Read Online A Perfect Life by Mike Stewart - Free Book Online

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