Close Call

by Laura Disilverio

  Something about the encounter had freed her mind and she could think clearly again. The sadness still tugged at her, but she felt a new sense of resolve as she approached her townhouse, swept along by the sound of the Marine band practicing at the barracks. She’d found a purpose in life after the scandal, her dad’s illness, and Dirk’s betrayal by starting Winning Ways. Right now, her priority had to be finding the man who killed Jason and hurt Reese. Not just the man who’d pulled the trigger, but the one who put him up to it. West was on the case now, but she’d been investigating longer, and had the advantage of being the target.

  Her mind assessing and discarding various plans for luring the killer into the open and getting him to implicate his employer, she swung open the gate to her tiny front yard. No sign of Indy. At least they’d dropped Earl at Connie’s. Drooping feathers of salvia begging for water in their pots on either side of the door reminded her she’d neglected many home duties since Jason’s death. She uncoiled the hose and turned on the faucet, rinsing the faint scent of flea collar chemicals off her hands before filling a watering can. As she was trickling the last of the water onto the grateful salvia, she noticed the corner of an envelope peeking from beneath her front door. Setting down the can, she bent to tug at the envelope. The corner tore off in her hand.

  Damn. She fumbled for her keys and unlocked the door. Retrieving the envelope, she carried it upstairs and set it on the dresser while she stripped. She dug a clean bra out of her lingerie drawer and donned the first T-shirt that came to hand. With a crisp movement, she slid the closet door open to yank a pair of slacks off a hangar. A box on the top shelf caught her eye.

  Oh, God. Reese’s letters. She stretched on tiptoe to dislodge the box. It tilted and slid toward her in a poof of dust. She sneezed. Carrying the box to her bed, she sat. Even as she was thinking she didn’t have time for this, she was lifting the lid off the shoe box. The two business-sized envelopes, one postmarked from Chicago and the other from Israel, lay atop a collection of Nana Linn’s embroidered hankies, a box of seashells collected on a long-ago beach vacation, a well-read copy of The Prophet, and a dried corsage from prom. Treasures.

  She ran two fingers the length of the smooth envelope. The gesture reminded her of Emma Fewell making a similar movement to demonstrate how her husband had shined his grief. She drew her hand back as if stung. Oh my God. She’d been doing the same thing, hanging onto her anger at Reese, keeping it alive by ignoring these apologies—she’s always known the letters were apologies, of course she had—dwelling on her hurt, her sense of betrayal, the hardship. The stupidity and futility of it struck her with staggering force. Fifteen years wasted. Well, thirteen or fourteen, at least. Surely a year’s anger was justified? Decisively, she fitted the lid back on the box. She didn’t need to read the words to know Reese was sorry, to forgive her sister … and maybe even herself? If—when—Reese recovered, maybe they’d talk about it. Or not.

  Right now, she needed to figure out a way to smoke out the man who’d shot her sister. Her gaze fell on the other envelope, the one on the dresser. Her brows twitched together. It really didn’t look like the junk flyer she’d assumed it was. Crossing to it, she inserted a finger into the torn corner and worked it open. She pulled out a folded photocopy of a newspaper photo. Flattening it against the dresser, she studied it. The picture was clearly taken at a funeral, and showed a solemn-faced Fidel Montoya headed away from an open grave, his arm around his wife. Three other mourners, two men and a woman, stood in the background, heads bent. There was no cutline or accompanying article.

  Sydney knit her brows. Whose funeral was it? Who had shoved the photo under her door? Why? She couldn’t tell if the photo was from last month or ten years ago. It was connected with Jason’s death, though. It had to be.

  The words from the phone call came back to her: “Time for round two.” She was convinced, down to her bones certain, that the photo had something to do with “round one.”

  Without any clues to go by, any key words, finding the photo’s provenance on the Internet was a lost cause. She wasn’t going to waste her time on the computer when she knew someone who could tell at a glance where and when the photo had been taken. With any luck, he’d also know why someone had shoved it under her door.

  Sydney punched a number into her cell phone and greeted Fidel Montoya when he answered.

  “Your sister. Oh my God, Sydney, I heard about it on the news. What the hell happened?”

  “It’s a long story,” she said, not wanting to go into it on the phone. “We need to talk. I’ve got something to show you.”

  “Really? Did you find something? Never mind. Tell me when you get here. I’m at the house.” He gave her the address. “I never have an election night party. It’s a superstition of mine. The night of my first election, for city council, I got bronchitis and couldn’t speak at the supporters’ dinner like I was supposed to. I spent the evening drinking cough syrup and watching a 007 movie marathon. I won. Ever since, I always spend election night watching James Bond. I’ve never lost.”

  “I’ll bring the Robitussin,” Sydney said.

  He laughed. “Plan to stay for dinner,” he added as he hung up.

  The warmth in his voice gave her pause. Where was his wife? On the one hand, she didn’t fancy another encounter with the hostile Ms. Katya Van Slyke. On the other, she didn’t want to spend an evening alone with Montoya. Even if he didn’t try anything, chances were some nosy reporter would make something of it. She hesitated a moment, then gave a fatalistic shrug. She’d ask him about the photograph and then leave. She’d be in and out in half an hour, tops.

  She called Connie and learned that Reese was still in surgery, then hailed a taxi in the deepening twilight. Sliding onto the slick vinyl seat patched with duct tape in several places, she gave the cabbie the address, her eyes meeting his in the rearview mirror and daring him to complain about the semi-rural destination. With a grunt, he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, jerkily enough to bounce her against the door. She kept her mouth shut, figuring it would be worth it if she could finally get some answers. Almost to Montoya’s, it occurred to her to call West, but she got his voicemail. She was cut off halfway through her explanation of finding the news clipping and where she was going with it. No matter—in all probability she’d be on her way back before he checked his messages.

  50

  Paul

  His body humming with energy as the antibiotics ran off the infection, Paul approached the target’s place on foot, having left his stolen car a mile south. Clad in navy T-shirt and nylon pants and wearing a black fanny pack, he was just another aging jogger burning a few martini lunch calories as twilight slipped into night, trying to stay trim for a wife or, more likely, a mistress. Like Congressman Montoya, who got more than his share if the gossip columns got it right. Sneakered feet slapping the pavement, Paul imagined that he was a senator from a distant state, Idaho, maybe, who rented one of the apartments on this block while his family stayed home in Boise. Lots of Congress members, even those with homes in the Virginia or Maryland suburbs, rented apartments or small houses near the Capitol for those nights when sessions or fundraisers ran late. On second thought, a senator was too recognizable. A congressional staffer, then. Take off the fancy suits and there wasn’t much to differentiate white, sixty-something men. The congressmen looked like plumbers, looked like math teachers. Or hit men, for that matter. Paul exhaled a laugh at the thought.

  There were few people about: a man walking a rat dog with faux gems on its leash (the man and the dog should both be embarrassed), a couple of teens making a furtive exchange by a playground entrance. Idiots. He’d had the good sense to never do drugs, not even in ’Nam where a grunt could get marijuana or heroin with equal ease. He’d smoked, of course; they’d all smoked. The café down the street was closed, a security light giving off a dim glow inside the plate-glass window. No one paid him any at
tention.

  Without hesitating, Paul cut down a narrow sidewalk between two houses, and came up on Montoya’s place from behind. He grasped the lowest branch of a tree he’d climbed when surveilling the place over a week ago and hoisted himself up. Binoculars brought things into clear focus. He regretted the loss of the NVGs he’d had in his hotel room, but Montoya’s apartment was so lit up he hardly needed night-vision goggles. A figure moved in the kitchen, and Paul watched as Montoya answered the phone then moved to the freezer and out of sight to the pantry. No girlfriend with him tonight. Good. Up against the client’s deadline, he’d come prepared to take the woman out too, but he was relieved he wouldn’t have to. It would be much easier to set up the “accident” he had in mind without another player.

  A rustling in the grass below caught Paul’s attention. He caught a glimpse of reddish fur and the gleam of inquisitive eyes before the critter vanished into a clump of holly. Sliding down the tree trunk, he listened for a moment but heard nothing more ominous than the drift of wind through the heavy branches, a woman a couple of houses away calling for a cat, and the shush of tires on the road. He crouched and made his way to the west side of the building, past two rubber trash cans.

  The scent of grilling meat from someone’s barbecue drifted toward him as he positioned himself beneath the bathroom window. Drawing on latex gloves, he tested the sash with a shove. Locked, damn it. Inconvenient but not unexpected. He withdrew a suction cup and a small ball peen hammer from his backpack. Licking the suction cup, he affixed it to the glass above the lock mechanism. One deft tap of the hammer on the rubber broke the glass. As he withdrew the larger piece with the suction cup, a fist-sized shard tinkled to the bathroom floor, landing on a red bathmat.

  Fuck. He froze, listening for any sound from the front rooms. Had Montoya heard? The faint sounds of gunshots and squealing tires drifted to him. A TV show or movie. After two full minutes of immobility, during which he didn’t hear approaching feet or doors opening, he took a deep breath. Clear. Reaching a gloved hand through the hole, he turned the lock and lifted the window an inch. Careful not to cut himself, he pulled his hand out and worked the fingers of both hands beneath the sash, heaving it up as far as it would go. He pulled paper booties from his pack and slipped them over his shoes, then swung his legs over the sill, lowered his backpack noiselessly to the floor, and slanted his body down until his toes touched the toilet seat. He was in.

  First things first. He recovered the sliver of glass from the rug and tucked it into his backpack. After taking care of Montoya, he’d stash the glass in a bag at the bottom of one of the garbage bins. When found, as it would be if the homicide dick in charge was on the ball, it would suggest the window had been broken a couple of days before his entry. He could not leave any evidence that would cast doubt on a verdict of “accidental death.” Closing the window—he didn’t want a stray draft alerting the target—he surveyed the small room with its black and white tile, red rug and shower curtain, and magazine rack by the toilet. A jacuzzi tub dominated the space, big enough and deep enough to float the Titanic. Its tile surround gleamed, all 90 degree angles and sharp edges. Perfect. Edging behind the door, he slowed his breathing, prepared to wait.

  51

  Sydney

  The taxi dropped Sydney in front of Fidel Montoya’s house just before eight. The Pakistani driver took all her remaining cash and reversed at top speed, skidding into the road. The red of his brake lights faded to pinpricks and disappeared. Sydney stared in the direction of town, hoping Montoya would be chivalrous enough to drive her back. She walked toward the front door. The house was lit up like he was expecting two hundred guests for an election night victory party. Might as well get this over with.

  A shadow moved at the tree line, where the glare of the security lights faded to umbra, and she halted. A fox skidded into view, something plump wriggling in its mouth. Piteous squeaks, growing weaker, betrayed the prey’s plight. Spotting her, the fox stopped, sharp nose quivering.

  Apparently deciding she was no threat, he trotted around a cement birdbath and merged into the shadows on the side of the house.

  With a shiver, Sydney climbed the shallow steps leading to the double doors and rang the bell.

  52

  Paul

  Paul was prepared to wait as long as necessary, but it was a mere half an hour before Montoya felt the need to empty his bladder. Creaking floorboards warned of his approach and Paul sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Whistling the theme from some movie Paul recognized but couldn’t name, Montoya crossed directly to the john, unzipped, and began to urinate. Paul let the man have the satisfaction of a last long pee before making his move while Montoya was zipping up.

  In a single motion, he burst from behind the bathroom door and secured Montoya’s arms to his sides with both arms clamped around his chest. He kicked him off balance with a powerful sweep of his left leg and bore him downward, dragging him back as he fell. Montoya barely had time to let out a yelp of surprise and begin to twist away before Paul straddled his chest, knees planted on the floor, and pulled him up by the shoulders. He whammed the base of the man’s skull against the tub’s decorative tile surround.

  Montoya’s eyes widened and his breath came in a series of labored huh-uh-huhs for a long minute before stopping on one final hitch. Paul felt the man’s muscles relax, and he slowly rose. Blood speckled the tile and oozed in a surprisingly small puddle beneath Montoya’s head, matting his black hair. Paul was careful to avoid stepping in it or disturbing any of the spatter. Turning away from the dead, staring eyes, he pulled a thick sanitary pad from his pack and calmly went about stopping up the toilet. He added toilet paper and flushed, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done when the bowl filled and began to overflow. It soon wet Montoya’s bare feet and soaked the hem of his pants.

  Stepping back to survey the scene, Paul tried to see it through a cop’s eyes. It played as an accident: Montoya comes into the bathroom, slips in the water from the overflowing toilet (stopped up by a careless woman friend), and cracks his head against the tub. Nothing argued against that scenario. A tragic accident. Very similar to the ones that killed a real estate baron in Phoenix, a city council member in Colorado Springs, and a dentist in Tupelo. Bathrooms were dangerous places.

  Without being happy about the death, Paul was still conscious of the feeling of professional accomplishment that came over him at the successful conclusion of most contracts. He got a buzz from planning the mission, thinking through all the angles, executing it, and outwitting the police or insurance investigators. It was surprisingly like the feeling he used to get when the ball slapped into his glove, he tagged the runner, and then pivoted to pull off a double play. Pride, excitement, and a split second—gone before his palm quit stinging—of utter conviction of his invincibility.

  He took a photo of the very dead, the accidentally dead, Jimmy Montoya. Clients liked proof before they paid.

  Paul exited through the window he’d come in, stripping off booties and gloves as soon as he hit the ground and tucking them into his pack. They’d go down a handy sewer grate. After hiding the window glass in a trash bag largely stuffed with reeking take-out containers, he eased back onto the sidewalk and began the slow jog to his car, hoping no one got close enough to smell him. As the adrenaline leached out of him, an ache in his calf began to bother him—had Montoya kicked him?—and jabbing pain from the bullet wound made him worry that he’d torn it open. He was tired. One more thing to take care of, and then he’d be on his way back to Pennsylvania, Pop, and Moira.

  53

  Sydney

  Melodious chimes rang in the depths of the house. Sydney waited for two full minutes. No one came. Where was Montoya? He knew she was coming. The bathroom, maybe. She frowned and rang again.

  Finally, heavy footsteps approached. The door swung inward, loosing warm yellow light into the night. Fidel Montoya, dressed in
casual black slacks and a garnet-red silk-blend T-shirt that made the most of his dark coloring, stood in the hallway holding a dish towel to the back of his head. “Sydney! Come in, come in.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek.

  She suffered the kiss but eluded a hug by stepping into the foyer. When she cast a curious look at the dish towel, he said, “Dropped a piece of ice and banged my head against the freezer door when I picked it up. Hurt like a son of a bitch. I’ve got a lump the size of a hubcap.” He lowered the cloth and unwrapped it to show a few ice cubes.

  “Ow,” Sydney said, since he clearly wanted sympathy. She took in the polished walnut floors and contrasting cream walls, a perfect foil for the large canvases mounted at intervals designed to let each piece have its own space. A magnificent staircase soared to the upper story where four doors opened off a short hallway guarded by a wrought-iron banister. To her left, flickering lights from a television danced out of a den and to her right, a short hall led past a formal dining room to a kitchen. She studied the art as Montoya closed the door. Too abstract for her taste, the paintings rang with vibrant cobalts, scarlets, and golds. She peered at a powerful piece streaked with emerald along the lower edge.

  “Let me get you a drink,” Montoya said as she tried to decide if the painting was of a fish-filled sea or a pasture dotted with cows. Or sheep or horses. She gave it up and followed her host into the kitchen.

  Shaking the ice cubes into the sink, he tossed the towel on the counter. “Vodka?” He lifted the Grey Goose bottle.