Close Call by Laura Disilverio Page A

there.”
    â€œWhat’s happened to Jason?” Sydney looked wildly from West to Graves.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œMy … 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.
    â€œHey—!” 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.
    â€œJason—” 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.
    â€œSit down.” West guided her to the open door of an unmarked police car and she sank onto the edge of the seat.
    â€œSomeone shot Jason,” she whispered. The import of that dark hole in his forehead sank in. “Why?”
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œNo! How would I—? I was at work, at Winning Ways, then I was shopping with my deputy in the afternoon.”
    â€œWinning Ways? Is that a sports bar, a betting parlor?”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œMr. Nygaard was shot twice, execution style, in your home, Miss Ellison.”
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œI 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