cleared his throat. “What has this got to do with me? I admit to having an affair with Kate Billings. If this Click person was a friend of hers, well, that's regrettable, but it has nothing to do with me.” His voice wavered a little at the end. The man was starting to fold.

  “I think you let him into the hospital's computer system.”

  “You can't prove . . .”

  “Oh, yes I can. I can backtrack e-mails from Click to you. I can trace passwords used to plant pornographic material on Scott Thomas's computer. Believe me, if you had anything to do with Click—if you supplied passwords, dial-up access numbers, anything—I can trace every bit of it back to you.”

  Seconds passed without anyone speaking. Scott saw Dr. Reynolds turn his face to the side so he wouldn't have to meet Natalie's eyes. Finally, the old man said, “What do you want?”

  “I want to keep my job.”

  Reynolds didn't hesitate. “That's not a problem.”

  “And I want to know what you gave him.”

  “Click?”

  “Right.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Dr. Reynolds!” Her voice rose with implied threat. “I thought we were going to help each other.”

  “We are. I mean, I'm going to help you. And I'm not lying. I . . .” His voice faded.

  Natalie pushed away from the mantel and walked across the room to stand over Reynolds, changing her position from teasing to dominating. “You gave the information to Kate Billings, didn't you?”

  Reynolds head drooped, and he nodded at the floor.

  “But you knew Click.”

  “After Kate quit her job and left the hospital . . .” He looked up into Natalie's eyes. “This Click character called me and said he knew all about the passwords and computer access information I'd been supplying to Kate. He wanted money.”

  Natalie frowned. “He blackmailed you?”

  The old man nodded again. “The stuff I'd given Kate was only good for accessing employee records.” In the kitchen, Scott felt a little jolt. Reynolds went on. “Nothing financial. Nothing so they could get to private patient records. But this Click wanted money and access to the hospital's banking and accounting records. I told him I couldn't . . .”

  Natalie sat in an overstuffed chair next to the hearth. “Did you give him any money?”

  He nodded. “Five thousand dollars. But I said no to letting him into the hospital's finances. I figured, you know, it's my mess and the money is mine. But I draw the line at corrupting the hospital for my sins.”

  “What do you call giving Kate Billings access to employee records? I guess corrupting the hospital is okay if you're getting some nookie for your trouble.”

  “That's not what happened.” The old man snapped his words at her. “I thought Kate wanted the information to help her career. To find out who was going places and who wasn't.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “What about Scott Thomas?”

  “I told you. I'll cover for you at the hospital. You two are old friends, lovers, whatever. I'll make it look like a momentary lapse in judgment. Several young doctors have been caught in similar circumstances. I'll play the gender card if I have to.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That's not what I mean. I'm asking what you're going to do about the murder charges against Scott.”

  “Why should I do anything?”

  “Because”—she leaned forward—“Kate Billings and Click killed Patricia Hunter, and you helped them do it.”

  He sprang to his feet. “Now see here!”

  “They used the personnel information—his social security number, his birth information, probably his driver's license number and his direct deposit banking information—to frame Scott for the murder.”

  The old man shook his head violently from side to side. “You can't know that. You—” He stopped speaking abruptly and dropped back into the chair, running his fingers through thick white hair. “Oh, God.”

  Natalie let some time pass before asking again, “What about Scott?”

  Reynolds pushed his fingers up under his glasses and massaged his eyes. “You say that Kate and Click framed Scott, but . . . but that's just your opinion. You can't prove it, and neither can anyone else. So, for all I know, Scott murdered that poor woman in her sleep.” Natalie started to speak, and he held up a palm to stop her. “Just hear me out.

  “Now, all you know for sure is that you didn't kill her. You're guessing that Scott didn't, but you're only guessing. And, if you think about it, you know two more things. One, Scott came to you for help and almost ruined your life. Remember, if I weren't going to help you, your career would be over. Natalie, you'd be out the hospital door and flipping burgers at McDonald's before you knew what hit you. Anyway, that's one. And, two, you should know that I didn't kill Mrs. Hunter. At least, I don't think you've gone far enough off the deep end to accuse me of that.

  “So, that leaves us with Kate, Click, or Scott. Do the police have any evidence of any kind pointing to anyone but Scott? I don't know for certain, but, from everything I've heard, the answer is no.”

  Natalie finally spoke. “So we should just throw Scott to the wolves?”

  “We're not throwing him
to the wolves. The evidence is. And I can't see coming forward and confessing to an affair with Kate, admitting that I supplied her with computer access and so on, if there's no evidence that any of that had any bearing on Patricia Hunter's murder. A story like that would only serve to ruin my reputation, destroy my marriage, and blacken the hospital's name.

  “Natalie, it's just like the situation you find yourself in: You gave in to lust. You got caught playing slap-and-tickle in your office. Should that ruin your life and your career?” He paused. “Should my lapse of judgment with Kate ruin mine? Let's face it, Scott's the best candidate here to take the fall. The truth is, he probably did commit the murder. And if he didn't, the police will find that out in good time.”

  Dr. Reynolds let his argument sink in. Natalie seemed to be running it over in her head. Finally, she said, “Just tell me one thing. Do you honestly believe that Scott Thomas murdered Patricia Hunter in her bed while she slept?”

  The old man rose to his feet and picked up his overcoat from the sofa. “No, I don't. But if you ever tell anyone I said that, I'll call you a liar. Look, we can help each other here. I can not only save your career, I can make it take off like a rocket. I see you moving up very quickly in the future, Natalie.”

  Seconds passed before she nodded. “Okay. I think we have a deal. I keep quiet, you save my job, and Scott Thomas is on his own. But what if Kate comes back?”

  The back of the old man's neck colored. “I think she will, Natalie. And that should change nothing.”

  “You think Kate's coming back to you, don't you?”

  “We'll talk again tomorrow, Natalie. Come by my office after lunch. We'll start putting your career back together.”

  As the apartment door closed, Scott stepped into the living room and Natalie let out a little shriek. Scott held his index finger to his lips. He crossed the room and pressed his ear to the door. Seconds passed. He stepped out and trotted down the hallway.

  CHAPTER 35

  Two full minutes ticked by before Scott returned from tailing Dr. Reynolds down the hall. When Scott reentered the apartment, Natalie looked horrified. “What happened? You look like somebody threw you through a tree.”

  “I fell.” He walked over and sat in a black Windsor chair beside the fire. It was painted wood, and Scott figured the leaves and potting soil he was wearing wouldn't ruin it. He nodded at the door. “Looks like you almost killed the guy. He was out there bent over the hood of his Mercedes. At first, I thought he was throwing up. But the old man was just getting his head down—probably trying not to faint.”

  Natalie walked over to stand beside Scott. She brushed dirt out of his hair. “I told you to stay away tonight.”

  “So you could meet with Reynolds?”

  She nodded. “I was trying to get information.”

  Scott's eyes searched her face. “Sounded like you were making a deal to bury me.”

  Something changed in Natalie's eyes, and she smiled. “Yeah. I'm a real bitch.” Her expression changed again. “Could you believe how easy it was for the world-famous doctor to bury you to save his career? The Mr. Sensitivity act goes out the window pretty fast when it's his ass on the line.”

  This still didn't feel right. “And you were just playing along?”

  Her jaw flexed. “I recorded him.”

  “What?”

  “I recorded every word the bastard said. You can have the recording if you want it.” She shook her head and changed the subject. “The guy's a real scumball.”

  “It's . . .” Scott stopped and began again. “Everyone worships success. But the personality profile of extraordinarily successful people—like Dr. Reynolds—isn't as flattering as you'd think. You've got to be pretty egocentric to get that far in life. It also helps to have something to prove. Obviously it varies, but an only child with an overbearing mother is usually a pretty good bet.”

  “Sounds like psychobabble made up by someone who needed to explain her own mediocrity.”

  “Jeez.” Scott leaned back against wooden spindles. “Why don't you say what you really think?”

  Natalie shrugged and crossed to the sofa.

  “I get your point. But, no, that's not it. Highly successful people tend to be self-promoting and self-centered. But—and it's a big but—the world would be a pretty sad place without them. Self-promoting, self-centered, egomaniacal people build skyscrapers and airplanes. In the past, they discovered continents and flew to the moon. But Frank Lloyd Wright, Thomas Edison, and most of the world's great leaders were not really people you'd want to go fishing with.”

  “I didn't mean to set you off.” She nodded. “I guess I know what you mean, though. I dated a lawyer a couple of years back. Guy specialized in corporate litigation—you know, like one big company suing another over a contract or something. Anyway, he always harped on what terrible witnesses corporate presidents were. These rich guys get on the witness stand and think they know everything, or they think they're supposed to know everything and they fake it. Ted—that was his name, by the way—Ted said the worst witness on earth is one who doesn't know when to say ‘I don't know' or ‘I can't recall.'”

  “But,” Scott interrupted, “these rich guys didn't get where they are by admitting ignorance or fallibility. The truth is, most of them won't admit imperfection because they think it doesn't apply to them.”

  Natalie snuggled back against the sofa cushions. “By the way, why are we having this moderately boring, philosophical discussion ten minutes after I—your only friend, by the way—and your mentor—Dr. Reynolds—made a pact to sell you down the river?”

  “Three reasons.” He clicked them off on his fingers. “One, I needed to think a little about what motivates rich old men like Phil Reynolds. Two, you—I hope—didn't mean what you said to him. And, three, Reynolds meant what he said, but you got him on tape saying it.”

  Natalie stood and walked across to a pine cabinet shaped like an antique wardrobe. She pulled open a door. “No one tapes anything anymore, Scott. It's not 1980.” Natalie pushed a button, a small panel slid out of a black box, and she fished out a silver disk. “We've got Dr. Oscar Phillip Reynolds right here in all his digital glory. I voice-dated it and identified the parties while you were down the hallway watching the good doctor faint. Fortunately, you didn't say anything when you came into the room. So we've got a nice, pristine recording here.”

  Scott's eyes wandered to the ceiling.

  Natalie twisted the shiny disk in midair. “Hello?”

  “Are you going by to see him tomorrow?”

  “Who? Oh. Dr. Reynolds?” She stopped and shook her head as if rattling ideas into place inside her skull. “I'm not sure. I guess I need to think about that, don't I?”

  Scott finally turned over at midmorning, this time managing to grab a handful of cushion to keep from flipping off Natalie's couch onto the carpet. He found his feet, stumbled to her bedroom door, and knocked. No answer. He peeked inside. No one in bed. No one in the bath. Natalie was long gone. After washing his face and running a brush over his teeth, he found a note on the fridge.

  Eat whatever you want. Be home after

  my meet w/Dr. Reynolds.

  Nat

  He opened the refrigerator and smiled. “Whatever you want” consisted of one egg, four cartons of yogurt, and a scattering of stained pagoda boxes from a Chinese takeout place. Sweet and sour pork is not a breakfast food, but the peach yogurt smelled okay. He found a spoon.

  A half hour later, Scott stepped out of a steam-filled bathroom to answer the phone. It was on its second run of insistent ringing, and he thought Natalie might be trying to reach him. He tucked a towel around his waist and flopped into a small chair next to the bed.

  Unsure of whether he should answer her phone, he picked up the receiver but didn't speak.

  A woman's voice said, “Natalie?”

  There was something familiar about the caller's voice. He said, “Hello?”

  The woman's voice asked his name.
>
  Scott hesitated. “May I ask who's calling?”

  “Is this Scott?”

  He stood and walked out into the living room, still holding the handset. The front door was locked. Everything looked fine. “Who is this?”

  “I'm a friend of Kate's.” She let a few seconds tick by. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Yeah. It means something.”

  “So, this is Scott Thomas.”

  “Yes.” Now he let some time pass, but she didn't say anything else. His mind raced, trying to place the voice. “I know you, don't I?”

  “Kate's worried about you.”

  “Have you seen Kate?”

  “Sure. She wants to see you.”

  Scott wandered to the window, but the apartment was on the back corner of the quadraplex. All he could see was the empty courtyard. “When did she tell you this?”

  “Last night. Kate heard about your arrest, and she wants to talk.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated before answering. “She's just worried about you. That's all.” The familiar voice paused. “She said you two were, you know, intimate or dating or whatever, but . . . If you don't wanna see her, I can tell her that.”

  “No, no. I'll see her. But not here. I'm staying with a friend. How did you find me? How do you know Natalie?”

  “Kate said you were arrested with a woman from the hospital named Natalie Friedman. I guess it was in the phone book. Kate gave me the name and number.” She paused, and Scott could hear her breathing—the breath coming in short huffs now. The woman with the familiar voice was nervous. “Look, it's no sweat off my . . . What I mean is, it's up to you. Kate wants to see you. She's worried. If you got better things to do, just say so. I'll pass along the message.”

  The call waiting signal beeped in his earpiece. “Hold on a minute. I've got another call coming in.”

  Now she spoke quickly. “No need. Just keep tonight open. I'll call back with a time and place.” And the phone went dead.

  A frightening daisy chain of thoughts had already begun to spin through Scott's mind when call waiting beeped again in his ear. He hit the flash button on the receiver. “Hello?”