Final Breath (37 page)

Chloe balked. "Now--or later in front of the camera?"

"Well, you'll probably hold back a bit while we're taping," Sydney whispered. "And it'll take another ten minutes to set up. So you might as well give me the uncensored version now."

"So--why did I want to off myself?" Chloe said, pushing back her auburn hair and looking out at the water again. "It's a bunch of things, really. I've had this cat, Hutch, ever since college and he went and died on me three weeks ago. Cat cancer. Suddenly I realized how lonely I was. I've never had a boyfriend. My friends call me the
one-date-wonder
. I don't know if it's my foot problem or the fact that I don't have the kind of looks most guys go for. I just haven't been lucky in the love department. I didn't realize it, but I was becoming this awful, bitter person. But then, two weeks ago, I met a guy." She laughed a little. "It was kind of embarrassing, actually. I'd just tripped over my cane on the stairs of the Administration Building, and he came to my rescue. His name was Riley, and he said he was a graduate student. I really liked his looks--cute and stocky, like a football player, and his eyes were to die for. That night, we went out for dinner and ended up necking like crazy outside the front door of my apartment building. He wanted to come up, but I wouldn't let him."

She gave Sydney a melancholy smile and shrugged. "I held out for twenty-four whole hours. It was pretty wonderful making love with him. I was crazy for the guy. I know it sounds corny, but Riley made me feel beautiful. God, I'm such a sap..."

Tears filled her eyes as she gazed out at the lake again. "Our third date was supposed to be dinner at the Ambassador East, but first he wanted me to meet some friends of his at this slightly seedy bar downtown. Riley led me in there, and he seemed so proud of me when he introduced me to his friends. There were six of them, and they had dates, too. I kept thinking, 'Riley has to be older than these guys. They all seem so young.' And then I got a look at their dates. I'm sorry, but it was like a freak show--all these sad, clueless characters. All of them were so much older--or heavier--or uglier than the young men who had brought them to the bar. That's when I realized Riley had taken me to a
'dogfight.'"
She wiped a tear away and glanced at Sydney. "Do you know what that is?"

Sydney put her hand over Chloe's. "I think I know what you're talking about," she murmured. "Oh, Jesus, Chloe, I'm sorry."

She'd heard stories about frat brothers or army buddies who made bets on who could scrape up the ugliest date. They called them
dogfights
. And the women they'd chosen to bring to these competitions weren't supposed to have feelings.

"I overheard Riley tell his friends that he qualified for twenty bonus points, because he'd fucked me," Chloe muttered. She rubbed her eyes, and then let out a sad, little laugh. "Whew! When I heard that, I just started crying and got out of there as quickly as I could. I don't know whether or not Riley won the dogfight. But you want to hear the totally crazy part? I kept waiting for the son of a bitch to call me and apologize. I'm such an idiot--I thought he might have really felt something for me--despite everything. How stupid can you get? I waited five nights for that
kid
to call me. Then last night, I went to the beach. I'd decided that was where I'd kill myself. And I was suddenly content, at peace. I haven't been that happy in a long, long time. I finally figured out a way to stop feeling so miserable. Anyway, I thought I'd found the perfect spot until Derrick and his girlfriend showed up."

Sydney handed her a Kleenex.

Chloe wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "So--is that what you want me to say for the folks watching at home?" she asked.

Sydney nodded. "We'll probably edit some of it," she said delicately. "I'll ask you about what you witnessed down on the beach, and rescuing Lenora, of course. I might also ask about your foot problem. Would that be okay?"

"Hey, I just told you about the most humiliating experience of my life," Chloe said. "I think I can talk about my foot problem. By the way, you'll love this, too. When I first spotted Derrick and Lenora on the beach, they looked so pretty together and so much in love. I thought,
'I wish I could be her.'
Hah, I can sure pick them, can't I? Three minutes later, he was bashing her brains in."

Sydney asked the production assistant to fetch a mirror. She said nothing, and just gently patted Chloe on the back until the assistant returned with a hand mirror from the SUV.

"Go ahead, and fix your face so you look pretty," Sydney told Chloe, setting the mirror on her lap.

"Huh, we don't have that much time," Chloe said, opening her purse.

"Oh, shut up," Sydney smiled.

Chloe pulled some lipstick from her purse. "I just knew you'd be nice," she murmured.

"Do you think it would be too trite if I worked in a clip from
It's a Wonderful Life
?" Sydney asked. "I'm thinking of that scene when James Stewart is about to commit suicide by jumping off the bridge, but he ends up saving Clarence instead."

It was 8:20, and they'd just finished taping with Chloe. Sydney had hugged her good-bye, and they'd talked about getting together the next day so Chloe could see the edited piece before it was aired as a feature story on the network's nightly news.

Sydney sat in the backseat of the SUV with her soundman, Matt, who had on his earphones and listened to what they'd just recorded. Up front were her cameramen, Brendan and Jamie. Brendan was driving. She'd worked with these guys on most of her Chicago-based
Movers & Shakers
stories for several years. It felt good to be on an assignment with them again. She always used to bounce ideas off them.

"Yeah, I like that
Wonderful Life
angle, but keep it brief," Brendan warned. "You've got a lot of stuff here."

"You don't think it might trivialize what Chloe was going through?" Sydney asked. She really liked Chloe Finch, and wanted her to be happy with this segment--almost as much as she wanted the network to be happy with it.

"The viewers will eat it up," Jamie said from the passenger seat in front. "Hey, you know, the Cook County Recovery Shelter is just a few blocks from here. Want to pay a visit to Ned? He'll be pissed if he finds out you were in town and didn't see him, Syd."

She'd done the
Movers & Shakers
segment on Ned Haggerty over two years ago, and he'd kept in touch with her ever since. Homeless and alcoholic, he'd been living in and out of traveling boxcars for a few years, when he saved the life of a Burlington Northern yardman, who had tripped and fallen on the rails. The unconscious man would have been run over by a train if not for Ned. The
Movers & Shakers
piece had made Ned a local celebrity. He went into rehab, then ended up living and working at the Cook County Recovery Shelter, a dormitory for homeless men just out of rehab.

"I really don't think I have time to drop in on old Ned," Sydney said. She still had to check into her hotel and figure out how to edit Chloe's piece down to four and a half minutes. "I'll drop him a postcard when I get back to Seattle."

Matt took off his earphones. "Were you guys just talking about Ned Haggerty? It's a real shame what happened, isn't it?"

Sydney stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Yeah, what are you talking about?" Jamie chimed in.

"You guys didn't know?" Matt asked. He turned to her. "Jesus, I'm sorry. Somebody should have told you, Syd. Ned was killed last week. He went on a bender and passed out in a railroad yard--right on the tracks. A train ran over him."

Overhead, a swirling fan stirred up the stuffy air in the tiled lobby of the Cook County Recovery Shelter. Matt and Brendan had stayed outside in the SUV, but Jamie sat waiting for her on one of the lobby's two avocado-green Naugahyde-covered sofas. There was a big bulletin board on the wall; it was full of job listings and fliers. Seated behind the Formica-top counter was Gary, a balding man in his midforties with a gray mustache and a short-sleeve checked shirt. Sydney had met him once before when Ned had proudly given her a tour of the facility.

"As you can see," Gary said. "We got your flowers. Somebody saved one."

At the far end of the counter, someone had set up a little tribute to Ned Haggerty. It was a framed photo of Ned, who had gray hair and a wizened face. In the picture, he was grinning as if someone had just told a joke. Sydney's heart broke as she gazed at it. A pressed dried flower had been placed at one side of the photograph under the glass. Tucked in the frame was a card saying
With Sympathy
in silver preprinted script, and then a note typed by a computer printer:
We'll all miss you, Ned--Sydney Jordan
.

Matt had said that Ned had been killed last Monday night. About twenty-four hours later, in another part of town, Angela Gannon had fallen to her death. At first, Sydney had wondered why she hadn't received a cryptic little souvenir of Ned's demise, but then she remembered the Monopoly train token that had been left on Eli's desk. Eli had found it just minutes before she'd discovered the dead robin on her pillow.

"Do they know any more about how it happened?" she asked Gary.

Leaning on the counter, he shook his head. "Nope. Ned was last seen in this crummy bar near the railroad yard. He was getting drunk with this younger guy who looked homeless. They left the bar together around one in the morning. At four-thirty, one of the Burlington Northern switchmen heard a scream, and found Ned on the tracks. A freight train had run over him, cut him in half."

Sydney winced. "Did they ever find the younger, homeless man?" she asked.

"Nope," Gary said, frowning. "And I tell ya, I'd like to hunt down the son of a bitch myself. Ned hadn't touched a drop in over two years--until this fella came along."

Sydney glanced at the photo of Ned. She fingered the sympathy card stuck between the glass and the edge of the frame. She pulled it out and saw the imprint on the bottom of the card:

Uptown Flowers--12291 Uptown--Chicago

773-555-9254

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

"Hi, you've reached the McClouds..."
Sydney listened to her own greeting, which Joe obviously hadn't changed yet. She couldn't help taking that as a good sign. Despite the woman answering their phone at six yesterday morning, perhaps he wasn't really ready to move on. Sydney kept asking herself,
Why should you care?
But she did.

She waited for the recording to finish up, and then the beep sounded. "Hi, Joe, it's me," she said nervously. "I'm in town here at the Red Lion Airporter Inn. I'm just in for the night. I know you don't want to see me. But there's something going on here that's pretty scary. I need your help, Joe. Could you call me back here?" She gave him the hotel's phone number and reminded him of her cell number in case he'd forgotten. "It doesn't matter how late you call back. Please, just give me a shout, okay? I--" Sydney hesitated. She was about to say
I love you
. It came so naturally to her. It was how she'd always said good-bye to him on the phone when calling from a lonely hotel room on the road.

"I'd really appreciate it, Joe," she said instead, and then she hung up.

Usually the network sprung for nicer hotels, but this was all they could get at the last minute. It was a rambling, three-story structure with several wings. Sydney had a second-floor room with outside access so people were walking back and forth outside her window every few minutes. Forsaking her view of the parking lot and a Shell station, Sydney had closed the sheer drapes for a little privacy, but she still saw images and shadows passing outside that window from time to time. The room was decorated in jade, taupe, and salmon. Thank God it had an honor bar. She'd already drunk a single-serving bottle of chardonnay to the tune of nine dollars. She'd barely touched her room-service French dip, and the tray was still over by the TV.

Her first call hadn't been to Joe. Uptown Flowers had closed for the night, and she'd gotten a recorded message about their hours of business. She'd also checked her e-mail, and there was a note from Angela's sister:

Dear Sydney,

Sorry it s taken me a while to get back to you. The flowers you ordered came from Botanicals at the Glenn in Glenview. Their phone number is 847-555-5249. I hope that s some help!

Your flowers and the thoughtful notes were greatly appreciated, Sydney. We re just taking it one day at a time here. Thank you again.

Sincerely,
Elizabeth Gannon Grogen

She'd tried calling Botanicals at the Glen, but they were closed.

Sydney had also phoned her brother again and told him all the latest developments. She'd asked him to double-lock everything before going to bed tonight and to keep close tabs on Eli.

"We'll be okay," he'd replied. "You look after yourself. I don't like the idea of you alone there in some hotel. Did the desk clerk look like Tony Perkins?"

"More like Toni Tennille," she'd told him. "It was a woman. I'll be fine. I'm staying in with the door triple-locked. Is Eli close by?"

"Yes, and he's got an interesting story for you. But I think we'll wait until tomorrow to tell it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Here's Eli."

Her son had gotten on the line. "Hi, Mom..."

"Hi, honey. What's this
interesting story
?"

"It's about our ghost, but Uncle Kyle says you don't need to hear it now. Are you seeing Dad?"

Sydney had told him it was highly doubtful. But that had been over an hour ago, and now that she'd phoned Joe, she realized how much she wanted to see him again.

It was hard to focus on Chloe's segment, though Sydney had already taken three pages of notes on editing and scoring it. There was another single-serving chardonnay bottle in the honor bar. She made a deal with herself that she could open it as long as she watered down the wine with some ice.

The digital clock on her night table read 10:09. Sydney was wearing a red striped T-shirt, jeans, and sandals. She grabbed the ice bucket and her room key, then unlocked all the locks and stepped outside. A blast of warm summer air hit her. From the railed walkway, she glanced down at the gas station and the parking lot--not much activity. She noticed some fireflies in the bushes bordering the lot. Sydney turned and made sure her door was locked before she moved on.

About ten doors up ahead was a lighted sign for the stairway. She figured the ice machine--or at least a sign for it--had to be in the general vicinity. She strode past several windows to the other rooms off the walkway; all of the curtains were closed--except one. Right before the door to the stairs, a man sat alone at a desk by his window. He was about thirty, thin, and extremely pale with short black hair. He wore a dirty white T-shirt. It looked like he was repairing a small radio or something. He had a screwdriver in his hand. As Sydney passed his window, he just glared at her. Trying not to stare back, she kept walking. But out of the corner of her eye, Sydney saw him quickly stand up.

Opening the stairwell door, she balked as the inside overhead light sputtered. She listened for footsteps or the sound of a door opening behind her, but she could only hear traffic noise. That odd-looking man must have stayed in his room.

To Sydney's right were the stairs. She noticed an
ICE
&
VENDING MACHINES
placard on the wall had an arrow indicating they were straight ahead. Ice bucket in hand, Sydney started down the corridor. Recessed lights illuminated an isolated portion of the empty, dark hallway. Perhaps this was supposed to create a serene effect, but Sydney just found it creepy.

She came to an intersecting corridor, where another placard showed the ice and vending machines were to her left. As Sydney turned the corner, she heard a click. It sounded like a door opening. She paused and looked over her shoulder, but the corridor was vacant. To her left, she passed a door marked
STAFF ONLY
that was open a crack. The room beyond it was shrouded in darkness.

At last, she spotted a small annex where they kept the ice machine and two vending machines for soft drinks and snacks. Sydney filled up the bucket. The clanking noise seemed loud in the quiet hallway.

As she headed back down the hall, she saw the
STAFF ONLY
door. It was wide open now. Sydney felt the hair bristle on the back of her neck. She crept past the room--giving it a wide berth. It was just a small closet with rolls of toilet paper and cleansers on the shelves. Clutching the ice bucket to her stomach, she continued down the corridor. As she turned the corner, Sydney glanced over her shoulder. She saw a dark figure dart across the hall into a shadowy doorway. He'd moved so fast, she couldn't see what he'd looked like, but it was a man about six feet tall.

Sydney turned and started running. Ice cubes spilled out of the bucket as she raced down the hall. At the door to the outside walkway, she hesitated and looked back again: no one. Catching her breath, she waited a moment to make sure she was alone. The light above her flickered again.

She stepped out to the walkway. Her hand was shaking as she reached for her keys. She passed that window again, where that strange man had been glaring at her, but his drapes were shut now. Sydney hurried to her door. She was still trying to get her breath as she staggered into the room. Then she quickly triple-locked the door.

"All for a lousy watered-down glass of chardonnay," she muttered, setting down the ice bucket and the room key.

The hotel room telephone rang, startling her.

Sydney immediately thought of Joe. She snatched up the receiver during the second ring. "Yes, hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?" she repeated.

Then there was a click, and the connection went dead.

He stood under the sputtering light by the walkway door, a cell phone in his hand. With his other hand, he ran an ice cube over his forehead. It had dropped out of Sydney's ice bucket as she'd scurried down the shadowy corridor minutes before. It was funny to watch her run with that slight limp of hers. He was still grinning as he thought of it.

Now she knew about him, but no more than he wanted her to know. He controlled the flow of information. She knew his pattern by now. So many of her
heroes
were dying, but she probably didn't understand why yet.

Molly and Erin had been the work of an amateur. But he'd honed his killing skills since then. He'd become an expert at planning everything in advance and anticipating Sydney's next move.

At one time, Sydney might have felt close to the
Movers & Shakers
heroes he'd killed. She'd certainly gotten to know them while filming their segments for that TV show. But she might not have even known they'd died if he hadn't left her little clues. And if he wasn't sending flowers in her name to the deceased's next of kin, would she have sent them herself?

She might have felt bad about those people dying. But she hadn't felt really devastated yet.

That would soon change--when the next one died.

"Hi, this Sydney Jordan in room 2129," she said to the hotel operator. She was sitting on the edge of the bed--with its salmon-jade-taupe bedspread. "I've just had two hang-ups in a row. I was wondering if those calls came from outside or from the lobby."

"One minute, please, Ms. Jordan."

Sydney sipped her chardonnay on the rocks. Even if that man skulking around the hallway earlier hadn't been after her, she still didn't feel safe. And the second hang-up had just about put her over the edge.

"Ms. Jordan?" the operator came back on the line. "Those calls were coming from outside."

"Well, I'm--I'm thinking of changing rooms if I get another hang-up like that. It's kind of disturbing."

"If you'd like, I can forward all your incoming calls to voice mail, Ms. Jordan."

She thought of Joe. "Um, no, thank you. Don't do that yet. I'll let you know if I get another one. Thank you."

Just as she hung up with the hotel operator, her cell phone rang. Getting to her feet, Sydney snatched it up from the desk and checked the caller ID. She recognized Joe's cell number. She clicked it on. "Joe?" she said.

"Yeah, hi."

"Did you just try to call me on the hotel phone?"

"No. Why? What's going on?"

She stepped back, then sank down on the edge of the bed. "I think I'm going a little crazy here," she admitted, her voice cracking.

"What's your room number?" he asked. "I'm here in the lobby."

She heard him knocking on the door.

Sydney had quickly changed into a black sleeveless top, brushed her hair, and applied some lipstick and mascara. The whole time she wondered why she was making such an effort for someone who had seen her first thing in the morning for the last fourteen years. This was the same man who had gotten involved--however inadvertently--in a drug heist that resulted in the deaths of three people, including Arthur Pollard. He'd taken that blood money, and when she'd confronted him about it, he'd hit her. Then he'd ordered her and their son out of the house.

Now, here she was, trying to look pretty for him. How screwed up was that?

By the time she looked through the hotel door peephole at Joe, she was angry at him--and herself. Still, Joe looked handsome with his blond hair slicked back, that summer tan, and the white and blue pinstripe shirt she'd bought him years ago. It had always been her favorite on him, and Joe knew it. She realized Joe--in his own way--must have made an effort for her, too.

Sydney unlocked the door and opened it. For a moment, they just stared at each other across the threshold. "You look really good, honey," Joe whispered finally.

"You..." Sydney didn't finish. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. She hadn't held him in over two months. His arms enveloped her. She kissed his neck, relishing the smell of him again.

"God, I've missed you," she heard him whisper.

He kissed her deeply. Then he pulled her away for a moment to gaze at her. She could see tears in his eyes. He started to kiss her again.

That was when Sydney forced herself to break away. She shook her head. "This isn't why I wanted to see you, Joe," she managed to say. She glanced back at her hotel room--and the bed. "I need your help for something. Could we talk down in the bar?"

As they strolled through the hotel's maze of shadowy corridors together, Joe started to put his arm around her, but she gently pulled away. She told him everything that had been happening--starting with the murder of Leah and Jared nearly two weeks ago. Joe had heard about Angela Gannon's death, but not about the others. Sydney needed him to use his connections to find out more about Angela's
suicide
and Ned's
accident.
She now had the names of the Chicago-area florists who had delivered flowers in her name to Angela's sister and the Cook County Recovery Shelter. Working backward, she hoped to track down who had originally placed the orders.

"Give me those names, and I can check them out for you tomorrow," Joe said, sipping his beer.

They'd sat down at a table in the corner of the small, dimly lit lounge. A big tropical fish tank behind the bar provided the strongest source of light and the most color. All the furniture was chrome and glass--or chrome with black leather upholstery.

Sydney had ordered a club soda. She didn't need any more alcohol tonight. She had to keep a clear head. She wrote down the florists' names on a cocktail napkin and handed it to him. "Thank you, Joe," she said.