Final Breath (34 page)

Sydney had a horrible feeling about this trip.

But she didn't tell him that.

"Goddamn it!"

Dan Spengler shoved his palm onto the steering wheel and the car horn blared. "We're in gridlock. I'm trying not to block the intersection, and this slime-bucket asshole takes a right on red!" He hit the accelerator, and the car sped forward. Sydney's hand automatically went to the dashboard as she braced herself for a potential collision.

"You lowlife weasel!" Dan screamed from his window, almost slamming into the side of the other car. He hit his horn again. "Could you be more of a jerk?" He glanced at Sydney. "What kind of justification does he have for pulling that kind of shit?
'I'm in a hurry?'
or
'I'm just an asshole?'
Wait--wait a minute. Did he just flip me the bird? I can't tell..."

The other driver had indeed given him the finger, but Sydney wasn't about to say anything. She didn't want to make Dan even angrier--if that were possible. He was a handsome man with chiseled features, blue eyes, and short, slightly receding black hair. He was also very scary--at least when he was mad. His face had turned red, and his knuckles were white as he clutched the steering wheel.

"Um, I didn't see him gesturing," Sydney lied, finally letting go of the dashboard and sitting back in the passenger seat.

"I can't get over how some people delude themselves into thinking they're nice, and then they get into traffic and act like total creeps. It just amazes me." Dan took a few deep breaths, and he laughed a little. "Well, great first impression I'm making on you, huh? I'm usually a very pleasant person, honest. But whenever I get on the road, nine times out of ten, there's some jerk driver who makes me lose it. Sorry, Sydney. I didn't scare you, did I?"

"Oh, just a little--for a minute there," she said nervously. Without a doubt, the other driver had been in the wrong, but the way Dan had reacted was unnerving. She wondered if Kyle knew about this guy's angry side.

Her cell phone went off. Sydney grabbed it out of her purse and checked the caller ID: Detective Peary's number in New York. "Do you mind if I take this?" she asked.

"Go for it," Dan said, eyes on the road.

Sydney clicked on the phone. "Hello? Detective Peary?"

"Yes. I got your messages, Ms. Jordan."

"Thank you for calling back. Did you check with the Kinko's on Seventh Avenue?"

"Yes, I followed that up. They let me see the credit card receipt for that fax you were telling me about."

"And?" Sydney said, hanging on his every word.

"Troy Bischoff is the name on the Visa card."

"Shit," Sydney murmured, closing her eyes. What made her think the killer wouldn't cover his tracks?

"I'm closing the book on this one, Ms. Jordan. This guy accidentally killed himself."

"Did you check to see if that Visa card is missing?" Sydney asked. "The killer could have stolen the card."

"Bischoff had a wallet full of credit cards and money in his bedroom, and lots of valuables in his apartment. Why would someone take one card and leave all the rest behind? Anyway, someone at Kinko's found his card yesterday afternoon. Looks like Bischoff forgot it there after he sent you that fax."

"Or maybe the killer left it there," Sydney offered. "Did you consider that as a possibility? Detective, this guy wouldn't have taken Troy's money, because he didn't want anyone to know he was there. He wanted it to look like Troy died alone during this kinky self-strangulation thing."

"Well, if this so-called-killer didn't want anyone to know he was there, why did he send you this fax-clue or whatever it was?" Peary didn't wait for her to answer. "Listen, Ms. Jordan, it's a clear case of death by autoerotic asphyxiation. That's the end of it. That sort of thing happens a lot more than you'd think. These perverts are always doing stuff like this to themselves. They're sick. And then they wonder why some folks can't stand them."

"What?" Sydney said sharply. "Did I just hear you right? You know, I'm a correspondent for a network TV news program--"

"I know who you are, Ms. Jordan," he replied.

"Would you like to repeat what you just said to me for the record?"

"Listen," the detective said. "I'm doing you and your program a huge favor by not dragging this out. I saw the bit you did on this guy a few months back when you made him out to be a big hero. Are you really so eager for your adoring public to know how this deviant died?"

Sydney didn't reply. She pulled the cell phone away from her face and glared at it. "Asshole!" she screamed. Then she clicked off the line. It was all she could do to keep from smashing the phone against the dashboard. "Son of a bitch," she growled, shaking her head.

She sat there silently fuming for another few moments. Then she glanced over at Dan, and he gave her a wary look. "Well, I guess we're even now, huh? I mean, which one of us is crazier?"

She cracked a tiny smile.

"I don't even want to ask what that conversation was about," he said, chuckling.

Sydney managed a weak laugh. "Tell you later when I get to know you better."

Up ahead, she saw the sign for the turn-off to SeaTac Airport. Then she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his medium-size suitcase on the backseat. He'd put her bag in the trunk. His suitcase was dark blue and had several zippers and compartments. And on the leather handle were two destination tags from his last round trip. In the mirror, she could read the
SEA
on one tag for his return trip to SeaTac. But she couldn't quite make out the airport abbreviation on the other stub.

Sydney casually glanced over her shoulder. Now she saw the old torn tag from his previous trip:
JFK.

Turning forward, she glimpsed the airport exit as they passed it.

Sydney clutched the cell phone tighter. "Wasn't that the turn-off for the airport back there?" she asked as casually as she could.

He kept his eyes on the road. "My way's faster," he said with a tiny smile.

The seat belt was pinching her, and Sydney nervously tugged at it. She glanced at Dan again--his handsome profile and that little smile. Kyle had just met this man yesterday afternoon. Had Dan Spengler been in New York City the night before? It was awfully strange how he'd just shown up in her brother's life at this particular time.

"Was that phone call about one of your stories for
On the Edge
?" he asked.

"Sort of," she said. "A person from one of those stories was killed." Sydney watched for his reaction. He didn't seem very surprised.

"'A kinky self-strangulation thing?'
" he asked, quoting from her talk to Detective Peary.

"Yes," Sydney said. She watched him pass another exit off Interstate 5.

"You can tell me to mind my own business if you want," he said.

"It's okay."

"Was he a good friend?"

"Actually, I didn't know him very well," Sydney admitted, squirming in the passenger seat. She looked out her window. At this point, they would have to backtrack to get to the airport.

"What's the name for that--the
self-strangulation
thing?"

"Autoerotic asphyxiation."

"Yeah," he nodded and then switched on his turn signal. "You know, for the longest time, I thought it had to do with phone sex--
audio-erotic affixation
. Shows you how stupid I am."

Sydney didn't respond or even smile. She watched him veer onto the turn-off for 188th and Orilla Road. From the interstate, it looked like the road wound through a forest area. Sydney still clutched the cell phone in her hand. She took a deep breath. "So--was it hot in New York?" she heard herself ask.

He glanced at her and let out a stunned little laugh. "How did you know I was in New York in May?"

"In May?" she repeated.

"Yeah, I was visiting my big brother. He's a widower with two really cute kids. Let me know if you ever want to be fixed up. He's a very well-to-do accountant." He stopped at the light for 188th Street. Sydney saw a small sign with a right arrow that said
AIRPORT
. "So how did you know I was in New York?" Dan asked. "I don't remember mentioning it to Kyle."

"I noticed the old destination tag on your suitcase," she admitted.

He gave her a baffled grin, then steered the car to the right. "Boy, you don't miss a thing."

"It's a skill every reporter needs," she said. "Is the airport far?"

"About five more minutes if we get a break in the traffic lights." He started to pick up speed.

Sydney told herself she could sit back and breathe easy--at least, for now.

"Mixed Bags," the woman said on the other end of the line. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, hello," Eli whispered into the phone. He was in his uncle's TV room on the second floor, sitting on the sectional sofa that had doubled as his bed for a few weeks a while back. "Is Francesca Landau working there today?"

"Yes, but she's running a little late. She'll be in sometime after 10:15. Can I take a message?"

"No, thanks," Eli said. "But could you, um...." He hesitated. His uncle was down in the kitchen. Eli wasn't sure if he just now heard him coming up the stairs. He'd paused the video game on the big-screen TV. At his side, a large picture window provided a sweeping view of downtown Seattle, Elliott Bay, and the Olympic Mountain range. But his uncle's town house was also close to the interstate, and the sound of traffic was almost like white noise. It drowned out a lot of sounds within the house.

"Yes?" the woman asked.

Eli figured it had been a false alarm. His uncle was still down in the kitchen. "Um, I need to make sure I have the right Francesca Landau," Eli said. "Is she a lady in her early fifties?"

"Yes, but you better not ask Fran that," the woman said.

"And you guys are in Kirkland, right?"

"Yes, sir, we're here on Lake Washington Boulevard."

"Thank you very much," Eli said. Then he hung up.

When he'd returned home from the library yesterday, Eli had used his mother's computer to check the Internet for information on Robert Landau, the estranged husband of Loretta Sayers and stepfather to Earl and, quite possibly, their killer. All he'd found was an obituary from the
Seattle Times
in 1987. Robert Landau had died from a heart attack at age sixty-six. He'd been survived by two of his children, Mark Landau and Francesca Landau-Foyle, and two grandchildren. There was something in quotes at the bottom of the article:
"He is joined in eternity with his beloved wife, Estelle (1927-1971) and son, Jonathan (1954-1975)."

Eli wondered why they'd mentioned the first wife, but not Loretta or Earl. And what had happened to the other son, Jonathan, dead at age twenty-one?

He hadn't found anything on line about a Mark Landau in Seattle after 1987. But when he googled
Francesca Landau-Foyle, Seattle
, he came up with an article:

In & Around
Seattle:
Where To Shop

Mixed Bags Boutique...The owner of this fun find in downtown Kirkland is
Francesca Landau,
who has created a successful fusion of cosmopolitan and quaint...

www.theseattletimes/features/wheretoshop/041605-13k

The article, from three years ago, was a dull story about this gift shop Francesca owned, but it listed the address and phone number of the store, and even directions.

Earl's friend, Burt Demick, was now about fifty years old. Eli had found plenty of articles about him if it was the same Burt Demick. He was a big-shot attorney at a Seattle law firm, Rayburn, Demick, and Gill. Eli had called the law firm yesterday, but some snippy assistant had told him, "Mr. Demick is unavailable right now. May I leave a message?"

"Um, it's kind of personal, but very important," Eli had told her. "When would be the best time to reach him?"

"I'm sorry. Mr. Demick may be tied up indefinitely."

Eli had thanked her and hung up. To his further frustration, he hadn't been able to find a home listing in the phone book for Burt Demick.

Eli had really hoped to talk to Burt, but for now, it didn't look very likely. That left Earl's stepsister.

Eli wasn't certain how much Francesca knew or what she could tell him. He wasn't even sure what he would ask her. But he needed to meet this woman. He needed to find out more about Earl Sayers.

Eli still hadn't made any friends in Seattle. He didn't know anyone close to his own age--except one kid. Eli had never really seen him, but he'd felt the kid's presence in his bedroom for so many otherwise lonely nights this summer. It had taken a while for Eli to accept the fact that he was sharing his bedroom with someone else--someone dead.

He wondered if his mother had noticed he'd stopped loudly banishing their ghost at bedtime not long ago. Somewhere along the line, he'd stopped being scared. And two days ago, he finally learned the identity of his
only
friend, his night visitor: Earl Sayers.

He had to know more.

"What happened?"

Startled, Eli looked up at his uncle, who stood in the TV room entryway.

"Get bored with the video game?" Uncle Kyle asked. "Not enough carnage and mutilation?"

"No, it's okay," Eli grabbed the remote from the sofa and switched off the game and the TV. "I was just thinking, I need to get my dad a birthday present sometime soon. And I heard there's this really cool store in Kirkland..."

"Hello, Mr. Bischoff?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"I'm Sydney Jordan," she said into her cell phone. On the wall behind her was a huge diagram of an old Boeing 707. Sydney sat at the end of a row of seats in the VIP lounge--as far away as possible from the noisy, crowded bar and a woman with a shrieking toddler. There were a lot of delays this morning, and Sydney's flight was one of them.