Watch Them Die (9 page)

From the Twin Cities, they took the train to Seattle. Guy liked the train. For the first time in forty-eight hours he actually seemed content, and slept well. Hannah could almost convince herself everything would be all right.

In Seattle, she found a cheap hotel with kitchenettes in the rooms. Every day, she and Guy went apartment hunting. She always picked up a
Milwaukee Journal
at the magazine store, and searched for any articles about the disappearance of Mrs. Kenneth Woodley II and her son. She didn’t find anything.

She phoned Juan at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart.

“It’s not a good idea to call me,” he warned her. “They’re looking for you. A private detective has been asking questions around here.”

Hannah talked with an old friend from McNulty’s Tavern, a coworker named Arlette Ivey. “Some guy came by two nights ago, asking about you,” Arlette told her. “He was really obnoxious. He said you’re in some kind of trouble, and we’re all accessories to kidnapping and grand theft if we hold back any information. What’s going on, Hannah?”

“Nothing. It’s all just—a big misunderstanding. I’m all right. But please, Arlette. Don’t tell anyone I called, okay?”

Once Hannah found her two-bedroom apartment at the Del Vista, she and Guy lived like hermits. Except for trips to the park, the supermarket, and video store, she didn’t go anywhere. The only person who even knew her by name was Tish at Emerald City Video. When Hannah’s money started to run out, she went to Tish for a job.

Guy wouldn’t have to worry about money once he was an adult. Among the essentials she’d taken from the house in Green Bay was his real birth certificate. Her son was heir to the Woodleys’ fortune. She’d tell him the truth when he was college age. Until then, he was hers.

As they walked up the steps to the apartment, Hannah watched him struggling with the small bag of paper towels. “You’re doing a great job there, sweetie,” she said. “You’re really helping me out. Such a gentleman.”

“I have to tinkle,” Guy replied.

“Okay, hold on.” Hannah unlocked the door and let him run inside first. He dropped the small bag, then made a beeline to the bathroom.

Hannah hoisted the groceries onto the kitchen counter and began to unload them. Underneath the Oreo cookies, she found a videotape.

“What’s this?” she whispered.

The tape didn’t come in a box or container. It was just a cassette: Tape B of
The Godfather
.

With a glance toward the bathroom, Hannah went to the VCR and slipped the tape inside. She switched on the TV and turned down the volume.

On the TV screen, Al Pacino and Diane Keaton were acting as godparents at the christening of their nephew. Hannah knew the movie. But she hadn’t anticipated the very next cut: Alex Rocco, playing “Mo Green,” lay seminude on a massage table. Someone approached him. He reached for his glasses to look up at the intruder. Hannah knew the scene now. Cringing, she watched the faceless visitor shoot Mo Green in the eye.

“Mom?”

With a shaky hand, she switched off the TV. Hannah glanced over her shoulder at Guy. She quickly ejected the tape. “Did you flush, and wash your hands?” she asked.

Guy nodded.

Hannah sat down on the floor and motioned him to come to her. She put her arm around Guy, then showed him the tape cassette. “Honey, did you see someone put this in our shopping cart?”

He shrugged and shook his head.

“Did you see it in the cart? Was it in there?”

Guy picked at his nose. “Yeah. But I didn’t touch it.”

She tried to smile, but a tremor crept into her voice. “Was this tape in the cart before Craig came up to talk to us? Think real hard, sweetie. It’s important.”

He winced. “I don’t remember. Are you mad?”

“No, no,” she assured him, kissing his forehead. “It’s all right. Everything’s fine.”

Guy pointed to the cassette in her hand, then touched it. “What is this, Mom?”

“I don’t know, honey,” she whispered. She held him closer. “I don’t know what it is.”

Seven

The young woman stepped out of the taxicab. She wore tight black leather pants and a fuzzy, baby-blue angora sweater. Her chestnut-brown hair was in pigtails tonight. She pulled her folded-up massage table and duffel bag from the backseat. “Think your fucking arm would fall off if you helped me?” she muttered to the cab driver.

The audio probably didn’t pick it up. But he caught the woman on videotape as she threw her money at the driver, then kicked the door shut with her spiked boot. She carried her table and bag to the front door, then rang the bell.

It was Tuesday night at Lester Hall’s house.

He’d been watching Lester—and videotaping him—on and off for the last week. He’d already figured out how to break into Lester’s house. There were several times he could have snuck into the place and quite easily murdered Lester in his sleep. But he needed to wait until tonight.

His video camera captured Lester coming to the door and letting the girl inside. The camera shut off for a minute. The next image was rickety. His hands were a bit shaky from running to the backyard, where he now photographed them through the sliding glass doors of Lester’s recreation room. The woman was setting up her massage table. Lester stood at the bar, fixing them drinks.

One of the neighbors was throwing a party. The music and laughter drowned out what little conversation went on inside between Lester and his masseuse. He handed her a drink, then started to undress. The camera panned to her. She sipped her drink, then pulled the sweater over her head, pried off her boots, and wriggled out of her pants. She’d peeled down to just her thong before Lester even got his pants unzipped. The woman took another hit of her drink, then excused herself and padded toward the bathroom.

Lester Hall started to step out of his pants.

The camera went off.

Tarin Siegel sat naked on the toilet in Lester Hall’s bathroom. For the next ninety minutes, Lester would demand her undivided attention, and that meant no bathroom breaks.

If she had the cash, Tarin would have gladly given Lester her one-hundred-and-twenty-buck fee just so she wouldn’t have to touch his paunchy old body tonight. Lester was Tarin Siegel’s best and worst customer. Every Tuesday night she could count on him. No other client was as steady. He had a nice place, and always fixed her a drink. The fact that he was out of shape and had a couple of weird moles on his back didn’t actually matter to her. She barely noticed the bodies any more—unless the guys were cute and really fit.

But there was nothing cute about Lester. Tarin had learned early on that he didn’t like her talking during the massage part. But when it came time for the big finish, she couldn’t read his mood. Often he wanted verbal encouragement; sometimes not. Nine times out of ten, she’d make the wrong call.
“Well, don’t just jerk me off, stupid, say something!”
he’d complain one week. Then, during the next session, he’d grouse
“How do you expect me to concentrate when you won’t shut up?”

One thing predictable about him was the way he acted afterward: sullen and mean. Once he was finished, he was finished—with her. It was like he couldn’t wait for her to leave. He was such lousy company, she preferred to wait outside for the cab to pick her up. Of course, Lester didn’t want her standing on the curb in front of his house, so she always had to hide behind a stupid hedge near his front door. Those nights when the cab was late, she absolutely dreaded having to ring his damn bell and use his phone again. Some nights, it just wasn’t worth the one hundred and twenty bucks.

The son of a bitch was out of toilet paper. Tarin sighed. Still crouching a bit, she moved over to the cabinet beneath the sink. It was a tiny, windowless powder room—no tub or shower. She found a roll of Charmin under the sink, sat back on the toilet, and loaded up the dispenser.

Tarin wiped herself, and was about to flush the toilet. That was when she heard Lester raise his voice: “Who the fuck are you?”

“You shouldn’t have called her a bitch,”
someone whispered.

Though he spoke softly, Tarin could still hear him. In fact, the words sliced right through her.

“No, God, no!”

A loud shot rang out.

Tarin gasped. Her heart seemed to stop for a second.

Paralyzed with fear, she didn’t dare utter a word. Her whole body start to shake. Tarin thought she might be sick, and she swallowed hard. Tears filled her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. She had to keep very still.

She heard his footsteps. He was getting closer. Did he know she was in here?

Slowly, Tarin stood up. All of a sudden she felt naked, and she covered her breasts. She glanced over at the door, then cringed. She hadn’t locked it.

The footsteps got louder, then stopped.

Waiting for the next sound became unbearable. Her eyes riveted to the door, Tarin watched the knob slowly turn to one side.

All at once, the bathroom light went out, and she was engulfed in total darkness. She’d forgotten that the light switch for the bathroom was outside the door. At the threshold, a line of light cut through the blackness. She could see the shadows of his feet skimming across that line.

She heard him laugh, a strange cackling.

Tarin couldn’t breathe. Blindly groping in the dark, she tried to find the towel rack or something she could hold on to, something with which she could defend herself.

The door burst open, and slammed against the wall.

Tarin screamed.

The last thing she saw was a man’s silhouette coming at her. His face was swallowed up in the shadows, and he held a shiny object in his hand.

“Chicago,” Hannah said, over her glass of Diet Coke. “I’m originally from Chicago.”

Craig was asking way too many questions. It had been years since she’d dated. But she didn’t recall ever having to weather through so many inquiries about her background.

They were eating lunch across the street from the video store, at a place called Bagels & Choosers. It was an upscale sandwich shop with high ceilings, metal tables, and regional artwork hanging on brick walls. Craig looked handsome in his gray turtleneck and jeans. But that didn’t matter, because Hannah’s guard was up. At this point, she didn’t trust anyone. Still, it was a date, and she’d dressed a notch above her usual store-clerk knockabouts. Her hair was pinned up, and she wore khakis with a pink oxford shirt.

“When did you move to Seattle?” Craig asked, picking at his Cobb salad.

“About three years ago,” Hannah lied.

“Are you—um, still in touch with Guy’s father?”

She shook her head. “He died in a car accident before Guy was born.” Hannah put down her spoon. The chicken noodle soup was a bit too salty. “Listen, do you mind if we change the subject?”

“I’m sorry.”

Forcing a smile, Hannah shrugged. “It’s okay. The marriage was pretty much kaput by the time I got pregnant. I just don’t feel like discussing it. Let’s talk about you. What exactly does a Web content director do anyway?”

Craig started explaining it to her. Hannah nodded and pretended to listen. All the while, she wondered about that
Godfather
cassette in her shopping cart. She’d been wondering for days. It was why she couldn’t really trust Craig Tollman. Was he the one who had slipped that tape in her cart? She hadn’t had a chance to ask him yet. So far, he’d been the one asking all the questions.

“Anyway, it’s not what I thought I’d end up doing,” he was saying. “How about you? What line of work were you in before you got married?”

“Um, retail,” she lied. “I worked at Marshall Field’s.”

Hannah sat back. “Hey, speaking of shopping,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that tape you slipped into my shopping cart at the store the other afternoon.”

He squinted at her. “What tape?”

“The videotape of
The Godfather
—or at least its second half. It was in my shopping cart at the checkout line. Didn’t you put it in there?”

Craig shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hannah studied him for a moment. Craig seemed genuinely confused.

She sighed. “Never mind. I guess someone was playing a joke on me or something.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Listen, I should head back to the store.”

Craig got to his feet. “I just need to use the men’s room for a minute. Then I’ll walk back with you. Okay?”

While he headed toward the rest rooms, Hannah flagged down their waiter. She got the check, then stepped over to the cashier to cover it. By the register was a stack of discarded newspapers. The one on top caught Hannah’s eye. She saw a photograph, and a headline near the bottom of the front page:

RETIRED SEATTLE BUSINESSMAN SLAIN IN HOME

‘A Night of Terror,’ for Surviving Witness
Madronna Neighborhood on Alert as
Police Continue Their Investigation

Hannah picked up the newspaper and moved away from the register. She studied the grainy photo of the victim, then read the caption beneath it:
L. Hollis Hall, 58, former Executive Vice President of Savitch, Inc., is survived by a daughter, 25.

She recognized the cold, crudely handsome older man in the picture. How could she forget the belligerent Mr.
Sorority Sluts
who had caused such a scene in the store last week?

Hannah glanced over at the rest-room area. She didn’t see Craig, so she started reading the article:

A retired businessman, L. Hollis Hall, 58, was shot to death, execution-style, by an intruder in his Madronna home Tuesday night.

Investigating officers are relying heavily on the testimony of a witness, Tarin Siegel, 31, who was also attacked in Hall’s house at the time of his death. Siegel sustained a mild concussion after being knocked over the head in Hall’s bathroom. Hall, who suffered from chronic back problems, had employed Siegel, a massage therapist, for the evening.

What Siegel called “a night of terror,” began at 9:30
P.M
. with her arrival at Hall’s home in the quiet, affluent Seattle neighborhood….

Still standing near the restaurant door, Hannah skimmed over the rest of the newspaper story.

Apparently, the woman had been in the bathroom when she’d heard Hall talking to an intruder, then the gunshot. Someone had broken into the john and knocked her unconscious with the butt of a revolver.

Hannah slowed down to read Tarin Siegel’s account of what she found when she regained consciousness and staggered out of the bathroom: “
I stepped back into the room where we were. I saw him lying on the massage table, and I saw all the blood….”

“My God,” Hannah murmured. “It’s
The Godfather
scene.” The newspaper began to shake in her grasp.

“There you are,” Craig said, touching her shoulder. “I was looking for you.”

Hannah recoiled.

He laughed. “Are you okay?”

She quickly folded up the newspaper, almost crumpling it. “I’m fine,” she answered. “I need to get back to the store.”

“Let me just take care of the check—”

“I got it already,” she said impatiently. “Let’s just go.” Tucking the newspaper under her arm, Hannah headed for the door.

As she walked back to the video store with him, Hannah’s mind was going in a dozen different directions. The last time she’d seen Lester Hall, Craig was throwing him out of the store and threatening him. Craig had been in the supermarket with her when that
Godfather
tape had made its way into her shopping cart. She didn’t care what he’d told her a few minutes ago. She didn’t trust him.

He took hold of her arm as they crossed the street. Hannah wrenched away from him. “I’m all right, thanks,” she said over the traffic noise. She started toward the door to Emerald City Video.

Craig stepped in her path, blocking the way. “Listen, Hannah, did I do anything to upset you?”

“No, I’m just—awfully late for work. I’ll call you. All right?” She moved around him and grabbed the door handle.

He braced a hand against the door. “Wait a second—”

“Please,” she said, losing her composure. “I need you to leave me alone. Just go! Okay?”

With a wounded look, Craig stared at her. Hannah hurried inside.

Scott manned the register nearest the door. He’d obviously heard the last part of her exchange with Craig. “Ouch,” he said. “That has to be one of the worst wrap-ups to a first date I’ve ever witnessed. What the hell happened? Are you all right?”

Through the front window, Hannah watched Craig slink away down the street. She moved behind the counter to her register. She was trembling. She set down the newspaper, and opened it for Scott to see. “Take a look at this. Isn’t this the
Sorority Sluts
guy from last week?”

Hannah logged into the customer account records: Hall, Lester.

“Holy shit,” Scott muttered.

Hannah had seen the photograph. But she needed to make certain L. Hollis Hall was indeed Lester Hall.

On the register’s computer screen, the account for Hall, Lester H. came up. Same first and middle initial, and his address was in the Madronna area. Hannah noticed the icon blinking on an “N” in the corner of the screen. It meant there was a note on his account. She pulled up the note:
THIS CREEP MUST DIE!

Hannah gasped. “Oh, my God, look what somebody wrote.”

Scott came to her side. “Relax, Hannah,” he said, a hand on her shoulder. “I wrote that last week—right after he had his hissy fit in here.” Scott let out a stunned laugh. “Christ, I didn’t know it would come true.”