Free A Perfect Life by Mike Stewart Page A

who had entered the room behind Scott. The patrolman started to explain. “I
did
let him in out of the sleet. I just explained—”
    Walker spoke over Tinelle's protestations. “Scott, if you don't mind, I need to speak with you in private for just a minute. It's important.”
    Scott glanced back. He'd already been through his story twice with the little cop and once with Cedris. The lieutenant could wait a few minutes for a fourth rendition. “Okay, why don't you step in here.” Scott motioned toward the open bedroom door.
    Walker shook his head. “Naw. I need to talk outside.” The old man turned and stepped back out onto the porch. “Walk me out to the car.”
    Scott glanced at Cedris and then followed Walker. As the two men descended the iced steps, Scott started to warn the older man to be careful; then he noticed that Walker didn't much move like an old man. His step was light, almost graceful. The old bluesman moved like a dancer. Instead, Scott asked, “What is it? Is something wrong?”
    Walker spoke over his shoulder. “Bet your ass it is.” Then quietly, almost to himself: “Should've come faster.”
    “What?”
    “That fine-lookin' little girl you brought to the club—what's her name? Kate? Kate came to my hotel to see me at lunch today. Said you got yourself messed up in some murder. That right?”
    Scott wondered why in the world Kate Billings would have gone to see a man he barely knew about the murder of Patricia Hunter. “What'd she say?”
    “Well, I'll tell you what she didn't say. She didn't say nothin' about somebody breakin' in and trashin' your apartment. What's goin' on?”
    While the two men stood beneath a cascade of stinging sleet, Scott gave the abridged version of Patricia Hunter's murder and then explained to Cannonball Walker about the break-in.
    The old man shook his head. “Did you really tell the cops that one of the burglars said he killed this woman, this patient of yours?”
    “Well, yes. It's what he said, and I thought that the connection might help the police solve—”
    “Shit.”
    Scott was surprised by Walker's irritation. “What's wrong?”
    “Shit, shit, and shit. Get in the damn car.” Scott opened the door and lowered his butt onto the cloth seat. Walker sat on the driver's side and slammed the door. “Ain't my business, but I'm suggestin' you go back up to your apartment there, invite all those cops to leave, and get you a good coat.”
    “I can't do that. It's a crime scene.”
    Walker chuckled. “How many cops you got up there?”
    “Well, there's two patrolmen, a detective, and three nerdy-looking cops taking fingerprints and looking for fibers or clues or something.”
    “And you think they just be sendin' around six cops every time some poor student gets his crib tossed?”
    “No. Like I said, there's a murder connected here. One of the burglars said . . .”
    Walker's eyes flashed. “One of the burglars set your stupid white ass up to give the cops a free shot at your house.” He shook his head. “Goddamn, Scott.”
    Scott flushed. “I don't have anything to hide.”
    “You don't, huh?”
    “No.” Scott was growing angry. “I don't. They can look all day. There's nothing to find. I haven't done anything wrong. And, and I may have recorded some of what the burglars said,” he stammered.
    “
May
have?”
    “Well, yeah. I used a little computer mike and dialed my voice mail . . .”
    Walker shook his head at the sleet-covered windshield. “Good God Almighty.”
    “What?”
    “Did they take anything? The burglars, I mean. What'd they take?”
    “No. It wasn't like that. They just trashed my place. Probably came there
looking for . . .” He stopped midsentence.
    “Those two boys just broke in not to steal anything, not to take anything 'cause there was nothin' to take, to
confess
to the murder, and then to tell
you
to call the cops.”
    Scott had been functioning on almost no sleep. The burglary, the destruction of his belongings,