Close Call (29 page)

Sydney

A gaggle of reporters
blocked access to police headquarters when Connie Linn dropped Sydney off to make her statement. Connie, who'd been playing “I've got a secret” since picking Sydney up at the hospital,
slowed the car, eyeing the reporters narrowly. “I can come in with you,” she offered, “or drive you around to a back entrance. There must be one. Maybe you should wait until Hil's available.”

“It's okay,” Sydney said. “I can handle it.”

Connie studied her daughter's face for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I'll be back in one hour, so you tell that detective that's all the time he has. You're injured and you need rest.” Her fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel.

“What are you looking so smug about?” Sydney tried one last time to pry the surprise out of her mother. She'd probably arranged for some decadent spa treatments when Reese recovered, or scored tickets for the three of them to a hot show on Broadway.

Connie just looked mischievous and pulled an imaginary zipper closed across her lips.”You'll know soon enough.”

“Fine.” Sydney stepped onto the curb and swung the door shut. She closed her eyes as her mother pulled into traffic without looking, making a bus driver stand on his brakes.

For once, the journalists crowding her like ants around a cake crumb didn't upset her. They wanted something from her, putting her in a power position she'd never appreciated before. Her orange dress gave her confi
dence. It would photograph well. Not for nothing had she spent over a decade helping women learn to present themselves effectively.

“Sydney, what happened at Montoya's house? Were you and he—?”

She held up a hand to silence the barrage of questions. “My personal life is off-limits. Surely your readers and viewers aren't shallow enough to
be interested in the mundane details of an average working woman's life.” That should slow them down. They could hardly say, “Yep, our readers are shallower than a mud puddle,” even though they were.

“However,” she continued, “I will be coauthoring a book with my sister, Reese Linn, that will discuss the events of the last week in the context of a dialogue on the nature of privacy and publicity in America. We'll be interviewing several well-known personalities—both those who chose to pursue fame and those who fell into it by accident. My share of the book's proceeds will be split between Winning Ways and a charity for the homeless people of the nation's capital.”

The reporters bombarded her with questions, and she spent five minutes answering those related to the book and ignoring the others. D'won was certainly right, she reflected, turning her back on the journalists to ascend the steps. She could capitalize on her fame—her notoriety, call it what you will—and use it for her own purposes to raise money for causes she cared about.

“Just one thing more, Miss Ellison,” a man's voice called. “About Winning Ways.”

Sydney turned, raising her eyebrows.

“What's your reaction to Reverend Hotchkiss's resignation from the board and your reinstatement as director? Do you believe he really needs more time to tend to his parishioners as he told the board in emergency session this morning, or is something else going on?”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. So that was her mother's secret! How had Connie managed to strong-arm Hotchkiss into leaving? But Connie Linn had her ways. Sydney stifled a smile as she studied the young man with his steno pad ready to take down whatever she said. “Glory, hallelujah!” wouldn't do as a response. “I'm sure Reverend Hotchkiss's congregation will appreciate receiving his undivided attention.”

Her feeling of satisfaction wilted in the somber atmosphere of the police station. Ben West met her in the lobby, an air of weariness undermining the effect of a close shave and crisp blue shirt. He scanned her face with concerned eyes. What he saw must have satisfied him because he put a hand to her elbow and escorted her to a conference room with padded chairs, windows, and Berber carpet in a blend of blues. “This is a bit nicer than before,” she said, seating herself.

“Yeah. Sorry about last time. I'm going to record this, okay?”

She nodded assent and he punched a button on the recorder, reading in his name, hers, and the date. He questioned her for nearly an hour about the night's events before finally snapping off the recorder. He'd wrung details from her she didn't even know she remembered.

Finally, she felt free to ask the question that had been on her mind the whole time. “Do you think you'll ever catch him? The man who killed Jason?”

Ben rubbed his eyebrow and Sydney realized she'd come to expect this gesture when he was thinking. “It's hard to say, Syd. We have no leads right now. With Favier dead, there's no one to give us contact information or a name. The fingerprints are a dead end too, unless he gets arrested or applies for a job in a daycare center.”

“Not very likely.” Syd smiled sadly.

“I wouldn't think so. But we'll keep after it. This is one case that'll never end up in the ‘cold case' files.”

“Well, my mom will be waiting.” Sydney pushed her chair back and rose. “I'd better go. If we're through?”

“Just one more thing.” West rose, too, searching in his pocket for something. His hand emerged with a small manila envelope of the type salons used for tips. “This is for you.”

“What is it?” Sydney held out her hand and he put the envelope in it, his warm fingers brushing hers.

“We gave Jason's effects to the Nygaards—the items he had on his body when he died. They thought you should have this. It was in his shirt pocket.”

Her fingers trembling, Sydney pried up the flap and dumped the envelope over her left palm. Something gold and glittering tumbled out. A ring. A slender gold band with a one-carat diamond solitaire twinkled in her palm. Tears sprang to her eyes and she gasped. “Oh, Jason.”

Ben curled her fingers over the ring. “I'm so sorry.”

“No, I want to wear it.” She slipped it onto her engagement finger, twisting her hand to see the play of light cutting through the diamond. “Thank you.” She smiled mistily at Ben.

“Don't thank me—I'm just the delivery boy. Thank the Nygaards.”

“I will.” She surprised herself by leaning over and kissing Ben's warm cheek. “And I thank you, too, for everything you've done. For believing me. I'd probably be dead—”

He waved her thanks away and held the door open for her, walking her to the elevator. “Maybe in a few months, when you've had a little time, I could call you?” His brown eyes searched hers as he summoned the elevator. Those eyelashes …

A wisp of hope, of happiness, sparkled as brightly as the stone on her finger. She smiled. “You've got my number.” An image of Jason's red bicycle popped in to her head. She could get the hang of it in a month or so. She pictured Jason shaking his head in mock disbelief and heard him saying, “Better late than never.”

Her misty eyes made it hard to focus on Ben's face as she asked, “Do you like to bike?”

Epilogue

The headline in Wednesday
morning's paper read
Maryland Voters Elect Dead Man
. The right-wing pundits had a field day, suggesting that Fidel Montoya dead would make a better senator than any Democrat alive and distributing
Vote Montoya
buttons for November's general election. Reese gave one to Sydney and she chucked it in a kitchen drawer filled with scissors, tape, buttons, hair scrunchies, pencil stubs, paper clips, coupons, a poc
ket calendar from 2011, a bib left
by a friend with a baby, a watch battery, and a few stray Cheerios.

The End

Note to Readers

Dear Readers,

Thank you for buying, borrowing, or stealing this book and taking the time to read it. I hope you enjoyed the journey. If you have five or ten minutes to spare, I would greatly appreciate it if you would post an honest review on Amazon, Goodreads, or similar sites. It doesn't have to be a lengthy summary or analysis—two sentences will do! You have no idea how helpful such reviews are to the author as well as to other readers.

Warm regards,

Laura

About the Author

National bestselling and award-winning author Laura DiSilverio served twenty years as an Air Force intelligence officer before becoming a full-time writer. Her Swift Investigations books were twice named Lefty Award finalists, and
The Reckoning Stones
won the Colorado Book Award for Mystery in 2016. She is a past president of Sisters in Crime and currently plots murder and parents teens—trying to keep the two tasks separate—in Colorado.