He nodded. “I know, I know. We already went over this last night. Three things: one, I warn him about the boat explosion; two, I get a description of your stalker; and three, I set up a meeting between you and Kenneth for Saturday night.”
“By which time, Guy and I will be long gone,” Hannah added, staring straight ahead. “At least, I hope.”
A Seahawks game was broadcasting over three strategically located TV sets in Duke’s Chowderhouse. The Happy Hour crowd in the bar seemed rather sedate, and the restaurant area was just starting to fill up. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sunset cast an amber haze over the Lake Union marina.
Ben sat down at a small table near the window. Hannah didn’t have any pictures of her estranged husband, so Ben had no way of recognizing Kenneth Woodley. But Kenneth and his detectives had been watching Hannah for several days. They knew him, they had an advantage. Ben imagined they were staring at him this very moment.
He ordered a Lite beer, and sat there, waiting to be recognized. He glanced over at the different men at the bar. One of them was smirking back at him. He had black hair, a goatee, and wore a tight, gray, long-sleeve T-shirt that showed off his brawny physique. Ben wondered if this was Kenneth, or the detective, or maybe just some gay guy who found him attractive.
Ben looked away, toward one of the TVs. His beer arrived and he paid for it. After the waitress left, he glanced again at Mr. Tight T-shirt, who was still staring at him.
Ben turned away again. Gazing out the window, he sipped his beer.
Ben glanced up at the Tight T-shirt Man. “Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”
The man chuckled, then slid into the chair across from Ben. He sipped his martini, then sat back. “Maybe you’re waiting for me, buddy.” He glanced out the window. “You know, for somebody who’s so full of gloom and doom about sailboats, it’s pretty weird you agreed to meet here.”
Ben looked at all the boats docked just outside the restaurant. “It was your suggestion. I’ve never been here before. Are you Kirkabee?”
The man with the goatee smiled. “I might be. Who are you?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter,” Ben said.
“That’s true. You don’t matter to me at all.”
Ben gave him an ironic smile. Someone sat down in the chair directly behind him, and Ben inched forward. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I want to explain my warning in that e-mail. There’s someone else following her, and he’s responsible for several murders—including the hit-and-run of your pal Ronald Craig. This killer likes to give my friend videos illustrating how he plans to murder his next victims—and it’s always someone she knows. In the last video, there was an explosion aboard a yacht.”
The man shook his head and chuckled. “Pretty incredible.”
“Before Ronald Craig was killed, my friend received a video showing someone repeatedly mowed down by a car.”
The man stopped smiling. “Yeah?”
Ben nodded. “In your response to my e-mail, you said you’ve seen this stalker. You said you have surveillance photos of him.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, maybe we can identify him. He murdered Ronald Craig. I’d think you’d want to see this killer brought to justice.”
The man stared at Ben, and his smile returned. “Funny. Bringing someone to justice is exactly why I’m here. Speaking for my client, most fathers don’t appreciate having their sons stolen out from under them.”
“We can get to that in a minute,” Ben said. “For now, I’d like to see these photos you have of the stalker.”
“Why?” the man asked. “You already know who this
Hannah went through the last of the kitchen drawers. She’d managed to fill two tall trash bags with junk. One drawer had been full of finger paintings and art projects Guy had made at Alphabet Soup Day Care. She didn’t want to part with them. At the same time, someone planning to skip town couldn’t afford to be sentimental.
She’d sent Joyce home. Guy was feeling better. He sat in bed, playing with an Etch A Sketch that Ben had brought for him earlier today.
The doctor had told her the recovery time for chicken pox was ten to fourteen days. By Saturday, it would be ten days. She didn’t want to take chances with Guy’s health. But they couldn’t risk staying on any longer. They had to leave Saturday. They’d take a cab out of town, stay in a cheap motel, then catch a bus or train heading south, maybe Phoenix, Tucson, or San Diego.
Hannah worked the bottom drawer back in its opening, then glanced at her wristwatch. Nearly six. If all was going smoothly, Ben was wrapping up the meeting with Kenneth right now. But, she knew from experience, things never went smoothly with Kenneth.
She opened the cupboard, and took out a canister of bread crumbs and a packet of elbow macaroni. She was baking a macaroni and cheese souffle tonight, one of Guy’s favorites. She’d let him put on his robe and socks, and eat at the kitchen counter; his first meal out of bed in over a week.
The intercom buzzer went off, startling her. It was too soon for Ben to be here already.
Hannah hesitated before picking up the intercom phone. It buzzed again, then again. Whoever was outside must have started leaning on the button, because the buzzer droned continuously.
“Mom?” Guy called from his bedroom.
“It’s all right, honey,” she called back. “I’ve got it!”
She snatched up the intercom phone. “Yes? Hello?”
“Hannah? It’s Paul,” he said anxiously. “Paul Gulletti. I need to see you. Could you buzz me in? It’s important.”
“Well, I—ah, have people here, friends of mine,” she said. “I’ll meet you out on the balcony. All right? Come up the stairwell to the third floor.”
Hannah pressed the entry button, then hung up the phone. She stepped back into the kitchen. Opening the top kitchen drawer, she pulled out a small steak knife and carefully slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. She untucked her pullover to cover up the knife handle. Then she grabbed the cordless phone, stepped outside, and closed the door.
Paul came from the stairwell with an envelope in his hand. The customarily laid-back, confident professor now seemed rattled. He was out of breath from running up the three flights. As he came toward her, Hannah instinctively backed away.
“Don’t you have class in fifteen minutes?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m double-parked outside. You want a ride there?”
She shook her head. “No, I—as I told you, I have company.” She showed him the phone in her hand. “Plus, I’m expecting an important phone call. So—now really isn’t a good time, Paul.”
“Hannah, listen. I came here because I’m worried about you. I think someone might want to—hurt you.”
“Who?” she asked, stealing a glance toward her neighbor’s window. No one seemed to be home.
“I don’t know,” Paul replied. “Someone broke into my office last night, or maybe early this morning. They left these photos of you on my desk.”
Paul pulled three black-and-white photographs out of the envelope. Hannah tucked the phone under her arm and studied the pictures. They were shots taken without her knowledge. It was unsettling to view her stalker’s handiwork. In two of the photos, she was in front of the store; the third caught her stepping out the lobby door of her apartment building.
“This has happened twice before,” she heard Paul say. “Both times with students of mine, women I—women with whom I’d become involved.”
Hannah gazed up at him. Paul shrugged. “The first girl was an artist I was seeing named Angela Bramford.
