Close Call (18 page)

“That'll teach me to let you go off on your own,” Reese said, tossing Sydney the keys. “You drive. I leave you alone for ten seconds and turn around to find you hobnobbing with Misha Avdonin. He's Matvei Utkin's top man, you know.”

“I gathered. How do you know him?” They buckled up and Sydney backed out and pointed the SUV down the mile-long drive.

“I don't personally know him, but his name's come up in conversation, especially when I was working on the union story. One of my sources got a bullet through the elbow. He told the police it was a hunting accident, but he quit talking to me after it happened. Avdonin's name was floated.”

Rolling pastures, gnarled oaks, and two colts racing each other flashed past. Sidney filled Reese in on her conversation with Jimmy, adding, “So now we have proof that Jimmy Montoya has a relationship of sorts with Matvei Utkin, and that he probably knows a killer or two. We also know that Great-uncle Mat is impatient to get his money, so even if Jimmy didn't try to have his dad killed, Utkin might have. Probably did. There'd be no percentage in his killing Jimmy, but if he could arrange for Jimmy to get his inheritance soon … ”

“Possible,” Reese said noncommittally.

Sydney took her eyes off the road long enough to look at her sister's unrevealing profile. Reese's lack of enthusiasm for her hypothesis stung. “Okay, what's your theory, then? If not Utkin or Jimmy, then who?”

Reese adjusted her sunglasses and said, “Don't get your panties in a wad. I didn't say it wasn't Utkin or Jimmy, although you said Jimmy didn't even blink when you mentioned people putting hits on politicians, so I'm thinking that's a point in his favor. He doesn't strike me as the deep, devious sort who could keep a straight face when confronted with something like that.”

“Unlikely,” Sydney reluctantly agreed. “Avdonin mentioned a fiancée, Emily Something. Know anything about her?”

Reese turned her head and gave Sydney a look over the top of her glasses. “You really do live under a rock, don't you?”

“Bite me.”

Reese laughed. “Emily Favier, daughter of Montoya's best friend and chief of staff, John Favier. Longtime friends of the Montoya family. Emily and Jimmy grew up together and got engaged, oh, eighteen months ago. The wedding was supposed to be in May, but she cut herself on a rafting trip in Texas—some sort of freak thing, sheet metal in the river—and almost died. As if that wasn't enough tragedy, her mother was killed just a couple weeks later. Hit and run. Emily's been rehabbing somewhere in the area and I think the wedding's back on for Thanksgiving or Christmas time—the holidays, at any rate. It's going to be family only, not the extravaganza that was originally planned.”

“Poor girl. I did read about that,” Sydney said, negotiating past a moving van that rattled the SUV with its wake.

“Are you thinking she might figure in this somehow?” Reese asked, considering the idea.

“I don't see how, other than as a means for Avdonin and his thugs to keep Jimmy in line. Do you think they'd really hurt her?”

“In a heartbeat,” Reese said. “Utkin's crew is famous for it. They don't damage the gambler—it might get in the way of his ability to pay them back. They hurt someone he loves. Surely even you heard about Donetta Hernandez, that boxer's wife, getting acid thrown in her face? That was Utkin. Her hubby didn't go down like he was supposed to, take a dive as was apparently prearranged. Donetta paid for his inconvenient attack of conscience or pride.”

Sydney felt slightly sick, remembering the photos of the young Mrs. Hernandez after the attack. She'd been blinded in one eye and had most of her nose and her right cheek eaten away by the acid. She swallowed hard. “What exit do I take? We're due at Emma Fewell's in half an hour.”

Paul

Paul's Sunday started with
following Sydney Ellison to church and went downhill from there. The remains of a dream refused to dissipate, leaving him unable to focus on the homily or his target. He'd dreamed about his pop, dreamed he was on fire, flailing about in a long nightshirt like the kind Scrooge wore in movie versions of
A Christmas Carol
. Nobody wore those anymore. But his pop had one on in the dream and it burned with a clean orange flame before he dove into a rice paddy. A flaming swan.
Hiss
. Paul put twenty dollars in the collection plate when it passed.

“We have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed,” the congregation mumbled in unison.

It wasn't the thought of confessing his sins, so much, that had kept him away from church since his return from 'Nam. It was the realization that he and God didn't have much in common. No meeting place. He'd set out to serve his country four decades ago and become a killer. It was as simple as that. He didn't figure God had much to say to a killer, and an unrepentant one at that. And he sure as heck didn't have anything to say to God.

He blocked out most of the service by reading the announcements in the bulletin and thinking about his two uncompleted tasks. Rarely had an assignment carried with it this much frustration. He'd hoped to have a shot at Ellison that morning, but the woman with her complicated the scenario. The way she held herself, her fitness and alertness, suggested she might be a pro, a hired bodyguard. Studying the rangy woman seated beside his target, Paul recognized he might have to take her out, too. It might be impossible to get Ellison without eliminating her bodyguard. He was prepared to do that. The woman was a combatant. Fair game. Paul bent over, pretending to search the floor for something, as they passed him on the way out of the church.

He trailed them part of the way back to the townhouse, then broke off. Montoya was the primary target and time was running out. He wouldn't get paid if Montoya were still breathing come election day. He made his way back toward his target's Capitol Hill garage apartment, wanting to be in place before Montoya showed up at the café. Habits. Paul shook his head. The past two Sundays, Montoya had wandered down to the café at noon, bought a newspaper, and read it while eating his brunch at an outdoor table. Once he'd gone into the office for a couple of hours and once he'd met friends for dinner. Paul was prepared to follow up on any opportunity that presented itself today.

None did. Despite stationing himself on a bench in the small park across from Montoya's place, Paul never saw the man. He did the
New York Times
crossword, read for a bit, and watched a pair of sparrows fight over a hot dog bun. No Montoya. His shoulder began to throb; when he'd drained it that morning, he'd noted streaks of red shooting from the wound. It hurt like hell now and he swallowed four aspirins dry. He knew he would have to give in and see a doctor within a day or so.

By early afternoon, he was contemplating his options. Did he dare knock and force his way into the man's house in broad daylight? He'd made that approach work once before, in a suburban neighborhood with a man mowing his yard right next door. His vibrating cell phone cut into his planning.

“Paul, it's me. Pop. I think something's wrong with Moira.” His father sounded lucid, but a cold chill ran down Paul's spine.

“What do you mean, Pop?” he asked, keeping his voice low so the two young skateboarders practicing tricks in front of him wouldn't hear. Their wheels rasped over the concrete, making it hard to make out his father's words.

“She's not moving.”

“Where is she? What happened?”

His pop's voice became uncertain, perhaps in response to his sharper tone. “She's … after I … ”

“After you what?” Paul tried to keep his voice calm, but he knew that his tension, his imaginings—had his pop found another gun, used a knife, hurt Moira?—oozed through the phone connection. “Let me talk to Moira.”

A strange choking sound issued from the phone. Was his dad crying? “Pop? Pop?” Paul's voice rose to a shout, just as movement across the street caught his attention. Montoya, headed toward the café. Of all the shitty timing. With his cell phone pressed to his ear, Paul pushed to his feet, trailing Montoya, who eyed an attractive jogger as he ambled down the sidewalk. Across the street, Paul kept him in sight, saying, “Are you still there?” into the phone.

“Paulie … I'm scared. I'd better—”

The line went dead.

Cursing, Paul punched in the number and got the buzzing of a busy signal. Shit! He hung up and redialed. Still busy. He glanced at Montoya from under his brows. The man had settled into a chair at the nearby café. He was sorting the newspaper into piles that looked like actual news on his right and the inserts and advertising fliers that doubled the size of the paper on his left. Pausing near a bus stop on the corner, Paul repeated the dialing and busy signal sequence fifteen or twenty more times before his battery died. He shook the phone.

Fuck. He didn't realize he'd said it aloud until a heavyset Hispanic woman waiting for the bus glared at him and ostentatiously shifted her bulk to the farthest end of the bench. What could be going on with Moira and Pop? Paul ground his teeth with frustration and indecision, his eyes glued to his target, who was now drinking a glass of grapefruit juice. The bus arrived with a whoosh of air brakes and a cloud of diesel fumes, cutting off Paul's view of Montoya. As if it had severed an invisible line, Paul broke into a jerky run, headed for a cab, his motel, and the phone charger.

Tossing T-shirts and socks into a gym bag an hour later, Paul tried to decide whether to just drive up to Pennsylvania or call Johanssen and have him send a car around to the house, check on things. But he was afraid of what they might find. If his father had done something … no, he'd have to make the trip, he decided as the phone rang in its charging dock. He lunged for it. “Hello?”

Moira's voice came over the line and he sank onto the bed, his legs suddenly unable to bear his weight. “Paul.” She sounded weak, out of breath.

“Moira, is everything all right? My pop called … I've been worried sick.” God, he sounded like a father whose daughter had stayed out past curfew.

“He saved my life.”

“What? Who?”

“Your father. I must have miscalculated my insulin today. I got dizzy, passed out, couldn't get to the orange juice. He called 911 and saved my life.”

“You're diabetic?” What else didn't he know about Moira King, the woman who lived in his house half the time and cared for his father? He'd thought he was the only one with secrets.

“Type one.”

“Are you okay now?” he asked belatedly, his breathing returning to normal and a hint of anger making its way from his roiling gut to his voice. She should have told him. Guilt punched at him for the thoughts he'd had about his pop.

“Yes, thanks. The EMTs got me stabilized. They didn't even have to take me to hospital. Is something wrong?”

He debated telling her she was goddamn right something was wrong. She had a medical condition that could make it impossible for her to give his father the care he needed. She hadn't been honest with him. She'd probably scared Pop to death by falling into a diabetic coma. She—he stifled all the recriminations that jumped to his lips. They needed to talk in person. “No, nothing. I was just worried.”

“Okay.” He could tell she wasn't convinced. “Will you be home soon? Your dad misses you.”

Did she? Where the hell did that thought come from? “Tuesday night.” Come hell or high water.

As he ended the call, he thought again of another phone call, the automated voice from the dentist's office confirming Sydney Ellison's appointment … Tuesday morning. It hadn't been hard to find an address for Dr. Field's office. He wouldn't get a better shot at her.

And he was beginning to think she was a jinx. He'd had the Mon
toya assignment under control until she'd swiped his phone. He
rubbed a hand across his forehead and it came away damp. He was burning up. Too much sun outside Montoya's apartment, he told himself. Heaving himself to his feet, he entered the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. A little better. He chewed a few aspirins and winced at the sour taste. He stumbled to the bed. He'd rest just a short while before doing a recce at the dentist's building.

Sydney

Although her experience with
senators' homes was admittedly limited, Sydney was expecting something grander than the modest house they found at Emma Fewell's Carroll County address. Set back from a quiet residential street, it was a two-story Cape Cod–style home with weathered wood siding and gleaming white trim. Towering blue spruces blocked neighbors' sight lines. A door painted coral added a pop of color.

“You're sure you got the address right?” Reese asked, echoing Sydney thoughts.

The door opened and a woman, presumably Emma Fewell, beckoned them. “Yep,” Sydney said, waving to Mrs. Fewell.

“I'll take the lead,” Reese announced as they walked toward the waiting woman. “It's not exactly my first go-round with grieving widows.”

Sydney let her silence be acquiescence. There was no harm in letting Reese steer the conversation; in fact, she was glad she didn't have to ask Fewell's widow if his death might really have been murder.

“You must be Sydney and Reese,” the woman said when they were within earshot. “Now, which is which?”

Sydney and Reese identified themselves, and the woman said, “I'm Emma. I insist you call me that. I've been ‘Mrs. Fewelled' to death ever since Armand got elected to the Senate thirty years ago.” Her drawl revealed her Alabama origins.

Sydney instinctively liked Emma Fewell. Seventy-two, according to the bio Reese had given her, she wore her years lightly. She'd put on some weight, perhaps, and laugh lines made her face interesting, but her spine was straight and she moved with only a slight hitch in her step. Her face was makeup free, but strong brows brought the focus to her dark eyes. She wore a yellow cotton tunic and knit leggings with muddy knees, and no jewelry other than a modest diamond on her ring finger. Her graying hair spiraled in long dreadlocks, à la Maya Angelou, to mid-back.

“Come in, come in,” she said, holding the door wide. “I've got a pitcher of tea on the back patio, if that's all right with y'all, and I thought we'd sit out there. I've been gardening. It's such a lovely day.”

It was sweltering, but Sydney raised no objection. As they traversed a cool hall lined with family photos, and a kitchen that hadn't been updated since Jimmy Carter was president, she tried to figure out what made Emma Fewell so appealing. She was comfortable in her own skin, Sydney finally decided. Content with who she was and what she had. She reminded Sydney a little of Nana Linn.

“We're very sorry for your loss,” Reese said when they reached the back patio, a brick semi-circle surrounded by lush gardens that testified to the love and hard work Emma Fewell poured into them. A pitcher sweated on a wrought-iron table with three acrylic glasses stacked beside it.

Sydney was afraid reference to her husband would make the recent widow tear up, but she replied calmly, “Thank you, dear. I haven't lost Armand, though; he's waiting for me on the other side, in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ. He's at peace.”

Something in her voice suggested he hadn't previously been at peace. Reese must have caught it, too, because she asked, “Was he worried about something before the hunting trip?”

“You don't mind if I work while we talk, do you?” Emma asked. She crossed to where two dozen small plastic pots, the disposable kind, held six-inch-high seedlings with toothy green leaves. A foot-wide dirt border that wound in front of a glorious display of ferns and hostas showed where the new plants would go. “If I don't get the Serbian bellflowers in, they're going to croak in this heat.” Sinking heavily to her knees, she said, “Help yourselves to tea. Perhaps you wouldn't mind handing me the pots one at a time?” She smiled up at Sydney.

“Of course not.” Awkwardly, Sydney lowered herself to the ground. She handed Emma one of the bellflower pots, thankful that they were in a corner shaded by a Japanese maple tree. She exchanged a look with Reese, who shrugged and went to pour three glasses of tea.

Crumbling the dirt around the seedling's roots, Emma said, “I was hoping that some time with Jermaine would do him good. He always enjoyed hunting, especially turkeys—he said they were awful wily for such a dumb bird—and he didn't get to do it as much as he liked, but … ” She shook her head. Using a trowel, she dug a hollow into the dirt and inserted the plant, tamping loam around it when it was positioned to her satisfaction.

“So Jermaine Washington was there when it happened? He saw the whole thing?” Reese asked. She was still standing, and her angular shadow draped over Sydney.

Emma apparently caught the edge in Reese's voice because she leveled a long look at her before saying, “Another one, please.” Sydney handed over another bellflower, and then three more, feeling sweat trickle down her back. “Jermaine is a life-long friend and I have total faith in his integrity,” Emma said, tucking the plants into place. “He's a man of good will. That's not a term you hear much anymore, is it? A man of good will. But that's what Jermaine is.”

“So there's no chance at all that it wasn't an accident?” Reese prodded. “That Jermaine Washington might have been mistaken, that the bullet came from anywhere besides your husband's gun?”

Emma rocked back on her heels and looked from Reese to Sydney, a sad smile lurking in her eyes. “Well now, dear, that's two different questions, isn't it?”

Sydney's brow creased. What was the woman getting at? Reese apparently saw an opening because her voice sharpened. “So there
is
some doubt? The bullet might not have come from your husband's gun?”

“Why are you so interested in Armand's death? You know it's because of Armand's passing that Fidel is getting his shot at becoming a Senator—it's my husband's seat this election's meant to fill.” Emma paused. “Fidel Montoya said it was important when he called, but he didn't say why.” The easygoing timbre of her voice hadn't changed, but it was clear she wasn't continuing the conversation until she understood why they were there. “There's no crime involved here,” she said, eyeing Reese in a way that made it clear she knew exactly what she did for a living. She thrust the trowel, blade down, into the dirt.

Jumping in before Reese could answer, Sydney said, “I—we—think it's possible your husband was murdered, and that the person who did it may be after another politician.” She didn't name Montoya, knowing he'd deny any involvement if Emma asked him. She gave the woman a five-minute summary of the past week's events.

“My, my,” Emma said slowly when she finished. “That's quite a tale.”

Sydney couldn't tell if she believed her or not.

“So,” Reese put in, crouching slightly, “you can see why it's important that we know if there's any way, any way at all, that your husband's death wasn't an accident.”

Emma blinked once, heavy eyelids shuttering her gaze. When she reopened her eyes, they brimmed with grief. “His death was definitely no accident,” she said.

“What?” Reese peeled off her sunglasses to get a better look at the woman. Sydney could feel her sister's astonishment.

Emma stuck up a hand, her tunic sleeve sliding up to reveal a fleshy forearm. “Help me up, would you, there's a dear. The rest of these will have to wait.”

Reese locked hands with her and helped haul her up. Sydney stood and brushed grass off her jeans.

“You don't believe your husband's death was an accident?” Sydney tried to rein in her excitement, her conviction that they were edging close to Jason's killer.

“I know it wasn't.” Emma looked from Sydney to Reese and back to Sydney. “My Armand committed suicide. Jermaine, good friend that he is, made up that story about the rattlesnake so no one outside the family ever need know. I hope you won't feel the need to tell anyone; I wouldn't want Jermaine to get in any trouble with the police. He was only being the best friend he knew how to be, to Armand and to me.”

Suicide! Sydney's hopes collapsed like a card house.

“Why would your husband kill himself?” Reese asked. Sydney hoped Emma didn't hear the thin edge of doubt that she did.

“He'd been heading toward suicide these twelve years and more,” Emma said quietly. “Ever since we lost our son. A drunk driver took his life. Let's sit.” She walked with weighted step to the iron table and lowered herself onto a chair. Reese passed her a glass of iced tea and she drank half of it before swiping the back of her wrist across her brow. Sydney and Reese sat on either side of her.

“I loved my Armand, Lord knows I did—do—and it about killed me that I couldn't help him. After Michael died, he was never the same. I'm sad about Michael every day, but I let joy back into my life after a year or so, mostly through my garden. I couldn't overlook the gift of a rose in bloom, or marigolds' bright happiness. And then there were the grandbabies, Michael's twins, and they were so full of life and energy, buzzing around, asking why and how, growing up so fast.” She smiled, brown eyes sparkling, but then the liveliness drained out of her face. “But Armand … Armand, he kept himself closed off to joy. He still worked for his constituents, but it was out of duty, not passion, after Michael died.

“The first year, he focused on the trial, and after the conviction he campaigned for stiffer penalties for drunk drivers. He still went to church, but I could tell it wasn't the same for him. He loved Michael's kids and spent a lot of time with them, telling them stories about their dad, but he once said something to me about seeing Michael in them, especially little Colin, and it made me worry that he didn't love them for their own sakes as much as because he felt they were a link with Michael. From the start, he visited Michael's grave four or five times a week—got mad at me when I refused to go so often. It was one of the few times he was ever ugly to me.” She looked pensive and was silent for a long moment. “He kept his grief alive, took it out and polished it every day.” She mimed polishing as if she had a dust cloth folded over two fingers, rubbing them back and forth. “He had the shiniest, brightest grief you ever did see.”

Her gaze drifted to the middle distance, and Sydney wondered what she was remembering. She shifted on her chair. She felt sad for Emma, but edgy, too, uncomfortable with the woman's expansive forgiveness, her seeming acceptance of death and her husband's depression. She compared Emma's grief to Connie's—their husbands had died not long apart—but it was apples and oranges. Or maybe not. Connie had lived with a husband physically disabled by a series of strokes, who'd needed nursing and care for almost two decades. Emma had lived with a husband crippled by grief. Were their cases so different? She put the thought aside to consider later.

“So, you see,” Emma said in the voice of one reaching her conclusion, “there's no connection between Armand's death and what you're looking into.”

“We're sorry for disturbing you,” Reese said, gathering herself in as if she were ready to leave.

“I'm not disturbed.” Emma smiled again. “I don't suppose I can talk you into helping with the rest of these bellflowers? I don't seem to have the stamina I used to.”

Sydney and Reese left ninety minutes later, sweaty and coated with mulch dust after planting and mulching the bellflowers and moving a few heavy planters Emma wanted repositioned. As Reese backed out of the driveway, she muttered, “I know why she agreed to see us—she needed slave labor.”

“I like her. Can I be like that when I'm seventy?”

“Black and fat? Probably not.”

Sydney laughed long and hard and felt her muscles loosening and her stomach unknotting. It dispelled some of her disappointment that they hadn't made any progress toward ID-ing the killer by talking to Emma Fewell. “Not that. At peace. Finding joy in little things. Not trying so hard anymore.”

Reese favored her with a long, thoughtful look before turning her gaze back to the road. “Like I said: probably not.”

Sydney punched her shoulder.

“Hey, not while I'm driving.” But the corners of Reese's mouth turned in like she was holding back a smile.