Close Call (28 page)

Sydney

Montoya's house and yard
buzzed with cops. Sydney let a paramedic stabilize her wrist as she watched the cops in uniform prowl the perimeter of the yard and the forensic specialists in jumpsuits disappear into the house. Exclamations and speculation clouded the air as more and more people arrived: Maryland state troopers, the county sheriff, and FBI special agents drawn by Montoya's death. They all wanted to talk to her, but West and the EMTs kept them away. Sydney's head throbbed along with her wrist and she gratefully accepted painkillers from the paramedic, a burly woman with hair cut short as a man's and a tiny diamond stud piercing her nose. Sydney felt like she'd met more EMTs in the past week than in the past ten years combined.

A brief silence fell over the yard as the coroner's team appeared in the doorway with a dark bag zipped closed on a gurney. Sydney didn't know if the bag contained Montoya's body or Favier's, and she didn't know if the silence denoted respect, fear, or some other emotion. She was too tired to care. When Ben stopped beside her some minutes later, it took her a moment to recognize he was there. She raised her head to look into his face. His expression was set on “cop,” but it softened as her eyes searched his.

“Go to the hospital,” he ordered gently. “Let them fix your wrist. We'll take care of your statement in the morning. There's nothing more for you to worry about.”

“I had it wrong from the get-go,” she said wearily. “The killer wasn't after Fidel Montoya; he was after Jimmy. Poor Jimmy.” Images of Montoya's son enthusiastically talking about his horse blurred with the photos of Jimmy dead on the bathroom floor. “Poor Jimmy,” she whispered again.

“We all got it wrong,” Ben said firmly. “This was an MPD case and we screwed it up royally, mostly by not taking you at your word. You aren't to blame for any of this. Not Nygaard, not your sister, not—”

“My sister—” Sydney couldn't believe she hadn't thought about Reese. “I need to know—”

“She's doing fine. I called the hospital looking for you when I couldn't get you on your cell; I wanted to tell you that we'd matched prints from the Favier hit-and-run scene with ones from the hotel room of the guy who shot your sister. I talked to your mother. They caught the stroke very early and there should be little to no long-term effects. She's going to be fine, Sydney. It's all going to be fine.”

Sydney squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed around a lump in her throat. Her gratitude threatened to spill over as tears and she fought against them, saying with weak sarcasm, “There's still the journalists who will smear me for weeks, plus a broken wrist and nightmares.”

“I'll do what I can to head off the reporters. Your wrist will heal and the nightmares will fade.”

“Do you have an answer for everything?” She gave him a crooked smile.

“Not according to my daughter.”

Sydney waved her good hand as the paramedic helped her climb
into the ambulance. She thought Ben blew her a kiss as the EMT pulled the doors closed, but she might have been mistaken.

P
aul
Wednesday, August 9

Paul got off the
bus three blocks from his Barrytown house, grubby and weary. His clothes, though dry, smelled of river water, and he was pretty sure the pollutants in the river (or maybe it was fish piss) had re-infected his shoulder. No matter. Moira would know how to get him antibiotics. Emerging from the river some time after midnight, miles downstream of the Montoya place, he'd tromped through the woods, shoes squishing, until he came to a small town. Stealing a bicycle left unsecured on a front porch, he pedaled some twenty miles to a larger town and ditched the bike at a high school. Finding a public restroom, he'd cleaned up as best he could and, as dawn broke, he'd headed for the bus station.

The televisions in the bus station and a newspaper some passenger left on a chair overflowed with news and speculation about the incident at the Montoya house. Beyond confirming the deaths of Congressman Fidel Montoya (D/Maryland), 55, and John Favier, 58, Montoya's chief of staff, the cops were sticking with “No comment” and “We don't want to say anything that could disrupt an ongoing investigation.” The paper reported that Sydney Ellison was “unavailable for comment.”

Before approaching the ticket window, Paul scanned the columns for any mention of a suspect, any description of himself, and found nothing.
Home free
, he thought, knocking his knuckles on the faux wood of the chair's armrest. He stood in line behind a fat woman weighed down by three overstuffed shopping bags and told the clerk, “I need a ticket.” Two transfers later, he was almost home.

His pace picked up as he rounded the corner and saw the small house, its white paint gleaming against the blue sky and the oranges and reds of the hollyhocks he'd planted in the spring. They brightened the place up, but did he need a taller shrub, maybe something with a dark green foliage, behind them? His pop sat in a folding chair on the lawn, face tilted toward the mid-day sun, his eyes closed. He must have heard the scrape of Paul's shoes against the sidewalk, though, because he sat up straighter, peered at Paul for a moment, then called over his shoulder, “Look, Angela, Eldon's home.”

Angela was Paul's aunt, his father's youngest sister. Paul responded with “Hi, Pop” and kissed the old man's cheek, inhaling a menthol scent.

Moira appeared from the backyard, a trowel in her hand and a smudge of dirt on her forehead. “Hello.” She smiled.

“Hello.” He liked the way a strand of hair curled down onto her forehead, the way her eyes shifted between hazel and brown. Warm. He resisted the urge to hug her, saying, “I'm home.”

“I see that.” She set the trowel on the stoop and rubbed her hands along her thighs, suddenly uncertain. “I'll just clean up—”

“How do you feel about a cruise?”

Her astonished look pushed him to say, “I was thinking Pop might enjoy it, that the sea air would be good for him. And you've been alone with him so much lately, you deserve a vacation. I was thinking Puerto Vallarta, or maybe the Cayman Islands?”

“What about your work?” The note of hope and pleasure in her voice inflated a bubble inside him. He felt like a tulip bulb must when the sun and rains of spring tug at the flower inside, urging it to poke through the earth.

“It's a slow time.”

He needed to let the dust from the Montoya job settle. A cruise—sunbathing, cocktails, a shore excursion or two—would give him some distance, let his shoulder heal properly. Moira might even want to try the one-day scuba diving course with him. Maybe he'd take on more commissions when they got back from the cruise and maybe he wouldn't. Retirement had its allure. His eyes dwelled on the hollyhocks. If he put a trellis on the wall behind them, he could train some morning glories up it, or even English ivy. He slipped his arm behind his father's back and helped him stand.

“It's good to see you, Eldon,” his pop said, patting Paul's cheek with one horny-callused hand.

“Yeah, Pop. You, too.” With Moira holding the door, he supported his father as the old man shuffled toward the house.

Sydney

Handicapped by a cast
that went from her hand to her elbow, Sydney struggled to get her arm through a sleeve and cursed the instinct that had led her to ask Connie to bring her a dress to wear home from the hospital. At her request, Connie had dug the classic Diane von Furstenberg number out of her closet at the townhouse and brought it to the hospital that morning. Sydney hadn't worn it in years but had seen similar wrap dresses in the fashion magazines lately and knew it was back in style. The soft jersey material draped her slim figure, even showing a hint of cleavage, and tied at the waist. The geometric shapes on an orange background seemed to infuse her with energy.

She'd barely smoothed it over her hips when a voice from the doorway said, “Whoa, boss, new look. Very nice. Powerful yet feminine. It suits you.”

She turned, caught between laughter and tears, to see D'won on the threshold. “Old look, actually,” she said. “I just haven't worn it since, well, since forever.”

She smiled at her deputy and friend. He looked natty as ever, the purple gone from his hair, holding a vase of gerbera daisies in both hands. “Your favorites, right?” He lifted the vase with a gesture reminiscent of a priest raising a chalice.

“Oh, D'won.”

“They're supposed to cheer you up, not make you cry,” he observed, setting the flowers down and handing her a box of tissues.

She dabbed at her eyes. “Yeah, well, everything seems to make me cry right now.”

He patted her back. “I read about some of what happened in the paper. They're calling you a heroine, boss.”

Sydney frowned. “I don't know why. I screwed up by not going to the police right away with that phone, and four people died.”

“Four people died because an evil man hired a conscienceless killer,” D'won corrected her. “You exposed it all. You kept after it when the police were off the scent. Let them call you a heroine. Maybe you can make something of it, if not for yourself then for Winning Ways. It's a nice change of pace, right? The article I read didn't use the phrase ‘Manley Trap' at all.” He grinned, carving deep dimples in his dark cheeks.

Feeling shaky, Sydney perched on the edge of the bed. “How are things at the office?”

“Under control,” D'won said. He shook an admonitory finger at her. “Don't you even think of showing your face there until you're feeling a lot stronger than you are now. You look downright peaky. I can cope with Reverend Hotchkiss until you're ready to come back. I got a commitment from Darkon Imaging to hire at least five of our graduates a year. Yes, I'm that good.” He preened but then turned serious again. “I miss you, but I want you to get better.” He surprised her by leaning down to kiss her cheek. “There. That's all I came to say. When are they springing you from this joint?”

“About noon. Connie's coming to pick me up. I have to give a statement to the police. After that, I don't know.”

D'won drifted toward the door. “Just take it one day at a time, Syd. It'll all come right in the end. At least that's what my Aunt Hermione used to say, right up until Uncle Philemon got to thinking he could fix the hot water heater himself and blew the house and both of them to kingdom come.”

A metallic clatter of something dropping in the hallway made Sydney jump. “D'won, that's awful! You're making that up.”

He lifted a hand and gave an impish grin. “Ciao, boss.”

After he left, she sat for a while thinking about what he'd said. Then she brushed her hair and put on makeup with the air of a knight donning armor before a battle. Lavish use of concealer and a swipe of blush made her look less peaky, she decided, peering at her reflection in the small bathroom mirror. Hooking her purse over her shoulder, and picking up the vase of daisies in her good hand, she straightened her back and marched down the corridor to Reese's room.

Reese had been moved out of the intensive care unit to a regular room where she would spend two or three more days, according to the doctor. Sydney observed her sister from the doorway. She appeared to be dozing, and Sydney hesitated on the threshold.

“Are you coming in or not?” Reese asked, eyes still closed. Her voice was strong, and when she opened her eyes they were clear and alert. Her blond hair spiked around her head like a corona. She seemed remarkably healthy for a woman who'd almost died the day before. A few stitches, a pint or two of blood, and presto.

Sydney crossed the room to stand by her sister's bedside. She set the vase down on a tray table that held a lidded tumbler with a built-in straw, a box of tissues, and a pocket-sized Bible. Reese's? She felt grateful and awkward and wished she'd prepared something to say. “Shall we compare scars?” she asked, wanting to recall the stupid question the moment she asked it.

“You don't stand a chance,” Reese said.

“Probably not.”

They both rushed to fill the awkward pause that ensued, with Reese saying, “Are you okay?” at the same time Sydney asked, “How are you?”

“I'll live,” Reese said.

“Same here.”

“I know you'll live,” Reese said, “but are you really okay? You were shot at—”

“You were
shot
!”

“—you tried to save two injured people, one of whom died—not me, so thank you—and you watched two people die violent deaths. That's a
lot to handle.” Her voice said she'd been there, or somewhere very similar, and her arched brows and wrinkled forehead invited the truth.

Tears pricked the bridge of Sydney's nose at the unlooked-for perception. She pinched her nose hard and managed a half laugh. “I don't know how I am. I feel okay, relatively okay, but I suspect I can't be, not really. Not after all that. I've never watched someone die before, never had to fight for my life. It's given me a different perspective and I need time to think about it. I suspect I'll fall apart in a day or two when it catches up to me. Jason … I miss him so much. I've still got my therapist on speed dial, though, so … ”

Reese nodded and Sydney was grateful she didn't offer platitudes such as “You'll get through it” or “This too shall pass.” Connie had already trotted out both of those earlier that morning.

Silence once again threatened to overtake them, but Sydney powered through it. “I came to say thank you. You took a bullet for me.”

“Must have internalized more than I realized when I was researching the Secret Service book.” Reese reached for the tumbler of water on her bedside tray and winced.

Sydney picked up the tumbler, which chilled her palm, and handed it to Reese. “No, don't joke. You saved my life.”

Reese took a long pull on the straw and then said in a low voice, “I owed you.”

Sydney was shaking her head before Reese finished. “No, no you didn't. It's not like that.”

“What's not like what?” Reese set the cup down.

Sydney cocked her head. “I know this isn't coming out right. You're the writer, not me. I've done a lot of thinking the last week, though, and I know that being sisters isn't about tit for tat, trading favors, or coming out even. Truth is, I've been a lousy sister to you.” She forestalled Reese's attempt to say something. “I'm not saying you would have been my nominee for Sister of the Year, but I haven't been fair to you. I've been carrying a grudge for fifteen years, blaming you for everything that was wrong in my life. I wouldn't even read your letters because I wanted to stay mad at you, and I was afraid I couldn't stay mad if I read what you had to say. I knew they were apologies. Anyway, I'm really, truly sorry, and I'd like to do better in the future.”

“Me, too,” Reese said simply. “Want me to sign your cast?”

“Uh, sure.” Sydney dug a marker out of her purse and handed it to her sister, balancing her forearm on the bedrail. Reese scribbled for long moments, the sharp, vaguely fruity odor of marker permeating the air. When she capped the marker and lay back, Sydney lifted her arm to read:
A little sisterly advice—stick to teaching interview techniques in future.
She'd signed it with her initials. No “love,” no X's and O's, no mushy stuff.

Sydney snorted. “Let me get my hankie. You're making me tear up here.”

“Not my style,” Reese said with a smile.

Sydney scraped forward the straight-backed chair by the bed and sat. “Speaking of your style,” she said in a leading way, “I was thinking we could write a book about all this.” She rolled her hand to indicate their injuries and the events of the last week. “D'won stopped by to see me earlier and said the story's got some traction and that I—or Winning Ways, to be specific—might as well cash in on it. What do you think?”

Reese pushed up on one elbow, grimacing, and stared at Sydney in mock astonishment. “Let me get this straight—you
want
me to write about you? I must have a head injury the docs overlooked.”

“Stop,” Sydney said, but she smiled. “Yes, I'm tired of being defined by something I did when I was twenty. I made a stupid mistake—”

“Very stupid.”

“—and it changed me, changed the course of my life. I hope for the better, even though it didn't feel like it at the time. Either way, it is what it is. If I can capitalize on my ‘fame,' for want of a better word—”

“Infamy?” Reese suggested.

“Stop. If I can do that, and tell this story, and it can raise money for Winning Ways and let the world know what a wonderful person Jason was, then I want to do it. But only if you want to.” She looked anxiously at Reese, trying to read her expression.

“My editor would jump at it. But we'd have to spend a lot of time together,” Reese warned.

“Yeah, it'll be awful,” Sydney said, “but I can put up with you if it means helping more women. Maybe we can go to Nana Linn's cabin when you feel up to it.”

“Earl would like that.”

“Connie's still got Earl, by the way,” Sydney said, rising. “You may have trouble prying him away from her. He seems to have convinced her that you starve and deprive him, and she's made it her mission to make it all up to him.”

Reese laughed, winced, and pressed down on her abdomen with the flat of her hand. “Don't make me laugh. It hurts too much. Where are you off to?”

“The police station. I've got to give a statement.”

The thought sobered them both.

“See you later?” Reese finally asked.

“Yeah. Can I bring you anything?”

Reese slanted her a sly look. “Some Monkey 47?”