Close Call (11 page)

Fidel

Fidel Montoya scrambled out
of the river two miles downstream from where he'd gone in. Dark hair plastered to his skull, running shorts rendered almost transparent by the water, his first thought was to avoid being seen by a voter or, God forbid, a reporter until he could make himself more presentable. He patted the velcroed pocket of his shorts, knowing the only thing he'd find was his house key. No money, no wallet, no cell phone. Damn. He'd have to walk home, keeping to the woods, and hope no one spotted him. His fear of the assailant had diminished as the water chilled him, and now, as he trudged barefoot through the woods, he almost hoped he'd run into the bastard because he wanted to beat him to a pulp.

His route paralleled the road and he ducked deeper into the woods whenever the sound of a motor warned him of a car's approach. Twigs and thorns tore into his bare feet and his left leg throbbed from
hip to ankle where he'd smacked it against the tree. His clothes
steamed in the heat and sweat dripped from every pore, stinging the dozens of cuts and scrapes that scored his body. He judged he was about half a mile from his house when another car roared down the road, coming toward him. He jumped sideways into the underbrush, crouching, and knew from the instantaneous burning on his right foot and ankle that he'd landed in a patch of poison ivy. “Fuuck!” he bellowed as the car's wake kicked up leaves and dust.

From a copse of dogwood trees on the south end of his property, he surveyed the house, absently scratching his ankle. A man's silhouette moved in the downstairs office. Jimmy. Thank God. He limped to the kitchen door and pulled it open. They needed to be more careful about locking up. He made a mental note to remind Jimmy and Katya. Beelining for the freezer, he dragged a bottle of Grey Goose from the icy depths. He slugged back one shot, then another, before setting the bottle on the counter. Shower, anti-itch ointment, band-aids for his cuts, and food, in that order. Then he'd figure out what to do about the man who'd tried to kill him.

“Dad! What the hell?”

Jimmy's voice made him spin. His son's face was a study in astonishment, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. Montoya was conscious of a prickle of embarrassment at his appearance and covered it with outrage. “Someone just took a shot at me.”

That statement made Jimmy's face go blank. Irritated with his son's slowness, Montoya took him through it all, starting with Sydney Ellison's visit to his office. While he was talking, Jimmy capped the vodka bottle and restored it to the freezer. The freezer belched cold air at them.

“It was probably some redneck getting a jump on hunting season,” Jimmy said.

Montoya flared his nostrils. “Nothing's in season in August!”

“A poacher, then.” Jimmy shrugged, obviously not impressed by Montoya's brush with death.

“Someone was stalking me. I saw him.”

“You said you glimpsed someone. Coulda been a deer. There was a ten-point buck on the lawn this morning when I—”

“It wasn't a fucking deer!” Montoya stopped himself with an upraised hand and sucked in a deep breath. “I need a shower.” Leaving the kitchen, he headed down the hall.

Jimmy called after him, obviously anxious to make amends, “If you think there's something more to it, call Em's dad. Let him run it to ground.”

Montoya grunted and kept going.

By the time he'd scoured away every molecule of river water, swallowed a Percocet left over from a root canal, and coated his shin, ankle, and foot with calamine, he knew what he
wouldn't
do about the situation. He was damn sure not going to publicize it in any way, leave an opening for his opponent in Tuesday's race. He could just see the headlines. Either the press would ridicule him and call his story a cheap attempt to generate publicity or some wit like Howard Stern or Rush would start a lottery betting on his chances of surviving until the general election. He couldn't scare voters away faster if he said he had AIDS and fucked Rottweilers. The hell with that.

Jimmy's idea was, for once, the best one. He picked up the phone and dialed. When his chief of staff answered, he gave him few details. “I've got a situation that requires a cop, but I don't want to make it official. No publicity. Get here as soon as goddamn possible.”

Sydney

Hilary Trent had Sydney
out of police custody in record time, before the interrogation even started, by producing an affidavit her investigator had just collected from a man who remembered seeing Sydney at the liquor store the afternoon Jason was killed. Making a face like she'd swallowed a beetle, the uptight Assistant DA looking to make her name with a high profile case slipped out of the interview room to call her boss. She returned and summoned West and Graves with a curt head jerk. Moments later, Hilary whisked Sydney out the station's back entrance and popped her into a taxi, commanding her to keep a low profile.

Sydney gave the driver her home address, but changed her mind a moment later and asked him to take her to the nearest mall, where she bought the least confining, brightest skirt and blouse she could find, abandoning the suit she'd been wearing in the fitting room.

Watching a noon newscast from home, Sydney looked on in awe as her lawyer handled the media on the steps of the courthouse. The woman was in her element. Striking in a butter-colored suit that set off her dark hair and eyes, she held up her right hand, a ten-carat sapphire glinting on one finger, to quiet the crowd of reporters hurling questions at her. Sydney shuddered at the thought of having to face the media after the humiliating experience of the arrest. Thank God Hilary had gotten her out so fast. She shivered, convinced an indefinable odor from the interrogation room still lingered even after the two showers she'd taken since arriving home. She turned the volume up.

“The police are harassing my client in a pathetic attempt to cover up the fact that they have absolutely no leads in the tragic slaying of Jason Nygaard. Yes, acting on a tip from an informant, who'd just happened to see my client on TV and immediately was overcome by the urge to do his civic duty and call the police to say he'd sold her a gun, they found a gun in my client's kitchen trash—because that's where anyone with an IQ over fifty would ‘hide' a murder weapon, right?— and they have ascertained it was used to kill Jason. But”—she raised her hand higher to quell the excited babbling—“my client's fingerprints are not on this gun, she has never owned or even fired a gun of any kind, and she has an alibi for the time the murder was committed.”

“We hear she visited Congressman Montoya the day of the murder,” someone called from the back. “Do they have a relationship?” His inflection on “relationship” prompted sniggers from the crowd.

“Lamont, after the way your wife took you to the cleaners last year, I don't know if you want to be talking about relationships,” Hilary shot back. The crowd broke into loud hoots at the mocking retort. “But to answer your question, Ms. Ellison visited Congressman Montoya's
office
on a business matter.”

“Will your client be found innocent?” A woman packed into a baby-blue suit asked.

“Wilma, she
is
innocent. And there's no way this case will ever see the inside of a courtroom. The DA's office will never file charges. We urge the police to continue their investigation so the real killer can be apprehended and punished.”

The doorbell's peal startled Sydney. Zapping off the television, she peered through the peephole, astonished and dismayed to see Marlon Hotchkiss on the doorstep, stiffly grave and clerical. For a moment, she considered tiptoeing away and letting him think she wasn't home. She should have gone to Connie's or a hotel, as Hilary Trent had suggested, but she was damned if she was going to let the media or anyone else chase her out of her home.

“Sydney.” The board chairman's deep voice came through the closed door. Maybe he was here to offer pastoral comfort in her time of need. Yeah, right. Curiosity convinced her to open up.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open. Marlon was standing too close and she got a whiff of Brylcreem and body odor. Faint crescents of sweat showed under his arms. His white collar gleamed. Surely it was uncomfortable snugged up below his Adam's apple like that?

“It's been a rough day, as you can imagine, Marlon,” Sydney started, not inviting him in. “And I'm—”

He gazed down at her from hooded eyes, his jaw working. “It would be more suitable to have this conversation inside,” he said, with an assumption of authority that grated on her. He moved forward as if to enter.

She stretched out her arm to bar his way. “I've been packing Jason's things, the house is a mess,” she lied. “You understand.” She stepped onto the stoop, forcing him back a step, pulled the door shut, and stood looking at him with her arms crossed over her chest.

He halted, lower jaw shifting from side to side, and said, “I tried to call, but your phones went directly to voicemail.”

“I didn't want to talk to reporters.”

“Exactly,” he said, as if she had admitted something. He had a trick of tucking his chin and gazing at people from under the shelf of his brow, and he looked at her that way now. “You were arrested.”

What was she supposed to say? Sydney looked at him, keeping her face neutral, and chose not to respond. A breeze riffled the oak tree's leaves.

“I've talked to a few of the board members,” he went on, steepling his fingers.

Sydney straightened, feeling an icy finger trace down her spine.

“And we've agreed to give you some time off.”

“I don't want time off! I—”

“You've got more on your plate than anyone should be expected to handle. Your friend's death, your … legal issues, the stress of running Winning Ways.”

“It's not stressful. It's what keeps me—” She was going to say “sane” but stopped herself. “I'm perfectly capable—”

“It's not up for discussion, Sydney,” he said. He squared his shoulders, and she flashed on a ridiculous image of him as an old-time priest in a Western, black cassock flapping around his legs, gun in one hand and crucifix in the other. She almost missed his next words.

“The board is concerned about how this looks for the organization. Having the executive director accused of murder is bad for our image. Distressing. I'd think you, of all people, could appreciate that. Of course, we know you'll be found innocent, and this time off will allow you to concentrate on proving it quickly.”

His unctuous tone infuriated her. “It's supposed to be innocent until proven guilty.”

“You can take some time off, or we can put you on administrative suspension.”

He maintained an expression that suggested he was a good steward of the organization, forced to take action on behalf of Winning Ways, but she spotted the glint of self-righteous triumph in his eyes. She bent to pinch a wilted petunia off the plant flourishing in the ceramic pot by the door, not wanting him to read her reaction. She'd be damned if she'd give him the satisfaction of seeing what a blow this was. Composing herself, she turned. “Tell the board members I appreciate their thoughtfulness,” she said, pleased at how calm her voice sounded.

Hotchkiss looked like he wanted to say more, but her expression backed him down the single step. He half stumbled but caught his balance, hesitated, and then turned and strode away. Sydney could almost hear the imaginary cassock snapping at his heels.

She held herself rigid until he was well and truly gone. Then her shoulders sagged and she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes so tightly she saw stars, not sure she could bear the simultaneous losses of Jason and Winning Ways.

No, she hadn't lost Winning Ways, she reminded herself, stepping into the house; she was just taking a week or so of leave. Maybe less than that if Hilary was right about getting the charges dismissed for good. She wondered suddenly if her mother was one of the board members who'd recommended she take some time off. Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket to call Connie, she was surprised when it rang. She took a deep breath. “Hello?”

“Miss Ellison? Sydney? This is Fidel Montoya. I got your number from your mother. We need to talk.”

The man sounded distraught. “What's wrong?”

“Not on a cell phone. Meet me at the National Arboretum. One hour.”

Sydney

Sydney spotted Congressman Montoya
as soon as she walked through the administrative building of the National Arboretum onto the patio shortly after noon. He was seated at an umbrella-topped table by the koi pond, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes and the
Post
screening his face, wearing navy slacks and a yellow golf shirt, his dark hair curling over the collar. The article facing her was headlined
Third Homeless Victim Burned
. The thought made her stomach heave.

On this sweltering August afternoon, no tourists crowded the koi pond's long rectangular edges, poking their fingers in the water to encourage the foot-long fish to nibble at them. The lilies, though, bloomed in pointed yellow, white, and pink abundance; it was a shame there was no one to admire them. Sidney had always thought the Arboretum was the DC area's most underrated attraction. As a teenager, she'd spent many an hour in the Asian Valley or the Herb Garden, scribbling in her diary and enjoying the tranquility woven by the trees, plants, and water features.

She crossed the flagstone patio to Montoya's table, sandals flapping against her soles. The new skirt swirled around her ankles, and the coordinating floral print blouse might have been the most colorful item she'd worn in the last fifteen years.

Montoya looked up and stood in one smooth movement. “Thank you for coming,” he said, pulling out a chair for her and reseating himself. He took off his sunglasses, another courteous gesture she appreciated, and studied her. “You look—different,” he said. Perhaps anxious that she not misinterpret that, he added, “Great. You look great.” His deep-set eyes were red-tinged, and worry cut a line between his brows. “I think we can help each other,” he said.

“With what?”

“With finding the man who's trying to kill us.”

“Us? What happened?” Sydney leaned forward, her rib cage pressing against the table's edge. A hummingbird buzzed by, then zipped to a pot of orange trumpet flowers at the patio's edge.

“Your assassin took a shot at me while I was jogging this morning,” Montoya said, his lips drawn into a grim line.

“He's not ‘my' assassin!”

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. “Only I slipped in the mud and he missed.” He rucked up his pants leg to show the deep purple bruises and poison ivy welts that discolored every inch of visible skin.

“How'd you get away?”

“I made it to the river and swam downstream. I guess he wasn't prepared for that.”

“Would you recognize him?”

“No, I only caught a glimpse of him. It happened too fast.”

Sydney sat silent for a moment, evaluating Montoya's story. He had no reason to lie, she decided. A bubble of relief swelled within her. His story would vindicate her. She clamped down on her rising
excitement. “Why haven't I heard about this?” she asked, her eyes meeting his. “I'd think the attempted murder of a US Congressman would knock even the story of the former bimbette-turned-philanthropist being arrested for her fiancé's murder off of CNN.”

Montoya frowned. “This can't make the news.”

“Did you even tell the police?”Sydney asked.

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers fiddling with his sunglasses. “Not really.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I've got a friend who used to be on the force. I told him in confidence. He's looking into it.”

Sydney threw up her hands in disgust. “What kind of game are you playing here, Congressman?”

“Fidel. And it's not a game. The special election is Tuesday. I can't afford to have this splashed all over the media. My opponent would call it grandstanding, a publicity ploy. The voters … well, no one wants to vote for a Senatorial candidate who may be dead before the national election rolls around. This can't get out, at least not until after Tuesday.”

“You realize your story would clear me, put the police on the track of the real killer, don't you? What happened to you proves I was telling the truth.”

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

The hell he was. “Then I don't think we have anything to talk about.” Sydney scraped back her chair and rose, shaking with fury. How could he sit on this information, let her be pilloried in the press? Selfish bastard.
Politician
.

He stood, too, grabbing her wrist. “Sydney. Sit, please.” The sincerity and worry in his face got to her and she sat. When he was sure she wouldn't bolt, he released her wrist and sat also, pulling his chair in closer so his knee banged hers. “Don't you want to clear your name, find out who killed your boyfriend?”

“Fiancé. Jason.”

He nodded. “I can help. I've been thinking—ever since this morning, for God's sake—about why anyone would want to kill me. About what I could have done … ”

Despite herself, Sydney felt a twinge of sympathy for this man facing the knowledge that someone hated him enough to pay money to have him killed. “And?”

“And I'll share my thoughts with you, give you papers, phone numbers, whatever you need, if you'll follow up.” He patted a bulky satchel in his lap. “John Favier, my chief of staff, pulled these together. They're the threats I've gotten from kooks in the last year. Some of them are pretty graphic. I can't go to an official investigator, not with the election on the line. You're the only one I can trust.” He put his hand on hers where it lay on the table.

“I'm touched,” Sydney said. Anything but. She pulled her hand away. “Why?”

A would-be-sheepish smile crept across his face at her tone. “Because you have everything to lose. If you go to the press and tell them my story, I'll deny everything, say you're lying to deflect suspicion from yourself. I'll tell them we were lovers and you've made up this whole charade to get back at me. I think both our histories make the story plausible.”

Sydney eyed him with loathing. “You're despicable. I wouldn't vote for you if your opponent was Jack the Ripper.”

Unfazed, he smiled. “Ah, but you don't vote in Maryland, do you? If you were one of my constituents, well, then I'd be a bit more circumspect.”

“I hope you don't think your pseudo-honesty impresses me,” she said. A fish broke the surface of the water with a plop and stole Sydney's attention. The water, dyed black to discourage algae, hid whatever lurked on the bottom. Kind of like the American political system, she thought cynically. On the surface it was glad-handing and high-minded public debate, kissing babies and standing up for veterans' benefits. Below it was backroom deals, backstabbing, and selling your immortal soul for re-election. The thought of working with Montoya made her gag, but did she have any choice?

“Okay,” she said. “What have you got?”

When Montoya left twenty minutes later, Sydney remained at the table for a few minutes, one hand resting atop the box of threats the congressman had given her. The letters had been sorted by policy issue and included notes about follow-up actions and evaluation of the danger level. With the sun growing ever warmer and sweat dampening the hair at her temples, Sydney had taken a mere half page of notes during their conversation, getting Montoya's perspective on who might want to kill him. He kept referring her to the box, maintaining that the assassin must be connected to one of the letters. He didn't have any personal enemies, he insisted, and couldn't think of anyone in his personal life who would hire a contract killer to eliminate him.

Sydney had given him a skeptical look. “Everyone has enemies from adolescence on, especially politicians. You're telling me there's no pissed-off opponent or former political ally in your background, no volunteer you screwed who has it in for you, no wheeler-dealer who thinks you reneged on a deal? Not to mention that, statistically speaking, most murders are committed by spouses.”

Without answering, Montoya had abruptly flattened his hands on the table and pushed to his feet. His shadow draped over her as he blocked the sun. “I've got a committee meeting. Keep me posted on your progress so I know—”

“I don't work for you.”

“We're partners now, Sydney Linn Ellison, and don't you forget it. Your fate is tied to mine.” He twined two fingers together. “Call me.” Without waiting for her reply, he'd turned on the heel of one polished Italian shoe and strode away. A koi broke the surface of the pond with a plop as he passed.

Sydney now rose and exited the gardens, threading her way past a Japanese tour group gathered around a guide and two women pushing strollers and trying to herd five toddlers. She didn't want to be partners with Montoya, but she had to concede that in a random and unfair twist, fate had linked her with him. Why did it feel like she had an anaconda wrapped around her?