Final Breath (27 page)

Sydney found the contact number for the lifesaving waiter, whose part in the video short had been reduced to thirty-five seconds. His name was Troy Bischoff. If that strange fax wasn't about Caitlin, perhaps it was alluding to the death of the other
Mover & Shaker
in that segment.

It was 7:15 New York time, and Troy was a waiter who worked at night. He was probably sleeping, but Sydney took a chance and phoned him anyway. After four rings, an answering machine clicked on, and then a recording:
"Hi, this is Troy and Meredith,"
the man and woman said in unison, cracking up a little.
"We're out--and about--so leave a message! Ciao!"
The beep sounded.

"Hi, I'm calling for Troy," Sydney said. "This is Sydney Jordan. Sorry to be bothering you so early. Troy, I was--ah, thinking of a follow-up piece to that segment I did for
On the Edge
last October. I wanted to talk with you again. Could you call me as soon as you get this message? I'd really appreciate it..."

Sydney left her home and cell phone numbers, then clicked off the cordless. She set the phone on her kitchen table, and sat on one of the tall stools.

Though a lousy interview subject, Troy had enjoyed the attention. It hadn't been very nice to lying to him and getting his hopes up, but Sydney figured her proposing to him another shot on network TV would prompt a quick callback.

Unless Troy was already dead.

Sydney stared at the cordless phone in front of her. The manager at Kinko's had suggested she call the police. Where, in New York? And what would she tell them? That she wanted them to investigate who faxed a Heimlich maneuver instruction sheet to her in the middle of the night?

Joe was the only one she could turn to. He had friends all over. He probably knew another cop in New York who owed him a favor. He could find out if there were any new developments in the investigation of Angela Gannon's apparent suicide. Most important of all, if she told Joe about what was happening she wouldn't feel so all alone in this.

She glanced at the microwave clock: 4:18
A
.
M
. Joe was up, probably showered already. For normal workdays, he always set his alarm for 6:07. That was her birthday, June 7th. She wondered if he'd changed his wake-up time since she'd left.

Grabbing the phone, she dialed her old home number. Strange, she'd just made two urgent, potential life-or-death situation calls, but this one made her the most nervous. Sydney's mouth was suddenly dry. She counted the ring tones.

After the third, she heard someone pick up on the other end: "Hmm, yes, hello?"

It was a woman's voice.

Sydney quickly hung up.

Dazed, she set the cordless phone on the tall cafe table's glass top. Sydney couldn't move. The woman had sounded as if she'd just woken up.

Sydney checked the last number dialed. It was home, all right. She hadn't misdialed. Even after everything that had happened she couldn't picture him in their bed with another woman.

She didn't think Joe would return the call unless his
friend
told him about the hang-up, and he checked the caller ID.
He told you he didn't want to hear from you
, she reminded herself.

She truly didn't expect Joe to call her.

Yet for the next half hour, Sydney did nothing but sit and stare at the phone.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Meredith O'Malley lumbered up the stairs, lugging her medium-size suitcase, her purse, and a bag full of books she'd taken from her old room at home, among them, her high school yearbooks. She couldn't wait to show them to Troy.

Twenty-eight years old, Meredith was plump, with a sweet, dimpled smile and beautiful, wavy red hair. She'd just spent the weekend from hell at her parents' house in Pittsburgh. Her mother had driven her crazy. The only silver lining was that once she started telling Troy some of her mom's latest insanities, she'd be laughing about it. Maybe she'd get lucky and find that Troy had been
un
lucky last night. She didn't want one of Troy's "breakfast club" conquests hanging around the apartment this morning.

Meredith hoped to find him still in bed and very much alone. Then she'd crawl under the sheets with Troy and they'd talk the rest of the morning. Maybe after that, they could go out for brunch together. They both had the day off.

During one of her many rants over the weekend, Meredith's mother had asked, "How long do you intend to keep up this
Will and Grace
thing with Troy?"

As long as I can
, Meredith had thought. She knew it was only temporary with Troy. All it would take was a certain guy to come along, and she would lose him.

She reached the third-floor landing and caught her breath. At the door, she put down her suitcase and bag, then pulled the keys out of her purse. Slipping the key in the door, she realized it was unlocked.

Frowning, Meredith opened the door and peeked inside. All the shades were drawn, and the air-conditioning was off. Stepping into the dark, sweltering apartment, she noticed Troy's T-shirt and sneakers on the living room floor. The place smelled like a bar near closing: rank, smoky, and sweaty.

She figured Troy must have had a wild night if he'd forgotten to lock the door--and he was still asleep in this suffocating heat.

Meredith retrieved her suitcase and bag, then set them inside the door. She adjusted the window blinds and switched on the air conditioner. Swiping Troy's T-shirt from the floor, she couldn't resist sniffing it. One solace, it was just
his
T-shirt. His date from last night was long gone. She glanced over toward his bedroom door. It was open.

She headed into Troy's room. "Well, somebody was a real slut last night. I just hope--"

The next word got caught in Meredith's throat.

She saw the TV was on--stuck on the main menu of a porn movie. Troy's jeans and underwear littered the floor, along with the porn DVD cover.

Naked, Troy slumped forward under the suspension bar of his home gym. The bar held a pull-beam for some weights. And at the moment, it also held him dangling and lifeless. Wrapped around Troy's neck, his belt was twisted in knots and buckled over the support beam.

At his feet--on the floor--was a lemon cut in half and a bottle of lubricant.

Paralyzed, Meredith couldn't quite comprehend what she was seeing. Troy's handsome face was a bluish color, and his tongue protruded over his lips. His dead, half-closed eyes seemed to stare at the floor.

Though she didn't realize it then, Meredith had been right about her and Troy. It had ended just as she'd figured it would.

A certain guy had come along, and she'd lost Troy.

"Well, you packed up, took his son and moved to Seattle two months ago," Kyle said. "You didn't take a toothbrush, Syd. You had furniture shipped here. Did you expect Joe to put his life on hold for you all this time? I mean, this isn't just a little break. You have a six-month lease here. You've officially left him, Syd..."

They stood outside the kitchen door--along the railing that overlooked Lake Washington. The building provided some shade, but it was still warm along that little stretch of concrete behind the apartment. They'd stepped out there so Eli wouldn't hear them. He was watching TV in the living room.

Her hair pulled back in a ponytail, Sydney looked tired, and knew it. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night, and had been inside all morning. She wore some knock-around tan shorts and an old green print top.

It was now 1:30 in the afternoon. Troy Bischoff still hadn't phoned her back yet. She'd put in another call to Caitlin Trueblood a half hour ago to make sure she was still all right. Caitlin probably thought she was crazy. Sydney had even considered getting ahold of one of Via's representatives to make sure the superstar hadn't suddenly met a grisly demise. But then she'd gone online and read that Via was in the middle of a European tour.

Of course, she'd never heard back from Joe. Then again, why should she? Her brother had a good point. She'd left him, and he was moving on with his life. Hell, he probably didn't even know that she'd called.

She'd gotten ahold of Kyle an hour ago, asking if he could take Eli to the beach. She didn't want to leave the house in case someone called her back. Despite thundershowers in the forecast, it was sunny right now, in the high eighties, and Eli was going crazy. This was the first time he'd actually found something fun to do in Seattle, and this Earl he'd met yesterday was his very first friend here. Just because she was scared and miserable, it didn't mean her son had to suffer.

Kyle had shown up in an old oxford shirt and black swim trunks. She'd told him about everything that had gone on in the wee hours of the morning--from the Heimlich maneuver fax to the aborted call to Joe.

"Listen, why don't you just call the son of a bitch again?" Kyle now asked. "You know you want to, or are you afraid of hearing that he has indeed moved on?"

Sydney glanced out at the glistening lake and said nothing.

"I don't know why you'd still want anything to do with him," Kyle went on. "The guy hit you. I know there are extenuating circumstances you won't talk about. But can you tell me this much? Was it something
you
did? Is that why he hit you? You didn't have an affair while you were on the road or anything like that, did you?"

Sydney rolled her eyes. "Lord, no, Kyle. You know me better than that. I didn't do anything."

"Then he's the one who did something wrong, and it must be pretty god-awful, because you won't talk about it. You spilt the beans about him belting you, but you won't talk about this other--
thing
he did. And yet, you still want to go back to him, so much that you even..." Kyle shook his head. "I better shut my pie-hole. I don't want to piss you off."

Crossing her arms, she stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Go ahead and say what you were going to say."

Kyle sighed. "Okay. I think you've built up these
Movers and Shakers
deaths as some kind of threat so you have an excuse to go back to Joe. Don't get me wrong. These deaths are tragic and disturbing. But you didn't find a
first duet
among your
Movers and Shakers
people, did you? And to imagine someone is leaving you little signs and souvenirs is just a bit much. Tea and rice, some dead bird, and now this weird fax--and it's all supposed to mean something? I'll tell you what it means. It means someone sent you a fax, probably while drunk, and forgot to write their name on the cover sheet. It means Tweety flew into your bedroom and croaked on your pillow Saturday afternoon. It means some critter got into the kitchen on the Fourth of July. Or shit, maybe it's because this place is haunted. Weirder stuff has happened inside haunted houses. I told you not to rent here, but you wouldn't listen to me. You're acting crazy, Syd. And you're even contradicting yourself."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You don't believe it's safe for Eli to go to the beach by himself--a block and a half away--because some guy is after you. But apparently the same guy was also in New York sending you a fax at six-thirty this morning. You've got your stalker in two places at practically the same time, working both coasts. Or do you think there are
two
guys after you?"

Sydney frowned at him. "He sent the fax at six-thirty, New York time. He could be here by now. It's quite possible."

"Good God, Syd, listen to yourself." He slumped against the porch railing. "If right now you were back in Chicago with Joe, and all this weird stuff was happening, would you be giving it this much thought? Tell me the truth."

"Probably not," she admitted. "But what about the flowers in my name sent to the next of kin?"

"That's bizarre, I grant you. But it's not exactly grounds for pushing the panic button or calling in the FBI." Kyle shrugged. "But I'm guessing--as far as you're concerned--it's grounds for calling Joe."

Sydney sank down in the patio chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You're probably right, damn you."

Kyle patted her shoulder. "I'll take Eli to the beach. Why don't you catch a few winks? And if you can't sleep, call Joe and get it over with. The sooner you figure out he's moved on, the sooner you'll get on with your life, too."

The telephone rang, and Sydney sprang from the chair and hurried into the kitchen. She grabbed the cordless and switched it on. "Yes, hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?" Sydney repeated.

"Is...this...Sydney?" The frail voice was barely audible.

"Yes. Who's calling?"

"It's--it's Rikki, dear. Could you come over...please? I'm so, so sick. I'm afraid of dying alone--before Aidan gets here. I phoned him in San Francisco earlier this morning, when--when this last spell came over me. I told him to hurry..."

"Oh, um, Rikki, I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot to call you back--"

"Please...come...I'm so afraid."

Perplexed, Sydney wasn't sure whether or not Rikki was just being her old manipulative self. Whenever she used to call for money or a favor, Rikki had always sounded as if on the verge of crying--or dying. The voice Sydney had heard on the phone yesterday had sounded weak and sickly. But this one almost had a death rattle to it. If Rikki was putting on an act, it was a pretty damn good one.

"You do sound very weak. Maybe you should call an ambulance, Rikki," she said. "Or let me call one for you."

"No, please...I'm scared. Just--just come over, Sydney. Can't you, please?"

Sydney glanced at Kyle, standing by the sink and staring at her.

"Okay, Rikki," she said, a bit exasperated. "I'll come by. In the meantime, can you call a neighbor to come sit with you? If you're really that weak, someone else will need to buzz me in. I'm leaving right now." She paused. "Rikki?"

There was no response. It sounded like she might have dropped the phone.

"Rikki?" Flustered, Sydney hung up.

"Is that Rikki Cosgrove?" Kyle asked. "Icky Rikki?"

Grabbing her purse from the kitchen chair, Sydney nodded. "I forgot to tell you, she called yesterday. She sounds really sick."

"She always sounded sick."

Sydney checked to make sure she had her address book in her purse. "I need to get over there. She says she's dying."

"Oh, yeah." Kyle rolled his eyes. "Better make sure you have your checkbook with you. That's what she really wants."

Scowling at him, Sydney pulled her checkbook out of her purse to show him that she had it with her. "Just do me a favor and take my son to the beach. I won't be long."

"Sucker," he murmured.

Before she'd left to go see some sick old lady, his mom had told him to wear sunscreen, not to wander off too far with his new friend, and to keep checking in with Uncle Kyle.

Wearing a blue T-shirt with Bart Simpson on it, and khaki shorts over his yellow trunks, Eli walked alongside his uncle toward the beach. He had a beach blanket, sunscreen, and a paperback copy of
The Sword of Shannara
in his backpack. He'd slipped the Number 11 bus schedule inside the book. The next bus downtown was at 1:50.

Eli thought about confessing to Uncle Kyle that he had no desire to go to the beach today, that he really wanted to go to the library and find out more about the murder-suicide in their apartment back in 1974. But Eli didn't want it getting back to his mother.

Madison Park Beach wasn't quite as crowded and noisy as it had been yesterday, and it was easier to see that certain people flocked to certain areas. Gay men seemed to occupy the majority of the north section. The section south of the beach house was crowded with families, kids, and teenagers. The middle section became sort of a smorgasbord of people. The water was choppy, and waves crashed against the concrete steps leading down to the lake. Only one boom box in the area was blaring, and it competed with all the screams and laughter from the swimmers.

The sun beating down on them, Eli and Kyle stopped in the north area amid many a tanned and toned male body. "So I guess you want to pitch our blankets here, huh?" Eli warily asked his uncle.

"Okay, okay, I get it," his uncle said. "You don't want to sit in Homo Heights. Well, I'm not dying to camp out amid all the families with those wet kids running around screaming. The beach is one of the only places where I really can't give someone a filthy look if their kid is making too much noise. Let's compromise. We can sit in the middle section."

Eli squinted over toward all the families in the south section. "Hey, I think I see my buddy from yesterday," he lied. He waved in that direction. "That's him, that's my friend, Earl..."

"Where is he?" his uncle asked. Adjusting his sunglasses, he gazed toward the crowded south section.

Eli kept waving--to nobody. "He's over by that lady in the purple swimsuit under the umbrella."

"I still don't see--"

"Can I go sit with him, Uncle Kyle? Please? Then you can sit with the gays."

"Is he the skinny pale kid in the red trunks?"

"No, he's just a few people over," Eli lied. He pulled on his uncle's arm. "It looks like he's going into the water. I need to catch up with him. Please, Uncle Kyle..."

"Okay, fine," Uncle Kyle nodded. "I'll be right around here. Check in with me in forty-five minutes."

"Forty-five minutes?" Eli repeated, crestfallen. It would take almost that long just getting back and forth from the library. "Give me an hour and a half, at least. How do you expect me to have any fun if you make me check in every forty-five minutes?"