Final Breath (12 page)

Angela didn't remember any of it.

She had no idea how long she'd been half-hanging out of that fourteenth-floor window. She hadn't realized when the police arrived--or when the traffic below stopped on Michigan Avenue. She hadn't noticed the man in the building across the way, recording the whole thing on his cell phone's video camera.

That dramatic footage was later shown on the news and in the
Movers & Shakers
segment.

"What I do remember," Angela told Sydney Jordan for the piece, "is never losing eye contact with Archie. I just held my breath when he finally started to make his way toward me. I prayed and prayed he wouldn't slip. Then I finally grabbed his hand. I nearly collapsed when we pulled him back inside. I was just so relieved."

She didn't tell Sydney how the cops on the scene had pounced on Archie once he'd climbed back through that window. They'd grabbed him and started frisking him. And someone else had whisked her away.

On the
Movers & Shakers
segment, she'd wished Archie well. But she hadn't seen him since that Friday afternoon in November, nine months ago.

"So--what was Sydney Jordan like?" the janitor asked. "I've always figured her as kind of a phony."

Having been lost in thought, Angela blinked at him and smiled. "Actually, she's just the opposite--very nice, very genuine."

They started toward the elevator annex again. The janitor didn't say anything, and for a few moments, there was just the click, click, click of her high heels. They turned into the alcove, and she noticed him pull out his janitor keys. He stepped up to the service elevator and inserted a key into some mechanism and then pressed the button.

Angela wondered why they didn't just ring for the regular elevator, but figured he was probably accustomed to using this one. She didn't say anything.

He nodded to the service elevator door. "This will take us all the way to the roof if we want. The other one just goes as far as the lobby."

"But we only need to go as far as the lobby," she pointed out.

"I know," he nodded. "Tell me something. Do you know whatever happened to that guy you saved?"

Angela gave an uneasy shrug. "Last I heard he was still in the hospital with all sorts of mental problems. It's really very sad."

The handsome janitor frowned. "Kind of makes you wonder if he'd have been better off jumping." He turned toward her. "Ever stop to think maybe you shouldn't have interfered?"

Bewildered, Angela stared at him.

A
ding
sounded, and the elevator door opened. "Here we are," the janitor announced.

Angela hesitated for a moment, but then he took hold of her arm and guided her into the cubicle, which was lined with heavy, quilted, dark gray blankets--the kind movers used to wrap up antiques.

She watched him press the button for the fourteenth floor, then he pulled out the key again and switched on the Express lock.

"Wait..." Angela said, just as the door shut. She turned toward him. "I thought we were going to the lobby."

The elevator made a humming noise as it started its ascent.

The janitor stared at her, his eyes narrowed. "No, we're going to fourteen," he said coolly. "I didn't fuck up your car so we'd go only as far as the lobby."

Angela shook her head. "Oh, God no--" she cried, recoiling.

But he still had ahold of her arm. He suddenly twisted it around her back.

Angela let out a shriek.

He slapped his hand over her mouth. She struggled, but he was too strong for her. It felt as if he were about to snap off her arm.

Helplessly, she watched the illuminated numbers above the elevator door as they climbed higher and higher.

"You're going up to fourteen, Angela," he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. "You're going back to that same ledge. But you won't be there very long."

She frantically dug into her purse for her cell phone. Twenty-six-year-old Dominique Chandler walked at a brisk clip down Michigan Avenue. Attractive, with close-cropped hair and a flawless cocoa-colored complexion, she was accustomed to guys coming on to her and making passes. But this was too much.

She'd just left the Hyatt bar, her favorite after-work watering hole. She wore a sexy red wraparound dress. A couple of guys had hit on her in the Hyatt's bar, but she wasn't interested. She'd had her fill of happy hour hors d'oeuvres and cocktails, and said good night to her coworkers at 10:15. She'd wanted to catch the 10:24 CTA.

She'd walked only a block in the direction of her bus stop when she'd heard someone call to her: "Hey, wait up, pretty baby!"

Dominique had furtively glanced back at the pest but hadn't gotten a good look. If the police asked later about the man who had attacked her, she could only say that he was a tall, skinny white guy with black hair.

"Hey, baby, don't you tease me!" he yelled, following her. "I know you want it, bitch!"

Dominique had the cell phone in her hand now. She was walking even faster. She hoped there would be people at her bus stop--but that was three more blocks.

"Leave me alone!" she screamed--as loud as she could. She pressed the button to activate her cell phone.

"Dominique?" he called. "Dominique, wait up!"

She wondered how the hell he knew her name. But she didn't slow down. Her thumb was already pressing 9-1-1 on the cell phone's keypad. She broke into a sprint and was about to cross the street.

"Dominique, it's me, Zack!" she heard him yell. "I'm just messing with you, for God's sake!"

She glanced over her shoulder and suddenly realized her tormentor was actually a pal from work, Zack, the cute young guy in the mailroom. Dominique stopped near the curb in front of an older, eighteen-story building on Michigan Avenue. She swiveled around. "Oh, my God, Zack!" she screamed, laughing. "I was about to call the cops on your ass. You scared the shit out of me, you son of a--"

Before she could finish, Dominique heard a piercing scream from above.

She looked up to see something descending on her. She almost stumbled into the street as she backed up to avoid it. Dominique dropped her cell phone.

With a loud, hollow thump, the body hit the pavement a few feet in front of her. Dominique was splattered with the woman's blood.

She shrieked.

Fourteen stories up, the man dressed as a janitor didn't have a drop of blood on him.

He had kept his word to Angela Gannon. She hadn't been on the ledge for very long.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Sydney had no desire whatsoever to drive twenty-five miles to the grand opening of a ValuCo store in Auburn, but she was one of four local celebrities scheduled to appear at the event. That Saturday afternoon, they were throwing a fun fair in the store's parking lot, and there would be a food court, too. All the profits were going to charity.

She'd practically browbeaten Eli into going with her. It was ironic, too, because she was always feeling guilty for not spending enough time with him--and here she was, forcing him to spend time with her. She was dressed--
"fun/casual"
the publicist's memo recommended--in a dark blue sleeveless top and white capri pants, and ready to go. But Eli was still up in his room, getting ready.

While waiting, Sydney retrieved their mail and sat down at the dining room table. A bill, two credit card offers,
Entertainment Weekly
, a personal letter/card from someone with a Portland, Oregon, address, and a letter from Joe.

Sydney felt a little pang in her stomach as she recognized his handwriting. It was addressed to her, not Eli.

Some slightly masochistic part of her decided not to open Joe's note first. Or maybe she was just too proud to admit to herself how much she still cared. Whatever the motive, she tore open the envelope with the Portland address first. Inside was a white card with silver embossed fancy script that said
"Thank You"
on the cover. Sydney opened the card. The penmanship was somewhat sloppy, but decipherable:

Dear Sydney,

Thank you so much for your kind note about Leah & Jared. It brought comfort to all of us at this very difficult time. Leah was so very fond of you. The video short you made about our daughter & Jared is a beautiful tribute to them that we will cherish always. Thank you also for the lovely flower arrangement. Your thoughts & prayers are very much appreciated.

With Kindest Regards,
Peggy & Robert Dvorak

Sydney was touched by the note and surprised at how quickly Leah's parents wrote back to her. But she was confused, too. She'd mailed them a card on July 5th, but hadn't sent any flowers. She figured someone at the network must have sent the flowers in her name.

For the last seven nights, she'd checked the Internet for any possible new developments in the police investigation into Leah and Jared's deaths. But there was nothing.

Sydney now wished she'd opened Joe's letter first, because it still mattered--too much--what he had to say, even after reading this heartbreaking note from a woman whose daughter was just murdered a week ago. She was still thinking about Joe.

She had no idea why he was writing to her. Was he begging her to come back? She didn't dare hope for that. If he truly missed her, he would have let her know by now.

Sydney opened the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was his stationery from work--with
Chicago Police Department
printed along the top, beside the star-badge logo. The first thing she thought was,
it looks so damn official
. Sydney started reading:

Dear Sydney,

While these past six weeks have been very hard for me, I realize you were right to take Eli and move to Seattle. You & I are better off apart for a while. This separation is the best thing for us right now.

We haven't discussed divorce yet, and I hope we can keep the situation status quo for a few more weeks. I need this break from you & Eli. Thank you for not trying to contact me. I don't know if you even wanted to, but you've made the right choice with your silence.

I hope you & Eli are doing well.

Joe

P.S. Your dentist's office called. You & Eli are both scheduled for teeth cleaning on 7/14. I went ahead & canceled.

"Asshole," she murmured, her eyes filling with tears. Could he have been any colder and passionless? He never even mentioned missing her or Eli. She felt as if he'd just sucker-punched her in the gut. The son of a bitch wanted to
keep the situation status quo?

She started to cry, and crumpled the letter in her fist. But then she heard Eli--jumping from the top step to the first landing, and then again from the first landing to the second landing.

Sydney quickly wiped her eyes.

"Can I at least check out some of the rides while you're giving your speech?" he asked, stepping into the dining room. "I don't have to be up on some stage with you, do I?"

Sydney stashed the crumpled letter back in its envelope. But she was too late; he'd already seen the envelope and no doubt recognized his father's handwriting.

"Hey, is that a letter from Dad?" he asked eagerly.

Sydney pressed the envelope to her chest. "It's for me, okay? It doesn't concern you." She glanced at Eli and frowned. "That's the same shirt you wore yesterday, and it has a stain on it. Go upstairs and put on a clean shirt. Okay, honey? Please?"

Eli rolled his eyes at her, shook his head, and then retreated toward the stairs. "Jeez, fine," he muttered.

"And could you hurry it up a little?" she called after him. "We're going to be late."

Sydney wiped her eyes again, then turned in her chair, opened the bottom drawer of the built-in breakfront, and stashed Joe's note under some papers. It was already becoming a junk drawer--with their lease, some stuff from her new bank, and insurance. There were also receipts from the furniture stores and appliance shops. Sydney figured he wouldn't go looking for his father's letter in there. She didn't want him to find it--and read it.

She didn't want Eli to know that his dad was an uncaring son of a bitch.

Eli had paused on the stairway at the first landing. There was a mirror on the living room wall that allowed him to see around the corner into the dining room. Frowning, he watched his mother hide the letter from his dad in the built-in breakfront's bottom drawer.

"That was a letter from Dad, wasn't it?" Eli asked.

"Yes, it was," Sydney admitted. She looked over her shoulder as she backed the car out of the shelter. "But like I told you before, it doesn't concern you, honey."

"Well, I don't get it. Why don't you want me to see the letter?"

Shifting into drive, she heaved an exasperated sigh. "Eli, what part of
it doesn't concern you
is failing to register here? Could you hit the button for the gate, please?"

Frowning, he poked at the automatic gate-opening device, which was clipped onto the passenger sun visor.

"Thanks," Sydney said, slowing down while the driveway gate slowly opened. "Honey, it's a personal letter--addressed to me. When your dad writes to you, I don't ask to read it, do I?"

"I figured that's because you don't care," he said, folding his arms.

"I do care," she said emphatically. The gate was finally open, and she pulled forward. "But I also respect your privacy. What's between you and your father is none of my--"

A man walked out in front of them. Sydney slammed on her brake, and the car's tires let out a screech. At the same time, her arm shot out to brace Eli. The gate-opening device fell off the sun visor and landed in Eli's lap.

Catching her breath, Sydney gaped at the stranger. He was in his late twenties with black hair, a swarthy complexion, and a lean build. He wore a navy blue T-shirt with a silver
59
stenciled across the front of it. As he glared at her, Sydney noticed something was wrong with one of his eyes--a broken blood vessel or something. The white part was all red.

"I'm sorry!" Sydney called.

But he shook his head and kept moving.

"Well, if looks could kill, I'd be six feet under right now," she mumbled.

"I didn't see him," Eli said, clipping the gate-opening device back onto the sun visor.

"This trip's off to a great start," she muttered, turning onto the street. "Anyway, thanks for coming along, Eli. I really didn't want to do this thing alone."

"Who are the other celebrities there?" he asked, slouching in the passenger seat.

"They've got David Beckham, J-Lo, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, and me."

Eli stared at her. "Yeah, right."

"Okay, it's Gil Sessions from
PM Magazine,
Terri Tatum from
What's Cooking, Seattle?,
that obnoxious guy who does the weather for channel 6, and moi." Sydney watched the road ahead. "Tell you what. When we get there, I'll give you twenty-five bucks, and you can go on as many rides as you want. Just don't throw up. Is it a deal?"

He didn't say anything. Eli's short hair fluttered in the wind as he pensively gazed out the window. He looked so sad.

"What's going on?" she asked. "What are you thinking?"

"Don't you miss Dad?" he asked quietly.

"Of course I miss him."

"Then why can't we go home?

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and watched the traffic ahead on Madison Street. "We've been through this before, Eli. It's not as easy as that. There are a lot of reasons why your dad and I are apart right now. None of it has to do with you. We both love you very much. That hasn't changed at all. You continue to drive us crazy, and we continue to love you."

Sydney glanced over at him. He didn't even crack a smile.

She reached over and patted his shoulder. "I'm kidding," she said. "Eli, honey, for the umpteenth time, the problem is between your dad and me. It's the kind of stuff we might discuss with a marriage counselor, but not with our son. So--please, quit asking. Even if your dad and I resolve things, and we move back to Chicago, I'm still not telling you what's private between your dad and me."

"If we go home to Dad, I won't ask anymore."

But he doesn't want us back
, she thought. Joe had told her so in his letter, "I need this break from you and Eli." But she couldn't repeat that to their son.

What was she supposed to tell him?

It had started four months ago with a phone call from
Polly
. Usually, she and Joe screened their calls. But that Tuesday night back in March, Joe had gone out on a special assignment, which could have been anything from what he called "desk-jockey duty" to busting a narcotics ring. Whenever he was out on a special assignment she worried about him and always answered the phone--even when the Caller ID read
UNKNOWN
. She ended up having to talk with a lot of telemarketers on those dreaded nights. So when the call came in
UNKNOWN
at 9:20 that evening, Sydney snatched up the receiver. "Yes, hello?" she said.

"Joe McCloud?" the man said, sounding haggard and edgy. "Is Joe McCloud there?"

"I'm sorry. He can't come to the phone right now," Sydney said. "Who's calling?"

"This is a friend of his. If he's there, tell him Polly's on the phone. I really need to talk to him."

"Well, as I said, he can't come to the phone, but if you'll leave me your number--"

"Is this Mrs. McCloud?"

"Yes--"

"Listen, Mrs. McCloud, I gotta talk to him
now
. He's not picking up on his cell. So you know how I can reach him?"

She didn't like hearing that Joe wasn't answering his cell right now. "Um, no. Do you want to leave a number?"

"Jesus," he muttered. "I'm in a phone booth. I lost my cell, and can't go home. It isn't safe. They're probably..." he trailed off. "Um, listen, have Joe call me at home and leave a number where I can reach him, okay? It's urgent. I'll keep checking my voice mail. This is Polly. He knows my home number, but--but let me give it to you anyway. Got a piece of paper?"

Sydney copied it down:
Call Polly--773-555-4159
. "I'll give him the message," she told the man.

"Thanks, Mrs. McCloud," he said. "You're a nice lady." Then he hung up.

She tried Joe on his cell, but Polly was right. He wasn't picking up. She left Joe a message about Polly's call. "And after you phone this Polly guy," she said, "buzz me and let me know you're all right."

Then Sydney hung up and waited.

Two excruciating hours later, Joe phoned to say he was on his way home. He'd been on some kind of surveillance project. "Same old, same old, a waste of time," he reported.

"Did you call that Polly person?" she asked him on the phone.

"That's a waste of time, too," he replied. "Honey, don't you know the score by now? How many times have I told you to hang up on calls like that?"

"He sounded like he was in trouble," Sydney said.

"These jokers are in trouble all the time. He was probably stoned. Did he sound like he was high?"