Free Death Watch by Jack Cavanaugh Page A

was that all about?” Vandeveer asked Sydney.
    “I have no idea.”
    “Can I ask you a question?” Vandeveer said. “What on God’s green earth is going on with these notices? I mean, it’s sick, isn’t it? Who’s behind it?
    Sydney was amazed Vandeveer hadn’t already asked this question. She attributed it to the invasion of cameras, equipment, and personnel. All of it at once could be intimidating. Under similar circumstances Sydney had once interviewed a man who couldn’t remember his wife’s name on camera.
    “Mr. Vandeveer, we’re as perplexed as you are.”
    Vandeveer thought about this a moment. “Do you really think you can save me?”
    “We have security, medical personnel, and equipment. You’re going to beat this thing, Mr. Vandeveer.”
    “Did I tell you when my wife died, the plane fell vertically?”
    “Yeah.”
    “It landed on some houses. Killed the people inside. Security and medics couldn’t have done anything to save those people.”
    “I don’t think a plane’s going to fall on your house, Mr. Vandeveer.”
    “Yeah, you’re probably right. Still.. ”
    It was 9:41 p.m.
    Twenty-four minutes remained.

CHAPTER NINE
    S ydney learned that the US Post Office delivered Lyle Vandeveer’s death watch notice together with a MasterCard bill, an offer to join the History Book of the Month club, a fund-raising letter from Azusa Pacific University—Cindy had attended there for two years before transferring to USC—and a page of pizza coupons.
    The envelope and letterhead matched: cream-colored linen paper. A simple DW appeared at the top of the page, centered, TrueType Castellar font, thirty-six point. There was no address, nor was there any return address on the envelope. The message was identical to the one Jeffrey Conley received in telegram form, only the time stamp was different. No fingerprints other than Lyle’s and the postman’s were on the envelope. It had a Pasadena postmark.
    Lyle reported receiving a confirmation phone call, only he wasn’t home to take it. It was on his answering machine. The police had both the letter and the answering machine tape.
    A broadcast van technician poked his head in the room. “Mr. Vandeveer? There’s a crazy broad out here and she says she won’t go away until she talks to you. Says she’s your neighbor. Opal Whitcomb?”
    Vandeveer nodded at Sydney. “He’s right, she is a crazy broad. Lives next door. She wanders the neighborhood with a coffee cup, on the prowl for java handouts and gossip. But she’s a good neighbor and good company when she wants to be.” He looked back to the technician. “Tell her I said I’ll call her in the morning and fill her in. Oh, and tell her I bought some of that hazelnut cream blend she likes.”
    It was 9:55 p.m.
    Ten minutes left.
    Hunz Vonner strode into the room. There was no sign of a cell phone.
    “Has your German station developed any leads?” Sydney asked.
    “I’ll fill you in later. Mr. Vandeveer, how are you feeling?”
    “Like a movie star,” he said. “I haven’t had this much attention since. . come to think of it, I’ve never had this much attention. Can I put my shirt on when the cameras start rolling?”
    “Certainly,” Sydney said. “We’ll be live on the eleven o’clock news.”
    “Can you show my train layout? Like I said, it’s nothing special, but it’ll drive Howard Kressler up the wall to see it on TV. He thinks he has the best layout on the West Coast.”
    9:59 p.m.
    The paramedics checked Lyle Vandeveer’s heart pressure. They ran another EKG and gave a thumbs-up sign.
    “I feel great,” Vandeveer said.
    His voice was shaky.
    10:00 p.m.
    B illy Peppers leaned against a palm tree on the other side of Fair Oaks Avenue opposite Lyle Vandeveer’s house. He held a Nike shoe box under his arm. With his free hand he scratched his bearded cheek.
    He hadn’t had a good bath in nearly a month, just a little splashy-splash washup in a fountain now and then. Whenever