Wearing a sober gray suit and white shirt banded with a clerical collar, Marlon Hotchkiss slowed as he approached. More than half a foot taller than Sydney’s five-eight, he had a gangly build, outsized hands, and hunched his shoulders forward in a way that made him look like he was protecting something. His immortal soul, Sydney thought acidly, or the secrets of the confessional. Except he wasn’t Catholic. A crag of a nose dominated his face and he used it to sniff out sin, lecturing the single mothers who came to Winning Ways for help, sermonizing on the evils of not only alcohol and drugs but also desecration of the flesh (piercings and tattoos); vanity (painted nails, jewelry, and fashionable clothes); and anything else he found self-indulgent or wasteful.
“My spirit was greatly troubled by yesterday’s news,” he proclaimed.
“Oh?” Sydney stood her ground in the hall, determined not to invite him into her office and extend the session one moment longer than necessary. Since securing the chairmanship a year ago—by one vote—he’d concerned himself far too much with Winning Ways’ daily workings.
“I prayed for the repose of Manley’s soul,” he continued, “and have every confidence that he is at peace in the Lord’s bosom. But we—”
His mention of Manley stung. “I don’t want to talk about George Manley.”
“So angry, Sydney.” He shook his head, not disturbing the abundant white hair combed back from his brow. “The Lord is grieved by an angry soul. But I’m afraid we must talk about Manley since the press is displaying so much interest. I’ve drafted some comments for you to—”
“I’m not talking to reporters or issuing a statement of any kind,” she said. “My relationship with George ended fifteen years ago, and my feelings about his death are private.”
His small smile was a slice of condescension. “Nothing is private when it reflects upon our work, which is God’s work,” he said. “And, unfortunately, the wrongful choices you made as a young woman are now casting Winning Ways in a bad light. We don’t want the efforts of so many hard-working people to be undermined by scandal.”
Sydney stared at him in disbelief. Taking a long breath through her nostrils, she reminded him, “I founded Winning Ways. It was my concept, my money, and my hard work that got Winning Ways started. I—”
He held up one liver-spotted hand. “That’s as may be, my dear, but the responsibility for charting Winning Ways’ course, for protecting its reputation, now rests with me. And the rest of the board,” he added. “We’re in agreement that a brief statement to the press is in the organization’s best interests. It will stifle the media’s curiosity and ensure the story dies a quick death.”
He held out a single sheet of paper and Sydney accepted it, her hand trembling, unable to read the short paragraph through the red mist clouding her vision. Turning her back on Hotchkiss, she strode to her office, wanting to slam the door but closing it with a controlled click instead. “And I’m not your ‘dear,’” she whispered furiously to the door. Not trusting her reaction if she read his press release, she folded the page in half and tore it into strips. Each rip purged a bit of anger until she dropped the confetti into the trash can.
Her office was small but cozy, with two velvet overstuffed chairs arranged before the desk and an art deco lamp she’d bought in college on a small table between them. A colorful Indian rug spanned the space between the chairs and the desk. A glass-fronted bookcase brimming over with books took up most of the back wall, which she’d painted a warm terra-cotta. The local news played on a small television atop the bookcase. A reporter on a street corner was saying, “This is where another member of the city’s homeless population was set on fire last night, the second such incident in only three weeks. The woman, known only as Donna, is in critical condition and police—”
Sydney winced and blanked the screen with the remote. At least they weren’t still talking about George. She slumped into her chair and scowled. The cell phone from the deli sat on her desk. She’d just as soon have confronted a pile of dog poop. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate. She picked it up. Last night, while undressing for bed, she’d found it in her pocket and her suspicions had come flooding back. She’d wanted to ask Jason’s advice, tell him about the strange phone call, but he was hunched over his computer in her spare bedroom/office, earphones on, clearly not wanting to talk. She’d drifted downstairs and eaten the cheesecake, half in revenge against Mrs. Colwell for interrupting her talk with Jason and half in hopes that the heavy chocolate would drug her to sleep.
Sydney called the deli. No one knew anything about her phone. Of course not. After a moment’s hesitation, she punched keys to see the call log. There was only one number. She knew from the date/time stamp that it was the call she’d answered. The outgoing calls list was empty. Curious. Either it was a brand-new phone or the owner habitually erased numbers from the memory. Maybe a cheating spouse? She centered it on the desk, trying to find a reason why she shouldn’t go to the police and warn them that a prominent politician might be an assassin’s target. She could hear the jeers and speculation now, echoes from the past coming back to haunt her. She couldn’t do it.
The office phone rang and she swiveled to answer it, eager to put off making a decision.
Topaz Johnson, Winning Ways’ young receptionist, said hesitantly, “Sydney, there’s a reporter from Channel 9 on the line for you. She wants to interview—”
“No way in hell.” She bit down on her lip as soon as the words escaped.
Topaz giggled.
Sydney fought to regain her calm. “I’m sorry. Just tell her I’m not available.”
“You got it,” Topaz said, sounding like she’d have preferred to relay the first response.
Hanging up, Sydney smacked the cell phone off the desk with the flat of her hand.
6
Sydney
“Whoa, boss, serious face. Who died? Oops.” D’won Duvalier, Sydney’s right-hand man, stood in the doorway holding a steel mug.
He slapped a hand over his mouth. “Me and my big mouth. It’s Manley, right?” He wore a short-sleeved, apricot seersucker shirt tucked into khaki slacks, with a coordinating paisley tie. His hair this week fell in short dreadlocks to mid-ear and was its natural black. Born to Haitian immigrants, D’won had been with Winning Ways from the beginning, first as a consultant on dress and presentation, then as Sydney’s deputy and friend. She often thought she couldn’t run the place without him.
“Not so much. It was a shock to hear he’d died, but it’s been more than a decade since I’ve even spoken to him.” Sydney tried a smile. She was tempted to tell D’won about Hotchkiss’s interference, but talking about it would only fan the flames of her anger. “I’ve just got something to work out.”
“Tell Uncle D’won all about it,” he said, seating himself in the comfier of the moss-green chairs facing her desk. At thirty, he was actually five years younger than she was. He fixed a mock serious look on his cocoa-colored face. “Is it that Jason? Is he cheating on you? I always knew he wasn’t good enough for you. Do you want me to beat him up, teach him a lesson?” D’won balled his hands into fists and leaned forward, his slight frame tensing.
Sydney choked on something between a laugh and a sob. “No, it’s not Jason. Well, it’s partly Jason. He’s leaving for Indonesia in just over a week. He’ll be gone for a year.”
“In-do-ne-sia.” D’won opened his eyes wide. “Wow, boss, I’ve heard of couples wanting some time apart, but that’s ridiculous.”
She didn’t want to discuss Jason, not even with D’won. “Actually,” she said to distract him, “I’m really trying to decide what to do about this.” She nodded at the cell phone she’d retrieved from the floor and stuck in her inbox.
“It’s a cell phone. You don’t do something about it, you make calls on it,” D’won said in the voice of one talking to a slow child. “If you’re rude and thoughtless—which, of c
ourse, you’re not, boss—you carry on loud conversations in the subway, at restaurants, on planes, at the theater, in the john.”
She laughed and D’won looked pleased with himself. His mobile lips stretched into a grin. “Tell Uncle D’won why you need a remedial course on cell phone use.”
She told him about the chaos at the deli, walking out with the wrong phone, and the call. He set his mug down with a snap on the end table. “Say what? Give me that again.”
As she repeated the caller’s words, D’won wrote them down. “Those are his exact words?”
“Near as I can remember. ‘Time for round two. The Montoya job has to look like an accident. You’ll get a bonus if you do it before the election. Payment as previously arranged. Get it done.’ Do you think I should tell the police?”
“Of course, Syd.” Coming from D’won, with his well-earned antipathy toward the police, that was no small endorsement.
Panic fluttered her muscles and she wove her fingers together to keep her hands from shaking. “I can’t. There’ll be reporters, cameras, headlines saying there’s something between Montoya and me—”
“You’re right.” D’won nodded sagely and stood. “And if some assassin offs Montoya, he’ll have only himself to blame for running for office in the first place. The world’ll be better off with one less politician.”
“I didn’t say that! I don’t want him to get killed.” She bit her lower lip, her stomach knotted with indecision.
“Didn’t think so. I’ll do the mock interviews with Belinda and Bo-Bae. You head to the cop shop.” D’won grabbed his mug and headed for the door. “I cannot exist for another instant without more caffeine. Ciao, boss.”
She sat for a moment twiddling two paperclips. Her gaze rested on the photo of her mother and father as newlyweds that sat beside her computer. Her indecision bugged her. She’d been sliding into a pit of indecisiveness for a couple of months, struggling to make choices that would’ve come easily three months ago, before her father died. At work, she was fine. Her personal life was the kicker—she couldn’t seem to make a decision more complicated than sesame bagel or onion.
D’won could run Winning Ways while she was in Indonesia.
The thought popped fully formed into her head. Her mouth fell open slightly at the suddenness of it. She could go to Indonesia. Jason was right; there was nothing except Winning Ways keeping her here now that her dad was dead and her mom, more freed than grieved by his passing, was playing tennis and poker with friends, taking line dancing lessons, and chairing fundraising balls for at least two charities. And they’d only be gone a year. She knew nothing about Indonesia beyond the fact it had one of the largest Muslim populations in the world, but she could read up on it. She’d rent out her townhouse—Connie could take care of that if necessary—put her winter clothes in storage at the family home near Mt. Vernon, prep D’won …
Sydney stood and paced the small office. Could she really desert Winning Ways for a year? Starting the organization, helping other women, had saved her sanity after her marriage imploded. Would she be leaving them in the lurch? The truth hit her: the organization would get along fine. She was the one who needed Winning Ways. Maybe Jason was right … maybe she could start something like Winning Ways in Indonesia. Her mind whirled with the list of things to do in ten short days.
First things first. Sydney picked up the phone to call Jason. He answered on the first ring. “Jason Nygaard.”
“Is that travel offer still open?”
“Sydney? Are you serious?” Cautious joy sounded in his voice.
“Yes. I love you.”
“Oh, darling. I love you, too. Will you marry me? I’ll ask you properly tonight, on my knees if you want, but I’ve got to know.”
Peaceful certainty settled on her. “Yes. Should we do it next week? Before we go?”
Jason’s delighted laughter set her heart on fire. “Tomorrow if you want. Let’s get home early, do that celebrating we missed out on last night. My last class is at noon. I could make it home by two—no, call it two thirty. There’s a department meeting.”
“It’s a date.”
She hung up, happiness bubbling through her, a carbonation lifting her mood. She pressed her palms to her cheeks. Indonesia! What was she thinking? She twirled, already thinking about what to pack. The cell phone caught her eye.
Damn. Some of her euphoria evaporated. She picked it up and tossed it in the air like it was a quarter. Heads, she’d go to the police. Tails, she wouldn’t. It slapped into her palm face up and another option occurred to her. She could mail the phone to the police with an anonymous note about the call and send a copy of her note to Montoya. Stifling the niggling thought that the police might dismiss it all as a prank, she searched the desk for a padded mailer. A note would give Montoya a heads-up. Why should she risk her peace of mind and privacy for what was probably no more than someone setting up a campaign trick of some kind?
7
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.
Close Call Page 3
