Watch Them Die (21 page)

She headed down the dark corridor, past the lounge. The lights inside the vending machine cast strange shadows across the deserted study area. Everything seemed so still. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw some movement near the window. Hannah stopped.

It took her a moment to realize the phantom motion was merely headlights from passing cars below. Hannah told herself that she was alone here. If someone else was on this floor, she would hear footsteps. Every little sound seemed to reverberate in the empty hallway.

She continued on toward Paul’s office. She saw a line of light at the threshold under his door. Hannah tried the knob. Locked. “Ben?” she called softly. “Ben, it’s me.”

The door opened. “Are you okay?” Ben asked. “Did he make a pass?”

Hannah sighed. “Mostly, he just gave me the creeps.” She stepped inside, then quietly closed the door behind her. “I never figured he was capable of murder, but now I’m not so sure. Something he said has me wondering about Seth, too.”

Ben nodded. “I told you I didn’t trust him.”

He moved over to an old wooden file cabinet. The bottom drawer was open. “I’ve already been through the other drawers,” he said, searching the files. “Nothing so far. Ditto the coat closet. But I saw some videos on the shelf. He’s labeled each tape
Such and Such a Lecture,
and the date. We should take them back to your place tonight and have a look. I can return them here in the morning.”

Hannah walked around the desk.

“I tried there,” Ben said, looking up for a moment. “It’s locked.”

Hannah pulled the key from under the mini-Oscar paperweight, and unlocked the top right-hand drawer. Ben smiled at her. He finished with the file cabinet, then circled around to the desk.

They each took one side of the desk, and looked through the drawers. Hannah found paper clips, old receipts, and loose change in the top drawer. Just junk. The next drawer down held old lecture notes, clippings of his newspaper reviews, and a couple of spiral notebooks. Hannah paged through one of the notebooks. She read the start of an incomplete screenplay he’d written, called
Love in Equinox
. The opening scene was of a couple making love. All the while the man talked about how much he hated his dead father. It was pretty terrible.

“I found his old class lists,” Ben announced, shuffling through some papers. “Names, addresses, phone numbers. Here’s Rae. Huh, Angela Bramford is on this page. I wonder if anyone else listed here died from unnatural causes.” Grabbing a pen and legal pad from the desktop, Ben started copying down the list.

Hannah went back to flipping through Paul’s rough draft of
Love in Equinox
. He must have realized how god-awful it was, because there were only twenty-three pages. Hannah noticed that the young heroine stayed naked through most of it, and there was a scene with her masturbating. “You should read how sleazy this script is,” Hannah said. “He—”

Ben held up his hand, then shushed her.

Hannah fell silent, and she listened. Footsteps. Someone was coming down the corridor.

Ben hurried toward the door. He quietly turned the lock and switched off the light. He remained with his back to the wall. They listened to the footsteps becoming louder, closer. Hannah held her breath. She waited until the person outside passed the office. The footsteps grew fainter. Hannah let out a sigh. Ben flicked the lights back on, and he darted back to the desk. “We’d better hurry,” he muttered, sitting on the floor.

Hannah checked the next drawer down. She noticed a folder hidden beneath some more clippings of his reviews at the bottom of the drawer. She pulled it out and opened it up.

Several pieces of paper were clipped together. Hannah studied the first page: a montage of slightly grainy photos of a seminude Diane Keaton. The pictures had been taken off a TV set. It was the end scene of
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
. The second page had the stabbing sequence.

“Oh, my God,” Hannah murmured.

Paper-clipped to the montage from
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
were three candid photos. The pretty blonde in the pictures seemed unaware that she was being photographed. The snapshots were all taken on the street, most likely at a distance, then blown up.

Hannah passed the batch of photos to Ben. “Is this Rae?” she whispered.

He stared at the snapshots and the stabbing scene from the movie. “Yes, that’s Rae,” he said, his voice strained. “And that’s how he killed her, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, Ben.” Hannah squeezed his arm. Then she glanced down at the next “murder sequence” in the folder.

Again, the first page showed a series of images photographed from a TV screen. This time, Marilyn Monroe was being chased up a stairwell in a dark, austere-looking building. One photo revealed that the location was an institutional bell tower of some sort. On the second page, Marilyn’s stalker caught up with her. There was a close-up of Joseph Cotton as he put his hands around her throat. The last shot showed Marilyn, dead on the cement floor.

Attached to the Marilyn death sequence were two photos of a striking redhead in her late twenties. Again, the woman didn’t seem aware of anyone taking her picture.

“This must be Angela Bramford,” Hannah murmured, giving the photos to Ben. “The pictures of Marilyn are from
Niagara.”

“I don’t get the connection,” Ben whispered. “Wasn’t Angela Bramford found strangled somewhere around the Convention Center?”

“The bells,” Hannah whispered. “The Convention Center has bells by the stairway to the second-floor terrace. He strangled her under the bells, like Marilyn in the movie.”

Hannah glanced in the folder. Nothing but a blank piece of typing paper.

“Shouldn’t he have something about Rae’s friend, Joe?” Ben asked. “And the girl, what’s her name? The Floating Flower…”

“Lily Abrams,” Hannah said. She looked in the drawer. There weren’t any other folders. “I don’t know.”

There should have been photographs of those two rude customers, and Ronald Craig, and Britt. Baffled, Hannah gazed down at the class lists that Ben had left on the floor. Then she stared at the two separate batches of murder montage photos and candids.

“It’s only the two women who took his class,” she said. “Maybe the others don’t matter to him. Maybe he only cares about these two women—the way he now cares about me.”

“I don’t understand,” Ben said.

“First Angela Bramford, then Rae, and now he’s working on me. The seduction, the intimidation, pulling the strings and putting them through the paces until the death scene is carried out.”

Hannah slipped the photos back in the folder and closed it. “I think I know what he’s doing,” she whispered. “One after another, he’s made each one of us his leading lady.”

Seventeen

“Well, hello there, Hannah, you sorry bitch,” Kenneth Woodley muttered. He studied the photograph taken the day before by his private detective, Walt Kirkabee. It was clearly
his
Hannah standing outside a store with her tall, blond-haired doofus boyfriend.

“That’s in front of the place she works,” Kirkabee said. “Emerald City Video, it’s called.”

Nodding, Kenneth looked up from the photo long enough to grab the plastic coffee pitcher and refill Kirkabee’s cup for him. “Nice job,” he said.

They shared a corner booth in Denny’s, where the bar wasn’t yet open, so the waitress wouldn’t give him a Bloody Mary. Kenneth had to settle for coffee. Kirkabee was picking at his Grand Slam breakfast.

From the picture, it looked as if Hannah had lightened her hair a bit. She’d lost some weight, too.

“Have you seen the kid yet?” he asked.

Kirkabee shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve been watching that place for the last four days, and I haven’t laid eyes on him. There’s a fat old broad who comes and goes every morning and night. I’m guessing she’s the baby-sitter.”

Kenneth shifted in the booth, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It’s kind of a cheap-ass apartment complex, isn’t it? I mean, it wouldn’t be too tough breaking in there and grabbing the kid.”

Kirkabee put down his fork; it clanked against his plate. “Hey, I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“I know, I know, relax.” Kenneth chuckled. “I’m just thinking out loud. I mean, if we stole the kid right from under her, she couldn’t do a damn thing, could she? Would serve her right.”

“So—you want to break into her apartment and abduct your own kid?”

He smiled. “I’m not getting my hands dirty. You don’t have to be involved, either. I’ll hire a couple of guys to do it—while she’s there.”

Kirkabee was shaking his head. “Hey, a million things could go wrong. Do you really want to entrust a couple of baby-snatchers-for-hire with the life of your son? You have the law on your side. You’ll get him back. Why take stupid chances? Is it really worth the risks involved—just to stick it to your wife?”

Kenneth nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It sure as hell is.”

“Can I take your coat?” Britt’s older sister asked.

“Thank you very much,” Hannah said. It was stuffy in the funeral home. Hannah quickly took off her trench coat and handed it to the thin brunette who looked like a conservative, slightly homelier version of Britt.

Hannah started to explain that she was a coworker of Britt’s, but the sister was called away.

There were two distinct camps of mourners at Britt’s service: her estranged, white-bread, upper-class family; and her current friends, most of whom resembled homeless drug addicts. The family members seemed uncomfortable with the unabashed display of emotions from the pierced-and-tattooed gothic types mingling among them.

“You’re Hannah,” said a pale, tiny young woman with dyed jet-black hair, gobs of mascara, and a ring pierced through her lower lip. She wore a black hooded sweatshirt and army fatigue pants.

“Hello,” Hannah said, managing a smile. She remembered seeing the girl in the store a few times. “How are you holding up?”

The girl embraced her. She stank of cigarette smoke. “Britt was fuckin’ crazy about you, Hannah,” she said. “You were like—her personal goddess. She thought you were so fuckin’ cool. She said you got her through a lot of shit.”

“Oh, well, um, thanks a lot,” Hannah replied, at a loss for anything else to say.

The girl went to talk to one of her pals. Hannah glanced towards the other side of the room. The closed casket was on display between two potted palms. It was hard to imagine her friend Britt in that mahogany box. Hannah felt such a sadness swell within her that she ached. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse, then ducked back into the cloakroom.

She kept thinking she could have prevented Britt’s death. Trying to warn her hadn’t been enough. She could have done more. If she’d taken her chances and gone to the police, there wouldn’t be a funeral for Britt today.

Tish had given her the day off to attend the service. Hannah didn’t plan on going to the cemetery. She was tired and emotionally drained. She’d hardly slept at all last night.

After they’d left the college, she and Ben had returned to her apartment with the stack of videotapes from Paul’s coat closet. Bleary-eyed, they watched the videos—mostly at fast-forward speed—until two in the morning. The tapes were indeed film lectures, just as they’d been labeled.

While suffering through those videos, Hannah and Ben wondered about Seth’s possible culpability in the murders. Hannah went to bed, resolving to dig deeper with Seth when they worked side by side on Wednesday.

She had another resolve. Nothing was going to happen between Ben Podowski and herself. That evening, she’d caught Ben gazing at her several times. She pretended not to notice the look of longing in his eyes. It didn’t mean anything. He was just lonely, discouraged, and far away from home.

Ben had left in the morning to return the lecture tapes to Paul’s office. He planned to keep tabs on Paul for the rest of the day.

Walking to the funeral parlor, Hannah had the feeling she was being watched again. She was also struck with a strange thought. What if Ben wasn’t really following Paul? He could have been following her. He might have slipped that folder of photos inside Paul’s desk drawer last night. He’d had plenty of time to do it. What if he was friends with that man who had been trying to look through her living-room curtains the night before last? Ben had disappeared for over ten minutes, then come back with his story about trying to chase down that elusive prowler. And she’d believed him.

Hannah shook off the notion. Ben couldn’t be one of the killers. He’d barely escaped becoming one of the victims. She just wasn’t thinking right. Too little sleep.

Perhaps that explained her extra-fragile emotional state at this funeral service. Having a breakdown in the cloakroom, no less.

“Hello, Hannah.”

The handkerchief clutched in her hand, Hannah turned around. “Oh, hi, Ned,” she replied, clearing her throat.

Ned Reemar stood in the cloakroom doorway. He wore his usual brown shirt with Snoopy over the pocket, jeans, and sneakers. But he’d added an ugly tie to the ensemble. It looked like a clip-on. He carried a windbreaker over his arm.

Wiping her eyes, Hannah edged past him. “I’ll get out of your way here,” she said. “It’s awfully sweet of you to come.”

“A lot of freaks attending, aren’t there?” he said, hanging up his coat.

And you win the prize,
Hannah thought. But she merely shrugged. “It’s a diverse group. I didn’t know Britt had such a wide range of friends.”

“Well, I hate to say it,” Ned muttered, smoothing back his greasy hair. “But I used to see her hanging out with some of these weirdos when she wasn’t working. Talk about the wrong kind of crowd. I could have told you she’d end up dying young.”

Hannah frowned, but didn’t say anything.

Ned came up beside her. “How’s your son?” he asked. “Gotta be careful with chicken pox. Do you think Scott caught the chicken pox from Guy?”

“No, I—I think they were both exposed to it around the same time,” Hannah replied. It was unsettling how Nutty Ned always knew what was happening with everyone in the video store. Still, Hannah managed to smile. “But both patients seem to be doing all right, Ned.”

She glanced toward the casket and saw Webb standing near one of the potted palms. Tall and crudely handsome, he had a five o’clock shadow and a perpetual sneer that someone must have once told him was sexy. He wore a leather jacket, jeans, a black shirt, and a bolo tie. With his hands shoved in his pockets, he leaned against the wood-paneled wall and glared at her.

“Hannah, do you know if the store will be carrying any of the old Twentieth Century Fox classics in DVD?” Ned was asking. “There’s a whole bunch coming out next week, but they didn’t say if the DVDs will be in the original screen ratio from CinemaScope. I was reading about it—”

“Um, Ned. I really don’t know,” Hannah gently interrupted. “I’m sorry. I’m kind of not in the mood to talk about work-related stuff right now. You understand, don’t you?”

He frowned. “Oh, well, okay, sure. See you later.”

Hannah watched Ned retreat into the crowd; then he stopped in front of the casket. She watched him touch the coffin, running his hand over the polished wood. Ever so casually, Nutty Ned poked his finger in the crevice between the coffin and its lid. Like a curious child, he must have been wondering if the casket was sealed shut.

Dumbfounded, Hannah stared at him.

Suddenly, someone shoved her, almost knocking her down. Hannah grabbed on to a chair to keep from falling, then swiveled around to see Webb.

“Because of you,” Webb growled, “I have the police on my ass. You fucking ratted on me.”

Glaring back at him, Hannah caught her breath. “I simply told them Britt was with you last weekend. That’s the truth, isn’t it? She was with you, wasn’t she? Or did you ditch her someplace?”

“I didn’t ditch her that night,” Webb muttered. “She ditched me.”

“Well, good for Britt,” Hannah replied, keeping her voice down. “Too bad her timing was off. She should have ditched you ages ago.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he snarled.

“I’m talking about all the times you beat her, Webb.” Hannah shook her head at him. “That poor, sweet girl. At least she won’t be getting smacked around and hurt by you anymore, you low-life creep.”

He grabbed her arm. “You listen to me, you stupid—”

Hannah wrenched free of him. “Don’t you touch me,” she hissed. “If you ever lay a goddamn hand on me, I swear I’ll have the police down on you so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

He grinned defiantly. “Oh, really?”

Hannah suddenly realized people were staring. Her eyes wrestled with his. “You can count on it, you son of a bitch,” she said under her breath.

“You’re gonna sic the cops on me?” Webb chuckled. “That’s a good one. You wouldn’t dare. You’re in trouble with the police. Britt told me. Hell, you never would’ve talked to the cops at all if they hadn’t tracked you down at the store after Britt OD’d.”

Hannah took a step back from him. “What?” she murmured.

He nodded. “Yeah, they told me they came to you. I’ll bet you were pissing in your panties, you were so scared.” He raised his voice. “What kind of trouble are you in with the police, Hannah? Britt said you must be in some pretty deep shit.”

Hannah turned away. She stiffly edged through the crowd to the cloakroom. She couldn’t look at anyone. Her heart was pounding, and she felt sick. She hated shrinking away, leaving him with a smirk and the last word.

Hannah fetched her trench coat. She was still nauseous and shaking inside as she left the funeral parlor.

The chilly autumn wind whipped at her as she hurried down the sidewalk. Hannah threw on her coat. She felt something slightly bulky in the left pocket, something that hadn’t been there before.

Hannah stopped dead. She shoved her hand in the pocket and felt the plastic box. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

She knew what it was.

“Wasn’t he one of the doctors on
St. Elsewhere?”
Ben asked.

Gazing at the TV screen in her living room, Hannah nodded. “William Daniels, he was also Dustin Hoffman’s father in
The Graduate.”

They sat by each other on the floor, watching William Daniels and Warren Beatty on the screen. In the scene, Daniels and Beatty were in the galley of a small yacht, discussing a photo that had been taken at the Space Needle. The film was
The Parallax View
, a political thriller from 1974. It had been years since Hannah had seen it. But she had watched this particular scene just a few hours ago. The tape had been set to start there.

The next two minutes of footage was wordless, just Beatty and William Daniels aboard the yacht, with a third man at the wheel. “He’s a bodyguard, I think,” Hannah explained to Ben.

At a certain point, Beatty moved to one end of the boat; then he watched Daniels and his bodyguard at the stern. The camera pulled back for a long shot of the yacht gliding along the water’s choppy surface. Suddenly, the stern and aft sections of the boat exploded, shooting flames, smoke, and debris up in the sky. Beatty dove into the water just as a second blast ripped the boat in half.

“Jesus,” Ben murmured. The light from the TV cast shadows across his handsome, chiseled face. He sat on the floor with his long legs in front of him. He wore jeans with a white T-shirt, and was barefoot.

“So someone you know is going to die like this,” he murmured. “In a boat explosion?”

Sitting beside him, Hannah took the remote and switched off the TV. “I’ve been racking my brain for the last couple of hours.” She sighed. “I can’t think of anyone I know here who owns a yacht.”

“Maybe a customer at the store?” Ben asked. “A sailing enthusiast?”

“No one comes to mind. I’m totally clueless.” Hannah stood up. “Do you want some wine?”

He smiled up at her. “Yeah, thanks.”

Without thinking, she reached down and mussed his hair. As she moved toward the kitchen, she felt a little flushed. It was a silly little gesture. But she’d wanted to touch him. She was so grateful to have Ben at her side. Watching the video wasn’t quite as awful this time, because Ben was with her. She didn’t have to face it all alone.

She poured them each a glass of Merlot, then returned to the living room. She might have been more comfortable on the sofa. But she wanted to be near him. He looked so unself-consciously sexy—with his bare arms and bare feet. She handed Ben a wineglass, then settled down next to him on the floor.

“Thanks,” he said. “Can you think of anyone who might have plans to go sailing this weekend?”

Hannah shrugged. “Nobody. The only person I know who’s a big sailing nut is my husband, Kenneth. And he’s in Wisconsin.”

Ben frowned. “Are you sure? I mean, do you think it’s possible he’s here in Seattle?”

Automatically, Hannah started to shake her head, but she stopped herself. Of course he was in Seattle. She’d known that sooner or later someone would be coming after Ronald Craig. She just hadn’t expected Kenneth. Obviously, he was having her watched. Or maybe he was watching her himself, just waiting to make his move—whatever that might be.