Final Breath

by Kevin O'Brien

  He watched Francesca step behind the counter, scribble something on a card, and then hand it to the older woman. Eli stepped aside, then held the door open for the lady as she left the store. The old bat didn't bother to say thank you.

  He glanced toward Francesca again, and found her standing by the counter, staring back at him.

  He stepped toward her. "Are you Francesca Landau?"

  She smiled politely and nodded. "Yes. Do we know each other?"

  "Um, my Mom said she used to live down the block from you and your family back in the seventies--when she lived in Magnolia." Eli remembered Vera saying that Loretta and her husband had lived in Magnolia before the separation.

  Francesca's face lit up. She had a kind smile. "Oh, your mom lived on McGraw?"

  Eli nodded.

  "What was her name?"

  He blanked out for a second. He glanced over at the handbags. "Anne--Anne Burberry."

  The smile seemed to freeze on her face and she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't remember anyone named Burberry on the block. Was that her maiden name?"

  Eli nodded. "Yes, Anne Burberry. She remembers you. She said you had two older brothers and a younger stepbrother. She said all of you were really nice, but your stepbrother and his mom didn't live with you for very long. And they died later or something. Was his name Earl?"

  "Yes, that was his name."

  "And he died not long after he and his mother moved away?"

  She frowned. "Yes, they both died."

  "How--did it happen?"

  "Who are you?" Francesca whispered. "Did someone send you here?"

  Eli shook his head. "No, nobody sent me."

  "Well, what do you want?" she asked. "Why are you asking me about these things?"

  Eli didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," he said, backing away from her a bit. "I just--I only wanted to find out about Earl Sayers and his mother. Me and my mom, we recently moved into the town house where they both died--"

  Francesca was shaking her head at him. "I don't have to listen to this," she said under her breath. "I had to put up with enough questions and accusations about those two back when I was in high school. It ruined my father, who never hurt a soul. And my brother, he couldn't handle it--all the gossip and suspicion. He hanged himself in his dormitory at school. Did you know that? The police said Loretta murdered Earl in his sleep and then killed herself. Why can't people just leave it at that? Who put you up to this?"

  "Nobody, I swear."

  She grabbed his arm and led him toward the door. "I don't know who sent you here, but you're leaving--now!" She opened the door and pushed him outside.

  Eli almost collided with his uncle, who was heading into the store.

  "If you come back here again," Francesca growled. "I'll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."

  "I'm sorry!" Eli called to her. "I didn't mean to--"

  But she'd already ducked back into the shop.

  "What the hell was that about?" his Uncle Kyle asked.

  Eli walked away from the shop's window. He felt awful for making Francesca so angry, and he didn't want her calling the cops because he was hanging around. Up ahead, the door to another clothing store was propped open. Through the glass, Eli spotted a man with a dark complexion, sunglasses, and a green sports shirt. He halted in his tracks.

  His uncle hesitated in back of him. "Eli, what's going on?"

  Frozen, Eli watched the dark-skinned man step out from behind the glass door. He was talking on a cell phone. It wasn't the man with the weird eye.

  Eli let out a sigh, but then glanced around the mini-mall area to make sure the guy wasn't anywhere around. If he was, Eli didn't see him.

  "Eli..." his uncle said. "For the third and final time, what in God's name is going on?"

  Sheepishly he looked back at his uncle, then reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts. "That was Earl's stepsister."

  Uncle Kyle squinted at him. "Your friend, Earl, has a stepsister who's that old?"

  Biting his lip, Eli pulled out the article he'd copied at the library the day before and showed it to his uncle. "Earl's been dead since 1974. Someone slit his throat--in my bedroom."

  Her cell phone rang just as they announced that her flight to Chicago was ready for boarding.

  Sydney's friend, Judy, at the news office was calling. She'd only been able to come up with one of the three unlisted Seattle-area numbers: Phillip and Hannah Gerrard. Sydney copied it down, thanked Judy, and told her that she was about to board the plane.

  Gathering up her purse and carry-on, Sydney watched several people head for the VIP lounge exit. She stepped back against the wall with the Boeing 707 diagram on it. She switched her cell on again and dialed the Gerrards' number.

  A machine answered after two rings. "Hello, you've reached the Gerrards," the woman said in a pleasant voice. "Please leave us a message. Have a nice day!"

  Beep.

  "Hi," Sydney said. "I hope I have the right Hannah and Phillip Gerrard. My name is Sydney Jordan, and I work for the TV newsmagazine On the Edge. I'm interested in doing a story about your daughter, Molly..."

  That much was true. In that seven-month-old newspaper article, both the Gerrards and the Travinos were still hoping to bring their daughters' killer to justice. It had occurred to Sydney that a segment on the unsolved murders of Molly and Erin was the kind of edgy story the network wanted from her now. Moreover, the national attention might help give police investigators more incentive to solve the case. Finally--and selfishly--it was a story she could cover without having to leave town. So even if this had nothing to do with the Movers & Shakers killings, it was still a call worth making.

  "I'd only do the story with your permission, of course," she continued. "And your participation, I hope. Let me leave you my phone number and--"

  There was a click on the other end of the line. "Hello?" the woman said. "Is this really Sydney Jordan?"

  "Yes," she said. "Do I have the right Mrs. Gerrard?"

  "Yes, I'm Hannah, Molly's mother," she replied.

  "I don't know if you heard any of what I was saying just now--"

  "Yes, I did. Listen, my husband and I would be grateful for anything that would light a fire under those police investigators. I'm sure the Travinos feel the same way. Plus I've seen your work, Sydney, and I've always thought you'd handle Molly's and Erin's story in a very dignified, compassionate way."

  "Well, thank you very much," Sydney murmured. She was surprised at how quickly Molly's mother seemed to embrace the idea.

  "Frankly, I wasn't sure I'd ever hear from you again," Hannah Gerrard continued. "I was going to write to you, Sydney, but I didn't have your address. It was a bit of a surprise, but I must say, my husband and I were very touched when you sent that beautiful flower arrangement after Molly's death. Thank you, Sydney."

  For a moment, she couldn't speak.

  "Sydney?"

  "You--you're welcome," she murmured, numbly.

  She'd found his first duet.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "I can't believe I let you talk me into this," his Uncle Kyle whispered. "I'm supposed to be keeping you out of trouble."

  They rode up to the twenty-seventh floor in a shiny-brass-paneled elevator with a trio of men in ties and business suits. Eli's uncle had said earlier that in their casual shirts and shorts, they'd look like a couple of bums wandering into the law offices of Rayburn, Demick, and Gill. But Eli had been in a hurry. And, of course, his uncle had been right.

  His uncle had said a lot of things earlier--in the car, as they'd driven back from Kirkland, across the 520 floating bridge. "I can't understand why you didn't share any of this murder-suicide stuff with your mother or me. Sneaking off and lying to the two of us about where you were half the time, it doesn't make sense."

  His uncle had been right about that too. Eli had done his best to explain how it had started out with the Ouija board, and then eavesdropping on his mom and their neighbor. After that, i
t had just snowballed. Besides, his mom had known about the murder-suicide, and had kept it a secret from him.

  "Oh, God, you two are so much alike, it's scary," his uncle had muttered. "She just didn't want to worry you."

  "Well, I didn't want to worry her," Eli replied.

  "I just don't get it," his uncle had said. "I don't understand what you hope to accomplish by digging into this old business from thirty-four years ago and bothering these people connected to the case. What did you think the lady back there was going to tell you?"

  Eli had to admit he'd screwed that one up. He still felt bad he'd gotten Francesca Landau so upset. At the same time, he'd learned her brother, Jonathan, had hung himself a year after the deaths of Loretta and Earl. Francesca's father hadn't been the only suspect in the case; clouds of suspicion had hovered over her college-age brother as well.

  Eli felt he could learn more from Earl's friend, Burt Demick. In the article Eli had copied, Burt had said: "I don't think Mrs. Sayers could have done what people said she did." If he didn't believe the official findings back then, Mr. Demick must have developed his own ideas about who had killed Earl and Loretta. Eli wanted to hear them.

  "So--have you thought about what you're going to ask him?" Kyle said--once the trio of businessmen stepped off on the twenty-first floor.

  Glancing up at the lighted numbers above the elevator doors, Eli shrugged. He felt a little nervous. He didn't want this unscheduled visit with Mr. Demick to end in a big blowup like the one with Francesca. "I guess I'm gonna ask him what he thinks really happened that night," Eli replied.

  The elevator doors opened and a ding sounded. They stepped off on the twenty-seventh floor. To their right was a pair of glass doors; one of them had the suite number stenciled on it: 2701. It was a fancy reception area, with mauve carpeting and pale sofas and cushioned chairs. Some square pedestals held different vases and sculptures under protective display cases, and Jackson Pollock-like art hung on the walls. Behind the big mahogany desk sat a beautiful brunette, impeccably dressed in a red suit. And behind her, on the wall, pewter letters spelled out: RAYBURN, DEMICK, & GILL.

  The receptionist looked up at them coolly. "May I help you?"

  Eli noticed a silver dish full of Andes mints. "Are these free?" he asked.

  The woman nodded.

  "Just one," Uncle Kyle muttered. He scratched his temple with one finger and smiled at the receptionist. "Hi. I'm an attorney with Trotter, Gregg, and Associates, and I met Mr. Demick a few weeks back at this luncheon at one of the downtown hotels here. I keep thinking it was at the Westin..."

  She tilted her head and stared at him. "Mr. Demick was a guest speaker for the Washington State Lawyers Club at a luncheon in June at the Hilton. Could that be where you saw him?"

  Uncle Kyle snapped his fingers. "That's it, thank you. We talked for a bit after his speech, and Burt--I mean, Mr. Demick--he said to stop by the offices and pay him a visit if I was ever in the neighborhood. Anyway, here I am--with my nephew, and without an appointment. Is there any chance we can stick our heads in and say hello?"

  She nodded at the sea foam green sofa. "If you'll have a seat, I'll see if Mr. Demick is available." She reached for the phone.

  Popping the Andes mint in his mouth, Eli retreated toward the sofa with his uncle. "Who are Trotter, Gregg, and Associates?" he whispered.

  "Greg Trotter was this guy I had a crush on in high school," his uncle replied under his breath.

  Just as they sat down on the sofa, Eli saw two men emerge from the hallway at their left. They passed through the reception area. "I'm going to get even with you out on that golf course next week, Burt," said the stocky, balding one in the gray suit. "You can bank on that."

  Dressed in a dark blue suit, a tall, thin, handsome man with wavy gray hair winked at his golf buddy and shook his hand. "Well, we'll just see about that, Bob," he laughed. Then he opened the glass door for him.

  Uncle Kyle nudged Eli and they both got to their feet. "Mr. Demick--Burt?" his uncle said, approaching him with his hand extended. "Hi, I'm Kyle Jordan. We met at the Lawyers Club lunch last month at the Hilton."

  With a slightly baffled smile, Burt Demick shook his hand. His eyes darted back and forth from Kyle to Eli. "Well, good to see you again."

  Kyle nodded at Eli. "This fine-looking lad here is my nephew, Eli. He's doing a report for summer school that might interest you."

  Mr. Demick shook his hand. He had a firm grip. "It's nice to meet you, Eli."

  Eli just nodded nervously.

  "I'm a little pressed for time right now," Demick said, glancing at his wristwatch. "I was about to head out. But if you'll make an appointment with the receptionist--"

  "Oh, we were just taking a shot and hoping you'd be in," Kyle said. "I know you're busy. How about if we rode down in the elevator with you?"

  "Sure, that's fine," Demick replied, seeming a bit distracted. "Excuse me." He went over to the receptionist and said something to her.

  For a moment, Eli thought a pair of security guards would suddenly show up to toss them out. But instead, Demick turned, smiled at them, and waved for them to join him as he strode toward the glass doors. He held one open for them.

  "Thank you," Eli said, and the man patted him on the shoulder.

  "So--what's your report about?" he asked, walking to the elevators with them.

  "Um, it--it's for a history class," Eli lied. "We had to pick something out of an old newspaper and report about it. I found an article from the seventies, and they--they mentioned you."

  "When Eli showed me the article," Kyle added. "I told him, 'I know this gentleman.'"

  "Well, you've got me intrigued," Demick said, pushing the button for the elevator. "An article from the seventies, you say?"

  "Yes," Eli nodded. "It's about these people you knew back when you were sixteen--Loretta and Earl Sayers."

  Demick just stared at him for a moment. Then he rubbed his chin.

  "Um, in the article," Eli continued, trying not to stammer. "You said Mrs. Sayers couldn't have killed Earl and herself. I--I was wondering what you think actually happened that night. I figure it would be good to get your respective."

  "Perspective," his uncle corrected him.

  Demick let out a long sigh. "Well, that was over thirty years ago--quite a tragedy, very sad. I really didn't know them that well..."

  Eli remembered Vera talking about Burt's car blocking hers in the driveway. She'd made it sound as if it had happened several times.

  The elevator chimed, and then the doors whooshed open.

  "I talked to one of their old neighbors," Eli said, stepping into the empty elevator with his uncle. "According to her, a lot of people thought Earl's stepfather might have killed them."

  Demick followed them into the elevator, then he pressed the lobby button. "I'll tell you, Eli, I used to think the same thing. Then people started saying Earl's stepbrother might have been the guilty party. And that poor young man took his own life." He patted Eli's shoulder. "It took me a while to accept the official explanation. But I agree with it now. Ms. Sayers killed her son and then shot herself. She was a very emotional, high-strung woman. Like I said, it was a real tragedy."

  Eli frowned. He'd thought there would have been a lot more to it than that, and yet all three people he'd spoken with--Vera, Francesca, and now Earl's pal, Burt--accepted the murder-suicide explanation.

  "What was Earl like?" he asked.

  Demick smiled sadly. "Oh, he had a great laugh, and he was kind of a goofball. But he was smart and polite, too." Demick nudged him. "You remind me a little of him, Eli."

  After a moment, Uncle Kyle nudged him on the other side. "So--do you think you have enough for your report?" he asked, a bit of irony in his tone. "Does that finish it up?"

  Eli just nodded.

  The elevator chimed, and then the doors whooshed open again. "Thanks so much," his uncle said, shaking Demick's hand as they stepped out to the lobby. "We're grateful for your time--and y
our candor."

  "Yes, thank you, sir," Eli piped up.

  Demick shook his hand and winked at him. "I hope you get an A."

  "Let's do lunch some time," Uncle Kyle said.

  Demick pulled a business card from the pocket of his suit coat, then handed it to him. "Give my assistant a call," he said. "Bye, now."

  Then the thin, distinguished man strode through the lobby and out the revolving door.

  "We need to get you and your mom out of that apartment lease," his uncle said. "It's a wonder you've slept a wink in there the last few nights." He handed Eli the business card. "Here, a souvenir."

  With a sigh, Eli glanced at the card.

  "I can't believe he didn't throw us out on our asses," Uncle Kyle said. "So--does that seal the deal? Does that answer all your questions about what happened way back when?"

  Sam frowned. "I guess so."

  His uncle put a hand on his shoulder as they moved toward the revolving door. "And you're satisfied?"

  "No, I'm not," Eli admitted, gazing down at the floor. "Not really."

  She had an exclusive scoop on the so-called "Story of the Year," and yet Sydney couldn't stay focused on it. In front of her, she had all the information they'd faxed her this morning about Chloe Finch and what had happened on that Evanston beach about thirteen hours ago.

  But Sydney couldn't stop thinking about this twisted killer's first duet.

  The deaths of those two teenage girls had been a Seattle murder case; so now she could go to the Seattle police about the hero-killings. But even with Mr. and Mrs. Gerrard to back her up about the flowers, it would take a lot of explaining--and more information about the other deaths--in New York, Portland, and Chicago. She kept thinking about a Chicago cop who might be able to help her if only she had it in her to call Joe and admit she needed him.

  On the plane, Sydney forced herself to read more about Chloe Finch, who was thirty-one, single, and lived alone. According to the reports, she'd been walking along the beach for about an hour when she caught Derrick De Santo trying to murder his pregnant girlfriend.