Final Breath (38 page)

"And you don't have any clue as to who's behind all these hero-killings?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I keep wondering if the guys who were involved in that drug heist might have something to do with it."

Hunched over his beer, Joe frowned. "I doubt it. They wouldn't do something so--elaborate. Besides, once you stopped snooping around, you stopped being a concern to them. With you and Eli in Seattle, I don't think they'd go after you, not anymore."

She stared at him. "What do you mean
not anymore
? Were they planning to kill us?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure, but I couldn't take any chances. Polly was a loose end, and look what they did to him."

Sydney studied her husband's face for a moment. "Oh, my God, I'm so stupid," she whispered finally. "That's why you hit me. That's why you literally kicked me out of the house that day and sent Eli packing, too. You needed to get us out of there. You were afraid they'd come after us."

Tears welled in Joe's eyes again, and he nodded. "I'm sorry, honey," he murmured. "I didn't think it was safe for either of you to stay there. I couldn't think of any other way..."

She remembered Joe in his parked car, keeping guard outside the Holiday Inn that night he'd thrown her out. And then he'd had his sister look after her and Eli.

"I can't believe I didn't figure out what you were doing," she said, touching his cheek. "That letter you sent last week, you said you didn't want to see Eli or me for a while--"

"I still don't want to take any chances," he explained. "I'm trying to figure out who I can trust and how to resolve this. You asked me a while back why I didn't go to Len. But I think he's involved. He's the one who sent me on the raid that night with all these guys I didn't know very well."

"What about Andy McKenna? You can trust him, can't you?"

"Yeah, but I don't want to endanger him or his family. So for a while there, I pushed him away." He let out a long sigh. "Sydney, you need to believe me, I had to take that money. There was no other way. They set me up."

"But how?" she asked.

"These two cops, Jim Mankoff and Kurt Rifkin, were in one patrol car, and I was with this guy Gerry Crowley in the other." He sipped his beer. "When we got near the pier area, Mankoff and Rifkin went in first--on foot. Gerry and I were in the car covering the exit. After a while, I started to think something was wrong and wanted to call for backup. But Crowley kept telling me to stay put and wait just a little longer."

Joe rubbed his forehead. "Well, by that time Mankoff and Rifkin had already captured these two small-timers--Ahmed Turner and Somebody Laskey, I forget his first name. They'd knocked them both unconscious and dragged them into the front seat of the minivan. They'd already unloaded most of the cocaine, and stashed it on a boat. All they had to do was shoot the guys, fire off a few rounds, and crash the minivan into some drums of creosote. They knew I'd be the first one on the scene, and I'd be stupid enough to believe the whole setup." He let out a sad laugh. "You know me, always wanting to believe in the good in people."

He shrugged. "And with my reputation on the force, I would have been a pretty solid, irreproachable witness. But I got antsy, waiting there. I kept thinking my guys were in trouble. Gerry Crowley said we should wait it out, but I went down to the warehouse area."

Joe took another hit of his beer. "I caught them still setting it up. I saw Mankoff with a silencer, shooting Ahmed Turner in the throat. I guess they'd already broken Laskey's neck. Meanwhile, this Rifkin clown was hauling the last load of cocaine from the back of the minivan. That's when I knew I was screwed. In the minivan window, I could see Gerry Crowley standing right behind me with a gun drawn. It wasn't his police gun. I knew he was going to kill me and they'd plant the gun on one of the dead suspects. An
officer down
, that would have given even more credence to their story that the suspects had resisted. I was as good as dead. I didn't have any choice, so I just smiled a little and said to them,
'I don't know how you guys plan to pull this off, but I'm going to say my fellow officers acted professionally and responsibly. So what's my cut?'

"As soon as I told them that, I saw Gerry Crowley behind me, lowering his gun. And the other two guys chuckled. I knew if I hadn't said that, I would have been dead."

Sydney remembered the
Tribune
article quoting Joe about the raid-gone-awry. His
"my fellow officers acted professionally and responsibly"
line had been exactly what he'd said.

"I volunteered to stand guard at the other end of the pier, but they sent Crowley with me. I think they were afraid I'd radio in what they were doing. And of course, that's just what I would have done. Anyway, the other two guys rigged the minivan to crash into the drums and then set fire to it. The boat took off with the cocaine--which meant they had a fourth guy working with them. They shot off a few rounds and Crowley called in for backup during the ruckus."

Joe swallowed down some more beer, draining his glass. "We were writing reports the rest of the night, and there wasn't ever a minute when one of those guys left my side. I couldn't shake them. Crowley and Mankoff walked me out to the car when we finished up at eight-thirty that morning. And on the floor in the front seat was a bag with thirty-two thousand dollars in it. Don't ask me how they got it at such short notice, but they did. And it's still up there in that toolbox on the garage shelf."

"Oh, Jesus, Joe," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm still not sure yet," he sighed. "But I think you and Eli are better off in Seattle until this thing gets resolved."

"Why didn't you tell me all this two months ago?" she asked. "I would have stayed, Joe. I would have stuck by you."

He nodded. "I know you would have. That's why I didn't tell you. That's why I hit you and kicked you out. I needed you and Eli far away so you wouldn't be in any danger."

Sydney sighed. She was thinking how pointless Joe's sacrifice had been. She and Eli were still in danger. Joe's corrupt cohorts may have given up once she'd taken Eli and moved to Seattle. But this madman who had made a game out of murdering heroes was relentless. He'd gone to Portland, New York, and Chicago to kill in her name.

And Sydney had every reason to believe he was here now--maybe even in the hotel.

She squeezed Joe's hand again. "Could you stay with me--at least, until I've changed rooms?"

Joe called the front desk to arrange the room switch while she packed. He stayed with her until she was settled in a new room on the third floor. It looked exactly like the other room--with the same color scheme--only there was no outside access, and no strangers walking past her window. She actually did feel a little safer.

"I'll call you in the morning," Joe told her, before opening the door to leave.

"Thanks, Joe," she said.

He gently kissed her on the cheek. Sydney touched his face for a moment.

"Aren't you going to ask me about the other morning?" he said.

"You mean when I called you and some woman picked up the phone?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I was in the shower. When I came out of the bathroom, she said I'd had a hang-up. So I star-sixty-nined it. Remember Carla?"

Sydney remembered her. She was a fellow cop who had a crush on Joe. He appreciated the attention, but had made it clear to Carla that he was happily married. "So--that was Carla yesterday morning?" Sydney asked.

He nodded again.

"That's why I didn't want to ask you about it," she said in a shaky voice. "I was afraid your answer would be something like this."

He sighed. "Ever since word got around that you'd left me and moved to Seattle, Carla's been--
campaigning
. I was lonely night before last, and got myself drunk, and got up the nerve to take her home."

Sydney bit her lip. "And to our bedroom..."

"I couldn't go through with it, honey," he said. "Carla was so hurt--and upset. And I felt like a shit. I spent the night
cuddling
with her, and didn't sleep a wink. I was disgusted with myself the whole time. It was the longest, most excruciating night of my life." He shrugged. "It was the price I paid for this stupid, feeble attempt to forget you."

His eyes searched hers. "But I couldn't forget you, honey. I'm more in love with you now than I ever have been. I don't expect you to forgive me now, but well...." He quickly kissed her on the mouth. "Sleep on it, okay?"

Touching her lips, Sydney just stared at him and nodded.

Then Joe ducked outside, and she triple-locked the door after him.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

For a moment--as the clock radio went off, blasting her favorite Windy City oldies station--Sydney thought she was home on Spaulding Avenue again. She still smelled Joe on her skin. His face and the sound of his voice were recharged in her memory. Sydney almost expected Joe to roll over, kiss her shoulder, and murmur, "Morning, babe." But she was alone in bed in her jade, taupe, and salmon room at this Red Lion by the airport.

Carly Simon's "Anticipation" serenaded her as she staggered out of bed. She wore an oversized T-shirt. On her way to the bathroom, something caught her eye. An envelope had been shoved under her door. It was probably just the hotel bill, but Sydney retrieved it anyway. The legal-size envelope had been lying on the carpet with the flap side up. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she turned it over--and all of a sudden, she was wide awake. It was as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

Scrawled across the front of the envelope were the words:
BITCH SYDNEY
.

Her hands trembling, she tore open the envelope. It seemed empty at first. But then she shook out a small piece of paper about the size of a credit card. It fluttered toward the floor, but Sydney grabbed the paper in midair. It was a pass ticket for the Chicago El.

Pushing the hair back from her face, Sydney studied the ticket. It took her a few moments to understand. Joe rode the El to work every morning. And years ago, Joe had become a hero when he'd saved all those people from a deranged gunman on the El train.

All of the murdered
Movers & Shakers
heroes had met the same type of death from which they'd rescued other people. Joe had been one of her first subjects, and he was about to be gunned down on the El--unless it had already happened.

Frantic, Sydney checked the digital clock radio on her night-table: 7:32. Joe caught the Brown Line at 7:35 every weekday morning.

Sydney grabbed the phone and called his cell. It rang twice, and then a recording clicked on:
"Hi, it's Joe. You've reached my cell. Leave a message. Thanks."
But this was followed by a prerecorded voice reciting different options for leaving a message:
"To page this person, press one. To leave a message for this person..."

Sydney anxiously paced around the hotel room, waiting for the beep. Finally, it sounded: "Hello, Joe?" she practically screamed into the phone. "Listen, this hero-killer, I think he's after you, Joe. He's going to shoot you on the El. Whatever you do, don't get on the El train this morning! I'm at the hotel. Call me when you get this."

She clicked off the line, certain that Joe wouldn't understand what she was talking about. She called him again to try the paging option. But Joe picked up this time. "Honey, did you just call me?" She could hear traffic noise in the background.

"Yes," she said. "Did you get my message? Are you on the El?"

"Not yet," Joe replied. "I'm standing here on the platform. I can see the train coming--"

"Oh, God, don't get on it, Joe!" she cried. "This hero-killer left a message under my door. He's going to shoot you on the El--"

"Sydney? Sydney, you're breaking up. I can't--"

For a moment, the line seemed to go dead, but then he came back on. "You still there? I can't hear you. The train's coming..." The roar of the El train began to drown him out.

"Don't get on that train!" she screamed again. "Joe, listen to me..."

"You're still breaking up. I'll call you back."

"No!"

Then she heard the shot.

Joe almost dropped the phone.

The second shot hit a streetlight directly above him. There was an explosion of glass, and one piece grazed his cheek. Past the sound of the train wheels churning and clanking, he heard a third shot.

About a dozen people were standing on the platform, glancing around for the source of the loud pops.

"Everyone, take cover!" Joe yelled, scurrying behind a trash can. "Get down!"

Suddenly, they scattered around the train platform--ducking behind billboards and streetlight poles. A few women were screaming. One woman hovered over her young daughter, shielding her. Two older teenagers, who looked like gang members, had almost tripped over their low-riding jeans as they scurried for cover behind a brick partition.

Three more shots rang out. One bullet just missed Joe. He heard it hiss past his right ear.

He realized the gunman must have made himself a sniper's nest in a nearby building.

Its engine roaring, the train rolled into the station. Then the brakes let out a loud, surrendering squeal. The doors whooshed open. "Don't move!" Joe yelled. "Don't get out! There's a sniper shooting at us!"

Some of the passengers must have already caught on to what was happening. Joe saw them trying to duck below the train's windows or hovering at the edge of the doorways.

"But this is my stop!" one woman-passenger was saying.

Joe glanced at the train, where one car down a thin, blond woman in her mid-forties was emerging through the doorway. She had a cell phone to her ear and was oblivious to everything that was going on around her.

"Get back!" Joe yelled at her.

She just gaped at him.

Suddenly, two more shots were fired, the second one hitting the concrete platform, causing a little explosion just inches from the blond woman's feet. Shrieking, she dropped the phone. But she just stood there, waving her hands around her head. Another blast resounded, just missing the woman again. With a spark, the bullet ricocheted off the train wheel.

"Shit," Joe muttered, slipping his cell phone into his pocket. He jumped out from behind the trash can and hurried toward the woman. All at once, several blasts rang out and a hail of bullets soared past him. He grabbed the woman, who struggled and screamed as he dragged her toward the brick partition. A few other people were huddled there, including the two guys who looked like gang members.

Joe heard more shots--until they finally dove for cover behind the partition.

Then nothing.

The El doors shut, and with a groan, the train started to pull out of the station.

Joe kept waiting for the next shots. He wondered if the sniper was reloading. People stayed frozen in their hiding places. A few women were crying.

Joe realized the sniper had been aiming at him specifically. He'd been shooting at the blond woman just to draw him out. It was as if the gunman knew he'd feel compelled to save her.

He took the cell phone out of his pocket. "Sydney? Are you still there?"

"Joe? Are you all right?" Her voice was still breaking in and out.

"Yeah," he said, catching his breath. He touched his cheek and saw blood on his fingertips. "I don't think anyone's hurt. You better get off the line. I need to call for backup."

"But Dad's okay?" Eli said into the phone.

He sat at his uncle's green-tiled kitchen counter with the cordless in his hand. His uncle had coffee brewing, and the aroma filled the house. Kyle set a box of Rice Krispies and a cereal bowl in front of Eli.

"Yes, Eli, he's fine, thank God," his mother assured him on the other end of the line. "He just got a scratch on his cheek. He'll probably call you tonight."

"But they didn't catch the guy--this sniper?"

"No, unfortunately they didn't," his mother replied. "They're saying it was a gang-related shooting. A couple of gang members were on the platform with Dad."

"Did you get a chance to see him?" Eli asked anxiously.

"Not this morning, but we saw each other last night."

"Are you guys getting back together? Are we moving back home?"

"We'll talk about it when I see you tonight, okay?"

"Can't you at least give me an idea what's gonna happen?" he pleaded. "Please?"

"Well, if we do move back, it wouldn't be for a few more weeks," she said. "Now, that's all I'm going to say. I have to finish up editing here, honey. I love you, and I'll see you tonight. Could you put Uncle Kyle on the line?"

"Love you too, Mom," he muttered. Then he handed the cordless phone to his uncle.

"Thanks, sport," he said. "There's Hawaiian Punch in the refrigerator, and bananas in the bowl over there. Knock yourself out." With the phone to his ear, he wandered out of the kitchen. "Hey again, Syd..."

Eli grabbed the milk and the punch out of the refrigerator, then sat down and started eating his Rice Krispies. He wasn't happy with the news that it might be a few more weeks before he could have his old life back. And there was no guarantee it would even happen. His dad was getting shot at, and here he was, thousands of miles away. He couldn't really be sure his mom was telling him the whole story either.

His uncle had gone upstairs with the cordless phone. Eli could barely hear him now. He realized his uncle was whispering.

Putting down his spoon, Eli left his cereal half-eaten and slipped off the counter stool. He crept to the bottom of the stairs and listened. "No, Dan didn't call me," his uncle was saying. "But maybe he's just playing it cool.... What do you mean?" There was a long pause. "So basically you're saying Dan is this psycho killer. Well, then you're insinuating it. He took off when you did, because he had a family emergency--in Portland. He isn't in Chicago, Syd. Y'know, this really pisses me off. This is the first nice guy to show some interest in me in like a year, and you're making him out to be a psycho."

Biting his lip, Eli kept perfectly still at the foot of the stairs.

"You're a fine one to make character assessments," his uncle was saying. "Shit, after what Joe did to you, you should be consulting a divorce attorney instead of still pining after him. What about
Joe
for a suspect, huh? Don't forget, two of those people were killed in Chicago."

Eli couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Well, you started it with all these questions about Dan," his uncle was whispering. "And I really like this guy. I swear--it's as if I'm not allowed to have a personal life while you're here. I didn't mind putting you guys up for a few weeks. And I don't mind looking after Eli. He's a great kid. But I'm kind of tired of being a babysitter here. I mean, when you called me yesterday morning, you practically acted like it didn't matter that I had a brunch date. I was supposed to drop everything and look after your son so you could cover your news story..."

Eli winced. His uncle's words stung. He'd had no idea he was such an imposition. His mom had dumped him on his uncle, who didn't want him here. He glanced over at his half-finished bowl of cereal--and then at the front door.

"Forget it," his uncle was saying. "I'm sorry, Syd. Here I am, worried about you and I'm screaming at you. I'm just edgy and pissed off, probably because Dan didn't call. My luck, you're right. He probably is a psycho..."

Eli felt inside the pockets of his cargo shorts for money and his house keys. He could no longer hear his uncle's voice as he crept to the door. Slipping outside, he quietly closed the door behind him and started up the street.

Eli wasn't exactly sure where he was going, but he didn't want to stay where he wasn't wanted.

The phone was ringing when he stepped inside the apartment. Eli let the machine pick it up. As he looked around the living room, he could hear the recording start on the machine in the kitchen.
"Eli, are you there?"
It was his Uncle Kyle. He sounded upset.
"If you're there, please, pick up..."

Eli had taken the Number 11 bus back here. He'd been so depressed and disillusioned that he hadn't thought to look around at the other passengers for the man with the weird eye. He'd only remembered at the last minute before getting off at his stop. Eli hadn't seen him on the bus, and he hadn't seen him near the apartment complex either. It was odd, but Eli wasn't scared of him anymore.
Go ahead and kill me
, he imagined telling the man,
nobody gives a shit about me anyway.

He wondered what awful thing had happened between his mom and dad. The way his uncle had been talking, it had sounded as if his dad was a murder suspect or something. It didn't make any sense.

"Listen, Eli, if you get this message, please call me back right away,"
his uncle was saying on the machine. His voice even cracked a little.
"I'm going nuts here. I can't believe the way you just disappeared like that. Call me, okay, kiddo?"

"Kiddo,"
Eli muttered, sneering. "Jerk, acting like you care."

He tried to call his dad's cell, but it was busy. Taking a fruit roll-up out of the cabinet, he wandered into the dining room. He glanced over at the built-in breakfront, and his eyes strayed down to that bottom drawer. On Saturday, his mom had hidden his dad's letter in that drawer. Eli wondered if it was still there.

He quickly stuffed the roll-up in his mouth and opened the breakfront's bottom drawer. He rifled through old bills, receipts, instructions, and warranties. "C'mon, where is it?" he said, his mouth still full. There was something in that letter his mom didn't want him to see.

"Goddamn it!" he yelled. In his frustration, he yanked the whole drawer out and dumped its contents on the floor. He shuffled through all the papers, but still didn't see that envelope with his dad's handwriting on it. Had his mom thrown it out?

He noticed an envelope that had fallen in the gap beneath the drawer, and he reached into the opening and took it out. It was an old bill from a place called the Bon Marche. It even smelled old. The envelope was addressed to Dr. John Simms at this address. The postmark in the corner was dated May 2, '89.

Eli peeked into the empty drawer sleeve and noticed more envelopes trapped against the breakfront's backing. He reached into the opening again and felt something sharp stab his finger. "Shit!" he muttered, pulling his hand out. He checked his index finger and saw a small splinter at the tip. He managed to squeeze it out, then he reached inside the drawer again until his whole arm was in there. He felt three envelopes and one piece of loose paper. But as he took them out of the drawer, he could tell none of them had been the letter from his dad. All of them were old, stained, and musty-smelling. There was another bill to Dr. Simms, and a loose receipt from Bailey/Coy Books from 1987. The second envelope was addressed to Ms. Loretta Sayers-Landau here at the Tudor Court Apartments.