Final Breath

by Kevin O'Brien

  "Eli, please--"

  "Bye," he said. Then he hung up. A minute later, Eli was out the door and double locking it. He could hear the phone ringing again on the other side.

  With the manila envelope tucked under his arm, Eli turned and walked away.

  The Number 11 bus pulled up toward his stop. Already Eli was sweating through his white shirt. It had gotten muggy out. And on top of that, he perspired when he got nervous. He felt so close to solving this thirty-four-year-old double murder.

  He glanced up at the rain clouds darkening the sky. He hadn't thought to bring an umbrella.

  Obviously, he hadn't been thinking at all; otherwise he would have noticed the man across the street earlier. Eli caught a glimpse of him climbing into a white Taurus. The dark-skinned man wore sunglasses and a red shirt, but there was no mistaking who he was. Eli wondered how long he'd been there, watching him.

  The bus suddenly pulled up, blocking his view.

  Eli stepped aboard, paid his fare, and quickly took a seat on the left side so he could look out the window at the man. As the bus lurched forward, he saw the white Taurus pulling out of its parking spot. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. He turned forward and saw two punk, teenage girls staring at him from across the aisle.

  "You look like a Jehovah's Witness," one of them said. Her friend giggled.

  Eli didn't say anything, but he felt this awful pang in his stomach. He turned away and gazed out the window again. He couldn't see the white car. But he knew it was following him.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Demick left for the day," the receptionist told him. It wasn't the pretty brunette from yesterday. This one had very short platinum-blond hair and dark red lipstick. She nodded at the manila envelope in Eli's hand. "Is that for him?"

  "Um, yes," Eli said. "I--ah, I need him to sign for it. Could you tell me where he went? It's urgent he get this."

  She held out her hand. "If you leave it with me, I'll see his assistant gets it."

  Eli shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I really need to hand it to him in person and get his signature."

  With a tiny frown, the receptionist reached for her phone. "One minute, please," she said. She punched a few numbers, and then her voice dropped to a whisper as she talked to someone on the line. Eli couldn't hear her. He wondered if she was calling security on him.

  He was amazed he'd made it this far. Getting off the bus earlier, he'd kept a lookout for that creepy man, but he hadn't seen him or the white Taurus. It had just started to rain as he'd hurried into the lobby of Mr. Demick's building. While waiting for the elevator, Eli had thought he'd spotted the man again by the revolving doors. But it had been another guy in a red shirt.

  The blonde hung up the phone and smiled at him. "Are you from Coupland and Douglas?" she asked.

  Eli didn't know if that was good or bad, but he took a chance and nodded.

  She pulled up something on her computer, then scribbled on a notepad. "Mr. Demick went home for the day. This is his address." She handed him a piece of paper. "Are you on a bike or did you walk over?"

  "Um, I walked."

  "Well, he's in West Seattle. You'll need a cab. I'll call one for you." She reached for the phone again. "And I'll call Mr. Demick and tell him you're on your way." She nodded at the envelope again. "You know, you're late. We were expecting that at nine o'clock."

  "Yes," Eli said. "I know. They got held up in the--the copy room. Thank you for your help."

  "It'll be a yellow cab out front," she said.

  Eli nodded politely, then turned and quickly headed for the double glass doors. Just as he stepped out to the foyer, one of the elevators let out a ding and the third door down opened. The swarthy man in the red shirt seemed out of place amid the businesspeople riding the elevator with him. He still had his sunglasses on.

  Swiveling around, Eli ran down the hallway and ducked into the first door with an Exit sign over it.

  "Wait!" he heard the man shout behind him.

  He staggered into an ugly stairwell with white walls and grey steps. Racing down the first flight of stairs, Eli tried the door to the twenty-sixth floor, but it was locked. "Shit!" he hissed.

  Above him, he heard the door open.

  He scurried down the next flight of stairs and tried the door on twenty-five, but it was locked as well. He ran as fast as he could down to the next floor. The footsteps above him echoed in the stark stairwell. The man seemed to be gaining on him. "Eli?" the man called. "Eli, stop!"

  But he kept running. How did that guy know his name? What was going on? Eli tried the door on the twenty-third floor. He even banged on it repeatedly.

  "Goddamn it, Eli!" the man yelled. "Stop! I'm a friend of your father's!"

  The voice was right above him now.

  Eli didn't believe him. How often did child killers use that "I'm a friend of your dad's" line?

  He turned and raced down another flight, where he saw a fire extinguisher bracketed to the wall. Eli grabbed it. The man's footsteps got louder and closer. "Eli, wait up!" he called. Eli saw his hand moving down the railing just half a flight up. His shadow began to sweep over the landing.

  Just then, Eli threw the fire extinguisher at his feet. The tinny, clanking sound reverberated through the stairwell. So did the man's sharp cry as he tripped over the extinguisher and fell. "Goddamn it!" he bellowed.

  Eli didn't wait to see how far the creepy guy had fallen or how badly he was hurt. He'd already turned around and bolted down the next group of steps. Eli tried the door on the twentieth floor, and to his utter relief, it was open.

  "Eli, wait!" the man called. "I know your dad..."

  Eli shut the stairwell door, and it cut off the sound of the stranger's voice.

  He took the elevator from the twentieth floor down to the lobby, where he saw the yellow cab waiting in front of the building. Eli was still catching his breath as he headed out the revolving door. He had the manila envelope tucked under his arm, but stopped in the rain for a moment to check his pockets for the piece of paper with Mr. Demick's address on it. "Oh, no," he murmured. "Oh, no, please, God..."

  Just when he'd thought he was getting the hell out of there, he would have to go back. Dejectedly, he wandered over to the cab and opened the front passenger door. "I'm doing a delivery for a law firm," he said to the driver--a middle-aged, thin black man with gray hair. "Are you waiting for me?"

  The taxi driver nodded.

  "I'm sorry, but I have to go back and--"

  The driver was still nodding. "Going to West Seattle, right? 1939 Henley Court?"

  Eli broke into a grateful smile. "Yes, sir. You bet. Thank you."

  He quickly climbed in back. As the cab pulled into traffic, Eli felt such overwhelming relief. It lasted about thirty seconds. That was how long it took for him to realize where he must have dropped that piece of paper with Demick's address on it.

  In the stairwell, of course.

  "Well, Sydney, it's about time you called me. I only gave you my cell phone number--like last week!"

  The pretty, twenty-two-year-old brunette salesgirl behind the counter at Beautiful Blooms had been chewed out on several occasions for chatting on her cell phone while at work. But Jill was the only one in the flower shop at the moment. There weren't any customers, and Glenn, the gruff fifty-something owner was out making a delivery.

  Jill had developed an instant crush on Sydney Jordan when he'd first walked into Beautiful Blooms about two weeks ago. She thought it was cool how he spelled his name that different way. For someone so cute and funny, he had kind of a sad job. He'd explained to her that he helped people with the estates of their recently deceased relatives. He worked all over the country: Portland, New York, Chicago. He was always sending his new customers flowers with sympathy cards. It was a pretty sweet gesture. Jill had waited on him a few times now, and always flirted up a storm. She couldn't believe he'd finally called her on her cell, and he was asking if she'd like to go out with him.

  "You mean, like a
date?" she teased.

  "You bet, like a date," he said. "I want to take you out to breakfast tomorrow around 9:30."

  "Oh, I'd love to, but I have to work," she said, crestfallen. "Can't we make it another time?"

  "Well, can't you call in sick?" he countered. "I'd really like to see you, Jill. And if we meet for breakfast, we'll have the rest of the day together--if we want. I know it's what I'd like."

  Jill let out an exasperated, giddy, little laugh. "I'm tempted..."

  "C'mon, let's do it," he urged her.

  "I guess I could call in tomorrow with some excuse," she said, leaning on the counter.

  "That's my girl," he said on the other end of the line.

  Jill felt absolutely light-headed while he explained that he'd pick her up in front of Seattle's Asian Art Museum in Volunteer Park. It wasn't too far from her apartment. And they could walk or drive to the Coastal Kitchen for brunch--depending on their mood. And then they'd see where the day took them.

  "Sydney, that sounds awesome," she said into the cell phone. A customer walked into the flower shop, but Jill turned her back to her.

  "Then it's a date," he said on the other end of the line. "Listen, I need to cancel that order from yesterday, the one to Mrs. Joseph McCloud at number nine, Tudor Court in Seattle. It didn't work out with the client the way I planned. Did that order go out yet?"

  "Not yet," she replied. "We'll just credit it back to your account. You still have a lot of money left over from that cash deposit you made."

  "I may have a couple of more orders for delivery tomorrow," he said. "One will be to a Seattle address and another to someone with the last name Finch in Evanston. I'll phone them in later today. But if we don't connect, we're still on for brunch tomorrow morning, aren't we?"

  "We sure are," Jill replied. "It's a date, Sydney."

  The overly tanned, forty-something blond woman answering Mr. Demick's front door was wearing a tennis outfit. A pair of sunglasses were perched on top of her head. "Yes?" she said, with a slightly icy look.

  Standing on the front stoop in his tie and short sleeve shirt, Eli wondered if she, too, thought he was a Jehovah's Witness. He showed her the manila envelope. "I have something here that requires a signature from Mr. Burton C. Demick."

  She nodded. "Oh, well, come on in." She called over her shoulder. "Honey, you need to sign for this! Burt?" There was no answer. With a big sigh, she rolled her eyes. "Wait here just a minute," she muttered, heading off to a room on her right. "Burt? Burt, for Christ's sake, I'm going to be late for my tennis lesson. You've got to sign for this..."

  Her voice faded. Eli waited in the front hallway, a very pale green foyer with a marble floor and a sparkling crystal chandelier overhead. Demick's house was one of those newly built "McMansions"--set back from the street on an isolated piece of property with a lot of trees.

  During the cab ride here, Eli kept thinking about that man. I'm a friend of your dad's, the guy had said. If he was really a buddy of his father's, why was he sneaking around like that? How come his mom hadn't recognized him when she'd first spotted him in their driveway?

  The taxi here had cost twenty-two bucks, which had practically cleaned him out. Eli had paid the driver, and sent him away. Now he wasn't sure how he'd get home.

  Eli heard footsteps, and he glanced up to see Mr. Demick coming down the hallway. He wore a turquoise golf shirt, white shorts, and sandals. His legs and arms were tanned and hairless. Demick's eyes locked onto his, and he seemed to balk at the sight of him.

  Eli nervously cleared his throat. "Hi, Mr. Demick. My name is Eli. I don't know if you remember me from yesterday--"

  "Yes, I remember you," he said. He had a strange half-smile on his face that didn't quite conceal his irritation. "My wife thought you were a messenger boy. What are you doing here?"

  "Um, I just had one more question for you, sir," Eli said. "I was wondering if Earl or Mrs. Sayers ever mentioned someone named Chris."

  "Chris," he repeated.

  Eli nodded. "It might even be short for Christine. I'm not sure if it's a man or a woman." He reached inside the manila envelope and pulled out the old Hallmark card. "Y'see, the reason I got interested in Earl and his mother was because I live in their old place by the beach at Lake Washington. And I found this card today."

  Demick frowned. "I don't have my glasses. Come on into my study."

  Eli followed him down the hall and into a room with a big, mahogany desk. A state-of-the-art computer monitor sat on top of it, along with a large antique lamp that had a bronze golfer figurine as its base and a golf-ball design on the shade. On one wall there were old framed prints of people golfing and some framed diplomas. Behind the desk was a floor-to-ceiling picture window with individual little panes; a few of them had stained-glass designs. But it didn't obscure the view to the large, well-manicured backyard. There was a patio just outside that window with some wrought-iron furniture.

  "I don't remember Earl or his mother ever talking about someone named Chris," Demick said, retrieving his glasses from a pile of paperwork on his desk. He slipped them on, then reached for the Hallmark card. "Let's have a look at that..."

  Eli handed it to him. "You know how you said you weren't sure at first if Mrs. Sayers killed Earl and herself. Well, this Chris person could have done it. I mean, he's really mad in that letter. And the postmark is just a few days before Mrs. Sayers and Earl were killed."

  Demick opened the card and read it. A sour look passed over his face, and he heaved a sigh as he closed the card and handed it back to him. "You're right, Eli," he said finally. "I think we should show this to the police. Have you contacted them?"

  Shrugging, Eli shook his head. "I haven't even told my uncle about this yet. In fact, would it be okay if I called and told him where I am? I just want to let him know I'm okay."

  "Certainly," Demick said, nodding at the phone on his desk. "Help yourself. Sit down. I can leave if you want some privacy."

  "No, this is fine," Eli said, walking around to his side of the desk. He reached for the phone. "Thanks very much."

  Demick opened the top side drawer. "I have this police lieutenant's business card in here..."

  Eli was about to dial his uncle's number when he noticed a yellow legal pad on Mr. Demick's desk. He'd scribbled some notes, and at the bottom of that top page, Eli read: "Despite everything, I recommend that all parties concerned..." It was the exact same sloppy script that had scrawled those words, "Despite everything, I still love you..."

  Eli glanced at the antique brass name plate on the fancy pen holder: Burton Christopher Demick.

  He turned toward Mr. Demick, and froze.

  Loretta and Earl's killer had a gun in his hand.

  "It was you," Eli murmured. The receiver fell out of his hand. "But you--you were Earl's friend..."

  With an icy stare, Demick nodded. "And the poor sap had no idea I was fucking his bitch mother for over a year."

  All at once, he reeled back, then brought the butt end of the gun down on Eli's head. "Snoopy little bastard," he growled.

  It was the last thing Eli heard before he collapsed to the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sydney gazed at Joe's handsome profile and the Band-Aid covering the cut from the piece of glass that had hit him on the train platform. She sat in the front with him in his Honda Civic as they drove along Mannheim to O'Hare. Joe's eyes were riveted to the road ahead.

  He'd spent most of the day answering questions and trying to convince his fellow cops that this morning's sniper incident might not have been gang-related. He hadn't won any converts with his theory of a hero-killer. He hadn't mentioned anything about the hero-killings to the press. "There just isn't enough evidence to go public with it yet," he'd explained to Sydney. "Besides, you're the one who should tell the story, not me."

  Both she and Joe would be on the news tonight.

  Sydney had done her best to stay focused on the Chloe Finch story. She'd managed to finish editing a
nd scoring the segment by 3:25--with only minutes to spare before its deadline. The segment would run on tonight's national news. She wasn't too crazy about the piece and thought her It's a Wonderful Life angle might have been too corny. But she'd shown it to Chloe, who had loved it.

  Within a few hours, Chloe Finch would be another one of her heroes. And while Sydney didn't want to frighten her too much, she'd warned Chloe to be on her guard for nutcases and stalkers. "Now that you're going to be famous, you need to be extra cautious, okay?"

  She was hoping after tonight, Chloe wouldn't have to be looking over her shoulder. They were a lot closer to tracking down this maniac. Joe had managed to make some calls and traced the flower delivery orders. Both had originated from a florist in Seattle called Beautiful Blooms. Sydney knew the place. It wasn't far from Kyle's house.

  "I hate sending you back to Seattle alone," Joe said, following the airport signs for Departures. "If I can get out from under this El-shooting business, I'll catch an early morning flight there tomorrow." He took his eyes off the road for a moment and glanced at her. "Would that be okay with you?"

  Sydney smiled at him and nodded. "That would be more than okay. It would be terrific."

  He once again focused on the traffic ahead, but reached over and took hold of her hand. "Listen, I hope you're not too angry about this, but I asked a buddy to watch over you and Eli."

  "For tonight?" she asked.

  "For the last couple of months," he admitted. "Luis has been checking in on you from time to time ever since you moved to Seattle."

  "What?" Sydney murmured.

  "I just wanted to be positive that Crowley, Mankoff, and Rifkin hadn't sent some hood to Seattle to tie up loose ends."

  "Luis," she said. "Is he a Latino guy with an eye infection of some kind?"

  Joe nodded. "Yeah, he was complaining to me the other night that he wasn't getting any sleep. He said he must have broken a blood vessel or something."

  "How come I don't know this guy?"

  "Well, if you knew him, he wouldn't have been able to follow you around. Luis is a good guy. He used to be a street kid, and I plucked him out of this gang when he was about sixteen. Now he wants to be a cop."