Final Breath (25 page)

Eli tried the keywords
Loretta Sayers, Seattle, suicide
on several search engines. But the search results he got were mostly about an actress, Loretta Sayers, born in Seattle in 1911, died 1999--not a suicide. The keywords
Earl Sayers, murder, Seattle
brought him articles about Seattle author Earl Emerson and his murder mysteries. Nothing else was even in the ballpark. He tried altering the way he spelled their last name:
Seyers, Seayers, Seiers, Sayrze.
Nothing. Eli wondered if Vera hadn't remembered their names right.

He felt so frustrated. The talk with Vera had only made him hungrier for more details about what had happened in that haunted apartment. He desperately wanted to see a photo of Earl, the fifteen-year-old boy whose spirit still occupied that bedroom--thirty-some-odd years after he'd had his throat slit in there. Did he really look like him?

Eli glanced at his wristwatch: almost 3:20. He had only six minutes to catch that bus.

"Shit," he said under his breath. Clearing the computer screen, he grabbed his backpack and got to his feet. As he passed by the librarian's desk, he nodded and worked up a smile for the pretty girl with the pink streak in her hair.

"Find what you were looking for?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Not really," Eli admitted, shrugging.

"Well, maybe I can help you. What are you trying to look up?"

Eli approached the desk. "I wanted some information about a murder-suicide here in Seattle, back in 1974. This woman Loretta Sayers killed her kid and then herself."

She said, "Hmmm, you're probably better off going into the microfilm files for old
Seattle Times
and
Post-Intelligencers
. We have those here. Do you know
when
in 1974?"

"November," Eli said.

She nodded. "Well, it might take a little digging, but you ought to find something on microfilm."

"Gosh, thanks," Eli said. "Are you guys open tomorrow?"

"Until nine. And
gosh, you're welcome
." She smiled.

Eli knew he had sort of a dumb, grateful-smitten grin on his face. He gave her a salute, and said, "Okay, see you!"

Seconds later, hurrying toward the escalator he wondered why the hell he'd
saluted
her. Could he possibly be any more of a dork?

However embarrassed he was about the way he'd acted with that cute girl, Eli still felt elated about returning tomorrow. He'd been incredibly bored and lonely all summer. This murder-suicide was the first thing in weeks that he cared about here.

On the bus, Eli realized he had to make another stop before going home. It meant five more minutes. His mother would probably have a major cow when he got home anyway. Five more minutes wouldn't make a difference now.

When the bus let him off at his stop, Eli hurried to the beach. It wasn't very crowded anymore. He ducked into the beach house men's room. Off to one side was a single shower, along with a small changing room with a bench; on the other side were the urinals, a toilet, and a sink. In the changing room, Eli started peeling off his shirt and shoes. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out his towel and trunks. He hoped no one came in while he was naked because he felt very self-conscious about his body lately. He was too skinny and just starting to get pubic hair, so he felt like a freak. Plus he had a farmer tan.

He figured it would be faster and easier to wet his swim trunks, then put them on. He ran them under the shower. Then just as Eli pulled off his shorts and underpants, a little black kid with a buzz cut in red trunks appeared in the changing room doorway. With a finger in his mouth, the wide-eyed boy gaped at Eli as if he were an alien.

"C'mon, we're going home!" boomed his father's voice.

Naked and trying to step into the wet trunks, Eli looked up in time to see the kid's father take him by the arm and lead him out of the restroom. Eli finally got his legs through the trunks and then realized he had them on backward. He had to step out of them and start over again.

A shadow swept past the changing room, and Eli figured it was the kid coming back for another look at the skinny naked guy with the farmer tan. Still struggling to step into the wet trunks, he glanced up and froze. He locked eyes with the man in the green polo shirt--the one from the bus. The man paused in the doorway and glared at him. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses.

Eli felt his stomach tighten. His mom was right. The white part of the man's left eye was bloodshot.

The man turned away and moved toward the toilet stall.

Rattled, Eli almost tripped pulling up his swim trunks. He couldn't breathe right. His hands were shaking as he gathered up his clothes and shoes. He shoved them in his backpack, threw his towel over his shoulder, and hurried out of the beach house men's room. Barefoot, he raced across the sand, threading around blankets and sunbathers. He stepped on a few rocks or pebbles but didn't stop--not until he got to the wrought-iron front gate of the Tudor Court complex. Then he had to dig into his backpack for the keys--inside his pants pockets. He glanced over his shoulder but didn't see the man with the green shirt. Eli fumbled for a few moments as he tried to get the key in the lock. Finally, he heard it click, then he pushed open the gate, ducked inside, and shut it behind him. Hearing that lock click again, he felt better. He pulled out his
CHICAGO POLICE
T-shirt and his shoes, put them on, then hurried toward the apartment.

"Eli?" his mother tentatively called when he stepped inside. It sounded like she was in her office. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, Mom," he called back. "Sorry I'm late--"

"Oh, thank God!"

Just as he'd figured, she'd been worried. Now he knew why. That creepy man with the weird eye was very, very real. Part of Eli wanted to tell her right away about his two brushes with the guy. But he didn't say anything. He didn't want her to know he'd lied about going to the beach.

He was starving. In the kitchen, he dumped his backpack on the tall cafe table, then helped himself to two fruit rollups and a Rice Krispie Treat. His mom poured him a glass of milk.

He felt bad when his mother told him that she'd gone down to the beach, looking for him. "I even had the lifeguard page you," she said.

His back resting against the kitchen counter, Eli stopped chewing his food for a moment. "Guess I didn't hear you," he said finally. "Sorry, Mom."

He apologized for losing track of the time, too, and then the lies started. The water was really great--just the right temperature. And he met another kid his age there. "Um, I told him I'd see him there tomorrow," Eli added, eying his mom to see how she would react. He needed an excuse so he could sneak off to the library tomorrow. "I think he's a pretty cool guy."

"Oh, I don't think the beach is such a good idea, honey," his mom said, wincing. She sat down at the table. "I told you about this stalker character. Well, there may be a lot more to it than just some weirdo following me around."

"What do you mean?" Eli asked. He stopped eating. "Who is he?"

She gave an uneasy shrug. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

Eli thought once again about telling her that he'd seen the man, but he hesitated. He really wanted to go to the library tomorrow. He'd given that guy the slip twice now; he could do it again tomorrow. "You think he's really dangerous?" he asked.

She sighed. "I'm not sure yet. But in the meantime, I don't want to take any chances. I'm sorry, but I don't want you going off on your own while this guy is out there."

"Oh, please, Mom," he moaned. "You're always telling me I should get out more! This is the first person my age I've met out here. And my buddy is coming with his dad and his older brother tomorrow. I'll stick with them the whole time. I'll be real careful..."

"Well, I'll think about it," she said.

"Thanks, Mom," he replied. "I'm gonna go wash up." He kissed his mother on the cheek, then started to head out of the kitchen.

"Honey, about this new friend of yours," she said.

Eli turned in the kitchen doorway.

"What's your buddy's name?" his mom asked.

Eli worked up a smile. "Earl," he said. "His name's Earl."

As she stepped back into her office, Sydney could hear Eli up in his room--with a U2 CD blasting. The bass was
boom-boom-booming
. She would tell him to turn it down in a little while. For the moment, she was just glad he was home.

Sitting at her desk, Sydney reread the second paragraph of her note to Angela Gannon's sister on the monitor screen:

I got your kind e-mail today. I'm glad the flowers arrived. Do you by any chance know the name of the florist who delivered them? I'm sorry to bother you with this during such a difficult time, but I was out of town on business when I heard about Angela. I stopped by a florist and put in the order. But I don't think they billed me. Anyway, I don't have a receipt or the name of the florist. I'd like to pay for those roses. If you could tell me who delivered them, I can work backward and figure out where I placed the order. Thank you for your time, Elizabeth. I really appreciate it.

Once again, you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.

Sincerely,
Sydney Jordan

Sydney typed her home and cell phone numbers at the bottom of the e-mail. Then she clicked
SEND
.

She hated bothering Angela's grieving sister, but if someone had indeed murdered Angela, this might be one way to help track him down.

Hunched over the keyboard, Sydney pulled up another e-mail--one she'd deleted and restored a while back:

Bitch-Sydney

You can t save them.

She'd tried to respond to it on July 5th, but the address, [email protected], had bounced back as invalid. Maybe she'd just encountered a glitch the last time. She clicked the
REPLY
icon, and typed the same response she'd used before:
Who are you?

Biting her lip, Sydney hit Send.

A moment later, she was almost relieved to hear the click, indicating an incoming e-mail. It was another
MAILER-DAEMON
delivery failure notification.

Had the person used that e-mail account name just that once--for her? If so, the moniker he'd chosen meant something--the same way that dead bird on her bed must have meant something. Were the murders of Leah and Jared a
duet
?

If that was what he'd been telling her, then Leah and Jared weren't his first. He'd killed two people together before--if not together, than at least on the same day:
second duet for you
.

The telephone rang. Sydney jumped up, ran into the kitchen, and grabbed the cordless. She checked the caller ID. It was her brother's cell phone number. She clicked on the phone: "Hi, Kyle."

"Is Eli back yet?" he asked. It sounded like he was in the car.

"He just came in about fifteen minutes ago," Sydney said. "I was about to call you, but I got distracted. Sorry."

"You really had me all wound up. I kept imagining Eli's photo on a milk carton."

"No, he's fine, thank God. He's up in his room with Bono blasting as we speak. I think he made a new buddy at the beach today."

"Oh? Then things are looking up."

"He wants to go back there tomorrow, but I'm not so sure it's such a terrific idea--what with everything that's going on right now." Sydney told her brother she was about to dive into her
Movers & Shakers
files, and look at the couples she'd profiled in the last year or two. She needed to see if any of them had recently died under suspicious circumstances. She was looking for that first
duet
--before Leah and Jared.

Her brother was silent on the other end of the line for a moment.

"Kyle?"

"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "I just think you've accrued a lot of
ifs
there:
if
the message was supposed to be about your Portland friends;
if
the sender made up the e-mail account exclusively for you; and
if
someone is indeed bumping off your
Movers & Shakers
people. I don't know, Syd. Maybe this
duet
guy is just some music lover who dropped his account name after sending you that crank e-mail and calling you a bitch. Maybe he meant you can't save the whales. You might be freaking out over nothing."

"I hope you're right," she said. "But I still think it's worth checking into."

"Well, knock yourself out," he sighed. "Listen, I have to wine and dine another client tonight. Are you going to be okay? I can cancel and come spend the night with you guys if you're scared."

"Thanks, but I think we'll be okay," she replied.

Yet moments later, after she'd hung up the phone, Sydney realized she'd been lying to her brother--and maybe to herself, too. She didn't really think they'd be okay.

And she was very, very scared.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

New York City--Monday, 1:22
A
.
M
.

He'd established eye contact with Troy about ten minutes before, and now they made a game of glancing and smiling at each other across the crowded bar. Troy seemed to think he looked pretty good in those jeans and the white V-neck T-shirt that showed off his toned torso and muscular arms. A tall, handsome guy, he had short, spiked, straight sand-colored hair and a five o'clock shadow.

It was a look Troy had had for at least eight months now. In fact, when he'd appeared in a
Movers & Shakers
segment for
On the Edge
, he'd had the exact same haircut and stubble-length.

He'd been watching Troy for an hour tonight. But he'd watched and studied him many other nights as well. In fact, this wasn't the first time he and Troy had flirted with each other across the bar at Splash.

He wasn't bad looking himself. He'd already had a few Chelsea muscle boys approach him this evening--along with one drag queen. But he'd politely dismissed each one. Splash's Sunday Disco Tea Party was winding down. Yet the bar was still crowded with sweaty men--and pulsating to the beat of Laura Branigan's "Gloria."

He watched a handsome jock-type nuzzle up to Troy at the bar. It looked like the guy was trying to strike up a conversation.

From across the bar, he imagined the questions:
So what's your name? What do you do?

He was Troy Bischoff, a thirty-one-year-old struggling screenwriter and full-time waiter at Ting, a trendy SoHo restaurant.
And he's not interested in you, buddy
, the man across the bar thought.

It looked as if the jock was asking Troy to dance, but Troy shook his head. Mr. Jock patted him on the shoulder and moved on. Troy checked out the guy's butt as he walked away, but then his gaze totally shifted direction--across the bar at
him
. He grinned.

Troy's smile seemed to say,
Look what I just passed up for you.

He smiled back, picked up his beer from the tall table, and moved in for the kill.

In for the kill
, he thought.

"Hey, I'm Joe," he said--loudly, over Laura Branigan's singing.

Troy nodded. "I've been wondering how long it would take you to walk over here." He raised his martini glass. "I'm Troy. You look familiar, Joe."

He chuckled, and leaned in close so he could be heard over all the noise. "Well, we've been in this same situation before here, only then, I didn't have the nerve to approach you--too much competition at the time. That was about two months ago. Maybe you remember me from then."

"Maybe," Troy allowed. He looked him up and down, then right into his eyes.

At that moment, he knew Troy was his.

Thelma Houston's "Don't Leave Me This Way" began churning over the speakers. Troy moved his hips in sync with the music. Sipping his martini, he cocked his head to one side and grinned. "So tell me, Joe. What do you do for a living?"

"Believe it or not, I'm a cop!" he shouted over the music.

"No shit!" Troy said, laughing.

"I shit you not. NYPD."

Troy touched his shoulder, then his hand slid down to his chest and lingered there for a moment. "Well, I've never made it with a cop before."

He caressed Troy's arm. "So what is it you do?"

"I'm a waiter. And I'm pretty sure you've made it with a waiter before." He laughed at his own remark, then took another sip of his martini. "But I'm also a screenwriter. I have several people in the industry looking at my latest screenplay."

"Wow, that's really cool." Then he put on a perfect look of jaw-dropping revelation. "Hey, wait a minute. I know where I've seen you before. Last time I was here, I kept wondering why you looked so familiar. That's one reason I kept staring at you--that and the fact that you're so damn cute. You were on TV--
Movers and Shakers
. You're the waiter who saved that rock star from choking to death in the restaurant..."

Rolling his eyes, Troy nodded. "Yeah,
Via
. It's my big claim to fame. I gave Via the Heimlich."

"You work in that vegetarian restaurant, Tang."

"
Ting
, and it's vegan," Troy said with a tiny frown.

"I remember you on that
Movers and Shakers
. It was aired back in October, right?"

Troy nodded over his martini glass.

"I remember thinking that if you didn't sell a screenplay; you'd probably get some offers to work
in front of the camera
, because you're so hot-looking. Did that
Movers and Shakers
help pave the way for anything?"

Troy sighed. "Not really. Sydney Jordan shot a lot of footage interviewing me, but didn't use much of it. She ended up spending eighty percent of the story profiling the woman I took the Heimlich and CPR classes from, Caitlin Something. I forget her last name."

"That sucks, man!" he shouted over the music. "You're the one who saved Via's life. You should have been in that segment more. You know, I always figured Sydney Jordan was a bitch."

"She's not bad," Troy said, shrugging. "At least, I thought she was cool--until I saw how little of me there was on that
Movers and Shakers
bit."

"Well, I would have liked seeing a lot more of you." He stroked Troy's arm again, and gave him a coy smile. "So is there a chance I can see a lot more of you tonight?"

"I think that can be arranged," Troy said. "I don't live too far from here."

Yes, I know, Eighth Avenue
, he thought.

"And my roommate's out of town," Troy continued, leaning in for a kiss.

He pulled away--just slightly. "My ex is here," he explained. "Not that he'll go psycho on us or anything, but I don't want him to see us leaving together. Would you mind leaving first? Then I could meet you in five minutes?"

"This is pretty silly," Troy said.

"I know, indulge me. Then I'll indulge you later. C'mon, meet me on the corner of West Seventeenth and Sixth. I won't keep you waiting long."

Nodding, Troy grinned. "Okay, Officer Joe, I'll see you in five minutes. Don't forget to bring your nightstick." Troy waved to the bartender, and said good-bye to two more people in the bar. Troy was a regular here at Splash. He made his way to the door, glanced back at him, and smiled.

Then Troy left his favorite bar--for the last time in his life.

He wondered if his name was really
Joe
, and if he was really a cop.

But right now, it didn't matter too much to Troy, because Joe was in his apartment, and he was really hot. They'd already thrown their shirts off. From the way Joe pulled back a little each time, Troy figured he didn't like to kiss--at least, not on the mouth. He'd been with guys like that, and some of them just needed a little warming up.

Fondling and groping each other, they made their way toward Troy's bedroom. His roommate, Meredith, wouldn't be back from Pittsburgh until midmorning. Troy wondered if this Joe guy would be a member of his "breakfast club." Those were the guys he let sleep over. He wasn't sure yet.

"You got some porn?" Joe asked, biting at his earlobe. He glanced over at the TV across from Troy's bed. "I like having porn on when I'm doing it."

Troy kissed his neck--safe territory. "Um, I got some old DVDs, yeah."

"Put one on," Joe said. He playfully bit his shoulder, then pushed him away. Troy had a one-station home gym in the corner of his bedroom. Joe sat down on the stool--under a bar for pulling weights. He started to take off his shoes and socks.

Troy grinned back at him and made a tiger-growling noise as he walked across the bedroom. Squatting in front of the TV, he pulled a few DVDs from the cabinet underneath it. "Um, I got
Drill Bill
...
Below the Belt.
How about
Dawson's Crack
?"

"Anything," Joe said, unzipping his jeans. "You pick it. I just like having the music and all that copulating noise in the background."

"Hmmm, the cop likes his copulating noise." Troy switched on the TV, and popped one of the discs into the DVD player. He hit the chapter selection so it was right in the middle of a sex scene. Then he raised the volume a bit. The music was churning, and both guys in the movie were groaning and grunting.

He turned and saw Joe standing by the bed in only his white briefs. Sweat glistened off his arms and chest. Troy unfastened his own belt.

"No, let me do that," Joe said. He walked up behind him, reached around and ran his hands over Troy's stomach. He tugged at the belt, slowly pulling it past all the belt loops on his jeans. Troy shuddered gratefully as the guy gently slid the belt buckle's metal tongue up his back. He loved that mild scratching sensation. Joe was breathing in his ear.

On the TV, the music and the guys seemed to be reaching a crescendo. It got louder and louder.

Joe was now teasing him with the leather belt strap, wrapping it around his neck as he pushed his pelvis up against him from behind. Troy chuckled. "Oh, man...police brutality..."

Suddenly, the belt tightened around his throat. Troy's head snapped back. He tried to yell out, but he couldn't. His hands came up and frantically clawed at the other man's fists. His face was turning crimson.

Oh, God, if this is a game, he has to stop
, Troy thought. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't get any air.
Please, God, no...this isn't happening...

The man squeezed the belt around Troy's neck even tighter. A fold of pinched flesh protruded over the leather strap.

There was a loud scream. But it wasn't Troy--or the man choking him. It was one of the actors in the porn movie.

Troy couldn't scream at all. In fact, he'd already taken his final breath.

She heard the waves rolling onto the beach. At her open window, the sheer curtains billowed. And on her nightstand, the digital clock said 3:11
A
.
M
. Sydney was wide awake.

Yet she was exhausted, and her eyes were still sore from all the reading and Internet browsing. Delving through her files for the twenty-eight
Movers & Shakers
video shorts she'd filmed last year, she'd found six that had profiled couples--seven, if she'd counted Leah and Jared. Among them were a husband and wife in Columbus, Ohio, who trained service dogs for people with spina bifida, and a Kalamazoo couple who rescued four kids from a school bus after it plunged off a bridge into the Kalamazoo River. Sydney didn't just limit her search to traditional couples either. She included two teenage brothers in Winnetka, Illinois, who started their own Designated Driver service and made $3,000 in one semester, and two women, both mothers of leukemia victims, who had bought a vacant lot in their hometown outside Indianapolis and built a playground in the memory of their kids.

Sydney remembered all of them. She dreaded the notion that one of these amazing
duets
may have been killed recently. But to her relief--and from what she could tell from her search on the net--all of these
Movers & Shakers
were still alive and well.

She wondered if perhaps Kyle had been right. Maybe she'd been overreacting.

She remembered how full her life had been last year when she'd worked on those stories. It was strange, but she'd felt so independent while still with Joe; without him, she felt scared and needy. She'd been tempted to call him tonight several times

After all, who better to talk with about all of this business than a Chicago police detective? Angela had been killed in Chicago. Maybe Joe knew something about the case that hadn't been mentioned in the newspapers--or online. She told herself that Joe would listen to her, and maybe
do
something.

But each time she'd almost picked up the phone to call him tonight, she'd thought about that damn letter of his and decided against it.

She and Eli had gone out to dinner tonight: a five-block walk up Madison to Bing's for hamburgers. She didn't see any sign of Mr. 59. It was still light out both coming and going to the restaurant, so she felt safe. It was a good dinner, and a nice change of pace from cooking for two and eating with Eli in front of the TV, usually some movie or show she tolerated for his sake.

Tonight, they'd actually talked. Eli had admitted he still missed his dad, his friends, Cubs games, Vienna Beef hot dogs, really good pizza, fireflies, and thunderstorms. At the same time, he'd gone on about all the cool places in Seattle he would have liked to show his buddies, Tim and Brad: the beach, the mountains, Pike Street Market, Broadway, the bus tunnel; even the library was awesome--at least from what he saw on the outside. He didn't talk much about his new friend, Earl. But Sydney realized Eli was starting to feel more at home here than she did. Of the two of them, she was the one having a tough time being happy.

She glanced at the nightstand clock again: 3:27.

She heard a muted hum, followed by a mechanical sound of something shifting.

Sydney climbed out of bed and crept over to her bedroom door. The noise came from her office downstairs. She realized it was her fax machine. Rubbing her arms, she padded down the hallway and switched on the downstairs foyer light. In her pajama shorts and T-shirt, Sydney stole down the steps. She eyed the front door--double locked, with the chain fastened.

She'd heard a story once about a murderer breaking into a house, then switching on the clothes dryer in the basement to lure a woman down there for the kill. She wondered if someone was just updating it a bit with a fax machine. Who would be faxing her something at 3:30 in the morning?

Sydney opened the closet door at the foot of the stairs and pulled out an umbrella, the same one Eli had brandished for their elusive intruder the night of July Fourth. She made her way to the kitchen, then switched on the overhead light. Nothing had been disturbed. The chain lock was still on the kitchen door. The fax machine let out a beep, indicating it was finished with the job. Sydney poked her head in her small office and turned on the light. She leaned the umbrella against her desk.