Final Breath

His mom used to say that he quickly grew tired of his toys. And the Ouija wasn't much different. After a few days, the Ouija board went up on his closet shelf and stayed there.

Then on the night of July Fourth, when they'd found the front door open and that strange mess in the kitchen, Eli had figured Carl was back. It had been their first unexplainable incident in a while--unless his mother had been keeping something from him. Eli realized the next day--when he'd overheard her and the neighbor lady talking outside--she'd been doing exactly that. Obviously she'd known all along about a suicide in the apartment, but she hadn't told him. Eli wondered what else she was hiding.

Well, he could keep secrets, too. His mom didn't know about Carl. The whole thing started to make some sense to Eli. The woman who had lived in this apartment years and years ago had lacerated her fourteen-year-old son, Carl, before killing herself. Eli still wasn't sure what that meant, and he casually asked his mother at the breakfast table the other morning.

"Lacerate?" she repeated. "Oh, it means to tear something up, cut it up."

"You mean--like cut it with a knife? A knife could give someone a laceration?"

She nodded over her coffee cup. "That's right. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Somebody used the word on a TV show yesterday, and I wasn't sure what they were talking about." He went back to eating his Honey Nut Cheerios.

Eli wanted to find out more about Carl and his mother. But he didn't even know their last name--or when they'd died. He'd tried to google Tudor Court, Seattle, murder-suicide, but his search results had been a weird mix of real estate listings for the apartment complex and articles about different unrelated murders in the Seattle area.

He'd thought about asking his neighbors in Tudor Court about the murder/suicide, but he was worried it might get back to his mother.

Eli hadn't been sure how he could learn more about Carl--if that was indeed the kid's name--until he'd heard Marcella say just a few minutes ago: "Someone dead is communicating with you."

Her hand was still on his forehead. "I see a person very much like you," she said finally.

"Is it a teenager?" Eli asked. "Is the dead guy a teenager--like me?"

She took her hand away, sat back, and sighed. The dog lazily got to its feet, then rested his head on her thigh. She scratched him behind the ears. "It might be you in a past life, Eli. I can't be sure. Do you have any reoccurring dreams? Sometimes, that's your past life trying to communicate with you." She lit up another cigarette.

"So you're saying this dead guy who's communicating with me is actually me in a past life?"

Marcella took a long drag from her cigarette and nodded.

It sounded pretty screwy to Eli. "Well, do you know what my name was in my previous life?" Earlier she'd figured out his name had three letters. Maybe she could tell him something about the name of this dead teenager. "Does his name start with a C?"

"The answer is in your dreams, Eli," she said cryptically. She set her cigarette in the ashtray, then reached across the table. "Give me your hand again."

Eli obeyed. He glanced outside the booth. The sun had disappeared behind some clouds. He didn't hear any more speeches from the guest celebrities over by the mega-store. His mom was probably looking for him.

Marcella set his hand down on the table, palm up, then stroked it. "I usually don't tell people bad news unless they ask to hear it," she said. "In your case, I think I can help you. Shall I tell you what I see here?"

His mouth open, Eli nodded.

"You're in danger. I see dangerous forces all around you, Eli. And I'm sorry, but you will face a loss--very soon."

Eli stared at her. He felt a sudden tightness in the pit of his stomach--like a warning. He tried to tell himself that she was just jerking him around. But lately--ever since the Fourth of July--he'd felt something bad was going to happen. Maybe it had to do with their ghost; maybe not. But the danger was there.

Even if he didn't want to believe Marcella's prophecy, in his gut Eli knew it was true.

Sydney tried not to lose sight of the man with the blue 59 T-shirt, but it was difficult. They'd finished up the interview portion of the program, and placed a long table in front of the celebrity guests. This setup gave audience members had a chance to come up on the stage and get an autograph or chat privately with her, Terri, and the Channel 6 weatherman. People kept crowding in front of her on the other side of the table, blocking her view. Then someone would step to one side or move their head a little, and she'd see the swarthy man again--among the audience, just a bit closer to the platform each time.

The network had sent a stack of her latest 8 x 10 glossies publicizing On the Edge. She signed about a hundred of those. She couldn't believe that some people still had 8 x 10 photos of her from her figure-skating days. She even signed a few old copies of Making Miracles: My Own Story. All the while, she kept an eye on that stranger in the blue T-shirt. He'd been getting closer and closer to the celebrity platform, and now he stood in line right by the platform steps.

It made her a bit nervous. But what could he do to her in front of all these people?

"Sydney, can I come around there and get my picture taken with you?" asked a large forty-something woman with honey-blond hair.

Nodding, Sydney got to her feet. "You bet. What's your name?"

"I'm Shirley!" the woman squealed. "Oh my God, this is so exciting! I love your Mover & Shaker stories!"

Sydney shook her hand. "Well, thanks, Shirley. Get on back here."

While the woman eagerly trotted around to her side of the table, Sydney stole another look at Mr. 59. He was standing on the platform steps now.

She and Shirley put their arms around each other, while Shirley's friend took three different photos. Shirley asked for an extra autograph for her daughter, who wanted to be an Olympic figure skater. Sydney signed it: To Audrey, Best of luck on & off the ice. Shirley thanked her over and over, then gave her a hug and moved down the line.

Sydney stole another look toward the other end of the platform. She didn't see Mr. 59 on the steps or in the line of people. She gazed out at the crowd dispersing in front of the store. She tried to catch a glimpse of him. That blue T-shirt should have given him away. But Sydney didn't see him anywhere. It was as if he'd disappeared.

"Hi, Sydney," a woman was saying to her. "I don't watch your show, but I'd really love an autograph."

"Um, sure," she said. She scribbled her name on one of the 8 x 10s, then handed it to the woman. "There you go. Excuse me."

She walked around the table. Several people in line said hello to her. She smiled and nodded back, but she kept glancing out at the parking lot--and beyond. Eli was probably on one of the rides over by the fun fair area.

Gil had given up the mike and was signing autographs. Sydney asked one of the big-shots with ValuCo if she could use the microphone to make an announcement. "Um, my son was supposed to meet me here fifteen minutes ago," she explained.

The middle-aged man, sweating in a business suit, nodded. "Help yourself, Sydney."

She went to Gil's mike, and switched it on. "Eli McCloud!" she said, trying not to sound too shrill. She kept thinking, he's really going to love this. "Eli McCloud, please meet your mother at the platform by the ValuCo front entrance..."

She repeated the announcement, all the while gazing out at the parking lot for the stranger in the blue T-shirt. There was still no sign of the man.

Sydney hoped she'd find him--before Eli did.

"What exactly do you mean?" Eli asked timidly. "What kind of danger am I in?"

Marcella stroked the palm of his hand and said nothing.

Finally, Eli pulled his hand away. "You--you can't just tell me something like that, and expect me not to freak out. When you say I'm--facing a loss, do you mean somebody I know might die?"

Marcella nodded. Her expression was unreadable behind those dark glasses. "Someone close to you," she said. "It may be prevented, though. I know a way to help you."

The German shepherd stirred a bit as Marcella hoisted a big cloth purse off the floor and plopped it in her lap. She fished out a pencil and a notepad. "Write down your address," she said.

Eli wasn't sure if the woman planned to send someone over to rob them later or what, but he scribbled down their address at Tudor Court.

"I will create some good luck for you," Marcella said. "But you must help me. In order for this to work, you need something valuable. Do you have a twenty-dollar bill on you?"

Eli stared at her and blinked. "Um, I'm not sure," he lied. He still had a twenty from the twenty-five bucks his mother had given him.

"It can work with a ten-dollar bill," she sighed. "But a twenty is better--the stronger the value, the stronger the luck. You don't have to hand it to me, Eli. I just need to see it."

Reluctantly, he reached into his pants pocket and found the twenty. He showed it to her, folded up. He wondered if she'd suddenly lunge for it.

Instead she leaned back in the chair, took her cigarette from the ashtray, and puffed on it. "Unfold the bill and show me the front side."

Eli was obedient. But he balked as she reached over and touched the top right corner of the bill. "Tear that corner off--so the twenty mark is separated from the rest of the bill," she said.

Eli hesitated.

"Go on. Do what I tell you. It'll bring you luck. Tear it off, and stick the torn piece inside your pocket. You'll need to keep that in a special place for the next twenty days."

Eli figured he could always tape it up later. He carefully tore the top right corner from his mother's twenty-dollar bill, then tucked the detached piece into his shirt pocket.

"Now, let me tear off the opposite corner," she said, reaching for the twenty.

Eli held the bill very tightly while Marcella ripped off the bottom-left-corner 20 mark. She held that corner piece to her heart for a moment and lowered her head as if in prayer. Eli could see her lips moving. Then she gave him the torn-off little section. "You need to put that in another special place, Eli. Keep it there for twenty days."

He slipped the second severed corner into his shirt pocket. Something about all this didn't feel right.

She glanced at his address scribbled on the notepad, tore it off the piece of paper, and slapped it down on the table. "Fold up the twenty-dollar bill, set it on top of this paper, and then fold over the paper so you can't see the bill anymore. The bill needs to be completely covered."

Eli squinted at her. "Are you going to make my twenty bucks disappear?"

She sighed. "I'm trying to help you, Eli--"

He pushed his chair away and quickly got to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said. He shoved the mangled twenty back in his pants pocket. The knot in his stomach got even tighter. "I--I'm not comfortable with this. I've got to go."

The dog suddenly stood up and let out a bark.

"Don't put the bill back together for twenty days!" Marcella warned. "It's bad luck!"

But Eli didn't stop to listen. "I'm sorry!" he called, hurrying out of the booth. He only glanced back to make sure the dog wasn't chasing him. It was all clear; no sign of Marcella or her German shepherd.

As he turned forward again, Eli almost slammed right into a lean twenty-something man with a dark complexion. He looked Italian or Latino; Eli wasn't sure. "Sorry!" he said.

But the man said nothing. He wore sunglasses, a baseball hat, and a light summer jacket, which he must have just bought--or stolen--from ValuCo, because it still had part of the sales tag sticking out of the sleeve. It was weird how on this hot day, the guy wore the beige jacket zipped all the way up to his neck.

"Sorry," Eli repeated, edging past the man.

He made his way through the crowded fairgrounds toward the parking lot. Eli looked over at the ValuCo store and tried to catch a glimpse of the celebrity stage by the front door. But he was still too far away. Four older teenagers walked past him: two pretty girls and their loud, dumb-ass, cigarette-smoking boyfriends. The girls were holding balloons.

Eli looked over his shoulder at them. What he saw made him stop.

The man in the beige jacket stood a few feet behind him.

The teenage foursome walked past the man. One of the guys popped the girls' balloons with his cigarette. The two loud bangs were followed by a piercing shriek from both girls. Everyone in the area stopped to look at them except for the man in the beige jacket. He didn't turn around at all. He just kept staring in Eli's direction--his eyes shielded by the dark glasses.

"Who--" Eli started to say. But he couldn't get the words out. He was too scared. He swiveled around and hurried toward the parking lot. Threading through the mob of people, he kept glancing back to see if the man was following him. Eli didn't spot the guy among the crowd, but he couldn't be sure.

He remembered what Marcella had told him: "I see dangerous forces all around you, Eli." Now he wondered if he should have given her the damn twenty bucks.

Up ahead in the distance, he saw the celebrity stage platform by the ValuCo store, but a bunch of people were milling around on it, and he couldn't see his mom among them.

At the edge of the parking lot, Eli paused and looked back again. He tried to catch his breath. He didn't see the weird guy in the beige jacket anywhere, but Eli took another minute to survey the crowd. His heart was pounding furiously.

Then he recognized his mom's voice coming over the loudspeaker: "Eli McCloud, please meet your mother at the platform by the ValuCo front entrance..."

He let out a grateful laugh. Ordinarily, he would have been utterly humiliated to have his mother paging him this way. But right now, he smiled at the sound of his mom calling out for him.

Eli took one last long look at the fairgrounds. The smile disappeared from his face. He saw someone duck behind a phone pole at the edge of the lot--someone in a beige jacket.

"Leave me alone!" he screamed--with what little breath was left in his lungs. "I can see you! Stop following me!"

A moment later, a woman in a beige pullover emerged from behind the phone pole. She was waving out a match and puffing on a cigarette. Apparently, she didn't hear him, thank God. She didn't even look his way, though several people in the parking lot did.

Eli felt like an idiot. But he wasn't any less scared, not after what Marcella had told him.

His mother made the announcement again. Her words boomed over the speakers posted throughout the parking lot and fairgrounds. He knew she was somewhere on that crowded makeshift stage, calling for him.

Eli turned and ran like hell toward the sound of his mother's voice.

CHAPTER NINE

Sydney checked her rearview mirror again.

She wasn't sure what she expected to see behind her on Highway 167. When she'd pulled out of the ValuCo parking lot fifteen minutes before, at least a dozen cars were leaving at the same time. The man in the navy blue 59 T-shirt could have been driving any one of those cars. If he was following her right now, she wouldn't have been able to recognize his car anyway. Besides, she and Eli were headed home, and the olive-skinned stranger had originally been lingering outside their driveway gate. Trying to elude him wouldn't do any good. He already knew where they lived.

Her grip tightening on the wheel, Sydney glanced over at Eli in the passenger seat and tried to smile. He wasn't listening to his iPod, for a change. The Moody Blues played on an oldies station on the car radio, and he seemed to enjoy "Nights in White Satin."

To Sydney's utter amazement, Eli hadn't given her any flack for paging him at the fair. Earlier, when she'd spotted him in the parking lot headed her way, she'd hurried down from the stage and hugged him. He hadn't balked or asked why she was acting so weird. Instead, he'd hugged her back. He'd seemed kind of relieved to see her, too.

Later, on their way to the car, Eli had dug into his pocket and tried to give her the three dollars and some-odd-cents left over from the twenty-five bucks she'd given him for fun fair rides.

"Keep the change, honey," she'd told him, patting his shoulder. "I didn't feel like driving all the way out here by myself. Consider it mommy-sitting money."

Sydney didn't want to think about what might have happened if she'd left him alone at home this afternoon--what with that man loitering around the place. She would have to warn Eli about this potential stalker character.

Swell, she thought. The poor kid had enough troubles--what with his parents separating, and living in a strange, new place that was haunted, for crying out loud. Now she had to tell him about this possible nutcase.

Sydney looked over at him again. Slouched in the seat with his knees on the dashboard, Eli pensively gazed out the windshield.

"Are you feeling okay, honey?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he answered listlessly.

Sydney sighed, then turned her attention to the road ahead. She couldn't tell him about this stalker business right now. Maybe she'd invite Kyle over for a pizza tonight and he could bring one of his DVDs. Then she could break the news to Eli later.

She glanced over at him once more. "You sure you're all right? I've seen that look before. You're worried about something."

"Or somebody," he said.

"Who's this somebody you're worried about?"

"Dad," Eli murmured. He sighed. "I know you're probably sick of me talking about Dad."

"I'm not, honey. Go ahead. Why are you worried about him?"

"Well, I got to thinking earlier. Remember how you used to get all bent out of shape every time he had to work at night on one of his special assignments? I mean, you used to pretend you weren't nervous, but--c'mon, duh--I could always tell you were kind of scared something might happen to him."

Sydney cracked a sad little smile. She kept her eyes on the traffic.

"Anyway, now that we're living here, we don't even know when he's on a special assignment. He could be on one right now, doing something really dangerous. Anyway, I'm worried about him. If Dad got hurt or something, how would we find out?"

"The same way we'd find out if we were still living with Dad in Chicago. Someone would notify us right away. Listen, Eli, if you're worried about Dad, then give him a call when we get home."

"Okay. But he wouldn't tell me if he was in trouble," Eli murmured.

Sydney sighed. "He wouldn't tell me either, sweetie."

They drove in silence for a while.

Sydney remembered back in March, when Joe had refused to admit anything was wrong. So she'd started her own investigation into the death of Arthur "Polly" Pollard. She searched the Internet for more stories about him, but there wasn't any follow-up to that first Tribune article about Polly Pollard's body being discovered in a Woodlawn alley Dumpster.

Two days after Joe had told her, "It doesn't concern you," while Sydney was out shopping at Dominick's, she used a pay phone in front of the supermarket to call the Woodlawn police precinct. She asked if they had any updates on their investigation into the March 14th murder of Arthur Pollard.

"Who's calling, please?" asked the cop on the other end of the line.

"Um, Ellen Roberts with the City Beat section of the Tribune," she lied.

"I'll connect you with Lieutenant Mullen."

But Sydney got Mullen's voice mail and hung up. She couldn't leave a number for him, not without giving herself away. She made four more calls from pay phones over the next two days and always got Lieutenant Mullen's lousy voice mail.

"Hey, hon?" she casually said to Joe while he was in the shower. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror in her slip. Her cosmetic clutch was on the side of the sink. They were getting ready for the wedding of Joe's cousin, another cop--in Evanston. "I was just wondering, did they ever find out who killed that Polly character, the one who called here?"

She saw Joe's nude silhouette behind the foggy shower curtain. He stopped scrubbing his chest for a moment and turned toward her. "What?"

"Arthur Pollard," she said, "the one who called here a while back. Did they ever find out who shot him?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. It's not my case." He went back to washing himself.

"All right already, you don't have to bite my head off."

"Well, I really wish you'd leave it alone."

"You make it sound like I'm needling you," she called, putting down her mascara wand. "I haven't even broached the subject since the poor guy was dumped in that Dumpster last week." She stared at the shower curtain again. "I'll be honest with you, honey. You're acting awfully strange about this, very touchy. It makes me think you might be in some kind of trouble." She paused. "Are you--in any kind of trouble?"

The shower went off with a squeak, then he pulled a towel down from the rack and started drying himself. "Arthur Pollard was a pain-in-the-ass petty crook with drug problems," Joe said finally. "He was messing with the wrong kind of people and wanted my help. But I couldn't help him, and I feel bad that he's dead."

"Why did he approach you for help?" Sydney asked, her eyes still on his movements behind the fogged curtain. "Did he know you, Joe?"

"He knew my reputation as a sap who always tries to help people."

Sydney smiled a little. That much was true. She turned toward the mirror again and wiped some steam away.

"Anyway, I feel like shit I didn't help him," Joe admitted. With a whoosh, the shower curtain opened. Joe was still drying himself off as he stepped out of the tub.

Sydney realized something he'd said that didn't make sense. She turned toward him. "Honey, if you feel so badly about Polly's murder, why aren't you interested in who might have killed him?"

"What?"

"A minute ago you said that you didn't care."

Shaking his head, Joe wrapped the towel around his waist. "Y'know," he muttered. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd just fucking drop this."

Her mouth open, Sydney stared at her husband as he stomped into the bedroom.

Eli had been invited to the wedding as well, and he failed to notice that his parents didn't talk to each other all night long.

Sydney did, however, talk to Sharon McKenna at the reception. Sharon's husband, Andy, was Joe's best friend on the force. Their oldest, Tim, hung out with Eli and his pal, Brad Reece. "The Three Musketeers," Joe called them. Sydney liked Sharon, a petite, pretty, freckle-faced woman with short red hair. She caught a few minutes alone with Sharon in a corner of the reception hall.

"You look gorgeous, Syd--as usual," Sharon said, raising her champagne glass. "You must be feeling better."

"Feeling better?" she asked.

"Yeah," Sharon said, sipping her champagne. "We invited you folks to dinner last weekend, but Joe said you had the flu." Sharon stared at her for a moment. "Joe didn't mention it to you? I was going to make lasagna, because I know Eli loves it."

Sydney just shook her head.

"You weren't sick, were you?"

"I'm sorry, Sharon," she murmured. "I don't know what to say. I can't imagine why Joe..."

"He's been really distant with Andy lately," Sharon frowned. She finished the rest of her champagne. "I don't know if you've noticed or not, but Joe has said about five words to Andy since we arrived here. He's managed to avoid me altogether, because he knows I'll tell him what I'm thinking. You don't just freeze out your friends like that."

Sydney gave a hopeless shrug. "Sharon, I'm so sorry. All I can tell you is Joe hasn't been himself lately. This whole last week, I've been worried about him."

"Andy's been worried about him for at least two weeks now," Sharon said. "That's when Joe started to give him the cold shoulder."

"Do you know--" Sydney hesitated. "Has Andy mentioned someone named Polly?"

Sharon's eyes narrowed at her.

"Polly's a man, Arthur Pollard," Sydney explained. All the while, she had a nagging feeling she ought to keep her mouth shut. But she had to find out if Joe's best friend knew something. "Andy hasn't mentioned anything about Polly? He was killed last week."

"No, Andy never talks about work at home. Besides, he wouldn't be on that case. He and Joe haven't worked on a case together in five years. You know that."

"It's not Joe's case either," Sydney said. "Listen, Share, don't mention any of this to Andy. Please, forget I said anything. I'll talk to Joe, and--get to the bottom of this."

But she didn't try talking to Joe.

Sydney felt she'd already crossed a line by asking Sharon about Arthur Pollard. She crossed another the next day when she went through Joe's desk drawers in his home office. Unlike her office in the basement, full of expensive video and audio equipment, Joe's second-floor study was more like another family room--with framed photos of them on the wall, a sofa, and a smaller TV set. The only thing official about his office was a display case full of his police awards from the City of Chicago and the computer monitor on his desk.

Sydney didn't find anything useful in his desk drawers except a stack of old birthday cards and love notes she'd given him, along with scores of postcards she'd sent him while on the road for Movers & Shakers. She got into his computer and checked his e-mails and recently deleted e-mails. But there was nothing about Arthur "Polly" Pollard.

She kept checking the Tribune and Google for any news on the investigation into Arthur Pollard's murder, but came up with nothing. She re-read and re-read the March 15th Tribune article about the discovery of Polly's corpse. One sentence stuck with her:

Pollard, a part-time bartender at Anthony's Cha-Cha Lounge in Cicero, was well known to Chicago Police.

Anthony's was a cruddy corner saloon with cheap-looking faux-brick siding from the sixties. During the long drive to Cicero, Sydney prayed she wouldn't discover anything there that might incriminate her husband. As frustrated as she'd been by her fruitless search for clues in Joe's study, Sydney had also been relieved not to find anything.

They needed her to go to Atlanta to cover a possible Movers & Shakers story, but she'd lied and told them she was sick. She couldn't leave right now. If Joe had been involved in anything dishonest or shady, it could ruin the whole family. Both of their careers would be in shambles. She kept thinking he must have gotten into some awful trouble to have frozen her out--along with his best friend, Andy. For someone with a reputation for rescuing others, Joe never asked for help himself. In times of crisis, he often pushed away those closest to him. Sydney wondered if his reluctance to talk with her about this Polly business was because he was protecting someone else. That was so much like him, and she desperately hoped it was the case here.

Even with sunlight streaming through the front window--which had a filthy-looking grass-skirt-type valance--it was seedy and depressing inside Anthony's Cha-Cha Lounge. The interior design was a luau theme. But all of the tiki-style accents looked dusty and decrepit from the stuffed fish and barnacles in the nets on the walls to the fake plants and palm trees. Years of smoke and sun bleaching must have caused their plastic leaves to turn that ugly, light gray color.

Another grass valance hung over the bar, where a large, goateed man with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth poured drinks. He wore a Hawaiian shirt. Neil Diamond's "Cracklin' Rosie" resonated on the jukebox; in the corner, two guys who looked like ex-bikers silently played a game of pool. A few people sat at the bar, and Sydney spotted a couple quietly talking in a booth.

She took a seat at the bar, away from the others, and ordered an Old Style light beer. As the bartender set the full pilsner glass in front of her, Sydney worked up a smile for him. "Hey, I used to know a bartender here named Art Pollard. Polly? Do you know him? Does he still work here?"

A few barstools down, a forty-something woman with straight platinum-colored hair and black roots looked up from her drink. She wore jeans, a tube top, and a gauzy, see-through flower-patterned blouse--unbuttoned with the shirt-tails tied around her slightly bulging midriff. She stared at Sydney, and then a look passed between her and the bartender.

He turned toward Sydney and shook his head.

"So--you don't know him?" Sydney asked. "Or he doesn't work here anymore."

"I knew him," the bartender grunted. "And he doesn't work here anymore. He's dead."

Sydney feigned surprise. "My God, how did he die?"

"Stupidity," the heavyset man grumbled.

The blonde slapped the edge of the bar. "Hah! You're a real shit, Phil."

Ignoring her, the bartender stared at Sydney. "Want to start a tab?"

"I'm not sure yet," she said.

A few stools down, the blonde cleared her throat. "What's your name, honey?"

Sydney hesitated. "I'm--Sharon." She worked up a little smile.

The woman slid off her bar stool and took her drink over to where Sydney sat. "I'm Aurora. I was a good friend of Polly's." She raised her glass. "God rest his soul. Somebody shot him two weeks ago."

"Oh, no," Sydney murmured. "That's horrible."

"How did you know Polly?" she asked.

"Um, I came in here a few nights some months back. My mom lives in the area, and she was sick. I remember Polly was really sweet and helped cheer me up. He didn't get fresh or anything. He was just nice. Anyway, my mom's real sick again, and I came here, hoping to see Polly. Do they--um, do they know who killed him?"

Aurora tilted her head to one side and gazed at her for a moment. Sydney wasn't sure if Polly's friend believed her or not.

"Phil?" Aurora called, not breaking eye contact with Sydney. "Phil, honey, start a tab for her, and put a Seven and Seven on it. Okay?" She smiled at Sydney. "Okay?"

Sydney nodded.

"Let's go sit where we can talk," Aurora said. She grabbed her drink and sauntered toward a booth.

Sydney followed her, and slipped into the booth with her Old Style Light. The brown Naugahyde cushioned seat had black duct tape on one corner. The table was overly lacquered, and decorated with cigarette burn marks and an unlit hurricane lamp.

"So--did they catch whoever killed Polly?" Sydney asked.

Frowning, Aurora shook her head.

"Do they have any clue who shot him?" Sydney pressed.

"Well, his pals here at Anthony's have their own theories," she said, draining the rest of her glass. "Polly was sweet. But he also pissed off the wrong people. So--it could have been a mob hit. That's the popular theory around here. But some of us think it's the cops who killed him. He was--"

Aurora fell silent as the stocky, goateed bartender came by with her Seven and 7. He set it on the table and took her empty glass.

"Thanks, Phil, you're a peach," she said, not really looking at him. Then Aurora waited until he was back behind the bar. She pushed her colored blond hair back behind her ears. "Polly was a snitch. But of course, you probably already knew that."

Sydney stared at the woman and shook her head. "I don't understand--"

"He was a snitch, a police informant," Aurora whispered. "He gave them information about drug deals and small-time jobs, and they gave him money."

"Oh, I see," Sydney replied numbly. "A snitch, of course." She figured that must have been how Joe had been acquainted with him. Even the newspaper article said Polly was "well known to Chicago Police."

Aurora sipped her Seven and 7. "That's a sweet story about how you met Polly," she said. "Did you just make it up on the spur of the moment? Or did you dream it up on your way here?"

"What?"

Aurora leaned back in the booth and smiled. "You're name isn't Sharon. You're Sydney Jordan, and I recognized you the minute you walked into this dump. You're married to a cop, aren't you?"

Sydney took a minute before she could answer. "Yes, that's right," she said, finally.

"So--what the hell are you doing here, Sydney? And please don't try to tell me you're doing a Movers & Shakers story on Polly, because you don't profile fuck-ups on that show. And sweet as Polly could be, he was a major fuck-up. Did your husband send you here?"

Sydney shook her head, then gulped down some beer. "Joe doesn't even know I'm here. You--you're right about Polly being an unlikely subject for Movers & Shakers. The truth is, he called my house twice, and when I read about his murder, it really disturbed me. The newspaper article made him out to be this shiftless ex-con with a drug problem. They more or less indicated he got what was coming to him. But I thought about this guy, Polly, who sounded so nice on the phone, and I wondered what happens to the friends of someone like him. Okay, so he had a criminal record, and he had some troubles--he also had friends, didn't he? I'm sure Polly made a difference in the world and touched several people's lives in a positive way. I know my husband felt bad about his death. He didn't know Polly very well, but suggested--if I wanted to do a story about Polly--I should talk to some of his friends. So--here I am."

With one elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, Aurora sat across from her and stared. Sydney wasn't sure if she believed a word of this. "What does your husband say about him?" Aurora asked.

"Joe and I have a rule. Neither one of us can talk about our work at home. Besides, Joe didn't know Polly very well. At least, that's what he said." Sydney waited to see if Aurora would contradict her.

Aurora uttered a sad little laugh. "Well, I can tell you Polly was good to his cat. It's this half-deaf, half-blind, old bag of bones named Simon. I inherited the thing, lucky me. Is that the kind of shit you're looking for?"

Sydney nodded. So Joe didn't know Polly very well, thank God. "Yes, little human touches like that," she said. "And of course, I'd like to include something about the work he did for the police. Without Polly's help, they probably wouldn't have been able to crack several important cases. Am I right?"

"Yeah," Aurora replied over her Seven and 7. "In fact, I figured it was his part in that drug bust at the pier three weeks ago that got him killed."

"What drug bust?" Sydney asked.

"Huh, you weren't shitting me earlier," Aurora said. "You and your old man really don't talk about his work. It happened about three weeks ago. A couple of small-timers were moving some cocaine at Fort Jackson Pier when the cops arrived. The two schmucks ended up burning to death in their RV, along with most of the stuff--or so the cops claimed. Polly was the snitch on the deal. He told me there was up to half a million worth of coke involved. The four cops who pulled off the raid recovered something like thirteen thousand dollars' worth, and claimed the rest went up in smoke. I think the newspapers estimated forty-some-odd thousand went poof, but that's bullshit. And Polly knew it." Aurora sipped her drink, then gave her a wary sidelong glance. "So--this is all news to you?"

Sydney nodded.

"Well, honey, then this must be news to you as well. Your husband was one of the four cops who pulled off this drug bust--though I'd call it a heist."

Sydney shook her head. "My husband would never get involved in anything like that. Joe's a good guy. He's an honest cop. He--"

"Huh, Polly used to think so, too," Aurora said, cutting her off. "He knew these guys were after him, these hit men. Polly wasn't sure if it was payback from someone connected to those two schmucks who fried in their RV or if the cops had hired these guys to shut him up permanently. Whoever it was, Polly knew he was a dead man. I've never seen him so sick with worry. He called your husband at least six times, begging for help."

"But I didn't think he knew Joe very well," Sydney said.

"Not very," Aurora agreed. "Polly never snitched for your husband. For the Fort Jackson Pier deal, he dealt with one of the other cops. But Polly knew your husband. He knew Joe McCloud's reputation as a good guy who went out of his way to help people in trouble." Aurora drained the rest of her glass and loudly set it down on the table. "Well, your nice-guy hero-husband didn't lift a fucking finger to help Polly. He let him down--and he let him die."

Sydney squirmed in the booth seat. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I don't believe a goddamn thing you've told me--except the fact that Polly called your house, and your husband doesn't talk to you about his work. It's why you came here, isn't it, Sydney? You wanted to find out why your big hero-husband was associating with a small-time hood like Polly. Well, now you know. He was involved in a heist--and murder. And then he let a sweet guy get shot to death. Why don't you do a story on that, Sydney?"

Dazed, she just shook her head.

"Anyway," Aurora muttered. "If your darling Joe gives you a beautiful new mink coat or a sparkly diamond bracelet on your next birthday, now you'll know where the money came from."

Sydney felt sick to her stomach. "Why haven't you told any of this to the police investigating Polly's death?" she heard herself ask.

Aurora leaned forward. "How old do you think I am?"

Sydney hesitated. She could feel the color draining from her face.

"I'm forty-three," Aurora answered for her. "And I'd like to live to see my forty-fourth birthday. I'm not saying the cops checking out Polly's murder aren't honest. But why take a chance, y'know?" She gazed at Sydney, her eyes narrowed. "Say, you don't look so hot."

With a shaky hand, Sydney pulled two twenties out of her purse. "This ought to cover my tab," she murmured, setting the money on the tabletop. "Don't worry. It's not my husband's money. It's mine. Thank you for your time."

Her legs felt unsteady as she got up and moved to the door. She was nauseous and dizzy. Staggering out of Anthony's Cha-Cha Lounge, she didn't even make it to her car. Sydney grabbed hold of a light post, braced herself, and then threw up on the sidewalk.

She still felt queasy driving home. Even after drinking half a bottle of Evian water and sucking on a peppermint from her purse, she still had an awful taste in her mouth--and a sore throat. She knew Aurora's story was probably true. Three weeks ago, she'd been in Boston on a Movers & Shakers story. For one of those nights while she'd been away, Eli had slept over at Brad's house. That had probably been the night of the raid--or heist, as Aurora called it.

"Please, God, let it not be true," she kept whispering during the long drive home. She tried to convince herself that there was an explanation, some reason Joe couldn't tell her what was going on. By the time Sydney turned down North Spaulding, she was crying. Something so dear to her had died back there inside that crummy bar in Cicero.

As she approached the house, she noticed a strange car in their driveway. Sydney pulled in and parked behind it. She took another Kleenex out of her purse and wiped her eyes and nose. When she looked up, she saw Eli shuffling out the front door. He gave her a listless wave.

She quickly checked herself in the rearview mirror, wiped her nose again, then climbed out of the car. She glanced at the white Taurus in front of her. Sydney had been on the road enough to recognize a rental car when she saw one. But the Hertz logo on the frame around the back license plate left no room for doubt. She gave Eli a quick kiss. "Hi, Eli," she said. "Whose rental car is that?"

Eli shrugged, and kicked the tire. "I dunno. This weird guy's in the living room, talking to Dad, and they asked me to leave."

"What?" she murmured.

Eli followed her into the house. She saw Joe standing in the living room with a can of Budweiser in his hand. He still had his tie on from work, but it was loosened. He appeared startled to see her. "Oh, hi, honey..."

She squinted at him. "Do we have company?"

Frowning, he heaved a long sigh. Then he nodded in the direction of the kitchen. "It's this joker from Seattle, who hasn't seen you in a year. He says he's your brother."

Kyle came around the corner from the kitchen, and Sydney let out a gasp. She threw her arms around him and started crying. Her brother hugged her. "It was all Joe's idea," she heard Kyle say. "He's been hatching this for a while. He even insisted on paying for my flight. Hey, Joe, next time, first-class might be nice..."

She turned and embraced Joe. "Thank you, sweetie," she said, past her tears.

"I've been such an unbearable grouch lately," he whispered, kissing her. "I'm going to start making it up to you, honey."

Sydney just nodded. She thought about what Aurora had said: "So if your darling Joe gives you a beautiful new mink coat or a sparkly diamond bracelet on your next birthday, you'll know where the money came from."

She couldn't stop crying. But she told herself it was all right. She wasn't giving herself away. Her family probably thought they were tears of joy.

That week while Kyle stayed with them, Sydney couldn't help wondering if Joe had planned the visit just so she'd be distracted and preoccupied--and less likely to pursue this Polly business any further. If that was Joe's plan, it sure as hell worked. Kyle's visit put everything on hold. Her brother kept asking her if she was okay, and saying she looked tired. Was she sleeping all right lately? She couldn't tell him the truth. Kyle thought Joe was wonderful.

"Okay, let's see," Kyle said, over drinks at a gay bar called Sidetracks. Joe had insisted she and her brother have a night on the town together while he looked after Eli. They sat at a counter by the window. Nancy Sinatra was singing "These Boots Are Made for Walking," and Kyle had to shout over the loud volume. "Joe does the laundry, and folds it better than Mom used to. He helps with the dishes. He doesn't bitch or moan about having to take care of Eli while you're away. Plus, he's so cool about me being gay. It's such a non-issue with him. And looks-wise, on a scale from one to ten, he's about a twelve plus. Plus he's still crazy in love with you after all these years, any fool can see that. Could I clone him, please? I want a Joe of my very own."

"Well, you haven't been exposed to him in the morning, while he's eating his Cheerios," Sydney argued, raising her voice to compete with the music. "He has to make sure every piece of cereal gets dunked in the milk, and he keeps clanking his spoon against the bowl between shoveling the cereal in his mouth. All that clanking, it's enough to drive you nuts. God help that man if a dry morsel of cereal passed his lips. And at night, when he's getting ready for bed and he takes off his wristwatch, he smells his wrist afterward! How gross is that? I don't know if he's sniffing for sweat or the leather wristband smell against his skin. But it's weird--and disgusting."

"I'd put up with that," Kyle told her.

Put up with that? Though she was complaining, she secretly loved those idiosyncrasies. Those were the weird, quirky little things about Joe that no one else knew. She cherished them--beyond his good looks and good deeds. And if she thought about it too much, she couldn't help crying, because this man she loved so dearly had obviously done something vile and deplorable.

But she couldn't admit any of this to Kyle.

When her brother had to go back to Seattle at the end of that week, Sydney cried inconsolably. Yes, she was going to miss him, but there was another reason for her tears. There would be no more distraction, no more stalling. She would have to face this awful thing Joe had been hiding from her.

At the time, Sydney had thought she wouldn't see Kyle for at least another year. She'd had no idea when she'd put her brother on a plane at O'Hare, she would be seeing him again--and temporarily moving in with him--in only five weeks.

Sydney glanced in her rearview mirror as she turned down their street. Eli wordlessly reached up toward the sun visor to press the gate-opening device for the Tudor Court Apartments. She didn't think that gate would keep Number 59 out. If he was the one who had broken into their apartment on July Fourth, he could certainly get in again.

She didn't want to call the police about this guy, not until she was positive he was stalking her. She'd already phoned 9-1-1 about their possible break-in last week; she didn't want to call them again about a possible stalker. They'd think she was a nut.

Turning in to the driveway, Sydney stopped to watch in the rearview mirror as the gate closed behind them. "What do you say to a pizza tonight?" she asked Eli, trying to sound nonchalant about it. "I can call Uncle Kyle and see if he's free. Maybe he can bring over a DVD."

Eli shrugged. "Sure."

He didn't sound too thrilled about it. Then again, it wasn't like one of his friends was coming over. Sydney had gotten in touch with Sharon McKenna to see if Tim could fly out and spend a week with his pal; she'd done the same thing with Brad's parents. She'd offered to pay for the flight. But the McKennas and the Reeces each had misgivings about putting their twelve-year-old on a plane by himself. And in the case of the McKennas, they were friends with Joe once again, and she was the villain for taking her son and moving away.

Approaching the front stoop with the keys in her hand, Sydney couldn't help worrying that she'd find the door unlocked and open again. She'd experienced that same apprehension several times since coming home on July Fourth. The door was closed and locked, thank God.

Eli followed her inside, then headed upstairs to the bathroom. Kicking off her shoes, Sydney went into the kitchen, where she checked the back door to make sure it was closed and locked. No break-in. It only made sense. If Number 59 had followed them to Auburn and back, when would he have had time to break into their apartment?

She phoned Kyle and got his machine. "Hey, it's me," she said to the recording. "This is kind of last minute, but I would love it if you could come over tonight. Color me needy. I'll buy the pizza if you bring the DVD. Call me when you get this. Bye."

She was checking her voice mail when she heard Eli bounding back down the stairs, jumping from landing to landing.

On her voice mail, there were three hang-ups, and no messages. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have given the hang-ups a second thought. But she was already unnerved by this potential stalker situation. Moreover, the person calling each time stayed on the line long enough for Sydney to hear people talking in the background. She checked the last call return, and the automated voice told her: "The number called cannot be reached."

Sydney told herself that it was just a telemarketer.

It sounded like Eli was in the dining room. She heard a drawer squeak open.

Sydney headed toward the refrigerator, but remembered stashing Joe's letter in the breakfront's bottom drawer.

She swiveled around and hurried into the dining room. "What are you doing in there?" she asked, surprised at her own, almost-shrill tone. "Get out of there--"

Startled, Eli glanced up at her. He was crouched down in front of the built-in breakfront. He had the bottom drawer open. "What's wrong? What'd I do?"

"What are looking for?"

"The charger for my iPod," Eli answered, squinting at her as if she was crazy. "Jeez, what's the big deal?"

Sydney took a deep breath, then stepped over to the drawer and closed it. "Your charger's in the kitchen drawer, top right hand, where it always is."

"Well, thanks," he grumbled. He brushed past her and headed into the kitchen. "God, you don't have to bite my head off."

"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to snap at you," she called after him.

She listened to him open and shut one of the drawers in the kitchen. "Did you find it?" she called.

No answer. She heard him stomping toward the stairs. Swell, now he's mad at me--again. She should have just let him see the damn letter from Joe, and then he would have known just how much his dad cared about them. But she couldn't break his heart like that.

Sydney stooped down and opened the breakfront's bottom drawer. She found the letter in the back of the drawer, where she'd originally stashed it under a pile of loose papers and bills.

She heard the front door slam. "Eli?" she called, shutting the breakfront drawer. "Honey, are you there?" She didn't want him going outside, not when that stalker could be lurking around. "Eli?" she repeated, running to the front door. She opened it and called out his name again. He wasn't in the courtyard.

"Eli? Honey, where are you?" In her bare feet, she hurried toward the garages and gazed down the driveway. The gate was still closed. She didn't see him anywhere.

"Oh, God," she murmured, tears stinging her eyes. Her son had no idea this potential nutcase was out there--watching and following them. "Eli, honey, answer me, please!" she screamed.

But there was no answer.

Sydney obviously had no idea he was studying her every move right now.

From an alleyway off the courtyard--within the gated premises--he'd seen Eli bolt out the front door. The boy had ducked into the shadows of a little alcove, where the caretaker's unit was. He'd stayed there while his mother called out his name again and again.

He couldn't help smiling. Her son was hiding from her. He hated his own mother.

Sydney looked so upset--unhinged. Even this far away, he could see the tears streaming down her cheeks. A hand over her mouth, she kept glancing around the courtyard. Each time she called out for her son, her voice became more warbled and strained. She looked so scared and pathetic, wandering out there barefoot, crying for her son. It amused him to see her suffer.

And he hadn't even really started in on her yet.