"Wow, that's really cool." Then he put on a perfect look of jaw-dropping revelation. "Hey, wait a minute. I know where I've seen you before. Last time I was here, I kept wondering why you looked so familiar. That's one reason I kept staring at you--that and the fact that you're so damn cute. You were on TV--Movers and Shakers. You're the waiter who saved that rock star from choking to death in the restaurant..."
Rolling his eyes, Troy nodded. "Yeah, Via. It's my big claim to fame. I gave Via the Heimlich."
"You work in that vegetarian restaurant, Tang."
"Ting, and it's vegan," Troy said with a tiny frown.
"I remember you on that Movers and Shakers. It was aired back in October, right?"
Troy nodded over his martini glass.
"I remember thinking that if you didn't sell a screenplay; you'd probably get some offers to work in front of the camera, because you're so hot-looking. Did that Movers and Shakers help pave the way for anything?"
Troy sighed. "Not really. Sydney Jordan shot a lot of footage interviewing me, but didn't use much of it. She ended up spending eighty percent of the story profiling the woman I took the Heimlich and CPR classes from, Caitlin Something. I forget her last name."
"That sucks, man!" he shouted over the music. "You're the one who saved Via's life. You should have been in that segment more. You know, I always figured Sydney Jordan was a bitch."
"She's not bad," Troy said, shrugging. "At least, I thought she was cool--until I saw how little of me there was on that Movers and Shakers bit."
"Well, I would have liked seeing a lot more of you." He stroked Troy's arm again, and gave him a coy smile. "So is there a chance I can see a lot more of you tonight?"
"I think that can be arranged," Troy said. "I don't live too far from here."
Yes, I know, Eighth Avenue, he thought.
"And my roommate's out of town," Troy continued, leaning in for a kiss.
He pulled away--just slightly. "My ex is here," he explained. "Not that he'll go psycho on us or anything, but I don't want him to see us leaving together. Would you mind leaving first? Then I could meet you in five minutes?"
"This is pretty silly," Troy said.
"I know, indulge me. Then I'll indulge you later. C'mon, meet me on the corner of West Seventeenth and Sixth. I won't keep you waiting long."
Nodding, Troy grinned. "Okay, Officer Joe, I'll see you in five minutes. Don't forget to bring your nightstick." Troy waved to the bartender, and said good-bye to two more people in the bar. Troy was a regular here at Splash. He made his way to the door, glanced back at him, and smiled.
Then Troy left his favorite bar--for the last time in his life.
He wondered if his name was really Joe, and if he was really a cop.
But right now, it didn't matter too much to Troy, because Joe was in his apartment, and he was really hot. They'd already thrown their shirts off. From the way Joe pulled back a little each time, Troy figured he didn't like to kiss--at least, not on the mouth. He'd been with guys like that, and some of them just needed a little warming up.
Fondling and groping each other, they made their way toward Troy's bedroom. His roommate, Meredith, wouldn't be back from Pittsburgh until midmorning. Troy wondered if this Joe guy would be a member of his "breakfast club." Those were the guys he let sleep over. He wasn't sure yet.
"You got some porn?" Joe asked, biting at his earlobe. He glanced over at the TV across from Troy's bed. "I like having porn on when I'm doing it."
Troy kissed his neck--safe territory. "Um, I got some old DVDs, yeah."
"Put one on," Joe said. He playfully bit his shoulder, then pushed him away. Troy had a one-station home gym in the corner of his bedroom. Joe sat down on the stool--under a bar for pulling weights. He started to take off his shoes and socks.
Troy grinned back at him and made a tiger-growling noise as he walked across the bedroom. Squatting in front of the TV, he pulled a few DVDs from the cabinet underneath it. "Um, I got Drill Bill...Below the Belt. How about Dawson's Crack?"
"Anything," Joe said, unzipping his jeans. "You pick it. I just like having the music and all that copulating noise in the background."
"Hmmm, the cop likes his copulating noise." Troy switched on the TV, and popped one of the discs into the DVD player. He hit the chapter selection so it was right in the middle of a sex scene. Then he raised the volume a bit. The music was churning, and both guys in the movie were groaning and grunting.
He turned and saw Joe standing by the bed in only his white briefs. Sweat glistened off his arms and chest. Troy unfastened his own belt.
"No, let me do that," Joe said. He walked up behind him, reached around and ran his hands over Troy's stomach. He tugged at the belt, slowly pulling it past all the belt loops on his jeans. Troy shuddered gratefully as the guy gently slid the belt buckle's metal tongue up his back. He loved that mild scratching sensation. Joe was breathing in his ear.
On the TV, the music and the guys seemed to be reaching a crescendo. It got louder and louder.
Joe was now teasing him with the leather belt strap, wrapping it around his neck as he pushed his pelvis up against him from behind. Troy chuckled. "Oh, man...police brutality..."
Suddenly, the belt tightened around his throat. Troy's head snapped back. He tried to yell out, but he couldn't. His hands came up and frantically clawed at the other man's fists. His face was turning crimson.
Oh, God, if this is a game, he has to stop, Troy thought. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't get any air. Please, God, no...this isn't happening...
The man squeezed the belt around Troy's neck even tighter. A fold of pinched flesh protruded over the leather strap.
There was a loud scream. But it wasn't Troy--or the man choking him. It was one of the actors in the porn movie.
Troy couldn't scream at all. In fact, he'd already taken his final breath.
She heard the waves rolling onto the beach. At her open window, the sheer curtains billowed. And on her nightstand, the digital clock said 3:11 A.M. Sydney was wide awake.
Yet she was exhausted, and her eyes were still sore from all the reading and Internet browsing. Delving through her files for the twenty-eight Movers & Shakers video shorts she'd filmed last year, she'd found six that had profiled couples--seven, if she'd counted Leah and Jared. Among them were a husband and wife in Columbus, Ohio, who trained service dogs for people with spina bifida, and a Kalamazoo couple who rescued four kids from a school bus after it plunged off a bridge into the Kalamazoo River. Sydney didn't just limit her search to traditional couples either. She included two teenage brothers in Winnetka, Illinois, who started their own Designated Driver service and made $3,000 in one semester, and two women, both mothers of leukemia victims, who had bought a vacant lot in their hometown outside Indianapolis and built a playground in the memory of their kids.
Sydney remembered all of them. She dreaded the notion that one of these amazing duets may have been killed recently. But to her relief--and from what she could tell from her search on the net--all of these Movers & Shakers were still alive and well.
She wondered if perhaps Kyle had been right. Maybe she'd been overreacting.
She remembered how full her life had been last year when she'd worked on those stories. It was strange, but she'd felt so independent while still with Joe; without him, she felt scared and needy. She'd been tempted to call him tonight several times
After all, who better to talk with about all of this business than a Chicago police detective? Angela had been killed in Chicago. Maybe Joe knew something about the case that hadn't been mentioned in the newspapers--or online. She told herself that Joe would listen to her, and maybe do something.
But each time she'd almost picked up the phone to call him tonight, she'd thought about that damn letter of his and decided against it.
She and Eli had gone out to dinner tonight: a five-block walk up Madison to Bing's for hamburgers. She didn't see any sign of Mr. 59. It was still light out both comin
g and going to the restaurant, so she felt safe. It was a good dinner, and a nice change of pace from cooking for two and eating with Eli in front of the TV, usually some movie or show she tolerated for his sake.
Tonight, they'd actually talked. Eli had admitted he still missed his dad, his friends, Cubs games, Vienna Beef hot dogs, really good pizza, fireflies, and thunderstorms. At the same time, he'd gone on about all the cool places in Seattle he would have liked to show his buddies, Tim and Brad: the beach, the mountains, Pike Street Market, Broadway, the bus tunnel; even the library was awesome--at least from what he saw on the outside. He didn't talk much about his new friend, Earl. But Sydney realized Eli was starting to feel more at home here than she did. Of the two of them, she was the one having a tough time being happy.
She glanced at the nightstand clock again: 3:27.
She heard a muted hum, followed by a mechanical sound of something shifting.
Sydney climbed out of bed and crept over to her bedroom door. The noise came from her office downstairs. She realized it was her fax machine. Rubbing her arms, she padded down the hallway and switched on the downstairs foyer light. In her pajama shorts and T-shirt, Sydney stole down the steps. She eyed the front door--double locked, with the chain fastened.
She'd heard a story once about a murderer breaking into a house, then switching on the clothes dryer in the basement to lure a woman down there for the kill. She wondered if someone was just updating it a bit with a fax machine. Who would be faxing her something at 3:30 in the morning?
Sydney opened the closet door at the foot of the stairs and pulled out an umbrella, the same one Eli had brandished for their elusive intruder the night of July Fourth. She made her way to the kitchen, then switched on the overhead light. Nothing had been disturbed. The chain lock was still on the kitchen door. The fax machine let out a beep, indicating it was finished with the job. Sydney poked her head in her small office and turned on the light. She leaned the umbrella against her desk.
She saw something in the fax receiving tray. The top page was blank--except for some printing at the top:
Page 3 of 3 KINKOS/FEDEX 202/555-0416
STA 7-071408 06:32AM
"New York City," she murmured, checking the phone number area code. Was someone from the network working early? But why would they go to Kinko's when they could fax her from the office?
Sydney looked at the next page: Page 2 of 3. On it were six squares, each with a simple illustration on how to give the Heimlich maneuver. The figures in the drawings were like the international symbols for men's and women's washrooms--mere faceless forms in different lifesaving positions.
Page 1 was a cover sheet addressed to her, but the sender line remained blank. The Kinko's/FedEx outlet showed an address on Seventh Avenue. The time was on there as well. Who would be sending her this diagram from New York City and at 6:32 A.M. Eastern time?
The phone rang, giving her a start. Sydney hurried back into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver on the second ring. "Yes, hello?"
No response. But she could hear traffic noise in the background. She still had the fax pages in her other hand. "Hello?" she repeated.
Sydney heard a click, and then the line went dead. She glanced at the caller ID box: CALLER UNKNOWN.
The phone rang again, and Sydney snatched it up once more. "Yes, hello?" she said, an edge to her voice.
Nothing, just the background traffic noise, but she waited a beat. "I got your fax," she said steadily. "Who are you? Damn it, who--"
There was a click, and the connection went dead again.
His hand lingered on the pay phone receiver for a moment. He stood outside the Kinko's/FedEx on Seventh Avenue. The fluorescent light from the store seemed a bit muted from outside now that morning was breaking. They'd already turned off the streetlights, and the city traffic grew more congested.
Of course, he hadn't slept at all last night, and he was dead tired. He had the burning eyes and dry throat that came from sleep deprivation. But his adrenaline was still pumping, and he felt elated, too.
He hailed a cab. "JFK Airport," he said, climbing into the backseat. "And I'm in a hurry." He had an 8:05 flight to catch.
The back of the cab was stuffy, and he rolled down the window. He could still smell Troy Bischoff's cologne and sweat on him. Some people relished the scent of their partner on them after sex; they enjoyed smelling like they'd just screwed somebody.
He felt a bit like that right now. Though he hadn't really had sex with Troy, he still carried his scent. He rolled up the window again, so he could savor it longer. That musky, pungent smell reminded him that he'd just killed somebody.
Sydney counted four ring tones until someone finally picked up: "Kinko's/FedEx," the woman said in a flat, tired voice. "Please, hold."
"Um, wait--" But it was too late, they'd already stuck her in Hold limbo. An instrumental version of "Band on the Run" came on, periodically interrupted by a chirpy woman's recorded voice explaining the benefits of shipping FedEx.
Setting the fax pages on the kitchen table, Sydney kept the cordless to her ear and moved to the refrigerator. She took out the opened bottle of pinot grigio and pulled a wineglass down from the cabinet. Sydney filled up most of the glass.
"Kinko's/FedEx," the same tired-sounding woman came back on the line. "How can I help you?"
"Hi, yes. I just received a fax from your store about five minutes ago. My name's Sydney Jordan, and my fax number is--"
"One minute," the woman said. Then Sydney heard her ask in a loud voice: "Ronny, did you just send a fax? Did anybody just send a fax?"
Sydney sipped her wine while she waited.
"Nobody behind the counter sent you a fax. It must have been a customer using one of the self-service computer-fax machines."
"Well, this guy was just in there five minutes ago," Sydney explained. "Did anybody there see him?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"Please, it's very important."
"Ma'am, we've got eight computer stations here, and right now, seven of them are in use. We're awfully busy. Early Monday mornings are pretty crazy around here--"
"Your self-serve machines are activated with a credit card, aren't they?" Sydney asked.
"Yes..."
"Well, if you could please just tell me the name of the person who sent a three-page fax at"--she glanced at the printing along the top of page 2--"at six thirty-two this morning from one of your self-service machines, I'd be very, very grateful."
"I'm sorry, I can't give out that information," the woman replied. "Now, I have customers waiting."
"Please, don't hang up!" Sydney said. But she heard the click on the other end of the line.
After another hit of pinot grigio, Sydney phoned them back and asked to talk with the manager on duty. The man named Paul with a Bronx accent was friendly enough, but he had to stick with company policy. They weren't responsible for the content of faxes or e-mail sent from their store. It sounded like he was reading it from a rule book. Even when Sydney explained that the fax was threatening, he wouldn't budge.
She even resorted to using the "I'm Sydney Jordan from On the Edge, maybe you've heard of me" card, and the guy still wouldn't cave. But he admitted he watched the show and was a fan.
"Listen, Paul," she said, exasperated. Her wineglass was already half empty. "Could you do me a huge favor? Can you ask around and find out if anyone there just saw a man in his late twenties using one of the self-serve computer-fax machines? He's got a dark complexion. He's fairly good-looking, but one of his eyes is infected and all blood-shot. Could you ask your employees if they saw someone like that leaving the store about ten or fifteen minutes ago?"
He didn't answer for a moment. "Sure, Sydney," he said finally. "Hold on."
The woman's recorded voice came on the line again, the same FedEx pitch. Then a dentist-office version of Van Morrison's "Moondance" serenaded her.
"Sydney?" the manager came back on the line. "Sorry
, nobody here noticed anyone fitting that description. I even asked a few of the customers."
"Do you have surveillance cameras in that store?" she asked.
"Yeah. One near the counter."
Sydney frowned. That wouldn't do her any good. The person who sent the fax wouldn't have needed to go up to the counter if he'd used the self-serve machine. "Listen--Paul, all I need is his name from the credit card record. I hate people who always want to be the exception, but could you please ignore the rules this time?"
"Sydney, if I gave you his name, and you wanted to charge this guy with anything, the charges wouldn't stick, because the way you got the goods on him wouldn't be legit. You really want to track down this guy who's sending you these threats? You should call the police. Get a cop in here, flashing a badge, and we'll give him this wacko's credit-card info. Okay?"
Defeated, Sydney thanked the Kinko's manager, then clicked off the line. Setting her near-empty wineglass on the counter, she pulled the pinot grigio out of the refrigerator again. As she refilled her glass, she heard a noise outside.
Glancing up, Sydney thought she saw someone in the window above the sink. She gasped, knocking over her glass and spilling wine across the counter. Then she realized it was her own reflection in the darkened window. "Stupid," she murmured.
Sydney frowned at the mess she'd made on the countertop. At least her glass hadn't broken, just some spilt wine--and her cue that she'd probably had enough to drink for tonight. Grabbing a sponge from the sink, she started to wipe up the puddle of wine. It extended to the green Formica backsplash. As she wrung out the sponge, Sydney noticed a few grains of rice in the perforations. She was ashamed at her own sloppy housekeeping. The rice must have been hidden at the far edge of the counter since that box of Minute Rice had mysteriously tipped over on the night of July Fourth.
As she plucked pieces of rice out of the sponge and tossed them in the sink, Sydney realized something. The mess in the kitchen that night hadn't been an accident. It had been deliberate--as deliberate as that dead bird on her pillow and now this faxed diagram of the Heimlich maneuver.
Final Breath Page 24
