A Perfect Life (26 page)

“I will, but . . .”

He stopped. “What is it?”

She held up her glass of wine. “I was hoping you'd join me for a drink. I wouldn't mind hearing what's going on back in Boston.”

Charles looked longingly out at the dark patio. Kate watched, thinking how the man had gotten used to being alone, how he'd grown accustomed to wallowing in private thoughts. He seemed to be living in some private world out there—living in the presence of ghosts more real than the breathing bodies inside the walls of his home. But after a brief hesitation, he walked over to sit on the opposite end of the sofa from her. He smiled encouragingly. “Of course. What would you like to talk about? I can tell you one thing, the weather down here is heaven compared to the cold wet mess in Boston when I left.”

Kate nodded and prodded, carefully listening for subjects that seemed to spark Charles's interest and then pushing and pulling the conversation in whatever direction seemed most amusing to him. They had been talking for twenty minutes when Sarah came in and said good night. Charles left to tuck her in alone, but Kate knew she was on the right track when he came back, mixed another drink, and, without thinking, sat down and picked up their conversation where he'd left off.

Kate's satin robe was proper—floor length, solid, tied at the waist. Her nightgown beneath the robe considerably less proper. Not slutty. Just low and high and lacy.

She used a trip to the bar for more wine as a pretense to let her gown fall open—not too far, just enough—as she sat back down beside Charles. She was closer now. Close enough for him to smell her cologne. After all, the man had already downed half a dozen drinks. She smiled and looked into his eyes. He smiled and looked at her cleavage. He was forty-five; she was twenty-eight. He'd been in a loveless marriage and then alone. And Kate had always known, almost innately, that men can only take so much.

“Your robe is open.” His words slurred a bit at the ends.

She looked down. “Do you mind?”

“No.” He smiled. “I don't mind, but Sarah . . .”

“Sarah's sound asleep. Here.” She untied her sash and let the robe fall away. “Is that better?”

Charles said, “I don't think this is right,” but his eyes continued to roam from legs to breasts and back again.

“I've been thinking about you while you were gone.”

“Really?” He slurred again.

Men are idiots. “Sure.” She scooted closer. “Can I hold your hand?”

Charles held out his hand like an obedient child. She took it in hers, slid his fingers beneath her top, and pressed his palm against her breast. All she said was “There.”

He began to massage her breast and leaned in for a hungry, fumbling, overanxious kiss. When he pulled back, Charles whispered, “It's been a long time.” Kate reached over to squeeze his obvious erection, and he smiled. “Like riding a bike, huh?”

She began to unzip his fly. “Tell you what, Charles. You're the one with the cast on his foot, so why don't you let
me
do the riding this time?”

He kissed her harder, and all Kate could think was how easy it had been. It should have taken longer. He should, at the very least, have insisted on going to a locked bedroom. He should have done a lot of things.

She was on top of him now, pulling off her lace gown, watching his eyes devour her perfect breasts even before his mouth reached her nipples. Kate smiled down at the happy drunk suckling her breast.

Men, she thought, are such idiots.

CHAPTER 40

Scott told the cabby to drop them at the Plaza. Natalie looked surprised, then gently nodded. They went in through the famous front entrance, cut through the ornate lobby, and exited the side door facing Central Park. Scott pointed left. “It's a few blocks up this way.”

“You know New York?”

“Not really. I got a couple of mercy invitations for Christmas in the city when I was in prep school. Usually I had more self-respect, but I figured a free trip to New York during the holidays was worth a little compromise.”

The day was bright but cold. Natalie turned up the collar on her coat. “I need to make a phone call. And we both need to eat.”

“Sorry. Guess I'm on a mission.” Scott stopped and looked around. “What are you in the mood for? We're in the heart of New York City, land of ten thousand mediocre restaurants.”

“I thought some of the best restaurants in the world were here.”

“They are. A handful. It's just that we probably ain't gonna have lunch in one of the world's greatest, and the average eatery in New York is pretty average compared to what you'd find in New Orleans or San Francisco.”

Natalie shuddered against the wind. “Just how many mercy invitations did you accept?”

Scott smiled. “Two. The rest is . . .” He looked uncomfortable. “You do a lot of traveling when there's nowhere else to go. No home and hearth, so I drove and bused and hitchhiked all over the country in the summers. I could never afford Europe, but I made it from one end of America to the other.”

“Well, Mr. Restaurant, pick a place. But first I need to make that call.”

“Okay.” He stopped and looked down at the sidewalk. “Who do you need to call? I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

Natalie turned to face him. “I wasn't asking permission. My cell's out of juice, and I need to find a public phone. And
who
I'm going to call is my business.”

Scott took her elbow and turned left. “Let's try this way.”

Two blocks down, he spotted a rare public phone and pointed it out to Natalie. She had a strange look on her face. “Okay. Wait here. This is private.”

Scott nodded.

Natalie walked to the telephone. She had memorized the number for safety. Turning her back to Scott, she used zero-plus dialing to place a collect call to Homicide Lieutenant Victor Cedris at the Boston Police Department.

They reached the parking garage a few minutes past two that afternoon. Natalie carried a small suitcase and a computer case, Scott a bulging backpack. He approached a filthy glass cubicle next to the entrance. A small dark man sat inside smoking a thin cigar.

“Hello.”

The little man's eyes moved. Nothing else.

“I'm here to pick up Cannonball Walker's car.”

“Caneen boll?”

Scott tried to enunciate. “Can-non-ball Wal-ker.”

“Caneen boll?”

Scott sighed. Natalie poked him in the ribs. “Say yes.”

“What?”

“Say yes.”

Scott put his mouth near a round cutout in the glass. “Yes.”

“Caneen boll, yes?”

“Cannonball, yes.”

The little man nodded and pointed over his shoulder. “Offeece.”

Scott leaned in. “What?”

Natalie rolled her eyes. “Good God. Who looked after you on those trips around the country? He's saying to go to the office inside.”

“Oh,” Scott said, “thanks,” and smiled. The little man read the newspaper.

Natalie took the lead, pulling Scott around the wigwag and into the dark garage. Bare bulbs glowed faintly around corners and behind concrete partitions. Cars were jammed into small spaces, with no more than a hand's width between them, making Scott wonder how the attendant opened the doors to get in and drive them out.

As Scott wondered about such things, Natalie followed some innate sense of direction to a glassed-in office at the back corner of the first floor. Inside, another dark man—this one bald and round—sat at a gray metal desk flipping through stacks of small, white papers.

Natalie knocked.

“See the attendant.” His accent hovered somewhere between French and Arabic.

She knocked again.

He didn't look up. “See the attendant.”

Now she banged on the glass door.

“Goddammit!” He got uncomfortably to his feet. “I said to—”

Natalie matched his tone. “We're here for Cannonball Walker's car. The attendant sent us to
you
.”

“Tell man there to step up where I see him.”

Scott joined Natalie in front of the glass door. He tried to look unthreatening.

“Your hair supposed to be long.”

“I cut it.”

The round man nodded. He waddled over, turned a flip dead bolt, and waddled back to his chair. He did not open the door. Scott turned the knob and gave it a shove, stepping aside to let Natalie enter ahead of him.

The man ogled Natalie, but spoke to Scott. “You Cannonball's friend?”

“That's right. Do you need to see some ID?”

The guy acted as though Scott had asked if he wanted acid in his coffee. “No! No ID. Cannonball say you'll be here today. He say with curly hair and glasses, you be with a woman.” He shrugged. “Good enough for me.” The office was as cold as the street, but sweat beaded on the man's bald pate as he opened a drawer and fished out car keys. “Here. Give to the attendant. He get car for you.”

Scott stepped forward and took the keys. “Thanks.”

“Sure, sure. I got something for you.”

“From Cannonball?”

He shook his sweaty, round head. “No. Man stop by a while ago. Say you two eating lunch. Asked me to give you this.” He held out an woman's oxblood billfold. Natalie made a small yelp as she inhaled and reached for the wallet. She unsnapped it and looked at the license. The garage owner looked frightened. “Everything there. You check. Everything there. He say if I take anything, he be back.”

Scott spoke first. “Is it yours?”

Natalie nodded. “I had it on the train.”

“Shit!” Scott turned to the garage man. “What did he look like?”

The man ignored him. He was focused on Natalie. “Everything there?”

Natalie flipped through papers and photos, credit cards and cash. “Yes. It's all here.”

Scott's voice grew louder. “I asked you what he looked like.”

The man shook his head, sending rivulets of sweat trickling down bulging jowls. “No way.” Scott took a step forward, and the man shook his head again. “You beat me up, but this man he kill me. Look, look, I'm doing Cannonball a favor. Doing you a favor. Leave me alone. Not my fault man came to see me. Not my fault he steal lady's purse.” He swiveled in his chair to fully face Scott, held his open hands in front of his belly palms down, and made a gesture like an umpire signaling a runner safe at home. “We done here. Take Cannonball's car and go.”

Scott wasn't going to beat information out of an old fat man who'd done nothing wrong, and everyone in the room knew it. Natalie tugged at Scott's sleeve, and they left.

Two hours later, Scott and Natalie were clear of the city and heading south. Fear gnawed at their stomachs. He felt cold and nauseated; so did she. Neither one mentioned it for the next two hundred miles.

Natalie looked out at the Maryland countryside—pastures and timberland split by pavement and an invisible line of lingering exhaust. She broke the silence. “How'd you get her address?”

Scott's mind had grown dull gazing at miles of interstate. “Huh?”

“Kate's address. How'd you get it?”

“Oh. I called Charles Hunter's office in Boston. The receptionist told me they've got a branch someplace called Spinnaker Island on the North Carolina coast. I don't have Kate's address. Just the office.”

Natalie nodded. “Kate's got to be close.” She reached into the backseat of Cannonball's big Caddy and picked up a black nylon case. She worked zippers and Velcro and came out with a silver laptop. As she powered it up, Natalie repeated to herself, “Spinnaker Island.” A few minutes later, she asked, “P-E-T-R-I-N-G?”

“Yeah. I think so. What are you doing?”

“Googling Spinnaker Island and Hunter ampersand Petring.”

“You can get the Internet on that thing?”

Natalie shook her head in amused disbelief. “And on my Handspring, and on my cell phone. But I get full-screen graphics with this.”

“Oh.” Scott smiled. “
Ampersand,
huh?”

“I may not have gone to Harvard”—she grinned at his teasing—“but, unlike some people, I do know how to use a mobile modem . . . Got it!” Her voice changed cadence as she began to read out loud.
“Spinnaker Island, a different way of living. A simpler way of life we've all forgotten. A traditional village for the twenty-first century. Developed by Hunter & Petring, American Institute of Architects.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Her fingers tapped keys. “Everything. Pictures, model floor plans, a map of the island. And”—she smiled—“a toll-free number to lease one of the ‘guest cottages.'” She paused to scan the sales literature. “They've got four cottages they reserve for . . .”

“Sales prospects.”

“Not the words they use, but yeah. So.” She fished a cell phone out of her purse. “You want a view of the Atlantic?”

Scott smiled. “Why not?”

“Why not indeed.” Natalie began punching numbers.

The morning after Cannonball Walker called on Nancy Thomas, the phone in his hotel room rang at exactly eight thirty. Nine thirty Boston time. Cannonball was on his way to the door, heading downstairs for breakfast. He turned back to answer the ringing. “Hello?”

“Is this Cannonball Walker?”

The old man sat on his bed and sighed. “What can I do for you, De-tective?”

Lieutenant Cedris paused. “You're good with voices. Or did Mr. Pastings at the bank tell you I'd be calling?”

“
Mister
Pastings won't give me the time of day. I got a good ear.”

Cedris paused. “I thought I advised you to steer clear of Scott Thomas.”

“You thought wrong. You said he was in trouble. Asked me to give him a message.”

“You're pretty sharp for your age, Mr. Walker.”

Cannonball shook his head at the empty room. “And you're pretty sharp for yours, De-tective.”

A thousand miles away, Lieutenant Cedris cringed a little. “Sorry. Look, I need to know where Scott is. His former boss at the hospital, a shrink named Phil Reynolds, was shot to death two nights ago.” He paused, but Cannonball let the silence linger. “Scott was there at the scene when it happened.” Again he stopped for Cannonball to say something, and again the old bluesman let him wait. “I'm sure you can see that it looks bad for Scott to take off after something like that.”

“Do you think he shot this Reynolds fella?”

“I can't really comment—”

“Goddammit!”

“Mr. Walker, I don't really think cussing me out is going to solve—”

Cannonball was on his feet, but didn't remember standing. “Listen to me, Mr. De-tective. Scott Thomas is a good boy. I'm doin' my best to help him out, and I got assholes from Boston to Birmingham sayin' they can't tell me
this
and can't tell me
that
. But, all the time, every one of 'em tellin' me just exactly what he wants me to hear but not a goddamn word about what
I
need to hear.” The old man stopped to catch his breath. “You want me to help you, then you help me. 'Cause as far as I can tell, you're more interested in tryin' to screw over this boy than in findin' who killed that poor lady in the hospital.”

A few seconds ticked by. Finally, Cedris asked, “Are you done?”

“Done and 'bout ready to hang up the damn phone.”

“Okay. Slow down.” His voice was calm. “Tell me what you need.”

Cannonball plopped down into an occasional chair beside the window. “I'll tell you what I need. I need to know what you got on Scott. I need to know what you know about this John Pastings at the bank down here claiming the Birmingham cops are after Scott for a fire that happened fifteen years ago. And, mostly, I need to know how much of this mess you got figured out, 'cause I'm findin' out everything that I don't need to know and nothin' that I do.” The old man hesitated. “And, finally, I need to know everything you got on a woman named Natalie Friedman.”

Long-distance static sizzled in the earpiece. Cannonball was just about to ask if Cedris was still on the line when the lieutenant began to speak. “Okay, here it is. I've come to believe that you're trying to do the right thing, Mr. Walker; so I'm going to tell you some things. But, if I'm going to do this, I expect you to fill in some holes for me when I'm done. Does that sound fair?”

Cannonball looked out the window at the Southern spring morning. “
Sounds
fair. But I'm still waitin' to hear what you have to say.”

Cedris sighed. “You might want to grab a pencil. This gets complicated.”