As she headed back down the hall, she saw the STAFF ONLY door. It was wide open now. Sydney felt the hair bristle on the back of her neck. She crept past the room--giving it a wide berth. It was just a small closet with rolls of toilet paper and cleansers on the shelves. Clutching the ice bucket to her stomach, she continued down the corridor. As she turned the corner, Sydney glanced over her shoulder. She saw a dark figure dart across the hall into a shadowy doorway. He'd moved so fast, she couldn't see what he'd looked like, but it was a man about six feet tall.
Sydney turned and started running. Ice cubes spilled out of the bucket as she raced down the hall. At the door to the outside walkway, she hesitated and looked back again: no one. Catching her breath, she waited a moment to make sure she was alone. The light above her flickered again.
She stepped out to the walkway. Her hand was shaking as she reached for her keys. She passed that window again, where that strange man had been glaring at her, but his drapes were shut now. Sydney hurried to her door. She was still trying to get her breath as she staggered into the room. Then she quickly triple-locked the door.
"All for a lousy watered-down glass of chardonnay," she muttered, setting down the ice bucket and the room key.
The hotel room telephone rang, startling her.
Sydney immediately thought of Joe. She snatched up the receiver during the second ring. "Yes, hello?"
Silence.
"Hello?" she repeated.
Then there was a click, and the connection went dead.
He stood under the sputtering light by the walkway door, a cell phone in his hand. With his other hand, he ran an ice cube over his forehead. It had dropped out of Sydney's ice bucket as she'd scurried down the shadowy corridor minutes before. It was funny to watch her run with that slight limp of hers. He was still grinning as he thought of it.
Now she knew about him, but no more than he wanted her to know. He controlled the flow of information. She knew his pattern by now. So many of her heroes were dying, but she probably didn't understand why yet.
Molly and Erin had been the work of an amateur. But he'd honed his killing skills since then. He'd become an expert at planning everything in advance and anticipating Sydney's next move.
At one time, Sydney might have felt close to the Movers & Shakers heroes he'd killed. She'd certainly gotten to know them while filming their segments for that TV show. But she might not have even known they'd died if he hadn't left her little clues. And if he wasn't sending flowers in her name to the deceased's next of kin, would she have sent them herself?
She might have felt bad about those people dying. But she hadn't felt really devastated yet.
That would soon change--when the next one died.
"Hi, this Sydney Jordan in room 2129," she said to the hotel operator. She was sitting on the edge of the bed--with its salmon-jade-taupe bedspread. "I've just had two hang-ups in a row. I was wondering if those calls came from outside or from the lobby."
"One minute, please, Ms. Jordan."
Sydney sipped her chardonnay on the rocks. Even if that man skulking around the hallway earlier hadn't been after her, she still didn't feel safe. And the second hang-up had just about put her over the edge.
"Ms. Jordan?" the operator came back on the line. "Those calls were coming from outside."
"Well, I'm--I'm thinking of changing rooms if I get another hang-up like that. It's kind of disturbing."
"If you'd like, I can forward all your incoming calls to voice mail, Ms. Jordan."
She thought of Joe. "Um, no, thank you. Don't do that yet. I'll let you know if I get another one. Thank you."
Just as she hung up with the hotel operator, her cell phone rang. Getting to her feet, Sydney snatched it up from the desk and checked the caller ID. She recognized Joe's cell number. She clicked it on. "Joe?" she said.
"Yeah, hi."
"Did you just try to call me on the hotel phone?"
"No. Why? What's going on?"
She stepped back, then sank down on the edge of the bed. "I think I'm going a little crazy here," she admitted, her voice cracking.
"What's your room number?" he asked. "I'm here in the lobby."
She heard him knocking on the door.
Sydney had quickly changed into a black sleeveless top, brushed her hair, and applied some lipstick and mascara. The whole time she wondered why she was making such an effort for someone who had seen her first thing in the morning for the last fourteen years. This was the same man who had gotten involved--however inadvertently--in a drug heist that resulted in the deaths of three people, including Arthur Pollard. He'd taken that blood money, and when she'd confronted him about it, he'd hit her. Then he'd ordered her and their son out of the house.
Now, here she was, trying to look pretty for him. How screwed up was that?
By the time she looked through the hotel door peephole at Joe, she was angry at him--and herself. Still, Joe looked handsome with his blond hair slicked back, that summer tan, and the white and blue pinstripe shirt she'd bought him years ago. It had always been her favorite on him, and Joe knew it. She realized Joe--in his own way--must have made an effort for her, too.
Sydney unlocked the door and opened it. For a moment, they just stared at each other across the threshold. "You look really good, honey," Joe whispered finally.
"You..." Sydney didn't finish. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. She hadn't held him in over two months. His arms enveloped her. She kissed his neck, relishing the smell of him again.
"God, I've missed you," she heard him whisper.
He kissed her deeply. Then he pulled her away for a moment to gaze at her. She could see tears in his eyes. He started to kiss her again.
That was when Sydney forced herself to break away. She shook her head. "This isn't why I wanted to see you, Joe," she managed to say. She glanced back at her hotel room--and the bed. "I need your help for something. Could we talk down in the bar?"
As they strolled through the hotel's maze of shadowy corridors together, Joe started to put his arm around her, but she gently pulled away. She told him everything that had been happening--starting with the murder of Leah and Jared nearly two weeks ago. Joe had heard about Angela Gannon's death, but not about the others. Sydney needed him to use his connections to find out more about Angela's suicide and Ned's accident. She now had the names of the Chicago-area florists who had delivered flowers in her name to Angela's sister and the Cook County Recovery Shelter. Working backward, she hoped to track down who had originally placed the orders.
"Give me those names, and I can check them out for you tomorrow," Joe said, sipping his beer.
They'd sat down at a table in the corner of the small, dimly lit lounge. A big tropical fish tank behind the bar provided the strongest source of light and the most color. All the furniture was chrome and glass--or chrome with black leather upholstery.
Sydney had ordered a club soda. She didn't need any more alcohol tonight. She had to keep a clear head. She wrote down the florists' names on a cocktail napkin and handed it to him. "Thank you, Joe," she said.
"And you don't have any clue as to who's behind all these hero-killings?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Do you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I keep wondering if the guys who were involved in that drug heist might have something to do with it."
Hunched over his beer, Joe frowned. "I doubt it. They wouldn't do something so--elaborate. Besides, once you stopped snooping around, you stopped being a concern to them. With you and Eli in Seattle, I don't think they'd go after you, not anymore."
She stared at him. "What do you mean not anymore? Were they planning to kill us?"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure, but I couldn't take any chances. Polly was a loose end, and look what they did to him."
Sydney studied her husband's face for a moment. "Oh, my God, I'm so stupid," she whispered finally. "That's why you hit me. That's why you literally kicked m
e out of the house that day and sent Eli packing, too. You needed to get us out of there. You were afraid they'd come after us."
Tears welled in Joe's eyes again, and he nodded. "I'm sorry, honey," he murmured. "I didn't think it was safe for either of you to stay there. I couldn't think of any other way..."
She remembered Joe in his parked car, keeping guard outside the Holiday Inn that night he'd thrown her out. And then he'd had his sister look after her and Eli.
"I can't believe I didn't figure out what you were doing," she said, touching his cheek. "That letter you sent last week, you said you didn't want to see Eli or me for a while--"
"I still don't want to take any chances," he explained. "I'm trying to figure out who I can trust and how to resolve this. You asked me a while back why I didn't go to Len. But I think he's involved. He's the one who sent me on the raid that night with all these guys I didn't know very well."
"What about Andy McKenna? You can trust him, can't you?"
"Yeah, but I don't want to endanger him or his family. So for a while there, I pushed him away." He let out a long sigh. "Sydney, you need to believe me, I had to take that money. There was no other way. They set me up."
"But how?" she asked.
"These two cops, Jim Mankoff and Kurt Rifkin, were in one patrol car, and I was with this guy Gerry Crowley in the other." He sipped his beer. "When we got near the pier area, Mankoff and Rifkin went in first--on foot. Gerry and I were in the car covering the exit. After a while, I started to think something was wrong and wanted to call for backup. But Crowley kept telling me to stay put and wait just a little longer."
Joe rubbed his forehead. "Well, by that time Mankoff and Rifkin had already captured these two small-timers--Ahmed Turner and Somebody Laskey, I forget his first name. They'd knocked them both unconscious and dragged them into the front seat of the minivan. They'd already unloaded most of the cocaine, and stashed it on a boat. All they had to do was shoot the guys, fire off a few rounds, and crash the minivan into some drums of creosote. They knew I'd be the first one on the scene, and I'd be stupid enough to believe the whole setup." He let out a sad laugh. "You know me, always wanting to believe in the good in people."
He shrugged. "And with my reputation on the force, I would have been a pretty solid, irreproachable witness. But I got antsy, waiting there. I kept thinking my guys were in trouble. Gerry Crowley said we should wait it out, but I went down to the warehouse area."
Joe took another hit of his beer. "I caught them still setting it up. I saw Mankoff with a silencer, shooting Ahmed Turner in the throat. I guess they'd already broken Laskey's neck. Meanwhile, this Rifkin clown was hauling the last load of cocaine from the back of the minivan. That's when I knew I was screwed. In the minivan window, I could see Gerry Crowley standing right behind me with a gun drawn. It wasn't his police gun. I knew he was going to kill me and they'd plant the gun on one of the dead suspects. An officer down, that would have given even more credence to their story that the suspects had resisted. I was as good as dead. I didn't have any choice, so I just smiled a little and said to them, 'I don't know how you guys plan to pull this off, but I'm going to say my fellow officers acted professionally and responsibly. So what's my cut?'
"As soon as I told them that, I saw Gerry Crowley behind me, lowering his gun. And the other two guys chuckled. I knew if I hadn't said that, I would have been dead."
Sydney remembered the Tribune article quoting Joe about the raid-gone-awry. His "my fellow officers acted professionally and responsibly" line had been exactly what he'd said.
"I volunteered to stand guard at the other end of the pier, but they sent Crowley with me. I think they were afraid I'd radio in what they were doing. And of course, that's just what I would have done. Anyway, the other two guys rigged the minivan to crash into the drums and then set fire to it. The boat took off with the cocaine--which meant they had a fourth guy working with them. They shot off a few rounds and Crowley called in for backup during the ruckus."
Joe swallowed down some more beer, draining his glass. "We were writing reports the rest of the night, and there wasn't ever a minute when one of those guys left my side. I couldn't shake them. Crowley and Mankoff walked me out to the car when we finished up at eight-thirty that morning. And on the floor in the front seat was a bag with thirty-two thousand dollars in it. Don't ask me how they got it at such short notice, but they did. And it's still up there in that toolbox on the garage shelf."
"Oh, Jesus, Joe," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm still not sure yet," he sighed. "But I think you and Eli are better off in Seattle until this thing gets resolved."
"Why didn't you tell me all this two months ago?" she asked. "I would have stayed, Joe. I would have stuck by you."
He nodded. "I know you would have. That's why I didn't tell you. That's why I hit you and kicked you out. I needed you and Eli far away so you wouldn't be in any danger."
Sydney sighed. She was thinking how pointless Joe's sacrifice had been. She and Eli were still in danger. Joe's corrupt cohorts may have given up once she'd taken Eli and moved to Seattle. But this madman who had made a game out of murdering heroes was relentless. He'd gone to Portland, New York, and Chicago to kill in her name.
And Sydney had every reason to believe he was here now--maybe even in the hotel.
She squeezed Joe's hand again. "Could you stay with me--at least, until I've changed rooms?"
Joe called the front desk to arrange the room switch while she packed. He stayed with her until she was settled in a new room on the third floor. It looked exactly like the other room--with the same color scheme--only there was no outside access, and no strangers walking past her window. She actually did feel a little safer.
"I'll call you in the morning," Joe told her, before opening the door to leave.
"Thanks, Joe," she said.
He gently kissed her on the cheek. Sydney touched his face for a moment.
"Aren't you going to ask me about the other morning?" he said.
"You mean when I called you and some woman picked up the phone?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I was in the shower. When I came out of the bathroom, she said I'd had a hang-up. So I star-sixty-nined it. Remember Carla?"
Sydney remembered her. She was a fellow cop who had a crush on Joe. He appreciated the attention, but had made it clear to Carla that he was happily married. "So--that was Carla yesterday morning?" Sydney asked.
He nodded again.
"That's why I didn't want to ask you about it," she said in a shaky voice. "I was afraid your answer would be something like this."
He sighed. "Ever since word got around that you'd left me and moved to Seattle, Carla's been--campaigning. I was lonely night before last, and got myself drunk, and got up the nerve to take her home."
Sydney bit her lip. "And to our bedroom..."
"I couldn't go through with it, honey," he said. "Carla was so hurt--and upset. And I felt like a shit. I spent the night cuddling with her, and didn't sleep a wink. I was disgusted with myself the whole time. It was the longest, most excruciating night of my life." He shrugged. "It was the price I paid for this stupid, feeble attempt to forget you."
His eyes searched hers. "But I couldn't forget you, honey. I'm more in love with you now than I ever have been. I don't expect you to forgive me now, but well...." He quickly kissed her on the mouth. "Sleep on it, okay?"
Touching her lips, Sydney just stared at him and nodded.
Then Joe ducked outside, and she triple-locked the door after him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
For a moment--as the clock radio went off, blasting her favorite Windy City oldies station--Sydney thought she was home on Spaulding Avenue again. She still smelled Joe on her skin. His face and the sound of his voice were recharged in her memory. Sydney almost expected Joe to roll over, kiss her shoulder, and murmur, "Morning, babe." But she was alone in bed in her jade, taupe, and salmon room at this Red Lion b
y the airport.
Carly Simon's "Anticipation" serenaded her as she staggered out of bed. She wore an oversized T-shirt. On her way to the bathroom, something caught her eye. An envelope had been shoved under her door. It was probably just the hotel bill, but Sydney retrieved it anyway. The legal-size envelope had been lying on the carpet with the flap side up. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she turned it over--and all of a sudden, she was wide awake. It was as if someone had punched her in the stomach.
Scrawled across the front of the envelope were the words: BITCH SYDNEY.
Her hands trembling, she tore open the envelope. It seemed empty at first. But then she shook out a small piece of paper about the size of a credit card. It fluttered toward the floor, but Sydney grabbed the paper in midair. It was a pass ticket for the Chicago El.
Pushing the hair back from her face, Sydney studied the ticket. It took her a few moments to understand. Joe rode the El to work every morning. And years ago, Joe had become a hero when he'd saved all those people from a deranged gunman on the El train.
All of the murdered Movers & Shakers heroes had met the same type of death from which they'd rescued other people. Joe had been one of her first subjects, and he was about to be gunned down on the El--unless it had already happened.
Frantic, Sydney checked the digital clock radio on her night-table: 7:32. Joe caught the Brown Line at 7:35 every weekday morning.
Sydney grabbed the phone and called his cell. It rang twice, and then a recording clicked on: "Hi, it's Joe. You've reached my cell. Leave a message. Thanks." But this was followed by a prerecorded voice reciting different options for leaving a message: "To page this person, press one. To leave a message for this person..."
Sydney anxiously paced around the hotel room, waiting for the beep. Finally, it sounded: "Hello, Joe?" she practically screamed into the phone. "Listen, this hero-killer, I think he's after you, Joe. He's going to shoot you on the El. Whatever you do, don't get on the El train this morning! I'm at the hotel. Call me when you get this."
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