Watch Them Die

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?”