A Perfect Life (18 page)

CHAPTER 29

Dusk had settled outside the windowless basement offices. The streets were a different place now from when Scott stepped through the hospital's glass doors only minutes before. People hurried more and spoke less. Drivers swerved, slammed brakes, and blared horns, trying too hard to maintain a reputation as the most aggressive commuters in the world.

Inside the IT dungeon, fluorescent light was constant. Day and night, winter, spring, summer, and fall, computer jockeys moved through halls and offices as unchanging as a photograph.

“Can we go somewhere else to talk?”

Natalie Friedman shook her head. “No. We can't.”

“Somebody could come in—”

“So I'm supposed to go off with an accused murderer to God knows where? I don't think so.” Natalie pressed her bottom against the door to make sure it was ajar. “Talk now, talk here, and talk fast, or I'm gone.”

Scott looped his glasses over his ears and tried to slow his breathing. He studied Natalie's face. She was definitely nice to look at, but not magazine-cover beautiful. Not really. But she had something more than that. Intelligence and empathy combined with . . . something. She was just astoundingly
attractive
. That was the word.

He decided to dive in. “Patricia Hunter was murdered while I was at home, asleep in bed. Somebody—I don't know who—called me at three
A
.
M
. and told me about it. I came down to the hospital, and the cops started treating me like a suspect.” Scott examined Natalie's face. Her eyes watched his. She knew something. The biggest mistake he could make would be to tell her a lie or to gloss over incriminating facts she already knew. He decided to tell her everything. Almost everything. “My apartment was burglarized the day before this happened. At the time, I thought nothing was taken. Later I found out that the two burglars brought an empty Palm Pilot. They beamed everything in my Palm into the one they had, put mine back in the charger, and left without taking anything. Without taking anything I'd notice missing.”

Natalie nodded. This was something she knew about.

Scott needed to keep her nodding. “My Palm had everything in it. They got my online banking passwords and used it to steal thirty thousand dollars from my trust account in Birmingham.”

“Was that all the money in the account?”

“No. The account had everything left from my father's estate. Just enough to finish my doctorate. They took about half of what was there.”

“Why would they only take half if . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I don't know. Maybe taking everything would have triggered too much interest at the bank. Maybe . . . I don't know. I
do
know they used the funds to try to frame me for Patricia Hunter's murder.”

Natalie's eyes darted around the help desk room. “Who are ‘they'?”

“Darryl Simmons. Click. I know that for sure. I found a Palm with my data in it on a desk in his office.”

“How'd you . . . ?”

“I broke in. The man's a criminal. He invaded my life. And I broke in to what I thought was his apartment to find out why. He has a kind of office—with four computers and boxes of stolen cell phones and PDAs—set up in an old tenement apartment.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And I guess you've got a good excuse for torching your house.”

She must have seen the web site. Scott objected. “I didn't torch anything. I was ten years old.”

“No, Scott. The house out in the country south of here. It was in the papers. The police arrived to serve a warrant, and the place burst into flames with two or maybe three officers inside.”

Scott shook his head. His eyes dropped and moved over the floor. “I know the place.” He stopped talking as a horrible thought worked through. “Are the cops . . . did they get caught in the fire?”

“They're fine.”

“Good.” Scott shook off the image of burned bodies. “Someone rented the house in my name and put a computer and a bunch of porno in there.”

“On your computer here at the hospital, too.”

He looked up. “Huh?”

“Porno. We found some nasty stuff on your hard drive.”

“I didn't have a computer. I was a part-time student analyst. I was lucky they gave me a cubicle and a phone.”

“Oh. Well, it was
one
of the psych ward computers. There were all these S and M pictures—dirty, nasty, black-and-white photos of . . .”

Scott could tell he was losing her. He looped back to something she could understand. “It had to be Click. Somebody hired him. He told me. Somebody hired him to ruin my life. To frame me for Patricia Hunter's murder.”

Natalie began to edge backward. The door pushed open another inch.

Now or never. “He was working with someone here at the hospital. I paid a computer hacker to help me work through this. He said the hospital's system administrator could pull up a list of all the e-mails that have come through here. I've got Click's IP address. All I need is to check it against—”

“No way.” Natalie's voice was harsh. But she was no longer inching backward.

“You know you can do it.”

“I
can
do a lot of things. I'm not even supposed to know how to do what you're asking.”

Scott tried a smile. “But you
do
know how, don't you?”

“I know how to do a lot of things that could get me fired.”

Scott started to stand. She tensed, and he eased back into the formed plastic seat. Seconds passed. Both of them were thinking. Finally, he said, “This is the only thing I could come up with. I don't know what else to do.”

More time passed. Natalie exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath. “You've exhausted everything else? Every other way to check into this?”

He almost admitted that there were other loose ends out there, but thought better of it. He needed to know who Click was working with at the hospital. So, in the end, he lied. “Yes. I don't know what else I could do.”

Lines formed between her eyebrows. “If you find something—if you find someone here at the hospital who was communicating with this Click person—will you turn yourself in and give that information to the police?”

“They won't listen.”

She was shaking her head before he got out the third word. “It's the only way I'm going to help you.”

Scott tried to read her face. All he said was “Okay.”

Natalie glanced at her watch. “The next shift comes in at eight. That means you've got about two and half hours to find what you need and get out of here.” She swept her hand around the room. “Pick a computer. I'll walk you through the logon and password procedures.”

Scott smiled. “Are you going to stay there in the doorway, like you've got a wild animal in the room?”

“Yes.” She didn't smile. “That's exactly what I'm going to do. I'll get you into the system. Then I'm out of here. You can sit here and scroll through the e-mails by yourself. Now”—she made an impatient gesture with her hand—“pick a computer. You've got a few thousand e-mails to scroll through, and not much time to do it.”

Two uniformed cops loitered at the first-floor information desk. One—a skinny kid with acne scars—stood with his back to the receptionist. His arms were folded. He rocked on his feet from heel to toe. The second cop was all beef and attitude. He leaned forward, ropy forearms resting on the tall Formica counter, his mouth working overtime. “We need to see this Clement Peoples, uh, in your IT department. He called in a—” The receptionist's phone rang. She reached for the receiver, and the cop barked, “Stop!”

The woman jumped in her seat. “There's no need . . .”

The beefy cop took a deep breath. “I been standin' here for five minutes not able to get a sentence out 'cause you been pickin' up that phone every time I get started.” She tried to speak, but he kept talking. “I know it's your job to answer that thing, but it's my job to find a murderer.” Now he had her attention. “We got a 911 call about an hour ago from some guy named Clement Peoples. Said he'd wait here for us. Said he spotted a fugitive here at the hospital.”

The receptionist nodded. “I'll ring his extension.” Seconds passed. “I'm sorry, he's not in. Maybe he got tired of waiting . . .”

“You got an emergency contact number for him?”

“No. I don't, but they'll have one in IT.”

“Call 'em.”

The woman's fingers shook as she punched in the number.

Leaving Scott alone in the help desk room, Natalie had walked immediately down the hallway to the night manager's cubicle. Like Scott, she had a little over two hours before the night shift came on at eight. She would be fired, or worse, if anyone caught her. But she needed the monitoring software on the manager's hard drive.

Natalie began to review every keystroke Scott had made since he logged in to the system. She wanted to help. But she wasn't crazy. One wrong move by Scott, one improper inquiry, one attempt to sabotage anything, and she would call security.

For almost an hour, she watched the young shrink stumble through thousands of e-mails—finding reams of nothing—until she had begun to simultaneously feel both deep sympathy and growing distrust for him. She'd been almost ready to give up on him when he got his first hit.

Click—if that was really who belonged to the IP address—had sent an e-mail to someone at the hospital with the in-house address [email protected]. Natalie halved the size of her monitoring window and opened the manager's e-mail program. Three or four seconds, and the program popped on screen. She clicked
address book
and scrolled through for bill13k. There was no such address.

She glanced over. Scott had two more hits. Now he was opening the e-mails, printing each in turn. Natalie couldn't see the texts, and she couldn't open the notes on the manager's computer while Scott had them open at the help desk. She waited, her fingers poised over the keys, her breathing slow and shallow.

The phone rang, and Natalie jumped inside her skin. She glanced around. She was where she was. No pretending otherwise. If someone knew she was in the manager's cubicle and she didn't answer the phone, well, how bad would that look?

Natalie grabbed the receiver. “Manager's desk.”

“Yes. Is this Susan?”

“No. This is Natalie.” No need for last names. “I was working in this area and heard the phone ring.”

“Oh. Uh, this is Ms. Selma at the information desk on one. I've got two police officers here who need an emergency contact number for Clement Peoples. Do you have access to that information?”

“Is something wrong?”

“I think it's about that woman getting murdered here in the hospital.” A grumbling male voice sounded in the background, and the receptionist said “Sorry” with her mouth away from the receiver, as if speaking to someone else. “Look, hon.” She was back. “They don't want me talking about it. Just give me that number, okay?”

Thought scattered and then seemed to coalese in Natalie's mind. “Sure. I can get that for you. Just give me about five minutes to pull it up, and I'll ring you right back.”

“Okay, hon. Thanks a lot. I'm at extension ten-eleven. Talk to you in a few minutes.”

After hanging up, Natalie glanced at the program monitoring Scott's keystrokes. An involuntary shudder ran up her spine. She closed all programs, logged off the computer, and turned off the power. She was outside the cubicle and walking too fast when she spun and went back.

Natalie fished a packet of Handi-wipes from her purse, pulled out a white sheet, and went to work. She wiped down the keyboard and mouse, the desk and chair. A separate wipe took care of the telephone.

She stepped back to inspect the area. The chair was right, the desk neat. Everything was exactly as she'd found it, except . . . Natalie bent down to wipe the power button on the minitower, then dropped both towelettes into her purse. She was moving fast as she left the room of cubicles and turned down a fluorescent-lighted hallway.

The receptionist would expect Natalie to call back in two minutes. A minute after that, the receptionist would try to call her. Then it would be a matter of seconds before the police decided to check out just what the hell was going on in the IT department. All in all, she figured Scott had about four minutes before the cops started looking for someone, anyone, working in the department.

Unfortunately, at 7:08
P
.
M
.—fifty-two minutes before the start of the night shift—Scott would be the only one there.

CHAPTER 30

She almost left him there. For all Natalie knew, she'd provided hospital-wide system access to a murderer. But Click's alleged IP address had turned up a number of hits, all to the same e-mail address inside the hospital. That's what stopped her.

Natalie glanced at her watch and broke into a run. As she rounded the corner outside the help desk office and burst through double doors, she called his name. “Scott!”

He swiveled in the task chair and shot to his feet. When his eyes met hers, he said, “Don't do that. You scared me to death.”

“Log off the computer.”

“Why? I'm finding—” Her panic broke through his, and he began to think. “Who's coming?”

“The police are at the information desk out front. The receptionist called back. Someone spotted you coming in.”

Scott turned and started punching keys. Natalie pushed him aside. “Move.” As her fingers began to fly over the keyboard, she called back, “Check the door.”

Before she finished her sentence he was through the door, glancing down the long hallway outside. He leaned back into the room. “Nothing.” Then he seemed to freeze. “Wait.”

He stepped back into the hallway. Seconds passed. Natalie felt the tingle of adrenaline flowing into her blood. “What?” Her voice was sharp. “Wait on what?” She logged off the computer.

Scott stepped back into the room. “The cops—two in uniforms—they've got a woman with them. They're checking the offices.” He stopped to examine the horrified face of the woman who'd let him sneak into the hospital's brain. He felt sick. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Natalie.” His eyes bounced around the room, looking for a way out that wasn't there. He walked toward her. “Start screaming.”

“What?”

“Start screaming. Run out into the hallway. I'll give you a couple of seconds head start and run out behind you.”

“They'll shoot you.”

“No, they won't. Just say you were working late and I came in. I'll give myself up. It'll be fine. Don't worry. Soon as I lay eyes on the cops, my hands are going in the air.” Natalie shook her head as Scott spoke. Then they both froze as a loud knock echoed in the hallway. He whispered, “Go! They're here.”

“It was next door.”

“But they'll be here . . .”

“Drop your pants.” Natalie began to unbutton her blouse. Scott watched without understanding. “Now!” Her blouse was open. She yanked it off one shoulder.

Now he understood. “You sure?”

“Get over here.” She reached out to pull Scott close as he undid his belt then worked the clasp and zipper on his new suit pants. She tugged at a loose bra strap—just enough to reveal the rounded top of her breast—and reached up to put her arms around his neck. “Your boxers, too. If you have to turn around, you don't want them looking at your face.” Scott hesitated. She let out a huff of air, then reached down with both hands and yanked his boxers to his knees.

“What—”

“Hush!” Her voice a whisper. “Somebody's moving outside the door. Damn it, kiss me.”

Scott pressed his closed mouth against hers. There was no passion, only fear. If anything, he could feel his manhood retreating—an ancient involuntary muscle contraction made in anticipation of attack.

Natalie grabbed a handful of fabric at his lower back and lifted the coat and shirt to expose his bare bottom, and the door squeaked open. Scott squeezed Natalie tight around the middle and continued their chaste kiss.

“Break it up.”

Scott jerked his head to the side and looked back at two grinning cops. “Get out of here!” Natalie continued to hold tight to his coat and shirt, making sure Scott's full moon eclipsed any interest the two might have in his face.

A female voice came from the doorway. “She works here, Officer.”

“What about him?”

The same woman simply said, “Please.”

One of the cops unfolded a fuzzy photocopy of Scott's Harvard yearbook picture. Still maintaining a semirespectful distance, he held it up, comparing the wild-haired, bespectacled academic in the photo to the pantless yuppie before him.

“This your boyfriend, ma'am?”

“What's it look like?”

“Okay, okay.” The cop turned to the door. “You two, go get a room. And, for God's sake, buddy, pull your pants up.”

Scott reached down to tug at his boxers, and both cops took the opportunity to check out Natalie's bra. She spat words at them. “Get a good look?”

There was no apology, just laughter, and they were gone.

Scott had his pants up. Natalie looped the loose bra strap over her shoulder and pulled on her blouse. “Follow me.” She walked quickly past Scott and out the door, buttoning her blouse as she went. He grabbed half a dozen e-mail printouts off a nearby desk and ran to catch up.

Nighttime traffic flowed along both sides of Natalie's old ragtop Saab, the headlights of every oncoming car momentarily dividing her face into bright planes and hard shadows. Scott tried to look elsewhere, mostly watching ugly queues of fast food joints, service stations, and strip malls roll by.

They both were silent. Scott was buried in his thoughts, Natalie in hers. Occasionally, Scott glanced over to catch her watching him out of the corner of her eye. She was, he thought, carrying on an internal debate over what, exactly, to do with her fugitive cargo.

She clicked on her turn signal, and a sickly green pulse highlighted her face. Sliding expertly through traffic into a slot in the rightmost lane, Natalie braked and cut into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour Kinko's. She pushed the transmission into park and cut the headlights.

Seconds passed. Scott asked, “Is this where I get out?”

Natalie nodded absently, as if agreeing with some internal thought rather than Scott's question. “I need copies of those e-mails.”

“Can I ask why? The text of all these is nothing but a list of numbers separated by commas.”

“No, you can't. I think you owe me at least that much.”

“You're right.” He stepped out into cold night air and swung the door shut. No sooner had the latch clicked into place than he heard Natalie lock the doors. He walked around to the front bumper and tried to see her face through the windshield, but the interior was hidden by ugly reflections of red and blue neon. Scott turned and walked into the building, fully expecting that he would be left alone the second the door shut behind him.

He used a self-service machine to make three copies of each e-mail. After paying a sleepy college student behind the counter, he stepped back out into the parking lot. Natalie's Saab was still there, and he was surprised by how extraordinarily relieved and grateful he felt.

Scott tapped on the passenger door, and the electric window lowered two inches. He leaned down to peer inside.

“Hand me the copies.” Her voice sounded muffled through the tiny opening. He hesitated, and she added, “Do you want my help or not?”

Scott separated out one full copy of the e-mails and fished the stack of pages through the window. “What now?”

“You got a pen?”

“Yeah.” He reached into the suit jacket's inside pocket.

Natalie told him her phone number. As he jotted numbers, she said, “See that Omelette Shoppe, like three or four blocks down?”

He turned to look and nodded.

“Go get some dinner. In thirty minutes, call my number. You do have a cell phone, don't you?”

“No, but I can find a pay phone.”

She sighed. “Here.” A stainless flip phone jutted through the window. Scott took it. She pointed a finger at him. “Remember. Half an hour. Maybe I'll know something by then. Maybe not. But call, okay?”

“Okay.”

The window went up, and she drove away without saying good-bye. Scott stood in the freezing parking lot, watching her taillights recede and realizing that any feelings of calm or relief he'd had were disappearing down that ugly street along with the person of Natalie Friedman.

Kate Billings watched waves lap the pebbled beach. She reached for a glass on the patio next to her chair, picked up the cold tumbler, and tilted Charles Hunter's good scotch onto her tongue. Through a huge window that let in to the living room, she could see Sarah stretched out on the floor working on a project for school. The kid had called it a diorama of the Lost Colony. It looked like nonsense to Kate—nothing but a shoe box with colored paper and plastic figures glued inside. But the ten-year-old was quiet. That was good. Sarah's father would call soon, and Kate would quickly remind Sarah to keep their secret.

Sarah had turned out to be a natural sailor, piloting her little Sunfish halfway across the bay and back without incident as Kate watched from the dock.

Kate had fantasized about a more interesting day—one with distraught and hurried calls to the Coast Guard and, later, to Sarah's father. It hadn't happened that way, of course, but she had plenty of time. It was too early anyway. Another lost child might have pushed Charles over the edge. Kate glanced in again at Sarah, and the aftertaste of Charles's Longmorn scotch turned bitter on her tongue. She made a face, swirled ice and whisky in her glass, and killed her drink.

“Are you at the Omelette Shoppe?”

Scott looked around the dark urban park. “No.”

Natalie Friedman asked, “Why not?” When he didn't answer, she sighed. “You think I was sending the cops to get you? I mean, after I got you out of the hospital?”

Every syllable he uttered sounded too loud in the deserted park. Each word struck Scott as an invitation to unseen dangers. “People have second thoughts. I couldn't blame you.”

“And I
did
lock you out of my car.”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“I needed to check some things. I called somebody I work with, somebody who I thought might have an old e-mail roster.” She hesitated. “Those e-mails you printed off, they went to a valid address. One in the psych department.”

“Who?”

“Do you have money for a cab?”

“Who was it?”

“Do you have money?” Her voice grew insistent.

“Yes.”

“Come to 1238 Bittermeyer. It's an old quadraplex. I live in the back right corner. Apartment C.”

“I'll get a cab.” Scott coughed. “But please give me the name now.”

Natalie let some time pass. She said, “I'll see you in a few minutes,” and hung up.

Scott sat on the bench and breathed in cold air. His forehead ached where the watcher had planted an elbow. Somewhere across town, Cindy Travers lay in a hospital bed, working through her own set of problems; Peter Budzik's corpse awaited the coroner's knife and—Scott imagined—Click was working harder than ever to ruin his life.

This was a lonely place. Scott let his eyes scan the park and then move to the teeming street to the east. He wondered if the wax-faced watcher was there, wondered who else might be out there watching and following. He got to his feet. The bench had been cold. His legs were stiff and sore. It was around dinnertime. Lots of traffic. He'd get a cab easily enough, and then, if Natalie was telling the truth, he'd finally get a name. Hell, he'd get
the
name.

Stamping his feet to get the blood flowing, Scott walked stiffly over frozen ground in the direction of streaming, rush-hour traffic.