The man stood at the end of the pier, gazing down at the lake for only a moment. He threw the stone into the drink. Then he turned and hurried toward the path they'd taken down together.
Chloe recoiled behind the shrubs as he strode past her. She tried to keep perfectly still. He pulled the small flashlight from his other blazer pocket. She could hear him breathing hard, and then his footsteps on the stone path, and bushes rustling.
Chloe's shook horribly as she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. She shucked off the heavy raincoat and started to hobble toward the pier. The operator finally answered.
"Yes, hello," Chloe said, out of breath. "I'm at--at Alder Hill Road Beach. It's a private beach, and I just saw this guy hit a woman over the head and throw her into the lake. I think he might have killed her..."
"All right, ma'am," the operator said. "Could you give me your name and the address you're calling from?"
Glancing over her shoulder, Chloe saw the lone pinpoint of light moving back up the dark hillside forest. "My name is Chloe Finch, and I told you, I'm at a private beach on Alder Hill Road. Listen, the guy's getting away. You need to send someone here as soon as possible. This woman's going to need an ambulance..."
She raced to the end of the pier, and spotted the woman a few yards away, floating facedown in the silvery water. Her naked back looked so white. The wet red dress--bunched around her waist--seemed to be pulling her down. "Oh, God, I see her," Chloe gasped into the phone. "Please...please, hurry!"
Tossing aside the cell phone, she dove off the end of the pier and furiously swam out to the unconscious woman. Flipping her over, Chloe cupped her hand under her chin and started paddling toward shore. She couldn't tell if the woman was still breathing. Her eyes remained closed; her lids didn't even flutter. The lake water splashed away blood from the gash in her forehead--but only temporarily. It didn't look like the bleeding would stop.
Once she reached the shallow water, Chloe grabbed the lifeless woman under the arms and then dragged her to the sandy shore. Her wet, limp body was heavy. Frazzled, Chloe could hardly get a breath.
She rolled the woman onto her stomach, and repeatedly pushed at her lower back. "C'mon, c'mon..." Chloe whispered. "Please..."
At last, she heard a choking sound, and the woman stirred. She started to cough up water. Chloe was still shaking as she turned the woman over. Her wet blond hair was swept across her face, mingling with sand and blood. She gasped for air and coughed again.
Chloe held her head in her lap. The woman was shivering, and Chloe pulled the top of her dress up to cover her. Then she quickly unbuttoned her own wet short-sleeve shirt. She wrung it out and applied it to the gash on the woman's forehead.
Catching her breath, she could hear a siren in the distance. "It's okay," she said to the woman. "There's an ambulance on the way..."
Chloe didn't realize it then, but she'd been right about that man and this woman. Together, they'd thrown a cog in her grand exit plan.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"I don't get it," Eli said from the backseat of Aidan's rental car. "Why can't I go to Chicago with you?"
Sydney glanced over her shoulder at him from the front passenger seat. "I told you, honey. I'm coming right back tomorrow night. This is not a leisure trip. I did all I could to wiggle out of this, but they need me to cover this story. I'm going directly from the airport to meet with the crew, and tonight, I'm meeting this Chloe person. I won't have time to take you around anyplace."
"This woman must be a real fan of your Movers and Shakers stories," Aidan said, his hands on the steering wheel. He smiled at her. "She won't talk to any other reporter but you?"
Sydney nodded. "So they tell me. Only I think she's more a fan from my figure-skating days." She noticed Aidan's smile wane, and realized he indeed still felt responsible for the abrupt end of her career on the ice. She reached over and patted his arm. "You're really sweet to chauffeur us around like this--with all you have going on today. Thanks, Aidan."
"So why can't I stay with Dad while you're working?" Eli piped up.
"Because I have to catch a 10:22 flight, which the network booked for me," she replied. "And your dear mother doesn't have the thousand bucks they'll charge for your last-minute overnight trip to Chicago, sweetie."
It had been a crazy morning with the phone ringing at 6:20. Sydney hadn't caught much sleep at all. She'd had another bout of Internet browsing and going through her Movers & Shakers files again. Of the twenty-eight video shorts she'd filmed last year, eight had focused on someone who had saved another person's life. Four of those people had met gruesome deaths within the last two weeks. Of the four others, she could discount her profile on an army private, Justin O'Rourke. He'd already been dead for a week when she'd put together the story about Justin throwing himself on top of a grenade to save his buddies during an insurgent assault in Iraq.
That left three people. Sydney scribbled down a list:
--Eric Ryan, 11, saved friend's younger brother, Eddie Kelly, when he fell down a well. Clinton, Iowa: Contact: Susan Ryan (mom): 563-555-0505
[email protected].
--Beth Costello, 34, stopped to help stroke victim lying on downtown Chicago sidewalk--moved to Paris for work 2 months ago (& how could you inflict a stroke on someone anyway?).
E-mail just in case: [email protected].
--Roseann Fann, 72, returning from swing shift @ rest home @ 4 AM, saw wrecked burning car, called 911, and then pulled man from car, did CPR & saved life.
Milwaukee, WI: Rosie: 414-555-3641
[email protected].
Sydney e-mailed the three of them individually. She didn't want to frighten them, but she also didn't want to hear tomorrow that Eric broke his neck falling down a well or that Roseann died in a fiery car crash. She figured Beth was probably safe, since she was out of the country. But why take any chances? "Recently, I've received some death threats," she wrote in her note to each one. "A few of my Movers & Shakers subjects were mentioned by name in these alarming e-mails. Your name wasn't among them. But I just want to alert you about this situation and advise you to be on your guard for the next few days. I hope I'm overreacting here, but I'd rather err on the side of caution..."
While rifling through the scores of Movers & Shakers files and pouring over her notes, Sydney resisted the temptation to have another glass of merlot and stuck to sparkling water instead. She also avoided the living room. She could hear Aidan snoring lightly in there.
Every few minutes, she glanced at the clock and thought about Kyle on this date with this guy he barely knew. How well had Troy Bischoff known the man who had strangled him? She left yet another message on her brother's answering machine.
Kyle finally called her at around 3 A.M. He'd had a terrific date with Dan, with whom he'd gotten to second base. Sydney wasn't sure what second base on a gay date was, and she didn't ask. She told her brother about Troy Bischoff's death, and how she'd realized this killer was targeting heroes. Kyle offered to come over, saying she and Eli shouldn't be alone. Then she told him about Aidan spending the night. "I think we're okay for now," she said. "I'm hoping this detective in New York calls me back in the morning. Maybe they'll have a name from the credit card at Kinko's. Then we can let the police solve this. The sooner we can drop this in the lap of the law, the better off I'll feel."
But the phone call at 6:20 in the morning wasn't from Detective Peary. It was from the network news division. A big story was brewing in Chicago. Handsome Derrick De Santo, thirty-three, was the new husband of prominent socialite and heir to meatpacking millions, Abigail Wayland, thirty-eight. Sydney remembered how they were always photographed and written up in the Chicago newspapers and magazines. She remembered the gossip that dashing Derrick was a fortune hunter, and Abigail was a birdbrain for marrying him. There were even rumors Derrick was gay, rumors that would soon be put to rest, because on a seemingly deserted beach in Evanston at approximately 2:15 Central time that Tuesday morning, Derri
ck slammed a rock against the forehead of his newly pregnant girlfriend, Lenora Swayne, and then threw her into Lake Michigan. Derrick had no idea Chloe Finch, a thirty-one-year-old admissions manager at Northwestern University, was on that same beach watching his every move. She'd saved Lenora from drowning, and her 9-1-1 call had prompted a police dispatch to Alder Hill Road. That was where patrolmen detained Derrick De Santo, leaving the scene in the vintage Porsche Spyder his wife had recently bought for him on their one-year anniversary.
It had all the earmarks of becoming the story of the year, but none of the principal players were talking: not Abigail, not Derrick--not even through his high-priced attorneys--and not Lenora, who was rushed to Northwestern University Hospital for emergency treatment. As for Chloe Finch, she would talk to only one reporter, Sydney Jordan.
"Apparently, she read your autobiography when she was a teenager," the network news executive had explained to Sydney at 6:20 this morning. "She's been a fan ever since your figure-skating days."
"But I'm not a hard-news reporter," Sydney had argued.
"So do it like a Movers and Shakers piece, whatever you want. This is great publicity for you, Sydney, and quite frankly, you could use it. Everyone is dying to talk to this woman, and you're the only one she'll see. Now, we've booked you on a 10:22 flight out of SeaTac..."
But first she had to drop Eli at her brother's place.
Aidan turned down the hillside dead-end street where Kyle's tall town house loomed over trees and bushes. It was set apart from the other houses. Sydney felt bad foisting her son on Kyle today, when he had a brunch date with this Dan person. She knew Eli wasn't happy with her either.
As they pulled into his driveway, Kyle emerged from the house in a sports shirt and khaki shorts. He had a cup of coffee in his hand. With a crooked smile, he raised his cup as if to toast their arrival and then sipped from it.
Eli thanked Aidan and climbed out of the car first. Sydney heard Kyle tell him that he'd set up a video game on TV for him, and Eli ran inside the house.
"I'm sorry I can't take you to the airport," Aidan told her. "Quarter after nine was the only time this funeral home would see me today, and they're up in Lynnwood."
"Please, don't apologize," Sydney said. "With everything you're going through right now, it's really kind of you to take us here. I hope we can get together again when I'm back in town."
He nodded. "I'd really like that."
She started to open the car door, but he put his hand on her shoulder. "Sydney, before you go, I--I need to apologize for last night. That was really dumb of me when I--you know, when I asked if you'd kiss me good night. I was tired--and maybe a little tipsy from the wine. Anyway, it was inappropriate."
She worked up a smile. "That's okay. I didn't take you too seriously."
He just nodded, then climbed out of the car and retrieved her small suitcase from the trunk. He set it down beside her as she stepped out of the car.
"Thanks, Aidan," she said. "Thanks for everything." She gave him an awkward hug. For a moment, she thought he might try to kiss her. But he didn't.
He gently pulled away and retreated toward the rental car. At his door, he hesitated. "Sydney? For the record, I was serious last night--inappropriate and clumsy, but very serious."
Before she could say anything, he ducked into the car and closed the door.
"Who's the Greek God, and does he come in Homo?" Kyle asked as Aidan backed the car out of the driveway. "Don't tell me that's little Aidan Cosgrove."
Sydney nodded. "All growed-up." She turned to her brother and sighed. "I'm sorry to screw up your brunch plans with this potential new love interest."
"Don't worry about it. I scratched you off my shit list. When I phoned Dan to cancel, he'd just gotten a call himself, a family emergency. He needs to go to Portland. But he's coming over first." Kyle sipped his coffee. "In fact, he should be here any minute. He offered to drive you to the airport."
"Well, that's great, thanks." She peered inside Kyle's open front door. She could hear the video game going at a loud volume upstairs. "Do me a favor and don't let Eli out of your sight. No beach trip today, no matter how much he begs you. It's just too easy for him to get lost in the crowd there."
"Well, if I hadn't lost him for a few minutes there yesterday, I wouldn't have met Dan. But I promise you, I won't take any chances." Kyle put his hand on her back. "How are you holding up?"
"I left another message for that detective in New York. I'm hoping he'll have something for us." With a sigh, she shook her head. "I still can't figure out why this is happening, why he's targeting heroes."
Kyle leaned against the doorway. "After we talked last night, I kept thinking about that weird e-mail you received before all this started."
"'Bitch-Sydney--you can't save them?'" she said.
"From 'Second duet' or something..."
Sydney nodded. "'Second-duet-for-you,' that was his e-mail address."
"But aside from Leah and Jared, you couldn't find any other Movers and Shakers couples who have met an untimely end, right?"
"No, I didn't come up with anyone--thank God."
"When you told me about the hero angle early this morning, it got me thinking." Kyle glanced down into his coffee cup. "A couple of years ago, these two teenage girls from James Madison High School were murdered on the same day--only hours apart. And their bodies were found within a mile or two from each other, too. It happened right here in this neighborhood. Both their throats had been slit."
Sydney just stared at him. She hadn't heard anything about this.
"I don't know if it made the Chicago papers," Kyle explained, "but it was big news around here for a few days. As far as I know, they never found the guy who murdered them. Anyway, the thing of it is, the girls were heroes, Syd. One of their classmates had smuggled a gun into school, and these two girls talked him out of killing an entire class full of kids."
Sydney frowned. "But I didn't do a profile on these girls. I didn't even know them. Are you thinking this was the 'first duet'?"
"Could be," he said.
"But it doesn't follow the pattern of the other murders. I don't see how it can be related--"
"Well, maybe it was his first time at bat, and he was acting out of blind rage." Kyle shrugged. "Maybe he decided to focus all his attention on you when you moved here. You're a hero yourself, Syd. And you salute heroes in your TV segments. That makes you a prime target for someone with a hero-gripe. All this started a few weeks after you moved here, didn't it?"
Sydney nodded, but didn't say anything. She didn't see a connection between the Movers & Shakers murders and these two girls who were killed. The Movers & Shakers murderer wouldn't have slit their throats. He would have taken them into an empty classroom and shot them. And then their parents would have received flowers with a card from Sydney Jordan.
Kyle sipped his coffee again. "Maybe I'm talking out of my ass. Anyway, I thought of those dead high school girls after we talked early this morning. And like I say, they never did find who killed them." He glanced up as a red Honda Accord came down the street. "There's Dan now...."
Sydney left her suitcase outside, then ran into the house to say good-bye to Eli. He put his video game on pause while she hugged him. Sydney told him she was sorry he couldn't go to Chicago with her. She also told him she'd be back tomorrow night, and she told him to be careful and mind his uncle.
Sydney had a horrible feeling about this trip.
But she didn't tell him that.
"Goddamn it!"
Dan Spengler shoved his palm onto the steering wheel and the car horn blared. "We're in gridlock. I'm trying not to block the intersection, and this slime-bucket asshole takes a right on red!" He hit the accelerator, and the car sped forward. Sydney's hand automatically went to the dashboard as she braced herself for a potential collision.
"You lowlife weasel!" Dan screamed from his window, almost slamming into the side of the other car. He hit his horn again. "Could you b
e more of a jerk?" He glanced at Sydney. "What kind of justification does he have for pulling that kind of shit? 'I'm in a hurry?' or 'I'm just an asshole?' Wait--wait a minute. Did he just flip me the bird? I can't tell..."
The other driver had indeed given him the finger, but Sydney wasn't about to say anything. She didn't want to make Dan even angrier--if that were possible. He was a handsome man with chiseled features, blue eyes, and short, slightly receding black hair. He was also very scary--at least when he was mad. His face had turned red, and his knuckles were white as he clutched the steering wheel.
"Um, I didn't see him gesturing," Sydney lied, finally letting go of the dashboard and sitting back in the passenger seat.
"I can't get over how some people delude themselves into thinking they're nice, and then they get into traffic and act like total creeps. It just amazes me." Dan took a few deep breaths, and he laughed a little. "Well, great first impression I'm making on you, huh? I'm usually a very pleasant person, honest. But whenever I get on the road, nine times out of ten, there's some jerk driver who makes me lose it. Sorry, Sydney. I didn't scare you, did I?"
"Oh, just a little--for a minute there," she said nervously. Without a doubt, the other driver had been in the wrong, but the way Dan had reacted was unnerving. She wondered if Kyle knew about this guy's angry side.
Her cell phone went off. Sydney grabbed it out of her purse and checked the caller ID: Detective Peary's number in New York. "Do you mind if I take this?" she asked.
"Go for it," Dan said, eyes on the road.
Sydney clicked on the phone. "Hello? Detective Peary?"
"Yes. I got your messages, Ms. Jordan."
"Thank you for calling back. Did you check with the Kinko's on Seventh Avenue?"
"Yes, I followed that up. They let me see the credit card receipt for that fax you were telling me about."
"And?" Sydney said, hanging on his every word.
"Troy Bischoff is the name on the Visa card."
"Shit," Sydney murmured, closing her eyes. What made her think the killer wouldn't cover his tracks?
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