You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (27 page)

The phone number listed matched what she'd scribbled down on the back of the envelope. His office hours were from 10 a.m. until 6 p.m. weekdays. The office address was on Eastlake Avenue, not far away.

Andrea noticed a contact option. She clicked on it and was about to write an email, but hesitated. She wondered if Hugh Badger Lyman would be willing to meet with someone he'd been investigating to answer questions about his client—even if that client was now dead.

Andrea decided a surprise attack was best. She'd swing by his office on Eastlake tomorrow afternoon on her way back from the hospital.

Her phone rang, startling her. She realized it was probably Spencer, calling to say he was home. She clicked on the phone. “Hello?”

She didn't hear anything on the other end. It was probably a telemarketer. There were always a couple of dead seconds before they started their sales pitch. Andrea quickly hung up and then checked the caller ID:
UNKNOWN CALLER
.

Checking her watch, she decided to give Spencer ten more minutes before calling to make sure he was okay. He should have been home by now.

Starting up the car, she switched on the window defogger.

Her phone rang once more,
UNKNOWN CALLER
again. Annoyed, she clicked it on and sighed. “Yes, who's calling please?”

There was another pause and then a gravelly voice crept over the line: “By the time I'm done, I'll get a lot more than fifty bucks out of you, bitch.”

He hung up.

Panic-stricken, Andrea clicked off. She quickly checked the armrest to make sure all the car doors were locked. The call was either from Troy or his friend. Had Troy returned home in the last fifteen minutes? If he had, it must have been while her car windows were fogged. Troy's roommates could have described her to him. But how did he get her cell number?

Then she remembered Luke had a listing of phone numbers by the landline in his kitchen. Their intruder on Tuesday night could have seen it.

She swiped her hand over the still-foggy windshield.

Andrea spotted someone standing in front of the apartment house. The porch light was in back of him, so that she could only see a tall, lean silhouette. She couldn't tell who it was, but he seemed to be staring at her.

He held something in his hand. Was it a phone?

She turned the key in the ignition. The car made a grating screech, and she realized the engine was already running.

The man hadn't moved.

Flustered, she switched on her headlights and shifted gears.

The headlights didn't make any difference. She still couldn't see his face. She couldn't tell if it was Troy or his roommate—or just some stranger.

The tires squealed as Andrea peeled away from the curb. Her phone and purse slid off the passenger seat and toppled to the floor. She sped past the apartment house. The stranger in front of it was just a blur.

After half a block, Andrea forced herself to ease up on the accelerator. But she still clutched the steering wheel tightly. And her stomach was still in knots.

She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw him standing in the middle of the road—a tall, dark figure.

He raised his hand and gave a little wave.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

“A
nyway, I'm sorry I snapped at you last night,” Tanya said. “It was rude. But you have to admit, you were kind of picking on me.”

Spencer didn't think he had to admit anything like that. “I was just trying to get a straight answer out of you,” he said.

He stood by his locker, where Tanya had approached him shortly after the lunch bell. The hallway was crowded. Some of the students had dressed for Halloween, and that included Tanya. It was kind of hard to take her apology seriously when she was dressed as Waldo from
Where's Waldo?
She wore round glasses, a beanie cap, and a red-and-white striped sweater. Spencer had sported the same outfit for Halloween when he was eight. It seemed lost on everyone now. Most of the kids were dressed like zombies.

Last night, he'd watched Tanya until seven o'clock. She'd made only that one brief phone call. Then she'd lowered her blinds. When she'd raised them again a few minutes later, she'd had on a baggy jersey and sweatpants. Spencer had figured she wasn't going out again in those clothes. So he'd headed home, beating his Aunt Dee there by about an hour.

“Well, let's just put it all behind us,” Tanya said, leaning against the lockers. “In fact, I wanted to take you out and treat you to dinner tonight—only I'm meeting someone. So I was wondering if I could take you out for an apology dinner tomorrow night.”

Spencer wasn't dying to spend his Saturday night with Tanya. He didn't mind spying on her, but having to interact with her and listen to her was another story. “Well, that's really nice of you,” he said. “I'll get back to you about it later, okay?”

Behind her round glasses, she looked a bit crestfallen. “Like I said, I'd take you out tonight, only I'm meeting this person.”

Nodding, he shut his locker. “That's cool. Who are you getting together with?”

She shrugged. “Oh, you don't know him. Anyway, let me know if tomorrow night works for you.”

Spencer watched her walk away—with a little bounce in her step.

All at once, someone slammed into him. Spencer crashed against the lockers, banging his shoulder. He cried out in pain. Before he could figure out what was happening, a hand grabbed his arm and roughly spun him around.

Ron Jarvis's face was just inches from his. He pressed his forearm on Spencer's chest, pinning him against the lockers. Spencer could hardly breathe. He was so startled, he didn't try to struggle or fight back.

Everyone in the hallway stopped to watch them.

“You stay away from me and my family, or I'll fucking destroy you,” Ron growled. “One more call or text, and I'm coming after you. Do you understand me, psycho?”

“It—it's not me,” Spencer started to say.

“I don't want to hear one word from you,” Ron said. “I know it's you doing this shit. Don't pretend it isn't. Don't say anything, or I swear to God, I'm going to swat that innocent look off your face.”

Ron punched the locker—right beside Spencer's head. He jumped. The sound was deafening.

His ear was still ringing as Ron turned and stomped down the corridor.

* * *

“I've got to be honest, I'm really disappointed,” Spencer murmured into the phone. He'd gotten Diane's voice mail again. He stood in the hallway outside of the cafeteria. He wanted to talk to Bonnie, but she was at the cool table once again—along with Ron. He didn't dare go anywhere near him.

“This is my fourth message, Diane,” he continued. “I don't get it. You acted like you'd be there for me if I needed you. Anyway, I'm in trouble again—big-time. I think somebody else is going to get killed. I don't know what to do. Please, please, call me back. Okay? Thanks.”

Spencer clicked off the phone.

He thought about calling Andrea. But what could she do? She had enough on her mind with Luke in the hospital. Plus she was suddenly worried about Troy Slattery coming after them. She'd told him last night to call her or the police if he spotted Troy anywhere near him today. And she didn't want him alone in the town house anymore—not even during the daytime.

He wondered if Troy Slattery was the one who had called and texted Ron.

Spencer stuck his phone in his back pocket. He peeked into the cafeteria again. Bonnie had finished eating, but was still chatting with her cheerleader friends. All of them wore their skimpy cheer uniforms, a Friday tradition. The people at the elite table were too cool to dress up for Halloween. Ron was sitting at the other end, talking to some of his buddies. He was smiling and laughing. Whatever had been boiling up inside him he must have gotten out of his system.

Meanwhile, Spencer still had a slight ringing in his ear, and he was pretty sure his shoulder would have a huge bruise on it tonight.

He scanned the room for Tanya in her glasses, beanie, and red-and-white striped jersey.
Where's Tanya?
He didn't see her anywhere. He figured she probably knew who was harassing Ron Jarvis. He could ask her, but what were his chances of getting a straight answer?

Bonnie got up from the table and collected her lunch tray. She cleaned it off at the recycling station, and set it with the other dirty trays. As she headed toward the doors to the corridor, she took out her phone.

“Bonnie?” he called, feeling a bit like a stalker.

She looked at him and shut off her phone. “Hi,” she said, stepping into the corridor. “Are we on for tonight?”

He stared at her and blinked. “What?”

“The Halloween party at Amanda Brooks's house, you said you'd let me know today if you could go. I asked you after chemistry class yesterday . . .”

“Oh, that,” he murmured. “Um, I don't think so. Something's come up . . .”

“Well, that's okay, it's no biggie—”

“No, I mean something has really come up. Did Ron say anything to you about some calls and texts that he's been getting?”

Bonnie shrugged. “Ron doesn't say much to me at all nowadays.”

“Well, it's happening to him now—what happened to Reed Logan before he was killed, what happened to you—until the police started patrolling your house. I think he's getting harassed, and someone has him believing I'm the one behind it all. He just threatened to
destroy
me if I bothered him and his family again.”

“What?”

“He confronted me about a half hour ago in the hallway,” Spencer explained. “I can't approach him. He'll pummel me. You need to talk to him, tell him it isn't me, and tell him how serious this is . . .”

* * *

“Don't you realize that over half the people Damon called out as bullies in his webcast are now
dead
?” Bonnie said. “First Mr. McAfee and KC, and then Reed—all killed within less than a month. I'd be dead, too—if Spencer hadn't warned me and we'd gotten the police to patrol our block.”

“You're seeing a lot of that squirrelly Spencer dude lately, aren't you?” Ron asked. “Is he your new boyfriend or something?”

Bonnie just rolled her eyes. She'd caught Ron outside the varsity locker room on his way out to football practice. Carrying his helmet, he wore his football gear. They stood in the hallway—beside a large trophy case.

Nothing she'd told him so far seemed to leave an impression.

“Well?” Ron said, leaning close to her. “Is he the reason you broke up with me?”

“No, I already explained that to you—weeks ago. I didn't like who I was when I was with you.”

He laughed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? And why are you here talking to me now? Are you trying to get back together?”

“No, Ron, I'm trying to warn you that you're in serious danger.” She grabbed his jersey sleeve. “Spencer said you mentioned you'd gotten some phone calls and texts. Was someone threatening you—or your family?”

“It's nothing I haven't already handled,” Ron said. “It's taken care of. Now you're making me late for practice.”

He turned away and moved down the corridor, his cleats clicking on the floor. He hit the lever across the door, pushed it open, and started outside to the playfield.

Bonnie stood there, watching the door slowly close behind him.

She'd been through all this before, when she'd talked with Reed in the hallway—after his skirmish with Spencer. He'd said practically the same thing:
The guy stepped out of line, and it's been taken care of. End of story.

It was the last time she ever talked with Reed.

He was dead twelve hours later.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 

S
he stood in the narrow hallway outside a door that had a faux wood plaque on it with white lettering: 304—
H. B. LYMAN INVESTIGATIONS
.

Andrea had planned to pay a surprise visit to the private detective. But the surprise was on her. The office was closed—and the door was locked.

She'd thought her timing was perfect, too. Luke had wanted to take a nap, so she wasn't needed at the hospital for a while. And Spencer had texted earlier, saying he was attending Tanya's play rehearsals again, and he'd been invited to go out for pizza with the cast afterward. Would she mind?

She didn't mind—especially since he'd be safe with a bunch of people. She'd come here directly from the hospital, and couldn't help thinking about Troy Slattery while in the Blue Lion level of the hospital's underground parking garage. She hadn't been able to shake the sensation that he was lurking somewhere nearby, watching her every move. On her way to the Eastlake neighborhood, she'd checked the rearview mirror again and again.

Andrea noticed that down the hall from H. B. Lyman's office, a door was propped open. She walked down the corridor and poked her head in the doorway. She saw a chubby sixty-something, pale-blond receptionist on her computer at her desk. The sofa and chair in the waiting room were empty. On the door it said: 301—
KATE GERA, ATTORNEY AT LAW
.

“May I help you?” the woman asked, glancing up from her computer screen. “Did you have an appointment to see Kate?”

“No, actually I'm looking for H. B. Lyman—in three-oh-four,” Andrea said, hovering in the doorway. “I knocked and no one answered. And his phone service seems to be cut off.”

“You mean Hugh? Are you a friend of his?”

“No, but he was working on a case for a friend of mine.”

“Oh, well, I'm sorry, but Hugh died. He was killed in an automobile accident about six or seven weeks ago.”

Andrea just stared at her.

“The office has been locked up for over a month now,” the secretary explained. “His assistant, Dana, took all the files and cleared out the place.”

She stepped into the waiting room. “Do you know where I can find this Dana? It's really important I talk to someone about this case . . .”

“Well, you won't have to go too far,” the woman said. “Dana works the day shift at the convenience store down the block, Eastlake Foods. In fact, the shift's almost over. You can catch Dana there if you hurry . . .”

* * *

The corner market looked like a 7-Eleven—only with a huge beer and wine section. It also had a popcorn machine that made the place smell like a movie theater lobby. The only person working the counter was a short, odd-looking middle-aged man with receding gray hair. His left hand was deformed or had somehow been mangled—with a normal thumb, but four nubs instead of fingers.

“Help you?” he said, counting singles at the register.

“Hi, yes,” Andrea said. “Is Dana working today?”

“I'm Dana,” he said.

Andrea had been expecting a woman. “Oh, hi . . .”

He smiled at her. His teeth were yellow. “I know who you are,” he said. “You're Andrea Boyle, aren't you?”

* * *

“You were the last person Hugh investigated,” Dana said.

His coworker had come back from a break and now worked the register. Dana was sitting on a box in the middle aisle, punching price stickers on the tops of the Campbell's soup cans in a case.

Andrea stood over him. Something about his quiet, soft-spoken manner was slightly creepy. It didn't help that this total stranger knew who she was. But she had to admire how he didn't let his damaged hand slow him down any.

“Hugh was still researching the case when he went head-to-head with that Burlington Northern train,” he said, focusing on his work.

“What happened exactly?” Andrea asked. “Do they know?”

“They think he was trying to beat the freight train at the crossing,” Dana explained in his quiet voice. “It was one of those crossings that didn't have a gate. I think it has one now, though. That was just like Hugh, always in a hurry. He drove like a maniac. Sometimes he'd drive all night, pumped full of uppers, to get to his destination. Anyway, they found drugs and a high level of alcohol in his system. Really a shame, too, because he'd been off the booze for eleven months. He'd been so good up until that point.” He started to stack the soup cans on the shelf. “Anyway, you're Hugh's only open file.”

“I don't suppose you're at liberty to say who hired him to investigate me, are you?” Andrea asked.

“Well, I'm probably breaking a bunch of confidentiality laws by telling you, but I figure what the heck? I mean, what are they going to do—fire me? Besides, the person who hired us is dead, so I don't see how it's going to do anybody any harm. You know that guy you've been seeing? It was his wife—or his
estranged
wife I should say, Evelyn Shuler.”

Even though the man wasn't looking at her, Andrea nodded. The news wasn't much of a surprise. “Can you tell me if Evelyn ever paid Hugh to—to break into my apartment?”

Dana stopped stocking the shelf to look up at her. His eyes narrowed. “Hugh would never do anything like that. He was a good guy. He was decent enough to hire me when nobody else would. Now that he's dead, I'm stuck here.” He went back to placing soup cans on the shelf.

“I'm sorry,” Andrea murmured. “It was a dumb question.”

“It's okay, you didn't know him—not like he knew you.”

“The receptionist at the law office down the hall from your old office said you came and collected all of Hugh's files.” Andrea nervously cleared her throat. “Was mine among them?”

He nodded. “Yeah, old Hugh didn't trust computers. So we had backup paperwork for everything. I shredded it all . . .”

“Oh,” Andrea said, disappointed.

He glanced up and smiled at her with those yellow teeth again. “Except yours. Like I said, it was the only open case. So I took it home. I live just three blocks away. My shift's over in a few minutes. Would you like to come over and see your file?”

* * *

Dana's apartment was above a dilapidated, vacant store with a
FOR LEASE
sign in the darkened front window. It looked like the store had been vacant for a long time. The painted sign on the window was faded and chipped:

The building sat alone, a dumpy little shack on prime real estate one block from Lake Union. Andrea followed Dana up a stairway on the side of the building and into the kitchen entrance of his apartment. The appliances were avocado green, and the table was a scratched-up yellow dinette set from the fifties. Though tidy, the place was still a bit gloomy—and it smelled.

The smell got stronger as they moved down the hall to the living room. He switched on the light. A canary, hamster, squirrel, and several other small critters were in cages scattered around the room. A ferret had free rein over the place, which might have explained the scratch marks on the old sofa. The animals banged around in their cages, making a slightly unnerving tinny sound.

“Hey, kids, Daddy's home!” he called. The tinny sound escalated, and the canary chirped.

He turned to her and smiled. “You know, I haven't had a pretty woman here in a long, long time. I should have bought some nice wine while we were at the store. Would you like a Coke? Or I have a gallon of ginger ale that's open.”

“No, thanks,” she said, trying to smile back.

“I'm guessing you probably just want to get your file and be on your way,” he said.

“Oh, it's not that, really. I have a friend in the hospital, and I want to get back to him.”

“Yes, I read about Luke's accident. That's really terrible. I hope they get the guy who hit him.”

“Me, too,” Andrea murmured. She felt so uncomfortable. She didn't know a thing about this man who knew her so well. She wished she'd phoned Spencer or Luke to tell them where she was. Doing it now would just seem rude. She reminded herself that Dana's coworker had seen them leave the store together. He wasn't about to try anything.

“Well, the files are over here,” he said, moving down the hallway.

Andrea followed him. She could see the darkened bedroom ahead. With a rumble, the ferret scurried past her on the floor, and she almost jumped out of her skin.

Dana stopped just short of the bedroom door and reached for a pole, which leaned against the wall in the corner. The pole had a hook on the end of it.

“I didn't think I'd ever really need this stuff, so I stored it up here.” He raised the pole to a trapdoor in the ceiling. “Better stand back.” He maneuvered the hook into a latch, gave it a tug, and the door creaked open at a downward angle. With his bad hand, he grabbed a wooden stair-ladder attached to the back of the door and unfolded it.

Andrea gazed up at the blackness beyond the opening in the ceiling.

He flicked a light switch by his bedroom door.

Now she could see the old, cobweb-laced rafters. It still looked dark up there.

“I really need to change that bulb one of these days,” Dana said. “Something with a higher wattage.” He ducked into his bedroom for a moment. Andrea stood by the ladder. She heard that tinny sound of the cages rattling in the next room.

He came back with a flashlight. “You'll probably need this,” he said, handing her the flashlight.

“Wait. You want me to go up there?”

“Well, I can't really manage it too easily,” he said, showing her his mangled hand, “especially getting down while carrying something. You should have seen me taking it up there. I have the files in a box, and I put the box in a shopping bag, and I got it up there with the bag handles in my teeth—like some retriever dog.” He smiled at her. “Are you really going to make me find a shopping bag and go through that again?”

“Of course not,” she replied, switching on the flashlight.

“If you're worried about rats up there, I'm pretty sure I don't have any,” he said. “This close to the lake, I'm lucky I don't have a problem . . .”

The ferret circled around his legs, and he picked it up. “It's probably thanks to Boris, here.”

“Yes, probably,” she murmured. Then with trepidation, she ascended the stair-ladder to the dark, dismal attic. It smelled musty. Near the top rung, she saw something close by that made her gasp. She shined the flashlight on the lone figure, and realized it was a headless dress mannequin. Beside it was a beat-up rocking horse for a child.

“A lot of the stuff up there belonged to the people who lived here before me,” Dana called, from the bottom of the stair-ladder. “They owned the antique store downstairs, really more like a junk store . . .”

Andrea glanced down at him. Gazing back up at her, he held the ferret in his arms and stroked it. “Look for a Macy's box that says ‘Work Shit' on it.”

She reluctantly stepped up into the cluttered attic. She half-expected the trapdoor to shut behind her. Then he'd turn off the light, and she'd be trapped up here—like one of his caged pets.

Andrea told herself she was being silly. The man had been perfectly nice to her so far. And she had her phone with her. Still, she couldn't shake her wariness.

She saw a couple of ornate, ugly floor lamps, a steamer trunk, and a portable stereo—among other items. Everything up there seemed broken and beat-up.

“All the boxes are over to the left of the opening,” she heard her host say. “Are you okay up there?”

“So far,” she nervously called back.

“Want me to come up there and help you?”

“No, that's okay,” Andrea replied. She directed the flashlight to the left of the attic opening, and saw the stack of boxes.

“I'm just not very good at carrying things up and down ladders,” he said. She couldn't see him. Right now, he was merely a voice coming from below. “You know that silent movie actor Harold Lloyd, the one who was always hanging from building ledges and pulling stunts like that?”

“I think so,” Andrea answered, making her way to the boxes. She remembered seeing a photo of Harold Lloyd precariously dangling from the minute hand of a tower clock. If she recalled correctly, he wore little round glasses.

“Well, did you know that he lost the thumb and index finger of his right hand in an accident?” Dana said. “And yet he did all those stunts for the movies, hanging at some incredible height. I wish I was as good as him. I lost my fingers on this hand the day after my nineteenth birthday. A grenade took them off in the Battle of Khe Sanh. It's weird to think that was forty-five years ago . . .”

Andrea shone the light on the Macy's box—with “Work Shit” scribbled on it in black Magic Marker. But she was thinking of nineteen-year-old Dana in Vietnam. She'd been to the Vietnam War Memorial several times and looked at the rows of names with reverence and heartbreak. She wondered how many people walked into that convenience store and treated him like some nobody. She was no better. Until a moment ago, she'd thought he was creepy.

“Did you find it yet?” he called.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, moving toward the box.

“I have to admit,” he said. “I kind of have an ulterior motive for getting you up there . . .”

Andrea hesitated. She suddenly felt wary again. “What's that?”