Watch Them Die (11 page)

“Holy Jesus,” she heard Scott murmur, over the smashing glass and twisting steel. A car alarm went off, blaring in the night. Tires squealed, and the old car’s motor roared once more. There was another loud crash.

Hannah pulled herself away, but still held on to her friend as she peered down at the parking lot. She could see Craig Tollman’s crumpled, broken body on the pavement. He was lying in a pool of blood that looked black in the night.

She knew the automobile would hit him again. Poor Craig was obviously already dead. But the automobile had to hit him three times because that was how it happened in
Wait Until Dark
.

Its engine grinding, the car lurched toward Craig’s corpse one more time. Hannah automatically turned her head away. Then she heard another crash. When she looked down at the lot again, the car was heading for the street. Its smashed, crumpled front hood was covered with Craig’s blood.

She and Scott were no longer alone on the balcony. Several residents from her building had come out of their apartments, drawn by all the noise. Within a couple of minutes, about a dozen people had gone down to the parking lot. They slowed down to a stop as they approached Craig’s corpse. They seemed reluctant to get too close to him.

Hannah was numb. She wanted to do something, but she couldn’t even move. It was too late to help him. Craig was dead. She just stood there, her hands gripping the railing.

Scott tried to talk, but he couldn’t seem to get any words out. His face was the color of chalk. He kept shaking his head.

“Mom?”

She turned and saw Guy, in his Spider-Man pajamas, coming toward the door. He rubbed his eyes. “What’s all that noise?” he asked.

Hannah rushed toward him before he could reach the door. She scooped him up in her arms. His body felt warm. “It’s only a car alarm, honey,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “Nothing for you to see. C’mon, let’s get you back to bed. Say good night to Scott.”

“G’night, Scott,” he said, his arms and legs wrapped around Hannah.

Scott just nodded and gave Guy a pale smile.

Tears in her eyes, Hannah carried Guy down the hall.

“Mom, are you crying?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine, honey,” she lied.

He needed to go to the bathroom, then asked for a glass of water. By the time Hannah got him settled back in bed, she heard the police and ambulance sirens. Through Guy’s bedroom windows, she could see a red whirling light from the emergency vehicles outside, three stories below.

To her amazement, Guy started to drift off within a couple minutes, despite all the noise. Her legs a little unsteady, Hannah wandered out of his bedroom and up the hallway. She wiped her eyes and tried to focus on Scott.

He stood in the doorway, nervously smoking a cigarette. “So—aren’t we going to talk to the police?” he said.

“I can’t get involved,” Hannah said. She felt so ashamed and scared. All she wanted to do was run away—from this murderer, from the police, from everything.

“Your trouble with the cops,” Scott said. “It’s really serious, isn’t it?”

Hannah sighed. “You said you weren’t going to ask.”

“That was before,” Scott replied. He rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, I can’t believe it. He was just standing here talking to us a few minutes ago. Listen, Hannah. I’m not asking about your problem with the cops to be nosey. I’m concerned for you, Han. They’re sure to go through Craig’s pockets, and search his car. He might have your address on him.”

Hannah numbly gazed down at all the people, police, and flashing emergency vehicles in the parking lot below.

Scott took a drag from his cigarette. “Hannah, you’re involved—whether you want to be or not.”

Nine

The parking lot was still a mob scene.

They’d managed to silence the car alarms, but there were still engines idling and people talking over one another. Static-garbled announcements came on patrol car radios, and one loud, very angry cop was yelling at everyone to step back.

About fifty people had gathered at the parking lot entrance. Hannah made her way through the crowd while paramedics loaded Craig’s shrouded body into the back of an ambulance.

Only ten minutes ago, Craig had been talking with her. And now he was a corpse. Hannah still couldn’t quite comprehend it. Who had been driving that old-model white car?

Maybe the police knew. It was a long shot, but Hannah tried to listen to their conversations with one another. So far, she wasn’t having much luck finding out anything.

She thought about what Scott had said earlier. Craig must have had her name and address written down somewhere—in his wallet, his pocket, or in his car. Had the police found it yet?

She’d left Scott in the apartment. Someone had to stay there in case Guy woke up again. If that happened, Scott was supposed to flick the living room light on and off a few times.

Hannah kept looking back up at her building. She heard some people talking, and apparently, the police were looking for a white Impala that had been reported stolen late last night.

Then Hannah overheard one officer tell another that the car had been found two miles away. “Somebody torched it,” he said. “Lots of luck getting reliable prints or DNA samples there. Smart SOB. Y’know, I think—”

“THERE’S NOTHING MORE TO SEE!” yelled the cop in charge of crowd control, drowning out his coworkers. “COME ON, PEOPLE, GO HOME….”

Hannah stepped back, and bumped into someone. “Excuse me,” she muttered. Then she looked up at the man and gasped.

“Hi,” Ben said.

Hannah numbly stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced at the other people around them, then winced a bit. “You won’t like this, but I’ve been looking out after you. Did you know this Craig guy?”

“What do you mean, you’ve been ‘looking out after’ me?” Hannah asked.

“It’s hard to explain. I just wanted to make sure nothing bad happened to you.”

The siren began wailing as the ambulance pulled out of the lot. Ben stopped to look at the vehicle speeding down the street. Then he turned to her again. “Did you know him very well?”

“Not very,” Hannah replied, her guard up. She glanced over at the puddle of blood on the parking lot pavement.

“Do you know what he was here investigating?” Ben asked.

“What are you talking about?” Hannah murmured.

“Ronald Craig, the guy who just got killed. Do you know why he was here?”

Hannah frowned. “His name is—
was
—Craig Tollman.”

Ben shook his head. “I was one of the first people here, Hannah. I saw the police take out his wallet and identification. I heard them. His name was Ronald Craig, and he was a private investigator from Milwaukee.”

“He’s from Wisconsin?” Hannah whispered.

Ben nodded.

She wanted to grab Guy, pack their bags, and catch the first bus or train out of Seattle. No doubt, Kenneth and his family knew where she was now. Their private detective, Craig—or rather
Ronald
Craig—had probably been sending daily progress reports back to Wisconsin.

“I noticed you and him talking outside your apartment,” Ben said.

Hannah stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Where were you standing that you could see us on the balcony?”

He nodded toward an alley across the street. “Over there.”

“Then you must have seen the car that hit him,” she whispered. “Did you get a glimpse of the driver?”

He shook his head, then pointed to a van parked nearby. “That blocked my view of the lot. I heard it happening, but didn’t see a thing. I only caught a glimpse of the white car as it sped away.” He sighed. “Listen, I think this Ronald Craig must have uncovered something, and that’s why he was killed.”

Hannah edged away from him. “What are you talking about?”

“He was following you. And I think he might have seen someone else who was following you.”

“Someone else?” Hannah said, with a stunned laughed. “You mean, besides you? What? Is half the city of Seattle following me?”

Ben frowned. “I’ve seen two men. One was Ronald Craig. I haven’t gotten a good look at the second guy. But I think he’s videotaping you.”

Hannah shook her head, but she knew Ben was right. There had to be a third person, and he was Craig’s killer. Ben couldn’t have been driving that white car. He’d have had to move awfully fast, coming back to the scene of his crime just minutes after ditching and burning the old white Impala. He didn’t smell of gasoline.

“Who are you?” she whispered, eyes narrowed at him. “Your name isn’t Sturges.”

“No. My last name’s Podowski. I came out here from New York last month, I—” He sighed. “It’s a long story, and I can’t go into it now. Just trust me, Hannah. I’m trying to help you.”

“Craig said he was trying to help me, too.”

Ben shrugged. “Well, do you want to talk with the police?” He glanced at one of the officers by the parking lot gate. The policeman seemed to be staring back at them.

“No, I don’t want to go to the police,” Hannah admitted quietly.

She still didn’t know who Ben
Podowski
was, or what he wanted. But she figured she had no choice but to let him “help” her, whatever that meant. At least, she’d go through the motions and pretend to trust him. “How exactly do you plan to help me?” she asked.

Ben looked over at the lot for a moment. “When the police went through Ronald Craig’s pockets, they found a hotel room key. I heard them talking. He was staying at the Seafarer Inn on Aurora Boulevard. I’ll go check this place out, do some snooping around. Maybe I can find out who Craig was working for, and how much he knew about this guy with the video camera. It’s a long shot, but might be worth it.”

He sighed, then smiled at her. “Could you do me a favor? Could you phone a taxi for me when you get back up to your place? I’ll be waiting out here. I have no other way of getting to this hotel.”

Nodding, Hannah backed toward her lobby door. “I’ll call a cab for you.”

“Thanks,” Ben said. “I’ll phone you later tonight. What’s your number?”

“555-1007. Don’t you need to write it down?”

“I’ll remember it,” he said. “Thanks, Hannah.”

She unlocked the door, then ducked inside. As Hannah wandered up the stairs, her footsteps echoed in the cinder - block stairwell. She could hardly comprehend any of the events in the last hour. She tried to put all the pieces together.

Hannah could only guess what led
Ronald Craig
halfway across the country to her. Kenneth and his family probably had detectives tapping her friends’ telephones. Maybe they’d traced one of her rare calls to Chicago and come up with the number of a Seattle pay phone.

However he’d pulled it off, this detective calling himself Craig Tollman had found her.

And now he was dead.

A police car occupied the Seafarer Inn’s “Reservations Only” spot near the front door.

Ben had thought the place would be swarming with cops, maybe even a few reporters. He’d figured he could get lost in the crowd; listen to what people were saying and pick up some secondhand information. That was how he’d learned about Ronald Craig—by hanging around the parking lot of Hannah’s building.

But aside from the solitary patrol car, things looked pretty quiet at the Seafarer Inn. Ben hoped at least the desk clerk might tell him something.

After giving the taxi driver a five-dollar tip, Ben asked him to wait near the edge of the lot. He stopped to check his wallet. He still had Paul Gulletti’s business card from a few weeks ago when he’d first joined the film class. The card had the newspaper’s logo on it, and identified Paul as a “Reporter-Contributor.” Ben slipped the card inside his shirt pocket, then hurried into the small lobby.

Sitting on a brown sofa by the door was a thin, long-legged redhead with dark eye makeup. She looked Ben up and down, then smiled.

Ben nodded politely and stepped up to the front desk.

The lobby was done up in a nautical theme, with old fishing nets draping the walls. Ensnared in the nets were dusty shells, balls of colored glass, starfish, and sea horses. Even the desk clerk looked like an old sea cook. He was stocky, with a weatherworn face and gray mustache. He wore glasses, along with a white shirt and a red vest with anchor emblems all over it.

“What can I do ya for?” he asked with a friendly growl.

Ben took the business card from his shirt pocket. “Hi. I’m Paul Gulletti, and I’m a reporter with the
Weekly
. I was hoping you could tell me something about one of your guests. He had a—an unscheduled early checkout. His name was Ronald Craig.”

The old desk clerk frowned at him. “Gulletti, that’s Italian, isn’t it? You don’t look Italian.”

“I take after my mother’s side,” Ben replied. “Now, about this guest.”

“Yeah, about that,” he said. “I think your ‘early checkout’ crack was in bad taste. I hope you don’t write that kind of smart-ass stuff in your newspaper. The man’s dead.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the woman piped up. “Give him a break, Walter. He’s cute.”

The old man shot her a look over his spectacles. “Down, girl,” he muttered. Then he glanced at Ben. “What is it you want, Mr. Gulletti?”

“I thought you might tell me something about this Ronald Craig. For starters, I was wondering how long he’s been staying here.”

The gruff old man didn’t respond.

Ben shrugged. “And, of course, you’d know if he made any long-distance phone calls. And maybe you’ve seen him with someone.”

“The police already asked me all that.” The desk clerk cocked his head to one side. “They’re down the hall right now, poking around in Room 29. Why don’t you go talk to them?”

Ben tried to smile. “Well, it’s always tough getting a straight answer from those guys. You look like a smart man. I thought you might know something more than what the police could tell me.”

Stone-faced, the old desk clerk stared at him. Ben could tell that he wasn’t going to get anything from him. He’d thought the slick-reporter angle might give him an in, but no such luck.

“Looks like I’m barking up the wrong tree,” Ben said finally.

“And you’re digging around the wrong yard,” the old clerk grunted.

“Well, good night.” Starting for the door, Ben caught the woman’s eye again. “Thanks for trying to put in a good word. You’re pretty cute, too.”

She grinned and let out a startled little laugh.

Ben retreated outside. He didn’t know what he’d expected to learn from the desk clerk. It wasn’t like the old buzzard would know anything about the Ronald Craig investigation.

Ben glanced around the gloomy parking lot. No sign of the taxi. It had driven off.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He trudged toward the highway and stopped at the curb. The traffic on Aurora was sailing by at about forty-five miles an hour. He tried in vain to wave down one cab, and then another.

“Need a lift?”

Ben turned to see the long-legged redhead from the hotel lobby. Standing, she was nearly as tall as he was. Her black dress hit her at mid-thigh. She held a big purse with a red garment draped over it. She smiled. “You can’t just tell a girl she’s cute, then walk out the door, honey. Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d head home.”

She nudged him. “I’ll give you a ride if you buy me a drink.”

Ben hesitated. A semi truck whooshed by, and he stepped back a bit.

“Well, don’t leave me dangling too long, honey. It’s not very flattering. Plus, I’m cold.” She took the red garment from around her purse strap, then shook it out. She donned a red vest with little anchors all over it. Her name tag was on the lapel:
Wendy.

“You work at the hotel?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m Wendy. You were talking to the wrong clerk in there, hon. Grandpa Walter started about fifteen minutes ago. He missed all the excitement. But I’ve been stuck in this dump since two o’clock this afternoon. There’s been a lot of weird stuff going on today, too. I let the cops into Room 29 about a half hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you mention anything back there?” Ben asked.

Wendy shrugged. “Well, that was before you said I was cute.” She turned and strolled to her car, an old red Ford Probe.

Ben followed her. “So—can you tell me anything about Ronald Craig?”

“Hmmm, I have some stuff you might use in your newspaper, as long as you don’t mention my name.” She unlocked her car door. “And as long as you buy me that drink.”

He nodded. “I’ll buy you a whole bottle of champagne if you want.”

Wendy stared at him over the roof of her car. She smiled coyly. “Ha! All of a sudden I’m not so sure I should get into this car with you. Maybe you’re some kind of serial killer or something.”

Ben managed to laugh. “Well, I’m some kind of something.”

Wendy giggled. “Yeah, you’ve got a killer smile, all right. C’mon….”

She ducked into the car, leaned over, and unlocked the passenger door for him.

“I don’t get it,” Scott said. He was sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in front of him. “What terrible crime did you commit that you can’t get involved with the cops now?”

“You said you weren’t going to ask.” Hannah stood across the counter from him. She was too wired to sit down.

“It’s just that I can’t see you ever doing anything really bad. How can it be so awful that you’d let these murders go unreported?”

“Scott, please,” she whispered. “I think you’d better go.”

He sighed. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. I’ll stop asking about your deep, dark past.”

“I still need to be alone,” Hannah said. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“Are you kidding? After what just happened you want to be left alone? I mean, God, look at me. I’m still shaking. We’ve both just experienced something really horrible, Hannah. If you don’t want to go to the police, I think we have to approach this in the only other sensible way. We should both get incredibly drunk.”