Close Call (5 page)

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.

Sydney

Sydney was practically skipping
as she rode the escalator up from the Metro depths at two o'clock. With a delicious feeling of irresponsibility, she'd opted to play hooky instead of returning to the office after trying on the wedding dress. Instead, after D'won returned to the office, she'd done wedding stuff, hiring a photographer and a florist, both of whom were happy to accept commissions for the Thursday night Jason and Sydney had decid
ed on after consulting via cell phone. H
er hair swung gently against her shoulders and she smiled at strangers as she passed, surprising smiles out of some, suspicious looks from others. In one hand she clutched a bouquet of Gerbera daisies whose bright colors and open faces she'd been unable to resist. In the other, she had a bottle of Dom Perignon to replace the champagne they'd wasted last night. Humming, she passed the Marine Commandant's house on the corner. Almost home.

Crossing 9th Street, she spotted an ambulance parked in the middle of the block. Oh, no. Poor Mrs. Colwell! Had she fallen? Had a heart attack? Sydney sped up. A knot of police cars blocked the street and one's light bar sent red and blue stripes flashing across the neighborhood. A clump of neighbors stood outside a perimeter of yellow tape, watching as two EMTs wheeled a gurney to the waiting ambulance. They moved without urgency, their load unmoving under a white sheet.
Damn
. Had anyone contacted Mrs. Colwell's daughter? As Sydney moved closer, she saw Mrs. Colwell standing just off her stoop talking to a policewoman.
What was—?

The woman petted Indigo as she talked, breaking off to point. “There she is,” the old woman said. Indigo struggled to get free but Mrs. Colwell snuggled him tighter against her meager bosom.

“Miss Ellison?” Someone stood at Sydney's elbow.

She turned to see a man in his late thirties, flanked by a short African-American woman. He had a commanding presence, although he was only medium height with brown hair cut military-short, brows that peaked rather than arched, and deep-set brown eyes. The woman was petite, dowdily dressed in a shapeless mud-colored suit, and had the air of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

“Miss Ellison, I'm Detective Benjamin West. This is my partner, Detective Graves. We need—”

Just then, two men in utility overalls stenciled with
Metropolitan Police Department
emerged from Sydney's open front door.

“Oh, God, no,” she gasped. The truth began to sink in, shocking her cold like the first plunge into Wood Lake in May. “Jason! Where's Jason?” She tried to push past West but he grabbed her arm. The roughness of his palm against her skin surprised her; maybe he was a do-it-yourselfer who wielded a hammer on weekends. She struggled against his grasp, but he held on.

“You can't go in there.”

“What's happened to Jason?” Sydney looked wildly from West to Graves.

“I'm sorry to have to tell you, Miss Ellison,” the woman said, not sounding sorry. “Mr. Jason Nygaard is dead. Was he a friend of yours?” Sloe eyes set above sharp cheekbones watched for her reaction.

“My … my fiancé. We were going to Indonesia.” A wave of dizziness washed over her and she would have fallen if West hadn't tightened his hold on her arm. He saved the bottle of champagne as it slipped from her grasp. The daisies fell, splattering the sidewalk with red, orange, yellow, and purple. “What happened?”

Could the shape on the gurney really be Jason? Sydney's eyes followed it as the EMTs hoisted it into the rear of the ambulance. She needed to see him. Wrenching free, she ran toward the men with the gurney, losing one of her pumps and almost falling before kicking the other shoe off and limping the last couple of steps to Jason's side.

“Hey—!” one of the EMTs said as she reached the gurney, taking in jerky breaths.

His partner shushed him with a gesture and, after a glance at Detective West, peeled the sheet down to expose Jason's face and shoulders.

His eyes were closed. His beautiful green eyes. Trying hard to block out the dark hole in his forehead, Sydney stretched one hand to caress the hair at his temple. It sprang away from her touch as if still alive. She didn't realize she was crying until she tasted the saltiness of tears. She dashed them away with the back of her hand, then put her fingertips to Jason's lips. The unfamiliar feel of cooling flesh jolted her back a step. The sympathetic EMT took advantage of her retreat to flick the sheet back into place and collapse the legs of the gurney so they could slide it between the open doors. Sydney stood in a vacuum of silence, not hearing the voices around her or the traffic noises or the rising wind in the leaves until the metallic clang of the ambulance door tore into her consciousness.

“Jason—” She took a step, wanting to follow the ambulance, but a hand on her elbow stopped her. Confused, she looked into West's not unsympathetic face. It was a strong face with cop's eyes, firm lips, and a nose that had been broken more than once.

“Sit down.” West guided her to the open door of an unmarked police car and she sank onto the edge of the seat.

“Someone shot Jason,” she whispered. The import of that dark hole in his forehead sank in. “Why?”

“Don't you know?” Detective Graves asked, arching thin brows. “Where were you today?” Her pen hovered over the notepad she held in one hand. Her hands were square, short-fingered, with nails bitten past the quick.

“No! How would I—? I was at work, at Winning Ways, then I was shopping with my deputy in the afternoon.”

“Winning Ways? Is that a sports bar, a betting parlor?”

“No, it's—” Sydney turned away from the snide woman and concentrated on West, trying to read the neutral planes of his face, the trace of concern in his eyes. “What happened?” she asked. “Where are they taking him?” Her voice broke and tears welled. Jason was gone. Not to Indonesia. Gone. Forever.

“Mr. Nygaard was shot twice, execution style, in your home, Miss Ellison.”

“Oh my God.” The word “execution” bit into her. The cell phone. The hit man had used her phone to track her down. He'd shot Jason. She looked around. “My briefcase … where's my briefcase?”

West made a calming motion. “Over there.” He pointed.

“I need it now!” She tried to get out of the car but he restrained her, directing his partner to get the case with a nod of his head.

Grudgingly, Graves retrieved it from the sidewalk, crushing a red daisy underfoot. She opened the case and scanned the contents before handing it to Sydney.

She pulled out the manila envelope with the cell phone inside. She tried to pry open the metal clasp but her trembling fingers couldn't do it. She thrust it at West. “Here. I was going to mail this to you.” She pointed at the police department address inscribed on the front.

“What is it?” West ripped open the envelope and the phone fell into his hand in a shower of gray fuzz. “A cell phone?” He looked at her from under his brows, turning the phone over in his hands.

“It belongs to a hit man.” Semi-coherently, Sydney told them about the phone mix-up and the call she'd answered. “I wasn't really sure it was about a … a contract,” she finished, “and I was afraid of the publicity, so I decided to mail it to you. And now Jason … ”

“You're saying this hit man you supposedly talked to came here and killed your boyfriend?” Detective Graves asked, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Give the lady this week's prize for creativity, Ben,” she said with a harsh laugh. Her eyes never smiled. “What time did you say you left work?”

Her tone drilled through Sydney's grief. Willing away tears, she met Graves's eyes, staying silent for a full thirty seconds. “You think I had something to do with this?” Not for nothing was she the daughter of one of the country's most powerful lawyers. “I want a lawyer.”

West shot his partner a look that said, “Way to go.” The female detective shrugged, but Sydney caught a glimpse of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Do you have someone you can go to? Someone you want us to call?” West asked. “You can't stay here.” She turned back to him, not fooled for an instant by the concern she knew must be fake. He was only playing good cop to his partner's bad cop.

“Don't worry about me,” Sydney said, standing. The heat clubbed her, made her sway. West caught her arm again, his fingers tight around her biceps, until she steadied. She arched her brows and his hand dropped away.

“We'll need a number where we can reach you,” West said, his voice cooler. He rubbed a curled forefinger over his eyebrow. “You'll need to make a statement.”

“I'll be with my mother, Constance Linn.” Sydney reeled off the number. “Hilary Trent will be in touch. I presume you're familiar with her.”

From the look on West's face, she knew he recognized the name of the city's most prominent, successful, and acerbic criminal defense attorney. She also happened to be one of Connie's tennis partners.

“I'm sorry about your fiancé,” he said, giving her ringless finger a pointed look.

“Thank you,” she said, cursing inwardly as her cheeks warmed. “Did he … was he in pain?”

“He died instantly,” West said in a gentler voice. He started to say something more, but then stopped.

Sydney kept her eyes fixed on him, hoping for—what?—but realized he had no more to offer. She thought about asking if she could get some clothes from the bedroom but couldn't face the idea of entering the house, maybe seeing Jason's blood. Instead, she turned away from West and groped for her cell phone, not caring that the briefcase dropped and spilled files, pens, and business cards onto the sidewalk. With a trembling finger, she punched in the familiar number. While she waited for her mother to answer, her gaze landed unseeingly on the daisies, their vibrance already wilted and browned by the griddle-hot sidewalk.