Close Call Read online

  “D’ya have any change?” the man asked, bloodshot eyes flitting to her face, then to the neon bar sign behind her, the squirrel chittering from a nearby tree, the crack in the sidewalk. She’d seen the man around since early spring and thought his name was Eli. The dog sat and scratched one floppy ear vigorously with his hind paw.

  She found one of the fast-food gift cards she kept on hand and made a mental note to stick some dog biscuits in her briefcase for the next time she saw the pair. And maybe a flea collar, she thought as the dog kept scratching. “Here, sir.”

  He glanced at the card, sucked air through his teeth, and shuffled off, turning to say thank you after a few yards. The dog ambled after him.

  She waved, picked up the bags, and started walking again. She couldn’t go back to the deli now; she’d lose half an hour. Jason was waiting with “big news,” he’d said, and she’d promised to be home by six, which was five minutes ago. Plus, she didn’t feel up to dealing with the deli clerk’s speculation or questions. She could use the new phone to dial her cell number and arrange an exchange with whoever had her phone.

  But something about the call she’d answered kept her from dialing. The job? Accident? The only part of the call that had made sense was the reference to Montoya and the election. Clearly the caller was talking about Fidel Montoya and his Senate bid. He’d been a congressman from Maryland for ten years and was looking to move up, in next week’s special election, to a Senate seat. Already pundits were talking about him as a presidential candidate somewhere down the road. A bead of sweat trickled down Sydney’s spine and she shivered. Come to think of it, the call had sounded almost like … but no, that was ridiculous. The stuff of movies. People didn’t really put out hits, take out contracts—whatever the terminology was—on politicians, did they?

  Once the thought had invaded her mind, it refused to budge. She tried to think of an innocent explanation for the “job” looking like an “accident.” Maybe someone was arranging some sort of political trick or campaign disaster? The Montoya campaign had certainly attracted a lot of attention and more than its fair share of detractors. Fidel Montoya was a well-educated liberal who supported open immigration, gay rights, and abortion; right-wing loonies stuck to his campaign like gum to a shoe. They hefted posters, shouted slogans, hacked into his web page, tried to “persuade” people not to attend his rallies. She’d heard some of the more militant groups, given air time by the media, mention lynching, deportation (to the Mexico of his parents), and boiling in oil.

  While Sydney thought, her feet had carried her home. She bumped open the waist-high gate with her hip and let it swing shut with a clang. A demanding mew drew her gaze down. Indigo, the neighbor’s gray cat, rubbed against her leg.

  “Hi, Indy.” She stooped to pat the friendly guy. Surprised to find the cell phone still gripped in her hand, she turned it off and slid it into a pocket. She’d call the deli instead, see if maybe they had her phone. She stroked the cat’s back. He arched and let out a series of burp-like purrs, slitting his eyes with bliss.

  “You’re home.” Jason stood in the open doorway, his dark, gray-streaked hair looking even curlier than usual in the humidity. One hand dug into the pocket of the chinos that slipped off his narrow waist, revealing sharp hipbones and toned abs. The other hand held a champagne bottle. He smiled. A curl of heat warmed the pit of Sydney’s stomach. She loved the way his smile split his face, revealing deep dimples and white teeth.

  “I’m home.” She went to him and leaned into his kiss. His lips lingered on her. Maybe they could skip dinner … “Mmm. What are we celebrating?”

  He held the bottle aloft like a trophy. “Yours truly, Dr. Jason Nygaard, economics professor extraordinaire, was notified today of his selection for a Fulbright grant—”

  Oh, no. Sydney hugged him, dropping the deli bags and briefcase.

  “—to teach in Indonesia for a year.”

  Indonesia! She’d known it was a possibility, since he applied four months ago, but—“Congratulations, sweetheart. I’m so happy for you.” Stifling her dismay, she planted kisses along his jaw and neck. “Pour some bubbly and let’s toast your achievement properly.” She retrieved the bags, nudging Indigo to get his nose out of the chicken bag.

  When they were settled on the small balcony off the back bedroom, champagne fizzing in crystal flutes, she said, “Tell me everything. When did you hear? What did they say?” She kicked off her shoes—aah, bliss—and propped her heels on the tiny tabletop no larger than a manhole cover. Sipping the Perrier-Jouet, she fought the urge to sneeze as bubbles tickled the roof of her mouth.

  “They said I’m going to Indonesia,” Jason said, plunking the bottle onto the table. He went to the rail and leaned against it, gazing down into the garden—geraniums, marigolds, and petunias in planters, and shrubs around a brick patio. A patchwork of neighbors’ gardens and yards spread out beyond, some with flowering fruit trees, some with manicured grass, some with ivy-covered walls and bird feeders, all small. Honeysuckle sweetness drifted from a hidden corner; Sydney found it comforting.

  “I know. I heard you. I mean, did they say anything like, ‘It was the brilliance of Dr. Nygaard’s recent journal article and the enthusiastic endorsements of his colleagues that convinced us to award him this grant’?” Excitement for him sped up her words and she finished with a bounce.

  He turned to face her, a half smile on his lips. “Something like that. But did you hear me, Syd? I’m going to Indonesia.” He rolled the champagne flute between his palms.

  She knit her brows. “I heard, honey. I’m thrilled for you.” She reached out a hand, but he stayed where he was.

  “A little too thrilled, I’d say.”

  The words hung between them. Her hand dropped.

  She swung her feet down and padded barefoot to where he leaned back against the railing. “What is it, Jason?” She searched his face.

  “I guess I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘Don’t go, Jason. I’ll miss you, Jason.’”

  “I didn’t want to be selfish. Don’t go, Jason. Stay.” Her stomach lurched in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. “I’d miss you dreadfully.”

  “Enough to go with me?” He put his hands on her shoulders, met her gaze squarely.

  His offer stole her breath. She opened her mouth but no words came out. She swallowed. “To Indonesia?”

  “Yes, to Indonesia,” he said, his green eyes blazing with excitement. “There’re bound to be women there who need your kind of help. You could start up an Indonesian branch of Winning Ways, put them on the path to training, jobs, careers … ”

  “How would I get funding? Wait.” She held up a hand, pulling back. Jason’s hands fell to his sides. Going to Indonesia would mean leaving Winning Ways, the nonprofit she’d worked so hard to build; leaving the women who depended on her. It would mean leaving Connie, leaving her house. She loved Jason, but Indonesia! Sydney’s breaths came fast and dizziness made her clutch at the railing. “I can’t go.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “I can’t. I have responsibilities here.”

  “Now that your dad’s passed, you don’t need to stay in the area for him anymore. Your mom’s doing fine. You can—”

  “It’s only for a year,” she said desperately. “We can write, call, every day. I’ll be here when you get back. Military families do it all the time.”

  “But we’re not a family, are we, Syd?” His tone was bleak. “I can tell it’s all you can do to put up with me staying here for a couple of weeks.”

  “No! Maybe at first. Jason—” Memories of her momentary irritation in the deli overwhelmed her with guilt. She almost missed his next words.

  “If you won’t come with me, it’s over.”

  The ultimatum darkened the space between them as the sun set and shadows overtook the garden, swarming the balcony. Pinpricks
of light flashed at grass-level. Sydney barely noticed the fireflies as confusion and hurt swamped her.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It can’t always be about ‘fair.’” Jason reached out a hand and tucked an auburn strand of hair behind her ear. “You caught some raw breaks, Syd. Manley was a sexual predator—”

  “I was eighteen the first time we—”

  “Don’t defend him!”

  “He’s—” She’d meant to tell him George had died, but Jason stopped her with a sharp headshake.

  “And Dirk was an asshole. But I’m not, damn it. Don’t tar me with the same brush as them.”

  “I’m not! I don’t want to break up with you.”

  “But you don’t want to commit to me—to us—either. Because you don’t trust yourself.”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze me!”

  “You’re playing it safe. You made a couple of bonehead choices when you were young—hell, hardly more than a kid—and now you’re afraid, hiding behind family commitments and your work. Grow up, Syd. Life—living—isn’t about being safe.”

  “Those women need me.”

  “Hell, I need you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  His weariness cut through her rising anger. “You know it does.”

  “Do I? Look, I want a family—”

  “So do I. Someday.” She couldn’t think clearly. Her mind jammed with competing images: an infant’s head, fuzzed with dark down, resting against her breast; Dirk’s cruel smile as he handed her an autographed copy of the tell-all book he’d published after the divorce; her father’s hand, drawn down to bone threaded with ropey blue veins, resting in hers. Tears threatened.

  “I’ll be forty-two in October, Syd. I don’t want to be changing diapers when I’m sixty. ‘Someday’ has to be now.”

  Jason’s voice was calm. She knew he’d anticipated her every possible response to his news, and to his ultimatum. Knew he’d prepared himself to walk away.

  He drained the champagne from his glass in one swallow. “I leave in ten days. They want me to come over early for some sort of training session. I presume I’m still welcome to stay here, since my condo’s not ready and I’ll need to rent it out anyway?”

  “Of course. Please, Jason, let’s talk—”

  “Here kitty, kitty.”

  The reedy voice startled Sydney. She looked down to see Mrs. Colwell, Indigo’s mother, staring up from her side of the low brick wall, not ten feet away. She could tell from the old woman’s avid expression that she’d heard every word of their conversation. She battled a surge of irritation. Incurable busybody.

  “Have you seen Indigo?” Mrs. Colwell called as Sydney made eye contact. She was only in her sixties but looked older. Hair like spider filaments wisped in patches thinned by radiation treatments. She clutched a robe closed at her neck. Scarlet cashmere. It didn’t fit her style or her income—a gift from her daughter, maybe. Over-large glasses magnified her eyes.

  “Not for half an hour or so,” Sydney said tightly. Jason brushed past her into the house. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. ’Night.” She flipped a hand in an abbreviated wave and went after Jason, knowing it was too late.

  4

  Paul

  “It’s too late,” the voice on the other end of the phone told Paul. “I already called the number you gave me. I thought I was talking to you, Mr. Jones.”

  Paul had no defense against the hard accusation in the voice. He’d set up the call by sending an email to his client’s anonymous account with the phone number of his new burner phone. Not that anything online was really anonymous in this day and age. He might not be a tech whiz, but he knew that much.

  “Look, no harm, no foul,” Paul said now. “You didn’t give your name, so the guy can’t identify you or me. We’ll just go from here.” He sat on a concrete bench set in a square of tired grass too small to be called a park. Suited men and women strode by, most of them on their phones or checking texts, avoiding eye contact. You’d think they were late for a plane, the way they hurried. Did no one fucking stroll anymore? Pigeons pecked at bread crumbs on the sidewalk. Rats with wings. A woman in spandex capris, Rollerblades on her feet, was tossing crumbs from a baggie she’d pulled from a fanny pack. Some cities had made it illegal to feed pigeons. If DC hadn’t, it should.

  “That’s not acceptable.” The voice brooked no argument. “It’s a risk I can’t afford to take. God knows what exactly I said. What if he can ID my voice? You have to eliminate the risk.”

  “That wasn’t part of the contract.” His client was being overly cautious. That was why he’d used a burner phone, for God’s sake. So it was anonymous, untraceable.

  “It is now.” He broke the connection.

  Fuck. Paul took pride in avoiding collateral damage. He didn’t want to kill anyone unless he was paid for it or it was absolutely necessary for his own safety and freedom. He thrust the phone into his pocket and stood, his knee hitching. He gave it a moment, wondering if he should take his doc’s advice. Nah. A replacement would necessitate too much downtime. The knee was a minor nuisance on occasion, no big deal. Deliberately marching through the flock of pigeons, he took pleasure in the way they heaved themselves into the air, wings laboring. The Rollerblader glared at him but didn’t say anything. He didn’t look back, knowing the birds would have resettled on the sidewalk within moments of his passing.

  Back in his motel room, he called Moira to give her the new phone number.

  “Want to talk with your father?” she asked, catching him off-guard. “He’s right here.”

  “Paul? Moira says you’re working? I hope you’ve got a live one on the hook.”

  The voice was surprisingly lucid and Paul closed his eyes in relief. “Yeah, Pop, I’m in New York.” The lie came automatically. “I think I can sign a couple of new accounts.” For his fictitious hotel linens sales job. Nobody ever asked a follow-up question if you told them you sold sheets and tablecloths to hotels. “I should be home by Sunday.” With any luck.

  As he half listened to his dad recount the day’s events, apparently mixing them with the plot of some Knots Landing rerun he’d been watching, Paul pulled out the cell phone he’d taken by mistake and thumbed his way through the menu to Contacts. As he had hoped, there was a listing for “Home.” Plug the number into a reverse directory and Sid Ellison was halfway to dead.

  Bingo.

  5

  Sydney

  Wednesday, August 2

  Sydney couldn’t concentrate at work the next morning. She’d picked up a new pay-as-you-go phone on the way to work, and arrived late to find messages from seven reporters on her desk, all wanting to get her reaction to George’s death, squeeze more mileage out of the fifteen-year-old scandal. When hell froze over. She’d crumpled the pink slips into a ball and banged them into the trash can. And the argument with Jason was a steady ache that Motrin wasn’t going to help. Now, five women filled the tiny Winning Ways classroom, their hopeful gazes fixed on her as she gave them pointers on professional dress and appearance, using her own navy suit, mid-heeled pumps, hose—yes, even in summer, she told Belinda—and understated jewelry as visual aids for interview attire.

  “No bling,” Sydney emphasized, pointing at Bo-Bae’s chandelier earrings and Malayna’s armful of jangly bangles.

  Victims of abuse or their own bad choices, these women were looking to turn their lives around, to find jobs that might become careers, to learn to value themselves and the contributions they could make. Winning Ways helped by offering free classes on job hunting, interviewing, and workplace etiquette; supplying interview attire; running mock interviews; and doing job placement. These women need me, Sydney reminded herself, her gaze lighting on the cast covering Belinda’s forearm, courtesy of the abusive husband she’d finally left. So many of them had suffered at the hands of men who had more power—physical, emotion
al, or financial—than they did. As Sydney had suffered. But where she’d had all the advantages of wealth and education to help her make it after the scandal, and again after Dirk, these women had only their pride and determination and whatever Winning Ways could give them in the way of a leg up. It wasn’t right of Jason to expect her to desert them.

  “And keep your hair neat and conservative,” she finished, not letting her thoughts show. At least her time in the political spotlight had taught her that much. She turned to show how her auburn hair was skewered at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell slide.

  “But that’s boring,” Malayna complained, smoothing the sculpture of shellacked swirls and curls that made up her ’do.

  “Employers crave boring,” Sydney said with a sympathetic smile, but the word caught her unaware. Was her look boring? Conservative, yes—but boring? She let the thought go as another woman launched into a question.

  Even as she fielded the women’s questions with half her brain, the other half dwelled on the scene with Jason the night before and the chill that had permeated their evening. They’d lain in bed together, each turned away from the middle, and the gap between them, though mere inches, had felt like an icy crevasse on Mt. Everest. Jason slipped out of bed at five for a bike ride and Sydney snuggled into the warm depression left by his body, breathed in his lingering scent, and dozed. She was vaguely aware of the shower raining against the tile when he returned. Next thing she knew, he was leaning over her, all clean-shaven skin and toothpaste breath, to brush her cheek with his lips. She hadn’t known what to say, so she’d feigned sleep. After a moment’s hesitation, he’d left. A sense of loss tugged at her as she dismissed the class and headed to her office.

  “Sydney, a moment.”

  The mellifluous bass voice, perfect for its owner’s weekly radio show “Come to Jesus,” came from behind her. She groaned. Pasting a small smile on her face, she turned to greet the Chairman of Winning Ways’ Board of Directors. “Marlon, good to see you.” A lie.