Watch Them Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  Shaking his head, Kenneth laughed.

  “It’s not funny. This could be the man who killed Ron Craig.”

  “Maybe he’s working for her,” Kenneth said. He raised his martini glass. “That’s just what I’m after. We need to implicate her in your buddy’s murder. That’s why we’re not busting in on her and the kid right now. I want the goods on this bitch.” He glanced once again at the blurry figure in the photo. “Think this could be the doofus who was screwing her last night?”

  Kirkabee shrugged. “I’m not sure. It could be.”

  Kenneth smirked. “Well, just keep doing what you’re doing, and watch your ass. Sounds like he’ll be coming to you.”

  Walt Kirkabee began to collect the photographs. “Ron was reporting directly to you, Mr. Woodley. We—and I mean the agency—we had no information for the police when they came to us about Ron’s murder. We had to refer them to you.”

  Kenneth drained his martini glass. “Yeah? So? Tell me something I don’t know.”

  The detective shrugged. “Well, I was about to ask you that same thing. Is there something we don’t know? You told the police that Ron wasn’t having any luck tracking down your wife and son. But you have me staking out this Hannah Doyle woman, and half the time I’m watching her from a parking lot where my predecessor was murdered. You withheld information from the police, Mr. Woodley. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I didn’t tell the cops about Hannah Doyle because I wanted to come here and personally nail her ass. You’ve been hired to help me do that, Sherlock. I’m paying you top dollar.” Kenneth leaned forward. “If you’re too chickenshit for the job, just say the word and I’ll ship your ass back to Milwaukee and hire a private detective with some balls.”

  He videotaped the private detective and his client as they stepped outside Ray’s Boathouse restaurant. The client didn’t look too happy. He was talking to the detective, stabbing the air with his finger to make a point. Frowning, the detective nodded, then retreated toward his car.

  At the restaurant entrance, the client pulled out a cell phone and made a call. Meanwhile, the detective pulled out of the large parking lot. Some detective. Apparently he had no idea he was being watched.

  Neither did the client, who ducked back inside the restaurant.

  He waited patiently in the shadows between a parked RV and some bushes. This close to the water, the night air was cool and smelled of fish. He watched people come and go. Someone else was meeting the client. Smart money was on the blonde who arrived by taxi forty minutes after he’d made that cell-phone call.

  He was right, of course. An hour after the blonde had sashayed into the joint, she was stepping out with the client. She had a passing resemblance to Hannah, sort of a cheap imitation. Her hair was pinned up in the back. She wore tight silver pants, heels, and a tiny black blouse that was open in front to show off some ample cleavage.

  Obviously, the client had picked out a high-class hooker for the evening. They waited for the valet to fetch the rented sports car. The tall, brown-haired guy with the big nose was cracking these jokes, and the prostitute was laughing her head off. The client threw a few dollars at the valet; then the two of them climbed into the sleek car.

  Without running any yellow lights or making any sudden moves, he followed the sports car a few miles to a marina parking lot.

  Leaning outside the window of his car, he photographed the client and his hooker as they climbed out of the sports car. He could still hear the woman’s high-pitched laughter as they walked down the dock together.

  The client had a medium-sized yacht—two, maybe three, rooms on board—moored at the crowded dock. All was quiet this time of night—except for the girl, who kept talking and laughing as the man helped her on the deck. Then the two of them slipped down below.

  After a few minutes, he got out of his car. Video camera in tow, he skulked down the dock, past all the other boats. He approached the yacht and found a perfect spot to hide, behind a big, green-painted equipment box. From there, he had a view into the yacht’s oblong, horizontal windows. The client hadn’t bothered to pull the little shades closed.

  The video camera framed them perfectly through the first window as they sat at the galley table and did some lines of cocaine together. The blonde unbuttoned her blouse, then dabbed a little bit of cocaine on her nipple and had him lick it off. She let out that loud laugh again. The client kissed her neck, and tried to kiss her on the lips, but she pulled away. Apparently she didn’t do that with her johns.

  The camera caught them moving into the next room, where the man peeled off his shirt. He sat her down on the built-in sofa bed. She seemed to stumble a little, or perhaps she was resisting. It was hard to tell. But their movements were clumsy. She stepped out of her heels, then unfastened the top of her silver pants. He started pulling them off, and she gave him a playful little kick, pushing him away. He grabbed her pants again, and—almost violently—yanked them off her legs. She laughed, and quickly wriggled out of her black panties.

  The camera zoomed in, lovingly moving up and down her nude body. The client advanced toward her, and she teasingly pushed him away again with her foot. She reached across the sofa for her bag, then pulled out a condom and waved it at him.

  He swatted it out of her hand. She looked stunned for a second, then started to chuckle. But he reeled back and slapped her across the face.

  She banged her head against the wall in back of the sofa bed. She seemed dazed. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her down to the cushions. She let out a shriek. He smacked her across the face once more—this time with the back of his hand.

  The camera zoomed in again, catching her startled, horrified expression. He stopped looking through the viewer for a moment to check around him. He was certain others on the water heard her cries. But he didn’t see any lights go on inside the boats. No one came topside to look for the source of the screams. From his spot by the equipment box, he was able to keep taping for the next ten minutes.

  The client never had intercourse with her. But at one point, when he had his hand on her throat and seemed to be choking the life out of her, he masturbated.

  While she got dressed, he brought her some ice for her face, then pulled eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the money.

  The last shot captured that night was of the blonde, the cheap imitation of Hannah, looking shaken and dazed. Despite the ice application, her face was already a bit swollen.

  She wobbled a bit as she walked up the dock to a waiting taxi. It was a great last shot before the fade-out.

  Hannah knew she had another long night ahead waiting for sleep to come. The digital clock on her nightstand read 1:49. Ben had probably nodded off already. He was on the sofa again—just down the hall. They’d said good night about forty-five minutes ago, awkwardly shaking hands.

  He’d spent the day staking out Paul Gulletti. He’d watched him step out for Sunday brunch with his wife. Then, Paul went to his office at the newspaper. He emerged almost three hours later and went to a Starbucks, where he sat at a cafe table. He was met there by a younger man with long, red hair pulled back in a ponytail. The younger man carried a camera or binoculars in a case that hung from a strap over his shoulder. Paul gave him some money. Ben was too far away to see how much cash was exchanged.

  He told Hannah it was the only encounter he’d witnessed today that raised his interest. “Paul could have owed this guy a couple of bucks. I don’t know,” Ben had admitted. “But those bills could have been hundreds, too. And the red-haired guy carried this camera case. Maybe he’s working for Paul. You said some stranger was videotaping you last Thursday night at about the time class started. Maybe this was the guy.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”

  One thing they were both sure about: the video-killer wasn’t working alone. Someone else had been driving that Subaru station wagon when shots were fired from the passenger
window at Ben’s apartment.

  They had a long talk while she cooked a spaghetti dinner. They ate at her kitchen counter—by candlelight, no less. But the conversation was far from romantic.

  Ben had never been in Paul’s office at the college. He asked her if Paul kept video equipment and cassette tapes there.

  Nodding, Hannah dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Paul has all sorts of stuff in that office. Why? What are you thinking?”

  “Maybe I can get in there and take a look around,” Ben said, reaching for his glass of Merlot. “In the meantime, you’re working beside Seth at the store tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. He started there today.”

  “Keep pumping him about the professor,” Ben said. “And watch out for Seth, too. There’s something I don’t like about that guy.”

  “Seth?” Hannah said.

  “Yeah, him and his roommate.”

  She laughed. “They’re just a couple of kids.”

  “So were Leopold and Loeb.”

  “You saw where they live,” Hannah pointed out. “Not exactly deluxe accommodations. Whoever is behind these murders has a lot of money and leisure time. The work on that Goodbar tape was very professional. High production values. It was made by someone who can afford expensive video equipment and state-of-the-art editing machines. Those two guys couldn’t even afford a maid.”

  “Just the same, I don’t trust him,” Ben argued, pushing his plate away. “He’s suddenly taking this job where he’ll be working beside you all day. That bugs me.”

  Hannah figured maybe Ben was a little jealous—or just protective. Either way, she kind of liked it.

  They had another faux “family night.” After the candlelit dinner, he read a story to Guy, who was crazy for him. When she and Ben were alone together again, he told her what had happened with his wife.

  At around the time Rae Palmer’s e-mails to Ben were reporting the first murder, he got a call from a Mrs. Lyle Seidell. Her husband had just dropped dead of a heart attack, and did Ben know that Lyle had been screwing a certain Mrs. Jennifer Podowski for the last three months?

  While his wife was grieving for her dead lover, Ben kept hearing from Rae, who begged him to come to Seattle. Ben decided to leave Jennifer alone with her grief. Every tear she shed was a jab to his heart. At the time, his friend seemed more worth rescuing than his marriage.

  As far as Hannah was concerned, this Jennifer sounded like a jerk. But she tried to remain quietly impartial as Ben told his story. Besides, once he found Rae’s killer, he planned to go back to Jennifer and work things out.

  In the meantime, Hannah was playing house with Ben Podowski. All through the evening she’d had to keep fighting her attraction to him. Lying there, alone in bed, she told herself that she couldn’t afford to get involved. She was leaving Seattle herself—very soon.

  Small wonder she couldn’t sleep.

  She wanted a glass of water. Or maybe that was just an excuse, giving herself permission to walk through the living room and check on him. Still, she was thirsty.

  Hannah threw back the covers, climbed out of bed, and donned her robe. She felt butterflies in her stomach. The truth was, she wanted something to happen.

  Unconsciously fussing with her hair, she tiptoed down the hallway to the living room. She peered around the corner. The couch had been vacated. The sheets were still in a tangle across the sofa cushion. She reached for the end-table lamp; then she looked toward the window and froze.

  Ben stood against the wall, by the edge of the curtains. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of jeans he must have put on hastily. The front snap was still open. He shook his head at her, then put a finger to his lips.

  Hannah didn’t understand at first. Then she saw the silhouette on the other side of the curtains. At the half inch where the drapes didn’t quite meet, someone was trying to peek inside.

  Hannah gasped and accidentally knocked over the lamp. It fell to the floor with a crash.

  The figure outside reeled back from the window, then raced toward the stairwell.

  Ben headed out after him. “Stay inside,” he told Hannah. “Lock the door.” He ran down the balcony walkway, and ducked into the stairwell.

  Hannah watched him from the doorway. Then she retreated inside, closed the door, and locked it. Stepping over the broken lamp, she hurried down the hall and checked in on Guy. Miraculously, he was still asleep.

  Hannah went back to the living room and opened the curtains. She watched and waited for Ben. With every passing minute, she grew more and more anxious. She couldn’t help thinking that Ben had been set up, lured outside for his execution. But she would have gotten a video first, a coming attraction for Ben’s death. Then again, maybe all bets were off, now that their last attempt on his life had failed.

  Hannah cleaned up the broken lamp, hoping the time would go by faster. It occurred to her that while she was inside waiting for him, Ben could be hurt. She pictured him lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of those cement stairs. She struggled with the idea of going out there and looking for him. But she didn’t dare leave Guy alone.

  Suddenly, she heard a soft tapping on the door. Hannah glanced out the window. To her utter relief, it was Ben. She flung open the door.

  “I lost him,” Ben announced, out of breath.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  Hannah embraced him, almost collapsing in his arms. She touched his hairy chest, and felt his heart pounding. Her heart was racing, too.

  Ben stoked her hair, then stepped back. “I didn’t get a good look at the guy,” he said. “I was trying to catch a glimpse of him when you came in.”

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I screwed it up, knocking over the damn lamp.”

  Ben locked the door again. “He must have used the second floor and taken the back stairs down. I searched everywhere—including the basement. I think he’s gone.”

  Hannah stood near the door. She touched his arm. She was still trembling. “Well, can I—get you anything?”

  “No, I’m okay,” he said, scratching his head. “I don’t think I’ll fall asleep again right away, but I might as well give it a try.”

  “Ben…” She hesitated.

  “Maybe you ought to try getting some sleep yourself,” he suggested. He closed the curtains. “You have work in the morning. I’ll be okay out here. You shouldn’t stay up. That guy’s not coming back.” He tried to smile at her. “Nothing more is going to happen tonight, Hannah.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. Nothing is going to happen.”

  Hannah started back toward her bedroom. She never did get her glass of water.

  Sixteen

  It was nine-twenty, and only a handful of students still lingered around the third-floor lounge area. The windows on one side had a sweeping view of the Seattle skyline, brightly lit against the cloudy night. Most of the classes were out, and the hallways seemed deserted. Paul Gulletti’s Monday evening class had ended at seven-thirty. But he was still in his office—just down the hall.

  The alcove where Hannah and Ben were hiding couldn’t be seen from the hallway. It was tucked behind a corner, partially concealed by the lounge’s vending machines and pay phones. The little niche had room for only a couple of sofa-chairs. Hannah sat in one while Ben stood guard. He peered around the corner, past the vending machines and down the hallway.

  For the last two hours, they’d been waiting. Ben had stolen a master key from one the janitors. He’d told her about his discovery of a maintenance-crew lounge and locker room in the basement. This morning, he’d followed one of the night crew janitors down there, then “borrowed” his key ring while he was in the shower. A green plastic doodad around the base of one key set it apart from all the others on the ring. Ben had figured it must be the master. He’d tested it on a few basement doors and it had worked. Ben replaced the key ring before the janitor had finished his shower. Later, the key got him into every
office and classroom he’d tried. Ben figured the custodian probably wouldn’t realize his master key was missing until tomorrow.

  “You’re pretty good at following people around, aren’t you?” Hannah had said when he’d told her about stealing the key. “I certainly had no idea when you were watching me.”

  She was a bit irritated with him today. This morning, they’d been eating breakfast together when Joyce had shown up. She pulled Hannah aside. “Wow. He sure is cute,” she whispered. “You hold onto him.”

  But holding onto him was impossible. Hannah had gone off to work feeling horribly depressed. And it wasn’t just Ben either. It was everything. She couldn’t stop thinking about Britt, and what she might have done to prevent her death. She hated leaving Guy’s side while he was sick—and while this maniac was out there. Hell, she hated constantly looking over her shoulder. And as much as she had to, she dreaded having to run away again, starting over in a new city with a new name.

  At the video store, her plans to obtain more information from Seth went down the drain. Paul’s assistant wasn’t working at the store today.

  Later, when Ben came by to tell her that he had the key to Paul’s office, Hannah insisted on coming with him. Ben had never been in Paul’s office. He wouldn’t know what to search for. He’d never met Cindy Finkelston, Lester Hall, or Britt. Hannah was the one who would recognize possible souvenirs from those killings.

  From the store that afternoon, she’d called Joyce, saying she wouldn’t be home until after eight. But now it was nearly nine-thirty, and they hadn’t even started searching Paul’s office yet.

  “So what do you think?” Hannah asked Ben while she dug some change out of her purse. “Did he fall asleep in there, or what? I better call Joyce again.” She got to her feet. “Huh. You’d think one of us would own a cell phone.”

  Ben peeked around the corner. “Coast is clear.”

  Hannah stepped up to the pay phone and dialed home.