“Who else had a motive to kill Montoya?” he asked, pulling a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.
“You’re finally taking me seriously?” Before he could change his mind, she poured out the results of the past two days’ interviews and their research, watching the play of emotions across his face as she mentioned the Revelationists and their branding, Jimmy’s gambling and Avdonin, Emma Fewell, Katya and her hostility.
“I originally thought it must be political, but after talking with Fisher, I realized that killing one congressman probably wouldn’t clear the way for any big policy changes. So I started looking at his personal life. Plenty of people would benefit if Montoya died,” she finished. The reds of her geraniums became muted and the glow of fireflies flitted at grass level as the sunlight faded. A sprinkler hissed nearby, scenting the air with warm water.
“So it would seem.” He tucked the notebook back into his pocket.
How far should she trust West? Hilary’s voice spoke in her right ear, telling her to shut up. She could just see D’won rolling his eyes at the idea of trusting a cop. Instinct made her say, “Someone shot at Montoya.”
“What?!”
“But he won’t confirm that,” Sydney hastened to add. “He doesn’t want to run the chance of losing the election.” She told him what Montoya had said to her about the shooting incident, leaving out the bit where he’d blackmailed her into helping him.
West stood, brushing dirt from his slacks. “I’m going to look into this. You stop poking around. Stick close to your sister or, better yet, hire a real bodyguard. I could recommend someone.”
He held out a hand to help her up, and after a moment she placed hers in it and let him tug her upright. She pulled her hand away as soon as she was standing. The stoop was so small that her back brushed against his chest as she pulled the storm door open. She scooted inside and turned to face him in the full glare of the kitchen’s overhead fixture.
“Do you really believe me?” She gripped her lower lip between her teeth, waiting for his answer. Even though she didn’t want it to, it mattered.
“I believe you’re telling the truth as you know it.”
She flapped an impatient hand at his ambiguity. “Do you think I killed Jason?”
He hesitated a beat, but when he spoke the words came out strong. “No. No, I don’t.”
She exhaled. “Are you supposed to tell me that?”
“Not really.” He smiled ruefully, his mouth quirking up at one corner. “I’ll dig myself in deeper and let you know the chief’s ready to say you’re no longer a suspect. There’s nothing to tie you to the gun we found in here and we’ve got another witness who confirms your alibi. There should be an announcement in the morning. The chief’s insisting the ADA be there to explain why we arrested someone without a case we’re willing to take to trial. We’re ‘pursuing other leads,’ mostly a kid who was in one of Nygaard’s classes.”
“It wasn’t a student.” Even though she knew they were looking in the wrong direction, at least they weren’t looking at her anymore. A smile blossomed and she felt like someone had lifted a Volkswagen off her chest. She took a deep breath, feeling every rib expand.
“Well, we still need to find him, interview him. You keep your head down. No more visits to white supremacist encampments.”
In another minute he’d be wagging his finger in her face. He didn’t know her very well if he thought she was going to back off now. Rather than respond, she headed for the foyer. Floorboards creaked beneath their feet. Sydney flipped the deadbolt and pushed the door wide. “Thanks for coming by, Detective.”
“Ben.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
West rolled his eyes but only said, “You do that.”
40
Sydney
Tuesday, August 8
Sydney woke Tuesday morning feeling dull and weighed down. Today was the special election. She’d failed to find the man behind the voice on the phone, failed to find the killer. Fidel Montoya might die today, and it would be partially her fault. If he survived, what would that mean? That she’d misunderstood the phone call in the first place? In which case, why was Jason dead? That she’d scared the killer away with her investigation? She gave that some thought as she splashed water on her face and dressed for the dental appointment. That could be counted as a partial win, she guessed, although the uncertainty made it a Pyrrhic victory at best. Flicking on some blush to give her pale cheeks a hint of color, she descended the stairs and stepped onto the front stoop to grab the newspaper. Earl peed on a shrub and challenged a squirrel that had the temerity to scamper up a tree in his territory.
Calling him back, Sydney returned to the house. Absently stripping the plastic sheath from the paper, she entered the kitchen and put water on to boil. Spreading the paper open on the kitchen table, she was setting aside the front page section, looking for the car sales pages, when the headline topping the local section plowed into her like a runaway horse: Manley Trap Dukes It Out with Congressman’s Wife. Beneath it was a photo of her and Katya at the construction site, glaring at each other over the truck’s hood. Hostility vibrated from them, even in the fuzzy newsprint.
A toxic cocktail of humiliation, fear that it was all starting again, and anger surged through her. Sydney collapsed into a chair and stilled her shaking hands by trapping them between her knees. How did the reporter—?
The answer was obvious. Grabbing the paper, Sydney scraped back her chair and stormed down the hall. She slammed open the powder room door, surprising Reese on the toilet.
“Don’t you knock?” Reese started, but Sydney cut her off.
“How could you?” She slapped the paper down on the counter, knocking Reese’s toothbrush and a compact to the floor. It splintered on the tile, sprinkling glass slivers and pressed powder across the tiny room. Sydney sneezed, which increased her fury. “I can’t believe—”
“Give me a moment to see what you’re going on about,” Reese said, maddeningly calm. She leaned over and picked up the folded paper, saying, “That was my favorite compact, you know. I—oh.” She raised her gaze from the page.
“Oh?” Heat flushed Sydney’s face. “I thought I could trust you, that things were different between us. I’m an idiot.”
“No argument there.” Reese said, her voice as sharp as one of the glass splinters. “This”—she waved the paper before dropping it disdainfully in the sink—“was not me.”
“You’re a reporter—”
“Was. Even then, I didn’t sneak around spying on politician’s wives.”
“No, you focused on their girlfriends.”
Reese’s face whitened, and she took a long moment before saying, “I have no way to make you believe me, but I had nothing to do with this. I don’t know this”—she glanced at the byline—“Elaine Ng. I have absolutely no reason to let the press in on what we’re doing.”
Her use of “we’re” gave Sydney pause. Drawing in a shaky breath, she fingered her hair off her forehead. She didn’t know what to think. She’d been sure Reese was behind the story, but now …
Reese interrupted her thoughts. “If you’re going to hit me again, can I please get off the john first? Most fatal accidents in the home happen in the bathroom and I don’t want to be that kind of statistic.”
“I’m not going to hit you.” Sydney stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door. The toilet flushed, a zipper whizzed, and water gurgled in the sink. Shoes crunching on glass heralded Reese’s appearance. Sydney felt calmer but not quite ready to apologize. “Do you think the reporter was following me?”
“Maybe. Because of the arrest. I was keeping an eye out, but I might have missed a tail. Or she might have been following Katya, on spec as it were. Candidates’ families, especially semi-estranged wives, can make good stories. Most likely someone at the site snapped a cell phone pictur
e and called the Post.”
“Could you find out?”
Reese cocked her head. “Maybe. Like I keep telling you, I don’t have too many contacts at the Post anymore. I’m not sure it’s worth it anyway.”
Sydney inflated her whole torso with a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Forgiven.”
Sydney gave a shaky laugh. “You’re giving me a pass just to make me feel bad for hating you all these years.”
“You hated me?” Reese’s voice sounded tight.
Sydney hesitated. “Yes. At least, I think so. Especially early on.”
“Well, that makes two of us. Hating me, I mean.”
Not trusting herself to speak through the lump that rose in her throat, Sydney stood mute for a moment. Recovering, she said gruffly, “I don’t hate you now. I’ll get a dust pan.”
“Then we can go buy a car.”
“And a new compact, after my dentist appointment.”
41
Paul
Paul eased himself through the roof access door of the building across from the Penn Professional Building where the dentist had his office. Sweat beaded his brow, and he drank thirstily from one of the bottled waters in his bag. Acid roiled his stomach, a result of the ibuprofen and acetaminophen he’d been taking for fever and pain. They were no longer doing the trick: his shoulder throbbed like a son of a bitch and the red streaks had grown longer. He had to gut it out today, finish the job, and then he’d find a doctor. His generic jumpsuit, with Maintenance stenciled on the back and Lionel in machine-embroidered script over his chest, had proved in the past to be the perfect disguise. A ball cap in a matching tan hid his face from cameras and ensured no one got a clear look at his features or hair. Nobody really looked at maintenance men, janitors, cable guys, or meter readers. A uniform and a clipboard or tool bag made you damned near invisible, Paul had discovered.
Clutching the duffel with his Savage Arms Striker .22-250 sniper pistol, he made his way around a shed-sized air-conditioning unit and dropped to one knee, leaning against the metal structure. It was still cool to the touch after a night in the sixties. Waves of dizziness and nausea struck him. Despite the over-the-counter painkillers touting their fever-reduction ingredients, he was burning up and the cool metal offered relief. The sun would heat it to egg-frying temperature by the time he completed his mission. Scanning the empty roof again, he drew the pistol with its long barrel from his bag. Even its relatively light weight sent jabs of pain radiating from his shoulder up his neck and down his arm. He cursed. There was a pharmacy two blocks from his motel. He could get antibiotics there. He’d looked it up on the Internet, knew what he needed. He could stick his gun in a white-coated jackass’s face and they’d hand over the meds. It wasn’t like he was after oxy.
He peered through the scope, cursing the faint tremble in his arm. The door of the Penn Professional Building loomed in vivid detail, seeming mere inches away instead of seventy-five yards.
He’d scouted the building Sunday night when everything was quiet. Two bums had huddled on the vent outside the place, and a handful of cars had traveled the famous avenue, but no one paid him any attention. The building looked like it might once have been a theater, with a broad lobby and high ceilings. Developers had modernized it and effaced most of its personality, converting it to a labyrinth of offices. By the elevators, Paul had studied the marquee listing the names and floors of a variety of professionals: doctors, dentists, CPAs, goddamned lawyers, shrinks—lots of shrinks. Paul was sure living in DC was enough to send everyone screaming for a therapist and medication. Dr. Field’s office was on the third floor.
He’d trudged up the dimly lit stairs and studied the locked doors on the offices he passed. Light glowed from behind one frosted pane, but most were dark. Hmm. Too tight, too many people, no good way to make a fast exit. He’d have to do the job outside, maybe from the roof of the building across the way. A poster on a travel agency’s door stopped him on his way out. Cruising through azure seas, a ship the size of a small city promised relaxation and adventure. Would Pop feel up to a cruise? Maybe when he’d completed this mission, he’d book a cruise, just a short one, to someplace warm. None of that Alaska stuff. Pop could lounge on a deck chair, benefiting from the sea air and sunshine, while he and Moira …
A movement overhead drew Paul’s attention and he whirled, bringing the pistol up. An angry hawk circled, then dive-bombed him. He flapped a gloved hand and the bird sheared away, veering toward the far corner of the roof. The rising sun burnished its glossy feathers, striking red from the spread tail. Using his hand as a visor, Paul made out the tips of sticks he assumed were a nest. The hawk’s mate ruffled its feathers and glared at him as his attacker settled on a parapet nearby, keeping a fierce amber eye on Paul. He’d heard of raptors living in the city but had never seen any. What did they eat? Squirrels and pigeons, he decided after a moment’s thought. Cats.
“You just have to share the roof with me for a couple of hours,” he murmured, eliciting a threatening shreee from the bird. “Then I’ll be out of your hair. Er, feathers.”
42
Sydney
At nine o’clock Tuesday morning, Reese lounged in the dentist’s waiting room, perusing a year-old Good Housekeeping, when Sydney came out of the treatment area swiping her tongue across smooth, clean teeth.
“You must be desperate,” she observed, stepping to the receptionist’s desk to take care of her co-pay.
“Don’t knock it,” Reese said. She put the magazine back on a listing tower of periodicals. “I found a great tip for cleaning grout that I’m going to try out. You rub a paste of baking soda and water on the grout, and then spray vinegar.”
Sydney wrinkled her nose and handed the middle-aged receptionist her credit card. Without speaking, the sisters left the office and emerged onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Cars, trucks, SUVs, soccer-mom vans, and buses clogged the street, spewing fumes and heat as they idled for the traffic light. Bicycle messengers, pedestrian commuters, and vagrants dodged each other on the sidewalk as they hustled to their individual destinations or staked out their spots on benches and under awnings or eaves that promised shade. The sun had metamorphosed from the gentle warmth spilling through Sydney’s window into a brutal glare that bounced off vehicles’ chrome, shop windows, and even the patent leather heels of a businesswoman waiting for a bus. Sydney pulled her sunglasses from her purse and slid them onto her face with a sigh of relief.
“It’s going to be a scorcher,” she said as a blow caught her between the shoulder blades and knocked her to her knees on the concrete. As the pain of scraped knees and palms registered, she heard a gunshot, then another, and Reese toppled on top of her, mowing her flat.
“She’s got a gun!” someone yelled.
Screams and pounding feet sounded as people scattered. Horns blared and tires squealed. “Call the cops,” another voice yelled. A baby started crying.
43
Paul
Even though his Striker pistol could fire three shots, Paul only took one. When he saw the bodyguard fall, he cursed. She completely buried the target when she collapsed on top of her. Stuffing the gun into his duffel, Paul got to his feet, his knees crackling after such a long period of immobility. He swayed. He limped the first couple of steps, then regained his stride. He kept his mind from replaying the shot, intent on getting off the roof and away from the scene before the police arrived. He clattered down the stairs, fighting dizziness, and slowed as he reached the garage level. Easing the door open, he pretended to search for a tool in his bag to hide his face from the camera mounted overhead. His shoulder felt like the devil was gouging a red-hot poker into the wound, so he switched the duffel to his other hand. He stepped into the cool twilight of the garage and, still shielding his face, made his way toward the door that led to the street.
He was almost at his destination when a woman approached him o
n the narrow sidewalk that hugged the garage’s inner wall. For a moment he saw two of her, but then she resolved into one plain, middle-aged woman. He mumbled “Good morning” and moved over to let her by.
The woman stopped, blocking his path. “Hey.”
Push past her? He couldn’t let her raise the alarm. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears, Paul hesitated.
The woman had springy brown hair and glasses with oval frames. She wore a blouse with a bow at the neck and a dirndl skirt even Paul knew was two decades out of style. Secretary, he decided.
“Lionel?” She sounded unsure.
Had she mistaken him for someone else? It took him a moment to place the name. His chest. She’d read the name off his uniform.
Not making eye contact, he said, “Yes’m?”
“The sink in our office kitchen—Suite 201—has been dripping for weeks and it’s driving me absolutely batty. I put in a work order in early July but no one’s been up to fix it. Do you think you could get to it today? My boss is on my back to get it fixed.” She cocked her head, sparrow-like.
“Sure,” he mumbled. “Be up after I take care of the clogged toilet in the men’s room on four. Suite 201, right?”
“Thanks so much, Lionel,” she said. “I’ll be looking for you.” She hesitated. “Are you okay?”
He must look as bad as he felt. “Yeah. Tummy troubles,” he said vaguely.
“Oh. Sorry.” She nodded and continued down the sidewalk toward the elevators.
Paul picked up his pace and cursed his bad luck. Ever since his father had shot him, nothing had gone right. He couldn’t remember ever taking more than two attempts to eliminate a target. His shoulder pulsed with pain, he felt light-headed with fever, and now there was a witness who could describe him, at least partially, to the police. The hawks would recognize him, too. They knew who he was. A fellow predator. They hadn’t taken their wild eyes off of him the whole morning. He’d felt the weight of their stares between his shoulder blades and expected their talons to tear into the flesh of his back. That was why he’d flinched when he’d pulled the trigger. The hawks … He shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed to get away from here. Stooping behind a van near the door, he quickly shucked the jumpsuit and stuffed it and the cap in his bag. The suit he had underneath would get less notice on the sidewalk at this hour. He ran a hand over his head, smoothing his hair.
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