Final Breath (35 page)

"I worked with Troy on a short video for television last October," she went on. "I just wanted to say that I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

On the other end of the line, Troy's father said nothing.

"Um, I sent some flowers," Sydney said. It was a lie, but she needed to find out if they'd gotten any. "I'm wondering if they've arrived yet."

"Yeah, my wife took your flowers down to the church," he said coldly. "I didn't want them in the house. I don't want anything around reminding me of him."

Sydney winced. Troy's roommate had warned her about his parents.

And Troy's killer was repeating his pattern.

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Bischoff," she said patiently. "If I could please speak to your wife, I just have a question about the florist--"

"No," he cut in. "I don't want you or any of his other friends calling here. Understand?"

He didn't wait for her to respond. Sydney heard a click on the other end of the line.

Sydney stared at her cell and clicked it off. This was the second homophobic creep she'd dealt with this morning. And meanwhile no one was looking any further into the circumstances of Troy Bischoff's death.

The woman with the loud toddler had decided to move to the same row of seats. She was a pale redhead in a blue summer dress. Sydney wanted to gag the little brat, but she felt sorry for the mother and gave her a sympathetic smile.

The woman nodded tiredly at her. "We're making a lot of friends here in the VIP lounge," she said, over the child's ear-piercing screams.

The kid, a red-haired little boy in shorts and an Izod sport shirt, made a fist and swung at his mom, hitting her in the leg.

"Ouch!" the mother yelped, recoiling. "That hurt!" She grabbed him by the arms and looked him in the eye. "Why did you do that? Why did you hit Mommy?"

Blind rage
, Sydney thought.

She remembered her conversation with her brother this morning. Biting her lip, she reached down for her carrying case and pulled out her laptop computer. She hooked it up to the Internet connection on the wall behind her, then went online and pulled up Google. Sydney typed in the keywords:
Madison High School girls murder Seattle
. A bunch of articles came up. She clicked on the most recent one, looking for an update on the case her brother had mentioned. It was from the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
, dated December 10, 2007:

TWO YEARS LATER
A Mystery Still Unsolved

On December 10, 2005, Molly Gerrard and Erin Travino, Heroes at Their Seattle High School, Were Brutally Murdered; Police Have Yet to Find Their Killer.

Below the headline were photos of Molly and Erin: One was a classically pretty girl with long black hair and glasses, and the other, curly-haired and cute.
"Only a week before they were slain,"
said the caption.
"James Madison High School Juniors, Molly Gerrard (l) and Erin Travino (r) had made headlines when they'd thwarted a fellow student's shooting rampage."

Sydney anxiously read the article, which featured comments from the victims' parents, expressing their dismay over the lack of progress in the double-murder investigation.

Seattle police were still following several leads, but had yet to arrest any suspects in the case. Warren Tunny, the young man who had smuggled a gun into Molly and Erin's fifth period study hall, was still under psychiatric observation and unavailable for comment.

Sydney wondered: Were Molly and Erin the first
duet
?

The article was over seven months old.

Sydney switched on her cell phone again and dialed directory assistance for Seattle. Fortunately, the screaming child nearby had calmed down, so Sydney didn't have to shout when asking directory assistance for the phone number of Phillip and Hannah Gerrard. But there was no listing. George and Louise Travino's phone number wasn't listed either. And they didn't have a listing for Warren Tunny. Three strikes.

Sydney wasn't really surprised. After two and a half years, they'd probably been hounded and harassed with all sorts of calls about their slain daughters. Sydney wasn't anxious to add to their heartache. But she couldn't let it go either.

She telephoned a friend in the network news office. "Judy Cavalliri," the woman answered.

"Hi, Judy, it's Sydney Jordan," she said, craning her neck to see the monitors. "I'm still in Seattle waiting for my flight, which is delayed. The estimated departure is now 11:15, but I wouldn't bet on it. Anyway, could you notify the film crew for me?"

"Sure, Sydney. You're scheduled to meet with Chloe Finch at six-thirty. Want me to keep that?"

"Yes, thank you," she said. "Judy, do you know someone there in the news office who could dig up a few unlisted phone numbers for me?"

"Yeah, I might."

"Well, I have three names for you, all Seattle residents," Sydney said. "Got a pencil?"

Mixed Bags was in a minimall between a little art gallery and Seattle's Best Coffee. The sun was shining, and it made the waterfront shopping area of Kirkland even more pretty and pristine. From this side, Lake Washington seemed to sparkle. But the congested traffic along the boulevard was a major drawback. "Did everyone and their Aunt Agnes decide to come shopping here today?" Uncle Kyle had groused as they sat idle at one point, bumper to bumper.

Now they stood outside Mixed Bags staring at a window full of purses.

Uncle Kyle adjusted the sunglasses on his nose. "You're buying your dad a purse?" he asked.

"I think they have other stuff," Eli said. "In fact, I may want to get you something, too, Uncle Kyle. So--I'd rather go in there by myself. Could I meet you at one of these other stores in like--ten minutes?"

Kyle shook his head. "I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight, kiddo. Mom's orders. After what you pulled yesterday, I ought to keep you on a leash."

"Oh, c'mon, Uncle Kyle. Please? I want this present to be a surprise for you. C'mon, please?"

"Five minutes," he said, frowning. He pointed to the art gallery next door. "I'll be in there. And if you wander off or disappear again, you might as well go into the witness protection program, because I'll hunt you down and kill you."

Eli nodded eagerly. "Thanks, Uncle Kyle. See you in five minutes." He headed toward the store.

"And don't buy me a stinking purse!" his uncle called.

Eli ducked into the store, which smelled like leather and soap. He'd been right about the place. They had other things besides purses, but mostly for women: travel kits, scarves, soaps and lotions, ornate picture frames, and a few fancy-looking suitcases. Eli focused on the woman behind the counter. She was thin, with frizzy brown hair, and looked around thirty. Francesca Landau was fifty-two, if he'd done his math right. There was a woman with her young daughter checking out purses, and over by the suitcases was a slightly plump woman with brown hair that had a blond streak through it. She wore a black suit with a bright blue scarf tossed over one shoulder. Eli guessed she was about fifty. She was showing this older lady a suitcase with a flower pattern on it.

"Can I help you?"

Eli swiveled around and gaped at the frizzy-haired woman. "Um, hi, yes. I'm looking for Francesca."

She nodded at the woman with the blue scarf. "She's with another customer right now. Can I help you find something?"

"No, thank you. I'll wait for Francesca."

The woman nodded, then went to straighten some candles on a shelf.

Eli turned and looked at Francesca Landau again. She'd been only three years older than Earl when he'd been murdered. It was hard to imagine that woman across the store had been a teenager once. Now that he was here, he had no idea what he was going to ask her. He knew what he wanted to ask:
Did your father kill Loretta and Earl?

He watched Francesca step behind the counter, scribble something on a card, and then hand it to the older woman. Eli stepped aside, then held the door open for the lady as she left the store. The old bat didn't bother to say thank you.

He glanced toward Francesca again, and found her standing by the counter, staring back at him.

He stepped toward her. "Are you Francesca Landau?"

She smiled politely and nodded. "Yes. Do we know each other?"

"Um, my Mom said she used to live down the block from you and your family back in the seventies--when she lived in Magnolia." Eli remembered Vera saying that Loretta and her husband had lived in Magnolia before the separation.

Francesca's face lit up. She had a kind smile. "Oh, your mom lived on McGraw?"

Eli nodded.

"What was her name?"

He blanked out for a second. He glanced over at the handbags. "Anne--Anne Burberry."

The smile seemed to freeze on her face and she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't remember anyone named Burberry on the block. Was that her maiden name?"

Eli nodded. "Yes, Anne Burberry. She remembers you. She said you had two older brothers and a younger stepbrother. She said all of you were really nice, but your stepbrother and his mom didn't live with you for very long. And they died later or something. Was his name Earl?"

"Yes, that was his name."

"And he died not long after he and his mother moved away?"

She frowned. "Yes, they both died."

"How--did it happen?"

"Who are you?" Francesca whispered. "Did someone send you here?"

Eli shook his head. "No, nobody sent me."

"Well, what do you want?" she asked. "Why are you asking me about these things?"

Eli didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," he said, backing away from her a bit. "I just--I only wanted to find out about Earl Sayers and his mother. Me and my mom, we recently moved into the town house where they both died--"

Francesca was shaking her head at him. "I don't have to listen to this," she said under her breath. "I had to put up with enough questions and accusations about those two back when I was in high school. It ruined my father, who never hurt a soul. And my brother, he couldn't handle it--all the gossip and suspicion. He hanged himself in his dormitory at school. Did you know that? The police said Loretta murdered Earl in his sleep and then killed herself. Why can't people just leave it at that? Who put you up to this?"

"Nobody, I swear."

She grabbed his arm and led him toward the door. "I don't know who sent you here, but you're leaving--now!" She opened the door and pushed him outside.

Eli almost collided with his uncle, who was heading into the store.

"If you come back here again," Francesca growled. "I'll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."

"I'm sorry!" Eli called to her. "I didn't mean to--"

But she'd already ducked back into the shop.

"What the hell was that about?" his Uncle Kyle asked.

Eli walked away from the shop's window. He felt awful for making Francesca so angry, and he didn't want her calling the cops because he was hanging around. Up ahead, the door to another clothing store was propped open. Through the glass, Eli spotted a man with a dark complexion, sunglasses, and a green sports shirt. He halted in his tracks.

His uncle hesitated in back of him. "Eli, what's going on?"

Frozen, Eli watched the dark-skinned man step out from behind the glass door. He was talking on a cell phone. It wasn't the man with the weird eye.

Eli let out a sigh, but then glanced around the mini-mall area to make sure the guy wasn't anywhere around. If he was, Eli didn't see him.

"Eli..." his uncle said. "For the third and final time, what in God's name is going on?"

Sheepishly he looked back at his uncle, then reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts. "That was Earl's stepsister."

Uncle Kyle squinted at him. "Your friend, Earl, has a stepsister who's that old?"

Biting his lip, Eli pulled out the article he'd copied at the library the day before and showed it to his uncle. "Earl's been dead since 1974. Someone slit his throat--in my bedroom."

Her cell phone rang just as they announced that her flight to Chicago was ready for boarding.

Sydney's friend, Judy, at the news office was calling. She'd only been able to come up with one of the three unlisted Seattle-area numbers: Phillip and Hannah Gerrard. Sydney copied it down, thanked Judy, and told her that she was about to board the plane.

Gathering up her purse and carry-on, Sydney watched several people head for the VIP lounge exit. She stepped back against the wall with the Boeing 707 diagram on it. She switched her cell on again and dialed the Gerrards' number.

A machine answered after two rings.
"Hello, you've reached the Gerrards,"
the woman said in a pleasant voice.
"Please leave us a message. Have a nice day!"

Beep.

"Hi," Sydney said. "I hope I have the right Hannah and Phillip Gerrard. My name is Sydney Jordan, and I work for the TV newsmagazine
On the Edge.
I'm interested in doing a story about your daughter, Molly..."

That much was true. In that seven-month-old newspaper article, both the Gerrards and the Travinos were still hoping to bring their daughters' killer to justice. It had occurred to Sydney that a segment on the unsolved murders of Molly and Erin was the kind of edgy story the network wanted from her now. Moreover, the national attention might help give police investigators more incentive to solve the case. Finally--and selfishly--it was a story she could cover without having to leave town. So even if this had nothing to do with the
Movers & Shakers
killings, it was still a call worth making.

"I'd only do the story with your permission, of course," she continued. "And your participation, I hope. Let me leave you my phone number and--"

There was a click on the other end of the line. "Hello?" the woman said. "Is this really Sydney Jordan?"