Close Call (8 page)

Paul
Thursday, August 3

The trip to the
southeast corner of Baltimore
Wednesday night into Thursday morning
had been tedious and pain-filled. The hours-long delay caused by an overturned tractor-trailer rig hauling a flammable chemical had pushed Paul to his limit. Police had siphoned traffic onto a detour, and by the time Paul finally arrived at the doctor's house it was past eleven. His shoulder throbbed as he dragged himself from the car. In the dim light cast by a gibbous moon, he saw blood had leaked from beneath the bandages. Good thing the cops had been too busy directing traffic to pay attention to the cars' occupants. He rang the bell by the narrow house's front door, not worried about waking the doctor. Late-night visitors were commonplace here, and even though the doctor had long been banned from practicing medicine, he made a good living tending to people who wanted care without questions or official reports.

Pulling Paul into the house, the slight man extracted the bullet and re-bandaged the wound in his kitchen, apologizing for not being able to supply him with antibiotics. He spoke with a slight Eastern European accent. “Barbiturates, opiates, and the like I can purchase on the street. Antibiotics? Well, there's not much market for them and you know I can't prescribe. You could maybe visit your physician, tell him you've got strep throat or bronchitis or something … get him to give you a scrip for antibiotics.”

Paul looked around the brightly lit kitchen with the blackout curtains shrouding the windows, the red enamel teapot on the range, the week's worth of crusty dishes piled in the sink, the overflowing trash can. A vaguely fishy smell made him wonder about the doctor's dinner. A cockroach as long as a credit card stuck its antennae out from under the sink, then skulked along the baseboards. Paul decided he would make finding antibiotics a priority.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, handing over enough cash to pay for his care and the doc's silence. “Can I crash on your couch for a few hours?”

He slept for three hours, then drove his car to one of the long-term lots at BWI early Thursday morning. Taking the shuttle to a satellite lot, he stole a car. It was an absolute crime how many people left keys magneted to their fenders when they went on long trips. Afraid they'd drop their key rings in a Venetian canal or leave them in a Japanese sake bar or something, Paul supposed. The drive from Baltimore to DC took only forty-five minutes in the stolen Taurus at three in the morning.

He glided to a halt down the block from Ellison's townhouse. One light shone from an upstairs window six houses away, but other than that, everything was still and dark.

It took him less than fifteen minutes to jimmy the back door and silently plant the .22 as his client had directed. It was probably a waste
of time, but the client wanted him to do it, and he was in the customer service business. Just as if he sold recliners or owned a bar, he thought morosely. And the client was always right. Except when he was a lying, cheating son-of-a-bitch, which was most of the time, because how many good honest folks hired contract killers? Paul had long ago learned to take precautions to avoid getting stiffed—or worse—by his clients.

He headed back to the motel room rented in the name of Lionel Ross just as the first wave of government workers, lobbyists, and military people were washing into the city, clogging every major road. He'd sleep all morning and then make a quick trip out to visit a safety deposit box he kept in a suburban Maryland bank. He had several such caches around the country, stocked with guns, cash, and fake IDs. He would get his sniper pistol, do one last recce, and be ready to kill Montoya Friday morning as he'd planned. The cops, Ellison, getting shot by his pop—none of that was going to get in the way of this payday.

Sydney

Sydney woke slowly Thursday
morning, clinging to sleep to cushion herself from the grief pulsing just beyond wakefulness. She blinked in confusion at the sight of her old Breyer horses on a bookshelf. Memory returned with crushing force. Jason was dead. She'd spent the night at Connie's. The evening was a blur of take-out Chinese and far too much bourbon. Her pillow was damp, and she got out of the single bed now with a grief or bourbon hangover pounding inside her skull. Brushing her teeth, she swallowed painkillers she found in the medicine cabinet and dressed reluctantly in Reese's clothes. Whatever else she did today, she needed to return home and get some of her own clothes. First, though, she had to meet with her lawyer and confront the police.

“Ms. Ellison, what did you and Mr. Nygaard fight about Tuesday night?”

The female detective, Graves, was in Sydney's face, and Sidney had had about enough of the woman's attitude and the faint chemical scent of dry cleaning fluid wafting off her. She flicked a glance at Hilary Trent, seated beside her. In her mid-fifties, with strong features and a short Afro threaded with gray, wearing a cranberry-colored Armani suit and stiletto heels, the attorney exuded power. Her relaxed posture signaled her disdain for the interview taking place in front of her. Sydney wished she could project that same aura of “We've got to go through the motions, even though this is ridiculous.”

Hilary held up a forefinger and sighed. “Detective Graves, sit down and stop harassing Miss Ellison or we're done here.”

“We didn't fight,” Sydney said as Graves reluctantly dropped into a chair beside Detective West on the other side of the conference table. At Hilary Trent's insistence, they were in her law offices, luxuriously ensconced in rolling leather chairs, drinking designer water from cut-crystal glasses. “He told me he was going to Indonesia for a year. He'd won an award. I was surprised, that's all.”

Graves's expression brought to mind a cat sneaking up on a canary. She leaned forward, her too-short suit sleeves revealing bony wrists. Even Sydney's borrowed suit fit better. Tugging one sleeve down, Graves caught Sydney watching and scowled. “But one of your neighbors told us that”—she referred to a notebook—“‘there was a lot of yelling, and then he told her that it was over.' Sounds like a fight to me.” Her self-satisfied smile made Sydney want to put a fist through her face.

Mrs. Colwell, she thought, exasperated. “He asked me to come to Indonesia with him. I needed some time to think about it. I called him the next morning from work to tell him I'd go and he asked me to marry him. I guess Mrs. Colwell didn't manage to eavesdrop on that conversation.”

Hilary nudged Sydney's leg under the table, a cue to cut the sarcasm.

“Did anyone else?” It was West's even voice. He sat at ease with his chair pushed back from the table so one ankle could rest on his knee. Argyle socks made a playful contrast with his navy suit. They were unexpected. Sydney eyed him, trying to read him. He met her gaze with no sign of his partner's hostility, but no sympathy, either. “No,” she said finally. “It was a private conversation.”

“So no one else knew you were engaged?”

“I told my deputy. Why does it matter?”

“And you and your deputy, D'won Duvalier, were shopping yesterday afternoon, right?” Graves's tone condemned her for shirking work in addition to murdering her fiancé. The detective referred to her notebook again. “But you and Duvalier went your separate ways ‘a bit after twelve thirty,' he says, and no one can vouch for your whereabouts until you showed up at the crime scene at two. Even supposing it took you forty-five minutes to get home, that still leaves the better part of an hour unaccounted for.”

“I sat for a while in the park, people-watching, then went to a couple of stores for the flowers and champagne,” Sydney said, holding onto her temper with an effort. “I told you that. Then I took the Metro and walked home from there. Jason wasn't supposed to be home until two. I guess his department meeting got cancelled.”

“But no one remembers you at the florist or the liquor store you said you went to, and you didn't use a credit card.”

“So now it's against the law to pay cash?” Sydney glared at Graves.

West leaned forward, claiming her attention. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Mr. Nygaard?”

She found herself watching his eyelashes as he blinked. If he were a woman, he could make a fortune as a mascara model. “No one.”

“Everyone's got enemies,” Graves put in.

“Speak for yourself,” Sydney said, unable to keep the dislike out of her voice. “Jason didn't. His students loved him, his coworkers respected him. He wasn't the kind of guy who made enemies.”

West ran a finger back and forth along his eyebrow. “Were there any students who loved him too much?”

She didn't follow, and it must have shown, because he asked, “Did any of them call him at home, pester him, leave him love notes?”

“Good heavens, no,” Sydney said. “Nothing like that. I told you, Jason was killed by mistake. Whoever did it was trying to kill me.”

“Because of that phone call,” West said.

She heard his doubt. “Yes.” She fixed him with a steady gaze. “Why is that so hard to believe?” She felt him trying to read her, his
narrowed gaze weighing the dark hollows under her eyes, her
clenched jaw and interwoven fingers. She could almost hear him thinking, “Grief … or guilt?” Her mouth tightened. To hell with him.

“Oh, let's see,” Graves jumped in. “Maybe it's because no one else can verify the nature of the conversation you had with this alleged contract killer. In fact, no one can even verify you didn't buy the phone yourself and make up the call to throw us off the track when you killed the boyfriend—your alleged fiancé—who was dumping you. Maybe it's—”

“Okay, party's over,” Hilary Trent said, standing. “Thank you for coming in today, detectives,” she said, for all the world as if she'd invited them to a soiree. “Give me a call if you need any further information.”

The detectives stood as well. “Thank you for your time, Miss Ellison,” West said neutrally.

Sydney had rarely come up against someone so hard to read. He must be a whiz at poker. His partner remained silent. She offered her hand and West shook it, his hand hard and warm against her palm.

“I want to help you catch Jason's killer,” she said, meeting his eyes squarely.

He studied her face for a moment. “We'll get him.” His unspoken “or her” sounded loud in the air around them.

He lingered a moment, looking like he might say something more, then crossed to the glass doors and pushed through them with unnecessary force, his partner trailing behind.

Hilary's voice recalled Sydney's attention. “That Detective Graves has a real chip on her shoulder, but overall, that went off well.” She kicked off her Jimmy Choo heels and padded stocking-foot to the door leading into her office.

They entered a suite bigger than Sydney's whole downstairs. “Will they want to interview me again?” she asked.

Hilary nodded. “Undoubtedly. But they've got nothing on you. So your neighbor overheard a tiff … foo!” She waved a hand in airy dismissal. “You have an alibi—half a dozen people can vouch for your presence at the office in the morning and from there on out you were with your deputy almost until you arrived home. My investigator will turn up someone who saw you at one of the shops. You don't have access to a gun and you have no discernible motive. Jason didn't carry life insurance and his will leaves everything to his parents. Not that you'd care about his paltry estate when you have those millions in trust from your grandmama.” She smiled, probably counting up the portion of those millions she'd get as her fee.

Sydney didn't begrudge her a penny. “Thanks, Hilary,” she said, massaging her tense neck muscles.

The older woman gave her a serious look. “It'll go away, Sydney. Everything but the pain of missing Jason.” As if regretting the moment of compassion, she added, “Tell Con she's not going to win a single game tomorrow. Not one. I've got a new racket.” She shooed Sydney out of the office.

Sydney got on the elevator and pulled out her cell phone. She started to text Reese, who had insisted on being her ride again, but the jolt of the elevator as it started down kicked her back to an elevator ride with Jason, shortly after they'd met. They'd climbed the stairs to the top of the Washington Monument on a cold, rainy day that scared off the tourists and found themselves alone in the elevator on the ride down, thigh muscles aching from the climb, cheeks dusted with pink from the strong wind and the exhilarating view. As Sydney laughed at something he said, Jason leaned over and kissed her, the feel of his firm lips on hers warming her to the core. Their first kiss. She put her fingers to her lips at the memory, then deliberately steered her thoughts away from Jason. She'd have time to cry later. Right now, she was going to figure out who killed him. That resolve carried her off the elevator and out to the sidewalk, where camera flashes burned into her retinas.

Reflexively, she closed her eyes. Oh, God, it was starting again. Questions pelted her.

“Ms. Ellison! We understand the police have questioned you about your boyfriend's murder. Do you have a comment?”

“Sydney, over here. How has Manley's death affected you?”

“Do you feel like you're in danger, Ms. Ellison?”

Microphones waved in Sydney's face. The flashes reduced her pupils to pinpricks. It was as if she were twenty again, a pestilence of journalists and paparazzi lying in wait outside her parents' Mount Vernon home, pouncing on her whenever she stepped out the door. She remembered the humiliating questions—Does he get you off, Sydney? Do you prefer an older man's experience?—and the insulting offers to write a tell-all book, be interviewed on Oprah, sleep with some reporter who told her he could make her forget George Manley. She'd broken down one morning after a draining bout of throwing up her breakfast in the toilet—nerves, she'd told Connie—and screamed at the media stalking her, run at the nearest photographer and tried to pull the camera from around his neck. The others clicked their shutters non-stop as she crumpled to the ground, sobbing hysterically. Her mom and dad had carried her into the house and called a doctor, who sedated her.

Well, she wasn't a twenty-year-old who needed sedation now. Walk. Just keep walking. Walk away. Putting a hand up to shield her face from the photographer's flashes, she tried to push through the knot of journalists to cross the street. She'd learned the hard way that saying so much as “hello” to a reporter was an invitation to be misquoted.

“Get back,” a stern voice said. “Miss Ellison has nothing to say.” A hard hand gripped her arm above the elbow and pulled her free, dragging her half a block before the reporters dropped back. “Are you okay, Sydney?”

She lowered her hand and looked into Detective West's brown eyes. The concern and warmth she saw there took her off-guard. His solid frame sheltered her from the rabid reporters. She looked around. “Where's your partner?”

West released her arm and said, “Taking some personal time. I saw the jackals waiting and thought you might need help.”

“That'd seem really thoughtful if you hadn't told them about me in the first place,” she snapped, stalking away. Her heart beat fast and she was shaking. But her brain was working just fine: the police must have tipped off the reporters. No way had anyone in Hilary Trent's office leaked.

He caught up with her in a few strides. “Not me.”

She quickened her pace.

He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, then caught the other shoulder as she slowed, turning her to face him. “Not me,” he repeated, gazing down into her face. “Turning you over to the media doesn't help us solve the case.”

“Now that I buy,” Sydney said, not fighting against his hold. He seemed sincere. “Who does it help? Your partner? She thinks I'm responsible for Jason's death, global warming, and the rise of ISIS.”

He let his hands slide down her arms and then drop to his sides. “Let's just say that if the department is known to be questioning an affluent white woman about a crime, we dodge accusations of only persecuting the poor misunderstood black youth in DC.”

“Equal opportunity persecution, then?”

“Absolutely,” West deadpanned. “Look, can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

She hesitated. “Do I need my lawyer?”

“This is social, not official.” His smile lit his eyes, crinkling his face in all the right places. This is what he looks like at home, Sydney thought, with a beer in one hand and barbecue tongs in the other.

“I didn't know you were allowed to do ‘social' with murder suspects.” She bit her lip, considering. The opportunity to learn what the police knew about Jason's murder overcame her suspicion. “Make mine a bottled water. And let's walk. I've been edgy since … I can't sit still.”

They dodged tourists with cameras and kids surging toward the Mall with its monuments and museums until they reached a street vendor's cart with a short line. West queued for drinks while Sydney lingered in a tree's shade. It was going to be another muggy day, she thought, watching a young couple argue over a map. She lifted her hair off her neck. A slight breeze cooled her. Would West tell her anything useful? She eyed him thoughtfully as he returned and handed her a Poland Spring bottle dewed with condensation.

Well-tailored navy Nordstrom's suit, she noted automatically, plus ironed shirt, polished shoes, and handsome tie. He looked more like a lawyer or a senior-level government official than a cop. Except for those argyle socks.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked. He stirred sugar into his coffee and took a sip.