Close Call (20 page)

Sydney

Making the turn onto
G Street an hour later, Sydney was apprehensive at seeing a blue sedan drawn up in front of her house, a man's figure leaning against the passenger door.

“Who's that?” Reese asked, sitting up straight.

“The police,” Sydney said hollowly. Was Detective West going to haul her off to jail? She slowed and found a parking spot halfway down the block.

“If you're going to hang with the handsome detective, I'm going to take care of a few things,” Reese said, studying West in the rearview mirror. “You should be safe enough with him. Be back in a half hour.”

Sydney nodded her agreement. She wasn't surprised that Reese didn't want to meet West, as she'd had some ugly run-ins with the police when she was a reporter. She stepped onto the sidewalk and West met her halfway between his car and the Highlander. Even though the sun was sliding toward the horizon, heat trapped by the asphalt and concrete of the city rose around them in almost visible waves. Despite the heat, someone was burning leaves, and the acrid odor made it feel hotter. Sydney tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, suddenly feeling the weight of the day's events descend on her shoulders.

“Who's your friend?” West's deep-set eyes studied Reese's lanky frame as she exited the passenger door and crossed in front of the SUV, out of their sight, to climb into the driver's side. Sydney thought she saw her hand upraised in a wave as she signaled and pulled away from the curb.

“Someone who takes my safety a bit more seriously than the MPD,” Sydney said tartly. She passed West and opened the low gate to her yard. Indigo bounded over to greet her and she stroked him. He purred.

“A bodyguard?” West's brows climbed toward his hairline.

“My sister, actually. She's got a gun.” She gave Indy a final pat and stood to unlock the front door. “Do I need to call my lawyer for this conversation?”

“Nope.” West followed her into the foyer and shut the door, sending home the deadbolt. The cool relief of air conditioning settled on her skin as she headed for the kitchen and water. The heat and the dust from the construction site had parched her.

“Nice bike,” West observed as they passed through the living room. “Yours?”

It was now. “Yes.” She left it at that and beelined for the sink.

“I saw a report that your car was torched,” he said. He leaned back against the counter as she filled a glass with water and glugged it. “Want to tell me about it?”

She filled the glass again before replying. “Want some?” When he shook his head, she took another long swallow, then gave him an appraising look. “I poked a hornet's nest and got stung.”

“What hornets?”

After a moment's hesitation—what would Hilary say?—she told him about visiting the Imminent Revelation compound and her conversation with Aaron Fisher.

As she spoke, his brows contracted and the muscles in his jaw tensed. “You thought they might have hired a hit man to take out Montoya and you traipsed off to their hide-out alone?” Incredulity rang in his voice.

“Reese was nearby,” she said defensively.

He was silent for a long moment, rubbing his eyebrow. When he spoke again, his tone said he'd come to a decision. “You're serious about this, about what you said. You're really trying to track down a hit man, aren't you?”

“Well, no one else is trying to find Jason's killer.” She busied herself putting her glass in the sink to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. “You all think I killed him.”

“I'm willing to consider other possibilities.”

Suddenly, he was beside her, a gentle hand turning her so he could study her face. He seemed taller close up; her nose was even with his jaw. She sniffed back her tears and met his gaze defiantly. “Really? Well, you fooled me with that whole arresting me thing.”

“Sarcasm doesn't suit you.”

“How would you know?” She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned away to push open the back door. She sank to the top step, wrapping her arms around her knees and hugging them to her chest. West joined her. He smelled like soap and limes and body heat as he sank down to the step, his thigh a whisper away from hers.

“Who else had a motive to kill Montoya?” he asked, pulling a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.

“You're finally taking me seriously?” Before he could change his mind, she poured out the results of the past two days' interviews and their research, watching the play of emotions across his face as she mentioned the Revelationists and their branding, Jimmy's gambling and Avdonin, Emma Fewell, Katya and her hostility.

“I originally thought it must be political, but after talking with Fisher, I realized that killing one congressman probably wouldn't clear the way for any big policy changes. So I started looking at his personal life. Plenty of people would benefit if Montoya died,” she finished. The reds of her geraniums became muted and the glow of fireflies flitted at grass level as the sunlight faded. A sprinkler hissed nearby, scenting the air with warm water.

“So it would seem.” He tucked the notebook back into his pocket.

How far should she trust West? Hilary's voice spoke in her right ear, telling her to shut up. She could just see D'won rolling his eyes at the idea of trusting a cop. Instinct made her say, “Someone shot at Montoya.”

“What?!”

“But he won't confirm that,” Sydney hastened to add. “He doesn't want to run the chance of losing the election.” She told him what Montoya had said to her about the shooting incident, leaving out the bit where he'd blackmailed her into helping him.

West stood, brushing dirt from his slacks. “I'm going to look into this. You stop poking around. Stick close to your sister or, better yet, hire a real bodyguard. I could recommend someone.”

He held out a hand to help her up, and after a moment she placed hers in it and let him tug her upright. She pulled her hand away as soon as she was standing. The stoop was so small that her back brushed against his chest as she pulled the storm door open. She scooted inside and turned to face him in the full glare of the kitchen's overhead fixture.

“Do you really believe me?” She gripped her lower lip between her teeth, waiting for his answer. Even though she didn't want it to, it mattered.

“I believe you're telling the truth as you know it.”

She flapped an impatient hand at his ambiguity. “Do you think I killed Jason?”

He hesitated a beat, but when he spoke the words came out strong. “No. No, I don't.”

She exhaled. “Are you supposed to tell me that?”

“Not really.” He smiled ruefully, his mouth quirking up at one corner. “I'll dig myself in deeper and let you know the chief's ready to say you're no longer a suspect. There's nothing to tie you to the gun we found in here and we've got another witness who confirms your alibi. There should be an announcement in the morning. The chief's insisting the ADA be there to explain why we arrested someone without a case we're willing to take to trial. We're ‘pursuing other leads,' mostly a kid who was in one of Nygaard's classes.”

“It wasn't a student.” Even though she knew they were looking in the wrong direction, at least they weren't looking at her anymore. A smile blossomed and she felt like someone had lifted a Volkswagen off her chest. She took a deep breath, feeling every rib expand.

“Well, we still need to find him, interview him. You keep your head down. No more visits to white supremacist encampments.”

In another minute he'd be wagging his finger in her face. He didn't know her very well if he thought she was going to back off now. Rather than respond, she headed for the foyer. Floorboards creaked beneath their feet. Sydney flipped the deadbolt and pushed the door wide. “Thanks for coming by, Detective.”

“Ben.”

“I'll keep you posted.”

West rolled his eyes but only said, “You do that.”

Sydney
Tuesday, August 8

Sydney woke Tuesday morning
feeling dull and weighed down.
Today was the special election. She
'd failed to find the man behind the voice on the phone, failed to find the killer. Fidel Montoya might die today, and it would be partially her fault. If he survived, what would that mean? That she'd misunderstood the phone call in the first place? In which case, why was Jason dead? That she'd scared the killer away with her investigation? She gave that some thought as she splashed
water on her face and dressed for the dental appointment. That could be counted as a partial win, she guessed, although the uncertainty made it a Pyrrhic victory at best. Flicking on some blush to give her pale cheeks a hint of color, she descended the stairs and stepped onto the front stoop to grab the newspaper. Earl peed on a shrub and challenged a squirrel that had the temerity to scamper up a tree in his territory.

Calling him back, Sydney returned to the house. Absently stripping the plastic sheath from the paper, she entered the kitchen and put water on to boil. Spreading the paper open on the kitchen table, she was setting aside the front page section, looking for the car sales pages, when the headline topping the local section plowed into her like a runaway horse:
Manley Trap Dukes It Out with Congressman's Wife
. Beneath it was a photo of her and Katya at the construction site, glaring at each other over the truck's hood. Hostility vibrated from them, even in the fuzzy newsprint.

A toxic cocktail of humiliation, fear that it was all starting again, and anger surged through her. Sydney collapsed into a chair and stilled her shaking hands by trapping them between her knees. How did the reporter—?

The answer was obvious. Grabbing the paper, Sydney scraped
back her chair and stormed down the hall. She slammed open the powder room door, surprising Reese on the toilet.

“Don't you knock?” Reese started, but Sydney cut her off.

“How could you?” She slapped the paper down on the counter, knocking Reese's toothbrush and a compact to the floor. It splintered on the tile, sprinkling glass slivers and pressed powder across the tiny room. Sydney sneezed, which increased her fury. “I can't believe—”

“Give me a moment to see what you're going on about,” Reese said, maddeningly calm. She leaned over and picked up the folded paper, saying, “That was my favorite compact, you know. I—oh.” She raised her gaze from the page.

“Oh?” Heat flushed Sydney's face. “I thought I could trust you, that things were different between us. I'm an idiot.”

“No argument there.” Reese said, her voice as sharp as one of the glass splinters. “This”—she waved the paper before dropping it disdainfully in the sink—“was not me.”

“You're a reporter—”

“
Was
. Even then, I didn't sneak around spying on politician's wives.”

“No, you focused on their girlfriends.”

Reese's face whitened, and she took a long moment before saying, “I have no way to make you believe me, but I had nothing to do with this. I don't know this”—she glanced at the byline—“Elaine Ng. I have absolutely no reason to let the press in on what we're doing.”

Her use of “we're” gave Sydney pause. Drawing in a shaky breath, she fingered her hair off her forehead. She didn't know what to think. She'd been sure Reese was behind the story, but now …

Reese interrupted her thoughts. “If you're going to hit me again, can I please get off the john first? Most fatal accidents in the home happen in the bathroom and I don't want to be that kind of statistic.”

“I'm not going to hit you.” Sydney stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door. The toilet flushed, a zipper whizzed, and water gurgled in the sink. Shoes crunching on glass heralded Reese's appearance. Sydney felt calmer but not quite ready to apologize. “Do you think the reporter was following me?”

“Maybe. Because of the arrest. I was keeping an eye out, but I might have missed a tail. Or she might have been following Katya, on spec as it were. Candidates' families, especially semi-estranged wives, can make good stories. Most likely someone at the site snapped a cell phone picture and called the
Post
.”

“Could you find out?”

Reese cocked her head. “Maybe. Like I keep telling you, I don't have too many contacts at the
Post
anymore. I'm not sure it's worth it anyway.”

Sydney inflated her whole torso with a deep breath. “I'm sorry.”

“Forgiven.”

Sydney gave a shaky laugh. “You're giving me a pass just to make me feel bad for hating you all these years.”

“You hated me?” Reese's voice sounded tight.

Sydney hesitated. “Yes. At least, I think so. Especially early on.”

“Well, that makes two of us. Hating me, I mean.”

Not trusting herself to speak through the lump that rose in her throat, Sydney stood mute for a moment. Recovering, she said gruffly, “I don't hate you now. I'll get a dust pan.”

“Then we can go buy a car.”

“And a new compact, after my dentist appointment.”

Paul

Paul eased himself through
the roof access door of the building across from the Penn Professional Building where the dentist had his office. Sweat beaded his brow, and he drank thirstily from one of the bottled waters in his bag. Acid roiled his stomach, a result of the ibuprofen and acetaminophen he'd been taking for fever and pain. They were no longer doing the trick: his shoulder throbbed like a son of a bitch and the red streaks had grown longer. He had to gut it out today, finish the job, and then he'd find a doctor. His generic jumpsuit, with
Maintenance
stenciled on the back and
Lionel
in machine-embroidered script over his chest, had proved in the past to be the perfect disguise. A ball cap in a matching tan hid his face from cameras and ensured no one got a clear look at his features or hair. Nobody really looked at maintenance men, janitors, cable guys, or meter readers. A uniform and a clipboard or tool bag made you damned near invisible, Paul had discovered.

Clutching the duffel with his Savage Arms Striker .22-250 sniper pistol, he made his way around a shed-sized air-conditioning unit and dropped to one knee, leaning against the metal structure. It was still cool to the touch after a night in the sixties. Waves of dizziness and nausea struck him. Despite the over-the-counter painkillers touting their fever-reduction ingredients, he was burning up and the cool metal offered relief. The sun would heat it to egg-frying temperature by the time he completed his mission. Scanning the empty roof again, he drew the pistol with its long barrel from his bag. Even its relatively light weight sent jabs of pain radiating from his shoulder up his neck and down his arm. He cursed. There was a pharmacy two blocks from his motel. He could get antibiotics there. He'd looked it up on the Internet, knew what he needed. He could stick his gun in a white-coated jackass's face and they'd hand over the meds. It wasn't like he was after oxy.

He peered through the scope, cursing the faint tremble in his arm. The door of the Penn Professional Building loomed in vivid detail, seeming mere inches away instead of seventy-five yards.

He'd scouted the building Sunday night when everything was quiet. Two bums had huddled on the vent outside the place, and a handful of cars had traveled the famous avenue, but no one paid him any attention. The building looked like it might once have been a theater, with a broad lobby and high ceilings. Developers had modernized it and effaced most of its personality, converting it to a labyrinth of offices. By the elevators, Paul had studied the marquee listing the names and floors of a variety of professionals: doctors, dentists, CPAs, goddamned lawyers, shrinks—lots of shrinks. Paul was sure living in DC was enough to send everyone screaming for a therapist and medication. Dr. Field's office was on the third floor.

He'd trudged up the dimly lit stairs and studied the locked doors on the offices he passed. Light glowed from behind one frosted pane, but most were dark. Hmm. Too tight, too many people, no good way to make a fast exit. He'd have to do the job outside, maybe from the roof of the building across the way. A poster on a travel agency's door stopped him on his way out. Cruising through azure seas, a ship the size of a small city promised relaxation and adventure. Would Pop feel up to a cruise? Maybe when he'd completed this mission, he'd book a cruise, just a short one, to someplace warm. None of that Alaska stuff. Pop could lounge on a deck chair, benefiting from the sea air and sunshine, while he and Moira …

A movement overhead drew Paul's attention and he whirled, bringing the pistol up. An angry hawk circled, then dive-bombed him. He flapped a gloved hand and the bird sheared away, veering toward the far corner of the roof. The rising sun burnished its glossy feathers, striking red from the spread tail. Using his hand as a visor, Paul made out the tips of sticks he assumed were a nest. The hawk's mate ruffled its feathers and glared at him as his attacker settled on a parapet nearby, keeping a fierce amber eye on Paul. He'd heard of raptors living in the city but had never seen any. What did they eat? Squirrels and pigeons, he decided after a moment's thought. Cats.

“You just have to share the roof with me for a couple of hours,” he murmured, eliciting a threatening
shreee
from the bird. “Then I'll be out of your hair. Er, feathers.”