"Well, I'd like to talk with them anyway," Sydney said. "Do you have a phone number?"
"It's right here. Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Bischoff, 501-555-1452."
Sydney scribbled it down at the bottom of the fax sheet. "Five-oh-one, where is that, Arkansas?"
"Yeah, some suburb of Little Rock."
"Can I ask you for one more favor, Meredith? If you happen to receive some flowers from me tomorrow, could you get the name and phone number of the florist delivering them?"
"Oh, you don't have to send any flowers, Sydney. Besides, I'm not at the apartment right now. I'm staying with a friend for the next few nights. If you want to do anything for Troy, make a donation to charity in his name."
"I will," she said, scribbling the word donation beside Troy's parents' names. "But if the flowers should arrive anyway, could you get the florist's name, please? Call me, and reverse the charges."
"Um, okay," she said, obviously a bit puzzled by the request.
"Thank you, Meredith. I know it doesn't make sense, but it might later."
After Sydney hung up with Meredith, she clicked on the DVD and watched the Movers & Shakers segment with Leah and Jared. Her friend Judy had left her the message on the Fourth of July, the night they'd been shot in their apartment. She remembered Judy telling her that the murder scene had looked like a "burglary gone from bad to worse," and one of Leah and Jared's neighbors had found both bodies in the bathroom.
Sydney watched the two of them together in the video short, and her heart broke. They were both so young and cute, such a sweet couple. She thought of Angela, and now, Troy. All of them heroes, and all of them had met such violent, senseless deaths.
But to someone, it made sense.
Sydney watched a visibly shaken Leah in close-up as she talked about the thugs in the Thai restaurant. Leah was crying: "When I heard they planned to--to take us all into the bathroom and shoot us, I was just so scared...."
Sydney's finger clicked on the mouse, hitting Pause. She leaned in closer to her computer screen, and played it back again. "Take us all into the bathroom and shoot us..."
"Oh, God," Sydney whispered, hitting the Pause icon again.
On the computer screen, Leah's face was frozen. Tears were locked in her eyes and her mouth was open. Leah didn't know it at the time, of course. But she was describing exactly how--six months later--she and her fiance would be killed.
"You've reached the desk of Detective Lyle A. Peary, NYPD," said the man on the recording. Then an automated voice chimed in: "To page this person, press one now, or leave a message after the beep. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1."
Sydney paged him, and left her phone number. Then she called the number again and waited for the beep.
"Hello, this is Sydney Jordan," she said into the recording. She gave him her phone number again. "I've just paged you as well, Detective. I have some important information about the death of Troy Bischoff. I'm a correspondent with On the Edge, and I did a story about Troy a few months ago. Someone sent me a fax at 6:32 this morning from Kinko's..." She gave him the Seventh Avenue address. "I believe this fax was sent to me by the person who killed Troy. I don't think it was a self-strangulation. I can explain everything to you. Just check with that Kinko's. The manager's name is Paul. This person used a credit card to send this fax, and it's on file there. I'm sorry about the late hour, but I--"
There was a beep. Then the automated voice chimed in again, saying if she was satisfied with her message to press one.
Sydney wasn't satisfied, not yet at least. But she pressed one anyway.
She figured she wouldn't hear back from Detective Peary until tomorrow morning. It was too late--past eleven-thirty in Arkansas--to phone Troy's parents. She'd have to try them first thing in the morning--before the florist delivered the With Sympathy floral arrangement from Sydney Jordan.
She realized what was happening. The fog of uncertainty had lifted, and it was so terribly clear. Someone was killing the heroes from her Movers & Shakers stories. And in a twisted kind of "What goes around comes around" logic, he'd taken the fate from which they'd saved someone and used it to design their murders. He'd furnished her with tokens symbolizing each murdered hero--a broken teapot and some spilled rice, a dead bird, and a diagram on how to save someone from choking. And if she didn't catch on to his cryptic calling cards, there was always a thank-you note from the victim's next of kin for the sympathy bouquets sent in her name. It was as if he wanted her to feel included in each murder.
But who was doing this, and why? This person was making some kind of statement. He obviously had a grudge against her. Maybe it was someone who didn't like one of her Movers & Shakers segments about a hero.
Hunched forward in her desk chair, Sydney held a hand over her mouth. She wondered if her stalker was somehow connected to the Movers & Shakers killer. Eli had seen him at the beach yesterday and today. So when did this man have time to fly to New York City and kill Troy? Perhaps he was working with the killer, spying on her and Eli, breaking and entering to leave her the occasional cryptic clue.
Sydney was grateful to have Aidan spending the night. She'd left the poor guy parked in front of the TV with Eli for the last forty-five minutes. Getting to her feet, she started toward the living room. She could hear people on TV talking about The Bourne Ultimatum, which meant the movie was over, and Eli had moved onto the Special Features.
"You're going to go blind," she said, finding Eli on the floor directly in front of the TV.
He just nodded and kept staring at the screen.
Dead asleep, Aidan was slumped in the corner of the sofa with his head tipped back. He made a faint snoring sound.
"Aidan?" she said. "Aidan, did you want to wash up or anything?"
He didn't move.
"I tried to wake him up earlier," Eli explained. "He didn't budge. He's history. Great bodyguard he's gonna be tonight."
Sydney turned to him. "You have a choice. If you want to share your room, I'll get him upstairs now, and you can stay down here as long as you want. Otherwise, you need to skedaddle so I can make up the couch for him."
Pausing the movie, Eli gave her an apprehensive look. "Would you be ticked if said I don't feel like sharing my room?"
She shook her head, and then sat down on the floor beside him. "No, honey, you hardly know him," she whispered. "And I really don't think it's going to make any difference to Aidan where he sleeps tonight. But I am ticked at you. I can't believe you didn't tell me about that man following you around at the beach yesterday--and today. Why didn't you speak up earlier?"
Eli shrugged uneasily. "I--I didn't want to worry you."
She gave him a wary sidelong glance. "I don't think I'm getting the whole story here, Eli. Something's going on with you that you're not telling me. What is it?"
He let out a nervous laugh. "Nothing, Mom. Nothing's going on."
She stroked his arm. "Sweetheart, this guy following you around could be very dangerous. There have been some strange, disturbing incidents with people I've worked with on my videos. I'm not sure what it's about yet, but I'll tell you once I know more. Anyway, Eli, until further notice, we need to be cautious and on our guard."
He stared at her and blinked. "What kind of incidents?"
"Some very serious stuff," she replied. "Like I said, I'll tell you when I know more. But the important thing is, you need to be honest with me. If someone is following you around, or someone is secretly communicating with you, you need to let me know."
Sydney studied him. "Is someone communicating with you, honey?"
He shrugged again. "Just our ghost, nobody else."
Sydney worked up a smile. "Okey-doke," she said, kissing his forehead.
Then she got to her feet and headed upstairs to get some bedding for their overnight guest.
She managed to wake him up and steer him into the downstairs powder room. While Aidan washed his face, Sydney made up the couch with sheets and a pillow. Eli
had already retreated to his room.
Aidan was so tired he just nodded groggily and said, "Thanks, Sydney," when she told him that he could help himself to anything in the kitchen and sleep as late as he wanted. Aidan stripped down to his undershorts while she was still explaining that she'd be in her office for a while longer.
"And if the light bothers you, I'll..." Sydney didn't quite finish. He had a beautiful, athletic physique, and he seemed so unself-conscious about it. She watched him lie down on the sofa and pull the sheets around him.
"Thanks again, Sydney," he murmured. "Are you--going to kiss me good night?"
She gazed at him. He had a sleepy smile on his handsome face.
"Um, no," she said, crossing her arms. "Sleep well, Aidan."
Sydney retreated to the kitchen. She wasn't sure anymore just how unself-conscious that striptease had been. Maybe he'd been kidding about the good-night kiss. Or maybe he'd just needed someone to be a mother to him and tuck him in for the night. She couldn't really read him. One thing she knew, she didn't want to be like that sixty-five-year-old Rita woman with all the face-lifts in San Francisco.
She poured a glass of the merlot left over from dinner. More than anything right now, she wanted to call Joe and tell him how scared and confused she was. But he was a stranger to her now. He'd become one the minute he'd hit her that afternoon two months ago--maybe even before that.
She almost expected Aidan to show up in the kitchen doorway in just his undershorts, saying he couldn't sleep. But she heard him in the living room, snoring lightly.
Sydney took her wine into her office and called her brother. His machine picked up, and then she remembered his date tonight. She waited for the beep.
"Hi, it's me, and I'm sorry," she said into the machine. "I totally forgot about your hot date tonight until just now. I hope it's going well. As soon as you're free, can you call me? There's a lot going on here, and I really need to talk to you. It's--um, ten-twenty."
Sydney clicked off the phone. Sipping her wine, she stared at the Heimlich maneuver fax again. She wondered how Troy's killer had trapped him. Had Troy picked him up in a bar? Or had the killer set up some kind of chance meeting?
Her brother had just met that man on the beach today.
Grabbing the phone, Sydney clicked it on again. She speed-dialed Kyle once more. "It's me again," she said, after the beep. "Listen. Call my cell as soon as you get this. I don't care how late it is. I really need to talk to you, Kyle. I probably won't fall asleep until I hear from you. Anyway, call me right away. Thanks."
Sydney clicked off the line.
It would be a long night ahead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Evanston, Illinois--Tuesday, 1:54 A.M .
Thirty-one-year-old Chloe Finch hobbled along Evanston Beach, looking for just the right place. She was carrying her shoes, and her feet had gotten used to the cold lake water. It was too muggy and warm for a raincoat tonight, but she wore one. She would need it later. She'd been collecting good-size stones and cramming them into the raincoat's pockets. They would weigh her down when she walked into the lake to drown herself.
The police patrolled the public beach, which was closed. But that didn't stop the occasional skinny-dippers or others who wanted a midnight dip. Chloe had to find an uninhabited stretch of beach. She didn't need anyone trying to be a hero and saving her life.
It meant navigating a break in a fence along one private beach, and then jumping a fence that bordered another. And Chloe wasn't good at jumping fences.
"You're one in a thousand," the doctor had once told her, referring to how many babies were born with clubfoot. She was in good company: Lord Byron; David Lynch; Dallas Cowboy quarterback, Troy Aikman; Damon Wayans; and Dudley Moore. Whenever the topic came up during a date, she always rattled off the list of famous people born with talipes equinovarus. She always left Josef Goebbels from that list. Who in their right mind wanted to be grouped with Goebbels? Another one in a thousand--and the one who inspired Chloe the most--was Kristi Yamaguchi, who took home the gold medal in figure skating in the 1992 Winter Olympics.
Chloe became a huge fan of figure skating, but could never do it herself. They'd botched the operation on her foot when she'd been a baby. Three attempts at corrective surgery after that had failed, leaving her left foot slightly deformed. She could walk, but had a prominent limp. On bad days, she needed a cane.
Lately, there had been a lot of bad days, but that had nothing to do with her foot. Then again, maybe if she hadn't tripped over her own damn cane one day last week, she probably wouldn't have met Riley.
Chloe was thin with a long face and a prominent nose that had a little bump in it. This jerky girl in high school used to call her "horse-face," which had hurt her feelings. But oddly, it had also given Chloe a bit of hope about fitting in with everyone; at least the girl hadn't made fun of the way she walked. For the last several years, her short plain brown hair was Honey Auburn--that was the color name on the L'Oreal box. She'd never considered herself very pretty, but did the best with what she had.
Yet Riley had made her feel beautiful--for three whole days.
She wasn't killing herself because of Riley. The son of a bitch wasn't worth it. No, Chloe didn't have one big reason for drowning herself in that cool lake. It was a lot of things, piling up.
Piling up, like the stones in her pockets. Chloe was beginning to get tired--walking in the sand with all that extra weight. She stopped at a small, private beach with a narrow strip of sand between Lake Michigan and a hillside of trees and shrubs. The last people she'd passed had been two naked, skinny teenage boys in the water, trying to persuade this girl with them to take off her top--at least. The girl kept shrieking her refusals. Chloe had given them a wide berth. Looking over her shoulder, she could barely see them anymore; they were just specks on the moonlit beach. She couldn't even hear the girl's high-pitched squeals--only the sound of the waves on the shore.
Chloe glanced in the other direction: the beach was empty. There was an old pier with ALDER HILL ROAD--PRIVATE BEACH stenciled in yellow on the side, the letters worn and faded. The pier was made up of three concrete sections that seemed to be crumbling in spots. The slab farthest out was slightly askew and appeared ready to break off from the rest of the pier. Chloe figured she could take a running jump off that last slab, and she'd instantly be in over her head. If the stones in her raincoat didn't drag her down, she'd swim away from the pier and keep swimming until it was too late to turn back. Then she'd give in to the overwhelming fatigue and let the lake swallow her.
She smiled. How satisfying that image was. She'd never felt so in charge of her life until now, just moments before she would end it.
Still smiling, Chloe took one last look around to make sure she was alone. She noticed a strange, bright pinpoint of light in the dense, dark hillside jungle behind her. It seemed to be moving, coming closer to the beach. Chloe heard bushes rustling. She scoured the edge of the thicket and saw a break in the trees and shrubs. There were some stone steps and a crude path that snaked through the hillside woods.
She heard a woman giggling, then a man's whispers. A beam of light illuminated the end of that path. Chloe ducked back into the bushes to avoid being seen.
She watched a dark-haired man holding a lit flashlight to navigate the end of the trail. He wore a blazer and he'd loosened his tie. He looked handsome in the distance. He had his arm around a blonde in a pretty red cocktail dress. She was still giggling. They looked very much in love.
Assholes, Chloe thought, frowning at them. She'd recently graduated from lonely romantic to out-and-out bitter hag. That was one more thing she didn't like about herself lately. She had no patience for people in love. They made her step aside on the sidewalk, because God help them if they broke apart for a few seconds. They just had to walk side by side. And they used their "We're a couple" status to checkout-line shop in the store. Go ahead and get your stupid boyfriend to pick up eleven more last-minute items whil
e you stand in line in front of me, I really don't mind. And sure enough, she'd find herself bumped in line for some dipshit's boyfriend with a handcart full of crap. "Oh, we're together," the woman would explain when Chloe gave them a filthy look.
And now, here was this beautiful couple out for a stroll on the moonlit beach, and she resented the hell out of them. On top of being in love, they were throwing a cog in her grand exit plan.
"I should be so mad at you," the woman was saying, bumping her hip against his. "Making me get all dressed up so we can go to a drive-thru....
Chloe ducked behind a bush and watched them walking hand in hand toward her pier. Maybe they would just keep walking along the shore, and then she'd have this beach to herself again. Was that too much to hope for?
Apparently so, because the twosome turned and walked down to the end of the pier. They embraced and kissed.
Chloe felt tears stinging her eyes. Why couldn't that be her? Just once?
The woman giggled again. Chloe realized her boyfriend had unzipped the back of the red dress. She started to peel down the top part of the dress while he kissed her neck. Chloe could see the woman's breasts in the moonlight. The man's mouth moved down from her neck to one breast. After a moment, he stepped back.
"Good God," Chloe whispered. She realized the man--like her--carried at least one stone in his pocket. Suddenly, he pulled the rock from his blazer pocket and bashed it over the blonde's head. The woman let out a shriek and then a strange warbled groan that was like gibberish. A hand on her forehead, she staggered back from him. Blood was already dripping through her fingers down to her elbow.
With a forceful shove, the man pushed her off the pier. She plunged into the water.
A hand over her heart, Chloe watched them from the edge of the thicket.
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