Close Call

by Laura Disilverio

  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 indicate 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.

  8

  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 handing that off to D’won. But the others, the ones involving the women … she gnawed on a pencil eraser, hand hovering over the delete key. She couldn’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 against 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, waiti
ng 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.”

  9

  Paul

  Paul stumbled on the curb by Ellison’s townhome but caught himself. Habit made him scan the area again—still no one in sight. The target was just unlocking his door. He had broad shoulders and gray-flecked hair curling over his collar. A cat wound around his ankles, making prrp-prrp sounds.

  Paul came within ten feet of the man and called out as the door opened inward. “Sir, can I have a word?”

  His right hand around the Ruger .22, he pulled the bi-fold wallet out with his left hand and flipped it open to display the badge. His badge from his days on the Barrytown force—the same department his dad had retired from—which he joined when he’d mustered out after ’Nam. He’d told the chief he’d lost it when they ordered him to turn it in after the Jorgenson incident. The chief hadn’t believed him, but what could he do? The badge came in very handy in his current line of work; it disarmed all sorts of people who might otherwise be more cautious.

  “Yes?” The target turned, his brows arching up.

  Two more steps. Drawing the silenced .22 from his pocket, Paul surged toward the man, who took an involuntary step back, tripping over the cat. As he lurched into the foyer, Paul shot him.

  The first bullet caught the man in the chest. He thudded to the floor, one hand groping at his chest, fear and confusion in his eyes. Paul bumped the door closed with his hip. Swinging around, he took one smooth step forward and fired the gun, arms extended, at point-blank range into the target’s forehead. The man’s hand flopped to his side and he laid still, his brown eyes glazing over. A last breath gargled out.

  His every sense tuned to its sharpest, Paul stood for a moment looking down at Ellison. The familiar stink of blood and shit mixed with lemony wax. Relatively little blood pooled on the floor, although some had soaked into the man’s sport coat and shirt from the chest wound. His face showed very white against the dark wood, his dulled irises staring at the ceiling. Much less gory and far quieter than combat. War’s loudness—the whine of incoming rounds, the ack-ack of machine guns, the explosions and screams—had pummeled young Private Jones in Vietnam, and Paul still sub-consciously expected death to be noisy. It rarely was anymore. The chunk of an air conditioner kicking on startled him until he identified the quiet hum. He breathed in … out, centering himself, easing the adrenaline and ’Nam out of his system.

  Okay, task completed—target terminated. He turned away from the body. Now he only had to worry about egress. Normally he’d have had a plan roughed out, based on surveillance,
but Moira’s call had prompted him to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity. Careful not to step in the blood, he crossed to the door and peered out the vertical window that paralleled it. The yuppie neighborhood looked empty and somnolent in the early-afternoon sun.

  A whisper whipped him around. The cat, inspecting the body with curiosity, had bloodied its front paws. It sat in the middle of the foyer, shaking one paw, its ears laid flat, hissing.

  “Hey, puss, puss.” The cat glared at him through slitted eyes and Paul opted to leave it alone.

  He stole another glance through the window. The front door was his best bet; if he were seen, no one would think much of it, whereas an unknown man walking out the back might excite more scrutiny. He took one last, assessing look at the scene. Ellison was dead. No one could tie him to the victim: he’d touched nothing, left no evidence other than the hair and skin flakes everybody shed. They’d be no good to anyone unless he was arrested someday and the cops thought to check his DNA against the samples collected at this scene. He had a better chance of being hit by lightning. This was a textbook operation. He thought about looking for his cell phone—it might have his prints on it—but decided he couldn’t risk the time. Slipping the gun back into his pocket, he waited until an electrician’s van moved past, then opened the door with his hand wrapped in his windbreaker.

  “Thanks, Sid. See you Tuesday, then,” he said in a normal voice for anyone who might be listening. He 9780738749624 raised a hand in a farewell wave and walked down the front sidewalk, confident in his anonymity, the mediumness of his build, hair, and features. His forgettableness was one of his chief assets. Two blocks away, sweat dripping from his forehead, he took a deep breath. The Metro entrance was around the next corner. He was clear.