Close Call by Laura Disilverio

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.
    â€œThanks, 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.

10
    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.
    â€œMiss 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.
    â€œMiss 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.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œYou can’t go in