Close Call

by Laura Disilverio

  “I don’t want a drink. I just want to ask—”

  “Of course you want a drink. You probably prefer wine.” He poured her a glass of red wine from a stoppered bottle on the counter, topped up his glass with the vodka, then peeked into a pot bubbling on the range. He stirred the contents with a spoon and a fragrant steam rose toward the ceiling. “Dinner,” he said. “Linguine alle vongole. With clams. It’s the only thing I know how to cook. When Katya’s away I mostly make do with take-out. I hope you’re not allergic?”

  “I’m not staying.”

  When he started to protest, she talked over him. “Look, someone slipped this under my door.” She pulled the page out of her purse and spread it on the counter. The bubbling pasta water spit on it and she moved it out of range.

  “What’s this?” His voice was brusque; he was annoyed that she wasn’t staying. How had he envisioned the evening ending? She doubted he’d have been satisfied with watching James Bond movies and munching popcorn.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” she said. “Do you know whose funeral this was?”

  He found reading glasses on the counter and slipped them on, giving a half-embarrassed wince. “I never wear these in public.” When Sydney didn’t say anything, he picked up the photo. After a moment he raised his head slowly and looked at her over the top of the glasses. The slip of newsprint quivered in his hand. “What’s this about? Where did you get this?”

  “Someone put it under my door. I don’t know when. I found it less than two hours ago.”

  “It’s Carrie’s funeral,” he said.

  She wasn’t imagining it; his hand was shaking. “Carrie who?”

  “Favier. John Favier’s my chief of staff. Carrie is—was—his wife. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver earlier this summer. Tragic. She was … a special woman.”

  Sydney reclaimed the photo. “This”—she waved the paper—“Carrie’s death, Jason’s death, whoever’s trying to kill you—it’s all related. Did the police catch the driver?”

  Slowly, Montoya shook his head. “No. Nothing to go on. No witnesses. Just the side mirror from an old Camry. There was a partial print on it, I remember the cops telling John. It sticks in my mind that they traced it to some private who died in Vietnam. A mistake, obviously.” His tone said you couldn’t count on the police to get things right.

  Sydney stared him straight in the face and said, “Who would want to kill both Carrie Favier and you?”

  He laughed uncomfortably and broke away from her gaze to lift the pasta pot from the stove and drain it into a colander. Steam billowed up, obscuring his features momentarily. “Sure you won’t have some?” He filled a plate, topped it with sauce, and, with vodka glass in one hand and plate in the other, crossed the hall to a small den where Daniel Craig as James Bond played on the large-screen television. Sydney followed him, incredulous that he could walk away from her and the conversation. She flung her purse onto an ottoman as he sank into a leather love seat and patted the place beside him. Yeah, when they took up bobsledding in hell. She remained standing.

  “Sean Connery was the best Bond,” he said, “but this guy’s got a good take on the part.” His comment and his attempt to entice her to join him felt awkward, strained, like he was going through the motions while his mind was elsewhere.

  “Damn it!” Sydney shook with rage. He knew something, something about why Jason was killed and why Reese was lying in a hospital fighting for her life, and he was making small talk about a stupid movie. Hands on her hips, she stood in front of him, blocking his view of the television. “Tell me! You were screwing her, weren’t you, this Carrie? Her husband found out and—”

  “No.” Montoya shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. Yeah, Carrie and I had a thing, but it was damn near a quarter century ago. It didn’t last twenty minutes. It’s not like John’s been a saint either. I covered for him more than once. He’s got a thing for redheads.” He eyed her auburn hair meaningfully. “He’s my best friend. Take my word for it—he’s not involved in this—whatever ‘this’ is.”

  Frustration bubbled up in Sydney. There had to be a connection between Carrie Favier’s death and what was happening now. There had to be. Before she could puzzle through it, the doorbell rang.

  54

  Sydney

  Wanting to keep an eye on Montoya and feeling foolish about it, Sydney followed him into the foyer. Without even checking the peep hole, he flipped the deadbolt and turned the doorknob.

  “Don’t—” Sydney started, remembering that an assassin was after him. After them.

  Too late. Montoya had the door open and was regarding his chief of staff with bemusement. “John? What the hell—?” If he was discomfited by the appearance of the man he’d just admitted cuckolding, he didn’t show it. The affair was woven so far back in the tapestry of their relationship, Sydney realized, that even though he knew the slub was there, he never focused on it.

  The outside sconce shed a yellow light that draped Favier’s square shoulders but left his face largely in shadow. His voice, though, was solemn. “I told the police—I needed to be the one to tell you. I didn’t know you had a guest.”

  He leaned forward to stare at Sydney, and the porch light yellowed his eyes. She shrank away from his contempt, then straightened her back. Screw him. She was tired of people passing judgment on her. What was he doing here at this hour anyway, almost as if he’d been summoned by their talking about him? A chill seeped through her. “Don’t let him—” She took a half step forward, but Montoya was already pulling the door wider.

  “Tell me what?” Montoya made an impatient gesture. “Come in, damn it. What’s this all about?”

  Favier stepped across the threshold. In the chandelier’s light he looked feverish, his face pale but with his cheeks flushed red. His eyes were glassy. “It’s Jimmy,” he said.

  Montoya frowned, more irritated than worried, and started back toward the kitchen. “What’s he done now? If it’s more gambling losses, I don’t want to hear about it. Want a drink? Some linguine? We just sat down to eat—”

  “Jimmy’s dead.”

  Sydney gasped. Montoya whirled so fast that he stumbled. He took two heavy steps back toward his friend. “That’s not funny, John. What the hell are you playing at?”

  “Oh, Fidel, I wish I didn’t have to give you this news. Jimmy was like a son to me, too. You know that.”

  Sydney, her gaze glued to Favier, was convinced there was a distasteful avidity in the way he was watching Montoya’s reaction to the news of Jimmy’s death. He looked … she searched for a word. Triumphant. She wished desperately that she had her phone on her, but it was in her purse in the den. Useless.

  “There was an accident. He slipped in the bathroom and cracked his head open.”

  “Ay, Díos mio. My God!” Montoya cried, fingers writhing in his hair. It stood up in spiky clumps. His eyes widened by anguish, he stepped forward and shook Favier by the shoulders. “It’s not true.” His eyes searched his friend’s face.

  Favier disengaged himself by reaching into his pocket. Sydney tensed, but he brought out a phone. “I’m so sorry, my friend, but it’s true. I have a photo.” He held out his phone.

  Sydney edged closer and glimpsed a bathroom with Jimmy Montoya’s body sprawled on the floor. Montoya didn’t make a sound, but tears rolled down his cheeks. Putting a sympathetic hand on his arm, moved by his silent grief, she fought back the tears that burned her eyes. If she started crying now—for Montoya, Jimmy, Reese, Jason, or out of sheer terror—Favier would win. Trying to keep her face from showing her thoughts, she forced herself to be analytical about the truth she’d instinctively recognized. There was no way John Favier should have a photo of Jimmy, no way the police would have told him about Jimmy’s death before informing Fidel and Katya Montoya. He could only have one source for the photo: either he’d killed Jimmy himself, or t
he hit man had done it and provided him with the evidence that he’d completed his task. Sydney was betting on the latter.

  “You need privacy to call your wife,” she said. “I should go.” Before either of them could stop her, she ducked into the den and grabbed her purse off the ottoman. A moment later, the phone was in her hand. “I’ll just call a taxi,” she said, pushing the redial button.

  Before the call even went through, John Favier brought the butt of a gun down across her wrist. Sydney cried out and dropped the phone, which skipped once and disappeared under the entertainment center.

  “My God, John—my friend—what are you playing at?” Montoya stepped toward Favier, only to be motioned back with a wave of the gun.

  “Don’t.”

  The word hummed with fury.

  “What?” Montoya’s confusion looked genuine.

  “Don’t come any closer and don’t call yourself my friend.”

  Montoya stumbled back two steps, knocking against the cabinet and jarring the Grey Goose bottle, which shattered against the brick hearth. The three of them watched the clear liquid soak into the carpet and a hand-sized, curved shard of glass rocking back and forth.

  Struggling to recover his sangfroid, Montoya spoke. “Come on, John. Whatever this is, we can talk it out. If I’ve done something to offend you … ” He spread his arms wide and an earnest look filled his dark eyes.

  He was good, Sydney had to admit. Her fingers crept into her purse as Favier rounded on the congressman.

  “Something to offend me? Why, yes, I suppose you could call fucking my wife offensive! I may not be a hot-shot congressman, I may only be a simple country boy from Tennessee, but I have some decency. A friend’s wife is off-limits. You bastard!”

  Favier’s voice shook with rage and the gun trembled in his large hand. Sydney didn’t know much about guns, but she could see it was bigger than Reese’s. Blue light from the flickering television screen danced along its silver length.

  “And don’t even try to deny it!” Favier almost shrieked as Montoya opened his mouth.

  Montoya paused a moment, regrouping, then said simply, “I am so sorry, John. It was over between us decades ago, before you and I became friends, real friends. It only lasted a few months. I never meant … Why did you wait so long for … ” He swirled one hand to encompass the week’s events.

  “I only found out recently,” Favier replied.

  Montoya’s eyes widened with comprehension. “When Carrie died. Did she leave a diary, letters?”

  “I found out before Carrie died,” Favier said. His quiet emphasis on “before” hung in the room.

  He’d killed his wife. Sydney knew it with chilling certainty. He’d arranged the hit-and-run “accident.” That was definitely round one.

  “Carrie. Oh my God.” Montoya buried his face in his hands and his shoulders shook. After a moment he raised his head and glared at Favier. “You set that up. It wasn’t an accident.”

  “Got it in one.” Favier motioned with the gun for Montoya to join Sydney over near the loveseat. Heat and the stink of flop sweat radiated from him and she sidled away.

  “Jimmy? Did you—tell me you didn’t kill Jimmy?” Montoya’s voice cracked.

  “The same man who killed Carrie took care of Jimmy. The hit-and-run went flawlessly, or so it seemed at the time. No one ever suspected it wasn’t an accident. Jimmy’s didn’t happen quite as planned, however. Mr. Jones must be losing his touch. First he let the Manley Trap here get hold of his phone, and then he fucked up and killed her boyfriend. To top it off, he shoots Reese Linn and leaves his goddamned fucking fingerprint in a hotel room where the police tracked him after the shooting today. Fingerprints that match a partial print they lifted from the car mirror that was knocked off in Carrie’s accident.”

  Montoya stayed silent, and Favier stepped toward him threateningly. “A Detective West came by my office an hour ago to tell me he thought they were making progress on Carrie’s case. What a clusterfuck. If Jones ever gets arrested, anywhere in the goddamned country, his fingerprints will tie him to both the murders. And he can tie me to them. Not that he’s ever seen me, and our financial transactions have been anonymous, but how hard is it to figure out it’s probably the husband that wants a woman killed? West has me in his sights, I can tell. I didn’t like the tone of some his questions. Jones is the only link—without him they’ve got no way to prove anything. I have an alibi for both Carrie’s death and Jimmy’s. But that’s for later,” he said, making an obvious effort to calm himself. “The two of you are on tonight’s agenda. It’s serendipitous finding you here together.”

  “Katya will be home soon,” Montoya said.

  Favier snorted. “Weak, Fidel. You wouldn’t have invited the Manley Trap over if that were the case. Maybe I’ll do what I can to console Katya when you’re gone.” He leered at Montoya. “She does have the best rack I’ve ever seen on a fifty-year-old.”

  “Maletón!” Montoya lunged forward.

  A percussive report filled the room, deafening Sydney. Montoya crumpled to the ground, keening and clutching at his knee. The scent of cordite and blood made her gag. Montoya’s knee was nothing but pulped flesh and splinters of cartilage. A puddle of blood grew as she watched, bright red fading to maroon at the edges.

  Favier grunted with dissatisfaction. “I didn’t want to have to do that. It makes the murder-suicide scenario a little less tidy, but I think I can still make it work. It’ll just look like Miss Ellison missed her first shot.”

  “I’ll be crippled,” Montoya moaned.

  “That’s the least of your worries.”

  Her ears still ringing from the shot, Sydney heard Favier’s words as if from the end of a long tunnel. His head was turned as he focused on Montoya, and she slipped her hand into her purse to surreptitiously withdraw Reese’s gun. It felt alien, cold and heavy against her palm. She had no idea how many bullets were in it, but she knew it was their only chance.

  In one jerky motion, she raised her arm to shoulder height, her hand trembling from the weight of the pistol, and fired at Favier’s torso. The bullet thudded into his chest, blasting him back until he slammed against the wall. His arms flew up and the silver gun slipped from his grasp, clunking to the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head as he slid down the wall.

  Shuddering, Sydney dropped Reese’s gun and ran to Montoya.

  “911,” he whispered.

  “I’ve got to stop the bleeding first,” she said, feeling a sense of déjà vu. Had it been only this morning that she’d been staunching Reese’s blood? Unbuckling Montoya’s belt and tugging it through the loops, she slipped it under his thigh, ignoring his cry of pain. Trying not to look at the mangled mess that had been his knee, she slid the free end through the buckle and cinched it tight above his knee. His skin felt clammy when she touched the back of her hand to his cheek and she knew he was in shock. She needed to find a blanket—

  As she rose, something slammed into her temple, sending her to her knees. “You bitch!” Favier roared, standing over her, the gun in his hand smeared with her blood.

  She put a hand to her temple, wiping away the blood dripping into her eye. Her head rang and she couldn’t think straight. “How—?”

  “Kevlar.” Favier patted his tummy, making a dull, thwacking sound. “I never go into a tactical situation without it. Once a cop, always a cop. I think you cracked a rib though,” he said, slapping her with his free hand. “Hurts like hell.”

  As her head whipped to her shoulder, Sydney felt the first cold fingers of despair working through her mind and numbing her body. It was a familiar feeling, but one she’d hoped was gone forever. After the scandal broke and she’d realized she was carrying George’s baby, she’d stumbled through week after hopeless week with a cold black depression draining her energy and will to live. Only the baby’s first kicks and her move to Europe ha
d helped ease the darkness out of her heart and mind, so that she could see beyond the idea of death again—first in grays, then in color. Now that cold blackness was back, seeping into her marrow, urging her to give up. Tears mingled with the blood on her face.

  Favier was moving around the small room, setting up his scene, as she pushed from her hands and knees to her haunches. “On the plus side,” he said, “you’ve got GSR on your hands, so when the coroner tests it you’ll come up positive. On the minus side, this has to go.” He unbuckled the belt she’d bound around Montoya’s thigh and the man moaned.

  “How’d you find out, John?” he asked on an indraw of his breath. “After all this time … ”

  Favier’s features froze into a mask of hatred. “It was Emily.”

  Montoya blinked several times, then forced his heavy lids open, trying to focus on Favier. “She didn’t know. She wasn’t even born.”

  “When she got hurt in Texas—when that damned piece of scrap metal opened up her leg—she needed blood, two pints. I offered mine. I’d have given anything to help her. But I’m type A and she’s B so I couldn’t donate to her. Worse, Carrie was type A like me.” Favier ground his teeth. “It took me several minutes to figure out what that meant. I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. When I asked Carrie, she admitted to your affair, said it was possible that you … that Emily … ”

  Sydney took her eyes off of Favier for a moment to see how his story was affecting Montoya. The congressman looked confused, and blinked slowly several times. Loss of blood, Sydney thought. Without treatment—

  “You took my daughter away from me, and that’s why I took your son,” Favier bit out. Bleak satisfaction iced his words. “My sweet Emily, engaged to her half brother without knowing it. Sleeping with him. It was sick. Sick! I couldn’t turn her away from him, not without telling her the truth. Believe me, I tried. Told her all about his gambling, but she just kept saying she loved him. It was all your fault. I wanted him dead before the election, so your win would be meaningless. I wanted everything to turn to ash for you, just as it has for me. The whole world is gray now, ever since I found out. I was in New York on 911 and it’s like that—the sky blotted out, ash raining down. Except nothing will clear this darkness away. Now you know what it’s like.” Favier scratched his chin with the gun’s muzzle. “I wasn’t going to kill you—I wanted you to suffer like I’ve suffered, but this will be better. Better for Emily. With both you and Jimmy dead, it’ll be easier for her. She’ll never have to know the truth.”