Watch Them Die

Guy; whatever we need to do.”

Hannah just kept nodding.

“I’ll be following Gulletti again today,” Ben said as he moved the suitcases near the door. “He’s probably camped out at Starbucks right now. That’s his Friday morning routine. I’ll know if he starts to follow you.”

The phone rang. Hannah wasn’t about to pick up.

“Guy, honey,” she spoke over her own greeting. “We have a long drive ahead. So why don’t you go tinkle? Even if you don’t have to, give it a try.”

Too wrapped up in his Etch A Sketch, Guy wasn’t listening.

And Hannah wasn’t listening to the answering machine—until she recognized Tish’s voice.

“Are you there?” Tish was saying. “Han, it’s kind of an emergency. I can’t believe this is happening—”

Hannah stood frozen for a moment. She imagined her video-killer making good his Vertigo threat, using Tish as his Kim Novak.

She snatched up the phone. “Tish? Are you okay?”

“I’ve had better mornings. Listen, Han, I don’t know what’s going on, but we lost Seth this morning.”

“He quit?”

“No, honey,” Tish said. “I mean, we lost him. He’s dead.”

“What?” she whispered.

“He didn’t show up for work this morning,” Tish continued. “So I called his place, and got a cop. When I explained who I was, he told me what had happened. He wanted to know if I could help them out with next of kin. It looks like Seth killed himself.”

“My God,” Hannah murmured. “How did it happen?” She already knew, yet she heard herself asking.

“He broke into that church a few blocks up the hill from here. It happened early this morning. He went up into the bell tower, then jumped.” Tish sighed. “Christ on a crutch, what’s going on with this store’s employees lately? First Scott gets sick, then Britt dies, and now this new kid—it’s crazy.” She paused. “Hannah, are you still there?”

“Yes,” she replied, in a stupor. “I—I’m here,” she managed to say.

“Okay,” Tish said. “Well, call me heartless, but I need you to fill in for him today. I know, it’s awful of me to ask, and you’re not supposed to come in until eleven. But I’m here alone with a stack of new videos and DVDs I have to catalogue. There’s no one else. You’d really be saving my ass, Han.”

“Um, I’m sorry, I can’t,” Hannah said. “In fact, I was about to call you. I can’t come in at all today. Guy’s sick, and his baby-sitter just phoned. I have to stay put.”

“Oh, no,” Tish groaned. “I wish I were in hell with my back broken. Well, I hope Guy feels better. Try to get another sitter, and come in if you can—even for just a little bit. Oh, crap. I have people lining up. Gotta go.”

Hannah heard a click on the other end of the line.

“What was that?” Ben asked. “Did something happen?”

She turned to Guy. “Honey, were you listening to me? I want you put down the Etch A Sketch and go to the bathroom. Now!”

Guy scowled at her. Setting aside his game, he hopped off the sofa and stomped down the hall. He slammed shut the bathroom door.

Hannah rubbed her forehead. “Seth is dead,” she whispered. “Just like Vertigo. It happened early this morning at that church near where he lived. They seem to think it was a suicide….”

She relayed to Ben everything Tish had told her. “So—ah, the cops are in his apartment right now?” he finally asked.

Hannah nodded. “They were there when Tish called a while ago.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe they have a lead. I’ll go see what I can find out. Seth’s roommate could be there. He might know something.” Ben glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s nine-thirty. Do you want to stick around for another forty-five minutes? I might come up with something concrete. I understand if you want to hightail it out of here. It’s your call.”

Hannah bit her lip. “All right,” she said finally. “You go on. I’ll stay a little while longer.”

The taxi that had been waiting for Hannah was now letting Ben out at the big Tudor house on Aloha Street. Ben had expected to find a couple of police cars parked in the long driveway. There were six of them. Dozens of onlookers stood in front of the mansion, many of them craning their necks to get a peek at the garage. Ben couldn’t imagine an apparent suicide attracting so much attention. Seth hadn’t even died on the premises.

Ben wondered about the roommate. Was he dead too?

He threaded his way through the crowd. “Do you know what happened?” he asked one young woman, who looked like a college student.

She shrugged. “This guy offed himself or something.”

Ben felt someone nudge him. He turned to face an overweight, middle-aged man with copper-colored hair and a hint of eye makeup. He had a miniature schnauzer on a leash. “The young man who lived above the garage there killed himself this morning,” he whispered. “He jumped from the tower of that church up the block, you know, Sacred Heart?”

Ben nodded.

Touching his arm, the man looked Ben up and down. “But that’s only part of it,” he said. “Looks like he videotaped a bunch of people, then murdered them.”

Ben frowned at him. “What?”

The chubby man nodded conspiratorially. “I hear he kept photos and videotapes of his victims, women mostly. The police found it all in the garage apartment back there—along with some video equipment and God knows what else. Can you imagine? Right here in our neighborhood?”

“No, I—I can’t believe it,” Ben murmured.

“Do you live around here?” the man asked.

“Excuse me,” Ben said. He made his way toward the mouth of the driveway, where a husky, mustached patrolman kept the people back. The cop was talking to a stocky man with red hair. Ben recognized him from last night. He owned the Tudor house.

“Did something happen to Seth Stroud?” he asked loudly.

The cop turned to frown at him. “Who are you?”

A few other people were looking at him, too. “Um, my name’s Jack Stiles,” he lied. “I’m in Seth’s film class at the community college.”

The man with the red hair squinted at him. “Film class?”

Ben nodded. “Yeah, he’s a teaching assistant for a film class over at the community college.”

“Well, that’s news to me,” replied the owner of the Tudor house. “Seth worked at Bourm’s Lock and Key on Fifteenth.” He turned to the cop. “I don’t understand this. One of you guys said this morning that his boss from the video store called him. Something’s screwed up here. I was his landlord. I know how he made a living.”

“What about his roommate?” Ben asked. “Have you talked with him?”

“What roommate?” the man said. “You must have the wrong guy.”

Bewildered, Ben stared at him. None of it made sense. He’d searched every inch of that garage apartment just last night, and hadn’t found a thing. And now it seemed Seth Stroud was two different people.

The cop took hold of his arm. “Listen, Mister—ah—Stiles,” he said. “I need you to stick around. One of our detectives will want a statement.”

Ben quickly shook his head, then took a step back. “Hey, you know, you’re right. I must have the wrong guy.”

“Just the same, I need you to stay put, Mr. Stiles—”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Ben said, giving him a curtailed wave. Turning away, he weaved through the crowd. All the while, he thought someone might grab him. He finally broke free from the swarm of people and walked at a brisk clip. He kept expecting to hear a police whistle or someone yelling at him to stop.

Ducking into an alley, he cut through someone’s yard, then ran several blocks. Ben looked over his shoulder.