“Jesus Christ,” Ben muttered. “You’re delusional. Haven’t you listened to a word I’m saying?”
Kenneth nodded to his private detective, then got to his feet. Kirkabee gathered up the photographs.
“You’re the one who’s going to listen to me,” Kenneth whispered, leaning over the table. “Next time you fuck that bitch, it’ll be a conjugal visit in a federal penitentiary. So long, doofus.”
The two men headed for the front door. Ben threw a few dollars on the table, then hurried out after them. A gust of cold night air hit him. The restaurant was right on the water. Kenneth and the private investigator were walking ahead, winding toward the parking garage on the land side.
“Are you actually going to press charges against her?” Ben called out. He caught up with them. “Do you want it coming out in court that you beat the hell out of that woman? She ran away to protect herself—and her son.”
Kenneth whispered something to Kirkabee. They stopped and turned to look at him in front of the garage entrance.
“No jury would convict her,” Ben continued. “There are hospital records. She’s got scars. I’ve seen them. Listen, she’s willing to meet with you on Saturday and talk this out. You’ll have a chance to see your son—”
“Shut him up,” Kenneth muttered to his private investigator.
All at once, Kirkabee slammed his fist across Ben’s jaw.
Ben reeled back against the garage wall. The searing pain rushed over his face. He was blinded, and for a moment all he saw was white. But he heard Kenneth say “I’ll see my son tonight. As for Hannah, she might just chalk up another stay in the hospital.”
Ben felt someone step behind him and grab his arms with a talonlike grip. Still blinded by the sucker punch, he tried to struggle. He had just started to see again when Kenneth Woodley came into focus. He slapped Ben across the face with the back of his hand. Then he stepped forward and shoved his knee up into Ben’s groin.
“Let him go,” he grumbled.
Ben collapsed to the pavement. He couldn’t breathe. Lying on his side, he curled up in a fetal position. He watched Kenneth Woodley and his detective friend heading back toward the water, down to the marina.
He realized one of the boats docked outside the restaurant was theirs.
Ben finally caught a breath, and then another. Lifting his head from the pavement, he felt something warm trickling down his face. He realized his mouth and nose were bleeding. He pulled himself up and staggered a few feet until the dizziness overpowered him. He grabbed onto a post and tried to focus on Kenneth Woodley and the private investigator.
They were on the deck of a yacht, with Woodley at the helm, barking orders at Kirkabee. They started to move away from the dock.
“NO! DON’T!” Ben yelled.
Frustrated and helpless, Ben watched the boat arc around the restaurant toward the open water.
He backtracked toward the garage and ran through the parking lot near the marina. He tried to follow the course of Kenneth’s yacht as it glided across the silver-black water. He figured they must have been headed for another dock off Lake Union.
Ben didn’t try to call to them. They were too far away. But he could still see Kenneth at the wheel and Kirkabee sitting near him, pulling at the rope lines. Ben could see the white and blue sail starting to ascend against the dark horizon.
Then he saw the flash, the first spark.
The explosion seemed to light up the sky. Flames and debris shot fifty feet in the air. Smoke plumes belched from the center of the yacht.
Ben’s ears rang from the loud detonation, yet he thought he heard a bloodcurdling scream. He saw someone aboard what was left of that yacht, and the man was on fire. It might have been Kenneth. Ben wasn’t certain. That burning, flailing figure was like a ghost amid the flames.
A second blast ripped through the boat, tearing the scorched, sinking vessel into pieces—along with its two passengers.
Twenty
Hannah hadn’t expected to cry.
But after Ben had called from a gas station and told her about the boat explosion, she hung up the phone and burst into tears. She kept wondering why she was crying over the death of someone who had made her so miserable for so many years. Kenneth was a son of a bitch, but she hadn’t wanted him to die.
Maybe she was crying for herself—for the poor, stupid waitress/actress who had just lost her father, and who had fallen for a cocky, charming man she’d known was all wrong for her. She’d had such great hopes back then, such potential. Perhaps Hannah was finally allowing herself to mourn for that young woman, and everything Kenneth Woodley had done to her. Whatever the reason, she wept for almost an hour, stepping out to the balcony much of the time so Guy wouldn’t hear.
Ben came back around eight o’clock. Hannah gasped at the sight of him. One side of his handsome face was swollen, and his shirt was splattered with blood.
While he was washing up, Hannah went into Guy’s room and told him that Ben had fallen off a bicycle. That didn’t stop Guy from cringing—then crying—when he saw Ben’s battered face a few minutes later. Ben stayed with him a while and managed to calm him down.
Hannah retreated to the kitchen, where she warmed up some of her macaroni and cheese souffle. She also loaded two Ziploc bags full of ice; one for Ben’s face, and the other to assuage the pain from a strike below the belt. Typical Kenneth.
“He’s sleeping,” Ben announced, coming from the hallway. He winced a bit as he sat down at the counter.
“Here,” Hannah said, handing him the impromptu ice bags. “One’s for your face, and the other one’s for your—whatevers.”
“My whatevers thank you,” Ben said, putting one ice bag between his legs, then holding the other to his jaw. “I tried that choo-choo-train routine with Guy, the one you do to help him fall asleep. And it worked. He’s really sweet, Hannah. Rest assured, there’s none of his dad in him.”
Hannah removed a saucepan from the burner. “I have vegetables steaming,” she said. “They need a few more minutes. I’ll get lost, go clean the bathroom or something. Why don’t you call your wife?”
“Did Jennifer call here?”
“No,” Hannah said. “But you should call her. She helped you set up that meeting. She knows it was dangerous. She’s probably worried.”
“You don’t mind?” he asked.
She took the cordless phone out of its cradle and handed it to him. “Call her.”
Hannah headed down the hallway. She went into Guy’s room and tidied up while he slept. She could hear Ben talking on the phone, but tried not to listen. In a strange way, she was glad he hadn’t thought to call his wife. It gave her a chance to be noble. After playing house with Ben Podowski for the last two nights, this was a good reality check for both of them.
Still, a couple of minutes later, as she tossed some things in the bathroom hamper, Hannah couldn’t help catching part of his conversation with Jennifer.
“No, I can’t,” Ben was saying. “Not for few more days. It could even be a few more weeks…. No, she’s leaving town very soon, but I need to stay. I’m involved in this now…. I’ll know more later. Either way, I can’t leave, honey…. Well, I know, but I’m not going anywhere until I find out who’s responsible for Rae…. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Get some sleep, honey. Thanks again—for everything.”
Hannah felt a little tug at her heart. She’d wanted a reality check, but hearing him call Jennifer “honey” was a little too real.
Clearing her throat, Hannah started up the hallway. She turned the corner in time to see Ben put down the cordless phone.
“You were right,” he sighed. “Jennifer said she was freaking out over this meeting. She was hoping I’d call.”
Hannah walked around to the other side of the counter. “It’s nice to have someone to worry about you at times,” she said, serving up his dinner. She set the plate in front of him. “Think you can chew without it hurting?”
“I’ll give
it a try,” he said, putting aside the ice bag and picking up his fork. “Thanks, Hannah. This looks great.”
She poured each of them a glass of wine. “After all the phoning and e-mailing back and forth, now there’s this boat explosion. They’re going to think I arranged it.” Hannah sighed. “How much time do you think we have before the police are banging on that door?”
“There wasn’t much left of the boat,” Ben said, frowning. “It might take a few hours to connect the yacht to Kenneth—and then to Kirkabee. Chances are pretty good Kirkabee already gave his agency your name and address, Hannah.” He took a sip of wine. “My guess is we might be okay here tonight. But you’d be pushing your luck to stay on any longer than noon tomorrow.”
“God,” she murmured. “Everything’s closing in at the same time.” Hannah reached on top of the refrigerator, where she’d stashed the photos Paul Gulletti had given her. She set them near Ben’s plate. “I think these pictures mean he’s very close to killing me.”
Ben studied the pictures.
“Paul came by tonight and delivered those,” Hannah said. “He found them on his desk this morning—”
“You let him in while you were alone here with Guy?” Ben asked. “Hannah, you shouldn’t have taken a chance like that—”
“I don’t think it’s Paul,” she cut in. “He told me about the photos we found in his desk. Someone has been leaving those pictures for him in weird places—under his office door, in his coat pocket. It’s a pattern. First come the candid shots of the girl; then, a day or two later, the pictures from a movie murder. And after that, it happens for real—to the girl in the candids.”
“So why didn’t he call the police?” Ben asked.
“He’s married, Ben. He’s afraid. He was involved with the first two victims.”
“So you think it’s Seth?”
She frowned. “I want to read this essay he wrote for Paul. Maybe I can figure out his way of thinking. I have a hunch the other murders—those two rude customers, Ronald Craig and Britt, Kenneth and the other private detective, even the attempt on your life—I have a feeling those people were killed as part of some weird manipulative game he was playing with me.”
“I don’t understand,” Ben said, putting the ice pack on his cheek again.
“I think the explanation might be in this essay Seth wrote and Paul ripped off. It’s in a book called Darkness, Light, and Shadow. Paul said he’d try to get me a copy.”
“I don’t think you’ll have time for that, Hannah. You need to leave here tomorrow.”
Hannah started to refill his wineglass.
Ben shook his head. “No more for me, thanks,” he said. “In fact, I could use some coffee—if you don’t mind making it. I need to step out again.”
“Where are you going?”
He glanced at his wristwatch. “There’s still another hour of class. Seth won’t be home for a while. His roommate could be out, too. This might be a good time to take a look at that garage apartment of his. Maybe Seth has a copy of the book you’re talking about.”
Ben lowered the ice bag from his face. “And I’d also like to check out his collection of home videos.”
He stopped to catch his breath as he stood in front of the Tudor estate on Aloha Street. Ben started down the long driveway toward the garage. He could see his breath in the cold night air. Most of the trees surrounding the estate had lost their leaves already, and the old mansion seemed rather sinister against the indigo sky. There was a light in one of the upstairs windows, but it didn’t look like anybody was home. It was so deathly quiet, he could hear the wind whistling through those naked trees.
All at once, a dog started barking. Ben froze for a moment. He glanced over at the main house. A light went on over the front door, and Ben quickly ducked into some bushes at the side of the driveway. The dog’s incessant yelping continued.
Ben waited, and watched the front of the house. After a couple of minutes, the dog finally shut up. Ben crept out of the bushes, but then two cars—one after another—sped down Aloha Street. He almost jumped back into the shrubbery, yet his feet stayed rooted on the pavement.
Ben made his way down the driveway, hovering close to the bushes. He studied the darkened windows on the side of the house. He kept expecting to see a figure standing in one of them—or perhaps a curtain moving. But he didn’t notice anything.
In the mansion’s shadow, the garage area was dark. Ben glanced over his shoulder at the back of the house. He saw lights in three of the upstairs windows, but no sign of life.
He grabbed hold of the stairway bannister on the side of the garage. “Shit,” he muttered. Small wonder Seth didn’t break his neck going up and down the rickety stairs in the dark.
Each step squeaked as Ben made his way toward the landing at the apartment’s entry. It was too much to hope for an unlocked door, but he tried it anyway. No luck. Pulling his credit card from his wallet, he worked it around the lock area. He thought a burglar alarm might go off at any moment, but apparently Seth and his roommate felt they had nothing worth stealing.
Ben gave up and put his Visa back in his wallet. He stopped to stare at a window about three feet from the other side of the landing’s bannister. It had been left open a crack.
He moved over to the edge of the landing, then threw one leg over the railing. The bannister let out a loud creak. As Ben tried to grab at the windowsill, he felt the railing give way beneath him. He quickly pulled back and braced against the door.
Another car sped by on Aloha Street, and for a moment its headlights swept across the driveway, down toward the garage.
Shaken, Ben didn’t move. He peered back at the house again. It occurred to him that they were probably used to a certain amount of noise back here. Two single men in their twenties lived in this garage apartment. The two roommates probably came and went at all hours. How many times had they locked themselves out? Or did they have an extra key someplace?
Ben reached up for the ledge above the doorway, patting the length of it. Nothing. And there wasn’t a key under the doormat. Frowning, Ben glanced down the stairs. By the bottom step was a flowerpot with a dead plant in it.
He crept down the creaky stairs. Each squeak underfoot seemed amplified in the still night. He finally reached the bottom of the stairs. He moved aside the heavy flowerpot, and found a key.
Skulking back up the steps, Ben prayed the key would open Seth’s door.
It worked.
The apartment was warm, and a bit smelly—like a poorly vented locker room: sweat, testosterone, and dirty clothes. Closing the door behind him, Ben waited for a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
He stood in the living room. A newspaper was strewn on one end of the Salvation Army sofa, and a couple of beer cans littered the coffee table, along with copies of Premiere magazine and Entertainment Weekly.
Ben saw a stack of videos by the TV. He checked the boxes. Six videos had Emerald City Video labels on them, and two of these were porn movies. There were store-bought, slightly beat-up copies of Goodfellas and Apocalypse Now. Three unlabeled videos rounded out his collection.
Peering out the window, Ben checked the house and the driveway. He decided to take a chance, and switched on one of the living-room lamps. He had stay low now; he couldn’t afford to be seen in the window. He switched on the TV and turned the volume to mute.
Popping the first unlabeled video into the VCR, Ben wasn’t sure what he’d see; perhaps some surveillance of Hannah, or maybe Rae’s death, or even someone else’s murder.
What Ben saw was an old Seinfeld rerun. He pressed fast-forward, then stopped in several places on the tape. All he came up with were a couple of other old sitcoms and part of a Saturday Night Live.
Ben found more of the same with the other two unlabeled tapes. He spent over a half hour reviewing them. But he didn’t just watch the TV. He also checked the brick-and-board bookshelf for more videos and the book Hannah had wanted. No luck. He unearthed an
envelope full of photos, but none of Hannah or Rae; no surveillance shots. They were snapshots of Seth and his roommate—on a hike with some other guys, and at the beach with a cute girl who seemed to be the roommate’s girlfriend. Ben also searched the front hall closet and kitchen cabinets, but he didn’t find anything.
Switching off the television, he went into the bedroom. There was only one bed for the two of them. Ben didn’t think they were gay. The porn tapes from the store indicated that the two roommates weren’t lovers. And if there was any room for doubt, when Ben checked under the bed, he uncovered several Playboy and Hustler magazines. He figured one of the guys must sleep on the sofa.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was past ten-twenty. Seth might be home at any minute.
Still, Ben kept looking—in the dresser drawers, the closet, and the built-in linen cabinet in the bathroom. If Seth Stroud had a secret collection of videos, camera equipment, and photographs, they weren’t here in this apartment.
Ben switched off the overhead in the bathroom, then returned to the living room. All at once, a beam of light swept through the windows. Ben heard a car.
He quickly ducked down. He could hear loose gravel and pebbles crunching under tires as the car came up the drive. His heart racing, he stayed crouched near the floor. There was no other way out, except for those stairs. He’d break his neck if he tried to climb out the bedroom window.
The dog started barking again.
Ben could hear muted music on the car radio, some oldies station; then the engine stopped purring. The headlights died. A car door clicked open. Then another door.
“Well, I don’t want to walk him,” a woman was saying. The car door shut. “Besides, Kaiser will only do a number two for you, honey.”
“Yeah, I bring out the best in him,” the husband replied. Another door shut. “You don’t suppose Phoebe or Chad walked him, do you?”
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