Final Breath (6 page)

"You're clearly limping here in this scene," the hotshot, twenty-something exec said. He had black, spiked hair, designer glasses, and a black designer suit--with no tie. He also had a Bluetooth phone attached to his ear. Leaning back in his chair at the conference table, he unclasped his hands from behind his head to point to the big TV screen for a moment. "See what I mean?"

His assistant, a young East Indian man, worked the DVD remote control. With a flick of the button, he backed up the scene on the big-screen TV of Sydney Jordan assessing the wrecked restaurant with the Wongpooms.

"Yes, I'm clearly limping," Sydney said tonelessly. "It's from an old spinal cord injury, Brad."

Brad was an image consultant the network had hired to review her work. He'd shown the old Jared and Leah story to a test audience, and Sydney had flown from Seattle to New York to hear the test findings. She still had some jet lag. Her hair was swept back in a ponytail, and she wore a blue sleeveless dress.

There was only one other person at the long conference table, a young woman in a power suit from the network's public relations department. She took notes and said nothing.

"Well, people don't want to see you limping, Sydney," Brad said. "The test audience was split right down the middle--the ones who knew about your accident and the ones who didn't. The ones who didn't wondered why you were limping. The ones who knew about your injury didn't want to be reminded of it. Made them feel bad. Plus it's distracting, and not very glamorous."

"In the future, I'll try not to walk when we're taping," she replied. Sydney wondered how much the network was paying this guy. Watching this DVD of her work and getting a blow-by-blow analysis reminded Sydney of her figure-skating days, when her coach used to analyze videotapes of her routines. Those screening sessions, which she'd always loathed, had at least focused on her work from the day or week before and helped her to correct her recent mistakes. But this segment from
Movers & Shakers
was six months old, for crying out loud.

So much had changed in the last six months. Back when she'd gone to Portland to cover Leah and Jared's story, she'd still been based in Chicago and still happily married. Her only real heartaches in life had been her slightly faltering walk and occasionally having to be away from her husband and son while she filmed her stories. Sydney's
Movers & Shakers
segments profiled athletes, inventors, philanthropists, eccentrics, and everyday people who had done something extraordinary. Sydney loved meeting these individuals and profiling them in her video shorts. She'd always searched for subjects and story ideas in Chicago, so she wouldn't have to go on the road. She'd loved her life at home.

Gazing at herself on the TV, Sydney thought about how that woman up there on the screen had no idea her life was about to fall apart.

"The trench coat is good," Brad was saying. "A very classic reporter look, but you've got a nice figure, Sydney. So for this scene inside the restaurant with the old folks, you should have lost the coat. The test audience liked your hair, and thought you looked pretty. I tell you, with high definition, the lines on some of these female correspondents' faces--goddamn, more bags than Louis Vuitton. I know, I know, it's unfair, but people don't expect male reporters to be pretty. Anyway, not to fear, you passed the HD TV test, Sydney. But some time within the next year or two, you might want to go in for a nip and tuck--just for maintenance."

"I'll make a note of it," she said, her nostrils flaring.

"You might even want to devote a segment to it--when you go in for the touch-up, I mean."

She started drumming her fingernails on the desktop. "Are you serious?"

"People want flashier stories from you, Sydney. Think sexy and edgy. After all, this is
On the Edge
. The kinds of stories you do aren't as interesting as they used to be. People don't want tales about these do-gooders..."

Sydney glared at him. "No, they want stories about celebrity train wrecks and screw-ups. They want to see who's gotten a DUI, who's in and who's out of rehab, and that way, they can judge them and feel better about themselves. Then they don't really have to aspire to anything. You want me to give the people what they want? How's that going to enlighten or inspire them? Isn't that a reporter's duty--to educate and enlighten?"

Brad touched something on his earpiece, then he held up his index finger. "Just a sec...I've got a call here...Yeah, well, what do the marketing people say?"

Later that afternoon, Sydney waited for her plane in the VIP lounge at JFK. She had an easy chair over by one of the windows. Outside, they were loading bags into a Boeing 747. Sydney was on her cell phone with her brother, Kyle, in Seattle. She'd already spoken to her son, Eli, who was staying with him. "Anyway, my approval rating could be better, and they think I'm due for a facelift next year," she told him.

"Have your boobs done while you're at it," Kyle recommended. "It's important that all female reporters have a good rack. Screw intelligence and creativity, they're overrated."

Sydney laughed--though a bit listlessly.

"You sound tired," her brother said.

"And homesick," she added.

"Which home have you been sick for? Here or Chicago?"

This jaunt to New York had been Sydney's first overnight trip since leaving her husband, Joe, and moving to Seattle. Somehow the excursion had made her miss her life in Chicago even more. Sydney's plane, leaving within the hour, would be flying over Chicago on its way to Seattle.

"I've missed Eli and I've missed you," she said finally. That much was true. But she also missed Chicago--and Joe. "Anyway, I'll see you guys in eight hours..."

After she finished talking with her brother, Sydney took out her laptop computer to check her e-mail. It was mostly junk, a few messages from fans, and one with no subject listed from [email protected]. Sydney opened the e-mail:

Bitch-Sydney,

You can t save them.

She was used to the occasional crank or crazy e-mail. She usually deleted them. "Second duet for you," she murmured, checking the sender's name. "Weird...."

With a sigh, she shook her head and pressed the Delete button.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

The digital timer on the dryer's operating panel indicated thirteen minutes were left in the cycle. Opening the dryer door, Leah pulled one of Jared's sweat socks from the pile of warm clothes. It still felt a bit damp.

Without the dryer's incessant rumbling noise, it was suddenly quiet in the basement laundry room. Though well lit by two fluorescent lights amid the network of pipes overhead, the uncarpeted, dingy room always gave Leah the creeps.

Someone had tried to make the place more cheery with a few cheesy fake plants gathering dust and cobwebs on a shelf above the laundry sink. They'd hung ugly brown and orange plaid curtains on the small, barred window not far below the ceiling. A "Gardens of the World" calendar hung on the graying, paint-chipped walls. Someone had also left several old romance paperbacks and
Better Homes & Gardens
on the card table.

Leah shut the dryer door, but hesitated before pressing the On button again. She could hear the mechanical knocks and humming from the old elevator across the corridor, but it sounded like someone was headed up to one of the floors above the lobby level. They weren't coming down to the basement.

Restarting the dryer, Leah settled back into the folding chair and opened up one of the
Better Homes & Gardens
. She was dressed in a T-shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals. Despite the hot, sticky Fourth of July weather, a little shudder passed through her. In addition to being slightly creepy, the laundry room was also--year-round--the coolest room in the building. Sometimes in winter months, Leah sat on top of the dryer to keep warm.

Just to the left of the washer and dryer was a chain-link, gatelike door to the storage area--a dark annex full of junk stowed in locked cages. There was no outside light switch for it. The few trips she'd taken into that gloomy storage room were with Jared, and she always made him walk in front of her--into the darkness a few steps--where he blindly felt around for a pull-string to the overhead light.

Leah might have been more comfortable if the light were on in that storage area, but she wasn't about to brave the darkness inside there to turn it on. So she did her damnedest to ignore that shadowy nook beyond the chain-link door.

She really shouldn't have been scared right now. It was only six o'clock, and still light out. Over the rumble and roar of the dryer, she heard a shot ring out--and then another. It startled her, but only for a second.
Some idiots with their fireworks
, she thought. They couldn't wait for tonight to set them off. They were probably in the park next door.

She paged through the magazine, and stopped on a feature called, "Newlywed Nests--Affordable Ideas to Upgrade Your Starter Home!" Leah frowned at the two-page spread showing a happy young couple in their well-appointed little love shack.

She and Jared must have looked just as happy and well adjusted to people watching the rerun of
On the Edge
a few days ago. In fact, after that incident in Thai Paradise back in December, she'd sort of fallen in love with Jared all over again. Nothing like surviving a life-threatening situation to make two people feel closer than ever--for a while anyway. They were terrific together, everyone said so. She'd bought into all of Sydney Jordan's
teamwork
talk.

Leah had liked Sydney a lot. For someone who was on TV, she was very down to earth. Sydney had made her feel so relaxed; Leah had almost admitted to the
Movers & Shakers
correspondent that she'd had some doubts about her relationship with Jared. But she'd decided not to spoil the TV-packaged image of this brave, selfless couple who were very much in love.

In fact, it was how Leah wanted people to think of her.

So now she and Jared had set the date. The rerun of their
Movers & Shakers
segment for
On the Edge
only made her feel more pressure from everyone about this damn wedding. That program also produced another strange side effect. Lately, Leah couldn't get over the sensation that someone was watching her.

It wasn't anything she could put her finger on. But lately, while riding the Metro to and from work, or eating her lunch--whether in a restaurant or in the park--she'd suddenly feel someone spying on her. She'd glance around at people in the general vicinity, but Leah never caught anyone staring.

"Oh, you're just picking up on people recognizing you from
On the Edge
," Jared had told her. "It's nothing. Don't be so paranoid."

She couldn't help it. Something very bizarre and unsettling had happened a few days before the rerun had aired. She'd come home from work, and immediately realized someone had been in the apartment. She must have missed him by only a few minutes, because it
smelled
different in there. A stranger's body odor still lingered in the air. Nothing was missing. But the sweaters on her closet shelf were askew, and the clothes in her dresser drawers were slightly messed up. Strangest of all--the intruder had urinated in their toilet and left it there un-flushed with the seat up. She knew it wasn't Jared. He never did that. Just to be sure, she checked with Jared and their apartment manager and verified that neither one of them had been in the apartment that afternoon.

But later, after Leah had explained her concerns to him, Jared shrugged and said he must have been in a hurry that morning and used the bathroom without flushing.

Leah wanted to have the locks changed, but Jared told her she was being silly. "C'mon, honey, think about it. Why would someone break in, not steal anything, but then pee in our bathroom--and leave it un-flushed?"

"Maybe he
wants
us to know he's been here," she remembered telling Jared. "Maybe he wants us to know he's coming back."

"That's just crazy."

So maybe their intruder was insane. This crazy person had relieved himself in their bathroom as some kind of nasty calling card.

Leah had been on her guard ever since.

The dryer let out a loud buzz, startling her. Leah tossed aside the magazine, got to her feet, and unloaded the warm, dry clothes. She started to fold the pants and T-shirts on the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a shadow move beyond the chain-link door to the storage room.
It's just your imagination,
she told herself. She went on folding clothes, but picked up the pace a bit.

She peered over toward the storage room again--and noticed the shadow once more. It definitely moved. A chill raced through her, and she stood perfectly still for a moment. Clutching a warm T-shirt to her chest, she gazed at the dark room beyond the gatelike door. Leah moved her head from side to side and watched the shadow do the same thing.

She heaved a sigh. "Moron," she muttered. "Scared of your own shadow." Her heart was still fluttering, but Leah forced herself to step over to the chain-link door. In the murky darkness, she could make out the first few storage lockers and the piles of junk inside them--boxes, old bicycles, and things covered with furniture blankets. Leah couldn't see anything past the third set of lockers. The rest of the room was swallowed up in blackness.

She retreated to the table and continued folding clothes. Most of the clothes were Jared's. She should have made him come down here and get his own damn laundry. But he'd stepped out for a few minutes. They were going with friends to watch the fireworks tonight, and he wanted to pick up some beer.

Another shot rang out in the distance, followed by three more.
Get used to it
, she told herself;
they'll be lighting off firecrackers all night and half of tomorrow.
She always felt sorry for the poor dogs and cats traumatized by the barrage of bangs and blasts on July Fourth.

Leah continued folding laundry. She still couldn't shake the feeling that someone else was down there--watching her. Only three more T-shirts, and then she'd get the hell out of there. She could match up the socks once she was safely inside the apartment.

Leah heard the old elevator across the hallway suddenly start up with those mechanical knocks and pings, and then the humming. It sounded like the elevator was headed down to the basement.

She quickly folded her last shirt, then tossed the socks on top of the stack of clothes. The elevator had stopped down at this level, she could tell. But she didn't hear the door open or the inner gate--an accordion-like contraption--clanking. Leah reminded herself that sometimes people pressed the "B" button, but got off on the ground floor instead. That was probably what had happened.

Gathering up the pile of clothes, she headed toward the door. But she hesitated before stepping out to the hallway. Leah gazed down the gloomy little hallway. The elevator door was closed--along with the doors to the stairwell and garage. Carrying the stack of laundry, her chin pressed against the mountain of socks on top, she hurried toward the elevator. She was about to press the button, but didn't have to. The elevator was already on the basement level. With one hand, Leah flung open the door, steadied it with her hip, then pulled at the gate. The whole time, she felt as if someone was coming up behind her.

She ducked into the elevator so quickly that a few socks fell onto the cubicle's dirty floor. She shut the gate. The outer door closed by itself. Leah jabbed at the button for the third floor. The cables let out a groan, and the elevator started moving. She slouched against the wall and let out a sigh. How could she have let herself get so worked up and scared over nothing?

Maybe it was having been reminded so recently about her brush with death. That, and the weird break-in they'd experienced. Perhaps this was some kind of delayed post-traumatic stress syndrome or something.

Creaking and humming, the elevator passed the ground floor and continued its ascent. Leah caught her breath. She managed to balance the load of laundry, then squatted down and retrieved the socks from the floor. She heard another muffled bang. It seemed a little closer than the others. Rolling her eyes, she reminded herself again to get used to it.

When the elevator stopped on the third floor, Leah tugged the gate to one side and pushed the outer door open with her hip. In this very familiar corridor--with its ancient, burgundy swirl-patterned carpet and her neighbor's fake ficus by the elevator--she felt safe again.

But then Leah saw the door to her and Jared's apartment was open a crack. She froze. She'd closed and locked the door before going down to fetch the laundry. Since that bizarre break-in last week, she always locked the door, even when stepping out for only a few minutes.

Jared probably came back, dummy
, she told herself. Leah pushed the door open with her shoulder. "Jared?" she called. "Honey, are you back? Did you get the beer?"

No answer.

Standing in the small foyer area with the stack of clothes in her hands, Leah stared straight ahead at the living room, but she didn't see Jared. To her left was the kitchen entrance. She poked her head in there. Recently remodeled, the kitchen had green granite countertops and all-new stainless-steel appliances. A six-pack of Coronas was on the counter by the sink, but the grocery bag next to it was on its side, with loose beer bottles spilling out. One bottle had rolled across the counter, and another had fallen onto the black-and-white linoleum floor, although it hadn't broken.

"Jared?" she called again. "Honey, are you okay?"

She set the laundry on the breakfast table, and then continued to the dining room and living area. The bedroom door was open, but she didn't see Jared in there. Off the living room a narrow corridor led to the linen closet and bathroom. They had another door to the bathroom in their bedroom.

"Jared? Honey, what's--" she hesitated.

A musky odor hung in the air. Leah had smelled it before--two weeks ago, when someone had broken into the apartment and left his crude calling card in their toilet.

Leah crept toward the fake hearth and grabbed the poker from the fireplace set. Biting her lip, she moved to the bedroom and peeked past the doorway. On the other side of the bed, she saw the bathroom door--slightly ajar. The light was on.

She thought about calling out Jared's name again, but remained silent. She cautiously made her way around the bed toward the bathroom. Her legs felt wobbly, and she couldn't breathe right.

Clutching the poker, Leah pushed open the bathroom door. It creaked on its hinges. Then she saw what was lying on the tiled floor. "Oh, no," she whispered. "Oh, God, Jared..."

Curled up by the base of the sink was her fiance, his face covered with blood. It matted down his blond hair. He'd been shot in the head. Jared's eyes were still open, and a dazed expression had frozen on his handsome face. On the tiles, a dark red pool slowly bloomed beneath his head. For a moment, it was the only thing that moved in the bathroom.

Leah was paralyzed. She couldn't breathe--or scream.

Then something caught her eye--a reflection in the medicine chest mirror. It was the other bathroom door opening, just behind her right shoulder.

Leah saw the man's reflection. He was wearing a lightweight, clear plastic rain jacket and a shower cap--almost like something a surgeon would wear on his head.

She let out a shriek, and then swiveled around. Instinctively, she raised the poker.

But he had a gun.

Later, Jared and Leah's neighbors would say they'd heard the scream, and then the blast. It had been just as loud and close as the shot a few minutes before. But this was July Fourth, so no one gave those deadly sounds much thought.