Tell Me You're Sorry (27 page)

“Let me handle things with Mr. Jayne,” she said, looking at the TV again. It was another commercial, this time for fabric softener. “But first, I'm going to talk to Mark Metcalf.”

“So what am I supposed to do, just sit here?” Ryan asked.

Stephanie saw the news come on the TV, and turned up the volume.

The two news anchors were an attractive blonde and a handsome man with a hint of gray at his temples. He wore a tan blazer and a blue striped tie. In him, Stephanie recognized the kid from the photo. He was announcing the lead story about a five-car pileup on Interstate 5, near the City Center.

Stephanie turned up the volume a bit louder. “Do you hear that, Ryan?” she asked. “It's Mark Metcalf. I'm looking at him on TV right now . . .”

And he was just fifty-three minutes away.

 

 

 

“Mark, I've got a woman on line two,” said Gail. The twentysomething associate producer had quietly stepped into the studio at the tail end of the broadcast. They'd just gone off the air. Mark and Debi were still at their news desk. “She won't give her name,” Gail said, leaning on the desk. “But she's been on hold for the last five minutes. She insists on talking to you.”

Mark got to his feet. “Could you take a message? Tell her I'm in a meeting with a news emergency, anything to get rid of her. Please?”

She sighed. “I'll try.” Then she retreated into the darkness beyond the studio lights.

Mark just wanted to go home. He'd been getting a lot of calls and e-mails since his on-the-air flub last Friday night. It was a current YouTube favorite. No doubt that was why the woman had been holding for five minutes to talk with him.

He should have had Gail just tell the woman the truth. His emergency was a nine-year-old son at home with the stomach flu. He'd been with Danny while the boy threw up all morning. Mark had gotten some chicken soup and Saltines in him before leaving for the five o'clock broadcast. Alison had given up a night out with friends to babysit.

Ducking into the restroom, Mark took off his jacket, tie, and shirt. At the sink, he washed off his makeup. It was just a light base, but he didn't like wearing it in the daylight when people might notice.

He dried his face with a paper towel. He was thinking if he got home before seven, Alison could still go out with her friends and be back by ten o'clock—in time to babysit again, so he could take off to do the eleven o'clock broadcast. At least Alison would have a couple of hours to unwind with friends. She was in summer school during the day with driver's ed, and repeating a chemistry class she'd failed last year. Then she had to be home to babysit her kid brother by four, so that he could make the five o'clock broadcast. She could have bitched and moaned and played the martyr about it, but she didn't. He wanted to give her a little break tonight.

His coworker, Jesse, stepped into the washroom. Today he wore plaid shorts and a T-shirt with Rocky and Bullwinkle on it. “Gail sent me in,” he said. “You know that woman she had on hold earlier? Well, she ain't giving up. She's called back and she's holding again. She wants to talk to you, and get this—she has identified herself. She's Stephanie Coburn, and she wants to give you an exclusive interview.”

Putting his shirt back on, Mark squinted at him. “Who's Stephanie Coburn?”

“Don't you remember anything I write down for you to read?” Jesse asked. “She's the dipshit pilot with Pacific Cascade Skyways, you know, the one who decided right before takeoff that hallucinogenic substances and flying a commercial jet full of passengers might not be a good mix.”

“Oh, her,” Mark said, buttoning up his shirt. “That happened when I was off for the week, remember?” They'd buried Dina that week.

Jesse sighed. “Sorry, Mark.”

“Forget it,” he said. “Anyway, I have no desire to talk with her.”

“Well, she's offering an exclusive interview. And she's news.”

“Yeah, well, the Kardashians are news, too. And I don't want to talk to any of them, either.”

“It's an exclusive, Mark. It could go national. Gail's a sweetie, but she's got a big mouth. It's bound to get to the powers that be you passed on this. It's too soon after ‘Seattle Shitty Council' to make another major blunder. They took that one pretty well, but you don't want to tick them off by turning down a high-profile story. You should at least hear her out.”

“Okay, okay, I'll talk to her,” Mark sighed. He grabbed his coat and tie.

“She's on line one.”

Mark decided to take the call in his office.

Hanging up his coat and tie, he sat on the edge of his desk and reached for the phone. He pressed line one. “Hello, this is Mark Metcalf.”

“Hi, my name's Stephanie Coburn,” she said. “But then, I guess they already told you that. I'm sorry to bother you. I didn't really call to offer you an interview. I called because—well, my brother-in-law was Scott Hamner. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Mark didn't say anything. But for a few seconds he couldn't breathe.

“He was friends with Dick Ingalls—and Brent Farrell. Do you remember them?”

“Um, yes, I remember Dick Ingalls,” he admitted. “He and his family were members at a country club where I worked for a couple of summers, back when I was in high school. But I didn't know him very well.”

“You weren't friends with him?”

“Not really,” he said. “We didn't even go to the same school. I worked as a valet at the club. I may have parked the Ingallses' car a few times. As for the other two, I'm sorry, I don't remember them.”

“I came upon a picture of the four of you together,” she said. “And I think it was taken at the club.”

“Well, you're going back almost thirty years, so I won't refute you.”

“If you weren't friends with them, why were you posing in this picture with them?”

“Lady—um, Stephanie, listen . . .” He got up and paced back and forth in front of the desk, stretching the phone cord. “I ended up in a lot of photos when I was working at that place—usually after someone asked me to snap a group shot. They'd turn around and tell me, ‘Now you get in the picture,' and I'd end up posing with a bunch of strangers. I think it was people's way of being nice to the help. Anyway, I'm not surprised I'm in a photo from back then with some guys I hardly knew.”

She didn't say anything.

Mark let out a long sigh. “If I was friends with these guys, I'd tell you. Now, what's this about?”

“All three of them are dead,” she said.

Mark stopped pacing. He'd heard about Brent Farrell killing his family and himself after some embezzling scheme had gone awry. He didn't know about the others.

“Their families were killed, too,” she continued. “And in each case, it had something to do with their second wives. All of these men were widowers. Dick's first wife had a stroke. My sister—Scott's wife—slashed her throat. Brent's first wife hung herself. Two suicides. Do you see a pattern here? Didn't your wife kill herself?”

“My wife's death was an accident,” he said steadily.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “But you must believe me. I'm trying to help you. I think you and your family are in danger. Whoever's behind these deaths, they know I'm getting closer to finding the truth. They've been after me. They've tried to kill me. They drugged me before I got on the plane that day. Listen, you can check my background. I have an excellent flight record—and absolutely nothing in my history about drug or alcohol abuse. I'm in hiding right now, because these people want me dead.”

“If you
. . .”
Mark hesitated, and chose his words carefully. “If you truly feel your life's in danger, you should contact the police. I'm sorry, I can't help you.”

“Does the name Selena Jayne mean anything to you?”

Mark felt as if someone had just slugged him in the gut. “No, not really,” he said.

“She was a waitress at the club the same time you were there.”

“I didn't really mix with the waitstaff,” he said. “I was out front parking cars. They were inside serving food.”

“She disappeared in August of 1986. Do you remember that?”

Mark hesitated. “That sounds familiar now. Yes, I—I recall hearing something about that. I really wasn't acquainted with her. Do you know if they ever found her?”

“No,” she answered. “You're the only one from that photograph who's still alive. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill the others—and their families?”

“Well, since I hardly knew them, no, I can't think of a reason. I'm sorry I can't help you. Now, I'm extremely busy. I hope—you'll be all right. Good-bye.”

Mark hung up the phone, and then rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand. He felt sick to his stomach. He grabbed his coat and tie, and hurried out of his office. He almost ran right into Jesse.

“Whoa, what happened?” Jesse asked, stepping back. “Do you get an exclusive?”

Mark quickly shook his head. “No. She's—she was after something else. She's crazy. If she calls again, I don't want to talk to her. Got that? Tell Gail to hang up on her.”

He didn't wait for Jesse to respond. He hurried toward the stairwell and ran down the steps.
This can't be happening
, he thought. Were the others really dead? Was that Stephanie Coburn person on the level? Or had someone put her up to the call? He wondered if this had anything to do with those Father's Day cards he'd received every year.

Once he got home, he'd go online and look up what had happened to the other guys. Could it really be true that Brent's and Scott's first wives had killed themselves? “I think you and your family are in danger,” the woman had said. He hoped to God she was indeed crazy.

Mark rushed through the lobby and pushed open the glass door. It was a cool, cloudy night. He started for the parking lot.

“Mark?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to gape at his new friend. “Hey, Jenny,” he said, a little out of breath.

Smiling, she held up a bag that had “Top Pot Doughnuts” printed on it. “You ran right past me,” she said. “I got you and your kids some breakfast treats for tomorrow morning.”

He managed to smile back at her. “Well, thanks, that's awfully nice of you. But really, you shouldn't have, especially after the wine yesterday . . .”

She handed him the bag. “I hope you don't think I'm a stalker or anything.”

“Well, if you are, you're a perfectly nice one.”

When they'd met the other night, they'd ended up parked in front of her hotel, talking in his car for forty-five minutes. She'd noticed his wedding ring. “So—I guess you're off the market,” she'd said.

He'd told her about Dina, and said he would probably be off the market for quite a while. He'd walked her to the hotel lobby door. She'd thanked him, kissed him on the cheek, and ducked inside.

Mark had been a tiny bit smitten. And he felt horrible about it. But he told himself he would never see her again.

Then to his surprise, she'd been waiting for him outside the station after the eleven o'clock show last night. She had a bottle of wine for him. “It's a thank-you present for coming to my rescue,” she explained.

He offered to give her a ride back to the hotel, but she declined. Somehow, he wound up giving her a ride anyway, and sitting in the car with her for another twenty minutes—until Alison called saying Danny wasn't feeling well. She wanted to know when he was coming home.

It was kind of a reality check. Saying good-bye to her at the hotel lobby door, he'd shaken her hand. No kiss on the cheek.

He really hadn't expected her to turn up again tonight.

“You look like you're in a hurry,” she said. “I won't keep you.”

“Yes, my son's stomachache took a turn for the worse this morning. I need to get back home and make sure he's okay.”

“Well, I guess doughnuts are about the last thing he needs right now.” She let out a pitiful little laugh. “Good call, Jenny.”

“He'll probably bounce back and be fighting his sister for them in the morning.” Mark hoisted the bag up. “Anyway, thanks.”

She started to walk alongside him to the car. “Let me know if you need a helping hand,” she said. “I practically qualify as a nurse. I looked after my sick mother for two years. Plus the place I lived in in the Bay Area was full of senior citizens. Somehow they always came to me with their aches and pains. So—I'm pretty good in a crisis, Mark.”

“You're sweet,” he said, stopping in front of his Mustang. “Can I give you a lift back to the hotel?”

“No, thanks,” she said, fishing into her purse. “It's a nice night and early yet. I'd like to walk. There are a lot of people out. I'll be all right.” She pulled out a card and handed it to him. “I mean it about calling me if you need anything—help around the house, someone to babysit, you name it.” She shrugged and glanced down at the pavement. “You'd be helping me out, too. Living at a hotel in a new city can be kind of lonely.”

Mark glanced at the card with an arrow logo in beautiful colors:

He tucked the card into his pocket, and then took out his car keys. “I may just take you up on that. Thanks again. G'night, Jenny.”