Close Call (6 page)

Sydney

Sydney sat at her
mother's kitchen table, clutching a mug of tea liberally laced with honey and bourbon; Connie's panacea for everything from sore throats to career disasters to murder, apparently. The lowering sun streamed through the windows, warming the cream-colored walls and the brick tile floors of their Mount Vernon–area home. It highlighted the gouges and indentions on the oak plank table that had been in her mother's family for generations. In a rare burst of sentimentality, Connie had refused to replace the table when she'd had the kitchen redone five years ago. Sydney scraped at a purple mark with a thumbnail; probably a stain that had been there for years.

Without looking up, she knew her mother was studying her. She sniffed, grateful the tears had finally stopped. For now. She knew there'd be more when she was alone. Her eyes felt swollen, puffed up like ping-pong balls, and her nose was raw from where she'd kleenexed it repeatedly. She took a long swallow from the mug, both hands cupped around it. Despite the sunshine flooding the kitchen, she was cold.

The last time she'd felt so cold was a year ago March when she and Jason had gone hiking in the Poconos and been caught in a freak snowstorm. Jason, raised in upstate New York, had known what to do, fashioning a shallow snow cave to shelter them from the wind. He was good at practical stuff like that; could fix his bike or replace a broken window, too. They'd huddled together, legs intertwined, testing each other for hypothermia, until the wind died down and they could see where they were going. That was the first time Jason had told her he loved her, whispering it in her ear as the wind howled. Sydney pushed away the memories, took another swallow of tea, and topped up the half-empty mug from the Wild Turkey bottle sitting within arm's reach. Connie had abandoned tea for straight bourbon half an hour earlier.

Silence lingered between mother and daughter, more noticeable now that Sydney had stopped crying. Connie and her younger daughter had never been on the same wavelength, as the saying goes, and Jason's death hadn't changed that. Something about the situation—Sydney's grief, the fact that Jason was murdered?—was making her antsy. Her foot tapped against the table leg and she sprang up to put more hot water on to boil. Sydney watched her fill the copper teapot, her knuckles gleaming white from her grip on the handle, and then switch on the gas burner.

She stared into the flames for a moment, clearly not wanting to return to the table in the breakfast nook where Sydney sat. Then, grabbing a sponge, she sopped up a water dribble from the granite counter. She looked incongruous, Sydney thought, holding a sponge while dressed in tennis whites with a platinum Patek Philippe watch on one bony wrist and a courtesan's nest egg in diamonds encircling the other.

“I think Jason was killed instead of me,” Sydney said into the silence. The raspiness of her voice surprised her. From the crying, she guessed.

“That doesn't sound very likely.” Connie's gaze fastened on her daughter momentarily before she carried the sponge to the sink and rinsed it.

“I've been thinking about it,” Sydney said, the words coming slowly. “No one would want to kill Jason. It was me.” She told her mother about taking the wrong cell phone, listening to the caller who wanted to make the Montoya job look like an accident. “The killer must think I can identify him or something. He killed Jason by mistake because he was at the house. I told the detectives, but they didn't believe me.”

Connie came to the table and sank into a chair with the perfect posture Sydney had always envied. Pulling a cigarette from a pack on the table, she fiddled with it, turning it over and over between her fingers. She'd quit smoking a decade ago but still carried a cigarette with her wherever she went. When one wore out, crumbled to tobacco flakes, she'd appropriate another. One pack could last weeks.

Her brows rose in skeptical arches. “Don't you think the simplest explanation is that Jason surprised a burglar? Maybe he tried to stop him.”

“Look at the timing. I get a strange phone call that sounds like someone setting up a hit, and the next day Jason is killed? Shot? Isn't that a bit too coincidental?” Sydney's voice gained strength as she talked. She needed her mother to believe her.

“The whole thing is strange,” Connie hedged. “But the most important thing is to keep the story away from the media and convince the police that you had nothing to do with his death.”

Sydney suspected most normal people would have reordered those priorities, but she didn't quibble with them. “You believe me, don't you, Mom? About the phone call?”

Connie buried her face in her mug, swallowing the last of the bourbon. Then she pushed back from the table. “We shouldn't speculate too much before talking to Hilary tomorrow morning. She wants to go over your statement with you before you talk to the police. She's set up an interview for you tomorrow at nine. Her office.”

Sydney kept her eyes fixed on her mother for a long moment, hoping for more. “I'll need some clothes,” she said finally, when it was clear Connie had nothing more to offer. She set down the mug of bourbon tea and considered her crumpled blouse and skirt. Her soiled suit jacket was draped over a chair. A smear of blood on the sleeve made her swallow hard. “This is all I have. I couldn't get any clothes from … I didn't … ” Tears threatened again.

“Reese is bringing some clothes over,” Connie said hastily. Her petite-size clothes would never fit Sydney; her wrists and ankles would poke out.

Sydney stiffened. “You called Reese? Isn't she in Oklahoma?”

“She got back two weeks ago,” Connie said testily, responding to the hostility in Sydney's tone. “She can help.”

“I don't want her help.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Sydney, it's time you got over it.” Connie snapped the cigarette she was fiddling with in half and flung it onto the table. “It was fifteen years ago. Reese admitted she made a mistake and said she's sorry. You're sisters.” The way she said it made it clear that she thought the genetic bond should trump any betrayal or difference of personality.

“That's what made it worse.”

Reese's “mistake” was breaking the story of Sydney's relationship with George Manley in order to jump-start her lackluster reporting career. At twenty-three, she was three years older than Sydney and working for a weekly rag in central Virginia when she capitalized on Sydney's sisterly lack of discretion, writing a five-part exposé about the Speaker of the House's affair with a girl young enough to be his daughter. She had plenty of photos, since all she'd had to do was follow Sydney to their rendezvous. She'd ended George's career, wrecked his relationship with his kids (although his marriage survived after a fashion), ruined Sydney's life, and landed a job with the
Washington Post
.

Everyone had expected more political exposés from her, but she'd ditched DC after a year to be a war correspondent. She'd spent most of the next ten years out of the country, reporting from Iraq and Afghanistan, Israel, Syria, Darfur, Georgia, Congo, Nigeria, and India, earning acclaim and a Pulitzer—all before thirty—prior to abruptly leaving the news business to write true crime books. Those books took her to wherever the crimes and their stories had happened, and she'd spent months in small towns in California, Louisiana, Maine, and Bermuda, and almost a year in Chicago, making it easy for Sydney to avoid her.

In the years after their initial confrontation—a confrontation replete with tears, name-calling, and Reese's lame apologies cancelled out by rhetoric about the public's right to know—Sydney had only seen her sister a handful of times. There'd been Nana Linn's funeral five years after the scandal broke, where they'd stood on opposite sides of the grave and didn't exchange a word. Then they'd collided at a cousin's wedding where some well-meaning fool, probably Aunt Rose, had seated them at the same table. Reese had spent the evening in the bar, seducing the bartender, and Sydney, recently divorced, had pleaded a headache and left before the cake-cutting. Finally, they'd met at their father's funeral three months ago, where they'd managed a few chilly civilities. Reese hadn't shed a tear at the service, but then neither had Sydney. Her sister was the last person Sydney wanted to see now.

Which was unfortunate, because Reese sailed through the kitchen door before she could run off and hide in her old bedroom. Sydney couldn't help staring at her, searching for—what? Signs of aging? That felt petty. A hint of repentance? How likely was it that a scarlet
A
for
apology
was going to pop out on her chest, or that she was going to drop to her knees and beg Sydney's forgiveness? If it hadn't happened in fifteen years, it was unlikely to happen now.

As Sydney studied her sister, she had to admit that she looked good. Better than good. Sydney was tall at five foot eight, but Reese was taller, with a slim, no breasts/no hips elegance that Sydney had always envied, even in the khaki cargo pants and white camp shirt she currently wore. Where Sydney had the Linn family auburn hair, Reese had their father's blond hair, cut in a short pixie with bangs that almost hid the strong black brows they both got from Connie. Her face had more angles than Sydney remembered, the softness of youth planed away to reveal the square jaw, prominent cheekbones, and aqui­line nose. She exuded good health and her skin was tan, probably from six months in Oklahoma researching her latest book. A trace of crow's feet fanned from the corners of her eyes, and a chunk was missing from her right earlobe, torn away by a guerrilla bullet in Chechnya, but those were the only blemishes. She brought with her a Nordstrom's bag, a Starbucks cup, and a vitality that seemed to jangle the very air. It wasn't really harder to breathe, Sydney told herself.

Kicking the door shut with one foot, Reese said, “Hi, Con,” but her gaze slipped to Sydney. She set the Nordstrom's bag and her coffee on the table and stopped two feet away.

“I'm very sorry for your loss, Syd,” she said formally. “From what I've heard—”

From their mother, no doubt.

“—Jason was a good man.”

Her sister's proximity made Sydney's scalp prickle and she had a fleeting vision of herself as a cat, fur standing on end, facing a junkyard dog. She stopped short of hissing. “He was. We were getting married.”

Reese's brows rose at that news, but she merely nodded without saying anything. “I brought you some clothes.” She gestured to the bag. “Wasn't sure what you needed, or how much, but that should last you. You're welcome to borrow anything you need. Anything but bras.” She offered a half smile, making fun of her flat chest.

Sydney crossed her arms over her full breasts. “Thanks.”

After an awkward beat, Reese asked, “Do the police know—”

“Nothing.” Sydney didn't amplify.

“They clearly consider Sydney a suspect,” Connie broke in. “Hilary Trent is dealing with them.”

“She's the best,” Reese said. “Dad thought so, anyway. I'm sure she's got a good investigator, but if there's anything I can do—”

“There's not.”

Reese reached for her Starbucks cup and must have squeezed it too hard, because the top popped partway off and coffee ran down the sides. “Damn.” She shook droplets off her fingers. Connie handed her a paper towel. As she blotted the cup and dried her fingers, she said, “The police are overwhelmed. There've been 214 homicides in DC already this year. A quarter of them are still unsolved. I've got time on my hands since I turned in my manuscript on the Bingle murders.”

The mass murder of a five-person family by the fourteen-year-old daughter; the story that had taken Reese to Oklahoma.

“I could poke around—”

“Last time you poked around, it didn't turn out so well for me,” Sydney said, “so I think I'll pass.”

Reese took the blow without batting an eye.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Connie huffed. “Your sister's only trying to—”

Reese stopped her with an upraised hand and continued to study Sydney with eyes that held more sympathy than Sydney was comfortable with.

Before either her sister or her mother could say more, Sydney slipped her arms through the carry hoops on the bag. “I need to change.” She was running away from Reese; she didn't have the energy to overturn the habit of fifteen years. Not today. She left the kitchen, headed for the sanctuary of her old bedroom.

Paul

Home in Barrytown, Pennsylvania,
Paul gazed down at his sleeping father, listening to the breaths whistling between his loose lips. William Jones lay on his back under a light sheet, his prominent nose pointing straight up, bold as a ship's prow. His arms lay outside the sheet, straight along his sides. Spikes of hair poked out of his nostrils and ears, stiff as the fibers on a boar bristle hair brush. Paul had taken to trimming the hairs from his own nose and ears, finding that sign of aging much more abhorrent than wrinkles, age spots, or creaky knees. His thumb and forefinger absently tugged at one earlobe. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying to avoid inhaling the sting of camphor from the vaporizer, the singed smell of sheets dried at too high a temperature, and the scent of old man's body.

His father coughed, opening eyes with pale blue irises awash in corneas like half-cooked egg whites. Sleep stickies caked the corners. Confusion clouded his face as he stared up at Paul. Finally, he smiled, creasing his sunken cheeks. “Eldon!”

“No, Pop, it's me, Paul.” He took his father's hand in his. It felt too light, as if the bones were hollow. “How're you doing?”

“Paul?”

“Your son.” He bit down on the urge to ask “Remember?” while knowing his father didn't. “Moira tells me you had a little adventure.”

Paul had stopped by the Barrytown, Pennsylvania, precinct on his way into town, shot the shit with the few cops he still knew from his time on the job, and dropped a hint that he'd appreciate it if the fellows didn't roust his father, just took him home.

“Sure, Paulie, sure,” his former partner, a polar bear of a Swede named Johanssen, told him. “Landon picked him up. New guy, a rookie. We told him what's what.” Johanssen shook his ursine head at the thought of the rookie's many failings.

“I appreciate it, Lars. He needs his dignity, you know?”

“Absolutely, Paulie. But ya gotta keep him from walking around stark in front of teenage girls.” Johanssen pulled a cruller from the box of donuts Paul had brought and took a large bite. “It's sad to see him like this, y'know? When he was with the force, he had such presence. Like, you always knew he was in the room, even if he wasn't saying anything. Now … ” He stuffed the rest of the donut in his mouth and chewed. Swallowing, he said, “Anyways, we'll look out for him.”

“Thanks, Lars. That's all I ask.”

“How's the lingerie business?” A smirk disfigured the large face. “Think you could introduce me to one of those Victoria's Secrets models?”

“Linens. I sell hotel linens. Business is great.”

“Sure it is. It was a shame, you getting kicked off the force for beating up that punk,” Johanssen said, easing into a familiar complaint. “He deserved it, and more.”

Paul knew what was coming:
The guy who invented …

“I tell you what, buddy, the guy who invented the video camera oughta be shot. That's all there is to it. Shot. Why does video always work against the cops, huh? Tell me that. How come you never see a dirtball get convicted with video evidence but cops get suspended or fired or brought up on charges when some commie-pinko-liberal catches 'em doing their job? You got screwed, buddy. You ever want to get out of sales, I know a guy could hook you up with a security gig, bodyguard work, the like, not patrolling some construction site at midnight. Good money, too.”

“Thanks. I'll let you know.”

Johanssen grabbed a second donut as Paul headed for the door. “Don't be a stranger.”

A stranger was what his dad was, Paul thought, carrying on a one-sided conversation with the man who'd taught him to hit a baseball, walloped his behind when he caught him shoplifting a paperback from the mom-and-pop store on the corner, helped him pick out perfume for his mom's birthday. Tabu. The spicy scent still lingered in some corners of the house, or maybe just in his memories.

“I bought a snow blower today, Eldon,” William Jones announced.

“Great, Pop,” Paul said, glancing out the window at the sunny day.

They chatted for another half hour, Paul answering variously to Eldon, Mark (his father's partner on the force for eighteen years), and his own name. When his father drifted back to sleep, he tucked the sheet around him and went into the kitchen where Moira was making a pot of tea. She was maybe ten years younger than he, with wiry strands of gray threaded through her light brown hair, and she moved with an economy of motion he appreciated. He thought maybe she found him attractive, but he hadn't pursued it, unwilling to risk upsetting his father's situation if a few dates led to awkwardness. He'd never wanted a wife: watching his mom and dad go at it had soured him on marriage, and he'd trained himself to do without women, satisfying the occasional urge with a hooker. Now, though, he felt a stirring as he watched Moira cross the linoleum floor, her rounded hips stretching the fabric of her simple skirt.

“You startled me,” she said, catching sight of him in the doorway. One hand went to her chest. Then she smiled, the curve of lip and flash of teeth brightening the room with its porcelain sink turned the color of old sheets washed with black socks, its wallpaper grimed with grease from meals cooked in his childhood, its linoleum worn as thin as a bee's wing in spots. His father had refused to change anything after Paul's mother died of ovarian cancer in 1990.

“Would you like some tea? I've been reading that green tea is full of antioxidants, so that's what I'm having. But there's Earl Grey or chamomile if you prefer.”

“Coffee. I'll make it.”

“No, no.” She beat him to the cupboard, pulling out the two-cup coffee maker and crossing to the freezer for the Seattle's Best he stored there. He hovered in the doorway, feeling almost like an intruder in his own home, the house he'd grown up in. He knew suddenly he'd sell it when his father died. The idea intrigued him and he lost himself in imagining what kind of a house he'd buy in its place. Not a condo or townhome … too many neighbors to watch his comings and goings. And he wanted a yard, someplace to have a garden.

“Let's sit outside. We don't want Bill to overhear us,” Moira said, bumping the screen door open with her shoulder. “He seems better today,” she observed as they lowered themselves awkwardly to the cement stoop and sat, hips almost, but not quite, touching. “Yesterday, when the police officer brought him back in borrowed clothes, he was shivering like an abandoned kitten. I've never seen him look like that.”

“I've talked with the cops. It won't happen again.” Paul blew on his coffee and sipped. Sheets flapped on the neighbor's clothesline and a bee buzzed nearby. He could sleep for a week in the sun's warmth.

“But something will. I can't—you can't—watch him twenty-four hours a day.”

Paul tilted his head, met Moira's gaze. “Are you saying … what? That he needs to be institutionalized?”

She paused before answering, holding the cup close to her plump bosom. “It's something to consider.”

The thought of his pop cooped up in a Lysol-scented facility, surrounded by octogenarians who couldn't control their bodily func
tions, made Paul feel like his intestines were coiled around his stomach, squeezing. “He'd hate it.”

She put a soft hand on his arm. “He doesn't know where he is or who you are most of the time, Paul. He knows me, but—”

The tinny ring of his cell phone from inside the house brought Paul to his feet. His client. Letting the screen door bang shut behind him, he jogged to his father's bedroom where the phone rang from the pocket of the jacket he'd left draped over a chair. “Yeah?” he said on the fifth ring.

“You killed the wrong person,” the familiar voice said.

“What?”

“You didn't kill Sydney Ellison. You killed her fucking boyfriend. It's all over the news.”

“Her?” How was he supposed to know “Sidney” was a girl? Shit.

“Her. Sydney Linn Ellison. The bimbo who got caught with the Speaker of the House fifteen years ago? Her. And now she'll be on her guard.”

“She can't know anything that ties us—”

“Do you still have the .22 you used on Nygaard?”

“Who?” Paul felt like he was three steps behind in this conversation and losing ground.

“Jason Nygaard, the guy you shot at Ellison's house. Do you still have the gun?”

“Of course.” Paul liked the Ruger .22. He'd seen no need to dispose of the gun after yesterday's killing.

“You need to plant it in the house or her car, make it look like Ellison killed him. I hear the cops are already looking at her for it. It'll confuse the issue, cast doubt on anything she says, at the very least—anything she might happen to mention about a phone call on a burner phone, for instance. I have the address where she's staying now.”

Paul memorized the address and Ellison's license plate number as the man read them out. “The gun won't have her prints,” he pointed out. “There won't be a record of her buying it.”

“Don't worry about that. Just fucking make it happen.” As if he sensed Paul's impending rebellion, the client added, “I'll double the bonus if they're both taken care of by the election Tuesday.”

Paul thought of Moira's insistence that his father needed full-time care. With the money from this job, he'd be able to stay home for three or four months, not take another contract for a while. He could maybe even retire. “Done.”

The line went dead. Paul pocketed the phone. He would leave immediately, drive back to DC, and take out Montoya on Friday, as he'd planned before this whole Ellison thing came up. He'd spent three
weeks doing recce, planning the hit. He could plant the gun on Ellison beforehand. Flexibility was the key to airpower, the flyboys always said
.

Maybe he could catch something on the news about the investigation. He crossed to the dresser to turn on the small television that sat there. A picture blossomed on the screen, resolving itself into a reporter standing in front of the townhouse on G Street. Great. Turning to find the remote to dial up the volume, Paul came face to face with his .22, held in his father's trembling hand.