Sydney clicked off the phone; then she closed her address book and stuck it back in her purse. She would give Eli ten more minutes, then she'd go to the beach again and have the lifeguard make another announcement.
There was no point in calling Kyle back just yet. She glanced at the e-mail she'd been writing to Angela's sister. She reread the second paragraph:
I got your kind e-mail today. I'm glad the flowers arrived. Do you by any chance know the name of the florist who delivered them? I'm sorry to bother you with this during such a difficult time, but...
If no one from the network or her crew sent the flowers in her name, who had? Who would have had access to the addresses of Leah and Jared's parents as well as Angela's sister?
Sydney gazed at the address book sticking out of the top of her purse. She remembered the newspaper article about Angela's death. They'd found her purse by that open window on the fourteenth floor of that office building in Chicago. Was Angela's address book or Blackberry in her purse?
Jared and Leah had been murdered in their home. It couldn't have been too difficult to find Leah's parents' address--in a notebook or computer somewhere in their apartment.
Until then, Sydney had clung to the notion that someone she knew had meant well by sending those flowers in her name. But the person sending those flowers must have been with the victims at the time of their violent deaths, and he hadn't meant well at all.
Eli knew his mother was probably worried about him.
The next Number 11 bus left at 3:26 from a bus stop not far from where he was right now: the Seattle Public Library on Fourth Avenue.
He'd always thought the ultramodern glass and steel building was cool looking from the outside when he went on trips downtown with his mom or Uncle Kyle. But he'd never stepped inside its doors until an hour ago. The bus from North Seattle had dropped him off downtown, and he'd decided to try the library to look up Loretta and Earl Sayers on the Internet. He didn't want to use his mom's computer for this kind of research.
Eli was temporarily distracted--and fascinated--by the angles and grids of the library's interior, the high ceilings, and the way the sun reflected off the glass walls. He took a tall escalator up to the computer room, where a librarian helped him get online. She was a pretty young Asian in her late teens with short black hair that had a pink streak in it. "This place is awesome," he murmured to the librarian.
Eli tried the keywords Loretta Sayers, Seattle, suicide on several search engines. But the search results he got were mostly about an actress, Loretta Sayers, born in Seattle in 1911, died 1999--not a suicide. The keywords Earl Sayers, murder, Seattle brought him articles about Seattle author Earl Emerson and his murder mysteries. Nothing else was even in the ballpark. He tried altering the way he spelled their last name: Seyers, Seayers, Seiers, Sayrze. Nothing. Eli wondered if Vera hadn't remembered their names right.
He felt so frustrated. The talk with Vera had only made him hungrier for more details about what had happened in that haunted apartment. He desperately wanted to see a photo of Earl, the fifteen-year-old boy whose spirit still occupied that bedroom--thirty-some-odd years after he'd had his throat slit in there. Did he really look like him?
Eli glanced at his wristwatch: almost 3:20. He had only six minutes to catch that bus.
"Shit," he said under his breath. Clearing the computer screen, he grabbed his backpack and got to his feet. As he passed by the librarian's desk, he nodded and worked up a smile for the pretty girl with the pink streak in her hair.
"Find what you were looking for?" she asked in a quiet voice.
"Not really," Eli admitted, shrugging.
"Well, maybe I can help you. What are you trying to look up?"
Eli approached the desk. "I wanted some information about a murder-suicide here in Seattle, back in 1974. This woman Loretta Sayers killed her kid and then herself."
She said, "Hmmm, you're probably better off going into the microfilm files for old Seattle Times and Post-Intelligencers. We have those here. Do you know when in 1974?"
"November," Eli said.
She nodded. "Well, it might take a little digging, but you ought to find something on microfilm."
"Gosh, thanks," Eli said. "Are you guys open tomorrow?"
"Until nine. And gosh, you're welcome." She smiled.
Eli knew he had sort of a dumb, grateful-smitten grin on his face. He gave her a salute, and said, "Okay, see you!"
Seconds later, hurrying toward the escalator he wondered why the hell he'd saluted her. Could he possibly be any more of a dork?
However embarrassed he was about the way he'd acted with that cute girl, Eli still felt elated about returning tomorrow. He'd been incredibly bored and lonely all summer. This murder-suicide was the first thing in weeks that he cared about here.
On the bus, Eli realized he had to make another stop before going home. It meant five more minutes. His mother would probably have a major cow when he got home anyway. Five more minutes wouldn't make a difference now.
When the bus let him off at his stop, Eli hurried to the beach. It wasn't very crowded anymore. He ducked into the beach house men's room. Off to one side was a single shower, along with a small changing room with a bench; on the other side were the urinals, a toilet, and a sink. In the changing room, Eli started peeling off his shirt and shoes. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out his towel and trunks. He hoped no one came in while he was naked because he felt very self-conscious about his body lately. He was too skinny and just starting to get pubic hair, so he felt like a freak. Plus he had a farmer tan.
He figured it would be faster and easier to wet his swim trunks, then put them on. He ran them under the shower. Then just as Eli pulled off his shorts and underpants, a little black kid with a buzz cut in red trunks appeared in the changing room doorway. With a finger in his mouth, the wide-eyed boy gaped at Eli as if he were an alien.
"C'mon, we're going home!" boomed his father's voice.
Naked and trying to step into the wet trunks, Eli looked up in time to see the kid's father take him by the arm and lead him out of the restroom. Eli finally got his legs through the trunks and then realized he had them on backward. He had to step out of them and start over again.
A shadow swept past the changing room, and Eli figured it was the kid coming back for another look at the skinny naked guy with the farmer tan. Still struggling to step into the wet trunks, he glanced up and froze. He locked eyes with the man in the green polo shirt--the one from the bus. The man paused in the doorway and glared at him. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses.
Eli felt his stomach tighten. His mom was right. The white part of the man's left eye was bloodshot.
The man turned away and moved toward the toilet stall.
Rattled, Eli almost tripped pulling up his swim trunks. He couldn't breathe right. His hands were shaking as he gathered up his clothes and shoes. He shoved them in his backpack, threw his towel over his shoulder, and hurried out of the beach house men's room. Barefoot, he raced across the sand, threading around blankets and sunbathers. He stepped on a few rocks or pebbles but didn't stop--not until he got to the wrought-iron front gate of the Tudor Court complex. Then he had to dig into his backpack for the keys--inside his pants pockets. He glanced over his shoulder but didn't see the man with the green shirt. Eli fumbled for a few moments as he tried to get the key in the lock. Finally, he heard it click, then he pushed open the gate, ducked inside, and shut it behind him. Hearing that lock click again, he felt better. He pulled out his CHICAGO POLICE T-shirt and his shoes, put them on, then hurried toward the apartment.
"Eli?" his mother tentatively called when he stepped inside. It sounded like she was in her office. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, Mom," he called back. "Sorry I'm late--"
"Oh, thank God!"
Just as he'd figured, she'd been worried. Now he knew why. That creepy man with the weird eye was very, very real. Part of Eli wanted to tell her right away about his two brushes with the guy.
But he didn't say anything. He didn't want her to know he'd lied about going to the beach.
He was starving. In the kitchen, he dumped his backpack on the tall cafe table, then helped himself to two fruit rollups and a Rice Krispie Treat. His mom poured him a glass of milk.
He felt bad when his mother told him that she'd gone down to the beach, looking for him. "I even had the lifeguard page you," she said.
His back resting against the kitchen counter, Eli stopped chewing his food for a moment. "Guess I didn't hear you," he said finally. "Sorry, Mom."
He apologized for losing track of the time, too, and then the lies started. The water was really great--just the right temperature. And he met another kid his age there. "Um, I told him I'd see him there tomorrow," Eli added, eying his mom to see how she would react. He needed an excuse so he could sneak off to the library tomorrow. "I think he's a pretty cool guy."
"Oh, I don't think the beach is such a good idea, honey," his mom said, wincing. She sat down at the table. "I told you about this stalker character. Well, there may be a lot more to it than just some weirdo following me around."
"What do you mean?" Eli asked. He stopped eating. "Who is he?"
She gave an uneasy shrug. "I'm still trying to figure that out."
Eli thought once again about telling her that he'd seen the man, but he hesitated. He really wanted to go to the library tomorrow. He'd given that guy the slip twice now; he could do it again tomorrow. "You think he's really dangerous?" he asked.
She sighed. "I'm not sure yet. But in the meantime, I don't want to take any chances. I'm sorry, but I don't want you going off on your own while this guy is out there."
"Oh, please, Mom," he moaned. "You're always telling me I should get out more! This is the first person my age I've met out here. And my buddy is coming with his dad and his older brother tomorrow. I'll stick with them the whole time. I'll be real careful..."
"Well, I'll think about it," she said.
"Thanks, Mom," he replied. "I'm gonna go wash up." He kissed his mother on the cheek, then started to head out of the kitchen.
"Honey, about this new friend of yours," she said.
Eli turned in the kitchen doorway.
"What's your buddy's name?" his mom asked.
Eli worked up a smile. "Earl," he said. "His name's Earl."
As she stepped back into her office, Sydney could hear Eli up in his room--with a U2 CD blasting. The bass was boom-boom-booming. She would tell him to turn it down in a little while. For the moment, she was just glad he was home.
Sitting at her desk, Sydney reread the second paragraph of her note to Angela Gannon's sister on the monitor screen:
I got your kind e-mail today. I'm glad the flowers arrived. Do you by any chance know the name of the florist who delivered them? I'm sorry to bother you with this during such a difficult time, but I was out of town on business when I heard about Angela. I stopped by a florist and put in the order. But I don't think they billed me. Anyway, I don't have a receipt or the name of the florist. I'd like to pay for those roses. If you could tell me who delivered them, I can work backward and figure out where I placed the order. Thank you for your time, Elizabeth. I really appreciate it.
Once again, you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.
Sincerely,
Sydney Jordan
Sydney typed her home and cell phone numbers at the bottom of the e-mail. Then she clicked SEND.
She hated bothering Angela's grieving sister, but if someone had indeed murdered Angela, this might be one way to help track him down.
Hunched over the keyboard, Sydney pulled up another e-mail--one she'd deleted and restored a while back:
Bitch-Sydney
You can t save them.
She'd tried to respond to it on July 5th, but the address, [email protected], had bounced back as invalid. Maybe she'd just encountered a glitch the last time. She clicked the REPLY icon, and typed the same response she'd used before: Who are you?
Biting her lip, Sydney hit Send.
A moment later, she was almost relieved to hear the click, indicating an incoming e-mail. It was another MAILER-DAEMON delivery failure notification.
Had the person used that e-mail account name just that once--for her? If so, the moniker he'd chosen meant something--the same way that dead bird on her bed must have meant something. Were the murders of Leah and Jared a duet?
If that was what he'd been telling her, then Leah and Jared weren't his first. He'd killed two people together before--if not together, than at least on the same day: second duet for you.
The telephone rang. Sydney jumped up, ran into the kitchen, and grabbed the cordless. She checked the caller ID. It was her brother's cell phone number. She clicked on the phone: "Hi, Kyle."
"Is Eli back yet?" he asked. It sounded like he was in the car.
"He just came in about fifteen minutes ago," Sydney said. "I was about to call you, but I got distracted. Sorry."
"You really had me all wound up. I kept imagining Eli's photo on a milk carton."
"No, he's fine, thank God. He's up in his room with Bono blasting as we speak. I think he made a new buddy at the beach today."
"Oh? Then things are looking up."
"He wants to go back there tomorrow, but I'm not so sure it's such a terrific idea--what with everything that's going on right now." Sydney told her brother she was about to dive into her Movers & Shakers files, and look at the couples she'd profiled in the last year or two. She needed to see if any of them had recently died under suspicious circumstances. She was looking for that first duet--before Leah and Jared.
Her brother was silent on the other end of the line for a moment.
"Kyle?"
"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "I just think you've accrued a lot of ifs there: if the message was supposed to be about your Portland friends; if the sender made up the e-mail account exclusively for you; and if someone is indeed bumping off your Movers & Shakers people. I don't know, Syd. Maybe this duet guy is just some music lover who dropped his account name after sending you that crank e-mail and calling you a bitch. Maybe he meant you can't save the whales. You might be freaking out over nothing."
"I hope you're right," she said. "But I still think it's worth checking into."
"Well, knock yourself out," he sighed. "Listen, I have to wine and dine another client tonight. Are you going to be okay? I can cancel and come spend the night with you guys if you're scared."
"Thanks, but I think we'll be okay," she replied.
Yet moments later, after she'd hung up the phone, Sydney realized she'd been lying to her brother--and maybe to herself, too. She didn't really think they'd be okay.
And she was very, very scared.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
New York City--Monday, 1:22 A.M.
He'd established eye contact with Troy about ten minutes before, and now they made a game of glancing and smiling at each other across the crowded bar. Troy seemed to think he looked pretty good in those jeans and the white V-neck T-shirt that showed off his toned torso and muscular arms. A tall, handsome guy, he had short, spiked, straight sand-colored hair and a five o'clock shadow.
It was a look Troy had had for at least eight months now. In fact, when he'd appeared in a Movers & Shakers segment for On the Edge, he'd had the exact same haircut and stubble-length.
He'd been watching Troy for an hour tonight. But he'd watched and studied him many other nights as well. In fact, this wasn't the first time he and Troy had flirted with each other across the bar at Splash.
He wasn't bad looking himself. He'd already had a few Chelsea muscle boys approach him this evening--along with one drag queen. But he'd politely dismissed each one. Splash's Sunday Disco Tea Party was winding down. Yet the bar was still crowded with sweaty men--and pulsating to the beat of Laura Branigan's "Gloria."
He watched a handsome jock-type nuzzle up to Troy at the bar. It looked like the guy was trying to strike up a conversation.
From across the bar, he imagined the questions: So what's your name? What do you do?
He was Troy Bischoff, a thirty-one-year-old struggling screenwriter and full-time waiter at Ting, a trendy SoHo restaurant. And he's not interested in you, buddy, the man across the bar thought.
It looked as if the jock was asking Troy to dance, but Troy shook his head. Mr. Jock patted him on the shoulder and moved on. Troy checked out the guy's butt as he walked away, but then his gaze totally shifted direction--across the bar at him. He grinned.
Troy's smile seemed to say, Look what I just passed up for you.
He smiled back, picked up his beer from the tall table, and moved in for the kill.
In for the kill, he thought.
"Hey, I'm Joe," he said--loudly, over Laura Branigan's singing.
Troy nodded. "I've been wondering how long it would take you to walk over here." He raised his martini glass. "I'm Troy. You look familiar, Joe."
He chuckled, and leaned in close so he could be heard over all the noise. "Well, we've been in this same situation before here, only then, I didn't have the nerve to approach you--too much competition at the time. That was about two months ago. Maybe you remember me from then."
"Maybe," Troy allowed. He looked him up and down, then right into his eyes.
At that moment, he knew Troy was his.
Thelma Houston's "Don't Leave Me This Way" began churning over the speakers. Troy moved his hips in sync with the music. Sipping his martini, he cocked his head to one side and grinned. "So tell me, Joe. What do you do for a living?"
"Believe it or not, I'm a cop!" he shouted over the music.
"No shit!" Troy said, laughing.
"I shit you not. NYPD."
Troy touched his shoulder, then his hand slid down to his chest and lingered there for a moment. "Well, I've never made it with a cop before."
He caressed Troy's arm. "So what is it you do?"
"I'm a waiter. And I'm pretty sure you've made it with a waiter before." He laughed at his own remark, then took another sip of his martini. "But I'm also a screenwriter. I have several people in the industry looking at my latest screenplay."
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