Close Call (9 page)

Sydney laughed, half embarrassed, and resumed walking. “I'm sorry. It's a bad habit. I've been assessing interview attire for so many years that I go into auto-pilot mode without thinking about it.”

“Do you teach people how to dress for interviews?”

“Women. And teach them interviewing skills, professional etiquette, a whole host of things.”

“How'd you get into that?”

Alight with interest, his eyes focused on her face, and she found herself telling him about looking for a purpose after getting her MBA and divorcing Dirk. “I came into a trust fund when I turned twenty-five and I always knew I wanted to use it to help people. After the scandal”—she glossed over it, assuming he'd read up on her background—“I looked for a way to help disadvantaged women make something of themselves. It's too easy to be pulled off course, even when you have all the advantages of money and education and family. Sorry, I'm on my soapbox.” She smiled sheepishly and took a swallow of water.

“No, I'm interested. Really.” West moved closer to let a skateboarder rocket by. “Do you fund it all yourself?”

She shook her head. “No. I provided seed money, but we established a board of directors a year after I got the organization going. They do fundraising, among other things. My mom's on it. She's good at separating the wealthy from their hard-earned cash.”

“Useful.”

They strolled another half block in silence. West's undemanding companionship made her uneasy. What was his agenda? Suspicious of the silence, she asked, “Did you check on that phone number from the cell phone, the one that called me?”

He nodded. “It was another burner phone, which is consistent with your story. If I were calling a contract killer, I certainly wouldn't do it from my home phone. And I followed up with Congressman Montoya. It was brave of you to go warn him.”

The unlooked-for understanding of her revulsion for politicians and all things political caught her unaware. “He thought I made it up, too,” she said, hiding her feelings by pretending to read graffiti spray-painted onto a construction sign.

They looked up as Marine One
whop-whopped
overhead, descending toward the White House, then walked on. “What do you do now?” Sydney asked. “How do you find Jason's killer?”

“We process the evidence from the scene, interview neighbors and anyone who might have been in the area. We look at his bank accounts, talk to his coworkers, look for a motive.”

“You won't find one,” she said positively. “Because the killer wasn't after him.” She stopped. “My sister's waiting for me to text. She's probably worried that the carrion stripped my carcass bare. She used to be one of them, so she should know.”

“Your sister's a reporter?”

“Was. She writes true crime now. Reese Linn.”

“I've heard of her. She wrote that book about the Secret Service killer.” He looked down at her, eyes intent. They had flecks of sherry-gold and caramel in them. “We're keeping an open mind, Sydney, looking at all the possibilities.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” She offered a hand in pointed farewell, and he shook it. “I'm going to find the man who lost that cell phone. Even if I have to offer myself up as bait to do it. When can I move back into my house?” The thought of being in the space where Jason had died made her shiver, but she couldn't think of any other way of finding the killer.

“We're done with it,” he said, a crease appearing between his brows. He pulled out a card, scribbled something on it, and passed it to her. “That's my cell phone number so you can reach me directly.”

She nodded and tucked the card into her pocket. “Thanks for the escort, Detective.”

“Ben.”

She acknowledged him with an uplifted hand as he threaded his way through stopped cars to the far sidewalk and the Metro stop. He might just be good-copping her, but he seemed like a decent guy. Reasonable.

She texted Reese, half-regretting that she'd let her sister bring her to the meeting. Part of her was grateful, but part of her was suspicious of her sister's seeming concern. Regardless, she needed to go home.

Sydney

Reese pulled to the
curb ten minutes later, and Sydney got into the Highlander. Reese's blond hair was tousled and she wore a variation of the khakis-and-T-shirt ensemble she'd had on yesterday. It was the one thing Sydney could remember perfect Reese and their mom fighting about—her clothes. She rarely dressed up enough to suit Connie Linn's sense of what was appropriate. “You can't wear jeans to church” and “Don't tell me you're wearing that hoodie to Kelsey's birthday party? Go change this instant, young lady” were phrases that had echoed through their home when Reese was younger.

“You've got a real future with Uber if you decide to give up true crime writing,” Sydney said in greeting, trying to forestall any questions about the police interview.

“Not in this lifetime,” Reese said. “Inviting strangers into my car? No thanks. I've written too many stories about women who did that. Where to now? Connie's?”

“Home. The townhouse.”

Reese's blond head turned, and even though she was wearing sunglasses, Sydney knew she was eyeing her doubtfully. “Are you sure you're ready for that?”

“I'm a big girl, Reese. Just drop me, okay?”

Reese's jaw tightened. She didn't say anything, either about Sydney wanting to return home or her tone, but she sped up with a force that rocked them back in their seats. They finished the drive to the townhouse in silence, the safest option. Nothing had changed overnight in the neighborhood, which seemed impossible when everything had changed for Sydney. A little girl rode a scooter at the end of the block, a sprinkler scented the air with water, and someone out of sight fired up a lawn mower. The oaks still lined the sidewalk, sturdy and resolute, capped with leaves so green they made Sydney want to cry.

“Are you going to stay here now?” Reese asked in a carefully neutral tone when she found a parking spot only two houses away.

“I'm not sure,” Sydney said, hand on the door handle, suddenly not so sure about a lot of things, including the wisdom of returning home so soon. Nothing would have made her admit that to Reese.

“I've got time to come in,” Reese offered.

“I don't need a babysitter,” Sydney said, but her reply lacked fire, and she wasn't surprised when Reese got out of the car, shut the door, and said, “I'm coming. I'd like to see the place.”

“Why? You're not thinking about writing about Jason's murder, are you?” Sydney's suspicion was instantaneous and flared to anger. “Forget about it. You do not get to capitalize on Jason's death, his parents' grief, my—”

Reese threw up her hands. “Jesus, Syd! Do you hear yourself? Stop being paranoid for one moment. You live here. I'd like to see your place. Idle curiosity about my little sister's life. That's it. Forget it. I'll wait here.” She stopped and crossed her arms over her chest. A man with a briefcase glanced at them from across the street and then hurried on, careful not to make eye contact.

A wisp of shame made Sydney say, “No, it's okay. Come on in.”

She unlocked the door and pushed it inward. Air sifted out, sharp with the odor of ammonia. The cleaning team Connie had called had already been here. Thank God. She couldn't have faced … she didn't even want to imagine it. She hesitated on the threshold, unable to take the next step.

Reese eyed her. “It's always hard, walking into a place where there's been a murder,” she observed.”I'm the last person to go all
Amityville Horror
on you, but it gets me every time.”

Sydney knit her brows, and Reese explained. “For every book, I have to see the scene. Where the murder or murders happened. It's not like I'm a cop or even a reporter anymore. I don't get there when the scene is fresh, when there's a body or blood. It's months after, sometimes years. Still, it always takes an extra bit of effort to get myself over the threshold. For the most part, the houses are just houses. They don't give me the willies. I don't believe in ghosts or in disembodied evil. All of the evil I've come up against has been firmly lodged in living bodies.”

“‘For the most part'?”

“There was one place,” Reese said. An unusual hesitance dragged at her words. “In California. It was part of the Secret Service case, Hibling's last victim before he got caught. It was a bungalow, 1940s vintage, two bedrooms, the most beautiful hibiscus bushes I ever saw blooming on either side of the front door, with huge, frilly, pink and coral blossoms.”

The way Reese dwelled on the flowers, it was like she was reluctant to enter the house, even in memory.

“Inside … I smelled blood,” Reese said. “The murder happened fourteen months before I got there, and the house had been completely redone—new paint, carpet ripped out and laminate floors put in, everything—but I still smelled blood. The family that lived there, a mom and dad and two little girls who'd gotten the house cheap because of its history, clearly didn't notice the smell. I snapped a couple of photos and got out.” She cleared her throat, as if embarrassed about her reaction, and shoved the door wide so the sunbeams could reach in, dance along the wide planks of the oak floor. “If we're going to do this, let's do it.” She cocked her head so blond bangs flopped into her eyes.

Sydney's gaze followed the path the sun had taken, and she felt weak with relief to see that the cleaning crew had completely obliterated any sign of the murder. She entered the house and stood still for a moment. Nothing, thank God. No cold, creeping feeling of horror, no vibes from the killer, no sense of Jason. He wasn't the type who'd hang around, even if there were such things as ghosts, which there weren't. She shook her head and snorted at the strange direction her thoughts had taken.

Shoving her sunglasses atop her head, Reese looked around. “Nice place. Feels like you.”

“Thanks.” Sydney didn't say more, but she felt a strange wince of sadness that Reese had never been to her home. She tamped it down.

She drifted into the kitchen and opened the fridge. She'd need to pick up some skim milk and eggs. The sight of the kiwi-flavored yogurt Jason liked brought tears. What would she do with it? She couldn't eat the vile stuff and it seemed impossible to just throw it in the trash. Worse, though, to let it molder away for months, incubating strange life forms. She was losing it. She slammed the door shut, earning a curious look from Reese. “I suppose I should give his stuff to his parents,” she said, her mind moving from yogurt to Jason's clothes and personal items in the bedroom and bathroom.

“Want me to help sort through it?” Reese asked.

“No.” The response came too quickly. Sydney tempered it. “Not today. I can't do it yet.” Her sister's incessant helpfulness after years of no connection was grating on her. Part of her couldn't help thinking Reese had an ulterior motive. She crossed to the back door and looked out at the small garden patio. The geraniums needed water. A squirrel was busily burying acorns in the pot with the maidenhair ferns. No wonder they looked so weedy. She reached for the knob, planning to unlock the door and step outside for a breath of air on the patio, but it was already unlocked. Strange. Could the police have left her house unsecured when they finished with … with whatever they needed to do? Or the cleaning team. The cleaning team must not have locked up when they left. She made a mental note to tell Connie, locked the door, and turned back to the kitchen.

Reese rummaged in the pantry, emerged with a bag of Oreos, and popped one into her mouth. It was totally unfair the way she could eat anything without gaining an ounce. “So, how are you planning to summon this hit man?” she asked around a mouthful of cookie.

Sydney blinked. “How did—”

“Oh, come on, Syd. I've known you for thirty-five years.” She flipped up a hand when Sydney started to speak. “Strike that.”

Sydney had opened her mouth to say Reese didn't know her at all, that she didn't know the first thing about her, that the media version of her Reese had helped create bore little resemblance to the person she was fifteen years ago and none at all to who she was now, but since Reese had correctly guessed her intention, she held back, hating that her sister had read her so easily.

“At any rate, I make my living sussing things out, reading people. Connie told me what you'd said about switching phones with a killer. Clearly, you blame yourself in part for Jason's death.”

“It's my fault. I should have gone to the police immediately.”

Reese ignored her interjection. “Of course you're going to try to track this guy down, the same way you followed Alana Boetcher around in sixth grade and got a video of her bullying that girl with Tourette's, Cindy—”

“Candy.”

“—and took it to the principal so she got expelled, because Candy wouldn't report her. The same way you stole the neighbors' collie because they left him outside all the time without food or water and he kept getting his head stuck under the fence trying to dig his way out.”

“Dad made me give him back.” Sydney had been upset and furious, pleading with her dad for the dog's sake, but he had gone with the letter of the law rather than with mercy. Like he always did. She'd done her best to help Wooster the collie by organizing her friends to report the neighbors to the humane society and animal control so frequently that they ended up giving the dog away to avoid the headache.

“Point is, you're not one to let wrongs go unrighted. And murder is the biggest wrong of all.” Reese paused as if to consider that. “Well, one of them.”

Sydney wondered what her sister was thinking about, to make her qualify her statement.

“So, what'd you have in mind … Ouija board, billboard on Fourteenth Street saying ‘Nyah, nyah, you missed'?” Reese chomped another cookie, holding the bag out in mute invitation.

Sydney took one, twisting it apart. It was like taking the lid off a memory. She and Reese used to eat Oreos this way under a sheet tent draped over the dining room table, when they were maybe five and eight. They sat on cushions commandeered from the couch, played endless games of Go Fish, and sang along to a tape of children's songs.

She dropped her uneaten cookie in the trash. “I don't know. Surely he's figured out by now that he got the wrong person? He must know I'm still alive and kicking. He might try again.”

“And what are you going to do if he shows up here? Ask him to turn himself in? Say ‘pretty please'? Call the cops? You'll be dead before the call goes through. You don't even have a gun, for God's sake.”

Something about the way Reese said it made Sydney think that Reese did. Her sister was making her feel stupid, and she realized she hadn't thought this through. “I can get one.”

“If you get a gun, the one most likely to get shot with it is you,” Reese said matter-of-factly. “What you need is a bodyguard. I'm moving in with you until this is over.”

“The hell you are.” It was an instantaneous response, but Sydney didn't feel like revoking it on second thought. Her feelings were a mishmash of resentment at Reese taking over, embarrassment that she was so ill-prepared to lure the killer out of hiding, and fear of the possible consequences if she succeeded. She lashed out. “What—you think all this will make a good story? Wasn't once enough for you?”

“You're in trouble and I want to help,” Reese said flatly. “I screwed you over once, but I'm trying to make up for it. You need someone to watch your back and I can be that someone.” She stood in the middle of the small kitchen, backlit by the window so her hair was a pale nimbus and her face was shadowed. She was tall and lean and fit, but something about the tilt of her head or the set of her shoulders felt vulnerable.

It threw Sydney off-balance. “You picked up your bodyguard certification when I wasn't looking?” Even she wasn't sure if she was being snide or stalling for time. The fridge compressor thumped on and she jumped.

“I learned a lot hanging out with special forces guys and freedom fighters. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve, not to mention a nine mil in my purse,” Reese said. She leveled a look at Sydney. “Don't be dumb, Syd. You can't do this alone. You getting killed doesn't make any of this better.” She paused, and the corner of her mouth crooked up the tiniest bit. “If you don't let me stay, I'll tell Connie on you.”

“You always were a tattletale,” Sydney said without heat.

“Oh, I like that. Who was it told Mom when she saw Corky Tyler sneaking in the basement window? I was grounded for six weeks and missed prom.”

“Corky Tyler was an asshole.”

“Yeah, he was,” Reese said. “But he could kiss like nobody's business.”

They were out of practice with banter and it felt slightly off, like one instrument in an orchestra a half beat behind the rest; still, Sydney was suddenly absurdly grateful that they were trying. Despite that, she didn't want her sister moving in. Reese really might be looking to make up for what she did, but there was no making up for it. Even though they were connecting a bit more easily than usual, and even though Sydney believed her sister was genuinely sorry about Jason, she couldn't stomach the thought of her staying in the house. There was enough tension in her life at the moment.

“I've got this. Don't worry about me.” After a beat, she added, “But thanks for the offer.”

Reese sucked her lips in and then release them with a faint smack. Her voice was level as she said. “Fine. It's your funeral. Offer's open if you change your mind.”

“I won't.”

Reese gave a brusque nod, tossed her keys in the air, caught them, and said, “Lock the doors after me.”

Sydney drifted into the front room after Reese left. Jason's bicycle, three thousand dollars' worth of sleek red and silver, glinted at her from behind the sofa. How could she ever have objected to its presence in the living room? It wasn't like they entertained heads of state or Martha Stewart, for heaven's sake. She squeezed the brake handle gently. He'd tried to talk her into riding with him numerous times, but she'd told him she didn't have a bicycle, didn't have the time, was afraid she'd ruin his workout by being too slow, when really she was embarrassed to tell him she'd never learned how to ride a bicycle. Five-year-olds could ride bikes, for heaven's sake. He'd have been happy to teach her. She could have done that for him, should have learned to ride a damned bike. Tearing up, she let her hand glide over the bike's seat before crossing to the stairs. She hesitated, looking up. She put a tentative foot on the first tread, unwilling to face the bedroom but needing to change into her own clothes. As she reluctantly climbed two more steps, a noise drew her eyes to the ceiling. Who—?