Close Call (4 page)

Paul

Paul got off the
Metro at the Eastern Market stop at the corner of 7th and Pennsylvania Avenue SE at noon. He avoided taxis whenever possible if on a job; just because a cabbie could barely speak English didn't mean he wouldn't remember your face. Ditto for rental cars. There were records and you always ran the risk of accidents, attracting police attention. No, in cities with public transportation, buses and subways were a killer's best friend.

He cursed the heat rising up from the asphalt as he crossed 8th Street SE. A night's thinking had convinced him to dispose of Ellison, per the client's instructions, before proceeding with the main target. No telling what Ellison might tell the police about the strange call he'd answered once word of Montoya's death hit the streets. No, the client was right: it was best to eliminate the risk—no matter how slight—up front. After matching Sid Ellison's home number with its street address, he'd memorized the address and the route to the house; he'd learned early in his career never to commit anything to paper. In the Army they called it “sanitizing.” You never carried anything on a mission—not a photo, letter, ID card, laundry list—that could give the enemy a wedge in interrogation. Of course, operating conditions were different here and he had to carry a wallet, money, credit card, and driver's license. But they weren't in his real name. He carried nothing that would connect him to his real life in Pennsylvania.

A purple car set ridiculously low on wide wheels honked at him as it made an illegal U-turn. Four youths laughed and gave him the finger, speeding past in an exhaust cloud. One of them yelled something in Spanish. Paul let it roll off his back. He was three blocks from the target's house, passing a military facility, it looked like. Two Marines in uniform stood at attention outside the front door and other Marines—identifiable by their high-and-tights—policed the block, picking up trash, wielding a leaf blower, pulling weeds. Paul almost greeted them with “Semper Fi,” catching himself in time. He'd worked with a few Marines in 'Nam, understood their closeness. The brassy notes of a Sousa march drifted from behind the mansion-like facility. Paul wondered what it was but didn't dare question the Marines. He'd look it up later, when he was clear of the scene.

The music diminished as he kept walking, not fast but not slow, a forgettable man following his doctor's instructions to be more active, lose ten pounds. The target's house was ahead on the right. A trash truck trundled down the road and disappeared around the corner. Good. Halfway down the block on the other side of the street a woman spread mulch under some azalea bushes, reminding Paul of the yard tasks he had to complete at home. Although Moira provided care for his father and even undertook light household chores when Paul was traveling, he couldn't ask her to aerate the lawn or fertilize the shrubs.

The crack of a bat from further down the block jerked his head around. All of a sudden he was a senior in high school again, dropping the bat, knowing he'd connected for a double, maybe a triple. His powerful thigh muscles bunched and he pounded down the baseline to first, tagging the base and rounding the corner, headed for second. The center fielder was scrambling for the ball, coming up with it. His chest expanded and deflated, the tightness feeling good. He vaguely heard his teammates' screams, the crowd's cheers as his feet thudded into the dirt. He could make third. His peripheral vision caught the ball headed straight for the third baseman's mitt. Instinctively his body set up to slide, his hip joints loosening, his left leg easing out from under him.

He never knew how it happened, but suddenly he and the third baseman were lying in a twisted heap, coated with dust, the base knocked askew. His shoulder hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. “Safe!” yelled the ump. The runner they put in for him made it home on the next hit, and the Panthers won the state championship. But a torn rotator cuff ended his career as a shortstop, lost him his baseball scholarship to Penn State. Where would he be now, he wondered for perhaps the thousandth time, if he'd stopped at second base? If he'd gone to Penn State as planned—he didn't have the money for it without the scholarship—maybe he never would've ended up in the Army, never found his niche in Special Forces, never been trained to do what he did.

The thought brought him back to the present and he saw that the noise he'd thought was a bat was really a homeowner with a broom, whacking at a rug draped over the porch rail.
Focus
, he told himself, sniffing the air to make sure it didn't really carry a whiff of hot dogs. He was abreast of the address he'd memorized. He squatted, his knees making a sound like crinkling wax paper, and pretended to tie his shoe directly in front of Ellison's townhouse. Painted dark green, it was mated with a red brick-faced house on the left and a gray one with black trim on the right. The scrap of lawn was neatly maintained. No sign of kids' toys or animals. Good. Maybe, if he were really lucky, Sid Ellison lived alone. Paul moved on, glancing between the houses as he walked. No fence.

Playing it safe, he strolled two blocks past the target's house before turning. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his sides. The nylon pullover he wore was good for concealing his weapon but damned uncomfortable in the heat. He swiped his sleeve across his forehead. A mail carrier stopping her square vehicle two blocks up gave him an idea. When he reached the Ellison house again he pulled open the mailbox, careful to use the fleshy ball under his thumb so as not to leave prints, and pantomimed slipping an envelope inside, as if he were delivering a note. Bills, flyers, a Sharper Image catalog, and
The
Economist
half filled the small space. The items he could see without touching anything were all addressed to
S. L. Ellison
. Bingo.

Nudging the box closed with his elbow, he looked around. Across the street, a realtor's sign and a tube of brochures were staked in the front yard. Not that you could really call it a yard, he thought, crossing the road. More like a patch or a tuft. In fact, why bother putting grass in a space that small? Just pave it or tile it, put out a table and chairs or a grill and call it done. The house next door had a dark green ivy groundcover instead of grass. That looked better. Maybe he should try ivy in that shady patch on the side of his pop's house where the grass kept dying. Paul pulled open the tube and took a brochure. Looking like a prospective buyer would give him an excuse for lingering.

His new burner phone rang, making him drop the flyer. Only two people had the number, his client and Moira. “Yes?”

“Paul, I hate to bother you … I know you've got meetings, but I think you need to come home. Your father—” Anxiety and exasperation in equal measures tinged Moira's voice.

“What's happened?”

“He's been arrested.”

“What! He's a cop. He was a cop.” Paul forced himself to lower his voice.

“They picked him up for indecent exposure. He slipped out and walked down to the 7-Eleven to buy some cigarettes, wearing nothing but his slippers. He went past a bus stop where middle school girls were waiting for the school bus. They—”

Paul closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I get the picture.”

“The police released him to me, but someone must have talked about institutionalizing him because he's traumatized, keeps asking for you. Actually, he's asking for Eldon—”

“His older brother, dead twenty years.”

“—but I assume he means you. I'm so sorry.”

“It's not your fault, Moira. I'll be home tonight.”

He hung up, bending to retrieve the brochure without really seeing it. Shit. This could screw up his timetable massively. Three hours to Barrytown, a stop at his old stomping grounds to ask what the fuck they meant by hauling in his father, a visit with his pop, three hours back … He needed to take care of Ellison and hit the road.

His eyes swiveled back to the target's house, just in time to see a tall man with dark hair approach the gate. He held a briefcase in one hand, and a laptop case was slung over his shoulder. Could it be … ? He looked somewhat familiar. He could've been in that deli.

Paul crumpled the flyer, his eyes scanning the neighborhood, looking for movement in the windows or on the street, anything to indi
cate witnesses. No shadows flickering behind curtains, no blinds
dented down by curious fingers, no kids riding trikes. Nothing. Maybe this was his lucky day. Slipping his hand into the pullover pocket, he started across the street.

Sydney

Sydney sat at her
desk and studied her online calendar, fighting off the anxiety that nibbled at her as she noted all the appointments she'd be missing just in the next couple of weeks: the mock interview with Malayna, who was making such good progress; the lunch with Dan Soto to persuade him he needed to recruit Winning Ways' clients for his corporation; the introductory class with seven new women; her end-of-fiscal-year report to the Board of Directors. Well, she didn't mind hand
ing that off to D'won. But the others, the ones involving the
women … she gnawed on a pencil e
raser, hand hovering over the delete key. She co
uldn't leave. Closing down the calendar, she reminded herself that Indonesia had Internet access. She could keep in touch with Winning Ways, and she'd only be gone a year. She needed to focus on the immediate future: she was getting married! Executing a little spin, she banged her hip ag
ainst the desk's corner and grabbed the phone.

She wanted to share her news with someone. Phone in hand, she hesitated. Her best friend Helena was backpacking in Tibet with her partner. Not reachable. Sydney knew she should want to call her mother, or Reese, her older sister. That's what brides did, right? But Connie would be crushed to know they were going to marry simply, within the week, denying her the angst, frustration, and headaches of planning a major society wedding. She'd railed at Sydney for six months after she'd eloped with Dirk. Reese—well, the gap between them was as wide as ever.

Cradling the phone, Sydney walked next door to D'won's office. Little bigger than a storage closet, everything in it was sleek and pale gray with white accents: baseboards, shelves, the melamine desk, the laptop. D'won's apricot shirt popped against the neutral background. He was on the phone, dreadlocks swishing as he shook his head in response to what the person on the other end of the line was saying. “No, no, no—” he started.

“I'm getting married,” Sydney announced.

D'won jerked his head up, said “Let me call you back” into the phone, and stood. “Say what?”

“I'm getting married. To Jason.”

“Finally.” A grin split his face and he came around the desk to hug her so tightly her back cracked and she could feel his ribs. He smelled of coconut-lime aftershave. “I wish you every happiness, Syd. You'll be happy—Jason's a good dude. He loves you.”

She hugged him back and then pulled away. “There's more. I'm moving to Indonesia, so you'll be in charge here. But don't get any delusions of permanent emperorhood. I'll be back in a year.”

His smile faltered. “I don't know if I'm ready—”

“You're ready.” She smiled at him through a strange mist. She blinked it away. “You'll do a fabulous job. Hotchkiss and the board will probably tell me to stay in Indonesia.”

“Not likely, boss,” D'won said drily. “Hotchkiss would kick my Catholic black ass to the curb tomorrow if he could. I swear that man thinks I practice voodoo in my basement.” He flapped a hand as if to clear away a bad smell. “I'm not spoiling your big news by thinking about him. Have you talked about a date?”

“Next week. Maybe Tuesday.”

“Damn, that's fast. This calls for a celebration. I'm taking you to lunch.”

“You don't have to—”

“Downstairs. Ten minutes.”

“It's only ten o'clock.”

“So?” He cocked a challenging brow.

She smiled, feeling giddy. “Meet you down there.”

Sydney was waiting on the sidewalk in front of Winning Ways when D'won pulled to the curb in his yellow Miata. She hopped in and he wedged his way back into traffic, sticking his arm out the window to give the finger to a honking station wagon behind them. “Moron.”

“Where are we lunching?” she asked, used to D'won's continuing commentary on road hogs, tailgaters, speeders, and generic incompetents who should never have received a driver's license. He was endlessly tolerant and patient in the classroom but a total flamer on the road.

His glance darted to her hand. “Where's your ring? The engagement's not official until there's a great big sparkly on your finger.” He lifted his left hand from the wheel to waggle his fourth finger.

“He's a college professor,” Sydney objected, massaging her ringless finger. “I'm pretty sure he'll have a ring for me tonight,” she added, wanting to fast-forward to the moment when she could be with Jason again.

“He's probably had it for a year and a half, waiting for the right moment, waiting for you to get over your commitment phobia enough that you wouldn't run screaming for the hills like someone avoiding a chain-saw-wielding serial killer at the mention of the
M
word,” D'won said, swooping into a small parking lot outside a two-story brick building with
Delia's
in elegant script across the front. Only one other car, a late-model Mercedes, sat in the lot.

“It doesn't seem very popular,” Sydney said, choosing to ignore D'won's exaggerated description of her natural caution about a second marriage. They walked around the side of the building and approached the entrance. “What kind of food—?” She didn't finish the question as she stared at the display windows, then turned a disbelieving face to D'won, who was grinning like a fool.

“D'won! What—?”

“This is where my brother's wife, Angelique—you've met her—got her dress.” He shrugged as if taking Sydney shopping for a wedding dress was no big deal. “I called for an appointment and we got lucky. You don't have any time to waste if you want to get married before flying off to Indonesia.”

She flung her arms around him and hugged convulsively, unable to say anything because of the lump blocking her throat.

“Just don't get anything white,” D'won said, pulling away, “because the whole world knows for damned sure you ain't no virgin.”

She laughed and they ascended the two shallow stairs leading into the bridal shop. Pushing through the glass doors took them out of the DC heat into the hushed cool of another world. Regency England, maybe, Sydney thought, noting the satin-upholstered chairs with their spindly legs, and the bronze and crystal chandeliers that cast a very modern light on the extravagant dresses that lined the showroom's walls; there were more shades of white, ecru, oyster, vanilla, and even pink than she knew existed.

A petite woman of a certain age, wearing an exquisitely fitted lavender suit, glided across the Aubusson-style carpet, hands out in welcome. She could have been anywhere between fifty and sixty-five, with expensively maintained ash-blond hair. Sydney suspected she accessorized her weekend wear with a Pekinese or two peeking out of a Kate Spade handbag. Her shrewd eyes flitted between D'won and Sydney, assessing their relationship. Her gaze lingered on D'won's apricot shirt and paisley silk tie, and Sydney could see it on her face when she decided he was not the groom but a gay buddy along to advise on a dress. D'won wasn't gay but didn't mind when people assumed he was, misled by his fashion taste.

“Congratulations on your engagement and welcome to my shop. I am Delia.” Her eyes noted Sydney's bare left hand but she was too polite, or too much the saleswoman, to comment. Sydney slid the hand surreptitiously behind her back. “Have you set a date?”

“Next week,” Sydney said.

Delia took the news without blinking. “Then we'd better get started. Did you have a style in mind?”

“I was thinking maybe a suit … ” She hadn't actually given the matter any thought, but a suit seemed appropriate for a second marriage. It was dignified.

Delia nodded. Before she could say anything, D'won broke in. “What's this suit shit, Syd? You need yards of train and sparkles”—his hands waved in front of his chest—“and a veil.”

“I don't think—”

“What did you wear to the registrar—or whatever they call 'em in Austria? Jeans, I'll bet.”

“A perfectly nice skirt and—”

“You've finally found the right guy, Syd. A suit does not say ‘I'm giddy with love and excited about starting a life on the other side of the planet with you,'” D'won said in the same voice he used when telling Winning Ways clients what constituted acceptable interview attire. “Indulge. She'll try that one.” He pointed to the confection of eggshell-colored satin and lace in the display window.

A delicious feeling of irresponsibility drifted over her. Not the bad kind. The kind that said she could go with the flow, cede control, try on a few dresses if it made D'won happy.
And me
, she admitted.

“A wonderful choice with your height and your coloring,” Delia said approvingly, moving to the racks to locate the gown. She surged toward the dressing room, swathes of material draped over her arms. “Do you need foundation garments?”

“Does she think I need a girdle?” Sydney whispered to D'won.

He lifted both hands in an “I'm not going there” gesture and she giggled. She was not a giggler and the sound surprised her.

All urge to laugh left when she stood on the round dais in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors and surveyed the gown's effect. The shimmering satin cast a glow on her skin and made her auburn hair look redder. The crystal-encrusted bodice, fitted to high hip, minimized her full bust and made her look slim as a lily. She hadn't worn anything so form-fitting in a long, long time. Lifting her hair off her neck, she piled it atop her head. An up-do would be elegant. She spun around, the gown's weight making her movements languid and graceful, and asked, “Well?”

D'won gave a thumbs-up and said, “Now that's what I'm talking about. And you wanted a suit.” He snorted.

Delia nodded crisply and said, “Charming.”

Sydney's heel caught as she turned back to the mirror and she lurched slightly. “Do you think Jason will like it?”

“Good Lord, Syd,” D'won said with an eye roll. “Of course he will. The man's not dead.”