Final Breath (11 page)

Glancing over at his open suitcase on the living room floor, he decided to get back to his packing. He ignored the TV for a few minutes. The segment now showing he'd watched so many times recently, he knew it word for word and shot for shot. Sydney was interviewing Ned Haggerty, a rail-riding transient, who had seen a Burlington Northern yardman trip and fall on the tracks. Ned had emerged from his makeshift temporary home in a boxcar to save the unconscious yardman from being sliced in two by an oncoming freight train. Ned was quite a colorful character, but after the umpteenth viewing, his pontificating on what was wrong with people and the current administration no longer amused.

Throwing an extra T-shirt and pair of socks into the suitcase, he shoved a pair of work shoes into a plastic bag, and placed it on top of the clothes. He already had the new work uniform in there. He wouldn't need his skeleton keys or his burglar tools this time. There would be no break-ins.

He had two jobs on this trip. If he carried them out as planned, he wouldn't need his rain slicker and shower cap. It was ironic, too, because he anticipated both kills would be extremely messy.

There would be a great deal of blood, but not a drop of it would touch him.

It would be on Sydney Jordan's head.

If anyone had noticed a stranger coming or going last night, it would have been Sally Considine, the fifty-something divorcee in Apartment 8. Despite the fact that the chateau-style town houses looked alike and often had the same kind of flowers in the window boxes, Tudor Court's occupants usually kept to themselves. Sydney knew Sally Considine well enough to chat politely in passing, and Sally had twice praised her
Movers & Shakers
reruns when they'd aired recently. She'd also asked Sydney if she knew how to get tickets for
Oprah
.

This was the first time Sydney had rung Sally's doorbell. She knew Sally was home. Her windows were open, and she could hear the radio going.

It was a hot morning, the mid-eighties. Sydney wore khaki shorts and a pink blouse. She'd tried to look halfway presentable for her neighbor. She'd been on TV long enough to know that one bad hair day out among the public could start a chain reaction of gossip about what an utter slob she was. It had been particularly hard trying to look pretty this morning. She hadn't gotten much sleep at all last night.

The phone had started ringing at 6:35 this morning. The network--along with a few news services--had wanted a quote from her about the deaths of Leah and Jared.

She'd had three cups of coffee while checking the Internet this morning. There had been several articles on Leah and Jared, but no new developments except for the rather lame quote she'd given them two hours before:

"It's all so senseless and tragic," said
On the Edge
correspondent Sydney Jordan, whose
Movers & Shakers
profile on McGinty and Dvorak brought them national attention. "They were a very sweet, selfless couple, genuine heroes. Jared and Leah should have had many happy years together ahead of them. It's very sad indeed."

The Portland police still didn't have any leads.

Sydney kept thinking about that strange e-mail she'd received a few days before.
"You can't save them,"
it had said. She wondered if the person was talking about Leah and Jared, or had it been just some crank, screwing around with her head?

She clicked
RECENTLY DELETED EMAIL
in her mail file. It took her a few moments to find it among the seven days' worth of deleted messages. There was no subject header, but Sydney recognized the sender's address. She remembered
duet
had been in the e-mail moniker: [email protected].

She clicked
RESTORE
, and stared at that cryptic message again. Sydney hesitated before clicking the
REPLY
icon. Did she really want to respond to the nutcase who had written this message and addressed her as
Bitch-Sydney
? She took a deep breath, then her fingers worked over the keyboard:
"Who are you?"
was all she wrote. Sydney didn't even include her name. As she clicked
SEND
, Sydney felt as if she were opening up a can of worms.

Just a moment later, she heard a click, signifying incoming mail. She opened up the mailbox:

MAILER-DAEMON...Returned Mail

User Unknown:
[email protected]

"Just as well," Sydney muttered to herself, sipping from that third cup of coffee. She hadn't received any follow-up e-mail from that
duet
person and figured maybe it was best to just leave it that way.

All that coffee had done a number on Sydney's stomach. Plus her arms and back ached horribly from hauling Eli from that storm drain last night. She was limping pretty badly this morning, too. She hoped Sally Considine wasn't averse to the smell of Bengay--if she ever answered her door.

Sydney pressed the doorbell again.

"Coming, coming!" she heard Sally call.

A moment later, the door flung open. Sally was a large, buxom woman with a pretty, oval-shaped face and close-cropped auburn hair. She wore a white sleeveless blouse, plaid shorts, and sandals. A smile lit up her face. "Well, hi, Sydney!" Then she immediately seemed to regret it, and covered her mouth. "Oh, I just read online about that nice couple from Portland you interviewed. I'm so sorry. How awful! Would you like to come in for some coffee?" She opened the door wider.

"No thanks," Sydney replied, a hand on her queasy stomach. "That's sweet of you, Sally. I don't want to take too much of your time. I was just wondering. Were you home last night?"

Sally stepped outside. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I was a regular couch potato. I stayed in and watched the fireworks on TV."

"You didn't happen to see anyone--any strangers--out here in the courtyard, did you?"

"Last night? No, I didn't notice anybody. Why?"

"Well, it might be nothing. But when my son and I got back from my brother's last night, we found the front door open--"

"Oh, my goodness," Sally murmured. "Was anything missing?"

Sydney shook her head. "Not a thing. There was a small mess in the kitchen, a broken teapot, and some food from the cupboard was spilled onto the counter--nothing else."

Sally blinked at her. "Maybe you accidentally left the door open and a squirrel got in or something."

"That's what I thought. But my son swears he closed and locked the door when we left." Sydney felt like an idiot for double-checking with her neighbor, but she wanted to give Eli the benefit of the doubt. She sighed. "Sorry to take up your time, Sally. Maybe it was a ghost or something." She started to walk away.

"Funny you should mention that," Sally said. "How are you folks getting along in the apartment?"

Sydney turned and half-smiled at her. "Are you asking if we've had some things
go bump in the night
?"

Her neighbor hesitated. "Um, maybe..."

"Then you know about it," Sydney said.

"I wanted to say something sooner. But the property manager would have killed me if I'd blabbed. They've had a hard time trying to rent out that place..."

In a hushed tone, his mother started to describe some of their
night visits
. From his open bedroom window, Eli could only hear snippets of what she was saying. He peeked past the edge of his curtain down to the cobblestone courtyard, where his mother and Sally stood by Sally's front door. He couldn't see their faces, just the tops of their heads.

"My brother's in real estate and he told me about some of the previous tenants and the high turnover rate," his mother said. "I gather they had experiences similar to ours."

"Well, I've lived here three years," Sally said. "And the people in number nine have usually moved in and out so fast I've never gotten to know many of them. But I became chums with this gal, Nancy Abbe, who lived here a while back. She was very cute, very fun. Anyway, Nancy told me that in the upstairs hallway, she once spotted a woman in a long robe. Only she could see through the woman. She said the woman was there for only a few seconds. At the time, I thought Nancy might have been pulling my leg. But since then, I've heard other stories about things going on in that apartment, and now I don't think she was kidding. You know, Sydney, if what happened to you last night is because of this
ghost
or whatever you want to call it, then it's a real first."

"What do you mean?" Eli heard his mother ask.

"Well, from what I've heard, all the disturbances have occurred on the second floor," Sally explained. "But you said the mess was in your kitchen."

Eli bit his lip. Their neighbor was right. Until last night, there hadn't been any
night visits
on the first floor.

Sally scratched her head and shrugged. "I always figured the disturbances happened upstairs, because that's where they found the bodies."

"Bodies?"
his mother repeated.

Eli leaned closer to the window opening. He saw Sally take a step back. She put a hand over her heart. "Oh, dear, the woman who showed you the apartment told you, didn't she? She's required by law to tell you--"

"Yes, she said a woman committed suicide in there. It was supposed to have happened back around the mid-seventies."

"That's right, but--"

"Listen, Sally," his mother said, lowering her voice again. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention anything about this suicide to Eli. He doesn't know. He's already well aware that the place is haunted. I don't want to pour gasoline on that fire."

Frowning, Eli watched Sally just nod. She didn't say anything.

"You know, for a minute there," his mother continued. "I thought you said
bodies
."

"I did say
bodies
, Sydney," their neighbor whispered.

Eli felt a chill race through him.

"The woman who committed suicide in your apartment had a son," Sally explained. "Before killing herself, she murdered him--in his sleep."

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Chicago--Three nights later

She'd managed to slip out of Houlihan's without him noticing. Angela Gannon hurried across East Michigan toward the eighteen-story office building where she worked as a paralegal. It was 9:45 on a sultry Tuesday night. Angela still had on her work clothes: a black skirt and a mint-green blouse that complemented her tan and her shoulder-length ash-blond hair. She was thirty-one, and what she lacked in natural beauty--Angela always thought her nose was too long and her chin too weak--she compensated for with a toned, trim body and lots of panache. Still, Angela was always surprised when a guy told her she was
beautiful
. And sometimes, she fell for that guy, even though he was a mega-jerk.

Kent, the man she'd stealthily abandoned at a table for two in Houlihan's, was the most recent example of that "whatever did I see in this asshole?" phenomenon. He worked in the same building, but on sixteen, two floors above her. They had started out flirting in the elevator, then had a few brushes in the lobby, and finally a date for lunch. Her friends at the law firm warned her that he was a shallow pig--and
married
to boot. And if she took a good look at his gorgeous wavy brown hair, she'd notice early signs of male pattern baldness. Angela convinced herself she just wanted to be friends with this cute, married guy who thought she was beautiful. He was a total sweetheart and very much a gentleman all through their lunch date.

Too bad he wasn't the same way at Houlihan's. She'd been wary about having drinks with him after work anyway. A harmless lunch was one thing, but this was different. After two Tanqueray and tonics, he turned into an utter creep. He was rude to their waiter. He made two calls on his cell phone while she just sat there, bored to smithereens: one to a buddy to schedule a racquetball game and the other to someone about scoring tickets to a White Sox game.
The White Sox?
It would have been bad enough if her Cubs-crazy family ever found out she was seeing a married guy--
but a White Sox fan
? They'd have disowned her.

The last straw had been when Kent--with a smarmy grin--had made an innuendo about checking out the view from one of the upper-floor suites in the Hyatt down the street. After that, Angela had tried to leave, but he'd insisted she stay for just one more drink. She'd waited ten more minutes before saying she had to hit the ladies' room, excusing herself, and then slipping out of the restaurant.

Hurrying into the lobby of her office building, Angela figured she had about five more minutes before Kent caught on that she'd ditched him. She didn't see the night guard on duty as she hurried through the lobby to the garage elevator. She jabbed the button, and the door opened immediately. The building was older--with only three underground parking levels. Angela pressed C, leaned against the elevator wall, and caught her breath. The elevator let out a groan as it made its descent.

She'd get the "I told you so" look from her friends when she let them know about tonight with Kent. Well, she had it coming. After all, the guy was married. What was she thinking?
His poor wife...

The overhead light in the elevator flickered for a second, and a little panic swept through her. She could feel the elevator still moving. It was just the light, and it was okay now. Still, that flickering unnerved her for a moment. She was grateful when the elevator stopped and the door whooshed open on Parking Level C. She stepped out of the elevator and started to hunt through her purse for her keys.

Whenever Angela went for drinks with friends after work, she always volunteered to drive people home--partly out of kindness, but also because she hated venturing down to this creepy garage alone late at night. It wasn't so bad in the morning and at quitting time, because there were other people around. But at this hour, she was the only one down here--at least she
hoped
she was the only one down here. There was no garage attendant on duty, just an emergency phone and a keypad device near the exit for a code that opened the garage door.

Angela found the car keys, and had them out and ready--even though she was still quite a ways from her car.

She'd never been in a submarine, but Angela was pretty certain it would be a lot like this gloomy, old parking garage--the low ceilings with so many exposed pipes, the gray walls and floor, little wire cages around the lights overhead--and yet it was still dark with shadowy nooks everywhere. A click, click, click from her high heels on the concrete floor echoed as she made her way to her Toyota Camry. She saw only two other cars on this level, and they looked as if they'd been there for weeks.

Angela quickened her pace as she approached her car. While unlocking the door, she glanced through the window into the backseat. No one. It was okay.

Climbing inside the car, she shut the door, locked it, and started up the ignition. She sighed. She wasn't usually this nervous, but that flickering light in the elevator had disturbed her--and then she couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong. That jerk, Kent, certainly wasn't worth all this angst. It was what she got for succumbing to his "you're so beautiful" line.

Angela shifted to Drive and pressed on the accelerator.

The car started to move, but then it lurched forward. All at once, the left rear side slammed down on the garage floor with a loud bang. Angela gasped at the sudden jolt. The car's left underside scraped across the concrete, and a severe grating noise reverberated through the garage.

Panic-stricken, she stomped on the brake. The car skidded for a second, then stopped.

Angela's heart pounded furiously, and she tried to catch her breath. She heard a tinny clattering sound. Out her window, she saw her hubcap rolling across the garage floor--five spaces over. She glanced in her side mirror. "Jesus Mary Joseph," she gasped.

The back tire had fallen off. A thin haze of smoke crept up from beneath the car. Angela quickly switched off the ignition.

"Okay, Angie, calm down," she murmured to herself. Unlocking the door, she stepped out of the Camry. She was a little shaky on her feet. She stared at her crippled, lopsided car--at all the mangled steel and structural damage around where the tire used to be. "What the hell?" she said under her breath.

She pulled her wallet from her purse, and found her AAA card. Then she took out her cell phone and dialed. No answer. She couldn't get through, and realized there wasn't any reception down here on the garage's bottom level.

She remembered the emergency phone by the garage door. But that was three floors up, and she wanted to get out of this creepy garage. Angela decided to try AAA again from the lobby. She was still shaking. She took a deep breath and started toward the elevator bay.

But she heard something, and stopped. The elevator let out a
ding
, and the door whooshed open.

Angela couldn't quite see the elevator from where she stood--only part of the annex. She waited for someone to emerge from that alcove. She listened for footsteps. But there was nothing.

"Hello?" she called. "Is anyone there? I could use some help. Hello?"

No reply.

Angela was afraid to take another step. Paralyzed, she gazed at the alcove and saw a shadow moving.

"Who's there?" she called.

The shadow swept across the gray wall by the elevator area, then disappeared.

"Who's there?" she repeated, louder this time. But her voice quivered.

Again, no response.

Unnerved, Angela retreated back to her disabled car. She ducked inside and quickly locked the door. She couldn't quite see the elevator bay from the front seat of her car, but she kept her gaze fixed in that direction. She was still trembling as she pulled out her cell phone again and dialed Triple-A. No luck. She gave her brother's number a shot. Nothing. She even tried Kent's cell, figuring at least he was close. But her phone just wasn't working.

All of the sudden, she caught sight of someone out of the corner of her eye--just as he tapped on her window. Angela let out a startled yelp. A hand over her heart, she gaped at the handsome janitor standing on the other side of her window. He gave her a sheepish smile. "Looks like you could use some help!" he said loudly--so she could hear him inside the car.

Angela immediately felt embarrassed for gasping. Still, she didn't roll her window down more than a few inches to talk to him. "Ah, yeah. I was trying to call Triple-A, but my cell phone doesn't work down here."

He walked over toward the back of her car and collected some articles from the garage floor. "Lug nuts," he said, studying them in his hand. "They couldn't have all gotten loose at the same time. I don't mean to scare you, but it looks like someone sabotaged your car."

Angela sighed. "Well, I'm pretty scared enough already. That's why I'm sitting in here with the door locked."

He nodded. "Smart. The kook who did this could still be hanging around here." He stepped back and took another look at the left rear side of her Camry. Then he returned to her window. "If you have a jack in the trunk, I'll raise her up and put the tire back on for you. But I think you're better off getting a tow. Looks like a lot of damage back there."

Angela just nodded. She still kept the door locked and the window up most of the way. She'd never seen this janitor before, and it was strange how he'd shown up just when he had. Still, he was friendly enough--and quite attractive. And there was no one else offering to help her.

"We can go up to the lobby, and I'll keep you company until the tow arrives," he offered. "I don't know the night watchman very well. I'm new here. But he strikes me as kind of squirrelly. I wouldn't trust him if I were you."

She hesitated. "Well, if it's not too much trouble..."

"Trouble?" he said. "Are you kidding me? I know this is a nightmare for you, but it's a lonely night janitor's dream come true. I get to help a beautiful woman out of a jam."

Smiling up at him, Angela felt herself blushing. She unlocked the door.

He opened it for her. Angela grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car. He closed the door after her. "You're going to think this is a line," he said. "But you look really, really familiar."

She shrugged. "You've probably seen me around in the building."

"No, that's not it," the custodian said. "I just started working here a few nights ago."

They headed toward the elevator alcove. Angela glanced back at her disabled Camry. "Will it be okay there?"

He nodded. "I don't think anyone's coming down here any time soon--except for the tow, God willing." He took a few more steps, and then stopped abruptly. "Wait a minute. I know where I've seen you before. Weren't you on TV a while back? That
Movers & Shakers
story from
On the Edge
? I remember now..."

Angela let out a little laugh. "So--you saw that, huh?"

"God, yes." The handsome janitor snapped his fingers. "Y'know, I didn't make the connection. But now I realize--it happened in this building. When I first hired on here, the woman in personnel told me an employee here tried to commit suicide a while back. He climbed out to the ledge on the fourteenth floor, or something. But I didn't connect it to you--and that
Movers & Shakers
story. I can't believe it's you. This is amazing! You're the one who talked him back inside. You saved that guy's life."

Angela felt embarrassed--and yet also excited that he'd recognized her from her one and only TV appearance, nine months ago.

"It's no big deal," Angela told him. "I really didn't do much."

Most of what had happened was a blur when she tried to remember it now.

But she remembered Archie. He'd been the nervous, nerdy, high-strung office clerk. Archie's biggest responsibility was running the copy machine, and he routinely screwed that up. He was in his mid thirties with pale skin, greasy brown hair, and a slight paunch. Angela used to think he could have been good-looking with a makeover, some crunches, and a new wardrobe that
didn't
include clip-on ties and short-sleeve shirts. Angela's friends at the firm used to tease her because Archie had a crush on her.

That Friday nine months ago, she'd heard during lunch that Archie was being fired--after only six weeks on the job. Angela felt sorry for him. He was such a loser, the poor guy.

She was emerging from the restroom when a fellow paralegal ran up to her. "My God, Archie's on the ledge! He climbed out the window in Weymiller's office. He's gonna jump!"

One of the younger lawyers was racing down the hallway. "I called 9-1-1!" he yelled. "Jesus, I don't know how he got out there..."

Mr. Weymiller came around the corner, and he motioned at her. "Angie, thank God! Listen, we need you to talk to Archie until the police get here. He likes you--"

"But wait a minute!" she cried, confused. "What do you expect me to say to him?"

That was when the whole thing became a blur--all these people talking and screaming at her at once--someone pulling her toward Weymiller's office; and then leaning out that window while Mr. Weymiller held her around the waist so she wouldn't fall. She remembered the chilly November wind whipping through her hair, and Archie, tears streaming down his face as he clung to the side of the building. His ugly fake tie flapped in the breeze. The whole time, Angie tried not to look down--fourteen stories to the traffic below on Michigan Avenue. Car horns were honking and a siren wailed in the distance. But mostly she just heard the wind and her own voice as she tried to talk to Archie.

She didn't even remember what she said exactly. She fought her vertigo and just kept talking. All the while she was terrified that at any minute Archie might leap off the ledge.

Angela found out later from her coworkers what she'd said. Sydney Jordan had interviewed them for
Movers & Shakers
. Apparently, she'd told Archie about the times when she felt lost, lonely--and even suicidal--only to feel better days later. She'd claimed that she would really miss him, and had been hoping to stay in touch with him after he stopped working there at the law firm. She'd asked him several times to come in off the ledge and admitted to him that she was very, very scared.