Close Call (23 page)

Sydney

“What did you mean,
you're my bodyguard?” Sydney asked, taking long strides to keep up with West as he headed toward the hospital's front exit. He'd spoken to the officers who'd responded to the shooting, made a couple of calls to arrange for a forensics team to scour the roof of the building across from the dentist's office, and ordered a guard put on Reese, more to keep out the reporters than prevent the killer from making another attempt, he'd told Sydney.

Now he ignored her question. “I'm taking you to a safe house.”

She stopped dead. “I am not going anywhere dressed like this. I look like I'm wearing my pajamas. I need to stop by my townhouse, get some clothes.”

“Negative.” He was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “Your townhouse is not on the agenda, not with a hit man out to kill you.”

“So you believe me?” Her eyes widened and she hurried to catch up, almost knocking against a wizened man inching along the wall with a walker.

“Yep.”

“Great. And all it took was my sister getting shot.” Relief, bitterness, and guilt clashed within her.

“I'm sorry about that.”

She waved his apology away, although the sincerity in his voice eased the tension clenching her stomach. “What do we do now?”

He slanted a look at her. His lashes really were absurdly long. “
We
don't do anything. You stay holed up in a safe place. I do the detecting and find this guy before he gets another chance at you or Montoya.” Halfway across the lobby, he stopped. “Shit!”

“What?”

He pointed toward the tinted floor-to-ceiling wall of windows bracketing the revolving door at the hospital's entrance. “Reporters.”

Sydney heard the din through the closed doors, a pack of hounds baying for the fox's blood. Or, in this case, the vixen's. She tamped down the anxiety rising within her, noting that the reporters' presence didn't panic her as much as usual. Their menace paled in comparison to the rest of the day's events.

“They're onto the shooting. Someone here leaked. C'mon,” West said, spinning on his heel. “You don't want to deal with that right now.”

No, she certainly didn't. She followed him as they retraced their steps.

“Detective West!”

The voice and heavy footsteps trotting their way stopped them just before they cleared the lobby. Sydney turned, wincing in anticipation of being pelted by a reporter's questions, to see one of the policemen who'd helped with Reese approaching them. West put out an arm to edge her slightly behind him.

“Glad I caught you, sir. Thought you'd want to know,” Sergeant Morrison said. He had a stolid, capable presence Sydney felt would be comforting to find on your doorstep if you ever reported a prowler in the middle of the night. “Following the shooting incident, my partner and I were notified that another victim needed help, several blocks away. I sent Donnelly over and she said the man, white and in his sixties, was in a bad way.”

“Yes?” West made a “get on with it” motion.

“Yes, sir. Well, the man had a GSW in his shoulder.”

“What?”

“Yes, sir. The ER doc said the man had a bullet wound—two, three days old maybe—in his right shoulder. He was here, but he did a runner before we could talk to him about it. Doc said it looked like the wound had been professionally treated, but it was infected.”

“They get a name?” West pulled out a notebook, prepared to write.

Sydney's gaze went from him to Sergeant Morrison, wondering what it meant. Gunshot wounds weren't all that unusual in downtown DC, after all.

“Yes, sir, but it was a fake. Anyway, what with the shooting and all, I thought you'd want to know about this guy. Especially since he matches the description of a strange man a witness saw in the garage of the building across the street from the Penn Professional Building just after the shooting. She said he was white, in his mid-to-late-sixties, and wore a ball cap and tan utility uniform that had the name ‘Lionel' on the pocket. She thought he was a maintenance guy and seemed pissed he hadn't come to fix her sink.”

Sydney paled. Was it possible that the man who'd killed Jason and shot Reese had been here, only a floor or two away from them if that? She shivered involuntarily. “Where—” she started, but West cut her off.

“You did good, Sergeant. I'll—”

“That's not all,” the sergeant plowed on. “I called around to local motels to see if a Lionel Ross was registered—that's the name the guy used in the ER—and I got a hit at the Best Western over on Florida. I sent a patrol car over there—they don't think the guy'll be back. They say it feels like he's gone. Left his stuff, though, including a laptop, and they're taking it to the station.”

“You did damn good! I'll mention it to your lieutenant. Put out an APB and let me know if you come up with anything interesting. And let's run any prints the team lifts, pronto.”

“You got it, sir.”Sergeant Morrison nodded twice, cast a curious look at Sydney, and turned away.

Sydney followed West down a smaller, quieter hall that smelled like hospital food—mushy peas, steamy metal from the lids that covered the dishes, and coffee.

“What was that all about?” she asked from half a step behind him.

“Could be the shooter, could be unconnected,” he said.

“Doesn't sound unconnected,” Sydney said, half jogging to draw even with him. The movement jarred her throbbing knee and made her aware of an aching shoulder and elbow.

“Agreed. Time—and evidence—will tell,” he said. “For now, our best move is to put you somewhere the guy can't find you, and do the same for Montoya if he'll cooperate.” West strode toward a small door with angry red signs warning
Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound.

“Won't the alarm—?” she asked as he banged his palm against the bar. The door sprang open.

“Apparently not.” Bright sunlight and a wall of heat clobbered them on the stoop as West got his bearings. Cigarette butts littered the ground around them and the smoky smell seemed to permeate the very brick of the walls. “C'mon.” He grabbed Sydney's hand to pull her toward the parking lot.

“Hey, sleepyhead, we're here.”

West's voice jolted Sydney. She must have fallen asleep on the ride to the safe house. How could she—? Her body's natural reaction to the aftermath of crisis, she realized. Out the car window, a block of condos, interchangeable with hundreds of similar buildings in the DC area, rose upward from a base of manicured grass. “Where are we?”

“My place.”

She shot him a look.

“My intentions are pure,” he said with a slight smile. “No one will think to look for you here. This takes less paperwork than getting you into an official safe house, and it's more secure. The fewer people who know where you are the better until I find this guy.”

With a nod of acknowledgment, Sydney swung her legs out of the car and followed West into the building, noting an anonymous mélange of concrete, glass, tile, and potted plants. They got into an elevator along
with a suited woman holding a six- or seven-year-old girl by the hand. The girl surveyed Sydney openly and finally asked, “Are you a doctor?”

Sydney laughed ruefully, looking down at her scrubs, and said, “No, honey. But I got these from a doctor.”

The mother pulled her daughter closer, as if afraid of germs cascading
off Sydney, and hustled the little girl off the elevator at the next floor.

Sydney crossed the threshold of West's condo like a scout moving into possibly hostile territory. The perfectly ordinary two-bedroom condo seemed alien. She felt strange staying at West's place with Jason dead less than a week. It wasn't that there was anything romantic or illicit to what she was doing; it just felt strange. It was the only word she could come up with. She dropped her purse on the narrow table in the entryway and folded her arms around her waist as West flipped through the mail littering the floor under the letter slot.

“The usual garbage,” he said. “C'mon in.”

She followed him into a small living room lined with books, photos, and traditional furniture in a dark wood upholstered in forest green and chocolate leather. Comfortable looking and typically masculine. She moved further into the room. West cut across to the kitchen and the clink of ice cubes drifted to Sydney as she studied a wall of photos all framed in silver metal.

“You ride?” she asked, looking at a picture of him on a horse, a huge grin plastered across his face. He looked young, tan, carefree, less guarded than he seemed now.

“I grew up on a ranch in Colorado,” he said from the kitchen. “Riding was part of the deal. That and taking care of livestock, baling hay, the usual.” He appeared in the doorway with two glasses of iced tea.

“Thanks,” Sydney said, taking one. “So how come you're not Rancher Ben, riding the range?”

“My older brother, Brad, wanted to ranch and I didn't. I had a fling with rodeo, then decided I wanted to be able to walk when I was fifty, so I got out of that. I got a degree in criminal justice and joined the Air Force.” He leaned against the door jamb, watching her as she peered at the photos.

“And now you're a cop.”

“I was a cop in the Air Force, too. I enjoyed the military, even the deployments, but it was hard on my marriage. Claire got a better offer when I was in Iraq for a second tour. She and her new husband live in Maryland, so I got out of the Air Force to stay near Alexa. She'll be twelve in October.”

“This her?” Sydney stopped in front of a photo of a girl with brown hair in ponytails and a braces-laden grin that mirrored the one from the other photo. “She's cute.”

“As a baby wolverine,” he said drily. Despite his tone, Sydney could feel the affection radiating from him.

Sydney laughed. The sound surprised her. She hadn't felt like laughing lately. “Just wait until she hits her teens. My mom says I was an unbearable combination of hormones and hostility from twelve to fifteen. Then I turned back into a human being, so there's hope.”

“It seems like the list of things you have to worry about as a father just gets longer as your daughter gets older: driving, boys, grades, getting into college, skanky friends, online bullying, predators … you name it. I miss the days when my biggest worry was keeping her from sticking her finger in a socket or chewing on the toilet bowl brush.”

“It must be wonderful,” Sydney said softly, wondering if she'd ever have a child to raise. She'd hoped she and Jason … The colors in the room seemed muted all of a sudden.

“I've got to get back,” West said with a look at his watch. “Make yourself at home. I'll give you a call in a couple of hours, let you know what's going on. Stick close, okay? Take a shower if you want.” His brown eyes were serious as they met hers. “Don't do anything stupid, and don't tell anyone you're here.”

She let the “stupid” comment slide. “I need to call the hospital and check on my sister.”

“That should be okay. Just don't mention where you are, not even to your mother. She might let something slip without meaning to.”

The seriousness with which he took the situation unnerved her a bit. She deadbolted the door behind him.

West had mentioned a shower, and Sydney suddenly couldn't wait to rinse the day's events off under pulsing water. Exploring a short hall, she found a bathroom that West's daughter used, if the lavender bathmat and plethora of fruit-scented body washes, gels, shampoos, and conditioners lining the tub were anything to go by. The collection spurred a small smile. She kicked off her sandals and wiggled her grateful toes. Every part of her body hurt. Her hand burned where the scab from the branding iron had been torn off by the asphalt when Reese pushed her down, and the barbed-wire gouge in her thigh stung. Bruises ached on her hips, legs, and shoulders as she stripped off the pink scrubs and her bloodstained bra. Her ankle was swollen to the size of a tennis ball.

Turning the water on as hot as she could stand it, she stepped into the tub and let the water sluice over her, carrying away the dried flakes of blood—Reese's blood—and some of her exhaustion. Lathering her hair with strawberry-scented shampoo, she massaged her scalp hard before squirting a dollop of kiwi-mango conditioner into her hand. She was going to smell like a fruit salad. The thought brought another smile. The smiles were coming easier. Reese was going to be okay. West was going to catch the killer. She switched the tap to cold for a few seconds before she jumped out and dried herself on a fluffy purple towel. She had to re-don the pink scrubs, and wrinkled her nose at them. Nothing could have made her wear the bloody bra, even though her breasts swinging free and heavy were disconcerting. As soon as she could, she'd duck back to the townhouse and get something more presentable. It was hard to feel confident, able to face down the media or a hit man, when braless and wearing pink scrubs.

She called Connie to check on Reese but got her voicemail. Of course; Connie wouldn't keep her phone on in the hospital. As she was about to dial the hospital's main number, the phone vibrated in her hand. Connie's number glowed at her.

With a sudden feeling of foreboding, Sydney answered. “Mom?”

“Your sister has gone back into surgery,” Connie said, in a voice like a thread of glass likely to shatter at the slightest touch. “There was a blood clot. It … it broke free and caused a cerebrovascular incident.”

A thousand thin metal flechettes buried themselves in Sydney's skin. Her every nerve ending felt seared. “A stroke?” she whispered. They were all familiar with the language of strokes after her father's strokes. “How is she—? Will she—? I'm on my way.”

“No.” Connie sounded stronger. “No, don't come to the hospital, Sydney. I can't—it's too much. Your father, Reese.” She sounded as if she was going to say more, but then swallowed audibly. “Hilary's here, and a couple of friends from the neighborhood. I'll call you when I know anything. You might pray.”