Final Breath

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"I don't get it," Eli said from the backseat of Aidan's rental car. "Why can't I go to Chicago with you?"

Sydney glanced over her shoulder at him from the front passenger seat. "I told you, honey. I'm coming right back tomorrow night. This is not a leisure trip. I did all I could to wiggle out of this, but they need me to cover this story. I'm going directly from the airport to meet with the crew, and tonight, I'm meeting this Chloe person. I won't have time to take you around anyplace."

"This woman must be a real fan of your Movers and Shakers stories," Aidan said, his hands on the steering wheel. He smiled at her. "She won't talk to any other reporter but you?"

Sydney nodded. "So they tell me. Only I think she's more a fan from my figure-skating days." She noticed Aidan's smile wane, and realized he indeed still felt responsible for the abrupt end of her career on the ice. She reached over and patted his arm. "You're really sweet to chauffeur us around like this--with all you have going on today. Thanks, Aidan."

"So why can't I stay with Dad while you're working?" Eli piped up.

"Because I have to catch a 10:22 flight, which the network booked for me," she replied. "And your dear mother doesn't have the thousand bucks they'll charge for your last-minute overnight trip to Chicago, sweetie."

It had been a crazy morning with the phone ringing at 6:20. Sydney hadn't caught much sleep at all. She'd had another bout of Internet browsing and going through her Movers & Shakers files again. Of the twenty-eight video shorts she'd filmed last year, eight had focused on someone who had saved another person's life. Four of those people had met gruesome deaths within the last two weeks. Of the four others, she could discount her profile on an army private, Justin O'Rourke. He'd already been dead for a week when she'd put together the story about Justin throwing himself on top of a grenade to save his buddies during an insurgent assault in Iraq.

That left three people. Sydney scribbled down a list:

--Eric Ryan, 11, saved friend's younger brother, Eddie Kelly, when he fell down a well. Clinton, Iowa: Contact: Susan Ryan (mom): 563-555-0505

workingmomsue@brisbee.com.

--Beth Costello, 34, stopped to help stroke victim lying on downtown Chicago sidewalk--moved to Paris for work 2 months ago (& how could you inflict a stroke on someone anyway?).

E-mail just in case: kinsellagal@artistsgallery.com.

--Roseann Fann, 72, returning from swing shift @ rest home @ 4 AM, saw wrecked burning car, called 911, and then pulled man from car, did CPR & saved life.

Milwaukee, WI: Rosie: 414-555-3641

Rosie195@verizoncentral.com.

Sydney e-mailed the three of them individually. She didn't want to frighten them, but she also didn't want to hear tomorrow that Eric broke his neck falling down a well or that Roseann died in a fiery car crash. She figured Beth was probably safe, since she was out of the country. But why take any chances? "Recently, I've received some death threats," she wrote in her note to each one. "A few of my Movers & Shakers subjects were mentioned by name in these alarming e-mails. Your name wasn't among them. But I just want to alert you about this situation and advise you to be on your guard for the next few days. I hope I'm overreacting here, but I'd rather err on the side of caution..."

While rifling through the scores of Movers & Shakers files and pouring over her notes, Sydney resisted the temptation to have another glass of merlot and stuck to sparkling water instead. She also avoided the living room. She could hear Aidan snoring lightly in there.

Every few minutes, she glanced at the clock and thought about Kyle on this date with this guy he barely knew. How well had Troy Bischoff known the man who had strangled him? She left yet another message on her brother's answering machine.

Kyle finally called her at around 3 A.M. He'd had a terrific date with Dan, with whom he'd gotten to second base. Sydney wasn't sure what second base on a gay date was, and she didn't ask. She told her brother about Troy Bischoff's death, and how she'd realized this killer was targeting heroes. Kyle offered to come over, saying she and Eli shouldn't be alone. Then she told him about Aidan spending the night. "I think we're okay for now," she said. "I'm hoping this detective in New York calls me back in the morning. Maybe they'll have a name from the credit card at Kinko's. Then we can let the police solve this. The sooner we can drop this in the lap of the law, the better off I'll feel."

But the phone call at 6:20 in the morning wasn't from Detective Peary. It was from the network news division. A big story was brewing in Chicago. Handsome Derrick De Santo, thirty-three, was the new husband of prominent socialite and heir to meatpacking millions, Abigail Wayland, thirty-eight. Sydney remembered how they were always photographed and written up in the Chicago newspapers and magazines. She remembered the gossip that dashing Derrick was a fortune hunter, and Abigail was a birdbrain for marrying him. There were even rumors Derrick was gay, rumors that would soon be put to rest, because on a seemingly deserted beach in Evanston at approximately 2:15 Central time that Tuesday morning, Derrick slammed a rock against the forehead of his newly pregnant girlfriend, Lenora Swayne, and then threw her into Lake Michigan. Derrick had no idea Chloe Finch, a thirty-one-year-old admissions manager at Northwestern University, was on that same beach watching his every move. She'd saved Lenora from drowning, and her 9-1-1 call had prompted a police dispatch to Alder Hill Road. That was where patrolmen detained Derrick De Santo, leaving the scene in the vintage Porsche Spyder his wife had recently bought for him on their one-year anniversary.

It had all the earmarks of becoming the story of the year, but none of the principal players were talking: not Abigail, not Derrick--not even through his high-priced attorneys--and not Lenora, who was rushed to Northwestern University Hospital for emergency treatment. As for Chloe Finch, she would talk to only one reporter, Sydney Jordan.

"Apparently, she read your autobiography when she was a teenager," the network news executive had explained to Sydney at 6:20 this morning. "She's been a fan ever since your figure-skating days."

"But I'm not a hard-news reporter," Sydney had argued.

"So do it like a Movers and Shakers piece, whatever you want. This is great publicity for you, Sydney, and quite frankly, you could use it. Everyone is dying to talk to this woman, and you're the only one she'll see. Now, we've booked you on a 10:22 flight out of SeaTac..."

But first she had to drop Eli at her brother's place.

Aidan turned down the hillside dead-end street where Kyle's tall town house loomed over trees and bushes. It was set apart from the other houses. Sydney felt bad foisting her son on Kyle today, when he had a brunch date with this Dan person. She knew Eli wasn't happy with her either.

As they pulled into his driveway, Kyle emerged from the house in a sports shirt and khaki shorts. He had a cup of coffee in his hand. With a crooked smile, he raised his cup as if to toast their arrival and then sipped from it.

Eli thanked Aidan and climbed out of the car first. Sydney heard Kyle tell him that he'd set up a video game on TV for him, and Eli ran inside the house.

"I'm sorry I can't take you to the airport," Aidan told her. "Quarter after nine was the only time this funeral home would see me today, and they're up in Lynnwood."

"Please, don't apologize," Sydney said. "With everything you're going through right now, it's really kind of you to take us here. I hope we can get together again when I'm back in town."

He nodded. "I'd really like that."

She started to open the car door, but he put his hand on her shoulder. "Sydney, before you go, I--I need to apologize for last night. That was really dumb of me when I--you know, when I asked if you'd kiss me good night. I was tired--and maybe a little tipsy from the wine. Anyway, it was inappropriate."

She worked up a smile. "That's okay. I didn't take you too seriously."

He just nodded, then climbed out of the car and retrieved her small suitcase from the trunk. He set it down beside her as she stepped out of the car.

"Thanks, Aidan," she said. "Thanks for everything." She gave him an awkward hug. For a moment, she thought he might try to kiss her. But he didn't.

He gently pulled away and retreated toward the rental car. At his door, he hesitated. "Sydney? For the record, I was serious last night--inappropriate and clumsy, but very serious."

Before she could say anything, he ducked into the car and closed the door.

"Who's the Greek God, and does he come in Homo?" Kyle asked as Aidan backed the car out of the driveway. "Don't tell me that's little Aidan Cosgrove."

Sydney nodded. "All growed-up." She turned to her brother and sighed. "I'm sorry to screw up your brunch plans with this potential new love interest."

"Don't worry about it. I scratched you off my shit list. When I phoned Dan to cancel, he'd just gotten a call himself, a family emergency. He needs to go to Portland. But he's coming over first." Kyle sipped his coffee. "In fact, he should be here any minute. He offered to drive you to the airport."

"Well, that's great, thanks." She peered inside Kyle's open front door. She could hear the video game going at a loud volume upstairs. "Do me a favor and don't let Eli out of your sight. No beach trip today, no matter how much he begs you. It's just too easy for him to get lost in the crowd there."

"Well, if I hadn't lost him for a few minutes there yesterday, I wouldn't have met Dan. But I promise you, I won't take any chances." Kyle put his hand on her back. "How are you holding up?"

"I left another message for that detective in New York. I'm hoping he'll have something for us." With a sigh, she shook her head. "I still can't figure out why this is happening, why he's targeting heroes."

Kyle leaned against the doorway. "After we talked last night, I kept thinking about that weird e-mail you received before all this started."

"'Bitch-Sydney--you can't save them?'" she said.

"From 'Second duet' or something..."

Sydney nodded. "'Second-duet-for-you,' that was his e-mail address."

"But aside from Leah and Jared, you couldn't find any other Movers and Shakers couples who have met an untimely end, right?"

"No, I didn't come up with anyone--thank God."

"When you told me about the hero angle early this morning, it got me thinking." Kyle glanced down into his coffee cup. "A couple of years ago, these two teenage girls from James Madison High School were murdered on the same day--only hours apart. And their bodies were found within a mile or two from each other, too. It happened right here in this neighborhood. Both their throats had been slit."

Sydney just stared at him. She hadn't heard anything about this.

"I don't know if it made the Chicago papers," Kyle explained, "but it was big news around here for a few days. As far as I know, they never found the guy who murdered them. Anyway, the thing of it is, the girls were heroes, Syd. One of their classmates had smuggled a gun into school, and these two girls talked him out of killing an entire class full of kids."

Sydney frowned. "But I didn't do a profile on these girls. I didn't even know them. Are you thinking this was the 'first duet'?"

"Could be," he said.

"But it doesn't follow the pattern of the other murders. I don't see how it can be related--"

"Well, maybe it was his first time at bat, and he was acting out of blind rage." Kyle shrugged. "Maybe he decided to focus all his attention on you when you moved here. You're a hero yourself, Syd. And you salute heroes in your TV segments. That makes you a prime target for someone with a hero-gripe. All this started a few weeks after you moved here, didn't it?"

Sydney nodded, but didn't say anything. She didn't see a connection between the Movers & Shakers murders and these two girls who were killed. The Movers & Shakers murderer wouldn't have slit their throats. He would have taken them into an empty classroom and shot them. And then their parents would have received flowers with a card from Sydney Jordan.

Kyle sipped his coffee again. "Maybe I'm talking out of my ass. Anyway, I thought of those dead high school girls after we talked early this morning. And like I say, they never did find who killed them." He glanced up as a red Honda Accord came down the street. "There's Dan now...."

Sydney left her suitcase outside, then ran into the house to say good-bye to Eli. He put his video game on pause while she hugged him. Sydney told him she was sorry he couldn't go to Chicago with her. She also told him she'd be back tomorrow night, and she told him to be careful and mind his uncle.

Sydney had a horrible feeling about this trip.

But she didn't tell him that.

"Goddamn it!"

Dan Spengler shoved his palm onto the steering wheel and the car horn blared. "We're in gridlock. I'm trying not to block the intersection, and this slime-bucket asshole takes a right on red!" He hit the accelerator, and the car sped forward. Sydney's hand automatically went to the dashboard as she braced herself for a potential collision.

"You lowlife weasel!" Dan screamed from his window, almost slamming into the side of the other car. He hit his horn again. "Could you be more of a jerk?" He glanced at Sydney. "What kind of justification does he have for pulling that kind of shit? 'I'm in a hurry?' or 'I'm just an asshole?' Wait--wait a minute. Did he just flip me the bird? I can't tell..."

The other driver had indeed given him the finger, but Sydney wasn't about to say anything. She didn't want to make Dan even angrier--if that were possible. He was a handsome man with chiseled features, blue eyes, and short, slightly receding black hair. He was also very scary--at least when he was mad. His face had turned red, and his knuckles were white as he clutched the steering wheel.

"Um, I didn't see him gesturing," Sydney lied, finally letting go of the dashboard and sitting back in the passenger seat.

"I can't get over how some people delude themselves into thinking they're nice, and then they get into traffic and act like total creeps. It just amazes me." Dan took a few deep breaths, and he laughed a little. "Well, great first impression I'm making on you, huh? I'm usually a very pleasant person, honest. But whenever I get on the road, nine times out of ten, there's some jerk driver who makes me lose it. Sorry, Sydney. I didn't scare you, did I?"

"Oh, just a little--for a minute there," she said nervously. Without a doubt, the other driver had been in the wrong, but the way Dan had reacted was unnerving. She wondered if Kyle knew about this guy's angry side.

Her cell phone went off. Sydney grabbed it out of her purse and checked the caller ID: Detective Peary's number in New York. "Do you mind if I take this?" she asked.

"Go for it," Dan said, eyes on the road.

Sydney clicked on the phone. "Hello? Detective Peary?"

"Yes. I got your messages, Ms. Jordan."

"Thank you for calling back. Did you check with the Kinko's on Seventh Avenue?"

"Yes, I followed that up. They let me see the credit card receipt for that fax you were telling me about."

"And?" Sydney said, hanging on his every word.

"Troy Bischoff is the name on the Visa card."

"Shit," Sydney murmured, closing her eyes. What made her think the killer wouldn't cover his tracks?

"I'm closing the book on this one, Ms. Jordan. This guy accidentally killed himself."

"Did you check to see if that Visa card is missing?" Sydney asked. "The killer could have stolen the card."

"Bischoff had a wallet full of credit cards and money in his bedroom, and lots of valuables in his apartment. Why would someone take one card and leave all the rest behind? Anyway, someone at Kinko's found his card yesterday afternoon. Looks like Bischoff forgot it there after he sent you that fax."

"Or maybe the killer left it there," Sydney offered. "Did you consider that as a possibility? Detective, this guy wouldn't have taken Troy's money, because he didn't want anyone to know he was there. He wanted it to look like Troy died alone during this kinky self-strangulation thing."

"Well, if this so-called-killer didn't want anyone to know he was there, why did he send you this fax-clue or whatever it was?" Peary didn't wait for her to answer. "Listen, Ms. Jordan, it's a clear case of death by autoerotic asphyxiation. That's the end of it. That sort of thing happens a lot more than you'd think. These perverts are always doing stuff like this to themselves. They're sick. And then they wonder why some folks can't stand them."

"What?" Sydney said sharply. "Did I just hear you right? You know, I'm a correspondent for a network TV news program--"

"I know who you are, Ms. Jordan," he replied.

"Would you like to repeat what you just said to me for the record?"

"Listen," the detective said. "I'm doing you and your program a huge favor by not dragging this out. I saw the bit you did on this guy a few months back when you made him out to be a big hero. Are you really so eager for your adoring public to know how this deviant died?"

Sydney didn't reply. She pulled the cell phone away from her face and glared at it. "Asshole!" she screamed. Then she clicked off the line. It was all she could do to keep from smashing the phone against the dashboard. "Son of a bitch," she growled, shaking her head.

She sat there silently fuming for another few moments. Then she glanced over at Dan, and he gave her a wary look. "Well, I guess we're even now, huh? I mean, which one of us is crazier?"

She cracked a tiny smile.

"I don't even want to ask what that conversation was about," he said, chuckling.

Sydney managed a weak laugh. "Tell you later when I get to know you better."

Up ahead, she saw the sign for the turn-off to SeaTac Airport. Then she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his medium-size suitcase on the backseat. He'd put her bag in the trunk. His suitcase was dark blue and had several zippers and compartments. And on the leather handle were two destination tags from his last round trip. In the mirror, she could read the SEA on one tag for his return trip to SeaTac. But she couldn't quite make out the airport abbreviation on the other stub.

Sydney casually glanced over her shoulder. Now she saw the old torn tag from his previous trip: JFK.

Turning forward, she glimpsed the airport exit as they passed it.

Sydney clutched the cell phone tighter. "Wasn't that the turn-off for the airport back there?" she asked as casually as she could.

He kept his eyes on the road. "My way's faster," he said with a tiny smile.

The seat belt was pinching her, and Sydney nervously tugged at it. She glanced at Dan again--his handsome profile and that little smile. Kyle had just met this man yesterday afternoon. Had Dan Spengler been in New York City the night before? It was awfully strange how he'd just shown up in her brother's life at this particular time.

"Was that phone call about one of your stories for On the Edge?" he asked.

"Sort of," she said. "A person from one of those stories was killed." Sydney watched for his reaction. He didn't seem very surprised.

"'A kinky self-strangulation thing?'" he asked, quoting from her talk to Detective Peary.

"Yes," Sydney said. She watched him pass another exit off Interstate 5.

"You can tell me to mind my own business if you want," he said.

"It's okay."

"Was he a good friend?"

"Actually, I didn't know him very well," Sydney admitted, squirming in the passenger seat. She looked out her window. At this point, they would have to backtrack to get to the airport.

"What's the name for that--the self-strangulation thing?"

"Autoerotic asphyxiation."

"Yeah," he nodded and then switched on his turn signal. "You know, for the longest time, I thought it had to do with phone sex--audio-erotic affixation. Shows you how stupid I am."

Sydney didn't respond or even smile. She watched him veer onto the turn-off for 188th and Orilla Road. From the interstate, it looked like the road wound through a forest area. Sydney still clutched the cell phone in her hand. She took a deep breath. "So--was it hot in New York?" she heard herself ask.

He glanced at her and let out a stunned little laugh. "How did you know I was in New York in May?"

"In May?" she repeated.

"Yeah, I was visiting my big brother. He's a widower with two really cute kids. Let me know if you ever want to be fixed up. He's a very well-to-do accountant." He stopped at the light for 188th Street. Sydney saw a small sign with a right arrow that said AIRPORT. "So how did you know I was in New York?" Dan asked. "I don't remember mentioning it to Kyle."

"I noticed the old destination tag on your suitcase," she admitted.

He gave her a baffled grin, then steered the car to the right. "Boy, you don't miss a thing."

"It's a skill every reporter needs," she said. "Is the airport far?"

"About five more minutes if we get a break in the traffic lights." He started to pick up speed.

Sydney told herself she could sit back and breathe easy--at least, for now.

"Mixed Bags," the woman said on the other end of the line. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, hello," Eli whispered into the phone. He was in his uncle's TV room on the second floor, sitting on the sectional sofa that had doubled as his bed for a few weeks a while back. "Is Francesca Landau working there today?"

"Yes, but she's running a little late. She'll be in sometime after 10:15. Can I take a message?"

"No, thanks," Eli said. "But could you, um...." He hesitated. His uncle was down in the kitchen. Eli wasn't sure if he just now heard him coming up the stairs. He'd paused the video game on the big-screen TV. At his side, a large picture window provided a sweeping view of downtown Seattle, Elliott Bay, and the Olympic Mountain range. But his uncle's town house was also close to the interstate, and the sound of traffic was almost like white noise. It drowned out a lot of sounds within the house.

"Yes?" the woman asked.

Eli figured it had been a false alarm. His uncle was still down in the kitchen. "Um, I need to make sure I have the right Francesca Landau," Eli said. "Is she a lady in her early fifties?"

"Yes, but you better not ask Fran that," the woman said.

"And you guys are in Kirkland, right?"

"Yes, sir, we're here on Lake Washington Boulevard."

"Thank you very much," Eli said. Then he hung up.

When he'd returned home from the library yesterday, Eli had used his mother's computer to check the Internet for information on Robert Landau, the estranged husband of Loretta Sayers and stepfather to Earl and, quite possibly, their killer. All he'd found was an obituary from the Seattle Times in 1987. Robert Landau had died from a heart attack at age sixty-six. He'd been survived by two of his children, Mark Landau and Francesca Landau-Foyle, and two grandchildren. There was something in quotes at the bottom of the article: "He is joined in eternity with his beloved wife, Estelle (1927-1971) and son, Jonathan (1954-1975)."

Eli wondered why they'd mentioned the first wife, but not Loretta or Earl. And what had happened to the other son, Jonathan, dead at age twenty-one?

He hadn't found anything on line about a Mark Landau in Seattle after 1987. But when he googled Francesca Landau-Foyle, Seattle, he came up with an article:

In & Around Seattle: Where To Shop

Mixed Bags Boutique...The owner of this fun find in downtown Kirkland is Francesca Landau, who has created a successful fusion of cosmopolitan and quaint...

www.theseattletimes/features/wheretoshop/041605-13k

The article, from three years ago, was a dull story about this gift shop Francesca owned, but it listed the address and phone number of the store, and even directions.

Earl's friend, Burt Demick, was now about fifty years old. Eli had found plenty of articles about him if it was the same Burt Demick. He was a big-shot attorney at a Seattle law firm, Rayburn, Demick, and Gill. Eli had called the law firm yesterday, but some snippy assistant had told him, "Mr. Demick is unavailable right now. May I leave a message?"

"Um, it's kind of personal, but very important," Eli had told her. "When would be the best time to reach him?"

"I'm sorry. Mr. Demick may be tied up indefinitely."

Eli had thanked her and hung up. To his further frustration, he hadn't been able to find a home listing in the phone book for Burt Demick.

Eli had really hoped to talk to Burt, but for now, it didn't look very likely. That left Earl's stepsister.

Eli wasn't certain how much Francesca knew or what she could tell him. He wasn't even sure what he would ask her. But he needed to meet this woman. He needed to find out more about Earl Sayers.

Eli still hadn't made any friends in Seattle. He didn't know anyone close to his own age--except one kid. Eli had never really seen him, but he'd felt the kid's presence in his bedroom for so many otherwise lonely nights this summer. It had taken a while for Eli to accept the fact that he was sharing his bedroom with someone else--someone dead.

He wondered if his mother had noticed he'd stopped loudly banishing their ghost at bedtime not long ago. Somewhere along the line, he'd stopped being scared. And two days ago, he finally learned the identity of his only friend, his night visitor: Earl Sayers.

He had to know more.

"What happened?"

Startled, Eli looked up at his uncle, who stood in the TV room entryway.

"Get bored with the video game?" Uncle Kyle asked. "Not enough carnage and mutilation?"

"No, it's okay," Eli grabbed the remote from the sofa and switched off the game and the TV. "I was just thinking, I need to get my dad a birthday present sometime soon. And I heard there's this really cool store in Kirkland..."

"Hello, Mr. Bischoff?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"I'm Sydney Jordan," she said into her cell phone. On the wall behind her was a huge diagram of an old Boeing 707. Sydney sat at the end of a row of seats in the VIP lounge--as far away as possible from the noisy, crowded bar and a woman with a shrieking toddler. There were a lot of delays this morning, and Sydney's flight was one of them.

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

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

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

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

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

And Troy's killer was repeating his pattern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blind rage, Sydney thought.

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

TWO YEARS LATER A Mystery Still Unsolved

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

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

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

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

Sydney wondered: Were Molly and Erin the first duet?

The article was over seven months old.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I might."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I help you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eli nodded.

"What was her name?"

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

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

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

"Yes, that was his name."

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

She frowned. "Yes, they both died."

"How--did it happen?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Nobody, I swear."

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

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

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

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

But she'd already ducked back into the shop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beep.

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she said. "Do I have the right Mrs. Gerrard?"

"Yes, I'm Hannah, Molly's mother," she replied.

"I don't know if you heard any of what I was saying just now--"

"Yes, I did. Listen, my husband and I would be grateful for anything that would light a fire under those police investigators. I'm sure the Travinos feel the same way. Plus I've seen your work, Sydney, and I've always thought you'd handle Molly's and Erin's story in a very dignified, compassionate way."

"Well, thank you very much," Sydney murmured. She was surprised at how quickly Molly's mother seemed to embrace the idea.

"Frankly, I wasn't sure I'd ever hear from you again," Hannah Gerrard continued. "I was going to write to you, Sydney, but I didn't have your address. It was a bit of a surprise, but I must say, my husband and I were very touched when you sent that beautiful flower arrangement after Molly's death. Thank you, Sydney."

For a moment, she couldn't speak.

"Sydney?"

"You--you're welcome," she murmured, numbly.

She'd found his first duet.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," his Uncle Kyle whispered. "I'm supposed to be keeping you out of trouble."

They rode up to the twenty-seventh floor in a shiny-brass-paneled elevator with a trio of men in ties and business suits. Eli's uncle had said earlier that in their casual shirts and shorts, they'd look like a couple of bums wandering into the law offices of Rayburn, Demick, and Gill. But Eli had been in a hurry. And, of course, his uncle had been right.

His uncle had said a lot of things earlier--in the car, as they'd driven back from Kirkland, across the 520 floating bridge. "I can't understand why you didn't share any of this murder-suicide stuff with your mother or me. Sneaking off and lying to the two of us about where you were half the time, it doesn't make sense."

His uncle had been right about that too. Eli had done his best to explain how it had started out with the Ouija board, and then eavesdropping on his mom and their neighbor. After that, it had just snowballed. Besides, his mom had known about the murder-suicide, and had kept it a secret from him.

"Oh, God, you two are so much alike, it's scary," his uncle had muttered. "She just didn't want to worry you."

"Well, I didn't want to worry her," Eli replied.

"I just don't get it," his uncle had said. "I don't understand what you hope to accomplish by digging into this old business from thirty-four years ago and bothering these people connected to the case. What did you think the lady back there was going to tell you?"

Eli had to admit he'd screwed that one up. He still felt bad he'd gotten Francesca Landau so upset. At the same time, he'd learned her brother, Jonathan, had hung himself a year after the deaths of Loretta and Earl. Francesca's father hadn't been the only suspect in the case; clouds of suspicion had hovered over her college-age brother as well.

Eli felt he could learn more from Earl's friend, Burt Demick. In the article Eli had copied, Burt had said: "I don't think Mrs. Sayers could have done what people said she did." If he didn't believe the official findings back then, Mr. Demick must have developed his own ideas about who had killed Earl and Loretta. Eli wanted to hear them.

"So--have you thought about what you're going to ask him?" Kyle said--once the trio of businessmen stepped off on the twenty-first floor.

Glancing up at the lighted numbers above the elevator doors, Eli shrugged. He felt a little nervous. He didn't want this unscheduled visit with Mr. Demick to end in a big blowup like the one with Francesca. "I guess I'm gonna ask him what he thinks really happened that night," Eli replied.

The elevator doors opened and a ding sounded. They stepped off on the twenty-seventh floor. To their right was a pair of glass doors; one of them had the suite number stenciled on it: 2701. It was a fancy reception area, with mauve carpeting and pale sofas and cushioned chairs. Some square pedestals held different vases and sculptures under protective display cases, and Jackson Pollock-like art hung on the walls. Behind the big mahogany desk sat a beautiful brunette, impeccably dressed in a red suit. And behind her, on the wall, pewter letters spelled out: RAYBURN, DEMICK, & GILL.

The receptionist looked up at them coolly. "May I help you?"

Eli noticed a silver dish full of Andes mints. "Are these free?" he asked.

The woman nodded.

"Just one," Uncle Kyle muttered. He scratched his temple with one finger and smiled at the receptionist. "Hi. I'm an attorney with Trotter, Gregg, and Associates, and I met Mr. Demick a few weeks back at this luncheon at one of the downtown hotels here. I keep thinking it was at the Westin..."

She tilted her head and stared at him. "Mr. Demick was a guest speaker for the Washington State Lawyers Club at a luncheon in June at the Hilton. Could that be where you saw him?"

Uncle Kyle snapped his fingers. "That's it, thank you. We talked for a bit after his speech, and Burt--I mean, Mr. Demick--he said to stop by the offices and pay him a visit if I was ever in the neighborhood. Anyway, here I am--with my nephew, and without an appointment. Is there any chance we can stick our heads in and say hello?"

She nodded at the sea foam green sofa. "If you'll have a seat, I'll see if Mr. Demick is available." She reached for the phone.

Popping the Andes mint in his mouth, Eli retreated toward the sofa with his uncle. "Who are Trotter, Gregg, and Associates?" he whispered.

"Greg Trotter was this guy I had a crush on in high school," his uncle replied under his breath.

Just as they sat down on the sofa, Eli saw two men emerge from the hallway at their left. They passed through the reception area. "I'm going to get even with you out on that golf course next week, Burt," said the stocky, balding one in the gray suit. "You can bank on that."

Dressed in a dark blue suit, a tall, thin, handsome man with wavy gray hair winked at his golf buddy and shook his hand. "Well, we'll just see about that, Bob," he laughed. Then he opened the glass door for him.

Uncle Kyle nudged Eli and they both got to their feet. "Mr. Demick--Burt?" his uncle said, approaching him with his hand extended. "Hi, I'm Kyle Jordan. We met at the Lawyers Club lunch last month at the Hilton."

With a slightly baffled smile, Burt Demick shook his hand. His eyes darted back and forth from Kyle to Eli. "Well, good to see you again."

Kyle nodded at Eli. "This fine-looking lad here is my nephew, Eli. He's doing a report for summer school that might interest you."

Mr. Demick shook his hand. He had a firm grip. "It's nice to meet you, Eli."

Eli just nodded nervously.

"I'm a little pressed for time right now," Demick said, glancing at his wristwatch. "I was about to head out. But if you'll make an appointment with the receptionist--"

"Oh, we were just taking a shot and hoping you'd be in," Kyle said. "I know you're busy. How about if we rode down in the elevator with you?"

"Sure, that's fine," Demick replied, seeming a bit distracted. "Excuse me." He went over to the receptionist and said something to her.

For a moment, Eli thought a pair of security guards would suddenly show up to toss them out. But instead, Demick turned, smiled at them, and waved for them to join him as he strode toward the glass doors. He held one open for them.

"Thank you," Eli said, and the man patted him on the shoulder.

"So--what's your report about?" he asked, walking to the elevators with them.

"Um, it--it's for a history class," Eli lied. "We had to pick something out of an old newspaper and report about it. I found an article from the seventies, and they--they mentioned you."

"When Eli showed me the article," Kyle added. "I told him, 'I know this gentleman.'"

"Well, you've got me intrigued," Demick said, pushing the button for the elevator. "An article from the seventies, you say?"

"Yes," Eli nodded. "It's about these people you knew back when you were sixteen--Loretta and Earl Sayers."

Demick just stared at him for a moment. Then he rubbed his chin.

"Um, in the article," Eli continued, trying not to stammer. "You said Mrs. Sayers couldn't have killed Earl and herself. I--I was wondering what you think actually happened that night. I figure it would be good to get your respective."

"Perspective," his uncle corrected him.

Demick let out a long sigh. "Well, that was over thirty years ago--quite a tragedy, very sad. I really didn't know them that well..."

Eli remembered Vera talking about Burt's car blocking hers in the driveway. She'd made it sound as if it had happened several times.

The elevator chimed, and then the doors whooshed open.

"I talked to one of their old neighbors," Eli said, stepping into the empty elevator with his uncle. "According to her, a lot of people thought Earl's stepfather might have killed them."

Demick followed them into the elevator, then he pressed the lobby button. "I'll tell you, Eli, I used to think the same thing. Then people started saying Earl's stepbrother might have been the guilty party. And that poor young man took his own life." He patted Eli's shoulder. "It took me a while to accept the official explanation. But I agree with it now. Ms. Sayers killed her son and then shot herself. She was a very emotional, high-strung woman. Like I said, it was a real tragedy."

Eli frowned. He'd thought there would have been a lot more to it than that, and yet all three people he'd spoken with--Vera, Francesca, and now Earl's pal, Burt--accepted the murder-suicide explanation.

"What was Earl like?" he asked.

Demick smiled sadly. "Oh, he had a great laugh, and he was kind of a goofball. But he was smart and polite, too." Demick nudged him. "You remind me a little of him, Eli."

After a moment, Uncle Kyle nudged him on the other side. "So--do you think you have enough for your report?" he asked, a bit of irony in his tone. "Does that finish it up?"

Eli just nodded.

The elevator chimed, and then the doors whooshed open again. "Thanks so much," his uncle said, shaking Demick's hand as they stepped out to the lobby. "We're grateful for your time--and your candor."

"Yes, thank you, sir," Eli piped up.

Demick shook his hand and winked at him. "I hope you get an A."

"Let's do lunch some time," Uncle Kyle said.

Demick pulled a business card from the pocket of his suit coat, then handed it to him. "Give my assistant a call," he said. "Bye, now."

Then the thin, distinguished man strode through the lobby and out the revolving door.

"We need to get you and your mom out of that apartment lease," his uncle said. "It's a wonder you've slept a wink in there the last few nights." He handed Eli the business card. "Here, a souvenir."

With a sigh, Eli glanced at the card.

"I can't believe he didn't throw us out on our asses," Uncle Kyle said. "So--does that seal the deal? Does that answer all your questions about what happened way back when?"

Sam frowned. "I guess so."

His uncle put a hand on his shoulder as they moved toward the revolving door. "And you're satisfied?"

"No, I'm not," Eli admitted, gazing down at the floor. "Not really."

She had an exclusive scoop on the so-called "Story of the Year," and yet Sydney couldn't stay focused on it. In front of her, she had all the information they'd faxed her this morning about Chloe Finch and what had happened on that Evanston beach about thirteen hours ago.

But Sydney couldn't stop thinking about this twisted killer's first duet.

The deaths of those two teenage girls had been a Seattle murder case; so now she could go to the Seattle police about the hero-killings. But even with Mr. and Mrs. Gerrard to back her up about the flowers, it would take a lot of explaining--and more information about the other deaths--in New York, Portland, and Chicago. She kept thinking about a Chicago cop who might be able to help her if only she had it in her to call Joe and admit she needed him.

On the plane, Sydney forced herself to read more about Chloe Finch, who was thirty-one, single, and lived alone. According to the reports, she'd been walking along the beach for about an hour when she caught Derrick De Santo trying to murder his pregnant girlfriend.

Police had recovered Chloe's raincoat and shoes at the scene, and they'd found a few stones in the pockets of the raincoat. Chloe had said she was collecting them for the garden at her apartment building.

Sydney wondered if the police really believed her.

The production assistant sat with Chloe Finch on a park bench along the beach off Lake Shore Drive. It was approaching "magic hour"--about 6:45--with the sun just starting its slow descent. It was the best light for taping. The shimmering lake and the golden-hued Chicago skyline made for a perfect background.

As Sydney and her crew made their way toward the bench, she saw Chloe get to her feet and limp toward them. Sydney had seen her photo, and found Chloe prettier in person. She hadn't known about Chloe's foot problem until now.

She gave Sydney a wry smile, and then shook her hand. "No, I don't have a pebble in my shoe," she said. "It's one reason I'm a fan of yours. I don't walk so well either. Plus I'm a huge figure-skating fan. I read your autobiography twice, and have seen Making Miracles: The Sydney Jordan Story at least five times--even though Amanda Beck is horrible in it. The girl couldn't act her way out of a wet paper bag."

Sydney laughed. "So--is that how come I got this exclusive?"

"Oh, totally, your reporting doesn't have a damn thing to do with it."

Sydney chuckled again. Usually she spent a lot of time trying to put her subjects at ease, and here was the subject helping her to relax. She quickly introduced Chloe to her crew--two cameramen and a soundman. Chloe had already met the production assistant. While the shot was being set up, Sydney and Chloe sat down on the park bench where she would interview her. Chloe quietly explained that she admired Sydney's Movers & Shakers pieces. "I knew you'd treat me with respect," she said.

Sydney nodded. "I will, but you'll need to be honest with me, Chloe. I read the reports. Those stones in the pockets of your raincoat reminded me of how Virginia Woolf went about drowning herself."

"Clever lady," Chloe murmured, with an ironic smile. "I got the idea from The Hours."

Sydney put her hand on Chloe's arm. "You went down to that secluded beach at two o'clock in the morning to kill yourself, but you ended up saving someone's life. That's the story I want to do here, Chloe."

Chloe glanced out at the lake and sighed. "I don't know how it'll go over with the university if they find out one of their executive employees was contemplating suicide last night."

Sydney shrugged. "Maybe they'll pay for some therapy sessions. I wouldn't mind that. Do you want to talk about it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sydney handed her a Kleenex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, shut up," Sydney smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uptown Flowers--12291 Uptown--Chicago

773-555-9254

CHAPTER TWENTY

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Sydney,

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

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

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Gannon Grogen

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you talking about?"

"Here's Eli."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hotel room telephone rang, startling her.

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

Silence.

"Hello?" she repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One minute, please, Ms. Jordan."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, hi."

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

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

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

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

She heard him knocking on the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-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.

"Oh, my God," Eli whispered.

The return address on back showed the note was from R. Landau on McGraw Street in Seattle. Eli pulled a birthday card from the envelope. The cover showed an old black-and-white photo of a little girl in a party hat. She was about to blow out the candles on her birthday cake. The preprinted inside message read: ANOTHER YEAR YOUNGER! Below that was a note:

Dear Loretta,

I know you don't want to hear from me. But this is your birthday, and I need you to know that I'm thinking of you & wishing you well. Happy Birthday.

Always, Robert

Eli looked at the fourth envelope--addressed in sloppy script to Loretta Sayers here at the Tudor Court, again. There was no return address, just Hallmark on the back flap. The postmark read: NOV 6, '74. Only a few days later, Loretta and her son would be dead.

Eli reached into the envelope. It was another card--a cheesy photograph of a couple embracing on a bluff in front of an orange sunset. They wore really ugly polyester-looking clothes from the seventies. "Someone Special Like You..." was preprinted in swirling script at the bottom of the card. Inside, in the same script: "...Makes My Day Complete."

Above and below this sappy sentiment was a note in the same sloppy script:

Dear Loretta,

You can't just stop seeing me. It isn't fair & I won't stand for it. Maybe you think you can treat your husband that way, but I'm not him. We love each other & you know it. If you don't see me again, you'll be sorry. Only a whore would act this way. Do you know how much you've hurt me? I deserve better. I've been very good to you. I'm so angry at you & yet despite everything I still love you. Please let me be with you at least one more time. Despite everything I still love you.

Chris

Eli didn't know who Chris was. In everything he'd read about Loretta Sayers, he hadn't run across that name. But obviously, Chris was some lover Loretta had scorned. And he was so mad and so much in love with her, he'd practically threatened her if she didn't see him again. "Despite everything I still love you," he'd said that twice.

The old Hallmark card had been stuck in the back of the breakfront all these years. Obviously, the police hadn't seen it; otherwise, this Chris person would have been a suspect in the deaths of Loretta and Earl.

Eli wondered why Loretta would save a correspondence like this unless it somehow amused her that she could drive a lover crazy. Or perhaps Earl had walked in on his mother reading it, and she'd stashed Chris's card in the drawer. The same thing had happened just a few days ago when he'd walked in on his mom reading that letter from his dad.

Eli raced up to his room, and found the number for Evergreen Point Manor. He called them from the phone in his mother's room. When the operator answered, he asked to talk to Vera Cormier. "She might be out in the garden if she's not in her room," Eli said. "It's really important that I talk to her."

While he waited, Eli heard a beep on the line--another call, probably his uncle again. Part of him really wanted to tell Uncle Kyle what he'd just discovered. But he was still angry and hurt. The beep sounded again, but Eli ignored it.

Finally, he heard a click, then ring tones. After the second one, somebody picked up. "Hello?"

He recognized Vera's voice. "Hi, this is Eli," he said. "We talked the other day--you know, about Loretta and Earl Sayers..."

"Well, hello again, Eli. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm wondering if Mrs. Sayers ever mentioned someone named Chris. Like a boyfriend, maybe? Do you remember that name?"

"No, dear, I'm sorry..."

"Maybe Chris was one of the other neighbors," he suggested.

"No, that doesn't ring a bell," she replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, dear. I don't remember anyone named Chris."

He sighed. "Okay, well, thank you, Mrs. Cormier. Have a nice day."

"You, too, bye now." Then he heard a click.

Undaunted, Eli dug into the pockets of his cargo pants until he found a business card. Then he dialed the office number for Burton C. Demick.

"Rayburn, Demick, and Gill," the woman answered. "Mr. Demick's office, this is Cheryl. How can I help you?"

"Yes, is Mr. Demick in, please?"

"Who's calling?"

"Um, my name's Eli, and I met him yesterday. I was there with my uncle."

"One minute, please."

While he waited, Eli sat down on the edge of his mother's bed. It wasn't long before the woman came back on the line. "I'm sorry. Mr. Demick is in a meeting. Would you like to leave your number?"

"Um, that's okay. Thank you." Then Eli hung up.

He was better off talking with Mr. Demick in person. There was a good chance he knew this Chris person--or at least he might have heard Earl talk about him. In fact, maybe Chris was short for Christine. Chris could have been a girl. That would explain why the marriage to Mr. Landau didn't work out. Maybe Loretta had been a lesbian.

He remembered his uncle saying yesterday that they should have changed their clothes before visiting the law firm. So Eli retreated to his room and put on a clean white short-sleeve shirt, long navy blue pants, and a striped tie. His good shoes were horribly uncomfortable, so he just put on some black Converse All-Stars. He got some more change for the bus, and just in case, he dug out that twenty-dollar bill with the missing corners the psychic lady had torn off.

With Chris's Hallmark card in his hand, he hurried downstairs.

The telephone rang again. Eli hesitated, waiting for the machine to come on. He glanced down at the envelope. This could be evidence, he thought. He shouldn't just be carrying it around. Ducking into his mother's office, he found a big manila envelope, and slipped Chris's correspondence inside it.

Meanwhile, the machine let out a beep, and he heard his uncle again: "Eli, it's Uncle Kyle giving it another shot here. Please, pick up. Please? Okay, I'm convinced something is seriously wrong here. I'm calling the police. If you're there, please pick up. If you get this message--"

Eli snatched up the cordless. "Hi, Uncle Kyle."

"Oh, thank God!" his uncle cried. "I was convinced you'd been abducted! Why did you just disappear like that?"

"I heard you talking to Mom upstairs," Eli muttered.

There was dead silence on the other end of the line.

"I'm sorry that you got stuck with me," Eli added.

"Oh, Eli, I'm such an ass," his uncle said woefully. "Please, don't say that. It's not true. I was just mad at your mom. Listen, stay put, and I'll come pick you up. We'll go do something fun. Let me make it up to you..."

"No, thanks," Eli said. He was still mad. "I'm going out. Don't worry about me. I'll call you later."

"Eli, please--"

"Bye," he said. Then he hung up. A minute later, Eli was out the door and double locking it. He could hear the phone ringing again on the other side.

With the manila envelope tucked under his arm, Eli turned and walked away.

The Number 11 bus pulled up toward his stop. Already Eli was sweating through his white shirt. It had gotten muggy out. And on top of that, he perspired when he got nervous. He felt so close to solving this thirty-four-year-old double murder.

He glanced up at the rain clouds darkening the sky. He hadn't thought to bring an umbrella.

Obviously, he hadn't been thinking at all; otherwise he would have noticed the man across the street earlier. Eli caught a glimpse of him climbing into a white Taurus. The dark-skinned man wore sunglasses and a red shirt, but there was no mistaking who he was. Eli wondered how long he'd been there, watching him.

The bus suddenly pulled up, blocking his view.

Eli stepped aboard, paid his fare, and quickly took a seat on the left side so he could look out the window at the man. As the bus lurched forward, he saw the white Taurus pulling out of its parking spot. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. He turned forward and saw two punk, teenage girls staring at him from across the aisle.

"You look like a Jehovah's Witness," one of them said. Her friend giggled.

Eli didn't say anything, but he felt this awful pang in his stomach. He turned away and gazed out the window again. He couldn't see the white car. But he knew it was following him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Demick left for the day," the receptionist told him. It wasn't the pretty brunette from yesterday. This one had very short platinum-blond hair and dark red lipstick. She nodded at the manila envelope in Eli's hand. "Is that for him?"

"Um, yes," Eli said. "I--ah, I need him to sign for it. Could you tell me where he went? It's urgent he get this."

She held out her hand. "If you leave it with me, I'll see his assistant gets it."

Eli shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I really need to hand it to him in person and get his signature."

With a tiny frown, the receptionist reached for her phone. "One minute, please," she said. She punched a few numbers, and then her voice dropped to a whisper as she talked to someone on the line. Eli couldn't hear her. He wondered if she was calling security on him.

He was amazed he'd made it this far. Getting off the bus earlier, he'd kept a lookout for that creepy man, but he hadn't seen him or the white Taurus. It had just started to rain as he'd hurried into the lobby of Mr. Demick's building. While waiting for the elevator, Eli had thought he'd spotted the man again by the revolving doors. But it had been another guy in a red shirt.

The blonde hung up the phone and smiled at him. "Are you from Coupland and Douglas?" she asked.

Eli didn't know if that was good or bad, but he took a chance and nodded.

She pulled up something on her computer, then scribbled on a notepad. "Mr. Demick went home for the day. This is his address." She handed him a piece of paper. "Are you on a bike or did you walk over?"

"Um, I walked."

"Well, he's in West Seattle. You'll need a cab. I'll call one for you." She reached for the phone again. "And I'll call Mr. Demick and tell him you're on your way." She nodded at the envelope again. "You know, you're late. We were expecting that at nine o'clock."

"Yes," Eli said. "I know. They got held up in the--the copy room. Thank you for your help."

"It'll be a yellow cab out front," she said.

Eli nodded politely, then turned and quickly headed for the double glass doors. Just as he stepped out to the foyer, one of the elevators let out a ding and the third door down opened. The swarthy man in the red shirt seemed out of place amid the businesspeople riding the elevator with him. He still had his sunglasses on.

Swiveling around, Eli ran down the hallway and ducked into the first door with an Exit sign over it.

"Wait!" he heard the man shout behind him.

He staggered into an ugly stairwell with white walls and grey steps. Racing down the first flight of stairs, Eli tried the door to the twenty-sixth floor, but it was locked. "Shit!" he hissed.

Above him, he heard the door open.

He scurried down the next flight of stairs and tried the door on twenty-five, but it was locked as well. He ran as fast as he could down to the next floor. The footsteps above him echoed in the stark stairwell. The man seemed to be gaining on him. "Eli?" the man called. "Eli, stop!"

But he kept running. How did that guy know his name? What was going on? Eli tried the door on the twenty-third floor. He even banged on it repeatedly.

"Goddamn it, Eli!" the man yelled. "Stop! I'm a friend of your father's!"

The voice was right above him now.

Eli didn't believe him. How often did child killers use that "I'm a friend of your dad's" line?

He turned and raced down another flight, where he saw a fire extinguisher bracketed to the wall. Eli grabbed it. The man's footsteps got louder and closer. "Eli, wait up!" he called. Eli saw his hand moving down the railing just half a flight up. His shadow began to sweep over the landing.

Just then, Eli threw the fire extinguisher at his feet. The tinny, clanking sound reverberated through the stairwell. So did the man's sharp cry as he tripped over the extinguisher and fell. "Goddamn it!" he bellowed.

Eli didn't wait to see how far the creepy guy had fallen or how badly he was hurt. He'd already turned around and bolted down the next group of steps. Eli tried the door on the twentieth floor, and to his utter relief, it was open.

"Eli, wait!" the man called. "I know your dad..."

Eli shut the stairwell door, and it cut off the sound of the stranger's voice.

He took the elevator from the twentieth floor down to the lobby, where he saw the yellow cab waiting in front of the building. Eli was still catching his breath as he headed out the revolving door. He had the manila envelope tucked under his arm, but stopped in the rain for a moment to check his pockets for the piece of paper with Mr. Demick's address on it. "Oh, no," he murmured. "Oh, no, please, God..."

Just when he'd thought he was getting the hell out of there, he would have to go back. Dejectedly, he wandered over to the cab and opened the front passenger door. "I'm doing a delivery for a law firm," he said to the driver--a middle-aged, thin black man with gray hair. "Are you waiting for me?"

The taxi driver nodded.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go back and--"

The driver was still nodding. "Going to West Seattle, right? 1939 Henley Court?"

Eli broke into a grateful smile. "Yes, sir. You bet. Thank you."

He quickly climbed in back. As the cab pulled into traffic, Eli felt such overwhelming relief. It lasted about thirty seconds. That was how long it took for him to realize where he must have dropped that piece of paper with Demick's address on it.

In the stairwell, of course.

"Well, Sydney, it's about time you called me. I only gave you my cell phone number--like last week!"

The pretty, twenty-two-year-old brunette salesgirl behind the counter at Beautiful Blooms had been chewed out on several occasions for chatting on her cell phone while at work. But Jill was the only one in the flower shop at the moment. There weren't any customers, and Glenn, the gruff fifty-something owner was out making a delivery.

Jill had developed an instant crush on Sydney Jordan when he'd first walked into Beautiful Blooms about two weeks ago. She thought it was cool how he spelled his name that different way. For someone so cute and funny, he had kind of a sad job. He'd explained to her that he helped people with the estates of their recently deceased relatives. He worked all over the country: Portland, New York, Chicago. He was always sending his new customers flowers with sympathy cards. It was a pretty sweet gesture. Jill had waited on him a few times now, and always flirted up a storm. She couldn't believe he'd finally called her on her cell, and he was asking if she'd like to go out with him.

"You mean, like a date?" she teased.

"You bet, like a date," he said. "I want to take you out to breakfast tomorrow around 9:30."

"Oh, I'd love to, but I have to work," she said, crestfallen. "Can't we make it another time?"

"Well, can't you call in sick?" he countered. "I'd really like to see you, Jill. And if we meet for breakfast, we'll have the rest of the day together--if we want. I know it's what I'd like."

Jill let out an exasperated, giddy, little laugh. "I'm tempted..."

"C'mon, let's do it," he urged her.

"I guess I could call in tomorrow with some excuse," she said, leaning on the counter.

"That's my girl," he said on the other end of the line.

Jill felt absolutely light-headed while he explained that he'd pick her up in front of Seattle's Asian Art Museum in Volunteer Park. It wasn't too far from her apartment. And they could walk or drive to the Coastal Kitchen for brunch--depending on their mood. And then they'd see where the day took them.

"Sydney, that sounds awesome," she said into the cell phone. A customer walked into the flower shop, but Jill turned her back to her.

"Then it's a date," he said on the other end of the line. "Listen, I need to cancel that order from yesterday, the one to Mrs. Joseph McCloud at number nine, Tudor Court in Seattle. It didn't work out with the client the way I planned. Did that order go out yet?"

"Not yet," she replied. "We'll just credit it back to your account. You still have a lot of money left over from that cash deposit you made."

"I may have a couple of more orders for delivery tomorrow," he said. "One will be to a Seattle address and another to someone with the last name Finch in Evanston. I'll phone them in later today. But if we don't connect, we're still on for brunch tomorrow morning, aren't we?"

"We sure are," Jill replied. "It's a date, Sydney."

The overly tanned, forty-something blond woman answering Mr. Demick's front door was wearing a tennis outfit. A pair of sunglasses were perched on top of her head. "Yes?" she said, with a slightly icy look.

Standing on the front stoop in his tie and short sleeve shirt, Eli wondered if she, too, thought he was a Jehovah's Witness. He showed her the manila envelope. "I have something here that requires a signature from Mr. Burton C. Demick."

She nodded. "Oh, well, come on in." She called over her shoulder. "Honey, you need to sign for this! Burt?" There was no answer. With a big sigh, she rolled her eyes. "Wait here just a minute," she muttered, heading off to a room on her right. "Burt? Burt, for Christ's sake, I'm going to be late for my tennis lesson. You've got to sign for this..."

Her voice faded. Eli waited in the front hallway, a very pale green foyer with a marble floor and a sparkling crystal chandelier overhead. Demick's house was one of those newly built "McMansions"--set back from the street on an isolated piece of property with a lot of trees.

During the cab ride here, Eli kept thinking about that man. I'm a friend of your dad's, the guy had said. If he was really a buddy of his father's, why was he sneaking around like that? How come his mom hadn't recognized him when she'd first spotted him in their driveway?

The taxi here had cost twenty-two bucks, which had practically cleaned him out. Eli had paid the driver, and sent him away. Now he wasn't sure how he'd get home.

Eli heard footsteps, and he glanced up to see Mr. Demick coming down the hallway. He wore a turquoise golf shirt, white shorts, and sandals. His legs and arms were tanned and hairless. Demick's eyes locked onto his, and he seemed to balk at the sight of him.

Eli nervously cleared his throat. "Hi, Mr. Demick. My name is Eli. I don't know if you remember me from yesterday--"

"Yes, I remember you," he said. He had a strange half-smile on his face that didn't quite conceal his irritation. "My wife thought you were a messenger boy. What are you doing here?"

"Um, I just had one more question for you, sir," Eli said. "I was wondering if Earl or Mrs. Sayers ever mentioned someone named Chris."

"Chris," he repeated.

Eli nodded. "It might even be short for Christine. I'm not sure if it's a man or a woman." He reached inside the manila envelope and pulled out the old Hallmark card. "Y'see, the reason I got interested in Earl and his mother was because I live in their old place by the beach at Lake Washington. And I found this card today."

Demick frowned. "I don't have my glasses. Come on into my study."

Eli followed him down the hall and into a room with a big, mahogany desk. A state-of-the-art computer monitor sat on top of it, along with a large antique lamp that had a bronze golfer figurine as its base and a golf-ball design on the shade. On one wall there were old framed prints of people golfing and some framed diplomas. Behind the desk was a floor-to-ceiling picture window with individual little panes; a few of them had stained-glass designs. But it didn't obscure the view to the large, well-manicured backyard. There was a patio just outside that window with some wrought-iron furniture.

"I don't remember Earl or his mother ever talking about someone named Chris," Demick said, retrieving his glasses from a pile of paperwork on his desk. He slipped them on, then reached for the Hallmark card. "Let's have a look at that..."

Eli handed it to him. "You know how you said you weren't sure at first if Mrs. Sayers killed Earl and herself. Well, this Chris person could have done it. I mean, he's really mad in that letter. And the postmark is just a few days before Mrs. Sayers and Earl were killed."

Demick opened the card and read it. A sour look passed over his face, and he heaved a sigh as he closed the card and handed it back to him. "You're right, Eli," he said finally. "I think we should show this to the police. Have you contacted them?"

Shrugging, Eli shook his head. "I haven't even told my uncle about this yet. In fact, would it be okay if I called and told him where I am? I just want to let him know I'm okay."

"Certainly," Demick said, nodding at the phone on his desk. "Help yourself. Sit down. I can leave if you want some privacy."

"No, this is fine," Eli said, walking around to his side of the desk. He reached for the phone. "Thanks very much."

Demick opened the top side drawer. "I have this police lieutenant's business card in here..."

Eli was about to dial his uncle's number when he noticed a yellow legal pad on Mr. Demick's desk. He'd scribbled some notes, and at the bottom of that top page, Eli read: "Despite everything, I recommend that all parties concerned..." It was the exact same sloppy script that had scrawled those words, "Despite everything, I still love you..."

Eli glanced at the antique brass name plate on the fancy pen holder: Burton Christopher Demick.

He turned toward Mr. Demick, and froze.

Loretta and Earl's killer had a gun in his hand.

"It was you," Eli murmured. The receiver fell out of his hand. "But you--you were Earl's friend..."

With an icy stare, Demick nodded. "And the poor sap had no idea I was fucking his bitch mother for over a year."

All at once, he reeled back, then brought the butt end of the gun down on Eli's head. "Snoopy little bastard," he growled.

It was the last thing Eli heard before he collapsed to the floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sydney gazed at Joe's handsome profile and the Band-Aid covering the cut from the piece of glass that had hit him on the train platform. She sat in the front with him in his Honda Civic as they drove along Mannheim to O'Hare. Joe's eyes were riveted to the road ahead.

He'd spent most of the day answering questions and trying to convince his fellow cops that this morning's sniper incident might not have been gang-related. He hadn't won any converts with his theory of a hero-killer. He hadn't mentioned anything about the hero-killings to the press. "There just isn't enough evidence to go public with it yet," he'd explained to Sydney. "Besides, you're the one who should tell the story, not me."

Both she and Joe would be on the news tonight.

Sydney had done her best to stay focused on the Chloe Finch story. She'd managed to finish editing and scoring the segment by 3:25--with only minutes to spare before its deadline. The segment would run on tonight's national news. She wasn't too crazy about the piece and thought her It's a Wonderful Life angle might have been too corny. But she'd shown it to Chloe, who had loved it.

Within a few hours, Chloe Finch would be another one of her heroes. And while Sydney didn't want to frighten her too much, she'd warned Chloe to be on her guard for nutcases and stalkers. "Now that you're going to be famous, you need to be extra cautious, okay?"

She was hoping after tonight, Chloe wouldn't have to be looking over her shoulder. They were a lot closer to tracking down this maniac. Joe had managed to make some calls and traced the flower delivery orders. Both had originated from a florist in Seattle called Beautiful Blooms. Sydney knew the place. It wasn't far from Kyle's house.

"I hate sending you back to Seattle alone," Joe said, following the airport signs for Departures. "If I can get out from under this El-shooting business, I'll catch an early morning flight there tomorrow." He took his eyes off the road for a moment and glanced at her. "Would that be okay with you?"

Sydney smiled at him and nodded. "That would be more than okay. It would be terrific."

He once again focused on the traffic ahead, but reached over and took hold of her hand. "Listen, I hope you're not too angry about this, but I asked a buddy to watch over you and Eli."

"For tonight?" she asked.

"For the last couple of months," he admitted. "Luis has been checking in on you from time to time ever since you moved to Seattle."

"What?" Sydney murmured.

"I just wanted to be positive that Crowley, Mankoff, and Rifkin hadn't sent some hood to Seattle to tie up loose ends."

"Luis," she said. "Is he a Latino guy with an eye infection of some kind?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah, he was complaining to me the other night that he wasn't getting any sleep. He said he must have broken a blood vessel or something."

"How come I don't know this guy?"

"Well, if you knew him, he wouldn't have been able to follow you around. Luis is a good guy. He used to be a street kid, and I plucked him out of this gang when he was about sixteen. Now he wants to be a cop."

Sydney rubbed her forehead. "Good Lord, I thought he was a stalker--or possibly this hero-killer. Was it really necessary for him to follow us around everywhere?"

"Actually, he started out checking on you just occasionally. But about three weeks ago, he noticed someone sneaking around outside your apartment. So Luis increased his surveillance. He isn't sure if this guy's an obsessed fan or what, but he's been very elusive. Luis still hasn't gotten a good look at him yet." Joe sighed. "When you told me last night about this guy fixated on you and killing heroes, I figured that's the creep Luis has seen."

Sydney just nodded.

Now it made sense why Luis--Number 59--had sneered at her when she'd first glimpsed him. If the guy was a friend of Joe's, he probably thought she was a mega-bitch for leaving her wonderful hero-husband. It was a bit unsettling, but at the same time, she took solace in knowing this Luis person was keeping his one good eye on Eli right now.

Joe pulled the car over to the curb in front of the terminal entrance. Shifting into Park, he turned to her and smiled sheepishly. "So are you mad at me for getting you a bodyguard without asking you?"

Sydney shook her head. "No, it's very reassuring. I'll sleep better tonight."

He climbed out of the car and helped her with her luggage. They embraced, and Sydney kissed him on the lips.

"I'll see you tomorrow--in Seattle," he whispered.

"I hope so," she said, grabbing her bags.

"Kiss Eli for me," he said.

Nodding, Sydney gave him one last smile, and then headed inside the terminal.

Eli's head throbbed so badly, he thought he might throw up.

But he couldn't. There was a gag in his mouth. It took Eli a few moments after regaining consciousness to realize why he couldn't move or feel his arms. Hog-tied behind him, they'd fallen asleep. He lay facedown on the Oriental rug in Demick's study, feeling sick and utterly helpless. Blurry-eyed, he tried to focus on Demick, who stood over him. But Eli was in so much pain, he couldn't lift his head to see Demick's face.

A weird, high-pitched ringing filled his ears. He didn't quite hear everything Demick was saying. He'd mentioned something about his wife not being back for another two hours, and by then, they'll have taken a little drive to Snohomish National Forest.

"It might be months before anyone finds your body there," Demick said.

That part Eli heard--very clearly.

Demick explained how--thirty-five years ago--he'd started having sex with Loretta Sayers while she was still married to Mr. Landau. Their affair had become even more intense after she'd left Landau and moved to Number 9 at Tudor Court. Earl had never caught on to what was happening between his sixteen-year-old buddy and his mother. "I'd come over there and hang out with him. She'd cook us dinner," Demick explained. "Then I'd leave--and a few hours later, usually around one in the morning, she'd meet me at a motel--or sometimes the beach--and we'd fuck our brains out. It was the best, hottest sex I've ever had. We had a damn good thing going. Nobody knew. The closest we came to getting caught was when she occasionally slipped and called me Chris in front of her kid. That was Loretta's pet name for me. She used to call me that in bed."

His face pressed against the carpet, Eli only had a view of Demick's feet and his tan, hairless legs as he paced in front of him. Beyond that, Eli saw raindrops slashing at the big window. The awful ringing sound kept coming in and out while Demick went on about how Loretta had unceremoniously dumped him.

From what Eli could understand, Demick had gone over there to see Earl on a Saturday night. It had been after he'd sent Loretta that card. Every moment he'd caught Loretta alone, he'd begged her to meet him later, but she'd refused. So on Sunday night, he'd broken into the Sayers' town house apartment. He'd known where they'd hidden their extra key outside. And he'd known where Loretta had kept her gun. But he didn't use it on Earl.

"I slit his throat while he was sleeping," Demick said. He stopped pacing. With his foot, he nudged Eli and turned him onto his back. "You wanted to find out what happened, so I'm telling you. Eli." Demick stared down at him. Eli saw that he had a big sofa pillow in one hand and his gun in the other. "There was a lot of blood, and it got awfully messy. Fortunately, I was wearing her dishwashing gloves. If I had to do it over again, I would have smothered Earl with his pillow. It's much neater. He didn't die right away. He struggled for a few moments. But I kept a hand over his mouth. He wasn't able to make a sound. We didn't wake up Loretta down the hall. She was still sleeping when I crept into her room."

A tiny smile flickered on his face. "I woke her with a kiss on the cheek. Then I put my hand over her mouth and led her into the bathroom. She saw I had the gun. She didn't struggle or try anything. I made her strip and get in the tub. Then I shot her in the head."

Horror-struck, Eli listened to him. He kept wondering what Demick planned to do with that pillow.

"You know, Eli, I'm not proud of what I did. I was sixteen years old, and just went crazy that night." He shook his head. "I can't believe Loretta held on to that letter. For the first few weeks afterward, I kept thinking the cops would find it. Finally, I was able to convince myself it was okay. I haven't had to think about Loretta and Earl for a long time--not until you and your uncle walked into my office yesterday." He sighed, and put the gun down on the edge of the desk. Demick's back was to the window as he stared down at him. "It's funny, but you remind me a bit of Earl. And like I say, if I had to do it over again, I would do it the neat way..."

Demick crouched down close to him. "It'll be easier if you don't struggle."

Just over Demick's shoulder, Eli glimpsed something past the rain-beaded window.

The dark-haired man in the red shirt crept toward the house. Eli watched him grab a wrought-iron patio chair.

Then all at once, Eli couldn't see anything. Demick pushed the pillow down on his face. Eli tried to turn his head away, but he couldn't. It felt as if the man was smashing his nose in. Eli couldn't breathe. He thought he might swallow the gag. There wasn't any air coming into his lungs at all.

Suddenly, he heard a deafening crash. The pillow slipped away in time for Eli to see the patio chair toppling inside the room amid an explosion of glass.

Demick got to his feet, swiveled around, and grabbed his gun from the edge of the desk. To Eli's utter horror, he turned toward him and fired. A shot rang out.

Panic-stricken, Eli tried to roll to one side, but it was too late. He felt a sharp pain searing through his arm.

The dark-skinned man, his dad's buddy--Eli now realized that was true--picked up the patio chair again.

Demick spun around and shot the man. But the bullet didn't slow him down. The dark-haired stranger smashed the chair over his head.

Loretta and Earl's killer fell onto the floor, just missing Eli.

Gasping for air, Eli watched his dad's friend clutching at his side as he reached for the phone. Blood seeped between his fingers. "Operator, I need an ambulance right away," he said, catching his breath. He worked up a smile for Eli and nodded to him.

"You'll be okay, kid. Hang in there..."

"Hey, Chloe, I saw you on the news tonight."

Chuck, her neighbor from downstairs, was coming up from the basement with a load of laundry. Chloe had just stepped into the lobby of her apartment building. It was a three-story, old-world charmer with thirty units. Most of the neighbors knew each other.

And now most of her neighbors--along with the rest of the nation--knew that she'd been on a beach contemplating suicide night before last. Everyone also knew about her unwitting participation in a fraternity dogfight. For the interview, she hadn't said anything about having had sex with Riley, but she'd admitted that she'd been interested in the son of a bitch. Compared to Derrick De Santo's pregnant girlfriend and his rich, airhead wife, Chloe came out as the one least-duped. The way Sydney Jordan had put the segment together, Chloe felt she'd emerged as a hero, and the It's a Wonderful Life spin on her story gave her a newfound optimism.

Still, Chloe knew there would be some backlash--mainly people treating her like a mental outpatient. But she'd gotten past the worst of it. She'd warned her mother yesterday about what she'd revealed in the interview. Her mom had called about a half-hour ago, right after the broadcast. "I guess it wasn't so bad," she'd finally concluded. "But you'll start seeing a therapist soon, won't you, honey?"

Chloe had watched the news in a bar, and had been both happy and oddly disappointed that nobody in the place recognized her as the woman up on the TV. She'd had a Cosmopolitan by herself and toasted herself.

It sure beat being dead.

She worked up a smile for Chuck, a sweet, slightly nerdy guy with glasses and receding brown hair. For a while, Chloe had entertained the notion he might like her, but there was no spark.

"So--did I come across as a pathetic loser or a major psycho?" she asked, leaning against the mailboxes.

"None of the above," Chuck replied. "I really like the way you were so honest. And c'mon, you're a hero. I think you did great."

"Well, thank you," she grinned. She got her mail out of the mailbox--mostly bills. "I hope you'll tell everyone else in the building the same thing when they're talking about that nutcase, Chloe, in 307."

She started up the stairs.

Lugging his laundry basket, Chuck followed her. "I think they're just happy all those reporters stopped hanging around outside the building this morning," he said. "Then again, maybe they all haven't gone. I saw some guy lingering around earlier tonight. Hey, by the way, I Tivo'd the broadcast. Want me to save it for you?"

Chloe paused on the second-floor landing. "Well, thanks, Chuck," she smiled. "But Sydney Jordan gave me my own DVD copy."

"I'm saving it anyway," he said. Then he started down the hallway. "Take care, Chloe!"

"You, too!" she called to him. Then she continued up to the third floor.

Stepping into her apartment, she flicked the hallway light switch. But nothing happened. In the darkness, Chloe hesitated before moving into the living room and switching on the lamp. She saw her computer monitor's fish-tank screen saver was on. She almost always turned off the monitor before stepping out. Something wasn't right.

Chloe wondered about that man Chuck had seen lingering outside the building. And she remembered Sydney's warning about stalkers.

Warily, she checked the kitchen and tried the back door. It wasn't locked. She'd locked up before leaving earlier--she was almost certain. Yet it didn't look as if the lock had been tampered with. Chloe opened the door and glanced out at the back stairs: no one. Leaving the door open a crack, she went to investigate the rest of the apartment. She peeked into the hall closet, then headed toward her darkened bedroom.

She stopped dead. Chloe thought she saw something move in there. Maybe it was just her own approaching shadow. She hesitated for a moment, and thought about running downstairs and getting Chuck.

All at once, a figure emerged from the darkness in her bedroom. Chloe saw the outline of a man.

She started to scream.

The man lunged at her, pinned her against the wall, and covered her mouth with his gloved hand. "Don't let out another sound or I'll fucking kill you," he growled.

Trembling, Chloe eyed the gun in his other hand.

He pressed his face against hers. He was wearing a ski mask, but she still felt his warm breath swirling in her ear.

"Strip for me," he whispered.

Sydney's flight was delayed. She waited in the boarding area with her laptop plugged in. She was checking the various news coverage of this morning's sniper attack at the El station. Everyone was still calling it a gang-related incident.

She thought about the Bitch-Sydney envelope with the El pass inside it. The killer had broken his pattern this time. He'd given her his clue before going after his prey. She wondered why he'd done that.

They finally announced that boarding would soon begin.

Sydney was about to switch off her computer when she noticed a new e-mail from chloefinch@northwesternu.edu. The subject heading was "Good-bye."

She clicked on the e-mail, and the standard caution came up about not opening the e-mail if she didn't know the sender. Sydney figured she knew Chloe pretty well now, so she opened it. A cartoon figure popped up on the screen. It was a little girl looking like a Kewpie Doll. She sported a red bikini and stood knee-deep in wavy water. A cartoon sun was smiling down on her. Then the waves started to rise until only the Kewpie Doll's eyes and the top of her head were above the water. Sydney gazed at the e-mail subject again: Good-bye.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. "Chloe's next. He's going to drown her..."

"Please...please...just take whatever you want and leave me alone," Chloe whispered.

Trembling, she stood naked in the empty tub. She tried to cover herself. He kept looking at her, up and down. And all she could see of him were his eyes through the two holes in his ski mask.

In his gloved hand, he held a gun to her head. "Get down on your knees," he growled.

Chloe obeyed him.

"Turn on the water," he said, crouching down so they stayed at eye level. "You're going to fill up the tub. Make it a comfortable temperature, Chloe. No need for it to be as cold as that lake water the other night."

Kneeling in the tub, she stopped covering her breasts for a moment so she could turn on the water. She heard him chuckle behind the mask. He gently grazed one of her nipples with the tip of his gun.

"Cut that out, asshole!" she growled, tears in her eyes. She covered her breasts again.

She heard him snicker, "Huh, feisty." He stood up straight. Keeping the gun trained on her, the man backed away to the toilet, then lowered the lid and sat down. "Do you know six hundred and ninety-one people drowned in bathtubs last year?" he asked. "Of course, a lot of them were infants and toddlers. But adults drown in bathtubs, too."

The lukewarm water was now up past the backs of Chloe's legs.

"Sometimes people slip, hit their head, and drown--in only two feet of water," he continued. "It's a lot like that woman on the beach. She got hit on the head and nearly drowned in Lake Michigan. But you rescued her. You know, if you hadn't saved her, I wouldn't be here with you right now. Are you still glad you played hero, Chloe?"

Past the sound of the tub filling, Chloe heard the phone ring in the living room. The man obviously heard it, too.

"That--that's probably my neighbor downstairs," she said. "He knows I'm up here. If I don't answer, he'll figure out something's wrong. He'll be knocking on the door next."

"Shut the fuck up," he hissed. "Turn off the water."

The pipes let out a squeak as she turned off the water. She could hear the answering machine click on: "Hello, this isn't really Chloe, but an amazingly lifelike recording of my voice. Leave a message and the real me will call you back."

The beep sounded. "Chloe? Chloe, it's Sydney, are you there? Please, pick up. It's urgent. I'm going to keep talking until you pick up. I just tried your cell, and there wasn't an answer there either. Listen, I think you're in danger. I'm calling the police next. Someone just sent me an e-mail on your account. It--it's thirty-five minutes old. I think he might have broken into your apartment and sent it from there..." She hesitated, and then the tone of her voice suddenly changed. "I...I'm now talking to the man who sent me that e-mail. Are you still there? I want to talk to you. Do you have the guts to talk to me? Why--"

The beep sounded again, cutting her off. "End of message," announced a recorded voice.

Wide-eyed, Chloe stared at the man in the ski mask. She continued to cover herself. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Turn the water back on," he said.

But Chloe didn't move.

Finally, he stood up and turned on the water. All of a sudden, his hand shot out at her and he grabbed Chloe by the hair, almost snapping her head back. He brought his covered face close to hers. "I can smell the alcohol on your breath. They'll say you were drunk..."

"No, wait!" she shrieked. "Please, no!" Her screams echoed off the tiled walls.

Still holding onto her scalp, he slammed her head against the faucet.

Dazed, Chloe slumped into the water. It started to turn pink from the gaping wound on her forehead. He continued to hold her by the hair, and pushed her down toward the water.

The dunking revived her. Chloe struggled, clawing at his face, trying to scratch at his eyes. She pulled his mask halfway off, blinding him.

Then she heard Chuck's voice calling out: "Chloe? Your back door's open! I heard a scream. Chloe, are you okay?"

The man in the ski mask hesitated, pulled his mask up over his eyes, and glanced toward the front hall. He let go of Chloe's wet hair, shoved her against the tiled wall, and then scrambled to his feet.

Chloe heard her neighbor running down the corridor. "Chuck!" she screamed. "Watch out, he's got a gun!"

Still trying to adjust his mask, the stranger barreled down the hallway.

"Hold it!" she heard Chuck yell.

There was a clamor, and then footsteps--racing toward the back door.

"This is the final boarding call for Flight 59 to Seattle," they announced over the speaker.

"Are you sure she's okay, honey?" Sydney asked. Clutching the phone to her ear, Sydney glanced over toward the boarding gate, where a few stragglers were still checking in.

"I just got off the phone with a cop who was at the scene," Joe told her. "They took Chloe to the hospital in an ambulance. It looks like she'll need some stitches in her forehead. Otherwise, she'll be okay, they assured me of that. The good news is that both Chloe and her neighbor got a halfway decent look at the guy. That's a start." Joe paused. "Did they just announce the last call a minute ago?"

"Yes," Sydney said.

"Then you better skedaddle," he said. "I'll try to find out more--and get a description of the guy. See you tomorrow in Seattle. Take care, sweetheart."

The man in seat 17A was one of very few people still awake on the darkened plane. But he kept his overhead light off. He liked sitting there in the shadows, planning.

His flight was scheduled to arrive at SeaTac at 11:50 P.M., three hours after Sydney's flight was due. She and Eli would probably spend the night at her brother's place.

He liked anticipating her every move. He wondered how far she'd gotten tracking him down through the florists.

He'd made it more challenging for himself today by providing Sydney with his clues before going to kill the last two heroes. It was a necessary step. He was conditioning her, pulling the strings and making her dance.

This morning, while looking through the scope of his sniper's rifle, he'd watched Joe McCloud answer his cell phone on that El platform. He'd known it had been Sydney calling him. She'd also phoned Chloe, trying to warn her as well. But both warnings had come too late. Sydney hadn't really saved either of them. His lousy marksmanship had saved Joe, and his lousy luck--with that downstairs neighbor--had saved Chloe. He might have failed twice today, but so had Sydney.

He thought about Chloe's neighbor. Had that guy gotten a good look at his face? Probably not. He was too busy being a hero.

Even if the guy could ID him, it didn't really matter. Let the police hunt begin. He didn't need much more time.

Sydney had failed twice today. And now he was getting ready for her final test.

It was just hours away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

At 3: 40 A.M., when Sydney finally crawled into her brother's guest room bed, she listened to the traffic white noise from Interstate 5, and thought about her night. She hadn't expected to spend three hours at the hospital when she returned to Seattle this evening.

Kyle had met her at the airport, and told her about what he'd dubbed Eli's Big Adventure. Having suffered a bullet wound in the shoulder and a slight concussion, Eli was in satisfactory condition at Swedish Hospital. And Sydney, upon learning this, was a basket case--until she'd gotten to see her son.

He was in great spirits. Even as a little boy, Eli had been a very good patient. He was delighted with the fact that all three family members had been on the news tonight.

Burton Christopher Demick wasn't doing quite as well as Eli was--with nineteen stitches in his head and murder charges for the 1974 deaths of Loretta and Earl Sayers. On one of the evening news channels, Francesca Sayers, whose late father and brother had once been suspects in those murders, called Eli McCloud a hero.

Sydney refused to leave Eli's side. He was one hero this monster wouldn't get. Kyle and the hospital administration finally got her out of there by posting a security guard outside Eli's room.

Down the hall from Eli, Luis Fernandez was listed in stable condition after taking a bullet in the abdomen. Sydney needed to thank him in person for saving her son's life. "I know you probably think I'm a bitch because I left Joe," Sydney told him. "But I had my reasons at the time. Anyway, this bitch is very grateful for what you did earlier today and for what Joe says you've been doing for two months now. Thank you for being our guardian angel, Luis."

From his hospital bed, the swarthy man with the bloodshot eye cracked a smile. "You make it hard to hate you, lady. You're very welcome."

Joe called her later--at 2:30 A.M. Chicago time. The police claimed to have caught the man who had attacked Chloe. They'd nabbed him trying to break into an apartment seven blocks from Chloe's place. He fit the vague description Chloe had given police: Caucasian, about thirty, no facial hair or scars, approximately six feet tall, about one hundred and eighty pounds. The suspect also had a rap sheet that included indecent exposure, assault, and armed robbery. Chloe and her neighbor would be identifying him at 11:30 in the morning.

"He's not the guy," Sydney insisted.

"Well, they won't find that out until 11:30," Joe said.

Lying in Kyle's guest room bed, Sydney tossed and turned. Even though Eli was safe, and probably in his best mood since their move to Seattle, she couldn't stop worrying about him and thinking how close she'd come to losing him today. She thought of Joe, and how she'd almost lost him as well.

Aidan had left a message on her answering machine at home: "I hope your trip to Chicago was successful. If you're coming back tonight, I'd love to take you to lunch tomorrow. I owe you a meal. You can reach me tomorrow at my mother's place. I'll be cleaning there all day. Take care." The time on his call had been 5:40, so he couldn't have seen Eli's story on the news yet.

Sydney barely slept at all, she was so wired--and so aware of every creaking floorboard, every branch that scraped against a window, every sound that rose above the white noise. She didn't want to go through this again tomorrow night. She prayed by then, they would have found this killer, whoever he was.

"Oh, you were probably right yesterday, suspecting Dan," Kyle said, four hours later. He set a plate of French toast in front of her. "He was just too good to be true. And the way he just showed up out of the blue the other day is really fishy. Plus as soon as I told him yesterday that you needed me to look after Eli because you were going out of town, suddenly he had to go out of town, too." Kyle shook his head and frowned. "I'll bet he's your psycho killer. I tell you, my taste in men. My very first crush was Rolf in The Sound of Music. Look what a son of a bitch he turned out to be."

"Did Dan ever call from Portland?" Sydney asked, sitting at the kitchen counter with a coffee cup in her hand. She stared down at her breakfast.

"No," Kyle sighed. He glanced at his wristwatch. "I better get ready for work. I hate these first days back after I take an extended weekend." He pointed to the uneaten French toast he'd set in front of her. "You haven't touched your breakfast. Don't you want it?"

Glancing up at him, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm just too nervous to eat."

He took her plate away. "I'll just freeze this." He pulled some sandwich bags from the kitchen drawer. "You know, as long as we're considering people who suddenly just dropped into our lives, have you thought about Aidan? After all these years, he conveniently turns up. And he had a crazy, overbearing mother--that's classic serial killer stuff."

Sydney was too tired to argue with him. But Aidan had come back into her life by accident, because his mother had died. And Mrs. Cosgrove had been the one to reestablish contact, after seeing her on the local news. The murders had started about a week before Mrs. Cosgrove passed away, so no one could say her death suddenly triggered this killing spree.

"Oh, I'm probably talking out of my ass again," Kyle said, sticking the plastic bags of French toast in his freezer. "If Aidan was the killer, he could have easily bumped you off when he slept over at your place night before last. And he didn't. So I guess that lets him off the hook."

Sydney couldn't quite agree with her brother's logic. Of course, Aidan was no murderer. She'd saved his life. Why in God's name would he have turned against her?

If anything, Aidan's presence in the house had more than likely kept them alive the night before last.

Then again, over the last two weeks, this killer had probably had several opportunities to murder both her and Eli. But it was all a game for him. With the tokens of his murders, and the flowers for his victims' next of kin, he was enjoying this. He wouldn't have wanted her dead yet. That would have put an end to the game.

Still, Sydney had to wonder if--after the two failed murders yesterday--he was growing tired of this game. He had to know she was on to him. He couldn't prolong it any longer. He was running out of time.

And so was she.

When Sydney first spotted the mess on her dining room floor, her heart stopped. She thought it was some kind of message about another killing. But then Kyle reminded her that Eli had discovered the old Hallmark card after dumping out the contents of that breakfront drawer.

Kyle had driven her back to the apartment so they could pick up a change of clothes for Eli to wear when he left the hospital this afternoon.

Sydney checked her messages. There was a new one--made only twenty minutes ago: "Hi, Sydney, it's Aidan again. I read about Eli in the morning papers. You must be really shaken up, but it sounds like he's okay. If there's anything I could do for you guys, don't hesitate to ask. I understand if you're too busy to call back. But if you want to touch base, I'll be at my mother's apartment all day. Take care, and say hi to Eli for me."

She retreated upstairs to Eli's room. Stepping through his doorway, she saw something on his pillow and stopped in her tracks. At first, Sydney thought it was another dead bird. But then she came closer and saw it was a china figurine of an angelic little boy. His shoulder and arm were blackened. Someone must have held the figurine over a flame. Sydney immediately thought of Eli, her latest hero, her little boy, lying in his hospital bed with a shoulder wound.

Breathless, she ran into her bedroom and called the hospital. "Eli McCloud's room, please," she said, once the operator answered. "He's in 204."

It rang once. "Hello?" Eli answered.

"Hi, honey, how are you?" she asked anxiously.

There was silence for a moment.

"Eli? Are you all right?"

"Not really, Mom," he whispered. "There's this guy here in my room..."

"What?" she asked, a panic sweeping through her.

"Want to talk to him?" Eli said in a normal tone.

Sydney was baffled for a moment until she heard the voice on the other end of the line: "Hi, sweetie."

"Joe?" She put a hand over her heart and let out a little laugh. "When did you get in? Why didn't you call me? I would have picked you up."

"I touched down about thirty minutes ago and came directly here. Where are you? How soon can you make it over?"

"I'm here with Kyle at the apartment," she replied, plopping down on her bed. "I'm hitting the florist after this, and then I'll be right there. But listen, I just got another calling card--a china figure of a little boy, only the arm and shoulder are all mangled and burned up. He left it on Eli's bed."

"Oh, Jesus," Joe murmured.

"The last two times he's gone after a hero, he gave me a souvenir before he actually went in for the kill. The tokens have become warnings now, Joe. I think he's going after Eli next. Please, honey, don't leave his side--not even for a second..."

The clerk behind the counter at Beautiful Blooms was an Armenian man who reminded her a bit of Danny DeVito. He was checking his computer records and card files.

Sydney anxiously drummed her fingers on the countertop. Between the plants in baskets hanging overhead and the buckets of flowers scattered throughout the store, there wasn't much room to move around.

She'd driven to the florist--with Kyle following in his car. He'd waited until she'd stepped inside Beautiful Blooms, then he'd waved good-bye and driven off.

"Yeah, we've had several orders here for Sydney Jordan recently, most of them out-of-state deliveries," the florist said. "What do you need exactly?"

"I'd like to see the credit card that was used to pay for these orders," Sydney said.

"Oh, that I can't do," the florist replied, shaking his head. "Besides, Mr. Jordan always pays in cash."

"Mister Jordan?" she said.

The florist nodded. "He's one of our best customers. Why are you asking about him anyway?"

"Because I'm Sydney Jordan." She fished her wallet from her purse and showed the man her driver's license.

In turn, the florist dug out a sales slip for her. Sydney studied it. It was a July 9 order for a $49.90 sympathy bouquet, delivered to the Cook County Recovery Shelter in Chicago. The sender's address and phone number were hers. The spelling of her first name was identical.

"Have you ever seen this Mr. Jordan?" Sydney asked.

"No, my salesgirl, Jill, has always waited on him. In fact, I think she has a yen for him."

"Is she here?"

"Nope, called in sick this morning."

"Well, may I have her phone number?" Sydney asked. "It's very important that I speak to her."

The short man let out a sigh, and scribbled the phone number on the back of a small sympathy card. "I doubt you'll get ahold of her. I just tried calling her a half hour ago, but she wasn't picking up."

"Could I see the other sales slips you have for his orders?" Sydney asked.

With another sigh, the florist dug out several sales slips and shoved them across the counter at her. Sydney examined them. All the next of kin to her slain heroes were there--along with special instructions about the sentiments on the sympathy cards from Sydney Jordan. Two of the slips had the word CANCEL scrawled across them. One was for delivery to a Mrs. Stephanie Finch in Evanston, and the other to Mrs. Joseph McCloud at Number 9 Tudor Court in Seattle. She wondered how come they hadn't noticed that it was the same address Mister Sydney Jordan had been calling his own.

"One more order is being delivered tomorrow morning," the man said. "It's local, a Seattle address." He showed her the sales slip.

Sydney glanced at the name of the recipient: Ms. Rikki Cosgrove. She read the instructions for what was to be written on the card: "I'm so sorry for your loss. Aidan was a wonderful young man. I'll miss him. Sydney Jordan."

"Oh, no," Sydney whispered.

How could she be so stupid? The burnt little boy figurine was Aidan.

Obviously, the killer didn't know Aidan's mother was dead.

Grabbing her address book out of her purse, she looked up Rikki's phone number and dialed it. There was no answer. Yet Aidan had phoned from there an hour ago, saying he'd be there all day. God, please, don't let him be dead already, Sydney thought.

"Listen, thank you," she said to the florist.

As she hurried out of the store, Sydney phoned the hospital again and asked for Eli's room. Joe answered this time.

"I was wrong about the figurine," she explained edgily. "It isn't Eli. He's going after Aidan Cosgrove. I'll explain it to you later. Aidan's at his mother's place..." She gave Joe Rikki's address. "Could you come meet me at Rikki's place? Oh, but wait. I don't want you to leave Eli alone..."

"Don't worry, I'll get Luis to keep him company," Joe said. "And don't go in that building by yourself. Wait outside for me."

"Thank you, honey." Sydney clicked off the line.

Then she jumped in her car, started up the engine, and pulled out of her parking space. Another car nearly plowed into her. Sydney heard the tires screeching and then a blast from the horn.

"Damn it, Sydney," she muttered to herself. "Stupid." Tears in her eyes, she glanced up at the rearview mirror. The other car was still sitting there.

Sydney pressed harder on the accelerator. The last time she'd gone to Rikki Cosgrove's apartment, she'd been too late.

She didn't want that to happen again.

The morning sky had turned overcast as Sydney climbed out of her car and hurried toward the ugly, nine-story building's front entrance. She pressed 808 several times, but there was no answer. Then Sydney glanced at the door and cringed. The lock was broken.

She didn't see any cars coming up the street in either direction. Sydney remembered Joe telling her not to go in there alone. She tried waiting for a few moments, but became impatient and ducked inside. She rang for the elevator, and then searched inside her purse for the cheap little canister of pepper spray she'd been carrying around for ages. She found the canister and shook it.

Jabbing the elevator button again, she finally gave up and headed for the stairs. The stairwell was gloomy, gray cinderblock and smelled musty, but at least, she had somewhere to run if attacked. Between the stress and all those stairs, her leg was starting to give out. Winded and clutching the banister, Sydney hobbled up the last two flights.

She was still gasping for air as she staggered out of the stairwell toward Rikki's unit. But when Sydney saw the door to 808, she stopped dead. The door was slightly ajar.

With the pepper spray in her grasp, she rang the bell, and then knocked.

No answer.

"Aidan?" she called tentatively. Sydney stepped inside and got a waft of ammonia smell. He'd said he'd been cleaning. Stuffed garbage bags and stacks of boxes had been shoved against one wall. Piles of folded linen and blankets occupied the tattered sofa. On the coffee table were a bunch of envelopes and photos.

"Aidan?" she called out again. Peering into the bedroom--with its stripped bed and stained mattress--she saw no one. Off the bedroom, the door to Rikki's bathroom was open a crack, and beyond that, darkness.

Sydney wandered back to the living room. There was no evidence of a struggle anywhere. She picked up a photo album from the coffee table and glanced at the family photographs: Rikki, Aidan, and whoever happened to be Rikki's boyfriend at the time the photo had been taken. In the pictures, Rikki and her suitors looked like lowlifes; Aidan was beautiful and somber. There was an envelope full of Aidan's modeling shots when he'd been a child--national ads. Sydney recalled her ghostwriter friend, Andrea Shorey, mentioning that Aidan was the breadwinner in the family.

Amid these professional modeling shots, Sydney discovered a group of Polaroids, all of them of that same handsome boy--only shirtless. The snapshots focused on bruise marks and cuts on his thin body. There was even a close-up of a spot on his arm where someone must have burned him with a cigarette. "My God," Sydney whispered, grimacing at the photos. Her heart broke for him.

She set them down again on the coffee table. Why in the world would Rikki keep these horrible, incriminating pictures?

The window curtains fluttered, and Sydney noticed a small piece of yellow paper drift past her feet, then a piece of turquoise paper. It was Monopoly money. She glanced over toward the corner of the living room and saw more loose Monopoly currency scattered there. The board was set up on the floor--like someone was about to play a game.

Sydney shuddered. She took a few steps closer to the board game on the floor. The thimble and top hat tokens were on the board. Nearby was the Monopoly box, old and faded, with layers of withered tape holding together the corners. Sydney remembered Eli trying to tell her about the little train token. "Well, it was on my desk," he'd said. "And I didn't put it there. Do you think your stalker guy broke in and set this on there?"

More brightly colored, fake bills drifted past her as she moved the old Monopoly box to the sofa and opened it. She examined the other tokens.

"Are you looking for the train?"

She swiveled around and gaped at Aidan in the doorway. He closed the door behind him. "You have the train token, Sydney. I gave it to you."

Joe had gotten Eli into a wheelchair and rolled him down the hall to Luis's room so they could keep each other company for a while. After what they'd been through together, they were like old army buddies. Joe had caught a taxi outside the hospital, and was now on his way to Rikki Cosgrove's address. But there were traffic problems, and Sydney wasn't answering her cell.

As he sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the back of that smelly cab, Joe began to wonder about that burnt little boy china figurine Sydney had found on Eli's bed. He began to wonder--if heroes were being murdered--whose life had Aidan Cosgrove ever saved?

"I wanted you to see those photos, Sydney," Aidan said. "I wanted you to see the extent of my mother's abuse." He stood between her and the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a white button-down shirt, untucked. His stance wasn't threatening, and yet Sydney knew he wouldn't let her leave.

Aidan had been manipulating her all this time. He'd played her perfectly. And just in case she still hadn't realized how he'd trapped her, he'd left her one final clue--the Monopoly game. Every time there was a slight breeze, more loose bills drifted across the carpeted floor.

Aidan's eyes stayed riveted on her. "I supported my mother--and her various scumbag boyfriends--with my modeling," he explained. "But I was still their punching bag. My mother said I deserved what I got, because I was a smart ass." He chuckled cynically. "She blamed me for the fact that she could never keep a man."

He nodded toward the coffee table. "One of the modeling people discovered what was being done to me, and she took those Polaroids for child protective services. They couldn't make the charges stick against Rikki and her current flame at the time, but it sure as shit ended my legitimate modeling career. Oh, I still got some assignments from time to time, but it was never the same.

"Then there was the fire, and that finished my modeling days for good. But you have to hand it to Rikki. She still used me to raise money--parading around her broken, scarred, burn-victim poster child. And you helped her. I was a cash cow for my worthless mother--and for you, too, Sydney. It's because of me you went into the hero business."

"I was trying to help you, Aidan," she murmured.

"Well, you didn't," he said evenly. "My life just got shittier. After the fire, I was still getting the crap kicked out of me by Rikki and her boyfriends, only it was worse. I was in constant pain from my back injury. And my dear, sweet mother was taking--or selling--all my pain medications."

Sydney was devastated by these revelations. She felt so sorry for him, but that didn't make her any less afraid and revolted. "I haven't talked with your mother in years, have I?" she asked. "It was you who called me this weekend, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes, Sydney," Aidan said--in his mother's weak, whiny voice. He smiled a little.

Sydney remembered finding Rikki Cosgrove rotting away in her deathbed. The dying woman could barely talk. And yet, an hour before she'd been strong enough to call and ask her to come over. Why hadn't she realized it then?

"That story I told you about the woman in San Francisco is true," Aidan said, stepping closer to her--backing her toward the window. "Thanks to this rich bitch, I used to fly up here and look after my mother on weekends. Once she became immobile and helpless, I stayed on full time. I did a good enough job imitating my mother on the phone and through the door so no one knew how ill she really was. And I let her rot. I starved her. She was in a lot of pain, but I didn't give her any medication. I pretended to come and go on weekends, but for the last few weeks I've been here the whole time, watching her die--and thinking of you, Sydney."

"But why go after me--and all these people who never did you any harm at all?" Sydney asked. "For God's sake, I saved your life, Aidan."

"I didn't want to be saved, Sydney," he growled. "I wanted to die. I started the fire that day--on purpose. I was going to kill my mother. I planned to watch her burn, and then I was going to jump out the window--to my own death. But you had to play the hero. So what happened? I was left scarred, and in constant pain. And my mother just kept making money off me and letting her boyfriends slap me around. It was worse than being dead, Sydney. I would have been better off if you hadn't interfered. You're responsible for all those years I suffered after the fire. But you made out all right, didn't you? Hell, you made more money off me than my mother did."

Stunned, Sydney kept staring at him. She had tears in her eyes. She remembered calling to young Aidan as he'd stood out on the ledge of that burning building. She'd asked if anyone else was in the apartment with him, and the frightened child had shaken his head. And at that press conference--her first time meeting and talking with him--that burnt, broken little boy had whispered to her: "I really, really tried not to land on you. I didn't expect you to catch me."

Part of her wanted to reach out to him--and reason with him. But she didn't dare. She stole a glance out the window, hoping to see Joe down there. But there was no sign of him. She looked at Aidan again. "Please, Aidan, there's already been too much killing and suffering. I know you've had a raw deal, but that's no reason..." She could see he wasn't listening. He was looking past her--at the window.

Sydney quickly glanced over her shoulder; still no sign of Joe.

"Listen to me," she said. "If you turn yourself in and tell your story to the police, they'll probably be more lenient with you, maybe even get you some help...."

"Did you call Joe?" he asked. "Is that why you keep looking out the window? Are you waiting for him to show up?"

Sydney sighed. She locked eyes with him and nodded. "Yes. And he'll probably have the police with him--"

"No, not your Joe. He'll come alone, because he needs to play the hero." Aidan reached back and pulled a gun out from under his shirttail. "I'm afraid Joe won't be able to save you, Sydney. But I am giving you a chance to be a hero today..."

Backing up, Aidan kept the gun trained on her as he took a can of charcoal-starter out of the front closet. He handed the can to her. "Squirt some of this on the carpet and around the bedroom doorway," he said.

Sydney didn't move. She realized what he'd planned for her. She'd saved him from burning to death; so now she would die in a fire.

"Do it," he growled, eyes narrowed at her. "Or do I have to? You know, I might just spray you with this stuff, Sydney. Strike a match, and do you know how fast you'd be engulfed in flames? Would you like that?"

She reluctantly complied and squeezed the tin can. A braided line of charcoal starter shot from the spout, soaking the ugly beige carpet and dripping down the doorway frame to Rikki's bedroom.

"Squirt some over there," Aidan said, pointing to the bedroom's carpeted floor. He led her into the bedroom. "And get the mattress, too. You know, I've always been fascinated with fire. Kind of funny, coming from a burn victim, isn't it? But I think that just made me respect fire even more. Hit the wall around the bathroom door. That's it, get it real good..."

The sharp smell of charcoal starter began to overwhelm her. But Sydney followed his orders, and prayed Joe might get here on time--with backup. With her free hand, she furtively felt the outline of the pepper-spray canister in her pocket.

Keeping the gun at her head, Aidan opened the bathroom door and switched on the light.

Sydney gasped.

Lying unconscious in the tub was a half-naked young brunette. Her lip was bleeding, and her hands and feet had been bound with a black cord. Around her in the tub were wads of rolled-up newspaper. "Sydney, meet Jill," Aidan said. "She works at the flower shop. She's a very sweet girl, twenty-two years old. She wants to be a teacher, because she's crazy for kids. We had a date this morning, and she told me all about herself. Squirt some of that stuff on Jill, and make sure you soak the paper around her."

"No," Sydney said. "That's enough, Aidan. It's over..."

"Don't pull that strong-lady shit on me," he hissed, directing the gun at Jill. "Do what I tell you or I swear to God, I'll shoot her right now."

Tears in her eyes, Sydney swallowed hard and finally obeyed him. Her hand shook horribly as she squirted the flammable liquid around the helpless young woman. She kept trying to think of a way to distract him so she could reach for her pepper spray.

"Jill and I are offering you the opportunity to be a hero again, Sydney," he said. "You don't have a very good chance of getting out of here alive once I start the fire. Your leg is a bit of a hindrance, too. And if you do live, no doubt you'll get burned--badly. There will be scars and pain. Maybe you'll finally have an idea of what I endured for years and years. But I know you, Sydney. You'll want to rescue Jill, which will delay your escape, and then--well, if the two of you don't die in this fire, you'll both wish you had."

Horrified, Sydney glanced at the unconscious woman in the tub. Aidan was right, because all she could think about was rescuing her. Maybe if she turned on the shower and doused the young woman with water, she could get her through the blaze with only a few minor burns.

But then Sydney saw that he'd pried off the hot and cold water knobs, and her heart sank.

"C'mon, there's more to do," Aidan said, nodding toward the bathroom door.

Biting her lip, Sydney gave one last look at the young woman in the tub. As Aidan led her back toward the living room, she felt the soaked carpet squishing beneath her feet. Her hand strayed toward her pocket.

He stopped in front of the coffee table, where he'd set out the family album for her to find--along with those awful Polaroids and his old modeling shots and contact sheets.

"Did you like my pictures, Sydney?" he asked. "Wasn't I a beautiful kid?"

Nodding, she inched her fingers into her pocket. "Of course you were, Aidan."

"Take some of those eight by tens and the contact sheets and roll them up for me, real tight--so it's like a baton."

Reluctantly, Sydney took her hand out of her pocket. She put down the can of charcoal starter and did what he'd told her to do. She realized she was making a torch for him.

"All right, now, soak one end of it in the charcoal starter," he said. "I never did like any of those pictures. They just reminded me of how she used me."

Sydney squirted more of the flammable liquid on the rolled-up photos. The smell of it was starting to make her ill. All the while, she heard a sound from down the corridor: the elevator humming. Maybe Joe was on his way.

Aidan watched her every move. "Okay, now, put down the charcoal starter and hand me the baton you just made."

Trembling, Sydney complied. In the distance, she could hear the elevator doors whoosh open, and then a faint ping.

Aidan grinned. "Well, I think that might be your Joe to the rescue..."

"Joe, watch out!" she screamed. "It's a trap! He's got a gun--"

Before she could get another word out, Aidan slammed the butt of his revolver against the side of her head.

Stunned, Sydney fell to the floor. It took a moment for her to focus again. She blinked and saw Aidan hovering by the half-open door, the homemade baton in one hand and his gun poised in the other.

"Joe, look out!" she yelled.

Just then, he came to the doorway.

Aidan fired the gun twice. The loud shots reverberated in the near-empty living room. Joe darted back toward the corridor--out of sight. There was a heavy thumping from footsteps.

Sydney couldn't tell whether or not he'd been hit. Struggling to her feet, she reached for the pepper spray in her pocket. She still wasn't sure what had happened to Joe. But Aidan had tucked the gun under his arm and now set a lighter to the makeshift torch.

Lunging toward him, Sydney doused him with the pepper spray.

The torch-baton exploded and flames crawled up Aidan's arm. Shrieking in terror, he dropped the gun and the makeshift torch. The photos used to assemble it separated and fluttered around the room. Sections of carpet soaked with the charcoal starter now ignited, and the flames licked up at the walls. Screaming, Aidan hit his arm again and again to extinguish the fire eating away at his flesh. He weaved over toward the window and tried to smother the flames with the curtains.

Sydney spotted the revolver on the floor, and she dove for it.

The room filled with smoke, and a fire detector let out a shrill monotonous beep. The Monopoly money drifted around her--some of the bills were on fire.

Pulling herself up, Sydney glanced over toward the door. She still didn't know whether Joe was alive, dead, or wounded. She heard someone coughing, but it sounded like the woman in the bathroom. The smoke and flames in the next room had become so thick Sydney could barely see anything past the bedroom doorway. In all the confusion, she'd lost sight of Aidan.

Then she spotted him again--by the open window. His arm was charred and bloody. But he was staring at her, half-smiling.

Sydney aimed the gun at him, but she knew as well as he must have, she couldn't pull the trigger.

He just nodded at her, and then started out to the window ledge.

"No!" she screamed.

"You can't save me this time, Sydney," he said. "You can't even save yourself."

Aidan climbed out the eighth-story window, then pushed himself off the ledge.

For a few moments after that, everything was a blur. Someone set off the building's fire alarm. The shrill beeps and the constant ringing assaulted her ears. Black smoke swelled from the blaze in the bedroom, and yet Sydney blindly made her way in there--and then to the bathroom. Somehow, the flames hadn't moved across the tiled bathroom floor, but the room was swelteringly hot and red ashes darted around her like incendiary moths.

The young woman in the tub had managed to untie the black cord around her ankles, and now she struggled to her feet. But she was disoriented, and coughing from all the smoke.

Grabbing a robe off the hook on the bathroom door, Sydney plunged it in the toilet and then quickly wrapped it around the young woman.

Sydney felt a blast of heat as she led the girl out of the bathroom. Her hair was singed. Flames began to lash at her legs and arms. She could barely see anything in all the thick black smoke. She tried not to breathe it into her lungs. It felt as if she were being strangled.

Suddenly, someone covered her and the young woman with a blanket and guided them out of the bedroom's inferno. She knew it was Joe. Past the murky blackness and the shrill, deafening alarms, she sensed it was him. Joe led them toward the door. As they fled the smoke-filled apartment, the blanket slipped and she finally glimpsed him. His face was scorched red in spots, and burn marks covered his arms.

Sydney clung to him as they hurried toward the stairwell with the young woman. The stairs were crammed with people making their escape. Coughing and gagging, Sydney couldn't quite get a breath. "Just another couple of flights, honey!" she heard Joe scream. But she could barely hear him over the alarm--and now, sirens. They finally made their way outside, where fire engines sped up the street.

Sydney coughed and coughed until she spit up a black bilelike substance. Everything hurt. Her eyes had dried up, and she kept blinking so she could focus on what was happening around her. She saw the dazed young woman plop down on the little stretch of lawn in front of Rikki's building.

A bit farther down, she noticed Aidan's broken body sprawled on the sidewalk. Sydney winced. The poor, abused, little boy who had wanted to die fourteen years ago had finally realized his ambition.

"You okay, honey?" she heard Joe ask.

Nodding, Sydney at last caught her breath. She wiped some soot away from her face and worked up a smile for him.

It looked as if Joe was trying to smile back at her. But he started to cough. Blood spilled over his lips.

Panic-stricken, Sydney stared at him, and for the first time she noticed the bloodstain on his shirt--along with a small hole, where the bullet had ripped through to his stomach. He staggered forward, and she caught him in her arms.

"I--I'm sorry," he gasped.

Under his weight, Sydney collapsed to the ground, but she managed to sit up and cradle him in her arms. "Oh, no, no, no," she cried, rocking him.

"Tell Eli I'm sorry, too," he whispered.

Sydney kissed his forehead and touched his cheek. She helplessly watched him slip away. She couldn't save him.

All she could do was hold on to Joe's hand as he took his last breath.

EPILOGUE

His room in the Spaulding Avenue house just didn't seem the same. Dressed in his khakis, white short-sleeve shirt, and a tie, Eli sat at the end of his old bed. His navy blue blazer was draped over the back of his desk chair. Though he'd only taken a few items to Seattle, the room seemed so empty now--and so quiet.

Yet he could still hear the bagpipes playing "Amazing Grace." They'd given his dad a policeman's funeral. At least a hundred patrolmen on motorcycles and another fifty patrol cars had escorted them from the church to All Saints' Cemetery. Their lights flashed and sirens wailed. Eli guessed there were a hundred more cops--all in blue shirts and ties--saluting his dad's casket at the gravesite. There were dozens of reporters and TV vans, too.

He and his mom managed to keep up a stoic front, but when those bagpipes began playing "Amazing Grace," Eli could see her starting to tear up and tremble. He took hold of her hand.

His other hand was out of commission, still in an arm sling from the bullet wound in his shoulder.

His dad's friend, Luis, had gotten out of the hospital and flown back to Chicago in time for the service. Uncle Kyle was there, of course, and so were Aunt Helen and Eli's twin cousins. His buddies, Brad and Tim, were there, too. They'd even hung out with him for a little while yesterday, but it had been kind of a strained reunion. They'd seemed a bit nervous around him--like they'd expected him to burst out crying at any minute. He couldn't really blame them, because he'd been worried about that himself. For now, Eli had managed to have his sudden crying jags when no one else was around. His buddies had wanted to hear all about Earl and Loretta Sayers and what it had been like getting shot. But Eli didn't want to talk about it.

The only one he really wanted to talk to about it was his dad. And he was gone.

A weird thing had happened at the funeral. He and his mom must have shaken about four hundred people's hands. But when his dad's friend and superior officer, Uncle Len, came up to shake his mother's hand, she glanced down at the ground and stepped back. Uncle Len looked a bit peeved for a moment, but then he'd moved on.

Eli had asked his mother about it in the limousine on their way home. "I'll tell you after the brunch," she'd said, patting his hand, "if I don't lapse into a coma before then. I'm exhausted. Still, I'm glad they did this for your dad."

About eighty people came over for the brunch. Uncle Len wasn't one of them.

Aunt Helen had helped his mom with the dishes, and had just left. He and his Uncle Kyle had helped clean up, too, dismantling and stacking a bunch of folding tables and chairs they'd rented. Now he could hear Uncle Kyle in the guest room down the hall, talking to his new boyfriend, Dan, on his cell phone.

Eli was tired--but too wound up to take a nap. He sat there in a daze.

There was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he called.

In her stocking feet, his mother stepped into the room. She carried her black high heels. With a sigh, she sat down on his bed. "You were terrific today, honey," she said, putting her arm around his good shoulder. "Your dad would have been really proud."

"Thanks," he said. "You did pretty well, too, Mom."

"Listen, Eli, I think it's time you finally knew why your dad and I split up for a while," she said.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want," he muttered.

"Well, I do want," she replied. "And it's still not quite resolved yet."

He squinted at her. "What do you mean?"

She let out another long sigh. "It all started back in March, when your Uncle Len sent your father on a special assignment with some officers your father didn't know very well...."

Eli listened to his mother, and kept shaking his head over and over. Suddenly it made sense why she'd packed up their stuff and moved to Seattle. He couldn't believe his dad had taken that drug money--and let those corrupt cops get away with murder for over three months. Eli wasn't sure what he'd expected his father to have done, but he felt so disappointed in him, especially now, after his policeman-hero's funeral.

"Somehow he should have stood up to those guys," Eli murmured to his mother.

"Your dad thought it might endanger us if he did," his mother explained. "So now it's up to us to stand up to them, Eli. If we don't, we'll be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives, and the people who made your father's life so miserable will get away with it." She stroked his head. "But this means going public about your dad's involvement in this sordid business. Even though he was an unwilling participant, he still took money from them. And a lot of people will think that's no way for a hero to act. I know, I thought so myself."

"What do you think now?" Eli asked.

She patted his back. "I think your dad was a good man and a good cop. He earned the funeral he got today. And we owe it to him to make sure these creeps pay for what they did."

Eli nodded, and then he hugged her. When his mother hugged him back, he could tell she was careful not to press against his wound.

She said she had to make some calls, and left him alone.

Eli curled up on the bed. He found himself missing Seattle, and wondered if they'd be better off living there. It would give them a chance to start over again--without this drug heist business hanging over their heads. Besides, Chicago just didn't seem like home anymore without his dad.

Eli closed his eyes to sleep, and a tear slid down the side of his face.

In his head, he could still hear the bagpipes playing for his father.

From their garage, Sydney retrieved a toolbox containing exactly thirty-two thousand dollars. She called her news contacts at the network and the chief of police, who had been at Joe's funeral that morning.

Within forty-eight hours, the Chicago police arrested four officers for their involvement in the Fort Jackson Point Pier drug heist. Len Sparks, Jim Mankoff, Kurt Rifkin, and Gerry Crowley were charged with--among other things--murder, conspiracy to commit murder, drug trafficking, extortion, and fraud. In an effort to make deals with the prosecution, they all turned on each other. They were all so dirty and corrupt; Joe was the only one to emerge from the group semivindicated.

The media attention showered on Sydney didn't tarnish her career any. The network wanted to take full advantage of her current high profile, and for them she shot a tribute segment to Jared and Leah, Angela Gannon, and Ned Haggerty. It was featured on the national Nightly News.

She didn't include Erin Travino or Molly Gerrard in the tribute. Now that the girls' murders had been solved, their parents were no longer interested in having their tragedy rehashed on network TV. Sydney respected that--much to the network's story editor's chagrin.

They kept shoving these tawdry and sensational assignments at her, but Sydney refused. She wanted to cover stories about people who did good and made a difference. She still believed in heroes even when they were slightly flawed.

Sydney heard from one of her hero-subjects the first week in August, when she and Eli returned to Seattle. She got an e-mail from chloefinch@northwesternu.edu, with the subject heading: Top Dog. The e-mail came with the standard caution not to open it unless she knew the sender. When Sydney clicked on it, a photo began to emerge in sections. It was of Chloe Finch beside a pleasant-looking man with glasses and receding brown hair in front of the Buckingham Fountain. Chloe had a small mark on her forehead from when Aidan had bashed her head against the bathtub faucet. Otherwise, she looked rather pretty--and very happy. "Dear Sydney," she'd written. "My 2nd week in therapy & my 3rd week with Chuck. I think I'm in love. Thinking of you & wishing you the best. Take care, Chloe."

Chloe wasn't the only one in love. Kyle was still seeing Dan. "Except for his road rage issues and the pinky ring, he's really pretty wonderful," Kyle told her. "And I think he's going to give up the pinky ring."

They fixed her up with Dan's widower-brother, Brian, while he was in town, visiting from New York. He was very tall and handsome--with salt-and-pepper hair. He took her out to dinner at the Dahlia Lounge, and Sydney had felt a little spark of interest. But it was too soon for her to think about dating again. Besides, he was in New York. Nevertheless, they were e-mailing back and forth, and it felt nice to know someone was interested.