A Perfect Life (5 page)

CHAPTER 8

A tiny red light blinked in the dark of Kate Billings's bedroom. She stirred inside flannel sheets, glanced at the incoming-call light, and rolled onto her side. Kate had already turned off the phone's ringer, and she'd switched off her pager the minute she got home. She was off duty, she was exhausted, and whoever wanted her could damn well call back in the morning.

As sleep settled over her like a warm blanket, she realized that there was something wonderfully delicious about ignoring someone rude enough to interrupt her sleep.

Scott punched the
OFF
button and dropped the receiver on his bed. He spoke to the room. “You should've answered the phone, Kate.” He shook his head at the bedspread. “You really should have.”

Worry churned the hospital coffee in his stomach as he climbed back into bed a few minutes before sunrise. Finally, exhaustion overtook misery and he descended into the comparative comfort of a fitful sleep.

Less than an hour passed before Scott sensed some vague and whispered movement inside the room. Too exhausted to move—too tired to want to—he opened his eyes.

The morning sun cut through drawn miniblinds, slicing dark furniture and flooring into intersecting bands of light. A shadow flitted across drawn blinds. Scott's breathing came faster. He tried to concentrate, but the room was empty and he was just so tired. Sleep had begun to take him under again when floorboards creaked in the outer sitting room. Moving slowly—moving, he hoped, like a man turning in his sleep—Scott once again scanned the bedroom. Still he was alone. But the sound had been real.

He flipped the covers away, pivoted, and planted his feet on cold floorboards. Grabbing his glasses off the bedside table, he stepped to the closet and reached inside for the only weapon he owned. As his fingers closed around the leather grip of a softball bat, a hushed metallic sound sent something like an electric shock across his shoulders.

The bedroom doorknob was turning. The sleepy ex-wrestler sprang across the room and flattened against the wall before his mind had finished processing what was happening. He raised the bat overhead, but it occurred to him that bashing in a burglar's skull was more violence than he was willing to do. Shifting slightly to the right, Scott assumed a batter's stance, staying as close to the wall as possible. The old door popped and shuddered a little as it cleared the frame, and the white kid in rapper duds who'd broken into his apartment the day before stepped into the bedroom.

A jumble of thoughts tumbled through Scott's mind. He recognized the intruder; he understood that the second burglar from the day before was probably following the first into his room; he thought of what the second burglar might do if he pounded the first one with a bat. He swung hard at the intruder's stomach.

The kid twisted instinctively backward as the bat came around. Scott felt the soft thud of contact a split second before the tip of his bat slammed against the door frame. And he heard pain in the grunt that followed. Seconds passed. Only the soft rush of labored breathing came from the outer room.

Scott called out. “Who's there? Listen. The cops are on the way. I called 911. You'd better get the hell out of here.”

“You wouldn't be lying to us, would you, jack?”

Scott could feel the soft thump of his heart in his neck and temples. “What?”

The same man's voice said, “You didn't call the damn cops.” The speaker made a repeated humming sound, like an old lady disapproving of an unruly grandchild. “Kick the door shut. Go ahead, Scotty. Kick the mother.”

Scott pushed the door shut with the thick end of his bat. “Are you leaving?”

“Soon.” The man's voice was muffled now. “Go ahead. Call the cops. Whatever you want. We'll be gone before they get here.” A loud crash came from the living room. “That's my partner. You pissed the boy off with that bat shit.” A series of thumps and bangs echoed through the door. “Up to you, but I'm saying better make that call. You don't got the cops coming, hell, I may not be able to keep my boy out of there.”

Scott glanced at the phone on the bedside table. If he moved to pick it up, he would be out in the open, unable to get the first shot with his bat at anyone coming through the doorway. His eyes scanned the room. “Okay. Send him in.”

“You think you gonna Sammy Sosa his ass again? Shit won't work twice. Told you once, Scotty. Telling you again. Better jump on 911 before my boy here jump on you.”

Scott's heel bumped the Gateway CPU on the floor next to his desk. Turning, he eased backward. Keeping his eyes on the closed door, he grabbed the mouse on the desk and double-clicked the telephone icon on his computer desktop. A number pad popped up on screen. He punched 911 on the keyboard and hit
ENTER
.

Two long rings buzzed through his computer speakers, and one of the intruders in the other room said, “'Bout time.”

“Emergency services.” The voice sounded dangerously loud coming through his speakers.

Scott turned to speak into the little microphone stuck to the base of his monitor. He gave his name, phone number, and address. “Someone's in my apartment. Two burglars, I think.”

“We'll send someone around.” The operator paused. “Uh, sir, are you there, sir?”

“They're here
now
.”

“I understand, sir. I'm having trouble hearing you.”

“I said, they're here now.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. Get out of the apartment if you can. Find a place of safety if you can't. A patrol car is on the way.”

Scott reached back to click on the
DONE
button. As he did, the same burglar said, “I guess you're all safe now.”

Scott stepped quickly back to the side of his door and readied the bat. “Kiss my ass.”

The two men in his tiny living room were speaking quietly to each other—their indistinct words nothing but a low, unsteady rumble. Scott leaned against the door to listen, but couldn't make out what they were saying. He glanced back again at the computer, tried to remember how to record through the microphone onto the hard disk, and cussed in the dark. The soft rumble of voices ceased and started up again.

Scott reached back to feel for the microphone. It was shaped like a small disk and glued to the base of his monitor by one of those sticky foam-rubber things that came with the computer. He got his fingernails under it and ripped the plastic disk loose.

Pulling slowly, testing the length of the wire running from microphone to computer, Scott stretched the tiny mike to the base of the door. He leaned down and silently pushed the plastic disk under the corner of the door separating him from the burglars.

Scott glanced again at the keypad on the computer screen. He punched the first digit of his office phone number at the hospital, and the speaker let out a loud beep.

From the other room, “You callin' yo mama now?”

“Why don't you come in here and find out?”

“You keep talkin' tough, we might have to do that.”

As the burglar spoke, Scott repeatedly punched the leftmost button at the top of keyboard. The green volume indicators on his screen retreated to nothing, and the speakers were off.

He punched in the remainder of his office number and waited. If the system was working right, if no one happened by his tiny cubicle and picked up the receiver, if the thing worked the way it usually did, the phone would ring four times, automated voice mail would answer, and the call would be recorded.

A lot of ifs, he thought, to record a lot of mumbling.

But then he heard the soft beep of numbers being dialed again, only this time the sounds emanated from the living room side of the door. When the beeping ended, Scott said, “
You
calling your mother now?”

“No, bitch. I'm callin' yo momma.”

Scott was quiet. Listening. Louder mumbling was followed by the click of a flip phone snapping shut. Lower now, the mix of the two men's voices hummed through the wooden door. Scott was almost certain he made out the word “done” just before he heard the familiar, homey sound of his front door opening. A puff of frigid air rolled across the living room floor and brushed Scott's bare feet as it passed beneath the bedroom door.

“Got one more thing before we step out, Scotty.” An unnatural pause lingered as cold air continued to wash over Scott's bare feet.
“We killed her.
We killed Patricia Hunter in her hospital room. Tell the police that.”

The door slammed shut. Scott turned and reached for the mouse to click the
DONE
button on his telephone program.

Imagination wrung hours out of the next six minutes. Time slipped back into gear only when the faint swirling sounds of police sirens filled Scott's ears. But still he didn't move. He followed the dispatcher's instructions. He stayed in his place of safety until he heard a loud knock on the front door. “Police! We're coming in.”

The front door banged against something. Scott called out. “I'm Scott Thomas. In the bedroom. I think they're gone.”

A South Boston voice, filled with long vowels and sharp consonants, said, “Do you have a weapon?”

Scott hesitated to call out to someone on the other side of a closed door that he was unarmed. He had heard the siren, but . . .

“Sir! Are you armed? Do you have a weapon?”

“Uh, yes. I've got a softball bat.”

Scott thought he heard soft laughter. “Please step through the door. It's safe. Whoever was here is gone now. You can keep the bat if it makes you feel better.”

Scott opened the door.

Two uniformed cops stood side by side, blocking Scott's path to his front door. Each held an automatic pistol securely in both hands, the muzzles pointed at the floor three feet from their toes.

The smaller cop said, “Are you Mr. Thomas?”

Scott nodded. “Yes.”

“We'd feel better if you put the bat down now, sir.”

Scott turned and tossed his bat onto the sofa, but then stopped short. Two loaded firearms pointed in his direction had blocked out everything else until now.

White stuffing and yellow foam rubber spilled from ugly gashes in the sofa's cushions. Torn books and smashed videotapes were piled on the butchered sofa. Everything in the room—television, stereo, lamps, even a clay voodoo god from a trip to New Orleans—everything was smashed, torn, or broken.

The smaller cop spoke again, interrupting Scott's inspection of the mess. “We need to see some identification.”

“I'm sorry? What?”

“I know this is upsetting, sir. But, if you don't mind, I'd like to step into your bedroom with you while you get your driver's license.”

Scott was deep in sensory overload. “Sure. Right.” He motioned with his hand. “Come on.”

The short cop followed Scott into the bedroom. His partner brought up the rear. Both patrolmen, Scott noticed, kept their pistols drawn and at the ready position. While Scott fished his wallet out of a pair of jeans, the second patrolman, the one who never spoke, stepped into the bathroom and then the closet. When he was done, the larger officer said one word.

“Clear.”

Both cops immediately holstered their weapons. Scott handed over his driver's license. The small cop took the license, squinted at it in the dim bedroom, and then pulled a black flashlight from his equipment belt.

Scott reached down and turned on the bedside lamp.

“Thank you, Mr. Thomas.” He looked up. “My partner here will take your formal statement while I call this in.”

Something prickled at Scott's shoulders. “What do you mean, call it in?”

The little cop's eyes glazed over. “Officer Jordan will take your statement.” And he walked out.

The dispatcher's voice crackled through the box speaker in the patrol car. “Your vic is a suspect in a murder investigation.”

Officer Marcus Tinelle felt a jolt of adrenaline. “You got a flag?”

“Got a ‘must contact' from Boston PD for him. Just a second.” Static hummed through the silence. “We'll radio your situation to Detectives Tandy and Cedris. Hold your position.”

“Ten-four.”

Only eight minutes passed before Marcus Tinelle's radio filled with the calm voice of Lieutenant Victor Cedris. “You got a cell phone, Tinelle?”

“Sure.”

“Gimme the number.”

Seconds later, Tinelle's phone vibrated in the palm of his hand.

Cedris asked, “What's happening?”

“The vic, Scott Thomas, called 911 at eight-thirty-three
A
.
M
. and reported two intruders inside his garage apartment on Welder Avenue. We arrived on the scene at eight-forty and entered the living room of a two-room apartment. The room had been trashed. Looked like maybe somebody was looking for something. Thomas was inside his bedroom, armed with a softball bat. He came out. My partner and I followed him back into the bedroom. There was no apparent damage to the bedroom. No one, other than Thomas, was present in the apartment.” Tinelle hesitated. “I understand Thomas is a suspect in a murder investigation.”

Cedris said, “But we don't care about that now, do we?”

“We don't?”

“You've got a burglary to solve, Tinelle. I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd pull out all the stops. Get a forensics team out there. Get fingerprints. Catalog everything in the apartment. You get my meaning here, Tinelle?”

Marcus Tinelle glanced at the steps leading up to Scott Thomas's apartment and grinned. “Got it.”

The homicide detective's calm voice never changed. “I look forward to reading your report, Tinelle. And, remember, I owe you one.”

An hour later, Cedris had just spread cream cheese on half a sesame seed bagel when the phone on his desk rang. He sighed and tossed the bagel on a wrinkled square of waxed paper. “Cedris. Homicide.”

“This is Tinelle.”

“Got something for me?”

“Well, yes and no. We're still here on Welder. Nothing's jumping out at us, but you're not gonna believe what Thomas is saying.”

The patrolman paused for effect. Cedris was not impressed. “Am I supposed to guess?”

“Uh, no. Uh, well, the thing is that Thomas is claiming that these two burglars—who he never saw, by the way—had some kind of conversation with him through a closed door.” The patrolman hesitated again. Cedris rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger and sighed. Tinelle went on. “Thomas claims the burglars confessed to murdering the Hunter woman.”