Final Breath

by Kevin O'Brien

  Why hadn't she seen it before? She'd walked through Thai Paradise with Som and Suchin Wongpoom surveying the damage to their restaurant. It had still been a crime scene at the time, and they hadn't been able to clean it up. She'd seen the shards of glass, the smashed plates, and spilt food on that damp, moldy carpet. She'd noticed several steel teapots and spilt bowls of rice on the floor by a bus table that had been knocked over. Rice and tea, staples in almost every Thai restaurant.

  On the night of July Fourth, the same night Leah and Jared had been murdered, someone had broken into this apartment and arranged that "accident" in the kitchen. The smashed teapot and the spilt rice were cryptic reminders of the Thai restaurant where Leah and Jared had become heroes. The intruder had returned to the apartment again on Saturday, planting a dead bird to show what had happened to Angela Gannon.

  Sydney stared at the fax on her breakfast table. With a shaky hand, she picked up the crudely illustrated Heimlich maneuver instruction sheet. No intruder had broken into the apartment tonight. He was in New York right now. Yet he'd still found a way of getting inside--through the fax machine and her phone.

  The last Movers & Shakers story she'd done in New York had been in November--about the people who decorated the big Christmas tree in Rockefeller Square. But before that, she'd shot a story about a woman who taught classes in CPR and the Heimlich maneuver in Chelsea. Sydney remembered her name was Caitlin, and she was a great subject--very down to earth, very funny. At one time, she'd been homeless and she ended up putting herself through nursing school.

  "Oh, my God," Sydney murmured. "Caitlin..."

  Wiping her damp hands on the front of her pajama shorts, she hurried into her little office. Frantically she clawed through her files for the final quarter of last year. She found the one labeled: Episode: Choke Detector--Airdate: 10/17/07. She opened up the file, and found all her paperwork for putting together the five-minute segment. That included records of expenses accrued during the trip, her editing and scoring notes, lists of the locations used, and schedules and contact numbers for her interview subjects.

  Sydney found Caitlin Trueblood's phone number. She accidentally knocked the file folder off her desk as she ran back to the kitchen. Papers scattered on her office floor, but Sydney didn't care. She snatched up the cordless and dialed Caitlin's number. Someone answered after two rings: "Well, God bless caller ID. I wouldn't have picked up for anyone else at seven o'clock in the morning. Ms. Sydney Jordan, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "Caitlin?" she said, even though she recognized her voice. She needed to make sure. "Is that you? Are you okay?"

  "Yes, I'm doing great, Sydney," she replied. "Are you okay? You sound a little keyed up. My caller ID shows a 206 area code. Isn't that Seattle?"

  "Yes--"

  "Well, it's four in the morning there. What's going on?"

  "Someone from New York just sent me a fax with this illustration of how to give the Heimlich maneuver. I thought you might know something about it, Caitlin."

  "No, I'm sorry, I--"

  In the background, Sydney heard a doorbell.

  "Just a second, Sydney," Caitlin said. "I've got someone at my door--"

  "No, wait, wait!" she interrupted. She couldn't help thinking that perhaps this phantom stalker was just now paying Caitlin a visit. "Are you expecting somebody?"

  "Yes, my neighbor, Debi," she said. "We always take the subway together. Just a sec..."

  Biting her lip, Sydney listened to her opening the door. "Hi!" she heard Caitlin say to her friend. "The coffee's ready. Guess who I'm talking to, Deb? Sydney Jordan!"

  "Oh, come off it," Sydney heard her friend say.

  "Here, Sydney Jordan, say hello to Debi Donahue."

  "Hello?" Caitlin's friend came on the line. "Sydney Jordan? For real?"

  Sydney sighed with relief. "Hi, Debi Donahue."

  "Oh my God, it's really you. Hey, is Sloan Roberts really as handsome in person as he is on TV?"

  "Gimme," Caitlin was saying in the background. "Pour yourself a cup and open the doughnuts." Then she came on the line. "Sorry, Sydney. Anyway, I didn't send you a fax. I don't know anyone who would either. I can ask around in my class and at the high school."

  "That's okay," Sydney said. "But you're doing all right? Did the TV appearance lead to any nutcases calling you or stalking you? Sometimes that happens."

  "No, in fact, thanks to your Movers and Shakers piece, my class is twice its size. And remember how just after the segment aired we started getting all these donations? Well, I just found out last week, we have funding for the next three years."

  "Well, that's terrific news," Sydney said. "Listen, I don't want to keep you, Caitlin..."

  As she wrapped up the conversation, Sydney told Caitlin to be careful, but she didn't say why. Caitlin would be taking the subway with her friend, and then she'd be teaching the CPR class at Chelsea High School in SoHo. She would be all right for the next few hours. Maybe she wasn't in danger after all.

  After hanging up, Sydney wandered back to her office and started picking up the scattered papers from her Choking Detector file.

  The network had assigned her to do this story because the rock star Via had choked on something while dining at a trendy SoHo vegan restaurant. One of the waiters had saved her with the Heimlich maneuver. Via couldn't be bothered with an interview, and Sydney had found the waiter to be not a very good subject--photogenic as all get-out, but slightly vapid and dull. She'd scrapped most of his interview footage and instead focused the piece on Caitlin, who had taught him the Heimlich and CPR in her class. At the time, those classes were about to be canceled due to lack of funding. Sydney had kept Via in the forefront of the piece, stressing that if it wasn't for Caitlin's class, the pop star would have choked to death.

  Sydney found the contact number for the lifesaving waiter, whose part in the video short had been reduced to thirty-five seconds. His name was Troy Bischoff. If that strange fax wasn't about Caitlin, perhaps it was alluding to the death of the other Mover & Shaker in that segment.

  It was 7:15 New York time, and Troy was a waiter who worked at night. He was probably sleeping, but Sydney took a chance and phoned him anyway. After four rings, an answering machine clicked on, and then a recording: "Hi, this is Troy and Meredith," the man and woman said in unison, cracking up a little. "We're out--and about--so leave a message! Ciao!" The beep sounded.

  "Hi, I'm calling for Troy," Sydney said. "This is Sydney Jordan. Sorry to be bothering you so early. Troy, I was--ah, thinking of a follow-up piece to that segment I did for On the Edge last October. I wanted to talk with you again. Could you call me as soon as you get this message? I'd really appreciate it..."

  Sydney left her home and cell phone numbers, then clicked off the cordless. She set the phone on her kitchen table, and sat on one of the tall stools.

  Though a lousy interview subject, Troy had enjoyed the attention. It hadn't been very nice to lying to him and getting his hopes up, but Sydney figured her proposing to him another shot on network TV would prompt a quick callback.

  Unless Troy was already dead.

  Sydney stared at the cordless phone in front of her. The manager at Kinko's had suggested she call the police. Where, in New York? And what would she tell them? That she wanted them to investigate who faxed a Heimlich maneuver instruction sheet to her in the middle of the night?

  Joe was the only one she could turn to. He had friends all over. He probably knew another cop in New York who owed him a favor. He could find out if there were any new developments in the investigation of Angela Gannon's apparent suicide. Most important of all, if she told Joe about what was happening she wouldn't feel so all alone in this.

  She glanced at the microwave clock: 4:18 A.M. Joe was up, probably showered already. For normal workdays, he always set his alarm for 6:07. That was her birthday, June 7th. She wondered if he'd changed his wake-up time since she'd left.

  Grabbing the phone, she dialed her old home number. Strange,
she'd just made two urgent, potential life-or-death situation calls, but this one made her the most nervous. Sydney's mouth was suddenly dry. She counted the ring tones.

  After the third, she heard someone pick up on the other end: "Hmm, yes, hello?"

  It was a woman's voice.

  Sydney quickly hung up.

  Dazed, she set the cordless phone on the tall cafe table's glass top. Sydney couldn't move. The woman had sounded as if she'd just woken up.

  Sydney checked the last number dialed. It was home, all right. She hadn't misdialed. Even after everything that had happened she couldn't picture him in their bed with another woman.

  She didn't think Joe would return the call unless his friend told him about the hang-up, and he checked the caller ID. He told you he didn't want to hear from you, she reminded herself.

  She truly didn't expect Joe to call her.

  Yet for the next half hour, Sydney did nothing but sit and stare at the phone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Meredith O'Malley lumbered up the stairs, lugging her medium-size suitcase, her purse, and a bag full of books she'd taken from her old room at home, among them, her high school yearbooks. She couldn't wait to show them to Troy.

  Twenty-eight years old, Meredith was plump, with a sweet, dimpled smile and beautiful, wavy red hair. She'd just spent the weekend from hell at her parents' house in Pittsburgh. Her mother had driven her crazy. The only silver lining was that once she started telling Troy some of her mom's latest insanities, she'd be laughing about it. Maybe she'd get lucky and find that Troy had been unlucky last night. She didn't want one of Troy's "breakfast club" conquests hanging around the apartment this morning.

  Meredith hoped to find him still in bed and very much alone. Then she'd crawl under the sheets with Troy and they'd talk the rest of the morning. Maybe after that, they could go out for brunch together. They both had the day off.

  During one of her many rants over the weekend, Meredith's mother had asked, "How long do you intend to keep up this Will and Grace thing with Troy?"

  As long as I can, Meredith had thought. She knew it was only temporary with Troy. All it would take was a certain guy to come along, and she would lose him.

  She reached the third-floor landing and caught her breath. At the door, she put down her suitcase and bag, then pulled the keys out of her purse. Slipping the key in the door, she realized it was unlocked.

  Frowning, Meredith opened the door and peeked inside. All the shades were drawn, and the air-conditioning was off. Stepping into the dark, sweltering apartment, she noticed Troy's T-shirt and sneakers on the living room floor. The place smelled like a bar near closing: rank, smoky, and sweaty.

  She figured Troy must have had a wild night if he'd forgotten to lock the door--and he was still asleep in this suffocating heat.

  Meredith retrieved her suitcase and bag, then set them inside the door. She adjusted the window blinds and switched on the air conditioner. Swiping Troy's T-shirt from the floor, she couldn't resist sniffing it. One solace, it was just his T-shirt. His date from last night was long gone. She glanced over toward his bedroom door. It was open.

  She headed into Troy's room. "Well, somebody was a real slut last night. I just hope--"

  The next word got caught in Meredith's throat.

  She saw the TV was on--stuck on the main menu of a porn movie. Troy's jeans and underwear littered the floor, along with the porn DVD cover.

  Naked, Troy slumped forward under the suspension bar of his home gym. The bar held a pull-beam for some weights. And at the moment, it also held him dangling and lifeless. Wrapped around Troy's neck, his belt was twisted in knots and buckled over the support beam.

  At his feet--on the floor--was a lemon cut in half and a bottle of lubricant.

  Paralyzed, Meredith couldn't quite comprehend what she was seeing. Troy's handsome face was a bluish color, and his tongue protruded over his lips. His dead, half-closed eyes seemed to stare at the floor.

  Though she didn't realize it then, Meredith had been right about her and Troy. It had ended just as she'd figured it would.

  A certain guy had come along, and she'd lost Troy.

  "Well, you packed up, took his son and moved to Seattle two months ago," Kyle said. "You didn't take a toothbrush, Syd. You had furniture shipped here. Did you expect Joe to put his life on hold for you all this time? I mean, this isn't just a little break. You have a six-month lease here. You've officially left him, Syd..."

  They stood outside the kitchen door--along the railing that overlooked Lake Washington. The building provided some shade, but it was still warm along that little stretch of concrete behind the apartment. They'd stepped out there so Eli wouldn't hear them. He was watching TV in the living room.

  Her hair pulled back in a ponytail, Sydney looked tired, and knew it. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night, and had been inside all morning. She wore some knock-around tan shorts and an old green print top.

  It was now 1:30 in the afternoon. Troy Bischoff still hadn't phoned her back yet. She'd put in another call to Caitlin Trueblood a half hour ago to make sure she was still all right. Caitlin probably thought she was crazy. Sydney had even considered getting ahold of one of Via's representatives to make sure the superstar hadn't suddenly met a grisly demise. But then she'd gone online and read that Via was in the middle of a European tour.

  Of course, she'd never heard back from Joe. Then again, why should she? Her brother had a good point. She'd left him, and he was moving on with his life. Hell, he probably didn't even know that she'd called.

  She'd gotten ahold of Kyle an hour ago, asking if he could take Eli to the beach. She didn't want to leave the house in case someone called her back. Despite thundershowers in the forecast, it was sunny right now, in the high eighties, and Eli was going crazy. This was the first time he'd actually found something fun to do in Seattle, and this Earl he'd met yesterday was his very first friend here. Just because she was scared and miserable, it didn't mean her son had to suffer.

  Kyle had shown up in an old oxford shirt and black swim trunks. She'd told him about everything that had gone on in the wee hours of the morning--from the Heimlich maneuver fax to the aborted call to Joe.

  "Listen, why don't you just call the son of a bitch again?" Kyle now asked. "You know you want to, or are you afraid of hearing that he has indeed moved on?"

  Sydney glanced out at the glistening lake and said nothing.

  "I don't know why you'd still want anything to do with him," Kyle went on. "The guy hit you. I know there are extenuating circumstances you won't talk about. But can you tell me this much? Was it something you did? Is that why he hit you? You didn't have an affair while you were on the road or anything like that, did you?"

  Sydney rolled her eyes. "Lord, no, Kyle. You know me better than that. I didn't do anything."

  "Then he's the one who did something wrong, and it must be pretty god-awful, because you won't talk about it. You spilt the beans about him belting you, but you won't talk about this other--thing he did. And yet, you still want to go back to him, so much that you even..." Kyle shook his head. "I better shut my pie-hole. I don't want to piss you off."

  Crossing her arms, she stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Go ahead and say what you were going to say."

  Kyle sighed. "Okay. I think you've built up these Movers and Shakers deaths as some kind of threat so you have an excuse to go back to Joe. Don't get me wrong. These deaths are tragic and disturbing. But you didn't find a first duet among your Movers and Shakers people, did you? And to imagine someone is leaving you little signs and souvenirs is just a bit much. Tea and rice, some dead bird, and now this weird fax--and it's all supposed to mean something? I'll tell you what it means. It means someone sent you a fax, probably while drunk, and forgot to write their name on the cover sheet. It means Tweety flew into your bedroom and croaked on your pillow Saturday afternoon. It means some critter got into the kitchen on the Fourth of July. Or shit, maybe it's because this place i
s haunted. Weirder stuff has happened inside haunted houses. I told you not to rent here, but you wouldn't listen to me. You're acting crazy, Syd. And you're even contradicting yourself."

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "You don't believe it's safe for Eli to go to the beach by himself--a block and a half away--because some guy is after you. But apparently the same guy was also in New York sending you a fax at six-thirty this morning. You've got your stalker in two places at practically the same time, working both coasts. Or do you think there are two guys after you?"

  Sydney frowned at him. "He sent the fax at six-thirty, New York time. He could be here by now. It's quite possible."

  "Good God, Syd, listen to yourself." He slumped against the porch railing. "If right now you were back in Chicago with Joe, and all this weird stuff was happening, would you be giving it this much thought? Tell me the truth."

  "Probably not," she admitted. "But what about the flowers in my name sent to the next of kin?"

  "That's bizarre, I grant you. But it's not exactly grounds for pushing the panic button or calling in the FBI." Kyle shrugged. "But I'm guessing--as far as you're concerned--it's grounds for calling Joe."

  Sydney sank down in the patio chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You're probably right, damn you."

  Kyle patted her shoulder. "I'll take Eli to the beach. Why don't you catch a few winks? And if you can't sleep, call Joe and get it over with. The sooner you figure out he's moved on, the sooner you'll get on with your life, too."

  The telephone rang, and Sydney sprang from the chair and hurried into the kitchen. She grabbed the cordless and switched it on. "Yes, hello?"

  Silence.

  "Hello?" Sydney repeated.

  "Is...this...Sydney?" The frail voice was barely audible.

  "Yes. Who's calling?"

  "It's--it's Rikki, dear. Could you come over...please? I'm so, so sick. I'm afraid of dying alone--before Aidan gets here. I phoned him in San Francisco earlier this morning, when--when this last spell came over me. I told him to hurry..."