"I'm closing the book on this one, Ms. Jordan. This guy accidentally killed himself."
"Did you check to see if that Visa card is missing?" Sydney asked. "The killer could have stolen the card."
"Bischoff had a wallet full of credit cards and money in his bedroom, and lots of valuables in his apartment. Why would someone take one card and leave all the rest behind? Anyway, someone at Kinko's found his card yesterday afternoon. Looks like Bischoff forgot it there after he sent you that fax."
"Or maybe the killer left it there," Sydney offered. "Did you consider that as a possibility? Detective, this guy wouldn't have taken Troy's money, because he didn't want anyone to know he was there. He wanted it to look like Troy died alone during this kinky self-strangulation thing."
"Well, if this so-called-killer didn't want anyone to know he was there, why did he send you this fax-clue or whatever it was?" Peary didn't wait for her to answer. "Listen, Ms. Jordan, it's a clear case of death by autoerotic asphyxiation. That's the end of it. That sort of thing happens a lot more than you'd think. These perverts are always doing stuff like this to themselves. They're sick. And then they wonder why some folks can't stand them."
"What?" Sydney said sharply. "Did I just hear you right? You know, I'm a correspondent for a network TV news program--"
"I know who you are, Ms. Jordan," he replied.
"Would you like to repeat what you just said to me for the record?"
"Listen," the detective said. "I'm doing you and your program a huge favor by not dragging this out. I saw the bit you did on this guy a few months back when you made him out to be a big hero. Are you really so eager for your adoring public to know how this deviant died?"
Sydney didn't reply. She pulled the cell phone away from her face and glared at it. "Asshole!" she screamed. Then she clicked off the line. It was all she could do to keep from smashing the phone against the dashboard. "Son of a bitch," she growled, shaking her head.
She sat there silently fuming for another few moments. Then she glanced over at Dan, and he gave her a wary look. "Well, I guess we're even now, huh? I mean, which one of us is crazier?"
She cracked a tiny smile.
"I don't even want to ask what that conversation was about," he said, chuckling.
Sydney managed a weak laugh. "Tell you later when I get to know you better."
Up ahead, she saw the sign for the turn-off to SeaTac Airport. Then she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his medium-size suitcase on the backseat. He'd put her bag in the trunk. His suitcase was dark blue and had several zippers and compartments. And on the leather handle were two destination tags from his last round trip. In the mirror, she could read the SEA on one tag for his return trip to SeaTac. But she couldn't quite make out the airport abbreviation on the other stub.
Sydney casually glanced over her shoulder. Now she saw the old torn tag from his previous trip: JFK.
Turning forward, she glimpsed the airport exit as they passed it.
Sydney clutched the cell phone tighter. "Wasn't that the turn-off for the airport back there?" she asked as casually as she could.
He kept his eyes on the road. "My way's faster," he said with a tiny smile.
The seat belt was pinching her, and Sydney nervously tugged at it. She glanced at Dan again--his handsome profile and that little smile. Kyle had just met this man yesterday afternoon. Had Dan Spengler been in New York City the night before? It was awfully strange how he'd just shown up in her brother's life at this particular time.
"Was that phone call about one of your stories for On the Edge?" he asked.
"Sort of," she said. "A person from one of those stories was killed." Sydney watched for his reaction. He didn't seem very surprised.
"'A kinky self-strangulation thing?'" he asked, quoting from her talk to Detective Peary.
"Yes," Sydney said. She watched him pass another exit off Interstate 5.
"You can tell me to mind my own business if you want," he said.
"It's okay."
"Was he a good friend?"
"Actually, I didn't know him very well," Sydney admitted, squirming in the passenger seat. She looked out her window. At this point, they would have to backtrack to get to the airport.
"What's the name for that--the self-strangulation thing?"
"Autoerotic asphyxiation."
"Yeah," he nodded and then switched on his turn signal. "You know, for the longest time, I thought it had to do with phone sex--audio-erotic affixation. Shows you how stupid I am."
Sydney didn't respond or even smile. She watched him veer onto the turn-off for 188th and Orilla Road. From the interstate, it looked like the road wound through a forest area. Sydney still clutched the cell phone in her hand. She took a deep breath. "So--was it hot in New York?" she heard herself ask.
He glanced at her and let out a stunned little laugh. "How did you know I was in New York in May?"
"In May?" she repeated.
"Yeah, I was visiting my big brother. He's a widower with two really cute kids. Let me know if you ever want to be fixed up. He's a very well-to-do accountant." He stopped at the light for 188th Street. Sydney saw a small sign with a right arrow that said AIRPORT. "So how did you know I was in New York?" Dan asked. "I don't remember mentioning it to Kyle."
"I noticed the old destination tag on your suitcase," she admitted.
He gave her a baffled grin, then steered the car to the right. "Boy, you don't miss a thing."
"It's a skill every reporter needs," she said. "Is the airport far?"
"About five more minutes if we get a break in the traffic lights." He started to pick up speed.
Sydney told herself she could sit back and breathe easy--at least, for now.
"Mixed Bags," the woman said on the other end of the line. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, hello," Eli whispered into the phone. He was in his uncle's TV room on the second floor, sitting on the sectional sofa that had doubled as his bed for a few weeks a while back. "Is Francesca Landau working there today?"
"Yes, but she's running a little late. She'll be in sometime after 10:15. Can I take a message?"
"No, thanks," Eli said. "But could you, um...." He hesitated. His uncle was down in the kitchen. Eli wasn't sure if he just now heard him coming up the stairs. He'd paused the video game on the big-screen TV. At his side, a large picture window provided a sweeping view of downtown Seattle, Elliott Bay, and the Olympic Mountain range. But his uncle's town house was also close to the interstate, and the sound of traffic was almost like white noise. It drowned out a lot of sounds within the house.
"Yes?" the woman asked.
Eli figured it had been a false alarm. His uncle was still down in the kitchen. "Um, I need to make sure I have the right Francesca Landau," Eli said. "Is she a lady in her early fifties?"
"Yes, but you better not ask Fran that," the woman said.
"And you guys are in Kirkland, right?"
"Yes, sir, we're here on Lake Washington Boulevard."
"Thank you very much," Eli said. Then he hung up.
When he'd returned home from the library yesterday, Eli had used his mother's computer to check the Internet for information on Robert Landau, the estranged husband of Loretta Sayers and stepfather to Earl and, quite possibly, their killer. All he'd found was an obituary from the Seattle Times in 1987. Robert Landau had died from a heart attack at age sixty-six. He'd been survived by two of his children, Mark Landau and Francesca Landau-Foyle, and two grandchildren. There was something in quotes at the bottom of the article: "He is joined in eternity with his beloved wife, Estelle (1927-1971) and son, Jonathan (1954-1975)."
Eli wondered why they'd mentioned the first wife, but not Loretta or Earl. And what had happened to the other son, Jonathan, dead at age twenty-one?
He hadn't found anything on line about a Mark Landau in Seattle after 1987. But when he googled Francesca Landau-Foyle, Seattle, he came up with an article:
In & Around Seattle: Where To Shop
Mixed Bags Boutique...The owner of this fun find in downtown Kirkland is Francesca Landau, who has created a successful fusion of cosmopolitan and quaint...
www.theseattletimes/features/wheretoshop/041605-13k
The article, from three years ago, was a dull story about this gift shop Francesca owned, but it listed the address and phone number of the store, and even directions.
Earl's friend, Burt Demick, was now about fifty years old. Eli had found plenty of articles about him if it was the same Burt Demick. He was a big-shot attorney at a Seattle law firm, Rayburn, Demick, and Gill. Eli had called the law firm yesterday, but some snippy assistant had told him, "Mr. Demick is unavailable right now. May I leave a message?"
"Um, it's kind of personal, but very important," Eli had told her. "When would be the best time to reach him?"
"I'm sorry. Mr. Demick may be tied up indefinitely."
Eli had thanked her and hung up. To his further frustration, he hadn't been able to find a home listing in the phone book for Burt Demick.
Eli had really hoped to talk to Burt, but for now, it didn't look very likely. That left Earl's stepsister.
Eli wasn't certain how much Francesca knew or what she could tell him. He wasn't even sure what he would ask her. But he needed to meet this woman. He needed to find out more about Earl Sayers.
Eli still hadn't made any friends in Seattle. He didn't know anyone close to his own age--except one kid. Eli had never really seen him, but he'd felt the kid's presence in his bedroom for so many otherwise lonely nights this summer. It had taken a while for Eli to accept the fact that he was sharing his bedroom with someone else--someone dead.
He wondered if his mother had noticed he'd stopped loudly banishing their ghost at bedtime not long ago. Somewhere along the line, he'd stopped being scared. And two days ago, he finally learned the identity of his only friend, his night visitor: Earl Sayers.
He had to know more.
"What happened?"
Startled, Eli looked up at his uncle, who stood in the TV room entryway.
"Get bored with the video game?" Uncle Kyle asked. "Not enough carnage and mutilation?"
"No, it's okay," Eli grabbed the remote from the sofa and switched off the game and the TV. "I was just thinking, I need to get my dad a birthday present sometime soon. And I heard there's this really cool store in Kirkland..."
"Hello, Mr. Bischoff?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"I'm Sydney Jordan," she said into her cell phone. On the wall behind her was a huge diagram of an old Boeing 707. Sydney sat at the end of a row of seats in the VIP lounge--as far away as possible from the noisy, crowded bar and a woman with a shrieking toddler. There were a lot of delays this morning, and Sydney's flight was one of them.
"I worked with Troy on a short video for television last October," she went on. "I just wanted to say that I'm terribly sorry for your loss."
On the other end of the line, Troy's father said nothing.
"Um, I sent some flowers," Sydney said. It was a lie, but she needed to find out if they'd gotten any. "I'm wondering if they've arrived yet."
"Yeah, my wife took your flowers down to the church," he said coldly. "I didn't want them in the house. I don't want anything around reminding me of him."
Sydney winced. Troy's roommate had warned her about his parents.
And Troy's killer was repeating his pattern.
"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Bischoff," she said patiently. "If I could please speak to your wife, I just have a question about the florist--"
"No," he cut in. "I don't want you or any of his other friends calling here. Understand?"
He didn't wait for her to respond. Sydney heard a click on the other end of the line.
Sydney stared at her cell and clicked it off. This was the second homophobic creep she'd dealt with this morning. And meanwhile no one was looking any further into the circumstances of Troy Bischoff's death.
The woman with the loud toddler had decided to move to the same row of seats. She was a pale redhead in a blue summer dress. Sydney wanted to gag the little brat, but she felt sorry for the mother and gave her a sympathetic smile.
The woman nodded tiredly at her. "We're making a lot of friends here in the VIP lounge," she said, over the child's ear-piercing screams.
The kid, a red-haired little boy in shorts and an Izod sport shirt, made a fist and swung at his mom, hitting her in the leg.
"Ouch!" the mother yelped, recoiling. "That hurt!" She grabbed him by the arms and looked him in the eye. "Why did you do that? Why did you hit Mommy?"
Blind rage, Sydney thought.
She remembered her conversation with her brother this morning. Biting her lip, she reached down for her carrying case and pulled out her laptop computer. She hooked it up to the Internet connection on the wall behind her, then went online and pulled up Google. Sydney typed in the keywords: Madison High School girls murder Seattle. A bunch of articles came up. She clicked on the most recent one, looking for an update on the case her brother had mentioned. It was from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, dated December 10, 2007:
TWO YEARS LATER A Mystery Still Unsolved
On December 10, 2005, Molly Gerrard and Erin Travino, Heroes at Their Seattle High School, Were Brutally Murdered; Police Have Yet to Find Their Killer.
Below the headline were photos of Molly and Erin: One was a classically pretty girl with long black hair and glasses, and the other, curly-haired and cute. "Only a week before they were slain," said the caption. "James Madison High School Juniors, Molly Gerrard (l) and Erin Travino (r) had made headlines when they'd thwarted a fellow student's shooting rampage."
Sydney anxiously read the article, which featured comments from the victims' parents, expressing their dismay over the lack of progress in the double-murder investigation.
Seattle police were still following several leads, but had yet to arrest any suspects in the case. Warren Tunny, the young man who had smuggled a gun into Molly and Erin's fifth period study hall, was still under psychiatric observation and unavailable for comment.
Sydney wondered: Were Molly and Erin the first duet?
The article was over seven months old.
Sydney switched on her cell phone again and dialed directory assistance for Seattle. Fortunately, the screaming child nearby had calmed down, so Sydney didn't have to shout when asking directory assistance for the phone number of Phillip and Hannah Gerrard. But there was no listing. George and Louise Travino's phone number wasn't listed either. And they didn't have a listing for Warren Tunny. Three strikes.
Sydney wasn't really surprised. After two and a half years, they'd probably been hounded and harassed with all sorts of calls about their slain daughters. Sydney wasn't anxious to add to their heartache. But she couldn't let it go either.
She telephoned a friend in the network news office. "Judy Cavalliri," the woman answered.
"Hi, Judy, it's Sydney Jordan," she said, craning her neck to see the monitors. "I'm still in Seattle waiting for my flight, which is delayed. The estimated departure is now 11:15, but I wouldn't bet on it. Anyway, could you notify the film crew for me?"
"Sure, Sydney. You're scheduled to meet with Chloe Finch at six-thirty. Want me to keep that?"
"Yes, thank you," she said. "Judy, do you know someone there in the news office who could dig up a few unlisted phone numbers for me?"
"Yeah, I might."
"Well, I have three names for you, all Seattle residents," Sydney said. "Got a pencil?"
Mixed Bags was in a minimall between a little art gallery and Seattle's Best Coffee. The sun was shining, and it made the waterfront shopping area of Kirkland even more pretty and pristine. From this side, Lake Washington seemed to sparkle. But the congested traffic along the boulevard was a major drawback. "Did everyone and their Aunt Agnes decide to come shopping here today?" Uncle Kyle had groused as they sat idle at one point, bumper to bumper.
Now they stood outside Mixed Bags stari
ng at a window full of purses.
Uncle Kyle adjusted the sunglasses on his nose. "You're buying your dad a purse?" he asked.
"I think they have other stuff," Eli said. "In fact, I may want to get you something, too, Uncle Kyle. So--I'd rather go in there by myself. Could I meet you at one of these other stores in like--ten minutes?"
Kyle shook his head. "I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight, kiddo. Mom's orders. After what you pulled yesterday, I ought to keep you on a leash."
"Oh, c'mon, Uncle Kyle. Please? I want this present to be a surprise for you. C'mon, please?"
"Five minutes," he said, frowning. He pointed to the art gallery next door. "I'll be in there. And if you wander off or disappear again, you might as well go into the witness protection program, because I'll hunt you down and kill you."
Eli nodded eagerly. "Thanks, Uncle Kyle. See you in five minutes." He headed toward the store.
"And don't buy me a stinking purse!" his uncle called.
Eli ducked into the store, which smelled like leather and soap. He'd been right about the place. They had other things besides purses, but mostly for women: travel kits, scarves, soaps and lotions, ornate picture frames, and a few fancy-looking suitcases. Eli focused on the woman behind the counter. She was thin, with frizzy brown hair, and looked around thirty. Francesca Landau was fifty-two, if he'd done his math right. There was a woman with her young daughter checking out purses, and over by the suitcases was a slightly plump woman with brown hair that had a blond streak through it. She wore a black suit with a bright blue scarf tossed over one shoulder. Eli guessed she was about fifty. She was showing this older lady a suitcase with a flower pattern on it.
"Can I help you?"
Eli swiveled around and gaped at the frizzy-haired woman. "Um, hi, yes. I'm looking for Francesca."
She nodded at the woman with the blue scarf. "She's with another customer right now. Can I help you find something?"
"No, thank you. I'll wait for Francesca."
The woman nodded, then went to straighten some candles on a shelf.
Eli turned and looked at Francesca Landau again. She'd been only three years older than Earl when he'd been murdered. It was hard to imagine that woman across the store had been a teenager once. Now that he was here, he had no idea what he was going to ask her. He knew what he wanted to ask: Did your father kill Loretta and Earl?
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