Tell Me You're Sorry (25 page)

“Thanks, thanks a lot, everybody,” he muttered, trying to work up a smile.

In his last segment of tonight's news broadcast, he had made reference to the “Seattle Shitty Council.” He quickly corrected the flub, but Debi got a case of giggles. She was enough of a pro that she quickly recovered. As for Mark, he managed to wrap up the broadcast with a smile on his face and a few shreds of his dignity still intact.

Ordinarily, he'd have had a terrific laugh over it with the newsroom gang. But tonight, he just didn't have it in him. When he'd gotten that Father's Day card earlier today, it had knocked the sense of humor right out of him. He felt his face getting red with embarrassment as his coworkers cheered and laughed.

“You've got to answer one of these phone calls,” Jesse said. “You've just got to . . .”

But Mark shook his head and started toward his office. He tried to keep a smile plastered on his face. “Oh, I've had enough humiliation for one night, thank you.”

With a little wave, he ducked into his office. The phone was ringing in there, too. He ignored it.

Before the newscast, he'd swung by Quality Food Center for some essentials—nothing perishable. He was doing most of the grocery shopping now—and he still wasn't very good at it. He was about to reach for the two QFC bags when Jesse stepped inside the office.

“Hey, are you okay?” he whispered.

“Just a bad day,” Mark said with a shrug. “I'll snap out of it. Sorry to be such a downer.”

“Feeling shitty, huh?” Cracking a smile, Jesse shook his head. “Sorry, I couldn't resist. Seriously, want to go out for a drink and unload?”

“Thanks anyway, Jesse. Think I'll head home.”

“Well, be careful driving across town. Even at this hour, the inner-shitty traffic can be pretty nuts.”

Mark patted him on the shoulder. “You can't give it up, can you?”

“Nope, sorry. Take care tonight, okay? Don't forget to wash your makeup off.”

Mark nodded. “Thanks.”

He watched Jesse slink back into the newsroom and murmur something to Debi and another coworker, who both seemed concerned. Grabbing the grocery bags, Mark switched off his office light with his elbow and stepped out of the office. “Good night, all!” he called over his shoulder.

He heard several people say good night—loudly, to be heard over the phones that were still ringing. He continued toward the exit, not looking back. He took the stairs instead of the elevator. It was only one flight down. The station was housed in a two-story sixties-style building near the Space Needle and Seattle Center.

In the gloomy stairwell with its beige cinderblock walls, Mark hurried down the steps. He thought about that Father's Day card again. It had unnerved him. Somehow, he'd managed to get through the five and six o'clock news broadcasts without flubbing. But reading his lines off the teleprompter, he couldn't think of anything else but that damn card.

Every Father's Day week for the last four years, he'd gotten an anonymous card—with no return address and an out-of-state postmark. But this time, the sender had mailed the cryptic card from “Seattle, WA 98122.”

The person behind those cards was now close by. Maybe he or she had been around for a while now. Mark wondered if this had anything to do with Dina's suicide. Had this mystery person talked with her that afternoon last month?

Dina had known about the first Father's Day card. The day he'd gotten it at the station, he'd phoned home and asked if she'd sent it—or if she'd had a friend out-of-state send it as some kind of prank.

“Now why in God's name would I do that?” Dina had laughed. “Hey, you know what this means, don't you? It means you could have a child somewhere out there you don't know about. It must have been from before you knew me, because you've certainly never been unfaithful to me.”

She was right. He hadn't been with another woman since meeting her.

“You know, I'll bet some crazy fan sent it,” Dina said. “Or maybe someone just got their envelopes mixed up. Somewhere, someone's dad has a fan letter to you.”

Dina didn't seem to think anything of it. But it gnawed away at Mark. It didn't make any sense. He was never much of a lothario. He'd only been with five women before Dina: three he'd dated for a while, one was a fling, and another was a mistake. Except for the one he regretted, he'd kept in touch with all of them long enough after the fact to know he hadn't gotten any of them pregnant.

That left the woman who was a mistake, the woman he'd spent most of his adult life trying to forget. But the notion that she'd gotten pregnant seemed next to impossible.

Dina didn't know about her—unless, of course, someone had gotten to her and told her. Was that what had happened on the afternoon Dina killed herself? Was that the explanation? He wondered if Dina would have committed suicide over that. Maybe. Maybe she was that utterly disappointed in him.

He wanted to get home to his kids. He usually drove back and had dinner with them between the six and eleven o'clock broadcasts. Alison's best friend, Cate, was spending the night. When Mark had left them, they were eating popcorn and watching TV. Danny was in bed reading. Having another person in the house, even if she was just a kid, somehow made him feel better.

Shifting around the grocery bags for a moment, Mark pulled the door open and stepped outside. It was a cool, clear evening. He headed to his vintage blue Mustang in the parking lot. This close to the Space Needle and the Seattle Center, there were always people around. He wasn't paying much attention to anyone when the woman approached him.

“Excuse me, someone's following me,” she whispered. “Do you mind if I stand here and talk to you like I know you? It'll only be for a couple of minutes . . .”

Dumbfounded, he stared at the pretty, thirtysomething brunette. She was thin, with a denim jacket over a casual pink dress. “Um, sure,” he said.

“It's that husky guy back there in the brown jacket,” she said. “See him—with the dark hair?”

Mark looked over her shoulder and saw the man she described. He must have just turned around, because his back was to them. He was walking away—in the other direction, toward the Space Needle. “I think he got discouraged,” Mark said.

“Not him,” the woman sighed. “I'm pretty sure it's the same guy who's been outside my hotel room window a couple of nights this week. I was hoping when I moved here from the Bay Area that I'd make some new friends, but he's not what I had in mind.” She touched Mark's arm. “Listen, thank you so much. I just want to make sure he doesn't come back. I still have five more blocks to my hotel. Do you mind if we stand here for another couple of minutes? I hope those groceries aren't too heavy.”

“It's no problem, really,” he said.

She cocked her head to one side and seemed to study his face. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

He shrugged. “Shoot.”

“This is kind of tactless, but since we'll probably never see each other again, I just have to ask. Are you wearing makeup?”

Mark laughed. “Oh, yeah, I forgot I had it on. I'm an anchorman on the news.” He nodded toward the building—with the station call letters and logo illuminated by the doors. On the side of the building was a small billboard with him, Debi, and the rest of the on-air news team. “I just finished a broadcast,” he explained.

She covered her mouth. “Of course! I thought you looked familiar. I've been watching your news show practically every night since I got into town two weeks ago. Mike Metcalf, right?”

“Mark,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, Mark, sorry.” Suddenly, she seemed a bit nervous. It was kind of charming. “Anyway, I—I'm sorry I missed your show tonight.”

“Well, I'm not. I made a big flub on the air. It'll probably be on YouTube tomorrow.”

“I'll have to check it out.” She touched his arm again. “Listen, I've bothered you enough. I think I'll be okay getting to the hotel from here. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“This is silly,” he said. “Why don't I give you a lift there?”

She hesitated, and then smiled. “Ordinarily, I'd say that I don't accept rides from strangers, but I already know who you are. Only you don't know me . . .” She flicked back her long, dark brown hair and held out her hand.

Mark put down one of the grocery bags and gave her hand a shake.

“It's nice to meet you, Mark,” she said. “My name's Jenny Ballatore.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

 

T
he guys at the body shop had changed the radio station in her car. It was churning out rap music—instead of the classic rock 'n' roll from her usual oldies station. She was trying to drive and fiddle with the tuner at the same time. Stephanie could fly a commercial airliner, but she still couldn't figure out how to select and save a radio station on her Lexus. At every red light between the auto body shop and home, she tried to find her station.

This was only one of life's many frustrations this week. At least the car roof looked like new—at a cost of $703.89. The garage door damaged that night last week had also been fixed. She'd had her locks replaced—and a new security system installed. And she'd applied for a gun permit. Each task had been a major pain in the neck to complete.

But none of them were quite as exasperating as trying to track down Mark Metcalf.

How stupid she'd been to assume finding him would be easy. Google was full of Mark Metcalfs. Most of the Web, image, and news searches took her to the actor

Mark Metcalf, who was in everything from
Animal House
to
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
to
Seinfeld
.

Of the four young men posing by the tennis court in that photo, Metcalf's face was the most out of focus. Stephanie couldn't match his likeness with any of the scores of images she'd studied on Google. She'd varied the spelling: Marc Metcalf, Mark Metcalfe, Mark Medcaff. And she'd tried different search key words: Mark Metcalf; Chicago and Mark Metcalf; Lake Ridge Country Club; and Mark Metcalf, Death. She still couldn't find anyone who might be him.

Since Friday, Ryan had paid three visits to Mark Metcalf's former address in Evanston. But no one had answered the door at 1107 Terry Lane.

Stephanie didn't want Ryan going off on his own investigation. “I'm just afraid you might end up asking the wrong person if they knew Mark Metcalf,” she'd told him when they'd talked on Sunday. “You're digging around his old neighborhood. And we've pretty much figured out this killer must have known him in high school. Chances are this could all be tied in with an event that happened back in 1986 when these four boys knew each other. I don't care how clever you are or what kind of cover story you give, the killer will still know you on sight—because, like it or not, Ryan, you look a hell of a lot like your father when he was your age.”

Stephanie was worried about him and his grandmother. Ryan kept assuring her they were fine—no break-in attempts, no strange cars parked on their block, no signs of trouble. But Stephanie still felt they were on borrowed time. How soon before the killers targeted them the way they'd been after her? Like her, they were loose ends.

Her only hope was that while she'd been calling it quits with Jim at the Hotel Lucia last week, the intruder in her home hadn't looked at the e-mails on her computer. Then again, maybe the killers were so confident in the way they'd eliminated Brent Farrell's family they couldn't imagine Ryan or his grandmother ever doubting the official police findings.

Perhaps right now, she was the only loose end they cared about.

Either way, Ryan seemed to be pushing his luck. He'd told her when they'd spoken on Sunday: “I want to go back to that country club and talk to some more employees about this Metcalf guy and Selena Jayne. Maybe they were dating or something. If I could talk to the payroll lady, Doreen, I might be able to get a current address for Selena's father. I could—”

“No,” she cut him off. “I don't want you going back there. They'll be on the lookout for you. Just lay low for a while. Let me do what I can from here, okay?”

“But everything's
here
,” he argued.

“All right, then I'll fly out there if I have to. But for now, just don't do anything. Keep a low profile, and watch your back. You should be focusing on your makeup exams anyway. That's important, Ryan.”

“God, you sound just like my mom.”

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“No, it's okay, I like it.”

Unfortunately, for all her talk about carrying on the investigation, she hadn't gotten very far. They still didn't know if Mark Metcalf was alive or dead, a potential victim or the person behind all these killings. It was possible he simply had been in a photo with these three guys and he had nothing to do with any of this. Perhaps she and Ryan should be looking for the person who snapped that photograph.

She'd been searching for Mark Metcalf for the last four days.

And hell, right now, she couldn't even find her station on the car radio. Exasperated, she shut off the radio and turned down her block.

Stephanie figured maybe it was time to put Mark Metcalf on the back burner, and switch tacks in her investigation.

Pulling into her driveway, she pressed the device to open the garage door. The big door ascended, and Stephanie smiled a little. It felt good to park in her garage and have everything working again.

When she opened the door to the house, the incessant beep of the new home security alarm was reassuring. Stephanie rushed to the code box in her kitchen, and punched in the numbers to disarm it. Pouring herself a glass of water, she took it to her study nook off the living room. She switched on the computer, and then typed in her password. She used to leave her computer on—and let the monitor go into sleep mode. She'd never bothered with her password before. But all that had changed since last week.

With her fingers racing over the keys, she pulled up an article she'd downloaded three days ago from the
Chicago Tribune
online archives.

She'd already read the article and sent it to Ryan. It was just a small piece with one photo, showing a pretty young blonde with bangs. The girl looked like a Vanna White wannabe. The date of the article was Friday, August 29, 1986:

Stephanie figured if the father wasn't dead, he was seventy-six now. She hadn't been able to track him through Google, and Ryan couldn't find anything in local phone books or directory assistance.

After talking with Ryan on Sunday night, she'd looked up a phone number and jotted it down. Now Stephanie took out her cell phone and dialed the number.

“Lake Ridge Country Club,” a woman answered.

“How may I help you?”

“Hi, can you connect me to Doreen in Payroll, please?” Stephanie asked.

“That extension is four-oh-five-eight. I'm connecting you now.”

With the phone to her ear, Stephanie counted four rings. She thought it might go to voice mail. But then someone answered, a woman with a gruff voice: “This is Doreen.”

“Hello, is this the payroll department?”

“Yes, Doreen speaking. Who's this?”

“My name's Stephanie, and I'm calling about a former employee there, my uncle. His name's Barton Jayne. J-A-Y-N-E. I understand he worked there . . .”

“Well, that's funny. You're the second person this week asking about him. Barton hasn't worked here for years. What's this about?”

“My Uncle Bart and my mother were estranged for a long, long time. She just passed away on Sunday. I thought he might want to know. The family lawyer said I should find him. I don't have any idea how to reach him. I was hoping you have a current address for him.”

“I'm sorry,” the woman replied. “I don't give out that kind of information.”

“I understand,” Stephanie said, working a little quaver into her voice. “I'm sorry—I'm sorry to bother you like this. I don't know how I'm going to find him. I'm ready to give up. And I think my mom would really want him to know—she wasn't mad at him in the end. I'm sorry. I told myself I wasn't going to cry . . .” Stephanie had started out faking it. She hadn't expected real tears to come, but they did.

“Let me see what I have here,” Doreen said. “I got a Christmas card from Barton after he left. I may have written down the address. Last I heard he was the groundskeeper at a church in Glenview. I think he told me he was living above the garage by the rectory. Ah, okay, here it is. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Yes, please, go ahead,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“St. Paul's Episcopal Church, 1947 Harms Road in Glenview,” she said. “Got that?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“That's from 2007. I don't have a current address for the daughter.”

“The daughter?” Stephanie echoed. “You mean Selena?”

“No, oh, no. I'm talking about Nicole. She worked here, too, for a couple of summers.”

“When?”

“Oh, it was 1992 or '93,” the woman answered.

“About five years after Selena disappeared. But then, I suppose you already know all about that.”

“Only what I've heard from my mother, which wasn't much,” Stephanie said.

“There isn't much to tell. They never did find her. She was a sweet girl, beautiful, but strange, too.”

“Strange in what way?” Stephanie asked. “I—I never met my cousin.”

“Well, she was just very naïve—and not too mature for her age. Her mother had been sick for so many years. Your uncle was an excellent groundskeeper, but I don't think he knew much about raising two girls on his own. Anyway, I hope I was some help.”

“You were. Thank you very much.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” the woman said. Then she hung up.

Stephanie clicked off the line. She almost speed-dialed Ryan's number to tell him of her find, but she hesitated. That was all he needed. Within an hour, he'd be in his car, driving to Glenview and knocking on St. Paul's rectory door. She didn't want him taking any chances.

Getting to her feet, she took her water glass and started upstairs. She wanted to change her clothes and get comfortable. She still had some calls to make—starting with the rectory. There was a chance Mr. Jayne had moved on to another job or he could have passed away. She needed to confirm that he was still working there.

As she stepped into her bedroom, Stephanie started to pull the polo shirt over her head. She was about to toss the shirt on her bed when she noticed something on the nightstand.

It hadn't been there this morning. In fact, it had never been in her house at all.

Ever since her parents had died, it had been in Rebecca's house.

The Royal Doulton figurine of an old lady selling balloons was one of the items she'd reported missing from the house after her sister's family was slaughtered.

Now it was on her nightstand.

Someone wanted her to know that they'd gotten away with murder.

They also wanted her to know they'd made it past all the extra new security added to her house.

And they were coming back.

 

 

 

Number 1107 on Terry Lane was a Cape Cod style house with gray shingles and white trim. It seemed modest in comparison with all the other, somewhat stately homes on the cul-de-sac. Ryan went ahead and parked his old VW in their driveway. The last three times he'd come by, he'd parked on the street. He hadn't wanted to block anybody going in or out. But no one had been home any of those times, so he figured,
Why the hell not park in their stupid driveway?
They probably weren't home anyway. Why be so timid and overly polite with people who probably weren't even there?

Dressed in a yellow Izod shirt and jeans, he rang the bell. The forty-five-minute drive here—including stop-and-go traffic on Edens Expressway—now seemed like a huge waste of his time. As if the people living here now were any relation to Mark Metcalf or knew anything about him. It had been twenty-seven years since the guy had lived in this house.

He rang again, and then knocked.

It seemed so pointless. It was a hot, muggy afternoon. He could have gone swimming or something—instead of this. He knocked on the door again, loudly this time.