Watch Them Die (19 page)

Hannah thought she heard gasping. He sounded like he was dying. “Ben? Are you there?”

In the distance, she could make out some screeching wheels, maybe a car peeling down the street. A woman screamed. It seemed far off, maybe on the sidewalk outside Ben’s apartment.

The receiver on the other end of the line knocked against something. Hannah winced. Someone was moving the phone. “Ben? Is that you?”

“Hannah?” he said, his voice raspy. “I guess”—he took a breath—“you were trying to warn me, huh? You saw it coming?”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’ll survive,” he said, still breathing heavily. “I just got a little cut-up from flying glass. But I’m okay. So th—this was on a video?”

“Yes,
Bugsy.
Warren Beatty’s character gets shot several times, standing in front of a picture window in his home.”

“Huh, I think saw that movie,” Ben muttered. “Yeah.”

“I just got the tape less than an hour ago. I was by your place once, looking for you. I—I remembered the front window.”

She could only hear his labored breathing on the other end, and far away, the sound of a police siren.

“Ben, are you still there?”

“Yeah, until the cops arrive,” he replied. “They’ll probably take me to the hospital first, then maybe the station house. I don’t know where I’ll end up tonight. This place is a wreck.”

“You can come over here, Ben,” she heard herself say. “Doesn’t matter how late. I’ll fix up the couch for you.”

“Thanks. That would be nice.”

Hannah listened to the siren, louder than before. It sounded like the ambulance or police car was right outside his place.

“Ben?” She hesitated. “I—I’m in trouble with the police. It’s pretty bad.”

“I figured as much,” he replied. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Listen, they’re coming. You take care. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll wait up,” Hannah said.

Ben called from the lobby at 11:35, and Hannah buzzed him in. She quickly checked on Guy to make sure he hadn’t woken up, then stepped out to the walkway balcony. She waited by the front door.

Ben emerged from the stairwell. Despite a few tiny cuts on his face, and clothes that were soiled and stained with blood, he still looked handsome. Tall and lean, Ben ambled up the walkway, carrying a duffel bag.

Hannah was so grateful to see him alive, she hugged him. “Thank God you’re okay,” she whispered.

He returned the hug, patting her on the back almost paternally.

Hannah gently pulled away. “Listen, I almost forgot to tell you. My little boy is sick. Did you have the chicken pox when you were a kid?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I had them. I’m immune.”

“Well, come on in,” she said. “Would you like some wine?”

“More than anything else right now, I need a shower and a change of clothes.” He hoisted his duffel bag. “Would that be okay?”

While Ben took his shower, Hannah pulled some sheets and a blanket out of the linen closet. She had a strange, schoolgirl thought:
He’s just on the other side of the bathroom door, naked, standing in my shower.
She had to remind herself that he was married, and that she was no schoolgirl.

She made him a grilled-cheese sandwich, which he ate at the kitchen counter.

Ben reassured her that he hadn’t told the police anything. They’d questioned him in the emergency room at the hospital. He’d given them a description of the car, but couldn’t offer them much else. The police said the previous tenant in his apartment had been a prominent gang member. As far as the local authorities were concerned, Ben had been the innocent victim of a gang-related drive-by shooting.

“Anyway, you don’t have to worry about the police connecting you with what happened tonight,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you do that got you in trouble with the law? You indicated it was kind of serious.”

Hannah was at that sink, washing the griddle. She hesitated before responding. “My husband used to beat me up,” she said. “He even put me in the hospital once, for an extended stay. He was from a very rich and powerful family in Wisconsin. There was no way I could have left him and kept my son. So—I withdrew some money from our joint account. I took my son, left Wisconsin, changed my name, and moved here. That detective, Ronald Craig, must have been hired by my husband or his family. Remember, he was from Milwaukee? Anyway, I’m wanted for kidnapping, grand larceny, and I don’t know how many other charges. Since—Mr. Craig’s demise, I’ve been living on borrowed time.”

Ben didn’t say anything for a moment. He moved his plate aside. “It’s kind of weird,” he finally remarked. “Even though he was probably covering his own tracks, this killer did you a big favor when he absconded with all the paperwork from Craig’s investigation.”

“Yes. But it’s only a matter of days—or hours—before they send in another investigator, maybe even the police.” She took his empty plate. “See what I mean, ‘borrowed time’?”

“Maybe all you need is a good lawyer,” Ben offered.

“My husband and in-laws would buy a better one,” Hannah replied. She rinsed off his plate.

“So—what are you going to do? Just keep running?”

“I can’t right now, not with Guy sick.” She shut off the water, then dried her hands “But as soon as he’s well, we’re out of here—that is, if this maniac, the police, or my husband’s family don’t get to me first.”

Hannah put the plate away, then took another sip of wine. “By the way, I spoke with Seth Stroud tonight. He remembered Rae. Apparently, Paul Gulletti was seeing another student before Rae. Her name was Angela Bramford, and she was found strangled on the second-floor deck of the Convention Center.”

“What do you suppose that’s patterned after?”

Hannah shrugged. “I don’t know. But according to Seth, our esteemed professor wasn’t even questioned about the murder, which has remained unsolved—big surprise.”

“I’d say the case against Paul is piling up,” Ben remarked. “You know, when I first got out here, I spent several days following him around—his home, his office at the newspaper, the college. I didn’t notice anything unusual.” He sat back on the barstool. “Maybe I’ll start tailing him again tomorrow. Did Seth have anything else to say?”

Hannah recounted her conversation with Paul’s assistant. She and Ben moved to the sofa, each with their glass of wine. It was well past midnight when Ben glanced past her and announced, “We’re not alone.”

Hannah peered over her shoulder at Guy, standing behind her in his pajamas. “Honey, what are you doing up?” she asked, getting to her feet. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I’m thirsty,” he replied.

Ben handed her the folded blanket she’d set out for him.

“Thanks,” Hannah said, wrapping it around Guy. She felt his forehead, then smiled. “Guy, this is Mr. Podowski….” She shot Ben a look and started to laugh. “But you can call him Ben.”

“Hi, Guy,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

Hannah retreated to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Guy squinted at him. “Do you have chicken pox too?”

Ben touched one of the little cuts he’d gotten from the flying glass. “No, I was near a window that broke and some glass cut me.”

Guy sat down next to him. “Does it hurt? Did you cry?”

“A little. But don’t tell anybody. Okay?”

Hannah returned with the glass of water, then handed it to him. “All right, let’s get you to the bathroom, then back in bed. It’s awfully late.”

Guy gulped down some of the water. “Can I sit up with you guys?”

“Well, just a couple of minutes,” she said, sinking back on the sofa.

Ben asked Guy what he planned to be for Halloween. Guy wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a ghost or a pirate. He started rattling off what each of his friends at Alphabet Soup Day Care planned to be for trick or treat. Hannah sat back and watched the two of them. It felt good to have a man in the apartment. She could almost fool herself into thinking they were a family. She’d never had anything like this—certainly not with Kenneth. She wondered if this kind of quiet intimacy was routine for some families, the type of thing they took for granted.

Hannah had to remind herself once again that Ben was married.

“I hate to be a party pooper,” she announced, rubbing Guy’s shoulder. “But you belong back in bed, honey. C’mon, we’ll make a pit stop at the bathroom first; then I’ll tuck you in.” Hannah adjusted the blanket around him, then lifted him up. “Say good night to Ben.”

“Can he come tuck me in, too?” he asked, yawning.

Hannah threw Ben a smile. “Looks like someone’s taken a shine to you.”

He stood in the doorway while she put Guy to bed. She made the choo-choo sound to lull him to sleep.

They stepped out of his bedroom together. “I’ll get you another blanket,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” he said, stopping. They were standing so close to each other in the dim hallway. For a moment, neither of them said anything. They could hear Guy’s steady breathing in the next room. Ben touched the side of her face “Thanks for all this,” he said. Then he hesitated, and stepped back. “I better turn in. I’ll make up the couch. You don’t have to bother.”

Hannah nodded. “All right. See you in the morning. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Hannah went to bed, but she was too wound up to sleep. The one night in three weeks that she had someone in the apartment to protect her, and she couldn’t drift off. She had another little cry about Britt. Reaching for some tissues on her nightstand, she glanced at the alarm clock: 1:20. Only a half hour had passed since she’d said good night to Ben. It seemed longer.

Hannah climbed out of bed, wiped her eyes, and put on a robe. She padded down the hall to the living room, then peeked around the corner at Ben. He was lying on his side, the sheets wrapped around him. He turned toward her. “Hannah?”

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

He sat up, and the sheets fell down past his hairy chest, and bunched around his waist. He scratched his head. His blond hair was tousled. “I wasn’t really asleep,” he said softly. “You okay?”

Clutching the folds of her robe, Hannah stepped to the edge of the sofa. “Remember you asked me earlier tonight what I planned to do?” she asked, in a hushed tone. “I haven’t really had an actual plan since all of this started. Even if we find this killer, I’ll still have my problems with the police. Ben, I need to ask you a favor, a big favor.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“When we find out who’s behind all these killings and we’re ready to go to the police, can you go alone? I’ll need a head start to move on with Guy. We’ll need to begin someplace else—with new identities.”

“But don’t you think if we went to a lawyer and explained—”

“I can’t risk losing my son,” she cut in. “When the time comes, can I count on you to help me get away?”

“That’s the only option?” he asked.

“Can you think of another?”

He sighed. “If we can’t come up with a better plan, I’ll help you get away, Hannah. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “Good night again, Ben.”

Hannah started back down the hall. Just this morning, she’d been wary of him. She still didn’t know Ben Podowski very well. But now, she had to trust him. She trusted him with her life, and the life of her son.

Fifteen

“Who the hell is this supposed to be?”

Kenneth Woodley studied the photo. He sat at a small table by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Shillshell Bay. At this time of night, the water was black with silver-white ripples. Twinkling lights across the bay marked the start of land again.

Kenneth had heard Ray’s Boathouse was one of Seattle’s finer restaurants, so he’d arranged to meet his private detective in the bar upstairs. He had a late supper date in the formal dining area downstairs immediately following the meeting. The Sunday-night dinner rush had already peaked, but some muted chatter among lingering customers still competed with the Ella Fitzgerald recording piped through the elegant bar.

Kenneth tossed the photograph on the table. “This damn thing is so blurry and far away, it could be a picture of my wife or the goddamn Prince of Wales for all I can tell. Is this the best you could do?”

“I took it last night with a telephoto lens,” explained the private detective, a man named Walt Kirkabee. He was thirty-six, with straight, close-cropped black hair, a goatee, and the solid, husky build of a baseball player.

He offered Kenneth Woodley another photograph. “This guy stayed with her last night,” he said. “I took that shot earlier today.”

Setting down his martini glass, Kenneth snatched up the picture. “Looks like a doofus,” he muttered. “Have you ID’d him yet?”

“Not yet. He left her place—on foot—around ten this morning, and didn’t come back until a couple of hours ago. He was gone all day. But she stayed inside; never stepped outside the apartment.”

Kenneth tossed the photograph across the table at him, then sipped his martini. “So—you wasted the whole day waiting outside her place?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You could have followed this joker around. Maybe he’s the guy who wasted your predecessor. Ever think about that?”

“I can’t be two places at once,” Walt argued. “And Hannah Doyle is the person you hired me to stake out.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his club soda. “You might consider hiring another man to work with me, Mr. Woodley. It’s really a two-man job. We could work in shifts, or split up when we had to.”

Kenneth was shaking his head. “Christ, you guys are milking me dry as it is. I’ve already spent enough on this investigation. You guys aren’t even positive this
Hannah Doyle
bitch is my estranged wife. All I have to go on is Ron Craig’s last report. She fits the description, and has a kid the right age. She calls him Guy. My wife used to call our son ‘Guy-Guy.’ Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Well, I’ve forked over a lot of money, hoping it’s
not
a fucking coincidence. You won’t squeeze me for any more. You tell that to your bosses at Great Lakes Investigations, okay, Sherlock?”

Sighing, Walt set another photo down on the table between them. “Take a look at this,” he said.

“What is it?” Kenneth asked, squinting at the picture. The shot was slightly out of focus, and appeared to have been blown up several times.

It was a photo of some bushes by a dumpster, but the detective traced an area of the bushes with his finger. “That’s a man,” he said.

Kenneth realized it was indeed a figure, lurking in the shadows between an alleyway dumpster and some shrubbery.

Walt slapped a similar shot on top of it. In this photo, a dark, phantom shape was skulking behind a tree.

“Someone else is watching her, Mr. Woodley,” the detective said. “I haven’t gotten a good look at him yet. These pictures are the best I could do. He seems to catch on whenever I’ve spotted him. It’s weird. It’s like he knows the camera and how to elude it. I’ve tried to take his picture several times the last couple of days, but those shots are the best I could do.” He set another photo in front of Kenneth. “Check this one out.”

Kenneth stared at a grainy, nighttime photograph of a parking lot. He didn’t notice anything unusual until the detective pointed to a ghostly image hovering behind a minivan. “That’s outside my hotel, Mr. Woodley,” Kirkabee said. “He’s following me too.”

Shaking his head, Kenneth laughed.

“It’s not funny. This could be the man who killed Ron Craig.”

“Maybe he’s working for her,” Kenneth said. He raised his martini glass. “That’s just what I’m after. We need to implicate her in your buddy’s murder. That’s why we’re not busting in on her and the kid right now. I want the goods on this bitch.” He glanced once again at the blurry figure in the photo. “Think this could be the doofus who was screwing her last night?”

Kirkabee shrugged. “I’m not sure. It could be.”

Kenneth smirked. “Well, just keep doing what you’re doing, and watch your ass. Sounds like he’ll be coming to you.”

Walt Kirkabee began to collect the photographs. “Ron was reporting directly to you, Mr. Woodley. We—and I mean the agency—we had no information for the police when they came to us about Ron’s murder. We had to refer them to you.”

Kenneth drained his martini glass. “Yeah? So? Tell me something I don’t know.”

The detective shrugged. “Well, I was about to ask you that same thing. Is there something we don’t know? You told the police that Ron wasn’t having any luck tracking down your wife and son. But you have me staking out this Hannah Doyle woman, and half the time I’m watching her from a parking lot where my predecessor was murdered. You withheld information from the police, Mr. Woodley. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I didn’t tell the cops about Hannah Doyle because I wanted to come here and personally nail her ass. You’ve been hired to help me do that, Sherlock. I’m paying you top dollar.” Kenneth leaned forward. “If you’re too chickenshit for the job, just say the word and I’ll ship your ass back to Milwaukee and hire a private detective with some balls.”

He videotaped the private detective and his client as they stepped outside Ray’s Boathouse restaurant. The client didn’t look too happy. He was talking to the detective, stabbing the air with his finger to make a point. Frowning, the detective nodded, then retreated toward his car.

At the restaurant entrance, the client pulled out a cell phone and made a call. Meanwhile, the detective pulled out of the large parking lot. Some detective. Apparently he had no idea he was being watched.

Neither did the client, who ducked back inside the restaurant.

He waited patiently in the shadows between a parked RV and some bushes. This close to the water, the night air was cool and smelled of fish. He watched people come and go. Someone else was meeting the client. Smart money was on the blonde who arrived by taxi forty minutes after he’d made that cell-phone call.

He was right, of course. An hour after the blonde had sashayed into the joint, she was stepping out with the client. She had a passing resemblance to Hannah, sort of a cheap imitation. Her hair was pinned up in the back. She wore tight silver pants, heels, and a tiny black blouse that was open in front to show off some ample cleavage.

Obviously, the client had picked out a high-class hooker for the evening. They waited for the valet to fetch the rented sports car. The tall, brown-haired guy with the big nose was cracking these jokes, and the prostitute was laughing her head off. The client threw a few dollars at the valet; then the two of them climbed into the sleek car.

Without running any yellow lights or making any sudden moves, he followed the sports car a few miles to a marina parking lot.

Leaning outside the window of his car, he photographed the client and his hooker as they climbed out of the sports car. He could still hear the woman’s high-pitched laughter as they walked down the dock together.

The client had a medium-sized yacht—two, maybe three, rooms on board—moored at the crowded dock. All was quiet this time of night—except for the girl, who kept talking and laughing as the man helped her on the deck. Then the two of them slipped down below.

After a few minutes, he got out of his car. Video camera in tow, he skulked down the dock, past all the other boats. He approached the yacht and found a perfect spot to hide, behind a big, green-painted equipment box. From there, he had a view into the yacht’s oblong, horizontal windows. The client hadn’t bothered to pull the little shades closed.

The video camera framed them perfectly through the first window as they sat at the galley table and did some lines of cocaine together. The blonde unbuttoned her blouse, then dabbed a little bit of cocaine on her nipple and had him lick it off. She let out that loud laugh again. The client kissed her neck, and tried to kiss her on the lips, but she pulled away. Apparently she didn’t do that with her johns.

The camera caught them moving into the next room, where the man peeled off his shirt. He sat her down on the built-in sofa bed. She seemed to stumble a little, or perhaps she was resisting. It was hard to tell. But their movements were clumsy. She stepped out of her heels, then unfastened the top of her silver pants. He started pulling them off, and she gave him a playful little kick, pushing him away. He grabbed her pants again, and—almost violently—yanked them off her legs. She laughed, and quickly wriggled out of her black panties.

The camera zoomed in, lovingly moving up and down her nude body. The client advanced toward her, and she teasingly pushed him away again with her foot. She reached across the sofa for her bag, then pulled out a condom and waved it at him.

He swatted it out of her hand. She looked stunned for a second, then started to chuckle. But he reeled back and slapped her across the face.

She banged her head against the wall in back of the sofa bed. She seemed dazed. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her down to the cushions. She let out a shriek. He smacked her across the face once more—this time with the back of his hand.

The camera zoomed in again, catching her startled, horrified expression. He stopped looking through the viewer for a moment to check around him. He was certain others on the water heard her cries. But he didn’t see any lights go on inside the boats. No one came topside to look for the source of the screams. From his spot by the equipment box, he was able to keep taping for the next ten minutes.

The client never had intercourse with her. But at one point, when he had his hand on her throat and seemed to be choking the life out of her, he masturbated.

While she got dressed, he brought her some ice for her face, then pulled eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the money.

The last shot captured that night was of the blonde, the cheap imitation of Hannah, looking shaken and dazed. Despite the ice application, her face was already a bit swollen.

She wobbled a bit as she walked up the dock to a waiting taxi. It was a great last shot before the fade-out.

Hannah knew she had another long night ahead waiting for sleep to come. The digital clock on her nightstand read 1:49. Ben had probably nodded off already. He was on the sofa again—just down the hall. They’d said good night about forty-five minutes ago, awkwardly shaking hands.

He’d spent the day staking out Paul Gulletti. He’d watched him step out for Sunday brunch with his wife. Then, Paul went to his office at the newspaper. He emerged almost three hours later and went to a Starbucks, where he sat at a cafe table. He was met there by a younger man with long, red hair pulled back in a ponytail. The younger man carried a camera or binoculars in a case that hung from a strap over his shoulder. Paul gave him some money. Ben was too far away to see how much cash was exchanged.

He told Hannah it was the only encounter he’d witnessed today that raised his interest. “Paul could have owed this guy a couple of bucks. I don’t know,” Ben had admitted. “But those bills could have been hundreds, too. And the red-haired guy carried this camera case. Maybe he’s working for Paul. You said some stranger was videotaping you last Thursday night at about the time class started. Maybe this was the guy.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”

One thing they were both sure about: the video-killer wasn’t working alone. Someone else had been driving that Subaru station wagon when shots were fired from the passenger window at Ben’s apartment.

They had a long talk while she cooked a spaghetti dinner. They ate at her kitchen counter—by candlelight, no less. But the conversation was far from romantic.

Ben had never been in Paul’s office at the college. He asked her if Paul kept video equipment and cassette tapes there.

Nodding, Hannah dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Paul has all sorts of stuff in that office. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Maybe I can get in there and take a look around,” Ben said, reaching for his glass of Merlot. “In the meantime, you’re working beside Seth at the store tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes. He started there today.”

“Keep pumping him about the professor,” Ben said. “And watch out for Seth, too. There’s something I don’t like about that guy.”

“Seth?” Hannah said.

“Yeah, him and his roommate.”

She laughed. “They’re just a couple of kids.”

“So were Leopold and Loeb.”

“You saw where they live,” Hannah pointed out. “Not exactly deluxe accommodations. Whoever is behind these murders has a lot of money and leisure time. The work on that
Goodbar
tape was very professional. High production values. It was made by someone who can afford expensive video equipment and state-of-the-art editing machines. Those two guys couldn’t even afford a maid.”

“Just the same, I don’t trust him,” Ben argued, pushing his plate away. “He’s suddenly taking this job where he’ll be working beside you all day. That bugs me.”

Hannah figured maybe Ben was a little jealous—or just protective. Either way, she kind of liked it.

They had another faux “family night.” After the candlelit dinner, he read a story to Guy, who was crazy for him. When she and Ben were alone together again, he told her what had happened with his wife.

At around the time Rae Palmer’s e-mails to Ben were reporting the first murder, he got a call from a Mrs. Lyle Seidell. Her husband had just dropped dead of a heart attack, and did Ben know that Lyle had been screwing a certain Mrs. Jennifer Podowski for the last three months?