Final Breath (21 page)

Sydney ripped up the letter. She was about to toss the torn pieces away in the trash can by her desk, but hesitated. She imagined Eli going through her trash later, finding the scraps and taping them back together again--only to discover that his beloved dad needed a
break
from him.

Leaving the scraps of Joe's letter on the corner of her desk, she decided to toss them in the garbage outside after she checked her e-mail. She clicked her mouse to open up the thank-you message:

Dear Sydney,

It was so thoughtful of you to send those beautiful flowers. I m still in shock over Angela's death. It hasn't sunk in yet that my sweet older sister is gone. I got the terrible news late Tuesday night, and your flowers arrived the very next afternoon, before anyone else's condolences. The roses were perfect. They were Angie s favorite flower. Thank you for your kindness.

Yours Very Truly,
Elizabeth Gannon Grogen

PS: I found your business card among Angie s things, and it only had your e-mail. Please forgive the e-mail Thank You, but I didn't have your regular address.

Baffled, Sydney had no idea who Elizabeth Grogen was. It took her a moment to connect her to Angela Gannon, the paralegal who had talked that suicidal man in from the fourteenth-story ledge of her office building in Chicago.

"Angela's dead?" She reread her sister's e-mail, but there was no mention of how Angela had passed away.

It had happened again--another one of her
Movers & Shakers
people had died suddenly, and someone had sent flowers to a surviving family member, signing her name on the card.

When she'd read that note from the Dvoraks, thanking her for a flower arrangement she
didn't
send, Sydney had assumed they were confused. But no, obviously someone with the network must have been sending these flowers for her. It was strange they hadn't notified her about what they were doing on her behalf.

Sydney's fingers worked furiously over the keyboard. She went to Google, and typed in the keywords
Angela Gannon Chicago death
. Several articles appeared. "Oh, God, no," she whispered, covering her mouth as she read the first search result:

The Chicago Tribune - Front Page News

Woman Plunges to
Death
from...Victim Had Intervened...
Chicago
: Dominique...The victim was
Angela Gannon
, 31, a paralegal at a law firm on the 14th floor...www.chicagotribune.co/news/womanplunges/070908-14k

She clicked on the search engine, and anxiously read the article. The date was July 8th, last Wednesday, the same afternoon her flowers were delivered to Elizabeth Gannon Grogen's front door.

WOMAN PLUNGES TO HER DEATH FROM 14TH FLOOR OF MICHIGAN AVE. OFFICE BUILDING

Victim Had Intervened with a Suicidal Coworker at the Same Window 9 Months Ago

CHICAGO
: Dominique Chandler, 26, was talking with a friend, Zackary Ross, 24, outside the Dexter Building on Michigan Avenue at 10:20 Tuesday night when they heard a scream from above. "We both looked up and saw this thing hurtling down at us," said Chandler. "It took me a moment to realize I was looking at a human being, a woman. It was as if the poor thing just fell out of the sky. Then her body hit the sidewalk curb with an awful thud. It was terrible."

The victim was Angela Gannon, 31, a paralegal at Gaines, McCourt and Weymiller, a law firm on the 14th floor of the building. Investigators on the scene discovered Gannon's purse beside an open window in the law office. No suicide note was found.

Just eight months ago, on November 14, Gannon had intervened when a disgruntled coworker had attempted to jump from a ledge outside that same 14th floor window. She managed to talk the man into climbing back inside, a feat that won her brief national attention when the story was profiled in a "Movers & Shakers" segment for the primetime TV newsmagazine, "On the Edge."

"I worked alongside Angela all day on Tuesday, and she was in a great mood," said Margarita Donovan, a coworker and friend. "I have a difficult time believing only hours later, she took her own life." Police are questioning another friend, Kent Blazenvich, 36, who had drinks with Gannon in the bar at a nearby Houlihan's Restaurant. Gannon left the bar alone at 9:40. Blazenvich remained there until approximately 11:30...

Sydney read the article, hoping to find something more conclusive about Angela's bizarre death. Obviously, at press time, the police hadn't yet determined if it was a murder or suicide. They'd discovered Angela's car in the Dexter Building's underground parking garage, and it had been vandalized. Sydney wondered if this business with the car might have somehow triggered Angela's suicide. Sydney had sunk into horrible moods over less; sometimes one little thing could push a person over the edge, and a vandalized car was a pretty big deal.

Sydney had interviewed Angela back in November but hadn't corresponded with her since then. Still, she'd liked Angela's sense of humor. She had a lot of panache--and probably a lot of boyfriends, too. Had one of them been angry enough about her date that night with Kent Blazenvich that he'd vandalized Angela's car, dragged her up to the fourteenth floor of the Dexter Building, and hurled her out a window?

Clicking back a page on the Internet, Sydney tried to find another article on Angela's death that would give more information or an update of some kind. But none of the other articles offered anything new. Each story carried that same quote from the woman who had seen Angela's body plummet:
"It was as if the poor thing just fell out of the sky."

Sydney rubbed her forehead, then switched off the computer. It was strange--first Leah and Jared, and now Angela Gannon. They'd died--violently--only four days apart. And their deaths, as far as she knew, were still unsolved.

Sighing, Sydney got to her feet and collected Joe's torn-up letter from her desktop. With the scraps of paper clutched in her fist, she wandered to the back door and unlocked it. She was thinking about Angela and Jared and Leah. Those kind of tragedies always happened in threes. Was that already three, or would someone else die?

A light breeze came off the lake as she stepped outside. The lid to the garbage can was stuck, and she had to jostle it a bit before she could open it.

"Oh, shit," Sydney whispered, startled. She'd forgotten about the dead robin in there. It must have rolled out of the paper towels when she'd moved the garbage can lid. Now the poor dead thing lay there in the moonlight.

Sydney still wondered how the dead bird had ended up on her pillow. She tossed the scraps of Joe's letter into the garbage. Then she very gingerly picked out a sheet of the paper towel and covered up the frail little feathered corpse again.

"Poor thing," she said to herself.

Then she thought of Angela, and a chill raced through her.

"It was as if the poor thing just fell out of the sky."

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Sydney frowned at her slightly puffy reflection in the bathroom medicine chest mirror.
This is what you get for that third glass of pinot grigio last night,
she thought. She'd already gone downstairs and started up the Mr. Coffee machine. She'd also phoned the network.

George Camper was a head honcho in publicity. Forwarding fan letters and handling special requests were among his department's responsibilities. If someone from the network had sent Elizabeth Grogen and the Dvoraks flowers on her behalf, George would have known about it.

But the network was operating with a Sunday skeletal staff this morning, and nobody knew anything. They'd given her George's home phone number. Sydney had called there and left a message.

With her hair pulled back in a scrunchie, Sydney put some Visine drops in her eyes and then washed her face. She was still haunted by the thought she'd had last night--that perhaps there was a connection between the dead robin on her pillow and Angela's bizarre death.

Drying off her face, she heard the water dripping and glanced over at the sink. The hollow dripping sound wasn't coming from there. She gazed at the closed shower curtain with the map of the world on it. The curtain billowed in and out slightly--almost as if it were breathing. The dripping sound got steadier--then abruptly stopped. Sydney pulled back the curtain and saw the beaded water drops around the tub's drain. One last drop clung to the faucet. Suddenly, something crept out of the drain.

Sydney gasped and bumped into the sink as she recoiled. It took her a moment to realize it was a medium-size spider. But the black crawly thing had still scared the hell out of her. With a shaky hand, she gathered up some toilet paper, then swiped up the spider and flushed it down the toilet. She gave it a second flush, just to be sure.

She wondered if maybe that dead bird had more to do with this creepy town house than with Angela Gannon's death.

Opening the bathroom door, she hadn't expected to see anyone, and there stood Eli in his pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. Sydney gasped. "Good God, Eli, you scared the
you-know-what
out of me."

"Sorry," he muttered sleepily.

She caught her breath. At least he was talking to her now.

"You done in there?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

She nodded, but remained in the bathroom doorway. "Are we okay?"

"I guess so," Eli replied. "Sorry about dropping those f-bombs on you last night."

She let out a stunned little laugh. "You're just lucky you didn't end up with a mouthful of Dial. I've never heard you use that kind of language." She patted his shoulder. "Anyway, I'm sorry I accused you of putting that bird on my bed. It really unnerved me to find it there. Maybe that sort of thing happens when you live this close to the water--or in a friggin' haunted house."

Eli cracked a smile. "So
friggin'
is okay to use?"

She kissed his forehead. "Only in front of me--and sparingly. Anyway, we're all forgiven, right?"

Eli nodded, then he slid his arms around her. "I called Dad last night," he said. With his face in her shoulder, his voice was slightly muffled. "He told me you tried to get Brad and Tim out here for a visit. Thanks for trying, Mom."

Sydney held him tightly. "Well, I'm sorry I wasn't able to pull it off."

After a few moments, Eli squirmed a little. "Mom, I got to pee."

She pulled away and mussed his hair. "How about homemade waffles for breakfast? I haven't broken out the waffle iron in months."

"Sounds good, Mom," Eli replied, ducking into the bathroom.

Sydney's first attempt at making a waffle in three months was a disaster. One side was burnt black, the other side nearly raw. She unplugged the waffle iron. "Eli?" she called. "Honey, a little delay to breakfast! It'll be about another fifteen minutes."

"No sweat!" Eli answered from upstairs. "Don't knock yourself out, Mom, because I really don't think..." She couldn't hear the rest, because his voice was fading, and the phone rang.

She checked the caller ID and saw it was George Camper, calling back. She grabbed the cordless. "Hello, George?"

"Hi, Sydney."

"Thanks for getting back to me. Sorry to bother you at home."

"No problem, Sydney. What can I do for you?"

"I wasn't sure if you knew anything about this or not, but last week this couple from
Movers & Shakers
, Leah Dvorak and Jared McGinty, the ones who stopped the robbery at the Thai restaurant--"

"Yeah, I heard they were murdered," George finished for her. "That's just awful. What a tragedy..."

"Yes, well, last night I found out Angela Gannon committed suicide, at least the police seem to think it might have been a suicide. She's the woman I interviewed who talked that man out of jumping from that office building ledge in Chicago."

"Oh, sure, I remember that story. The girl's dead?"

"Yes," Sydney said. "You didn't know?"

"No, I hadn't heard anything, Sydney. God, that's terrible. In one week, you lost three of your
Movers & Shakers
people. Were you--um, thinking about doing some kind of posthumous tribute or something?"

"No." Sydney hesitated. He'd already answered her question: he didn't know about Angela's death. Still, she had to ask. "Listen, George, do you think someone in your office might have sent flowers to the Dvoraks and to Angela's sister on my behalf?"

"I'm not sure I understand, Sydney."

"I've gotten notes from the Dvoraks and Angela's sister, thanking me for the flowers--and I didn't send any. Do you think someone in your department--or any other department--might have sent flowers to these people and signed my name on the card?"

"Not in my department," George replied. "I can't think of anyone at the network who would have done that. The folks in Legal have names and addresses on file from when your interview subjects sign the waivers making sure we don't get sued. But I really doubt anyone in Legal sent the next of kin flowers. Besides, they wouldn't have the addresses of the
relatives
."

"No, of course they wouldn't," Sydney heard herself say.

"Is there anything else I could do for you, Sydney?"

Numb, Sydney sat down at the tall cafe table in the corner of her kitchen. If no one from the network had sent flowers in her name to the Dvoraks and Angela's sister, then who had? Who would have the addresses of the deceased's relatives?

"Sydney, are you still there?"

"Yes, George," she said. "Um, thanks for your help."

"No worries," he said. "I'm sorry about your
Movers & Shakers
friends. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

"I will. Thanks, George," she murmured. Then Sydney clicked off the phone.

She sat there in a stupor for a moment until she could smell bacon burning. She put down the cordless phone, quickly got to her feet, and hurried to the stove. "Eli!" she called, removing the bacon from the grill with a set of tongs. "We're having our bacon extra crisp! Is that okay with you?"

There was no response from upstairs.

"Honey? Eli?"

Switching off the stove, she headed up the hallway to the foyer. Sydney stopped abruptly when she saw a piece of paper taped to the banister newel post:

I didn't want to bug you while you're on the phone. I decided to go to the beach like I was telling you. I'll get something to eat at the bakery. Be back around 3.

Love, Eli.

Dressed in khaki shorts, gym shoes, and a white T-shirt that had
CHICAGO POLICE
and their insignia on it, Eli carried a backpack as he shuffled along the sidewalk. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and Madison Park beach was a mob scene. A few boom boxes competed with the ice cream truck that played "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" over and over. Eli couldn't see any grass on the sloping lawn leading down to the water--just blankets and people, lots of nearly naked people. He noticed one cute teenage girl in a yellow bikini that he liked. She was doing a sexy little dance and squealing--very loudly. Then he saw she had a cigarette in her hand, and he decided between the squealing and the smoking, she was probably a jerk. So Eli moved on, bypassing the beach--even though in his backpack he had a beach blanket, his trunks, and a tube of sunblock.

Passing restaurants, shops, and then the bakery, he walked to the bus stop. His timing was perfect. Eli could see the Number 11 coming up the street. He dug into his pocket for bus fare and Vera Cormier's Christmas card.

The bus came to a stop in front of him and then the door whooshed open. Eli stepped aboard, and dropped his fare into the receptacle. He showed the bus driver Vera's Christmas theme return address sticker on the envelope. "I need to go to this address," Eli said. "Could you tell me where I should transfer and on what line?"

The driver was a thin black woman in her late thirties. She had auburn hair and wore sunglasses. "Sure, handsome," she said with a smile. "Just park it right behind me there in the handicapped area, and I'll tell you what to do. I know that place. It's nice. Visiting a grandparent?"

A dark-skinned man with a green Izod polo shirt and sunglasses stepped in after him. The man threw some money into the machine and then brushed past Eli. He took a seat near the back of the bus.

Eli glanced at him for a moment before he sat down in the handicapped area. "Um, yes," he said to the driver, as the bus started moving again. "I'm visiting my grandmother. And I've never been there before."

Eli had called Evergreen Point Manor early this morning, while his mother had been downstairs in her office. He'd asked if Vera Cormier still lived there. The operator had told him yes, and would he like to be connected to her extension?

"Um, no thanks," Eli had whispered into the phone. "I'd like to surprise her. How--um, how's she doing, by the way?" He'd imagined going all that way to meet with some loopy old lady who couldn't even talk. "Is she okay?"

"Vera? Oh, Vera's great. She'll outlive us all."

Eli had thanked the operator, then hung up. It might have been easier to talk with the old lady on the phone, but he remembered something his mother had told him about interviewing people. She'd said online and phone interviews were okay in a pinch, but it was best to do it in person, one-on-one.

He glanced around at some of the other passengers on the bus, and his gazed stopped on the man with the green shirt seated near the back. He looked so familiar. With his dark hair and olive complexion, he looked like an Italian actor in
The Sopranos
.

Gazing at him, Eli remembered something else his mother had said--about her stalker. He was an olive-skinned man, possibly Latino, medium build, and with an eye infection of some sort. This guy on the bus still had on his sunglasses. He wasn't wearing a Felix Hernandez Mariners shirt, but otherwise the guy totally fit the description of this stalker.

Eli kept studying the man, who stared out the bus window. Eli hadn't seen the guy in the Mariners number 59 shirt yesterday. So why did this man on the bus seem so familiar?

Suddenly, the man turned and faced him.

Eli quickly looked away. He remembered him now: the man he'd almost collided with at the fun fair, the one who stood and stared at him. For a while, Eli had thought the guy was following him. He'd even screamed at someone else in a beige top, thinking it had been that man. Then he'd realized his mistake and figured if that man had indeed been following him, he must have given up.

Eli stole a glance at the stranger near the back of the bus, and he realized something.

The man hadn't given up at all.

"MARCO...POLO! MARCO...POLO!" The kids were screaming in the shallow water near the shore. Shrieking, flailing their arms, another swarm of wet children raced by her, and she was sprinkled with water.

Sydney wandered along the shore, looking at all the swimmers, as well as the sunbathers on the grass. The beach was packed, but she didn't see Eli anywhere. There had been a few false alarms, boys who looked like Eli from behind or at a distance, but no Eli.

Craning her neck, Sydney stood on her tiptoes for a better look at a large raft tied to poles in the deep water. It was crammed with people, many of them standing in line to use one of the two diving boards. She couldn't tell from here if Eli was among them.

"Attention, swimmers!"
a lifeguard announced into a bullhorn. He got up from the little bench on his observation perch.
"Eli McCloud, please report to the lifeguard station at the beach house. Eli McCloud, please report to the lifeguard station at the beach house."

Sydney waved and mouthed
thank you
to the lifeguard, and he waved back at her. Then she threaded around all the blankets and sunbathers over toward the beach house. If only she'd caught a glimpse of Eli as he'd left the apartment. Then she would have known which pair of swim trunks he had on, and it might have been easier to spot him.

She felt so frustrated--and anxious. She couldn't really be angry at Eli for leaving the way he had. Obviously, when he'd called down to her while she'd been on the phone, he must have said something about skipping the big breakfast for this beach trip. Why wasn't she listening to him?

She'd warned Eli last night about her stalker. But he hadn't taken her too seriously. And why should he have? He didn't know she was worried about more than just this stranger in a Mariners number 59 T-shirt.

In his note, he'd said he would return at three o'clock. That was two and a half hours from now.

Standing by the lifeguard station, Sydney shielded her eyes from the sun. She scanned all the faces and body types, thinking there was still a chance she'd see Eli. She kept hoping that he'd emerge from the crowd and come toward her.