Close Call (25 page)

Paul

His body humming with
energy as the antibiotics ran off the infection, Paul approac
hed the target's place on
foot, having left his stolen car a mile south. Clad in navy T-shirt and nylon pants and wearing a black fanny pack, he was just anoth
er aging jogger burn
ing a few martini lunch calories as twilight slipped into night, trying to stay trim for a wife or, more likely, a mistress. Like Congressman Montoya, who got more than his share if the gossip columns got it right. Sneakered feet slapping the pavement, Paul imagined that he was a senator from a distant state, Idaho, maybe, who rented one of the apartments on this block while his family stayed home in Boise. Lots of Congress members, even those with homes in the Virginia or Maryland suburbs, rented apartments or small houses near the Capitol for those nights when sessions or fundraisers ran late. On second thought, a senator was too recognizable. A congressional staffer, then. Take off the fancy suits and there wasn't much to differentia
te white, sixty-something men
. The congressmen looked like plumbers, looked like math teachers. Or hit men, for that matter. Paul exhaled a laugh at the thought.

There were few people about: a man walking a rat dog with faux gems on its leash (the man and the dog should both be embarrassed), a couple of teens making a furtive exchange by a playground entrance. Idiots. He'd had the good sense to never do drugs, not even in 'Nam where a grunt could get marijuana or heroin with equal ease. He'd smoked, of course; they'd all smoked. The café down the street was closed, a security light giving off a dim glow inside the plate-glass window. No one paid him any attention.

Without hesitating, Paul cut down a narrow sidewalk between two houses, and came up on
Montoya's place from behind. He grasped the lowest branch of a tree he'd climbed when surveilling the place over a week ago and hoisted himself up. Binoculars brought things into clear focus. He regretted the loss of the NVGs he'd had in his hotel room, but Montoya's apartment was so lit up he hardly needed night-vision goggles. A figure moved in the kitchen, and Paul watched as Montoya answered the phone then moved to the freezer and out of sight to the pantry. No girlfriend with him tonight. Good. Up against the client's deadline, he'd come prepared to take the woman out too, but he was relieved he wouldn't have to. It would be much easier to set up the “accident” he had in mind without another player.

A rustling in the grass below caught Paul's attention. He caught a glimpse of reddish fur and the gleam of inquisitive eyes before the critter vanished into a clump of holly. Sliding down the tree trunk, he listened for a moment but heard nothing more ominous than the drift of wind through the heavy branches, a woman a couple of houses away calling for a cat, and the shush of tires on the road. He crouched and made his way to the west side of the building, past two rubber trash cans.

The scent of grilling meat from someone's barbecue drifted toward him as he positioned himself beneath the bathroom window. Drawing on latex gloves, he tested the sash with a shove. Locked, damn it. Inconvenient but not unexpected. He withdrew a suction cup and a small ball peen hammer from his backpack. Licking the suction cup, he affixed it to the glass above the lock mechanism. One deft tap of the hammer on the rubber broke the glass. As he withdrew the larger piece with the suction cup, a fist-sized shard tinkled to the bathroom floor, landing on a red bathmat.

Fuck. He froze, listening for any sound from the front rooms. Had Montoya heard? The faint sounds of gunshots and squealing tires drifted to him. A TV show or movie. After two full minutes of immobility, during which he didn't hear approaching feet or doors opening, he took a deep breath. Clear. Reaching a gloved hand through the hole, he turned the lock and lifted the window an inch. Careful not to cut himself, he pulled his hand out and worked the fingers of both hands beneath the sash, heaving it up as far as it would go. He pulled paper booties from his pack and slipped them over his shoes, then swung his legs over the sill, lowered his backpack noiselessly to the floor, and slanted his body down until his toes touched the toilet seat. He was in.

First things first. He recovered the sliver of glass from the rug and tucked it into his backpack. After taking care of Montoya, he'd stash the glass in a bag at the bottom of one of the garbage bins. When found, as it would be if the homicide dick in charge was on the ball, it would suggest the window had been broken a couple of days before his entry. He could not leave any evidence that would cast doubt on a verdict of “accidental death.” Closing the window—he didn't want a stray draft alerting the target—he surveyed the small room with its black and white tile, red rug and shower curtain, and magazine rack by the toilet. A jacuzzi tub dominated the space, big enough and deep enough to float the Titanic. Its tile surround gleamed, all 90 degree angles and sharp edges. Perfect. Edging behind the door, he slowed his breathing, prepared to wait.

Sydney

The taxi dropped Sydney
in front of Fidel Montoya's house just before eight. The Pakistani driver took all her remaining cash and reversed at top speed, skidding into the road. The red of his brake lights faded to pinpricks and disappeared. Sydney stared in the direction of town, hoping Montoya would be chivalrous enough to drive her back. She walked toward the front door. The house was lit up like he was expecting two hundred guests for an election night victory party. Might as well get this over with.

A shadow moved at the tree line, where the glare of the security lights faded to umbra, and she halted. A fox skidded into view, something plump wriggling in its mouth. Piteous squeaks, growing weaker, betrayed the prey's plight. Spotting her, the fox stopped, sharp nose quivering.

Apparently deciding she was no threat, he trotted around a
cement birdbath and merged into the shadows on the side of the house.

With a shiver, Sydney climbed the shallow steps leading to the double doors and rang the bell.

Paul

Paul was prepared to
wait as long as necessary, but it was a mere
half an hour before Montoya felt the need to empty his bladder.
Creaking floorboards warned of his approach and Paul sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Whistling the theme from some movie Paul recognized but couldn't name, Montoya crossed directly to the john, unzipped, and began to urinate. Paul let the man have the satisfaction of a last long pee before making his move while Montoya was zipping up.

In a single motion, he burst from behind the bathroom door and secured Montoya's arms to his sides with both arms clamped around his chest. He kicked him off balance with a powerful sweep of his left leg and bore him downward, dragging him back as he fell. Montoya barely had time to let out a yelp of surprise and begin to twist away before Paul straddled his chest, knees planted on the floor, and pulled him up by the shoulders. He whammed the base of the man's skull against the tub's decorative tile surround.

Montoya's eyes widened and his breath came in a series of labored
huh-uh-huh
s for a long minute before stopping on one final hitch. Paul felt the man's muscles relax, and he slowly rose. Blood speckled the tile and oozed in a surprisingly small puddle beneath Montoya's head, matting his black hair. Paul was careful to avoid stepping in it or disturbing any of the spatter. Turning away from the dead, staring eyes, he pulled a thick sanitary pad from his pack and calmly went about stopping up the toilet. He added toilet paper and flushed, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done when the bowl filled and began to overflow. It soon wet Montoya's bare feet and soaked the hem of his pants.

Stepping back to survey the scene, Paul tried to see it through a cop's eyes. It played as an accident: Montoya comes into the bathroom, slips in the water from the overflowing toilet (stopped up by a careless woman friend), and cracks his head against the tub. Nothing argued against that scenario. A tragic accident. Very similar to the ones that killed a real estate baron in Phoenix, a city council member in Colorado Springs, and a dentist in Tupelo. Bathrooms were dangerous places.

Without being happy about the death, Paul was still conscious of the feeling of professional accomplishment that came over him at the successful conclusion of most contracts. He got a buzz from planning the mission, thinking through all the angles, executing it, and outwitting the police or insurance investigators. It was surprisingly like the feeling he used to get when the ball slapped into his glove, he tagged the runner, and then pivoted to pull off a double play. Pride, excitement, and a split second—gone before his palm quit stinging—of utter conviction of his invincibility.

He took a photo of the very dead, the
accidentally
dead, Jimmy Montoya. Clients liked proof before they paid.

Paul exited through the window he'd come in, stripping off booties and gloves as soon as he hit the ground and tucking them into his pack. They'd go down a handy sewer grate. After hiding the window glass in a trash bag largely stuffed with reeking take-out containers, he eased back onto the sidewalk and began the slow jog to his car, hoping no one got close enough to smell him. As the adrenaline leached out of him, an ache in his calf began to bother him—had Montoya kicked him?—and jabbing pain from the bullet wound made him worry that he'd torn it open. He was tired. One more thing to take care of, and then he'd be on his way back to Pennsylvania, Pop, and Moira.

Sydney

Melodious chimes rang in
the depths of the house. Sydney waited for two full minutes. No one came. Where was Montoya? He knew she was coming. The bathroom, maybe. She frowned and rang again.

Finally, heavy footsteps approached. The door swung inward, loosing warm yellow light into the night. Fidel Montoya, dressed in casual black slacks and a garnet-red silk-blend T-shirt that made the most of his dark
coloring, stood in the hallway holding a dish towel to the back of his head. “Sydney! Come in, come in.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek.

She suffered the kiss but eluded a hug by stepping into the foyer. When she cast a curious look at the dish towel, he said, “Dropped a piece of ice and banged my head against the freezer door when I picked it up. Hurt like a son of a bitch. I've got a lump the size of a hubcap.” He lowered the cloth and unwrapped it to show a few ice cubes.

“Ow,” Sydney said, since he clearly wanted sympathy. She took in the polished walnut floors and contrasting cream walls, a perfect foil for the large canvases mounted at intervals designed to let each piece have its own space. A magnificent staircase soared to the upper story where four doors opened off a short hallway guarded by a wrought-iron banister. To her left, flickering lights from a television danced out of a den and to her right, a short hall led past a formal dining room to a kitchen. She studied the art as Montoya closed the door. Too abstract for her taste, the paintings rang with vibrant cobalts, scarlets, and golds. She peered at a powerful piece streaked with emerald along the lower edge.

“Let me get you a drink,” Montoya said as she tried to decide if the painting was of a fish-filled sea or a pasture dotted with cows. Or sheep or horses. She gave it up and followed her host into the kitchen.

Shaking the ice cubes into the sink, he tossed the towel on the counter. “Vodka?” He lifted the Grey Goose bottle.

“I don't want a drink. I just want to ask—”

“Of course you want a drink. You probably prefer wine.” He poured her a glass of red wine from a stoppered bottle on the counter, topped up his glass with the vodka, then peeked into a pot bubbling on the range. He stirred the contents with a spoon and a fragrant steam rose toward the ceiling. “Dinner,” he said. “Linguine
alle vongole
. With clams. It's the only thing I know how to cook. When Katya's away I mostly make do with take-out. I hope you're not allergic?”

“I'm not staying.”

When he started to protest, she talked over him. “Look, someone slipped this under my door.” She pulled the page out of her purse and spread it on the counter. The bubbling pasta water spit on it and she moved it out of range.

“What's this?” His voice was brusque; he was annoyed that she wasn't staying. How had he envisioned the evening ending? She doubted he'd have been satisfied with watching James Bond movies and munching popcorn.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” she said. “Do you know whose funeral this was?”

He found reading glasses on the counter and slipped them on, giving a half-embarrassed wince. “I never wear these in public.” When Sydney didn't say anything, he picked up the photo. After a moment he raised his head slowly and looked at her over the top of the glasses. The slip of newsprint quivered in his hand. “What's this about? Where did you get this?”

“Someone put it under my door. I don't know when. I found it less than two hours ago.”

“It's Carrie's funeral,” he said.

She wasn't imagining it; his hand was shaking. “Carrie who?”

“Favier. John Favier's my chief of staff. Carrie is—was—his wife. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver earlier this summer. Tragic. She was … a special woman.”

Sydney reclaimed the photo. “This”—she waved the paper—“Carrie's death, Jason's death, whoever's trying to kill you—it's all related. Did the police catch the driver?”

Slowly, Montoya shook his head. “No. Nothing to go on. No witnesses. Just the side mirror from an old Camry. There was a partial print on it, I remember the cops telling John. It sticks in my mind that they traced it to some private who died in Vietnam. A mistake, obviously.” His tone said you couldn't count on the police to get things right.

Sydney stared him straight in the face and said, “Who would want to kill both Carrie Favier and you?”

He laughed uncomfortably and broke away from her gaze to lift the pasta pot from the stove and drain it into a colander. Steam billowed up, obscuring his features momentarily. “Sure you won't have some?” He filled a plate, topped it with sauce, and, with vodka glass in one hand and plate in the other, crossed the hall to a small den where Daniel Craig as James Bond played on the large-screen television. Sydney followed him, incredulous that he could walk away from her and the conversation. She flung her purse onto an ottoman as he sank into a leather love seat and patted the place beside him. Yeah, when they took up bobsledding in hell. She remained standing.

“Sean Connery was the best Bond,” he said, “but this guy's got a good take on the part.” His comment and his attempt to entice her to join him felt awkward, strained, like he was going through the motions while his mind was elsewhere.

“Damn it!” Sydney shook with rage. He knew something, something about why Jason was killed and why Reese was lying in a hospital fighting for her life, and he was making small talk about a stupid movie. Hands on her hips, she stood in front of him, blocking his view of the television. “Tell me! You were screwing her, weren't you, this Carrie? Her husband found out and—”

“No.” Montoya shook his head. “It wasn't like that. Yeah, Carrie and I had a thing, but it was damn near a quarter century ago. It didn't last twenty minutes. It's not like John's been a saint either. I covered for him more than once. He's got a thing for redheads.” He eyed her auburn hair meaningfully. “He's my best friend. Take my word for it—he's not involved in this—whatever ‘this' is.”

Frustration bubbled up in Sydney. There had to be a connection between Carrie Favier's death and what was happening now. There had to be. Before she could puzzle through it, the doorbell rang.