T. E. Woods

The Fixer

Chapter One

The prospect sat in the hot tub, fat and doughy. Looking like he would leave an oil slick as he melted in the steaming water. The Fixer crossed the redwood deck, dropped a robe, climbed down three steps and sat across from the sweating mound of human flesh.

“You Martin?”

The prospect’s mouth flapped up and down. No words. A three hundred pound manatee gurgling as the whirlpool teased bubbles around his hairy D-cup breasts.

“I asked if you’re Martin.”

The fat man scanned the pool area. Two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon at an airport conference hotel. The Fixer knew the place would be empty. Perfect for sensitive conversations.

Martin brought his hand to his face. Two pink hams rubbing water out of his eyes. “Graham? You’re Graham?”

The Fixer nodded.

A slow smile crossed the fat one’s face. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Yellow teeth peeked out between Martin’s fleshy lips. “I like your tattoo. A dagger through the heart. Nice for your line of work. What I don’t like is meeting in a jacuzzi.” He leaned his arms across the back of the tub. A porcine crucifix. “What’s the deal?”

“Bathing suits and hot water. Great for making sure no one’s wearing a wire.”

“I get it. Brings whole new meaning to the term ‘wet work’.”

“You have a job for me, Mr. Martin?”

The prospect craned his fat head, scanning the pool area again, assuring himself no one was within earshot. “My wife.”

“What about your wife, Mr. Martin?”

He fidgeted in his seat. “What? I gotta say it? That how this works?”

The Fixer stared at him. Steel blue eyes shut down any resistance the obese man may have considered.

“I want her gone, okay?” He swiped a hand through thinning brown hair. “I need her gone.”

“Tell me why, Mr. Martin.”

“What? You got standards?” Martin regretted the challenge the moment it left his lips. “Sorry. That was rude. You’re a professional. I respect that. It’s just you gotta understand.” He made a failed attempt at humble. “It’s not like I do this every day, you know what I’m saying?”

“Tell me why, Mr. Martin. Why do you want your wife gone?”

The enormity of the man made his subservience all the more pitiful. This was the Fixer’s favorite part. When the prospect realized who held the power.

“She’s become a liability, let’s just say. Spends my money like a sailor on shore leave. She’s drunk every day by three. She used to be gorgeous but I gotta face it. She’s really let herself go. My business, I need a looker on my arm.”

“Why not divorce her, Mr. Martin?”

The prospect narrowed his eyes, considering another stab at defiance. The Fixer’s steadiness stopped it. The smell of chlorine mixed with his sweat to produce an unctuous odor of sanitized panic. “It’s complicated. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Which means there’s money involved. Money a judge might think she deserves but you don’t want her to have.”

“It’s not just the money. It’s a whole thing. Like I said, complicated.”

“Which means there’s another woman. Someone who doesn’t want to wait through a messy divorce.”

Martin found a sliver of backbone somewhere in his fleshy insulation. “Listen. I don’t gotta explain myself to you. You gonna do this thing or not?”

The Fixer’s hand toyed with the bubbles. “No, Mr. Martin. I’m not. I do have standards. You don’t meet them.” Rising and grabbing the rail, The Fixer climbed the stairs and reached for a robe.

“What the fuck is this? You jerking me around?” Martin attempted to stand but slipped, sending a chemically-treated tsunami over The Fixer’s feet.

“Relax, Mr. Martin.” Robe tied tight. “I have colleagues whose criteria aren’t as high as mine. Consider this a first interview. The good news is you made it to the next round. Be here tomorrow. Same time. Same tub. My colleague will meet you. Name’s Allen. I think the two of you will make perfect partners.”

“What is this? You got the rep, Graham. Who the fuck’s Allen? I need you. Not some dumb fuck associate of yours.”

The Fixer looked down at the floating flesh flailing in the spa. “One more word, Mr. Martin and Allen takes another job. Are we clear?”

Martin settled back onto the hot tub bench and nodded. “Tell that Allen of yours I want to do business.”

The Fixer smiled and headed toward the locker room. A quick shower and change before heading home. Special attention to scrubbing off the heart-and-dagger tattoo. A long walk to the far end of the hotel’s parking lot. The Fixer pulled out a pre-paid cell phone, fitted a small voice digitizer over the mouthpiece, and punched in a number. An answer on the second ring.

“West Grove Station, Officer Jenkins speaking.”

“Detective Llaird, please.”

Officer Jenkins reacted to the synthesized voice. “Who is this?”

“Put me through to Detective Llaird. I won’t ask again, Officer.”

A brief pause followed by a click signaled Jenkins had weighed her options well.

“Llaird, Homicide.”

“Detective Llaird, listen carefully.” The Fixer knew the digitizer sometimes garbled sounds. “Have one of your plainclothes meet a man at the airport Hilton tomorrow at two p.m. His name’s Martin. He’ll be the fattest guy your man’s ever seen and he’ll be waiting in the hot tub.”

“Who the hell is this?” The digitizer attracted that question a lot.

“Listen to me, Detective and you’ll save a life. Ignore me and you’ll have a homicide on your hands. Martin’s looking for somebody. Wants his wife dead and is ready to pay. Tomorrow. Two o’clock. Hot tub at the airport Hilton. He’ll be expecting a shooter named Allen.”

“What the fuck is this?” Llaird offered a variation on the theme.

“This, Detective, is a guaranteed head’s up. I’ve done my job. Now you do yours.” The Fixer clicked off. Digitizer removed and returned to pocket. Pre-paid’s battery ejected. Crossing the parking lot back to the hotel, The Fixer passed several cars with windows open to the July heat. Cell phone mechanism placed under the tire of a six-year-old Ford. Cell phone battery tossed into the open dumpster behind the coffee shop. Never breaking stride, The Fixer moved through the lobby and out the main entrance, nodding to the nearest bellman past the revolving door.

“Cab, please. Airport.”

The bellman whistled the first car in the taxi line forward. The Fixer stepped to the open door and handed the bellman a five before settling into the back seat. Two doormen and three bellhops watched the cab pull away.

“That,” said the twenty-year old bellhop, “is one gorgeous woman.”

Chapter Two

Lydia Corriger clenched the paper coffee cup in her teeth, tucked her files under her left arm, fumbled with the keys, and bumped the door open. Stumbling three steps, she shrugged her briefcase off her shoulder and tossed the files onto her waiting room couch, pleased she hadn’t spilled a drop of her four dollar latte. She took a long sip before setting the cup on a side table. Gathering envelopes from beneath a bronze slot, she scanned them as she crossed into her office, settled down behind her secondhand oak desk and divided the mail into piles. Reaching for her coffee somewhere around the fourth credit card solicitation, she cursed her absent mindedness and returned to the waiting room to retrieve it.

Lydia had a light day. One patient in the morning. Three more scattered throughout the afternoon. With any luck home before five. She ran a letter opener across the first envelope on a stack of remittances. If she hurried she could make her deposit before Jeffe Moldanado arrived for his ten o’clock appointment. She took another sip of coffee and promised herself a bagel on the way back from the bank.

“Jeffe?”

The tall Hispanic man stood on two aluminum crutches, moving slower than usual.

“Back bothering you?” She motioned toward the recliner opposite her desk. “Want the La-Z-Boy today?”

“I am good, thank you, Dr. Corriger.” Jeffe had arrived in Washington two years earlier. Up from a dusty backwater seventy miles south of Juarez. The only English he brought was “Yes, Boss.” He was eager to make his fortune following the crops. Apples, soybeans, lettuce, onions. Yakima, Moses Lake, Ellensburg, Walla Walla. He’d been in Yelm, unloading a flatbed of pumpkins at the end of a twenty-hour day when an exhausted tractor driver backed up and left him with six cracked vertebrae and one broken hip. Excellent surgeries were followed by medieval rehab in a filthy hellhole that warehoused him as long as the charity dollars held up.

“My therapist is working me hard. I tell her to go fight the terrorists, she is so strong.” Jeffe smiled through his pain. “But I am walking now. So it’s good.”

Lydia settled onto the sofa. “Eastview is working well for you, then?”

“Ah, Madre de Dio, Dr. Corriger. You did not see the other. I was there for a year. It was no good. Bad food. Dirty sheets. No help. Now I am in Eastview less than one month and I am walking. I tell my wife not to worry. She can expect checks from me soon.”

Lydia reached for her notebook. “Last week we talked about how you wanted to kill the farmer who hired you. What are your thoughts today?”

Jeffe’s face hardened. “Bastardo!” He raised one crutch. “For three dollars an hour I sacrifice my legs. I cannot work. I cannot send money to my home.”

“I hear your anger, Jeffe. But if you go after that man, you’ll end up in jail. How will you help your family then?”

Jeffe leaned forward, his words cold and hard. “I will give them a greater gift.” He winced in pain. “Justicia!”

Lydia opened the door to her waiting room at two o’clock sharp to greet a new patient. Savannah Samuels had called last week saying she was familiar with Lydia’s success with tough cases. Lydia had asked routine insurance information, but Savannah told her not to worry. She’d pay in cash at each appointment. Savannah stood at the window, gnawing a cuticle. Shoulder length hair, expertly cut with sharp angles, so shiny-black it gleamed blue in the afternoon light. Creamy skin, smooth as Dresden china. Three hundred dollar jeans and a soft silk shirt. Coach shoulder bag matching knee high leather boots. Burberry trench draped over her arm.

Savannah looked up. Delicate cheekbones and chin gave her face an air of elegant fragility. Blue eyes, framed by thick dark lashes, telegraphed a silent sadness. Lydia put on a gentle smile and ushered her into her office.

“You look just how I knew you would,” Savannah said.

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “You’ve imagined what I look like?” She watched her newest patient settle onto the sofa and tried to interpret the wistful expression on her face. “Do I pass inspection?”

“You look fine.” Savannah shifted into a mask of business cordiality. “It’s good to see you.”

Lydia sat in an opposite chair and began her routine orientation to the confidential nature of therapy.

“I’m not worried about confidences, Dr. Corriger. Is that what I should call you?” Savannah’s voice hummed with a slight accent Lydia found familiar, but couldn’t quite place.

“Would you be more comfortable calling me something else?”

“A question answered with a question. How very expected. Will I always be able to anticipate what you’ll say next?”

Lydia had long ago grown weary of power dances. “Were you expecting me to ask what has you so frightened that you’re being immediately confrontational?”

Savannah sat still. A slight smile crossed her pillowed lips. “Now there you go, Dr. Corriger, I wasn’t expecting that at all. Well played.”

“Is that what we’re doing, Savannah? Playing?” Lydia didn’t wait for an answer. “Tell me why you’re not worried about keeping our work confidential.”

Savannah drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly as she glanced around the room. She crossed her long legs and leaned back in the chair, her voice a world-weary monotone. “It won’t matter one way or the other what you tell to whom. Everything I say will be lies.”

Lydia was intrigued with this new step. “How do you expect that to help?”

Savannah fixed her sapphire eyes on her therapist. “Everything I tell you will be lies, but all of it will be true. You’ll be able to figure it out, Doctor. I’ve read every article you’ve written. I know about the award you got. You’ve always been able to figure out a way to help people and you’ll do it again for me.”

Lydia’s impatience was rising. “Why would I enter into such an arrangement, Savannah? Therapy is predicated on trust.”

“Trust is earned, Dr. Corriger.” Savannah’s voice took on a hostile edge. “And you already have mine.” Her tone softened. “I need you. There’s something fundamentally broken in me. I need you to fix it.”

Lydia stared at her while diagnostic impressions clicked through her mind. Savannah was intriguing, certainly. Lydia wondered if she was a good enough psychologist to break through her defenses.

“Why don’t we finish this session before deciding if this is a good match?” Lydia offered. “How does that sound to you?”

Something like hope brightened Savannah’s countenance. She nodded.

Lydia reached for her notepad and pen. “Why don’t we start with what you think is broken?”

Savannah brushed her hair behind a perfect shell of an ear. “No notes, please, Dr. Corriger. No chart, either. There’s to be no record of my being here.”

“Savannah, to make this work we’re going to have to respect one another’s needs.” Lydia’s irritation returned. “I’m required to keep a chart on every patient I see.”

“But I’m paying you in cash. Can’t we keep this just between us?”

“No. I’ll call you any name you’d like and perhaps I’ll even listen to your lies as we try to reach the truth, but I’ll not jeopardize my license for you.”

Lydia watched Savannah weigh her options.

“Can you tell me the bare minimum you have to keep in those charts of yours?”

“Of course. Your name. The date. Your diagnosis. Length of session. Brief description of what we worked on.” Lydia sensed Savannah’s anxiety. “I can keep it vague.”

Savannah pulled her bottom lip under her teeth. Lydia knew she was slipping away.

“Tell you what, I can dispense with notes in session. But I must have a chart. Fair?”

Savannah pushed herself taller in the seat and nodded. A scared child recognizing her impotence.

“Maybe this is our first opportunity to learn we can trust each other,” Lydia said.

Savannah nodded. “Like I said. You already have my trust.”

“Good.” Lydia tossed her notepad and pen to the floor. “Now, tell me what you think is so fundamentally broken.”

Lydia saw Savannah’s subtle flinch and assumed she didn’t know what string in the chaotic tapestry of her life to tug on first. She watched her take a deep breath, swallow hard, and fold her hands in her lap. “I’ve grown into a bad person, Dr. Corriger. Quite possibly the worst you’ll ever meet.”

Lydia wondered if Savannah had any idea how pedestrian her self-assessment was. She’d worked with scores of patients who held that same belief. Part and parcel of the danger of self-awareness. Look at yourself long enough and you’ll meet the monster inside. “Shall we take a look at that?”

A weary smile crossed Savannah’s perfect face. “You’re going to ask me what evidence exists that I’m the worst person in the world. Then you’ll ask me what evidence disputes my belief. Then you’ll convince me to listen to all the alternatives and see myself in a new, balanced light. Is that your plan, Dr. Corriger?”

“You’ve been through therapy before.” Lydia added narcissist and passive-aggressive to her list of potential diagnoses.

“I’ve been through it all, Doctor. Name a therapy and I’ve tried it.”

“Then what are you looking for, Savannah? What do you want from me?”

Savannah flinched. “I want you to make me feel safe again. What’s missing in me? I do terrible things and I don’t care. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t second-guess. I’m cold. Flat.”

“I disagree.” Lydia knew this might be her only session with Savannah so she pressed hard. “I see sheer terror in your eyes. You don’t like your life and you’re scared to death it’s never going to change. That’s not cold. That’s not flat. You’ve gone to great lengths to research my background. That’s not the work of someone who doesn’t care. You’ve told me you’ve developed a wonderful story to simultaneously show and hide the truth. That’s certainly not the work of someone who doesn’t second-guess themselves or feel guilty.” Lydia leaned forward, arms crossed over her knees, inches from her patient. She inhaled Savannah’s perfume. Roses wrapped in money. “Please tell me what terrible things you do and we’ll see what we can figure out.”

Savannah sat motionless. “Another opportunity to trust each other?” she whispered.

Lydia nodded. “Try me, Savannah.”

Savannah paused before sliding her sleeve to check her Rolex. “I see our time is up. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say?”

“We have time.” Lydia wasn’t ready for the dance to end. What new steps might Savannah offer?

“Perhaps next time, Dr. Corriger.” Savannah stood and reached for her purse. A raven haired goddess regaining her celestial stature after a brief romp with a mortal. She pulled three hundred-dollar bills from her wallet and held them out to Lydia. “It was wonderful seeing you.”

Lydia sensed there was no way to keep Savannah engaged. “My intake rate is $275.00. Let me get your change.”

“There’s no need.” Savannah folded her Burberry over her arm. “Consider it compensation for my eccentricities.”

Lydia crossed to her desk and pulled two tens and a five from a small tin box inside the top drawer. “I’m not your manicurist, Savannah. I don’t accept tips.”

“Oh, dear. Have I offended you?” Savannah brushed a piece of lint off her shoulder. “Do you see what I mean about doing awful things and not caring?”

Lydia ignored the bait. “Would you like another appointment?”

Savannah crossed to the door, opened it, and looked back over her shoulder. “I have some travelling coming up. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” She crossed through the waiting room and hesitated before opening the door to the outside hall. When she turned her voice was soft. “I’ll call, Dr. Corriger. I promise.”

Lydia hoped she would.

Lydia’s afternoon finished on schedule. She pulled paperwork together, stuffed her briefcase, and locked her office door at 4:15. Her drive home took less than twenty minutes. She stayed on surface streets, avoiding the freeway that could have saved her time.

She turned into her driveway and drove the hundred yards to her house. She stepped out of her car and breathed in the salty air of Puget Sound. Lydia entered her front door, dropped her briefcase, and crossed directly through her living room to the deck. The sun was still long from setting, bathing the water of Dana Passage in shimmering silver. Anderson Island lay like a sleeping dragon in the middle distance. Farther out the Olympic Mountains gleamed white and grey against a dazzling sky. From where Lydia stood she could pretend there was no one else in the world. The haunting cry of seagulls welcomed her home.

Lydia headed toward the galvanized tin buckets in the corner. She opened one, pulled out four cobs of corn, kicked off her sandals and crossed her back lawn, reveling in the freedom of toes in soft grass. A tall oak tree, unusual for the Pacific Northwest, stood solitary guard thirty feet away. Lydia cracked the corn cobs, tossed the pieces around the tree’s roots, and retreated several steps. “Come and get it, boys.”

The dense leaves shook above her. She smiled as four squirrels, frisky despite the warmth of the August afternoon, danced down the trunk, threw her a fearless glance, and pounced on the corn.

Lydia crossed back to the deck and carried the second galvanized bucket to bird feeders nestled among bushes and perennials. She scooped seed into tubes and trays, checked the water level in two bird baths, and made sure a suet carrier was full before returning the much-lighter bucket to the deck.

An eagle riding an air current over the passage distracted her. It hovered there, suspended fifty feet above the water’s surface, but just a few yards above her line of sight. No wings flapped. No head turned. Perfectly positioned to surf the invisible force. Impervious to danger. Looking for its next kill.

She went inside and made dinner. Baked potato, broccoli, breast of chicken. A dinner guaranteed not to add an ounce to her five-foot-seven, 130 pound, thirty-six-year old body. Lydia set the dining room table, lit two candles, and ate while the setting sun turned the mountains first pink, then blue. By the time she finished washing her dishes the view disappeared into inky emptiness as the night clouds blocked any starlight.

Nine o’clock. Lydia went to her bedroom and exchanged her jersey skirt and white cotton tank for grey sweatpants and a t-shirt. She laced on her running shoes, pulled her light brown hair into a pony tail, and headed downstairs. Twenty minutes on the treadmill. Twenty minutes with free weights. Twenty minutes with the heavy bag.

A long shower later, Lydia was in bed, trying to relax by focusing her concentration on an image of a white sheet billowing on a clothesline. Drifting. Waving. In her mind’s eye the white sheet began to bleed. A spot of red in one corner. Oozing now. Covering the fabric. Weighing it against the breeze. Finally sodden and heavy.

Lydia snapped her eyes open. She threw off the covers and marched into the kitchen. She pulled two ice cubes from the freezer. One in each fist. Hold them, she told herself. Tight. Feel the pain as the ice freezes the flesh of the palm. Focus. Relief is in the pain.

Chapter Three

Morton Andrew Grant placed the bucket of yellow chrysanthemums in front of his wife’s tombstone. Edie always wanted her mums as early in the season as possible; her signal that the University of Washington Huskies would start another football season. He’d brought her a bunch home exactly one year ago. Mort remembered her eyes lit up when she discovered the two opening game tickets tied to a stem. She kissed him and danced through the kitchen waving them over her head. He’d left her celebration and gone upstairs to change. Less than fifteen minutes. Strip off the sport coat, hang up the trousers. Pull off the tie, put away the gun. Toss the dress shirt into the hamper. Pull on a pair of sweat pants and reach for his Cougar’s shirt just to tease her. Hell, probably more like ten minutes.

He bounced down the stairs humming the Huskies’ fight song and smelling Edie’s spaghetti sauce. They’d make it a good evening, he remembered thinking. They deserved one.

She was on the kitchen floor. Grandmother’s big sauce spoon in one hand, tickets in the other. Mort stood frozen, unable to comprehend. A heartbeat later his cop instincts kicked in. Fingers to her neck, praying for a pulse. Calling her name as he lunged for the phone. Puffing into her mouth. Pumping on her chest. Fooststeps on the porch. Paramedics loading his wife of thirty-five years onto a gurney. The endless ride to the hospital. The physician walking toward him. Sad eyes. Shaking head. Trying to explain what an aneurysm was.

Mort squeezed the bridge of his nose and brought himself back. It had been the longest and worst year of his life. He didn’t want to revisit its inaugural.

“How you doing, Baby Girl?” His eyes scanned the words on the black granite slab.

Edith Swanson Grant

Beloved Wife and Mother

Go Dawgs!

Her dates of birth and death were noted below her eternal salute to the Huskies. Mort focused on the dash that separated them. Fifty-six years. Most spent with him. An action shot of Edie rushing into freshman orientation thirty-seven autumns ago ran through his memory. She was late. One of the few vacant seats was next to his. She hurried down the aisle, slid in, and gave him the once over.

“You look as lost as I feel,” she said. They were married two years later.

“Remember the ruckus we caused, Baby?” Mort touched the rough edges of the tombstone. “Your mother said I’d ruin your life. Mine said you’d do the same for me.”

His eyes went back to the headstone, to the dash between the dates. Countless nights in each other’s arms. Fighting as though the holiness of Christ depended upon the outcome. Two kids. Scraping the money together so she could rent a rundown storefront on Fourth Avenue. Turning it into the best dance school in King County. The problems with Allie. The pride with Robbie. Two grandkids.

“You filled your dash up good, kiddo,” he said. “I miss you like crazy.” He blew her a kiss and walked out of the garden of death.

Chapter Four

Gordon Halloway flew in two days before, looking for a break from the cluster fuck that had become his life. A place away from the lawyers and holier-than-thou politicians screaming to any bouffant hairdo with a microphone, demanding his head on a stick. He wanted to shake the blood suckers’ stench off his skin. Find a way to fix things.

Gordon knew he was flying solo. That god-damned board of directors he so carefully put in place abandoned him at the first hiccup. He wanted to throw each one against a wall and enlighten them as to what a special breed of spineless asshole they were. Eager as hell to stand next to him when he was building the company. Winking and nodding as bankers put together jumbo loans secured by promises and a three-color prospectus. Lining their pockets with stock windfalls based on whispers shared while sipping his top-shelf liquor. First sign of a dust-up and they all hopped on their moral high horse, rode out of Dodge, and left him holding the bag.

He considered his investors another subspecies of pond scum larvae. They all loved old Gordon when he was promising nine percent and returning eleven. Couldn’t get their money to him fast enough. Begging him to take their retirement accounts and grandchildren’s college funds. Their only question was where’s my next dividend check. Elbowing each other for a chance to smile into the camera standing next to the man with the Midas touch. Did they really think their hands were cleaner than his?

He could have made it work. They just came at him too fast. With a little more time he could have raised the money he needed to keep the party rolling.

But the cowards balked at the first whiff of trouble. Brought the regulators in before he had a chance to line things up. That got the politicians’ attention which dragged the media in and that was all she wrote. Eighteen months ago it was chartered jets, private islands and blow jobs from Vogue cover girls. Now it was depositions, grand juries, and frozen assets. They could all go fuck themselves. He told his wife and his lawyers he was headed to Palm Beach, but he snuck a little farther south. Ten days of sun and surf and a little time to chart his next move.

No one knew about this place. Not even his wife. Gordon bought it eighteen years ago. Before the rock stars and eco-tourists discovered the beauty of Costa Rica and got busy turning it into any other roadside attraction. He owned twelve hundred feet of sandy coast line. Two thousand acres. Six miles to the nearest village. He could get three hundred for each dollar he’d paid. Gordon buried his ownership so deep in nested companies he was sure he’d be able to hang on to his piece of heaven even if the stateside scavengers got a chance to pick his bones. Over the years he’d quietly improved the property. A small house two hundred feet off the beach and a larger home deep in the jungle. One dirt road in. Solar generator. Fresh-water well. Nothing as elegant as his Palm Beach house or his Park Avenue duplex. More rugged than his place in Vail. This was a place where a man could hear his thoughts. Away from the mother-fuckers waiting to castrate him.

Gordon spent his first two days in Costa Rica alone. Hiking and thinking. Swimming and planning. The jungle humidity sweated the worry out of him; the coastal beauty fueled his genius. He’d figure out how to spin this. He’d be on top again. Hell, maybe he’d even work a deal to get some of that money the feds were handing out like samples of Sam’s Club tuna. He felt brand new. It was time to celebrate.

Gordon was heading for the bar of the most expensive hotel in Papagayo when he spotted her. Two Louis Vuitton bags next to a pair of alabaster legs that looked like the stairway to heaven as they climbed from silver sandals to a white silk mini two centimeters short of illegal. Strawberry blonde hair caught in a clasp at the nape of her neck before cascading half-way down her slender back. Black tank top revealing perfectly toned arms. The kind of arms Gordon imagined pinning down before doing any number of wet and wicked things.

He wanted to see her face. If she looked half as good up front he’d have to change his plans for dining alone. He walked up to the counter as the manager placed a key in the beautiful woman’s hand. She turned and flashed him a polite smile. Eyes the color of an Irish valley. Pale pink lips. Ivory skin. One deep purple brush of color on the side of her neck. A birthmark. One flaw accentuating her perfection.

“These two bags, please.” She looked down at her luggage. The hotel manager began to speak but Gordon cut him off with a wink.

“No problem, boss. I got this one. The elevators are this way, madam.” Gordon picked up her bags. “What floor are you on?”

“Six. Room 642.” She entered the elevator, turned, and faced the doors. Gordon was impressed such a gorgeous woman ignored the floor to ceiling mirrors walling three sides of the car. He pressed six on the key pad. She stared straight ahead, silent. He traced her profile with his eyes. Firm jaw. Graceful neck. Up-turned nose dusted with freckles. He breathed deeply and inhaled her scent. Lilacs in spring.

The elevator glided to a stop and she stepped off and aside, waiting to follow him. Gordon looked to his right and then to his left, hoping for a hint of direction to room 642.

“Are you lost?” she asked. Definitely American. Gordon heard the clear clip of a Midwestern accent. “642’s got to be around here somewhere.”

Gordon took her humor as permission to play. “One would think, wouldn’t one?”

The beautiful woman blinked at his haughty retort and for the first time really looked at him. Tan silk trousers. Exquisitely tailored linen jacket. She brought a hand to her lovely mouth and wrinkled her brow. “Oh, my God. You’re not the bellman, are you?” She spun around and looked at him again, sheepish grin, twinkling eyes. Gordon was charmed by her embarrassment.

“I’m a good Samaritan here to help a woman in need.” He bowed his head. “Now, which way?”

Her laugh was tinkling wind chimes in a soft summer breeze. “Please,” she said. “Leave the bags. I’m so sorry for my blunder. I can take it from here.”

“Wouldn’t hear of it. I leave no job half-done.” Gordon smiled the same smile that inspired thousands of investors to reach for their wallets. “First time in Papagayo?”

She hesitated. Looked down at her feet and sighed before answering. “First time in Costa Rica, actually.”

Gordon heard a note of sadness. “Travelling alone?”

The woman ran her lovely green eyes over him. When she spoke Gordon knew he’d passed inspection. The hook was set.

“I am,” she said.

He held her gaze and softened his tone. Time to reel her in. “Then may I ask you to join me for a drink? The bar here is quite remarkable.”

She waited a heartbeat before smiling. “Is this part of your bellman’s duty?”

Gordon transferred both bags to his left hand and reached for her arm with his right. “Oh, yes, ma’am.” He led her down the hallway. “This is a full service hotel.”

Drinks led to lobster and salad on the dining room terrace. He learned the beautiful woman was Anna, a gallery owner from St. Louis. He pretended to be Alex, an attorney from Fort Lauderdale. They passed the evening discussing art and books and travel. They discovered a mutual love of William Faulkner and Lyle Lovett. She told him she recently ended her engagement to a dentist she’d dated since her freshman year at Columbia. He told her he’d never been married. They finished their bottle of Pinot Grigio with the chocolate mousse. By the time Irish coffee was served they both knew her room would be their next stop.

Gordon was enjoying the buzz, naked in her queen-sized bed, reflecting on his amazing ability to get what he wanted. Yes, sir, he thought. Things are going to turn out just fine. He grinned as he stretched against the cool white cotton sheets and waited for Anna to join him. She stepped out of the bathroom, ambled across the room, and dimmed the lights. Gordon reminded himself to breathe. She wore a floor length black gown, gossamer sheer, with wisps of lace masquerading as thong and bra. Her hair tumbled free. She crossed to the foot of the bed and stood, letting him examine her.

“Come here.” He patted a spot beside him.

“Hush.” Anna began to sway. “It’s been a long time since the dentist.” She ran her right hand slowly from her shoulder to her hip. “Do you mind if I play a bit?”

Gordon felt his erection growing as he stared. He swallowed hard and tried to find his voice. “Baby, you do what you gotta do.”

Anna moved to unheard music. Gordon imagined a gentle samba. He pulled himself up and sat against the headboard, not wanting to miss a minute of her show. He’d play Alex from Fort Lauderdale more often if it got him this kind of action.

The wholesomeness of Anna’s earlier smile was replaced with a mouthy pout of pure seduction. Her hands traced slow circles around her barely covered breasts. “You like to watch?”

Gordon pulled the sheet back. “Take a look at this,” he said. “What do you think?”

Anna tossed her head back and smiled. “I think I feel naughty tonight. Can handle me?”

Gordon thought if his luck got any better he’d start pissing solid gold. He wrapped a hand around the shaft of his penis. “Baby, I think the question is can you handle this? Now come here.”

Anna gave a little giggle. “Not just yet.” She crossed to the bureau and pulled four long strips of red silk from her overnight case. “Watch me, Alex,” she whispered. “Watch what I can do.”

Anna glided toward him and used the silk strips as partners in her dance. Gordon was mesmerized. His erotic ballerina teased the ribbons across her body as she floated closer to the bed. She bent one perfect leg and leaned next to him. He reached for her but she turned just outside his grasp. With a smile part promise, part dare, she tied a ribbon around his left wrist, ran it through her fingers, and secured the opposite end to the wooden slat of the headboard.

“So it’s going to be like this, is it?” Gordon scooted to a full sitting position. “I’m to be your slave?”

Anna strolled around to his right side, never taking her glorious green eyes off him. “You’ll be totally at my mercy,” she teased as she secured his right arm to the headboard.

“Mmm, I like the sound of that. Will you be gentle with me?” Gordon watched as Anna tickled his feet with the remaining two ribbons before tying his ankles to the bedstead. She stepped back to examine her handiwork.

“You like to be the boss, huh?” Gordon whispered. “Remember, fair’s fair. My turn next.”

Anna stopped her carnal dance. She stood at the foot of the bed appraising her captive. The sexy tease that glowed from her eyes hardened into a calculated stare.

“Hey, just play, right? I’m not into that S and M stuff.”

Anna stood silent. Gordon tugged with his right arm, then his left. Realizing his effort was rewarded by a tightening of the silk, he felt a small quake of fear and flexed his legs. The knots pulled tight around his ankles. Anna reached forward and snapped the sheet off the bed with one powerful stroke.

“Okay, baby. Game’s over. Untie me now.” Gordon’s attempt at authority fell as flat as his disappearing erection. He jerked and pulled, flailed and kicked, cursed and spat. Anna stood mute, watching Gordon exhaust himself. In less than five minutes he was spent. A gasping naked specimen mounted to her display board. She slowly shook her head.

“I would have expected more fight from you, Gordon.”

His throat tightened. “What did you call me?”

Anna crossed to the suite’s window. She drank in the moonlight glistening across the water before she turned to sit in the rattan rocker. “Everyone knows you, Gordon. The Wizard of Wall Street.” She huffed out a small laugh. “You’ve been in all the papers.”

Gordon moved to wipe the bead of sweat rolling down his cheek only to be reminded of his vulnerable position. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m someone people hire when they need something fixed.” Her posture and tone lent an authority more appropriate to a power suit than a negligee.

“Hired? You a hooker? Is that what this is? Setting me up with pictures for tomorrow’s front page?” Gordon craned his head around the room, looking for a photographer. He wished he had the sheet back. Or his erection. If he was going to be plastered across the web at least he could cast a long shadow.

Anna shook her head. A weary teacher impatient with her witless pupil. “I need you to listen to me, Gordon. Listen very carefully.”

“No. You listen to me, you cunt. Cut me loose, tell me who hired you, and maybe I won’t call the cops. How’s that?”

“You’re going to die tonight, Gordon.” Anna’s voice held as much emotion as telling him the time.

“Untie me now, Anna. Or whoever the fuck you are.”

“I said you’re going to die tonight, Gordon. And you have a choice. You can listen so you understand the particulars of your death sentence, or you can go to your grave as ignorant as you are arrogant.”

Gordon stopped protesting. He felt his tongue swell. It was hard to breathe. Everything about the beautiful Anna: her tone, her words, the way she held her body, convinced him she meant what she said. He tasted the bitter metallic undertones of terror.

He shivered, wishing he could free his arms and legs enough to curl up for warmth. “I have money. More than anyone knows. Name your price.”

“I have my price, Gordon. Your wife made the deposit yesterday.” Anna rose, crossed back to her overnight case, and pulled out another long ribbon. This one black. She sat on the bed’s edge, weaving the black silk dreamily through perfectly manicured hands.

Gordon was sweating now, chills replaced by hot flashes of fear. “Celeste sent you? Why?”

The Fixer responded with a satisfied smile. “Now, Gordon. You really don’t see how this is necessary? How dying is the only way to fix things?”

“But I am fixing things, damn it.” Gordon struggled to stay in a sitting position. His arms ached and his back muscles screamed. “That’s why I came down here, to think things through. Come up with a plan. I know she’s pissed at me. But I’m on it. There’s no reason for this.”

“Ah, but there’s every reason, Gordon. Celeste knows how clever you are. She’s had years of experience watching you spin your deceit and wiggle out of responsibility every time. You even convinced her the women you screwed so often and so openly were because she wasn’t woman enough for you.” The Fixer tossed her strawberry blonde hair behind her shoulders. “She doesn’t think that any more, Gordon.”

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t do this.”

“Seven are dead, Gordon. Five suicides from people who lost everything when they trusted you. One man shot his wife and twenty-three year old Down Syndrome daughter before turning the gun on himself. He invested the money that was supposed to take care of his little girl after they died with you. And you put it straight into your own pocket.”

“I can’t be held accountable for their weakness.” Gordon still hoped someone would believe that. “Investments come with risks. Everybody knows that.”

“But you never had investments, Gordon. You had schemes. Clever complicated schemes with no other purpose than to make you rich.”

“Take my money! Give it to the lawyers and the tax man. Hell, give it to the fucking suicide prevention folks if that’ll make Celeste happy. Just untie me and let me go home.” Gordon tried another futile tug on the silk that imprisoned him.

“Celeste knows your plans, Gordon.”

He stopped struggling. “What are you talking about? What plans?”

“Celeste knows about your secret accounts. Nearly twenty million dollars offshore waiting for you.” The Fixer twirled a hand in the air. “And this place? Well, I’m here, aren’t I? Celeste knows you planned to sneak away if it looked like you were headed for jail. She knows about the new identity you’ve been working so hard to establish this past year. She knows your plan to leave her humiliated and all your investors denied the satisfaction of seeing you come to justice. She asked me to fix things.”

Gordon’s breathing was shallow and he heard his blood throbbing in his head. “What’s your plan?”

“Simple.” The Fixer stared off into space, unfazed by the naked sweating man struggling less than ten inches away. “Celeste emptied your buried accounts while you were feeding me lobster off your fork. She’ll meet with prosecutors after your body’s found. The grieving widow will cooperate fully. Nearly three billion dollars of the money you stole will be returned to try to make whole what you’ve broken. Of course, the seven who died can’t be fixed. She’ll have to live with that.” She turned her cold stare back to Gordon. “You’ll be found by the maid tomorrow. The desk clerk will remember the woman you picked up tonight. The police will see this scarf tied so lovingly around your neck and come to the only conclusion that makes any sense. You died in the middle of a dangerous sex game that got tragically out of hand.”

She opened a drawer in the nightstand and pulled out a pencil. Gordon watched her fashion a noose of black silk, wrapping the ends around the short piece of wood. “Please,” he whispered. His bladder let loose as she turned toward him. His bowels followed as The Fixer pulled the noose over the Wizard of Wall Street’s head. She was so focused on turning the pencil tighter and tighter she never noticed the stench.

Chapter Five

“We got a job.” Jim De Villa last used that tone when he responded to a call on Seattle’s south side. A twenty-three-year-old meth head was high enough to believe the voices in his rotted-out mind telling him My Little Red Caboose Pre-School was actually a front for Al Queida and it was his patriotic duty to burn the place to the ground. Six kids were put in the burn unit. One didn’t make it past the emergency room. Mort remembered how the mother of the dead little boy pounded Jim’s chest over and over as she screamed out her grief. Jim stood there and took it. Yes, sir. Mort knew to pay attention to Jim when he used that tone. “Officer on scene says it’s a white female, tall, thin, brown hair. Team’s out and I’m heading over.”

Mort’s stomach clenched. “You got an i.d.?”

Jim stepped into Mort’s office and closed the door. “Couple of skateboarders found her behind a dumpster at Seattle Center. Drug rigs next to the body. No identification. Officer puts her age in the ballpark.”

Mort grabbed his keys and pushed away from his desk. Jim stepped back and blocked the door.

“Why not let me go down and see what’s what?” Jim’s tone softened. “I’m Chief of Forensics. Let me earn my keep.”

Mort pushed Jim aside with a silent glare.

“At least let me drive, will ya?” Jim called to his friend’s receding back. “Bruiser’s already loaded.”

Mort slammed the car door and the cluster of investigators divided, forming a human hallway to the dead body sprawled on the asphalt. His eyes tracked left then right, surveying the scene. He focused on the litter of rubber tubing, bottle caps, and syringes; deliberately diverting his eyes from the corpse until he knelt beside her. He brushed back the dead woman’s shoulder length hair and exhaled. He looked up and locked eyes with Jim DeVilla who stood ten feet back, an oversized German Shepherd at his side. Mort’s subtle head shake was enough for his friend to know the dead woman wasn’t Allie. Jim ordered Bruiser to stay and joined the team.

“What do we have?” Mort asked the uniformed officer closest to him.

Mort and Jim were brought up to speed. Two fifteen-year-olds trying new jumps spotted the dead woman’s legs behind the dumpster. Jim’s forensic team had bagged and labeled a blanket, seven beer cans, and assorted drug paraphernalia.

“Looks like they had a party down here.” Jim scanned the area. “We got enough litter for at least three or four fun-lovers.” He walked over to the body and knelt. “North Face jacket, leather shoes.” Jim reached his gloved finger into the front pocket of the woman’s coat and pulled out several slips of paper. “Bookstore receipt from Seattle University.” He rifled through the stack. “Looks like she bought herself a latte’ at 10:37 yesterday morning.” Jim flipped through two more. “Bingo. She has a massage and facial scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow at the Olympic Spa.” Jim grinned up at his team. “And that, children, is what we call getting lucky.”

An hour later a frightened set of parents confirmed the identity of the dumpster corpse. Meaghan Hane. Twenty-nine years old. Fourth year graduate student. Her tearful mother described her daughter as a virtuoso cellist who’d twice toured Europe playing with local symphonies.

By 1:00 Jim and Mort sat across an interview table with two of Meghan’s terrified classmates. Richard Kimberly was an aspiring portrait painter who told Mort he had an aristocratic chin. Mike Suster was finishing his dissertation on the role of ritual drumming in sixteenth century China. Both of them looked like they’d rather call their mommies than their lawyers, and both of them bolted for the bathroom when shown photos of Meaghan’s lifeless body.

Mike didn’t make it.

“I told you we should have stayed.” Mike moaned to Richard before he sipped from the paper cup in his shaking hands. “We shouldn’t have left her with him.”

Richard stared straight ahead and said nothing. Mort thought the look on his face was the perfect model for a portrait in self-loathing.

“Tell me what happened,” Mort said.

“And there’s something you ought to know before you speak.” Jim nodded toward Bruiser who sat beside him on high alert. “He’s specially trained. He can smell the filokenes in sweat when you’re telling a lie.”

Mort rolled his eyes, always surprised at how many people bought Jim’s bull.“Start at the beginning.” He clicked on the recorder.

“Meaghan’s been our buddy since we started grad school.” Mike wiped his upper lip and glanced over to Bruiser. “She’s so brilliant. She can make you cry within eight bars of any piece.” He looked over to Richard who kept his gaze on something no one else could see. “But she had a wild side.”

Mike went on to describe how Meaghan returned from Europe extolling the wonders of heroin. Said she’d tried it in Amsterdam and been flooded with creative awareness unlike any she’d ever experienced. Mike said she’d been after them for months to try it with her. Assured them that if they did it correctly there was no chance for addiction.

“So you two artistic geniuses decided to pass a boring evening by shooting up a little horse?” DeVilla asked.

“It wasn’t like that.” Mike went on to explain the three had been out celebrating Meaghan’s invitation to audition for the Seattle Symphony. Dinner in Pioneer Square. They had a few drinks. Walked to Seattle Center. Drank some beers and smoked a little weed. “We were all feeling pretty good.” Mike looked over to the disconnected Richard. “Meaghan pulled out her phone and made a call. Next thing we know some guy’s there. Meaghan slipped him some money and he pulls out three hits of ecstacy.” The frightened musician wiped his hands on his jeans and watched Bruiser’s reaction. The dog held his vigilant poise. “We took them.”

“It wasn’t ecstacy that killed your friend, Mikey.” Mort leaned forward. “When did you move on to heroin?”

Mike shook his head and turned terrified eyes to Mort. “We didn’t. I swear to God we didn’t.” He looked back over to Bruiser. “Rich and I were enjoying the ride. Meaghan and this idiot start making out. I mean hot and heavy. I told Rich maybe we should leave but Meaghan just laughs and tells us to stay. That’s when the heroin came out.” Mike’s eyes bounced between Mort and the dog. “Rich and I freaked out. Meaghan and the asshole shot up. Then just sort of lulled about and giggled. It got boring. After about twenty minutes I had to pee real bad. Rich said he’d join me. We went off to find a bathroom and decided, what the hell. We caught a cab and went home.”

Mort had enough interrogation experience to know when he was hearing the truth. He glanced over to Jimmy and saw the Chief of Forensics felt the same way.

“This guy who showed up,” Mort asked. “He got a name?”

Mike trembled and dropped his eyes.

“Satan.” Richard turned his tear-stained face toward Mort. “He introduced himself as Satan.”

A few minutes past three Jimmy’s SUV was parked across the street from the waterfront home of Angelo Satanell. Mort sat shotgun and watched the front door of the faux Georgian McMansion.

“You think Junior’s in there?” Jimmy glanced behind to see Bruiser sleeping in the back seat. “He’s got his own condo downtown.”

Mort kept his gaze on the house. “He thinks he’s partying. Playing the street tough with the artistic types. Girl ends up overdosing on shit he provides. He panics like the piss ant he is and shoves her body behind a dumpster.” Mort looked back to his friend. “No way he goes to his place. He heads straight to Daddy and wraps himself up in all that high-priced lawyering.”

Jim shook his head. “Angelo’s been bailing his ass out since high school. Remember when Junior broke into the church to steal the communion wine? What was he, all of fourteen?”

Mort nodded. “Playing the street hood even then. Angelo had three lawyers down at the courthouse before we brought him in. How about the girl he beat up two years ago?”

“First time I heard him call himself ‘Satan’. Daddy had her bought off and changing her story while she was still in the emergency room.” Jim clicked his teeth and Bruiser sprang to attention. “Let’s go, big guy. Time to talk to the devil.”

The liveried maid’s eyes widened when she saw Bruiser. Her hesitancy disappeared when Jim and Mort flashed their badges and asked to speak to Angelo, Jr. She stepped aside, told them to wait in the entry, and scurried down the slate hall.

“Look at this place, Mort.” Jim spun around and took it all in. “This damned entrance’s bigger than my apartment. I bet Micki would love this.”

Mort didn’t respond. He kept his focus on the man walking toward them in the green velvet jogging suit. The man’s smile was ice and his eyes were steel.

“Detective Grant.” The man nodded toward Mort. “Inspector DeVilla” He tipped his chin to Jimmy and looked down to Bruiser. “I’m unaccustomed to having animals in my home.”

“We’re here to see your son.” Mort kept his voice even.

Angelo Satanell crossed bony arms across his narrow chest. “In regards to what?”

“Just get him,” Mort said. “He’s pushing thirty, Angelo. He can speak for himself.”

Angelo held Mort’s gaze. Mort imagined him considering his legal options. The few he had disappeared when Junior trotted down the stairs. Six feet tall, one-sixty, wearing a bulky sweater over a pair of loose khaki shorts. Leather deck shoes with no socks. Mort thought the skinny, greasy-haired punk offered a poor imitation of the Prince of Darkness.

Junior smiled a slimy grin. “Why, it’s Officer Krupsky and Detective Tweedle Dee. Look, Dad, they brought their little puppy.”

“Shut up, Angie,” Angelo, Sr. barked. “Say nothing.”

Junior’s grin left his face for a millisecond. “Is it that time of year, officers? Time to buy tickets to the policemen’s big ball? Let me get my wallet.”

“I said shut the fuck up, Angie.” Angelo’s tone wiped the smirk off his son’s face.

Mort stepped toward the son of the most successful defense attorney in Washington State. “Where were you last night, Angie?”

“If this is in relation to a criminal investigation I’m going to stop your questions right now.” Angelo, Sr. shot his son a commanding look. “If you’ve got a warrant for his arrest, let’s see it. If you don’t, leave.”

Mort took a second step toward the son. “Beating up girlfriends not enough for you anymore? You killing them now?”

Angelo, Sr. turned toward Jimmy. Bruiser’s guttural growl stopped him mid-step.

“I want you two out of my house immediately.” The brilliant lawyer’s face turned crimson. “And take your damned beast with you.”

“We’ll leave.” Mort smiled at Angelo, Sr. “This time you can’t help him.” He turned toward the visibly shaken son. “You got spooked, Satan. You may have tried to hide her body, but you ran away too fast. You forgot to clean up.” Mort put his nose one inch from Junior’s. “This time we got DNA. Eye witnesses, too. Daddy can’t help you now.”

“I’m calling the Chief.” Angelo, Sr. pulled out his cell while Angelo, Jr. ran up the stairs.

Mort and Jimmy walked out the front door. Bruiser followed. Jimmy pulled away from the curb once his dog was settled in the back.

“Well, that was fun,” Jimmy said.

Mort flashed on the dead cellist behind the dumpster. His mind bounced to the last time he saw his daughter. He looked out the window to the warm glow of the October afternoon.

“You have no idea, buddy.”

At eight-seventeen that evening Mort threw his cell phone across his kitchen. It hit the wall beside the refrigerator and shattered onto the linoleum. Jim had called. The evidence from the dumpster crime scene had gone missing. Mort wasn’t surprised when Jim told him his two eye witnesses, Meaghan’s best buddies Mike and Richard, had recanted their statements. Any further questions were to be directed to their attorneys.

Chapter Six

Meredith Thornton looked out the cathedral window of her inner office, watched the undergrads shuffle to class, and let her mind wander back thirty years to another campus washed in autumnal gold. She smiled at the memory of Tim Jeffrey crossing the quad on his long legs, wearing those damned plaid bell bottoms she hated so much. She loved his thick curly hair and how he’d kiss her in greeting, not a care for who might be watching. Her memory flashed to long nights studying in his apartment, distracted by the delectable aromas from the Greek restaurant two floors below. The two of them in twisted sheets, exhausted from love-making yet determined to stay awake to whisper promises of forever while Michael Bolton crooned on the stereo. She heard Tim was a baker now. Somewhere in Massachusetts. Meredith breathed deeply and forced her focus. She’d made her decision and her calendar held no room for might-have-beens.

As university president she was responsible for the financial viability of the entire institution. Meredith enjoyed tremendous success during her four years as president of Washington’s premier university. Under her guidance the endowment had grown nearly sixty percent. Research grants were up, graduate programs had become more competitive, and the basketball team, under the direction of her hand-picked coach, had gone to the NCAA Final Four for the first time in a quarter century. Some of the faculty disliked her leadership style, but she knew academics were malcontents by nature. The Board of Trustees liked her, and they were who she served. Meredith smiled at the idyllic tableau outside her window. Life, for the most part, was damned good. Still, the sight of sweatered students and tumbling leaves could make her wistful for life as a baker’s wife.

Especially with Bradley Wells hounding her.

She’d made it her mission to increase his financial support to the university. When Meredith was first named president, Wells gave virtually nothing to the system that provided him with the bulk of his work force. The development office seemed intimidated by the home town billionaire and spent their efforts groveling for whatever crumbs Wells threw their way. Meredith worked her plan to bring him into the fold and now Bradley Wells’ annual contribution to the university was in the mid-six figures. She was grooming him to accept a seat as Trustee, thereby insuring millions of dollars in annual support. She hoped he would endow a chair and perhaps build a state-of-the-art building for the school of business.

But Bradley Wells wanted too much in return.

Meredith knew Wells had a never-failing eye for money-making projects, and that eye had fallen on one of the most beloved sites at the university. Two hundred acres of virgin woodland along Lake Washington. Home to undisturbed wild life and vegetation. An oasis of solitude in the middle of Seattle. A place students, residents, and tourists hiked and picnicked. Fished and frolicked. The fondest memory of any alum and a charming lure for recruiting new students and faculty.

Wells wanted it.

He promised tasteful development marked with low rise condominiums and high-end retail, restaurants, and entertainment. Boardwalks to keep “an adequate” amount of water open to public access. Discrete parking ramps for the thousands of people who would enter the area daily. In return for full development rights, Wells was willing to pay seventy-five million dollars.

She refused to even consider his offer at first. The land was too well-integrated into the identity and character of the university. But Wells was persistent. His attorney visited her last week, upping the offer to eighty million. Meredith was irritated Bradley hadn’t come himself. She knew his introduction of an intermediary was his signal that this was strictly business. He didn’t care about whatever relationship she may have fantasized they’d built over the past four years. She also heard the quiet undercurrent the attorney offered as he left. He said this would be Wells’ final offer. She knew if she didn’t have the sale of the land on the Board of Trustee’s spring agenda, with her full endorsement, Wells’ involvement with the university was over.

A gentle knock shifted Meredith’s focus. She looked up to see Carl Snelling, her Executive Provost, lean his shock of red hair into her office.

“Got a minute?” He walked toward her before she could answer. “There’s something I want you to be the first to see.”

Meredith took a seat on the silk chenille sofa that flanked her office’s fireplace. She indicated an armchair and Snelling sat down. Meredith had little regard for her Executive Provost. He struck her as weak-willed, too easily rattled, and much too in love with the sound of his own voice. But he’d been at the center of university administration for nearly twenty years. He knew everyone and wasn’t hesitant to share. Meredith found his knowledge and low resistance to manipulation useful. She would have liked to have had a full partner in his position, but she could work with what she had in Carl Snelling.

“You’re not going to like this.” Carl handed her one of two files he held in his lap. “Remember, shooting the messenger ended with a millennia ago.”

Meredith opened the file and glanced at the title page. “Greek.” She flipped through the sheave of papers. Her brow furrowed as she read. “These are your final calculations?”

“Please don’t consider them mine, President Thornton.” Snelling held a thin hand to the side of his pale cheek. “As you know, I’ve been looking for a viable option for months. I’ve long been capable of producing solutions to problems others couldn’t solve. My idea to expand the Continuing Education offerings to courses appealing to local retirees comes to mind. You’ll recall those programs netted over a hundred thousand dollars last year. But as to the Greek situation the numbers, as my friends in Accounting are fond of saying, don’t lie.”

Meredith ignored his nervous smile. “I’m looking at the enrollment projections. Grim. Have you spoken to Popolapolus? What are his plans?”

“I’m afraid no plans can work on the impossible.” Snelling crossed one thin leg over another. “I blame the public school system. They haven’t taught the classics for decades. Surely a handful of the private preparatory academies do the right thing and teach Greek and Latin. I found myself inspired by the ancients during my own prep years at Andover. But the few students who wish to continue their studies won’t attend a state university with three faculty members in the entire department. They prefer one of the Ivies.”

“Those faculty members turn out important work. We could incorporate Greek as a sub-division into another department,” Meredith offered.

“Please refer to tab five. You’ll find I’ve anticipated your idea and researched the possibilities.” Snelling flipped his own file to the spot he named. “Greek has not had a single student enrolled in eleven years. They are, quite frankly, pure overhead.” Snelling offered the smug little grin that inspired Meredith to fold her hands to avoid slapping him. “There’s no interest on the part of any department to take on three scholars who have no students and no interest in contributing to any work beyond their own. Nor would I want to be anywhere near Popolapolus when Greek being relegated to sub-division status was discussed.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Would you be surprised to know he once threw a glass of ouzo in his dean’s face simply because the poor man said he preferred walnut to pistachio baklava?”

Meredith pictured the passionate, barrel-chested Popolapolus’ response to Snelling suggesting his department be downsized and smiled. She’d pay a hundred dollars to watch that encounter.

“Closing the department would have ramifications,” she said. “Beyond the livelihoods of three noted faculty. It’s the oldest department on campus. It’s really all that’s left of the classical character that established this university.”

“Characters change, President Thornton.” Snelling closed his file. “Unless you have a secret pot of money or some other miracle, I’m afraid we must eliminate the entire department.”

Chapter Seven

Mort walked into the Crystal Tavern just past 5:30, nodded to Mauser behind the bar and headed toward a booth in the far corner. He sat down across from a six-foot-three, two-hundred pound black man with tightly curled graying hair. He’d been meeting L. Jackson Clark for more than fifteen years. Mort made it a habit back in the day to swing into the Crystal, work a crossword puzzle, and drink one Guiness before heading the four blocks home to Edie and the kids.

“I’m buying a beer for anybody knows an eleven-letter word for ‘accident’. Got an n and a d in the middle,” he’d called out all those years ago.

The smattering of teachers, nurses, and stay-at-home dads who made up the Crystal’s afternoon clientele had nothing. Mort shook his head and tapped his pen against his newspaper.

“Serendipity,” a low voice called. “Fate, luck, kismet, accident. Serendipity.”

Mort raised up on his bar stool to see who’d given him the obviously correct word. He waved the man over, bought him his beer, and thus began their weekly ritual. Five-thirty every Thursday. The first day of the week The New York Time’s crossword puzzle gets interesting.

Mort reached for the Guiness waiting for him. “Sorry I’m late.”

His friend glanced at his watch. “I’d say three minutes is well within allotted grace. You look like hell. Anything you care to talk about?”

Mort took a long sip. “Just trying to figure out how I can be such a fuck-up, is all.” He nodded to the newspaper in front of his friend. “You started? I gotta get mine from Mauser yet.”

L. Jackson Clark pulled a second copy of the Times from the seat beside him. “Here. Only three left when I got here.”

“Thanks.” Mort folded the paper to the puzzle and pulled out a pen. The two men worked the puzzle quietly for several minutes. “The prinicipal behind yin and yang. Forty-six down.” Mort looked up. “Make me happy I’m sitting with a professor of religious studies, Larry.”

“Dualism.” Larry counted letters on his fingers. “Or duality. Got a clue for the last two letters?”

“Dualism works.” Mort went back to the puzzle.

“This have anything to do with that young girl found dead at Seattle Center?” Larry asked. “Close to Allie’s age, wasn’t she?”

“She was.” Mort set his paper aside and watched two women at the bar playing cribbage. “What would someone with your oh-so-many years of schooling call someone who let their impatience and ego interfere with what they knew was right?”

Larry leaned back against the booth. “I think the term is ‘human’. What happened?”

Mort brought Larry up to speed on his failure to bring Angelo Satanell, Jr. in for the death of Meaghan Hane. “I had him, Larry. All those times Daddy got him off. This time I had him. I had the DNA. The witnesses. And I shoot my mouth off before the arrest warrant was ready. My money says Angelo, Sr. made one call. Set in motion a play that took me out of the game before I even suited up.”

“Now wait a minute. Surely you’ll investigate what happened in that evidence room.” Larry leaned in. “A blunder on your part, to be certain. But not a crime. That’s on someone else.”

Mort shook his head. “Investigation will turn up nothing. Our team’s spotless. It was some other way. Daddy’s money buys the best.”

“So Satanell walks.” Larry took a sip of beer. “Just like whoever took your Allie away. That what’s got you so angry at yourself?”

Mort leaned back and exhaled long and slow. “I don’t know. I guess I was hoping for a little justice in the world. Too much?”

Larry unrolled a slow smile. “Now you’re walking in my world. Is there room in your calculus for divine justice?” He nodded toward Mort’s paper. “That duality you just mentioned. Yin and yang. Good and evil. They make up a whole. Perhaps the evil this Santell does will be met with a celestial reckoning.”

“You talking karma?” Mort huffed out a laugh. “I’m the asshole who couldn’t wait for an arrest warrant. You think I have the patience for karma?”

“We’re a nation of laws, Mort. But we’re a universe of mystery. If the law can’t provide justice, what else have we but hope for a godly balancing?”

Mort’s eyes hardened. “There’s got to be another way.”

The world-renowned scholar shook his head and reached for his puzzle. “Keep your focus on your job, my friend. The other way lies trouble.”

Chapter Eight

Lydia Corriger said goodbye to her seventh patient of the day at five-thirty. She dreaded driving home with every state worker in Thurston County and was weighing her commuting options when she heard the front door to her office suite open.

“Dr. Corriger?” A female voice called from the reception area. “Hello?”

Lydia pushed away from her desk and crossed her office.

Savannah Samuels smiled and looked past Lydia’s shoulder. “Are you with someone? I know I don’t have an appointment.”

Lydia surveyed her unexpected visitor. Savannah’s jet black hair was shorter. She wore chinos and a soft grey flannel shirt. Suede moccasins. Far more comfortable than the picture of calculated chic she presented last time, but still the kind of beauty who inspires poets.

“You nearly missed me. What can I do for you, Savannah?”

The lovely woman fixed Lydia with pleading eyes. “You remember me. That’s nice.” Savannah hunched her shoulders and clenched her flawless face in supplication. “Could you maybe see me? Now, I mean?”

Lydia looked at her wristwatch.

“I know it’s late. Please. I’ll pay extra.”

Lydia raised her right eyebrow.

“That’s right. I forgot. I’m sorry.” Savannah offered a weak smile. “I’ll pay your published fee and not a penny more.”

Lydia glanced at her watch, remembered the traffic, and ushered her in. She settled into a chair and watched Savannah mill about her office, looking at framed diplomas before moving on to inspect titles on her shelf. She ran her finger across a row of books. “You can tell a lot about a person by how they decorate,” she said.

“It’s been, what?” Lydia scanned her memory bank. “Six weeks? Maybe seven? What brings you back?”

“For instance, you don’t have any photographs. Not on your shelves. Not on your walls.”

“Savannah, you didn’t come here to critique my decorating. Tell me what’s going on.” Lydia reached for her notebook but recalled Savannah’s request for no session notes.

“No photo of you shaking hands with an academic legend. No pictures of a smiling hubby or kids. Not even a dog.” Savannah’s blue eyes teased. “How very un-trophy of you, Dr. Corriger.”

“Savannah, you may talk about lots of things but you may not waste my time.” Lydia’s tone was gentle but unyielding.

“Not even one picture from the past?” Savannah whispered. “A childhood friend? Maybe someone special?”

“Have a seat, please.”

Savannah stood still. Lydia watched her in silence. Finally, she sat down, rigid and straight-backed, across from her therapist.

“Where should we start?” Savannah placed her canvas tote next to her feet and put her hands on clenched knees. Her right leg bobbed. A manic metronome beating the tempo of unrestrained anxiety.

“You’re afraid of something. Do you know what it is?” Lydia snuggled further down into her overstuffed chair. Model the opposite pose of a nervous patient, she reminded herself. Calm and steady.

Tears filled Savannah’s eyes. She reached for the tissue box on the table between the two women. “Of course I know. Did you think I’d be blissfully ignorant of my demons?”

“Demons, are they?” Lydia focused on her patient. “Tell me about them.”

Savannah wiped her eyes and pulled herself taller.

“You told me at our last visit you already trusted me.” Lydia let a few more moments pass in silence. “Does that still hold?” Voice steady and non-judgmental.

Savannah whispered. “It does. Thanks for seeing me. I know it’s late.”

“Then let’s make this time productive.” Lydia needed to press. Keep her patient focused. “I believe you were worried about something in you being broken. Am I right?”

Savannah was silent for several long moments. “I hurt people, Dr. Corriger. It didn’t used to bother me. Now it does.” Savannah reached for another tissue and held it in her clenched right hand.

“How do you hurt people?” Keep the probing neutral and focused. Use the patient’s own words. Build intimacy by creating the illusion they’re talking to themselves.

Savannah blinked a tear away and stared into middle space. “Do the details matter?”

“I think they do. There’s lots of ways we can hurt people,” Lydia said. “Intentional or accidental. Emotional. Physical. Sexual. Financial. Consistently or at random.” She watched her patient. “What ways do you think you hurt people, Savannah?”

The beautiful woman continued her numb gaze into nothingness. “I’ve hurt people every way you can conceive. Let’s leave it at that.”

Lydia recognized self-loathing. Normalizing was the next step, but she needed specifics. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

Savannah kept her eyes away from Lydia. “What’s the worst thing you can imagine? Think of that. Assume I’ve done it.”

Time for the challenge. Offer an absurd option. Lead the patient to realize their sins aren’t anywhere near as corrupt as they assume. “I’d say killing someone is as bad as it gets. Raping someone. Torturing someone.”

Savannah’s eyes were a blue Alaskan glacier; cold and unyielding. “Come on, Dr. Corriger. With what you know about me you can do better than that.” She tossed her tissue into the wastebasket a few feet away.

Lydia wondered what Savannah fantasized she knew. “Let’s switch gears. Maybe something less heated. What have you been up to since our last appointment? Seven weeks is a long time.”

Savannah focused her attention on the seam of her trousers. She traced its line with her fingernail. “I’ve been out of town.”

“Work or pleasure?”

Savannah slowly brought her head up. “I thought we were headed for less heated waters, Dr. Corriger.” When Lydia didn’t respond Savannah’s face softened. “I’m sorry. That sounded confrontational.”

“I’m not sure confrontational is the word. Maybe defensive,” Lydia said. “Tell me why such a routine question scares you.”

“It’s not that the question scares me. I’m not used to talking about myself.”

“You said at our last meeting you’d tell me lies but everything would be true. Are you wondering whether to be honest with me? Wondering if I’ve earned your confidence enough to be trusted with a minor detail like where you’ve been?”

Savannah smiled. “You remembered that? You’re really good.”

“Good enough to know you’re dodging the question. Let’s try again. What took you travelling for seven weeks?”

Savannah’s smile disappeared. Lydia could almost hear the decision process her beautiful and terrified patient was calculating. “Business,” she finally answered. “You could say it was a business trip.”

“Ah. Where did you go?”

A shorter hesitation this time. “Out of the country. Someplace warm. I needed a break.”

Lydia decided not to press for destination details. “What is it you do for a living? I don’t believe you ever mentioned it.”

Savannah concentrated on the tissue she was shredding. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.” Vague encouragement. No pressure. Keep the patient undefended and talking.

“You could call me a free-lancer and be accurate enough.” Savannah gathered the shreds of paper and wadded them into a ball. She glanced to the wastebasket, leaned back, and scored another two-point toss.

“What type?”

“Whatever needs doing.” Savannah’s voice had a clipped air of finality. She reached for her tote and stood. “Thanks for taking the time to see me. You’ve saved me again.” She pulled two hundred dollar bills from her hip pocket. “I looked up your webpage. I take it this is a follow-up session?”

“I’d code it as that,” Lydia answered as she stood. “But follow-up’s are typically forty-five minutes. We’ve barely taken half that time.”

Savannah placed the bills on the coffee table. “I’m well aware I’m cutting the session short. You should be paid for your services. I know I expect to be.” She pulled her tote over her shoulder and headed for the office door.

“Would you like another appointment? We could schedule something for next week.”

Savannah pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and stared at her moccasins. “I’d like that very much, Dr. Corriger. I’ll try to last longer.” Her voice was choked with tears. “Maybe next Wednesday?”

Lydia scanned her calendar. “Looks like I’m open at nine o’clock and again at six.”

“Can we say six? Last appointment of the day?”

“Six o’clock it is.” Lydia wrote her in. “And yes, it will be my last for the day. Are you okay to drive home?”

Savannah nodded her lovely head. “I’m much tougher than I look.”

Lydia arrived home just before seven. She poured herself the single glass of merlot she allowed herself every other day and walked out to her deck. She took a sip before tossing corn cobs to the squirrels and re-filling the bird feeders. Dusk was well underway. She felt a small stab of melancholy for the shortening days. She spent too much time in darkness. Lydia settled into a lawn chair and took in the mountains, the islands, and the water. She listened to the screech of the hawks and the call of the seagulls. She breathed in the scent of salt and pine until the last bird sounded and the majesty of her perfect world slipped into darkness.

Chapter Nine

Mort Grant tossed the sandpaper to the floor, brushed the sawdust off his hands and reached for the ringing phone.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me. Good time?”

“Good as any.” Mort held the cordless receiver in one hand and cleared a stool of old magazines with another. “I’m down in the shop. Thought I’d get back to those dollhouses I promised the girls. How are they? How are you?”

A soft chuckle came through the line. “They’re fine. They’re six years old, how do you think I’m doing?”

Mort matched his son’s laugh. “Twins. Double the fun.”

“Double the something. Hayden has decided she’s tired of dressing like Hadley and Hadley won’t leave the house if she can’t mirror what Hayden’s wearing. Imagine the hilarity in the morning.” Robbie’s voice softened. “Down in the shop, huh? About time you got back to your hobbies.”

Mort hated the calendar of recovery people expected. Did his son really think that lathes and saws could erase the pain of waking up every morning without Edie?

“How are things out in Denver? You running that paper yet?”

“Not yet, Dad. Crime beat keeps me busy enough. I’m working on a national story, though. That’s always good for the career. It’s why I’m calling. What’s the use of having a homicide detective for a dad if you can’t hit him up for help?”

Mort grimaced to the empty basement. “Homicide? I thought you were doing that white collar shit.”

“I am. I’m working the Gordon Halloway story. You know it?”

“Asshole with the Ponzi scheme? Ended up dead before the trial even started?”

“That’s the one. I’m working the local angle. Colorado investors who lost their shorts to that bozo. But I keep hearing your voice in my head.”

“Yeah? What’s my voice saying? Anything about bringing the girls out for a visit?”

“You’re coming here for Thanksgiving, remember? No. It’s about Halloway. Bastard makes like he’s available to the authorities. Assisting with their investigation. When the heat turns up and it looks like his house of cards is about to collapse, Halloway takes a powder. Winds up in Costa Rica, dead in some sicko sex game.”

“I read the papers, Robbie. Even articles you don’t write.” Mort wanted to get the dollhouses sanded and primed before supper. “What’s this got to do with me?”

“I keep remembering what you’d say every time you were putting a case together. About how there’s no such thing as coincidence. Dad, Halloway was in his mid-fifties. Fit as a fiddle. He was also a control freak. I don’t get him letting some bimbo tie him up.”

“People can get pretty kinky in the bedroom. You don’t wanna know what I’ve seen.”

“No one can find the girl, Dad. She checked in two days after Halloway lands in Costa Rica. Bellman says he’d never seen her before but swore she was a pro. I’ve tried to track her down. None of the locals know her.”

“You thinking she was there for a reason?” Mort forgot about the dollhouses.

“A lot of people lost everything they had investing with that shithead. Some deaths, even. If there was a chance Halloway could escape justice?” Robbie sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. The feds aren’t looking into it. But something’s nagging at me.”

“Well, if it was a hit you’re up the creek.”

“Why’s that?”

“A hired gun’s a detective’s worse nightmare. Takes our two aces out of the game.”

“What do you mean?” Robbie sounded disappointed.

“No personal connection to the victim and no motive other than a payday. You’ll never find the shooter, Son. If you’re right, you gotta start with who might have a motive to hire him. Or her.”

Robbie sighed. “That’s a cast of thousands, Dad.”

“Then maybe things are exactly as they seem. Maybe the sex killed him and the hooker got scared and bolted. Don’t go looking for trouble. No matter how juicy the story might be.” Mort knew his son would ignore his advice. “Tell Claire I send my love and kiss those kids for me.”

“Will do, Dad. I’ll call you next week. Sooner if I come up with anything.”

Mort hung up the phone and picked up a tack rag. He was cleaning the roof of the house meant for Hadley’s dolls when he flashed on a similar design he built for Allie a quarter century earlier. He threw the rag to the floor, climbed the stairs to his empty kitchen, and poured himself three fingers of Scotch.

Chapter Ten

The Fixer parked in the lot of a busy Korean grocery and walked five blocks to a storage facility next to an abandoned railroad line. She dressed as the character the manager knew well, knowing she would be recorded on various cameras standing as false promise of security in the high crime neighborhood. She was Maria Petard, a late-middle-aged woman who’d experienced more hard times than easy. Steel gray streaks shot through shoulder length hair the color of dirty dishwater. Forty pounds overweight. Brown eyes. Elastic waist faux-denim polyester pants and a dirty sweatshirt that urged people to Ask Me About My Grandkids. Navy blue canvas duffle thrown over stooped shoulders.

She entered the grounds and shuffled her worn-out red sneakers across sand and weeds. Walked in the office flashing a weary smile just big enough to reveal one gold incisor to the man behind the desk.

“Hey, Maria.” Rocky was sixty-three but looked a decade older. He bought the rundown storage facility nine years ago with the few bucks left after paying off gambling debts and two ex-wives. Thirty-eight years playing Frankie Valle in a Four Seasons cover band at state fairs, Indian Casinos, school basements, and worse left him with just enough for forty sheet metal garages barely meeting code behind a rusting chain link fence. He met Maria when she came in to empty out the back of a Chevy station wagon held together with bondo and duct tape. Said she’d been evicted by her son-of-a-bitch boyfriend and needed to store her stuff until he calmed down enough to let her explain why she drank his last Budweiser. That was six years ago. “That time again, huh?”

Maria set her bag down and dug into the front pocket of her pants. She pulled out four wrinkled twenties and handed them over. Rocky counted out three dollars and sixteen cents change into her filthy hands. Maria paid month-to-month. Always in cash. Never wanted a receipt. Rocky slipped the four twenties into his pocket and figured what the tax man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“Need help with anything?” he asked.

Maria threw the duffle back over her shoulder. “I’m good. Just looking to change out some thing’s all.” She headed toward her unit. “See ya next month, Rock.”

“I’ll be here, Maria.” He watched her walk out before turning back to his racing form, chuckling to himself about the way some people waste their lives.

The Fixer used her keys on unit 29. She maneuvered around boxes of books and towels, sidestepped an old mattress standing on end, and made her way to a cheap pine locker nearly hidden beneath stacks of blankets and record albums. She cleared access to the chest and knelt to unzip her bag.

She pulled out the tools of her last job. The passport of Anna Galleta Salada, recently stamped with a tourist visa to Costa Rica. Green contacts. Strawberry blonde wig. She returned them to the chest, closed the lid, and replaced the camouflage of blankets and albums. She made her way around a portable television and stacked laundry baskets to a cardboard jewelry box. She opened it and a two-inch plastic ballerina popped up, twirling in front of a cracked mirror to the strains of “Someday My Prince Will Come”. She shuffled through the contents of the cheap jewelry box, hoping for inspiration for her next character. She found it in less than two minutes. It went into the bag and Maria Petard was ready to leave.

The Fixer never strayed from the rules she set for herself six years ago. No more than one job per country per year. Never less than two months between assignments. Only when it was clear that justice couldn’t or wouldn’t be served would she consider a case. Her jobs rarely raised a coroner’s inquest, and never a police investigation. The Fixer was invisible.

Her new assignment culled a caution call deep within her. Costa Rica was just six weeks ago. The details of Gordon Halloway’s erotic demise and tales of an elusive hooker kept the media circus fueled for days. But the public’s appetite for fresher, fleshier, and bloodier stories from the human coliseum soon demanded another outrage. Gordon’s death was pushed off the front page by the story of a teenaged blonde kidnapped from a New Orleans mall where she’d gone to have her bikini line waxed. When her body was found in a Biloxi trailer park four days later the satisfied masses shook their collective heads in smug sorrow for nearly a week before turning their prurient peering to the tale of a single mother in Madison, Wisconsin who’d drowned her young daughters to save them from the devil’s claws.

It wasn’t the violation of her timeline that concerned The Fixer. It was the location. The prospect wanted to meet at an address less than eighty miles from The Fixer’s home.

The prospect’s first contact had come a week earlier. The Fixer was amused when her call back was answered with a digitized voice mimicking the same technology she liked to use. Two voices altered to disguise any hint of gender, age, or dialect spoke for less than three minutes. Another call two days later confirmed the time and place for their meeting: Pier 39 on the Seattle waterfront. A location The Fixer knew well.

At precisely eleven o’clock the Fixer stepped from behind the dust-covered shipping crate that served as her surveillance spot. She’d been in the warehouse nearly two hours, hoping to gain any advantage a glimpse of her prospect’s arrival might offer. But no one came. She heard no vehicle approach. No door creaked open. No flashlight broke the darkness. She’d remained hidden and watching deep in the maze of ladders, forklifts, containers, and carts that had once been the tools of an active import-export business. The company’s founder had a heart attack three years earlier trying to convince a longshoreman to work his crew past quitting time. Dropped dead into a shipment of canvas patio umbrellas at the age of fifty-three. A court battle between his two sons left the place locked and gathering cobwebs while their respective lawyers bled their legacy dry waging dueling lawsuits.

A spotlight snapped on before she made three steps. The Fixer froze. She looked up and estimated the light to be twelve feet overhead. The warehouse was an impenetrable shadow outside a three foot circle of bright white. Her eyes tried to adjust to the glare as she willed her breathing to return to normal. She took a few slow steps. The spotlight followed her. She stopped and looked up.

“Hey, no worries, huh, buddy?” she called out. “I don’t mean no harm. Just looking for a place out of the rain’s all. Thought this place was deserted. No problem. I’ll be on my way.” The Fixer headed for the door.

“Stop where you are.” A digitized voice blasted from unseen speakers.

“Whoa!” She turned circles, looking up. “You some kind of robo cop? That’s cool.” The Fixer held her arms out to the side for inspection. Black leather jacket over ankle-length black velvet skirt. Men’s work boots, scuffed and scratched. Leather gloves with silver studs. Short black hair spiked and gelled. Safety pins pierced her ear lobes, complemented by a delicate silver nose ring. Heavy black eye makeup accentuated pale gray eyes. “Scan me if you want, brother. I’m clean. I got none of your crap on me, I swear. Just looking to stay dry.” She ventured another step.

“I said stop. Stand still while I figure out what to do.” The Fixer smiled at the hesitancy in the electronically masked warning.

“Hey, buddy. You wouldn’t be a fella name of Jones, would ‘ya?” She shielded her eyes with her gloved hands as she looked toward the rafters.

The silence relaxed The Fixer. She leaned against a dusty file cabinet and waited for a response.

“Are you Carr?” the mechanical voice finally asked.

“I am.” The Fixer saluted the light. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d turn down the spot.”

“But you’re a woman. I wouldn’t have guessed that.” The spotlight dimmed sufficiently enough to end the harsh glare.

“No one ever does.” The Fixer stepped to the center of the light. “Now let me see you.”

“That’s not going to happen, Ms Carr. We’ll conduct things this way, if you don’t mind.”

Her anger flared. “We’re done here, Jones. I don’t do business with invisible voices.” She walked to the door, her ire punctuated with every step.

“Wait!” A man’s voice came over the speaker. “Please. Don’t go. I need you.”

The Fixer stopped but didn’t look back. “All you have to do is step out and introduce yourself. We’ll take it from there.”

“I’m afraid, Ms Carr. This is all very new to me.” A woman’s voice over the speakers. “Please hear me out.”

“How many of you are up there?” The Fixer turned to again face the light. “I came here to meet with Jones. Just Jones.”

“And that’s what you have. I came alone.” A child’s lilt from the speakers. “Tell me a voice your comfortable with, Ms Carr. I can give it to you.”

Curiosity pulled The Fixer back a few slow steps. “What have you got up there, Jones?”

“Whose voice do you like, Ms Carr?” A woman this time. With a thick Irish brogue. “Try me.”

The Fixer stepped forward in challenge, captivated with the technology suggested. “Let’s hear Barbara Streisand.”

Nearly a minute passed in silence. The Fixer wrestled an inner warning to find the nearest door and run.

“Well hello, gorgeous.” The voice over the speaker was unmistakably Barbara Streisand’s. The cadence was slowed, as if each word was pieced together from an infinite library of the diva’s iterations, but the inflection and tone were perfect. Anyone over the age of twenty-five would be certain they were listening to the superstar.

“That’s some gadget you got there, Jones. But I’m going to have to see you if you want this conversation to go any further.”

“If you could indulge me, Ms Carr.” La Streisand asked. “Please. Watch this.”

The light that had been tracking The Fixer went dark and was replaced by the glow of a large television mounted on the side of a catwalk above her to the right. The image of a middle aged man filled the screen. Late 40’s she’d guessed. Fit, handsome, and with the body of an athlete. His face unlined and his suit custom-tailored. He walked with the easy grace of someone who knew he turned heads. There was no audio as the man ascended to a podium. He shook hands with several people before taking his place behind a lectern. He smiled into the camera and pulled note cards from his pocket.

“That’s Fred Bastian.” The speaker now projected a man’s voice. Soft southern accent. “Some say he’s the best in his field. Maybe destined for the Nobel Prize some day.”

“But you say different, I suppose.” The Fixer wanted to get to the reason for the meeting.

“Dr. Bastian is a butcher, Ms Carr. A fiend. A sadist of the highest order.”

“What is it you want, Jones? By the way, is it Miss or Mister Jones?” The Fixer grew weary of the game.

“Jones is fine, Ms Carr.” This time a woman with the nasal inflection of a New Jersey housewife. “Bastian is chair of neuroscience at the university. He’s built his career identifying and locating the molecular substrates of human emotions. Most of his work is with animals. ‘Non-human primates’ he calls them. He does most of his experiments on monkeys and chimpanzees.”

The Fixer knew of Bastian’s lab. Over the years it had been the target of demonstrations by animal rights activists. She recalled an investigation by the National Institutes of Health a few years earlier.

“I’m listening.” No need for Jones to have any indication of her knowledge of the scientist’s work. “What do you have in mind?”

The response came as a female voice from the heartland. Devoid of accent as any network anchor. “Bastian’s lab has as many as fifty primates at any given time. Caged. Chained if necessary. Screaming for their freedom at first. Soon learning they’re helpless and submitting to captivity. Huddling in the corners of small crates. Some starving themselves to death but most succumbing to the seduction of survival and performing for their captors who come twice a day with kibbles and fruit.”

The television switched to another video. Bastian smiling into the camera as he gave a tour of his lab. Green porcelain tiles covered the walls. White-coated assistants stood behind black-topped utility tables. The audio was muted, but The Fixer assumed Bastian was pointing out various instruments or explaining his theories or research protocols. She watched Bastian go to a large steel door, key an entry code into an electronic panel, and push the door open.

The audio blared into action as Bastian entered his holding rooms. Unseen dogs barked. Monitors beeped. Bastian spoke directly to the camera with an assured voice. “And now the stars of our little show.”

The camera tracked dozens of cages that filled the sterile room. Monkeys peered out as Bastian walked by and identified them for his audience. The small macaque and tamarinds. The proboscis and squirrel monkeys. Several with shaved heads. Two with implanted electrodes. Faces of pleading fear captured in heartbreaking close-up by the zoom lens.

“Here are my larger specimens,” Bastian led the way to another room. Four monkeys were in individual cages. “First, a male and female baboon.” Bastian put his hand on top of their respective cells. “They allow me to measure the hormonal contribution to emotions.” He turned away from the cowering animals and directed the camera to the final set of cages.

“Meet Frost and Nixon”. Bastian smiled at the two captives. “Chimpanzees. Ninety-six percent of their DNA held in common with humans. Very social animals in the wild. They form clans of 100 or more. Like families. The information we get from them is as close to humans as possible.” The camera framed the two chimps. Electrodes protruding from their skulls. Catheters inserted into their arms and penises. Nixon held his arm out, reaching through the cage in supplication.

The video went blank. The Fixer took two deep breaths and tried to shake the images from her mind.

“Okay, so Bastian’s an asshole,” she called up to the rafters. “I don’t get involved with the politics of academic research. Contact some sort of review board.”

This time a woman with a soft English accent. “Bastian brings millions in grant funding to the university. The regulatory agencies are under-funded at best. Apathetic at worst. Even the newspapers aren’t interested.”

“Lots of universities conduct animal research, Jones. It’s an evil, I’ll give you that. But it doesn’t warrant my involvement.”

“Think back to your history lessons, Ms Carr.” This time it was the patrician tones of a Boston male speaking to her. “Back to the beheadings in ancient Rome or during the French Revolution.”

“Your grace period is long past, Jones.” The Fixer wanted her prospect to know her irritation. “You want to waste my time on a Western Civ review or do you want to tell me what you want?”

“When I’m finished, Ms Carr, you’ll have no question about the need to rid the world of Dr. Bastian’s work. Indulge me, please?” Sincerity rang through the synthesized plea. The Fixer gave a reluctant nod.

“Recall the scene re-created in countless epics. The defeated led to the chopping block. The blood-thirsty mob gathered to witness their payback. The victor grabbing the severed head and holding it aloft for the cheering crowds.”

“What’s this got to do with Bastian?” The Fixer stood with her hands on her hips. “You’ve got two minutes before I walk out of here.”

“Common lore has those severed heads held high so the crowd could savor their revenge.” The Boston-accented man had the perfect voice for this history lesson. “However, the act served another purpose. You see, the victims’ senses continued to work for as long as a person can hold their breath. What’s that, Ms Carr? A minute? Perhaps ninety seconds? The victor could turn the poor soul’s gaze for a horrifying view of their own headless body. One last exquisite torture before the great abyss.”

The Fixer swallowed hard. The list of ways humans could be cruel to one was as endless as the heavens. “What’s this have to do with Bastian? I won’t ask again.”

“You’ve seen the monkeys in Bastian’s lab. You’ve heard the dogs. I’m sorry they’re not enough to convince you. Let me tell you about Ortoo.”

The video came to life again. The Fixer took a shuffled step back as the screen filled with a colossal hairy face.

“Ortoo’s a Silverback Gorilla. A rare specimen in the wild, let alone in captivity. Silverback’s are between 98 and 99 percent genetically identical to humans. Our closest cousin.” Jones fell silent as The Fixer watched Ortoo pace back and forth in a room-sized cage.

“Ortoo was somewhere around 20 years old when this video was taken. Full in his prime. Did you know, Ms Carr, that gorillas live 50 years? Some more. They have individual fingerprints. They even have face-to-face sex. I’m sure you’re aware that it’s possible for them to learn sign language and communicate thoughts and feelings with us.”

The Fixer watched Ortoo grab the iron bars of his cage in his massive hands, yanking on them as he roared and bared his teeth.

“Ortoo must have been the dominant troop leader prior to his capture.” Jones continued the lesson. “He never went submissive. In the end I think that’s what cost him. Bastian was never able to make Ortoo grovel.”

“Bastian has a gorilla?” The Fixer asked. “Does he conduct research at a zoo?”

A soft sigh came through the speakers. “No one knows how Bastian got him. He kept him in a secret facility. The few assistants who held Bastian in god-like esteem were the only ones who knew Ortoo existed.”

“How did you get this tape?”

“I can’t answer that, Ms Carr. Please allow me one last story. Like I said, Bastian was incensed by the gorilla’s insistence on dominance. He could get near Ortoo only when the animal was fully sedated. He implanted electrodes but all he got from Ortoo was rage. No fear. No submission. Ortoo never gave him the subtle emotional distinctions Bastian was looking for in his research. I even think Bastian began to fear him. At least that’s my hope.”

The Fixer wasn’t watching the clock any more.

“After nearly a year Bastian realized Ortoo was a liability. He was of no research benefit. Bastian couldn’t give him to a zoo. He’d have to explain how he came into possession of a Silverback. He couldn’t return him to the wild. It must have been difficult enough to smuggle Ortoo in. He couldn’t risk detection by returning him to the jungle.” A resigned breath came across the speakers. “One night a casual conversation gave Bastian his out. And his revenge.”

“What happened?”

“Bastian was holding court with his inner circle of research assistants. Wine and cheese while Bastian pontificated and soaked up the unquestioning worship he demanded of his graduate students.” The speakers shifted to a woman’s tender voice. “One particular night the topic centered on proving that a severed head could, indeed, continue to function once it was separated from its body. Neuroscientists are often intrigued by ghoulish topics. Bastian suggested an experiment.”

“Ortoo?” The Fixer whispered her question.

“I imagine some of the lab assistants were emboldened by the wine. Maybe others were terrified of Bastian’s power to ruin a career with one phone call.” The woman’s voice turned sad. “For whatever reason the entire meeting headed out to Ortoo’s hidden prison.”

The overhead television came back on. The Fixer saw again the spartan room. She heard various voices, male and female, chattering behind whoever carried the video camera. She watched Ortoo pacing his cage. Saw him look up when the research entourage approached the mighty behemoth. Ortoo shifted into a violent rage several seconds later and The Fixer assumed Bastian had entered the room.

“He recorded this? Why?”

“Ego, Ms Carr. Bastian believed every move he made was of profound importance. He was convinced future generations of scientists would benefit from his archiving every step of his work. No matter how mundane or cruel.”

The Fixer watched a dart fly into the raging beast’s chest and tried hard to swallow the bile rising in the back of her throat. Less than a minute later Ortoo was slumped in his cell, his breathing rapid and shallow. The screen went black for a second, then resumed to show Ortoo chained spread-eagle in his cage. Wires had been connected to the dozens of permanently implanted electrodes in his giant skull. Lingering effects of the tranquilizing agent were evident as Ortoo struggled to lift his head off his gargantuan chest.

No people were seen, but the television speaker blared the audio of a scolding man.

“Damn it, give me the blasted tool.” Bastian’s angry face came into view. The camera captured him as he approached Ortoo’s cell and opened the door. The gorilla tried to react to his captor but a roll of his titanic head and a small grimace was all he could muster.

Bastian looked off to the right before turning back to the camera with a nod. “One fifteen a.m. Subject is approached.” He toggled the switch on a long-bladed reciprocating saw and entered the cell. Stepping past the chains that held Ortoo, Bastian circled behind the once-proud Alpha and climbed onto a stool. He grabbed a handful of the gorilla’s hair and jerked back, exposing the mighty primate’s thick throat. The throbbing veins in his own telegraphed Bastian’s rage.

“One sixteen a.m.” Bastian called out to the camera. “Subject is sacrificed.”

Bastian placed the blade against Ortoo’s windpipe and sawed. A geyser of red erupted. The Fixer added her own gasp to those heard on the television. Bastian maintained his vice-grip on Ortoo’s hair as he manipulated the whirring saw through muscle and bone. Ten long seconds passed as the scientist struggled to free Ortoo’s massive head without disturbing any electrode lead.

Bastian was covered in blood, muscle bits, and bone fragments as he cut through the last slippery sinew connecting Ortoo’s head to his body. He threw the saw to the concrete floor.

He yelled to no one in particular. “Are we recording?”

Bastian scurried around Ortoo’s body, still suspended in chains. The camera captured him taking two quick steps outside the cell before he turned the bloody head toward the carcass in the cage.

“How’s that, you bastard ape?” He screamed as he held the severed head high in two hands. “You see that? You know who I am now, monkey?”

The gruesome image on the screen disappeared. The Fixer didn’t move.

“Bastian got what he was looking for.” The speaker this time was a female child. “The EEG signals proved beyond any doubt that Ortoo’s brain was registering the sight of his own headless body. For the first time Bastian got an emotion other than rage from Ortoo.” The child’s voice caught. “The readings on the EEG were identical to human terror.”

The Fixer stood silent. Her body weary from the weight of the depravity she’d just witnessed.

“I’m going to need that tape,” she said.

A few seconds later a CD case was tossed from the darkness above. The Fixer walked a step, bent over, and retrieved it.

“Five hundred thousand dollars goes to PETA before I fix this.” She tucked the CD into a jacket pocket.

“That’s a lot of money, Ms Carr.” The Boston-accented man again.

“And I’ll need to see you. Now.” The Fixer stood in the center of the spotlight and waited.

“I’m here, Ms Carr.”

The Fixer whirled around. No electronic emission. No distortion. A male voice from behind her. She squinted into the dark and shifted her feet into a combat stance. “Step closer, Jones.”

A tall thin man stepped into the circle of light. The Fixer estimated his age somewhere south of thirty. Sandy hair. Jeans. Radiohead t-shirt. Indistinguishable from the thousands of grad students who filled the U-district coffee shops. He shrugged skinny shoulders and put out a pale arm. “Do we shake on this, or what?” His real voice was a nasal whistle.

“Give me your driver’s license.” The Fixer held out her hand.

“What? No. I mean, you can’t know…”

“I can’t know who you are, Mr. Jones?” she interrupted. “Give it to me or I walk.”

The lean young man hesitated before he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Struggling with shaking hands, he managed to pull out his license and hand it to the terrifying Goth.

“Are you going to turn me in?” he asked. “Oh, God. Please tell me you’re not a cop.”

“Mr. Jones.” She scanned the license. “I should say Mr. Buchner.” She looked at the license again before tucking it into her jacket pocket. “Your name is Walter? Wally, it is my purest intention that we never see each other again. This license puts me next to you if you break any of our rules. Am I clear?”

His jaw quivered as he nodded his head.

“I’m leaving now, Walter.” The Fixer glanced up to the rafters. “I imagine you have some cleaning up to do.”

Chapter Eleven

“Why am I getting these numbers now, Carl?” Meredith Thornton threw the data printout onto her desk. She wasn’t concerned about containing her anger. “We’re a Level One-A research institution. Four straight years of increased funding. I’m the university president, for God’s sake. And I’m finding this out now? After the mid-term funding season?”

Carl Snelling took a step back. Meredith loathed her Executive Provost’s spinelessness.

“Answer me, Carl.” She toyed with the long rope of pearls draped from her neck. “When did you first learn this?”

Carl shuffled through the duplicate printout he held. “Is it really that bad, President Thornton? This economy leads to cuts everywhere. I heard rumors NIH wasn’t funding anything below the upper three percent.” He leaned toward her and whispered. “I’ve got a little birdie at Johns Hopkins who tells me even their grant funding has been slashed.”

Meredith had no interest in Snelling’s gossip. Her own house was on fire. “Thirty-one percent below last cycle?” She pushed a wayward strand of ash blond hair behind her ear. “Nearly fifty million dollars. You tell me, Carl. Is it really that bad?”

Meredith paced her office and punctuated her steps with icy stares.

“How many research assistants will we lose? How many graduate students or support staff? My God, a loss like this could cost us faculty members.” She marched straight toward him and enjoyed his subtle flinch. “These people have families, Carl.” She stood two inches from his nose. “Anyone wondering if this kind of loss is ‘really that bad’ doesn’t deserve to be standing in an executive office.”

Carl’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry, President Thornton. I didn’t realize the funding shortfall would be this great.” His lower lip quivered. “What would you like me to do now?”

Meredith’s withering gaze suggested he was a gumball ring trying to pass as a diamond. “That question is about three months late, Carl. I’m tired of fixing your failures.” She pivoted on a black suede pump and punched a button on her phone. “Angela, can you get me Bradley Wells, please? Use his private number.”

Her stomach lurched as her Executive Provost slithered out of the room.

Chapter Twelve

“Is there some reason we’re not at Smitty’s?” Jim De Villa slid into the leather banquette and admired the sailboats moored outside Richard’s On The Bay’s expansive windows. “I can hear my credit card being declined already.”

“Drinks are on me.” Mort took his place across from his friend. “Today’s too special for a cop bar.”

Jim’s face wrinkled before he shook his head in recognition. “Sorry, Buddy. November eleventh. Remember how she used to call it ‘railroad tracks’?”

Mort smiled. “Eleven-Eleven. I wasn’t in any shape to mark the day last year.”

“I’m honored to be included,” Jim said. “Things getting better?”

Mort shrugged. “Most days I can’t believe she’s gone. I expect to pick up the phone and hear her chewing me out for working late. Maybe see her sitting in the dining room paying bills when I get home.” He signaled for the waitress. “But I haven’t smashed anything in six months.”

“I’m calling that progress.” Jim smiled at the blonde taking his order. “Whiskey and a beer, please. Something local, in a bottle.”

Mort ordered scotch rocks.

“How’s Robbie adjusting?” Jim helped himself to the salted cashews on the table. “Must be tough, him being so far away.”

“He’s got Claire and the girls.”

“He working on anything interesting?”

Mort nodded. “Branching away from insider trading and fraud. Remember Gordon Halloway? Robbie’s working a hunch the asshole was murdered. Hired hit.” Mort let his pride show. “He might be on to something.”

“And another Grant man falls victim to the seductive lure of homicide,” Jim said. “What’s he got?”

Their drinks were delivered before Mort could answer. They each lifted their glass.

“To Edie,” Mort said. “Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.”

“To the classiest woman I’ve ever met. Why she married you none of us will ever know.” Jim took a sip of whiskey. “So. Robbie and his hired hit.”

Mort settled back and brought his friend up to speed on his son’s theories. Jim reaffirmed Mort’s concern that a hired professional might leave him with no story at all.

“Might as well try to nail the wind,” Jim said. “But if he’s anything like his old man, that’s not going to stop him.”

The perky blonde came back carrying a bottle of Laphroaio and two crystal tumblers. She smiled as she set the fifteen-year-old scotch in front of them. “From the gentleman.” The waitress nodded to a thin man flanked by two barely dressed women at the end of the bar. “He asks that I tell you he appreciates the quality of your work.”

“Are you shitting me?” Jim moved his hand to the small of his back.

“Hands up top, Jim.” Mort smiled at the waitress. “No offense intended, Miss, but we’d prefer you returned this to that cockroach.” Mort shifted his focus to the bar. The man who sent the bottle kissed each woman full on the mouth before heading toward Mort and Jim’s table.

“Beat it, Junior,” Mort said to the jerk in leather jacket and jeans.

The man who liked to call himself Satan brushed aside the waitress clearing the scotch. “Leave it,” he said as he tucked a fifty dollar bill in her collar. “These poor schmucks are going to learn the joys of a two hundred dollar bottle of liquid gold.”

The waitress shot Mort a frightened look and hurried away.

Satan turned toward Jim. “Where’s your little doggie? I thought he was part of your act. Officer Numbnuts and his trusty pal. Doing tricks for treats.” Angelo Satanell, Jr. laughed and glanced around the bar. He looked disappointed that no one was paying attention. He focused on Mort. “And Detective Quick Draw, too. This place has lost its standards.”

Mort fixed a cold gaze on Satanell and lifted his own glass for a taste.

“You drink that swill while a bottle of heaven sits in front of you?” Satanell turned back to look at his women and grinned. “Your pay grade has warped your taste buds, my friend.”

“We don’t need your booze, Junior,” Jimmy said. “And we don’t need your shit, either. Now be a good little boy and go spend Daddy’s money on your whores.”

Satanell grinned at Mort. “You still pissed at me about that cello player?” He leaned forward, both hands on their table. “Little girls play with fire, they get their asses burned.” Satanell dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Miss Allie knew that, didn’t she, Papa?”

“Step back, Junior.” Jim slid closer to Mort. “Unless you want to see how fast I can have you in cuffs.”

Satanell glanced again to his women. He seemed pleased they were watching and tossed a wink before turning back to Mort. “Your cunt of a daughter knew what to do with top shelf liquor.”

Mort’s sudden lunge sent Satanell shuffling back in reflex. Jim grabbed Mort with both hands and shoved him back into the booth.

“Go ahead, old man.” Satanell was yelling now. “Touch me. Put a hand on Satan and wait for the fire.”

Jim struggled to keep his friend seated. “Save it, Mort. Time will come to deal with this piece of shit. Save it.”

Angelo Satanell, Jr. tipped a two finger salute, grinned, and swaggered back to the two women feigning concern for their man.

Mort waited until his breath was close to normal before shrugging off Jim’s hold. He watched Satanell and the women leave the bar. “He thinks he’s bullet proof.”

Jim shook his head. “Daddy being Daddy and things being things, he just may be correct.”

Mort reached for his glass and drained his scotch in one swallow. “Correct doesn’t make it right.”

Woods, T E

The Fixer

Chapter Thirteen

Lydia Corriger got to work early the day before Thanksgiving. She defied the rainy gloom by clicking on two table lamps and settling behind her desk with her coffee and newspaper. The front page led with the city council’s debate regarding earthquake standards for homes. A photo of local food pantry volunteers filling charity bags reminded readers there was still time to donate. Lydia made a mental note to take the game hen she purchased for her own Thursday dinner out of the freezer.

The national section had an article on the latest finger-pointing in Congress. Lydia shook her head at a silly photograph of the president pardoning a turkey and moved on to an article about a significant donation to the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. An anonymous donor had given half a million dollars to the organization. No strings attached, according to the beaming chief executive.

She finished the paper and checked her schedule. She was booked every hour, straight through to Savannah Samuels at six. She unlocked her office at 7:55 and her first patient walked through the door three minutes later.

Mary Sullivan was 54 years old. Overweight. Greasy hair. Baggy sweat pants and a dirty red down vest. Mary’s employer had contacted Lydia. Despite her talent with children, parents were complaining and Mary was in danger of losing her job as a pre-school teacher.

Mary didn’t bathe.

She didn’t shower. She didn’t brush her teeth. She didn’t shampoo and she didn’t wash her clothes.

Mary stank.

Lydia ushered her into the office. Mary chose the sofa and Lydia was glad it was leather. She watched Mary pull folders out of a large canvas bag and set them on the coffee table.

“I made copies for you,” Mary said. “Here’s my chart from Dr. Roth. He’s my prescribing doctor. I’ve been seeing him for nine years. There’s an updated list of my medications on the inside flap.” Mary pulled a three-ring binder out of her bag. “This is a copy of my chart from Dr. Reschke. He was my talking doctor. I only saw him for three years.” Mary looked up at Lydia with rheumy brown eyes. “I wore him out. He didn’t know what to do with me.”

Lydia took her seat across from the malodorous woman. She counted seven files and binders on the table. And Mary’s bag wasn’t yet empty.

“I’ll begin with an overview of my mother.” Mary pulled out an expandable legal folder. “All the doctors agree she’s the root of my problem.” She snapped the elastic band open. “Now, my earliest memory is..”

“Stop.” Lydia held her hand up. “Just stop.”

Mary froze mid-movement.

“Put the folders down, Mary.” Lydia kept her voice quiet and firm.

“I want to tell you about my mother,” Mary said.

“And I want to hear it. But not today. Today we’re going to talk about why you’re here.”

Mary blinked several times. “But you’ll need to understand about my mother.”

Lydia leaned back. “How did you get here today, Mary? Not why, but how.”

Mary balked. “I drove. I don’t see the importance of…”

“A car?” Lydia interrupted. “You drove yourself here in a car?”

“Of course.” Mary set the folder aside. “Where are you going with this?”

“Mary, do you understand the physics behind an internal combustion engine?” Lydia feigned amazement. “I mean, think about it. There’s a fire going on inside your car’s engine. Doesn’t that freak you out? A fire… inside your engine.”

Mary’s eyebrows shot up.

Lydia leaned forward. “I’ll bet you don’t understand internal combustion. I know I don’t. And yet you were able to manage your car sufficiently to get here, is that right?”

“I…I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Lydia smiled. “I don’t want you to say anything, Mary.” She pointed to the stack of files and binders overwhelming the coffee table. “Look at this stuff. You’ve been trying to understand yourself for years.”

Mary nodded. “I’ve been in therapy since I was 22.”

“Then let’s stop doing what hasn’t been working.” Lydia tossed the folders off the coffee table, leaned back, and replaced them with her feet. “Now tell me. Are you afraid of water, Mary?”

“But my mother used to..”

Lydia interrupted again. “We’re not talking about your mother today. Answer my question. Are you afraid of water?”

“No. No, it’s my lack of motivation. My mother always said…”

“Soap?” Lydia tilted her head to one side. “Shampoo? Deodorant? Afraid of those?”

Mary shook her head. “Of course not. I have lots of potions and lotions.”

“Great.” Lydia swung her feet off the table and grabbed her notebook. “Then let’s set up a schedule for the rest of your morning.” She smiled at her confused patient. “Mary, you’re going to take a shower today. And you’re going to call me when you’re done.”

“But my mother…” Mary’s voice lost its volume.

Lydia interrupted with a gentle insistence. “Your mother’s not here. And you’re about to lose your job.” She leaned closer. “I will never lie to you. Nor will I sugarcoat things. Mary, you stink. And we’re going to fix that today.”

“Just like that?” Mary’s smile was tentative.

Lydia held her gaze. “Just like that. Now I know you’re on suspension. So,” Lydia began writing. “If you left here at nine and drove straight home…”

“With my internal combustion engine.” Mary interjected.

“That’s right.” Lydia gave her a big smile. “What time would you get home?”

“About nine forty, I assume.” Mary’s voice hinted at co-conspiracy.

“Great.” Lydia allowed her enthusiasm to build. “You go straight to your bathroom. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Strip off your clothes and you’re in the shower by ten til ten.” She glanced up at her patient. “Your bathroom’s clean enough for this?”

Mary nodded. “It’s just me who’s dirty.”

“Bingo. We’re going to fix this, Mary.” Lydia returned her attention to the notebook. “First you’ll shampoo. And when the bottle says ‘lather, rinse, repeat’, I want you to do that twice, okay?”

Mary smiled again. “You’re not the typical shrink, are you?”

Lydia winked. “Mary, you’re not going to talk your way out of this pickle. You’re not going to think your way out or understand your way out. You’re going to do your way out of this. Right?”

Mary stared at Lydia for several heartbeats. Lydia held her gaze. Mary let out a hearty laugh.

“No one’s ever done this,” she said. “Do you know how many doctors I’ve been to? Not one of them has told me I stink and need to go home and take a bath.”

Lydia leaned back and smiled. “I don’t like to dally, Mary. If there’s a way to fix something, I don’t like to waste time. Are you with me?”

Mary chuckled and a boa of fat jiggled beneath her dingy sweatshirt. “I’ve got some really fancy face cleanser I’ve been dying to try,”

“Brilliant. Next comes the body wash…”

Lydia’s day marched forward in one hour segments. John McKenna wanted help finding meaning in the recent cancer death of his nineteen year old son. Alexander Quinton couldn’t shake his conviction he would die in an airplane crash before his fiftieth birthday. Marilyn Martinella discovered when her youngest daughter left for college that she hated her husband.

Her four o’clock was Jackie Vincent, a single mother of a 17 year-old gangster wanna-be. This was her second visit. She came saying she needed to develop skills for coping with what she described as her “headstrong and spirited” child.

“He called me a mother-fucking bitch last night.” Jackie sobbed into her lace handkerchief. “Why would he do that, Dr. Corriger? I give him everything.”

“What did you do when he called you that?” Lydia asked.

Jackie’s shoulders racked with her sobs. “I went to my bedrooom. Then, when I thought his mood was better I made some popcorn and we watched a scary movie together. It was nice.”

“How old was he the first time he called you a name?”

“This one?” Jackie dabbed her eyes.

“Any name. How old was he the first time he disrespected you?” Lydia asked.

Jackie thought back. “I can remember him calling me ‘Poopy Head’ when he was about two.”

“What did you do then?”

Jackie shrugged. “He was two.” She smiled. “I thought it was cute.”

“There’s your answer, Jackie.” Lydia hoped her patient would hear her. “He called you a mother-fucking bitch because you allow it.”

On they came. A succession of sorrow hoping for comfort or direction. As the day wore on, Lydia wondered if she’d have energy left to deal with her last patient of the day.

Savannah Samuels was five minutes late. She pulled a bottle of wine out of an oversized leather tote, tossed her raincoat across a chair, and settled onto the sofa.

“For your Thanksgiving, Dr. Corriger.” Savannah placed the syrah on the coffee table. “I don’t know what you’re serving but a hundred-dollar bottle of wine goes with anything.”

Lydia took a seat across from the tired-looking beauty. “Why do you do that?”

Savannah frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You lead with money. You carry large amounts of cash. You tried to tip me on your first visit and bribe me on your second. Now you bring a bottle of wine.”

“It’s Thanksgiving.” Savannah pushed a blue-black curl behind her ear. “A holiday gesture.”

Lydia sensed her patient’s unease. “But you made sure I knew the price. Why?”

“Look, no offense intended.” Savannah pushed farther back into the cushions. “Give the wine to the cleaning lady for all I care.”

Savannah stared at a chipped fingernail.

“Do you want me to know you’re rich, Savannah? Is that it?”

Savannah crossed her legs and stared into nothingness.

“Do you think I’ll like you more if I know you’re wealthy? Perhaps bring my ‘A’ game to our sessions?” Lydia pressed despite her patient’s obvious discomfort.

Savannah rubbed the back of her neck and closed her eyes. Two minutes passed before she opened them. “Maybe money’s not a big deal for you anymore, Dr. Corriger. But remember, it wasn’t that way on my side of the tracks.”

“I know nothing about your side of the tracks, Savannah. Tell me what it was like for you growing up.”

Regret danced across Savannah’s face and settled into disappointment. She raised a sculptured brow. “You want to know about my mother? Maybe my trials and tribulations with potty training?”

Lydia challenged Savannah’s defensive posturing. “You hired me, remember?” She forced her voice to a calmness she didn’t feel. “You came here crying. Told me you’re broken. You drop by without an appointment. You ask for my help and I agree to work with you. It’s been like this for months.” She leaned forward. “And now you insult me. Do you think we’re getting closer to fixing you or farther away?”

Savannah’s blue eyes softened, revealing the terror that lurked beneath her sophisticated mask. She bowed her head and a teardrop fell onto her suede skirt. “I’m sorry. I was rude.”

Lydia dropped to a near-whisper. “You can be rude, Savannah. I can handle that. But let’s not waste time.” Lydia watched her patient reach for a tissue, blot her eyes, and twist the tissue into a tight coil. “Tell me what it was like growing up. Let’s start with Dad.”

“That’s easy.” Savannah looked up and smirked. “Never met him. My mother told me he was a soldier. Killed in Viet Nam.” She bit her lower lip and looked away. “She didn’t have a clue who he was.”

“That must be difficult for you.” Lydia kept her eyes on her patient’s face.

“Not at all.” Savannah pushed away another errant wisp of hair. “You can’t miss what you never knew.”

Lydia let her hold that fallacy for the moment. “And Mom? What about her?”

“I don’t have enough money to pay for the hours it would take to tell you about her, Dr. Corriger. And I have a lot of money.” Savannah grimaced. “Sorry.”

Lydia smiled. “We’ll call it an insight moment, how’s that?” She leaned back. “Give me some broad strokes. Help me see your mother. Is she as beautiful as you?”

Savannah’s face contorted again. “It’s hard to think of myself as beautiful. That’s not false modesty. I’m well aware of the effect I have on men. Women, too.” She turned her attention again to empty space. “I use it to my advantage whenever I can. But I know who I am underneath. And as they say, ugliness goes to the bone.”

“I asked about your mother, Savannah. Not you.”

Savannah nodded. “So you did. No. My mother wasn’t beautiful. Not outside. Not inside. She loved the men, though. Did whatever she could to make sure there were always a few in her life. ‘My bullpen’ she called them.”

“What did she do for a living?”

“I don’t know.” Savannah smile lacked any trace of humor. “My mother placed me in foster care when I was about two. I’m told she visited me once when I was six.” Savannah focused a stare on Lydia. “You see, something terrible happened to me at one of the foster homes.”

Lydia’s throat tightened. “You want to talk about it?”

Savannah kept her eyes riveted on Lydia. “Another foster kid stopped it. A teenaged girl, skinny as a rail but stronger than anyone I ever met before or since. I think that foster father was doing the same thing to her.”

Lydia felt her tongue go dry and reached for a sip of water. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Savannah.”

“My protector saved me.” Savannah’s smile was soft and genuine. “I never forgot her.” Her voice turned to a whispered vow. “And I never will.”

Lydia nodded. “And that was when you were reunited with your mother?”

Savannah stiffened her backbone. “Briefly. She came for a meeting with the social services people. Demanded they find me a better place. I think she patted my head as she left. I didn’t see her again until I was fourteen. She took us to Texas and we were together for two whole weeks before she drove me to a hotel in downtown Galveston. Told me to wait in the lobby. Said she had to go to work and a nice man was going to pick me up. I was to do whatever he said.”

“What did you make of that?” Lydia hoped she’d hear an ending other than the one she imagined.

“I thought it was kind of strange given that she’d never gone to work before and we didn’t live in Galveston.” Savannah rubbed a hand across her porcelain forehead. “A man came and pick me up, though. And I did whatever he said.” More tears dropped to her lap. “When he was finished he gave me five dollars and told me I should be in school.”

“Was that your first sexual experience, Savannah?” Lydia kept her voice steady and soft.”Beyond the rape when you were six?”

Savannah turned to Lydia. Two blue lasers beamed from a flawless face. “I’d been in the foster system for twelve years, Dr. Corriger. Nine different homes. No, it wasn’t my first sexual experience. Just the first time I got paid.”

“And your mother?” Lydia knew better than to react to Savannah’s shame.

“She kept the business going. I was her merchandise and she was a good little sales clerk.” The emotion so visible on Savannah’s face turned from shame to anger. “About a month into it a customer asked me how old I was. I told him. He showed me a badge, and I was back in foster.”

“And your mother?” Lydia hoped the repetition would help soothe Savannah.

“Never heard from her again.” Savannah bounced her right leg.

“You deserved better.” Lydia handed her a fresh box of tissues.

“Don’t pity me, Dr. Corriger. That’s not why I’m here.” Savannah’s voice grew stronger. “My mother’s shenanigans earned me special attention from the authorities. The next four years in the state’s care were okay. Nobody touched me. I was safe from then on.”

Lydia let the weight of the revelation hang for several moments. “From then on is a long time. You would have graduated from the system when you were eighteen. That’s nearly ten years ago. What’s life been like since then?”

Savannah struck a pose and fluffed her hair. “Don’t I look like I’ve made a success of myself? Aren’t you proud of what I’ve become?” She slipped out of teasing and resumed her anger. “Like I said, I’m well aware of the effect I have on men.”

“Are you telling me you’re a prostitute, Savannah? Is that what you think is broken in you?”

Savannah laughed for the first time that session. “Aren’t we all prostitutes, Dr. Corriger? Don’t we all march to the tune someone else is calling just so we can get paid? I mean, look at you? You’re willing to accept my terms, my rudeness, in order to collect your fee. In cash.” She laughed again. “The only difference is you don’t accept tips.”

“Are we back to insults?” Lydia’s voice was calm and steady. “If so, I’ll ask you again. Do you think that gets you closer to your goal or farther away?”

Savannah looked at her watch, stood, and collected her coat and bag. “Sex isn’t the reason I get paid. It’s just a tool of my trade.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out an envelope, and laid it on the table next to the tissue box. “Exact amount.” She turned to go.

“We still have time left, Savannah,” Lydia said.

“I’m done for today.” Savannah walked toward the office door. “Have a nice Thanksgiving.”

The quiet isolation of Lydia’s cliffside home wasn’t working. A continuous loop of her session with Savannah played in her head. Cursing her sleeplessness, she tossed off the covers and climbed out of bed. She went into her kitchen, clicked on the lights, and pulled a favorite bonsai tree out of the window box over the sink. Lydia moved the tree to the table, got her trimmers and scissors out of the drawer, and set about the quiet work of snipping and cutting; mindfully training the tree to perfection. For twenty minutes she tried to focus on the branches and leaves; purposefully avoiding thoughts of the beautiful patient who was in such pain.

That wasn’t working, either.

She went into her bathroom, splashed water on her neck, and buried her face into a thick cotton towel. Savannah’s face danced in her memory. Lydia needed sleep.

She blew out a long tight breath and opened a drawer, fumbled past cosmetics and creams and grabbed a pink plastic soap box in the back. She placed the container on the commode and sat on the side of the tub. She stared at it, knowing it held the relief she needed. She took a deep breath, reached for the box, and brought it to her lap. She pulled her white cotton nightgown up, exposing her right thigh. She snapped the box open and stared at six double-edged razors.

Lydia inspected one after the other, holding each between her thumb and index finger. She surveyed their edges. Watched the light glint off the blades. Relished the foreplay.

She made her selection, set the box aside, and held the razor to her thigh.

One quick slice. Shallow.

A second slice. Deeper. No blood.

A third. Deeper still. Lydia watched the crimson ooze over her pale skin and shuddered in relief. She drew a finger across the wound, smearing her blood. Then a deep cleansing breath and a quick clean up. Peace could finally come.

Chapter Fourteen

Fred Bastian slammed his front door and threw his briefcase onto the dining table as he made his way into the kitchen of his University Heights home. “Bastards!” he shouted to the empty house. “Fuck them all.” He entered the butler’s pantry, pulled a bottle of scotch from the leaded glass cabinet, and filled a Waterford tumbler half-way with the amber liquid. Bastian looked at the clock. Four twenty. “Close enough,” he whispered before taking a long drink.

The day had been a disaster, starting with the invitation to Meredith Thornton’s office. An invitation he’d ignored. Who the hell was she to summon him? But in light of the morning’s faculty meeting he may have mis-stepped. Bastian made a mental note to call Carl Snelling for a read on Meredith. He’d need her in his corner.

He sensed the mood of his minions change over the past few months, but he’d been too preoccupied with his research to address it. He shook his head and re-lived their betrayal.

The boring rituals: roll call, minutes, announcements. Then the heart of the departmental meeting: consideration of new faculty. Six candidates for two available positions. Bastian let the thirty-six faculty members prattle on for twenty minutes and pretended their input mattered. When he’d had enough he nodded toward Fritz Walther. The portly faculty moderator pulled himself to his feet, called the discussion closed and announced the final agenda item: the annual vote giving Bastian the faculty’s proxy in all personnel matters. It was routine. A rubber stamp ceding him full power to hire or fire any member of the department.

The first warning came when Levine asked for a change from the customary voice vote. “Fucking know-it-all Jew,” Bastian called out to his empty kitchen. “I should have squashed his tenure when I had the chance.” He took another long pull from his scotch and remembered the pathetic look on Walther’s face as he fumbled for enough paper for the secret ballot.

Bastian held a cool smile as the votes were counted. No need to worry, he told himself. Just a few disgruntled idiots taking a naive swipe at power. He remembered shooting a look to Jerry Childress, his vice-chair. The one he counted on to keep the natives contained and cowed. Childress focused on his laptop and ignored him.

“Fucking Judas.” Bastian drained his glass and threw it against the sub-zero stainless steel refrigerator. Shards of crystal blanketed the tiled floor.

The count had been thirty-one to five against him. Bastian grasped the ramifications immediately. Every department chair in the university held their faculty’s proxy. This would be seen as a vote of no confidence. He’d be the laughing stock of campus before nightfall. By tomorrow the research community around the world would know. He’d have to think fast and call in some large chits if he was going to weather this storm.

Bastian poured himself another scotch and ignored the chimes. He felt no need to endure the false pity detail-hungry colleagues might offer on the other side of his front door. He took his glass and bottle to the sun porch at the rear of the house and cursed himself for relying on Childress to keep the underlings in line.

Bastian flopped onto a chaise and gazed into his back yard. The outdoor lights had been synchronized to the shortened days. A blanket of snow, rare for Washington, left dollops of white on the long curving bows of the fir trees. He remembered Christmas was next week. The dean of the medical school had invited him to his family’s ski lodge on Crystal Mountain. “Have to get new plans now,” he said to no one as he took a swig straight from the bottle.

He saw her approach from the west side of the house. Tall and thin. Long brown hair under a bright red beret. Struggling with an enormous poinsettia plant as she stepped gingerly over the snowy walk. Bastian cradled the scotch and watched her climb the icy stairs to the deck. The porch light caught her face. “An ethereal snow fairy,” he sang to the empty room. He saluted her beauty, took another drink, and watched her through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He felt a voyeur’s tingling excitement as he watched her struggle to balance the large pot. She brushed snow off an outdoor table and carefully set the flowers down. She reached inside her navy pea coat, pulled out a white envelope, and nestled it within the giant blooms. For a moment he contemplated inviting this delivery person in for a cup of holiday cheer. But he sat still. Watched her turn to go. Watched her slip on his stairs and land with a loud yelp.

“Oh, shit!” Bastian pulled himself off the chaise, set his bottle down, and took three heavy steps toward the deck. He leaned against the door and breathed deeply, trying to clear his head of scotch and irritation.

“What the hell happened?” he yelled as he yanked the door open. “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my backyard?”

The young woman groaned and struggled to sit up. Her beret fell, a slash of red against the accumulating white. She turned to retrieve it. The porch light caught her face and Bastian smiled as the snow-encrusted lovely tried to regain her dignity and struggled to stand on wobbly legs.

“You could put a little salt on those steps, mister.” She sounded more frightened than hurt. “You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck. I could sue, you know.”

Her false bravado amused him. “And I could have you arrested for trespass. Who are you?”

The beautiful intruder fixed her red hat back on her head and pointed a gloved hand toward the poinsettia. “Monica O’Leary. I deliver for Rainier Floral. I tried your front door but there was no answer. I didn’t want to leave your plant where somebody could take it so I brought it around back. Merry Fucking Christmas.”

“Stay where you are.” Bastian crossed over the snowy deck and pulled the card from the plant. He chuckled when he saw it was from Meredith Thornton and assumed she’d ordered them some time ago. He doubted the university president would be so generous given the day’s events. He tossed the card down and stumbled back toward the house.

“Hey, mister.” The delivery girl shuffled over to the table. “Aren’t you gonna take this plant inside? It’s like a hundred dollar flower. Somebody must love you a lot.”

“Keep it.” He called over his shoulder, walked into the room, and threw himself back onto the chaise.

Monica picked up the plant and the card and flat-stepped across the slippery deck to the still-open back door. “Mind if I just set this inside? It’ll die out here.”

Bastian surveyed the young woman in his door way. Her hair, damp from the melting snow, clung to her face and framed translucent skin and bright green eyes. Plaid kilt and navy blue leggings under her pea coat. Dark green rubber boots. Bastian blinked hard to steady his liquored focus.

“Put it over there.” He motioned toward a glass table at the far end of the sunroom. “And close the door behind you. It’s freezing out there.”

Monica balanced the large pot on one hip when she turned to close the door. She kept an eye on him as she crossed toward the table.

“You been drinking, mister?”

Bastian held the scotch bottle high in his right hand. “Care to join me? If you’re not a scotch person there’s plenty of whatever.”

Monica crinkled her nose and looked around the room. “You sure? Won’t your wife wonder who I am?”

Bastian took a long pull from the bottle. “There’s no wife…what did you say your name was?”

“Monica O’Leary. From Rainier’s.” She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth in her green boots.

“Ah! An Irish lass come to bring me Christmas cheer.” Bastian’s attempt at a brogue fell short. “Come drink with me, lassie. Tis a dark day I’m havin’.”

She shrugged her shoulders and unbuttoned her coat. “What the hell. You’re my last delivery and my back is killing me after that tumble. You got Irish?”

Bastian tried to get up but collapsed back to the chaise.

“Sit still,” Monica said. “You have your own little party working. Point me in the direction and I’ll help myself.”

Bastian waved to the butler’s pantry. “There’s whiskey in there, child. Fine Irish whiskey. Just the thing for a cold winter’s night of betrayal.”

She tossed her jacket on a chair, left the room, and returned two minutes later with a tumbler of liquor. Monica lifted her gloved hands toward her host and wished him happy holidays. She took a small sip. “So what’s this about betrayal?”

Bastian tried to focus. He moved his legs to one side and patted the open area at the foot of the chaise. “Come sit with me and I’ll tell you a story worthy of Irish tears. A tale of brilliance unappreciated. Of deception colder than the snow that falls outside those doors.”

Monica took the seat he suggested. “You have a poet’s soul. What’s got you bummed this close to Christmas?”

He leaned back and gazed at her. The soft light of the one table lamp gave her a candlelit glow. Bastian remembered a time when all his women were this innocent and fresh. He smiled at the delightful turn the day had taken.

“You’re quite beautiful.” He brushed a long strand of hair away from her face. She didn’t flinch. He brought his hand lightly across her cheek and traced her full lips with his thumb. “Do you know who I am?”

Monica bowed her head, grinned, and looked up at him with long-lashed green eyes. “Of course I know who you are, Dr. Bastian. I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time. Ever since I read your paper in Science about opiate effects on maternal bonding.”

Bastian tilted his head as he caressed her cheek. Her naivete proved more intoxicating than his scotch. “You’re not a delivery person, are you?” This was his favorite perk. The academic groupies so willing to service the bodies of the illustrious minds they adored. Deluding themselves into thinking they were special because they sucked the cock of a genius.

Monica smiled. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to introduce myself. I even drive by your house sometimes.” She giggled and shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not a crazoid stalker.” She set her glass down on the floor. “Today was fate. I drove by and saw the florist guy walking away from your door.” Monica blinked her eyes slowly. “I swung my car into your driveway and told him I was your sister. Said I’d take the flowers inside. I didn’t mean any harm.” She hung her head. “I just wanted you to have that beautiful plant. Don’t be mad, okay? I didn’t even know you were home.”

Bastian withdrew his hand from her cheek and let it travel the length of her arm. “I’m not mad, Monica. You’re my Christmas present. All wrapped up in snow.”

Monica smiled and ran a hand over his leg. She held his gaze as she pulled off her gloves. One finger at a time. Tugging each tip with her teeth. Tossing the gloves and beret to the floor. Running a hand through her long brown hair before returning it to his thigh.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” Her voice sounded like whiskey and cigarettes as she inched closer to him. “I want to hear all about it.” She grinned a wicked tease. “But first I want to give you another present.”

Bastian swallowed hard and repositioned his hips to accommodate the erection that strained his trousers. “It is Christmas, after all.” He reached out to her.

“Ah, tut tut,” she whispered. “Close your eyes. Lean back. Relax.”

Bastian smiled and did as she asked. The Fixer brought her hand up to his face and gently placed her fingers against his lips.

“No peeking, okay?” she whispered.

“You’re a shy one, are you? Not too inhibited, I hope.” Bastian kept his eyes shut.

The Fixer reached down and tugged the loaded syringe free from the surgical tape that secured it to the inside of her rubber boot.

“Not inhibited at all, Dr. Bastian.” She pulled off the orange needle guard and leaned forward. “Not one little bit.” She teased aside his collar, and watched him smile in anticipation of her kiss. She stabbed the syringe into his shoulder, pressed the plunger, and jumped free of the chaise. All before his eyes jerked open.

“What the fuck!” Bastian swiped at his shoulder. “Did you bite me?”

The Fixer smiled from three feet away. Her voice calm and slow. “Relax, Dr. Bastian.”

His arms quivered as he grappled for the side of the chaise. “I can’t… I caaa…” He sounded as though his tongue had tripled in size.

“You can’t what, Dr. Bastian? Get up? Of course you can’t.” She held up the empty syringe. “Why not just settle back? Can you do that for me?”

“Whaaaaa…” Bastian’s face went slack. His eyes glistened in bewilderment.

“What’s this, you ask? This was 250 milligrams of succinnylcholine.” The Fixer watched the look in his eyes turn to terror as his body went limp.

“Wh….” Bastian didn’t have the breath to finish the word. His body lay still. His muscle system completely shut down by the powerful drug.

“Why? Is that your question? You know this drug. You’ve used it hundreds of times on your animals. You know what’s next. Complete muscle paralysis. Full consciousness remaining intact.” The Fixer re-capped the syringe and stuck it back in her boot. “First your striated muscles are paralyzed. You can’t move. Sixty seconds later your smooth muscles stop working. No breathing. No heart beat. That’s where you are now. You’ve got about ninety seconds, Dr. Bastian. Ninety seconds to lie in your petrified body and contemplate the fact you’re already dead. There’s nothing for you to do but close your eyes.” The Fixer took two steps closer and glared down at the helpless man. “But you can’t close your eyes, can you, Bastian? You’re going to watch as your life drains out. Less than a minute now. You’re already nothing. The date’s been chosen for your obituary. All that terror and not a thing you can do. Quite an experience, wouldn’t you say?” The Fixer leaned in close. “Not unlike the one you gave Ortoo.”

She stood and kept her focus on her inert captive. She watched the terror in his motionless eyes; kept her attention fixed until she saw them glaze over.

The Fixer crossed the room and pulled a pair of latex gloves out of her coat pocket. She snapped them on, picked up her whiskey glass, and went to the kitchen. She cleaned the glass and returned it to its spot in the butler’s pantry. Swept up the shards of broken glass she found on the kitchen floor. Wiped the liquor bottle and put it away. Retrieved her winter gloves and hat and surveyed the room for any trace that she’d been there. Then one last look at the dead man on the chaise.

She shrugged into her pea coat, tugged the red beret onto her head, clicked off the table lamp and left through the same door she’d entered.

Chapter Fifteen

Lydia hadn’t intended to come to work the day after New Year’s, but she was worried after last night’s call from her answering service. Savannah Samuels called demanding an immediate appointment. She wasn’t surprised to see her waiting when she pulled into the parking lot. Lydia walked past and unlocked the door. Savannah shadowed her without a word of greeting, her beauty dulled by a haggard look of exhaustion and a pair of baggy sweat pants.

Lydia proceeded to her desk, clicking on lights against the early morning darkness. Savannah collapsed onto the sofa, curled into a fetal position, and rocked rhythmically against the leather.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Lydia gestured toward the microwave in the waiting room.

Savannah kept rocking. Her eyes closed. Oily hair unwashed and uncombed.

Lydia hung her jacket and took a seat opposite her patient. “Savannah,” she whispered. “You’re here and you’re safe. Tell me what has you so upset.”

Still rocking, Savannah stared into nowhere. Red lines of sleeplessness defiled her electric blue eyes.

“I need you to sit up.” Lydia’s voice was firmer now. “Put your feet on the floor.”

Savannah’s rocking stopped. She blinked several times before dragging herself upright. She took a deep breath, unzipped her green nylon jacket, and hugged a throw pillow tight against her chest. “Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Corriger. I hope I didn’t interrupt your holiday.”

“My service said you sounded frantic.” Lydia crossed her legs and leaned back into the chair.

“I don’t know if ‘frantic’ is the word.” Savannah ran her hands through her dirty hair. “Scared shitless, perhaps, but not frantic.”

“Savannah, we’re not doing this today. We’re not playing word games or finding hidden clues.” Lydia’s voice was clear, strong, and steady. “You’re obviously distraught and you’ve reached out for help. That’s a great first step. But the rule here is you can’t ask for help unless you’re ready to take it.”

Savannah stole a glance toward the window before turning her attention to the pillow in her lap. “You haven’t a clue who I am, do you?”

“You haven’t given me much to go on,” Lydia said. “But I’m here. I’d love to know who you are.”

Savannah looked up at her therapist and slowly shook her head. She took several deep breaths before speaking. “It’s getting worse, Dr. Corriger. I’m getting worse.”

“In what way?” Lydia scanned the full length of her patient’s body; taking in the entire tableau of her misery.

Savannah turned her tear-filled eyes upward. “I’m still hurting people. Good people in bad ways. I lie to myself and say it doesn’t matter. That we’re all getting what we deserve.” She blinked at looked to her therapist. “But it does matter. People end up ruined…worse… because of me. Last night I couldn’t stop thinking about all the shit I’ve done.” She huffed out a joyless laugh. “You know. Reflections on the past, resolutions for the future. All that New Year’s bullshit. My past is despicable. I don’t see my future being any different. Last night my head was hell bent on re-playing my greatest hits, you know what I mean?”

Lydia nodded. “We’ve all had times when we dwell on the mistakes of our past.”

“But that’s just it.” Savannah leaned forward, pleading eyes focused on Lydia. “My mistakes aren’t left in the past. The hits just keep on happening. Last night I thought there was only one way out. Only one way to stop myself from hurting people ever again.”

“Were you thinking about killing yourself?” Lydia kept her tone conversational. Normalize the thought to keep her talking.

Savannah nodded. “Like there was no other move for me. So I called your service. It was either that or put a gun in my mouth.”

“I’m glad you called.” Lydia held herself steady, not adding to the drama. “Do you have guns in your home?”

For the first time that morning Lydia saw a flash of the polished, in-command Savannah she’d grown accustomed to.

“You’d be surprised what I have in my home.” She pulled herself taller. “Yes, Dr. Corriger. I have guns.”

Lydia kept quiet for a few moments. She wanted Savannah to watch her think.

“I promise I will never take the option of suicide away from you.” Lydia leaned forward to demand Savannah’s full attention. “But I hope you won’t do it in a fit of impulse. Because if you do, you’ll never have the chance to know what might come next. You’ll never have the chance to see if we could fix whatever it is you seem so convinced is broken.”

Savannah gave a weak smile. “Where’s the red lights and sirens? Aren’t you supposed to save me?”

“If that’s you want, you came to the wrong place. If you want to kill yourself I won’t stop you. I just want to make sure you’ve explored all your options first.”

Savannah’s tears spilled from bloodshot eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I believe that.” Lydia handed her a box of tissues. “Let’s see if we can work something out together. What do you want to tell me?”

Savannah blew her nose, tossed the tissue into the wastebasket, and pulled out another. “What I say to you is strictly confidential, right? Like you’re a priest.”

“That’s right. Unless I need to take steps to keep you or someone else safe, I can’t tell a soul.” Lydia smiled. “Like a priest.”

Savannah kept her eyes on her hands. “What if I’ve hurt people? Do you tell?”

“There’s nothing I can do about what’s already happened, Savannah. We can talk about it, learn from it, develop strategies to avoid future mistakes. But, no. I can’t tell anyone what you’ve done.” Lydia sensed a cracking in her patient’s wall of mistrust.

“What if I robbed a bank?” Savannah asked.

“We’re not playing games, remember? Confidentiality is blanket. It doesn’t apply to some things and not others.” Lydia took a deep breath to quiet her impatience. “What is it you’ve done that has you so ashamed?”

Savannah stayed focused on her hands. “Remember when I told you I was aware of the effect I had on men? How I use that to my advantage?”

“I remember. You’re a startling beauty, Savannah. You wouldn’t be the first woman to use that to get what she needs.” Lydia hoped normalizing her patient’s behavior would reduce her shame.

Savannah looked down at her disheveled clothes and turned a quizzical look. “Is that what you see? ‘A startling beauty’?”

Lydia joined her in a smile. “Well, maybe not this morning. Let’s just say you clean up real nice.”

Savannah held Lydia’s gaze. “Why don’t you, Dr. Corriger?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Clean up real nice?” Savannah brought her legs up under her and cocked her head. “No offense, but you dress like a drudge. No make-up. Shapeless clothes. Hair pulled back in a scrunchee. I see the kind of bone structure you have. Those big beautiful eyes. You could be drop-dead gorgeous in no time.”

Lydia felt her gut clench. She took another deep breath. “I’ll assume you meant that as a compliment. But we’re here to talk about you. Tell me how you use your own beauty.”

Savannah’s smile disappeared. “People hire me. Not for sex, though that’s usually a part of it. I’m not that kind of prostitute.” She huffed in self-loathing. “At least not anymore.”

“What kind of prostitute are you?” Lydia was happy to have the focus back on her patient.

“You really aren’t like other shrinks, are you?” The smile, though weary, was back. “I was expecting some sort of comforting words.”

“When I offer comforting words you’ll know they’re sincere.” Lydia leaned back. “What kind of prostitute are you?”

Savannah took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling loud and long. “Just for the sake of argument, pretend that you’re the chairman of a major bank. And this bank is about to launch a program of investments that are, let’s say, questionable at best. Maybe even unethical or illegal.”

“Okay. I’m with you so far. Are you telling me you’re a stockbroker?”

“No. I’m more specialized than that.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Pretend you have a member of your board who’s opposed to these investments. Despite the fact that billions of dollars will be made, this board member thinks it’s wrong and can’t be convinced otherwise. You might hire me to make sure that person isn’t available when it comes time to vote.”

“But if I’m the chairman, why wouldn’t I just replace that board member?”

“Maybe letting him go would raise the kind of questions you don’t want splashed across the front page of The Wall Street Journal.” Savannah stared into middle space. “People have their reasons for using me.”

“Okay, let’s stick with your scenario,” Lydia said. “How might you keep the person from voting?”

Savannah shrugged her shoulders. “It’s incredibly easy for a beautiful woman to distract a man.” She turned to face Lydia. “Something tells me you know that.”

Lydia held her gaze. “This is about you, remember? So you distract this fellow. What stops him from crying ‘foul’ when he learns he’s been duped? Going public with his dissent and how he was manipulated?”

Savannah sat numb and silent for several long moments. “Let’s just say he wouldn’t want the details of the distraction to be known.” She shredded a tissue into her lap. “The people who hire me always have full documentation of my work.”

“Blackmail?”

“At its most benign, yes, that could happen.”

“And at its most malignant?” Lydia was certain she didn’t want to hear the answer.

Savannah stared straight ahead. “People die.”

Lydia heard her heartbeat pounding in her ears. “Dead, Savannah? By your hands?”

Savannah blinked and said nothing.

Lydia’s mind raced. Her training hadn’t prepared her for this. “How many, Savannah?”

“Hires or deaths?” Savannah returned her stare into nothingness.

“Deaths, Savannah. How many deaths are you responsible for?” Lydia felt her breath become rapid and shallow.

Tears spilled freely from Savannah’s eyes. “Too many, Dr. Corriger. Too many.”

Lydia blew out a breath and looked out the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. A heavy fog obstructed any view. “When was the most recent?”

Savannah sat quietly. Lydia wondered if she was contemplating how much more to reveal.

“Did you read about that guy at the university? The animal researcher?” she asked. “The one who died right before Christmas?”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Are you talking about Fred Bastian?” Her breathing relaxed. “Savannah, he died of a heart attack. It was all over the papers.”

“There’s lots of ways to cause a heart attack.” Savannah reached for her jacket. “But whatever the cause, you’re just as dead, aren’t you? Besides, there are worse things than killing people. Far worse.”

Lydia watched her patient stand and cross the room. “Savannah, you didn’t kill Fred Bastian. Please sit down.”

Savannah glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. “Not today. I’m exhausted.” She stopped and turned before walking through the door. “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Corriger. I feel better.” She bit her lower lip to stop its quiver. “And I didn’t think that was possible. You’ve come to my rescue yet again.”

Lydia tilted her head. “You’ll come back? And you’ll call me if you feel like hurting yourself? Or anyone else?”

Savannah gave a tentative nod. “I promise. On both counts.” She looked down at the door knob before looking back. “I really would like to see how this turns out.”

Lydia bent over, hands on her knees, breathing rapidly. She’d been unable to shake thoughts of her morning meeting with Savannah despite throwing herself into a rugged workout regimen. She tried to make sense of the contradictions but couldn’t. Was Bastian’s death a surrogate for some guilt Savannah was experiencing? Or was it all a game? Lydia recalled her first meeting with the beautiful stranger. Savannah promised lies and conundrums. She challenged Lydia to make sense of the nonsensical.

Lydia grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat off her neck. There was something about Savannah that nagged in the back of her mind. She’d overlooked something major. She glanced at the clock on her basement’s wall. Nearly midnight. Her sixty minute workout was over ten minutes ago. Lydia crossed over to the heavy bag hanging from a rafter and gave it a strong side kick. One more hour. She needed to clear her head of the taunting tune of inadequacy that was stuck on repeat since Savannah’s session. She needed to stay away from the pink box in her bathroom.

Chapter Sixteen

The Fixer checked the papers the first Thursday in January and saw the personal advertisement requesting her service. But Bastion was only two weeks ago and she had no intention of responding. Her eyes dropped to the box just below the ad.

Thank You, Miss Carr

Rage sprang her to attention. She ran downstairs and placed a call.

“Fuck this shit, Wally.” She snarled into the headset when she was greeted by the same digitally disguised voice that had initiated the fix on Fred Bastian. “Lay off the toys, damn it.”

She listened to mechanical clicks and a feedback squeal before Walter Buchner’s nasal voice greeted her.

“I’m so sorry, Ms Carr. But I have to tell you.” He sounded scared. She hoped to ratchet it up to terrified.

“A man is dead because you bought him that way and you reach out for a Hallmark moment?” The Fixer looked at the timer on the computer that bounced her call around cell towers in nine states. She had seventy-two seconds before the connection would automatically end. “This call is my one courtesy, Wally. This is over. You clear on that?”

“Meet me at the warehouse Sunday noon.” Walter’s voice was a blend of tears and terror. “You killed the wrong person.”

He hung up.

The Fixer yanked off her headset, threw it across the cinderblock room, and instantly regretted it. She hated extremes. Especially emotions. She closed her eyes and rocked, still seated behind her communication console, hoping for a moment of calm.

What did Buchner mean, she’d killed the wrong man?

Sweat pooled under her arms. Metallic bile collected in the back of her throat as her swallow reflex shut down. She clenched her rectal muscles, trying to slow her loosening bowels.

She remembered this feeling. Naked, primal fear. A documentary of prior experiences with the elemental emotion played across her closed lids. The shadow of a man slipping into a darkened bedroom. The stench of whiskey churning her ten-year-old stomach. The sound of a belt clearing his trousers. His massive hand reaching for her hair, pulling her from beneath the covers and throwing her to her knees. The belt around her throat. Tighter. Her head yanked back against the ridge of leather at her neck. The stinging slap forcing her mouth open. The slippery flesh jammed in deep before a scream could escape.

“Suck, Little Cracker. Suck Daddy’s cock real good.”

She snapped her eyes open and spun her chair around just in time to avoid covering the console in vomit.

The Fixer never resurrected a character and she never saw a client twice. She broke both rules that Thursday when she pulled on latex gloves and picked the lock on Walter Buchner’s back door a few minutes before midnight.

She’d rented a vehicle as Darlene Ritz, a pregnant redhead with a taste for Pucci prints and faux fur. But it was Carr, the young Goth, who parked the green Subaru three blocks from Buchner’s University District bungalow. He’d demanded she meet him at the Seattle warehouse on Sunday. Perhaps he was allowing her travel time from whatever arctic lair he imagined served as her headquarters. He didn’t know she was less than seventy miles down I-5. She’d give him two minutes to explain. His story would help her decide what role the Ruger. 380 holstered in the small of her back would play.

The Fixer eased the back door open and slipped into Buchner’s darkened kitchen. The glow of a television played in an unlit room straight ahead. She stood in the shadow of the refrigerator and listened as David Letterman and Paul Schaffer traded one-liners about Madonna’s latest adoption. A studio audience laughed. No other human sounds. Buchner was alone. She let her eyes adjust and surveyed the room. Pizza boxes and soda cans littered a table to her right. Dirty dishes filled a small sink. A gallon milk jug, uncapped and two-thirds empty, sat on the counter next to a stack of junk mail and two rotten bananas.

The Fixer reached behind her, released the Ruger’s safety, and left it in the holster. She entered the living room as quietly as her work boots would allow. Buchner was on the couch, facing the television. Feet propped on a coffee table covered with beer cans and text books. The back of his head tilted to the right. The acrid odor of marijuana filled the room.

“Turn the television off, Wally.” She planted her left foot four inches in front of her right, ready to kick if Buchner got frisky.

Letterman urged the audience to stay tuned for Tom Hanks but Buchner didn’t move. The Fixer snapped her attention to the large window that dominated the east wall of the room. Curtains pulled closed. She spun, pulled the Ruger free of its holster, and gripped it with both hands as she headed down the short hallway.

She shoved the first door open and leaned aside. Nothing. She reached in, clicked on an overhead light and saw an unmade bed, orange crate nightstand, and fiberboard desk. An aromatic pile of clothes covered the floor of the closet. She stepped inside the empty room, pulled Buchner’s driver’s license from her jacket pocket, tossed it on the nightstand, and made her way to the second door.

Buchner’s bathroom made the local Texaco toilet look like a photo shoot for Architectural Digest. A dingy yellow curtain was pulled halfway across the filthy tub. Her first instinct was to fire a shot through the mildew-stained plastic on the chance someone was hiding there. But a bullet in a wall would leave a trail. Spending a shell was always a last resort. A can of shaving cream sat on the side of the sink. Steadying the Ruger in her right hand, she heaved the can with her left. The curtain offered no resistance as the can clanged to the tub floor.

She opened the third door and found a room filled with boxes and cheap bookshelves. More books on the floor. A black Telecaster and amp sat in one corner, covered with a heavy layer of dust. The Fixer closed the door, confident she was alone.

She knew Buchner was dead. She just didn’t know how. Any speculation of suicide, overdose, or natural causes was eliminated when The Fixer rounded the sofa and faced him. Wally had been restrained. Duct tape bound his hands together in a ragged silver ball. Heavy white plastic cord trussed his legs and feet. Lifeless grey eyes stared straight ahead. A golf ball-sized hole where Wally’s nose should have been left a cruel exposure of tissue, muscle, and bone. The powder residue on Buchner’s bruised and bloated cheeks showed he’d been shot at close range. The black plastic handle of a cheap steak knife protruded from his chest about an inch above his shirt pocket. A gelatinous sheet of blood made it impossible to determine the death blows’ sequence.

She’d learned as a child that if she could unplug her essential core from the torture that was rained upon her she could survive. Like flossing her teeth or driving a standard transmission, The Fixer viewed the skill necessary for day-to-day living. So it wasn’t the grisly detritus of Buchner’s body that brought the bead of sweat to The Fixer’s upper lip. Nor was it the savagery of his slaughter that rang the tinny pierce in her ears. It was the legal sized sheet of yellow paper held in place by the knife in Wally’s chest. She read it and reminded herself to breathe.

Hello, Fixer

Warehouse.

Come now.

Taped to the paper was a photograph of the very pregnant Darlene Ritz standing at the airport Avis counter, smiling as the agent handed her keys to a green Subaru.

The Fixer lay in the mixture of ice and rain that collected on the roof of the Pier 37 warehouse opposite the one to which she’d been summoned. It was nearly 3:00 in the morning and her body ached from the frigid forty minutes she’d spent watching. No one entered. No one left. No light flickered inside. She rolled onto her back and stared at the starless sky.

Someone had tracked her. She bit the inside of her cheek until the warm metallic taste of her blood filled the back of her throat. She spit and reviewed her vulnerability. Buchner hadn’t been dead long. It was unlikely whoever took the photo of her at the Avis counter would risk Wally’s body being discovered by somebody else. How many people were involved? Had they staked out the airport rental agencies? How did someone know she was posing as Darlene Ritz?

The cold penetrated her wet clothes and numbed her from ankle to shoulder. The thought crossed her mind that she could stay there on the icy roof. Let the frigid rain pelt her body until she drifted into sleep. Be done with it.

You killed the wrong person. Wally’s frightened words echoed in an unending cry. But Bastian was a butcher. Untouchable. Unstoppable. He met every criterion The Fixer set for her assignments. You killed the wrong person. She’d seen Ortoo’s beheading. The disc hadn’t been edited or staged. You killed the wrong person. More than thirty targets over six years. Never a doubt. Never a mistake. You killed the wrong person. Always justice. Never revenge. You killed the wrong person.

The Fixer willed herself to stand. It was time.

She jimmied a side door and a pinpoint beam picked her up four steps past the threshold. She froze mid-step and reached behind her waist for the Ruger.

“Raise your hands, Ms Carr.” Barbara Streisand’s voice called out from overhead speakers. “Or shall I address you as Ms Ritz today?”

The Fixer stood still.

“There are several automatic weapons trained on you at this moment.” Now the synthesized male voice with the Boston accent spoke to her. “Raise your hands or die.”

She lifted her arms to the side and squinted into the black expanse of the warehouse.

“Pull your gun out slowly with your left hand. Hold it high so we all can see it.”

A chill colder than the night’s sleet raced up her spine. She shivered once and pulled the Ruger free with her left hand.

“Very good, Ms Carr. Now slowly place it next to your right foot.”

The Fixer did as she was told. Humiliation burned behind her eyes.

“Now kick that gun as far as you can, Ms Carr.” A chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Simon Says.”

Her instinct was to turn and run into the frigid night. Escape through the pre-dawn darkness of the abandoned wharf. Find her way back home. But the images of automatic weapons and the insistence of a “we” held her in place. She gave the gun a kick and heard it skate across the concrete floor.

“Good girl,” Boston Accent continued. “Now come along.”

The pinpoint moved forward three feet. The Fixer stood in darkness.

“I said come, Ms Carr.” A squeal of feedback punctuated the demand.

She stepped toward the beam. As she moved, so did the pinpoint. She followed it in darkness, keeping her eyes on the tight circle of light as it weaved past crates and boxes. When it stopped moving, so did she.

“Have a seat.” The speakers now offered the synthesized voice of woman. Warm and comforting. The circumference of the pinpoint expanded and softened, revealing a folding metal chair. The Fixer peered beyond the focus of light. Nothing but black void. She took four short steps, sat, shielded her eyes with her hands, and looked up.

“I’m here,” she called. “Tell me why.”

A soft chuckle came over the speakers. “So defiant. I find it as unattractive as I do futile. I suggest you adopt a more respectful tone.”

The Fixer had spent her adult life constructing a world in which she held the power. The emptiness of her efforts crushed her as she sat on the cold metal chair. She was defenseless. Waiting for the pain to begin. No longer curious as to the form it would take. Knowing only that it would come. She closed her eyes and waited.

“So tell me, Ms Carr.” Another laugh from the speakers mounted around the warehouse. “What brings you in today?”

She kept her eyes closed.

“You’ve visited Mr. Buchner.” The callous tone couldn’t be erased by any mechanical disguise. “It was kind of you to accept my invitation.”

She opened her eyes but the effort proved pointless. There was nothing to see beyond the dusty rays of the spotlight. She swallowed hard and blinked away the image of Buchner’s bloodied corpse. “I saw your gracious note and couldn’t refuse.”

A laugh rang through the warehouse. “Now that’s more like it, Ms Carr. A sense of humor brightens even the dreariest moments. I imagine you have a few questions.”

“I do,” she called out to the emptiness. “For starters I’d like to know why Bastian was the wrong target.”

“For starters, Ms Carr?” Taunting now. “You have other questions?”

She knew she had nothing to lose. “Two more. How’d you find me and are you going to kill me?”

The speakers transmitted a laugh more suited to witty cocktail chatter than the situation at hand.

“Kill you? Would I have gone to all this trouble if I intended to kill you?”

The Fixer paused. “No. I imagine you’d be more efficient if that was your intent.”

“Exactly. Now tell me another thing, Ms Carr.” The voice took on a sense of genuine curiosity. “If I did intend to kill you, would it matter?”

The question surprised her. She gave herself a moment. Time to reflect on how she got there. The faces of her targets. Her erstwhile efforts at justice. The epic loneliness of her life. It was all for nothing.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t think it would matter at all.”

“So there you go.” The woman’s voice replaced now with what sounded like a teenaged boy. “Your scariest question asked and answered. Now, let’s get on with the other two. Let’s take the easier one first. What did Walter mean when he said you’d killed the wrong guy?” The speakers went silent for several seconds. “Relax. Bastian deserved to die. Everything Walter told you, everything you saw on that recording was true. Bastian was a butcher. And perhaps that was the least of his sins. Nothing could have stopped him. You deserve a round of applause.”

Relief washed over her. “Then why did he say that?”

“To get you here, of course.” The voice of someone teasing an old friend. “I had to think of some way to bring you back.”

“Why? And why did you have to kill Buchner?”

The sound of an impatient tongue tsk’ed over the speakers. “Will you let Walter go, Ms Carr? He hired you on my behalf. I’m your employer, not Walter. And I have another job for you.”

The Fixer snapped her head up. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m not a gun for hire. One fix. It’s done.”

Successive claps of thunder boomed out of the speakers at louder-than-rock-concert levels. Sound waves pounded against The Fixer’s chest. She heard the wooden crates quake in the surrounding darkness. Concrete vibrated under her feet. She covered her ears and felt the roar rattle along her jaw bone. She bent forward, head on knees, covered her head with her arms, and waited for the roof to collapse.

The thunder stopped. Echoes rumbled through the warehouse. The Fixer’s ears rang in panicked pulses, taking their time allowing sounds to register again. After several minutes the speakers broadcast the resonant tones of no-nonsense masculinity.

“That was your one rebellious move. I’ll tolerate no other. You are in my employ, Fixer. You’ll do what I say when I say. Make no mistake about it.”

The spotlight washing her went dark. The same wide screen Buchner used in their earlier meeting glowed to life on the catwalk above her. The Fixer blinked her focus toward it and felt the vomit rise in her throat.

There was Monica O’Leary in her red beret. Stumbling across Fred Bastian’s deck balancing the potted poinsettia. There she was slipping on the steps of his deck. A cutaway shot revealed her walking into his sunroom. Sharing a drink with the drunken professor. Teasing him. Reaching into her boot for the syringe. Plunging it into his neck. Standing by, waiting for him to die. Tidying up. Leaving.

The screen went blank. The spotlight returned. The Fixer tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t respond.

“You will be of great value to me, Fixer. It goes without saying any dissent on your part will be met with the immediate release of this DVD to both the legal authorities and the media.”

She sat. Hearing her blood pulse in her ears. Feeling her short breaths blow cold across the sweat of her upper lip.

“Lest you think my knowledge is limited to Bastian, look again.”

Once more the spotlight darkened. The flat screen glowed with a new offering. A collage of video clips. The Fixer jogging through a park. Standing in line at a coffee shop. Parking her car. Walking up the steps to the clinical offices of Lydia Corriger. Walking through the front door of her own home. All with no disguise. Her true identity revealed.

The screen went blank.

“You’re no longer freelance, Fixer. You are in my sole employ.” The voice over the speaker switched back to Streisand. “Leave now. I’ll be in touch.”

She couldn’t move.

“Leave now, Fixer,” the diva boomed.

She shivered in impotence, pushed up from the metal chair, shuffled to the warehouse door, and stumbled into the freezing rain.

Chapter Seventeen

Lydia clicked on the lamp and squinted at the bedside clock. A few minutes past five. She cursed the phone that had awakened her and threw herself back on the pillow. Six rings later she reached for it and checked the screen. She cursed again and answered.

“Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Corriger.” The male voice sounded too chipper for the pre-dawn hour. “This is Darrel Johnson. Attending physician, Black Hills ER. We’ve got one of yours down here.”

Lydia struggled into a sitting position. She’d finally slept a few hours after two sleepless nights. How did her patients always know when she was the least able to deal with their emergencies?

“Who and what?” She ran her tongue over her teeth.

“Identifies herself as Savannah Samuels. Gorgeous woman, by the way. No record of her in our system. Police found her wandering through Priest Point Park. Soaking wet. No coat. Barely coherent. Not drunk or high. No signs of head trauma.”

“She’s physically okay?” Lydia rubbed her eyes against the burning pain that screamed behind them.

“Seems to be. Blood pressure’s a little high. Probably situational. No broken bones. No wounds or fever. Initial blood work’s fine. No signs of infection.”

“What’s she doing now?”

Dr. Johnson sighed into the phone. “Sitting in an exam room rocking back and forth. Says she wants you. Want me to call the boys on six down here?”

Lydia flinched at the notion of a psychiatry consult. She knew at that hour the unit would be staffed by med students and first year residents. They’d ask Savannah hundreds of meaningless questions, pump her full of benzos, and lock her in a suicide room until the morning shift brought the pros to work.

“She say anything about wanting to hurt herself?” Lydia asked.

“That’s the one clear answer I got. When I asked her if she wanted to kill herself she looked me square in the eyes and said ‘That would be too easy.’ Then she went back to whatever planet she’s visiting. I’ll tell you, give me an old fashioned car wreck any day. You guys can deal with the wing nuts.”

Lydia ignored the insult to her patient and reached into the nightstand for her calendar. She flipped to Monday’s schedule. “Let’s do a catch and release if you’re sure she’s physically okay. Could you tell her we’ve spoken and that I’ll see her this afternoon? Looks like I’m free at four o’clock.”

“Will do. I’ll fax you notes of this visit.”

“Thanks. Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Call her a cab, okay? She’s good for it.” Lydia hung up, tossed off the covers, headed to the kitchen, and turned on the coffee maker. She walked to the living room windows, disappointed the sun was long from rising, and clicked on the outside lights. A flurry of movement near the bird feeders caught her attention. She threw open the back door, raced across the cold lawn in bare feet, and screamed at the raven taking flight. She stared down to where the large black predator had been a moment earlier. A sparrow lay dead at her feet. Entrails spilling out from a delicate brown body. Feathers plucked and strewn by the raven’s rapier beak.

Lydia turned her face to the ebony sky and yelled into the icy rain. She heard the mocking response of the raven but couldn’t trace him in the darkened trees. She crossed to the garage, ignorant of the soaked nightgown clinging to her body. She pulled two cotton rags off a shelf, returned to the kill spot, and fashioned a shroud for the tiny sparrow. She walked to the edge of the cliff. Lydia looked up to the cloudy heavens, felt the sting of the frigid drops, and hurled the carcass into the sea below her.

The dependability of her patients was sometimes a curse. Everyone showed up that miserable Monday. Nine o’clock was the McMullens, wanting Lydia to wave her magic wand and erase the thirty years of marital torture they’d worked so hard to perfect. Ten o’clock was Sandra Kiefhaffer, raped at age nine by her brother’s scout master. The married mother of three still couldn’t shake the terror she felt on rainy nights. Eleven o’clock brought Mindy Millrose, in for her monthly weigh-in.

“You’re down two pounds, Mindy.” Lydia flipped her chart closed. “What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“I had a Cheerio.” Mindy’s head sagged against her bony chest. “And I chewed some gum.”

“And dinner last night?” Lydia pushed the scale back under her desk. When Mindy failed to answer with anything more than a woeful look, Lydia opened her bottom drawer and pulled out two granola bars. She tossed one to her patient and peeled the foil off her own.

Lydia took a bite and chewed while she spoke. “Tell me what’s going on.” Lydia put her feet up on the coffee table. “And you’re not going anywhere until that whole thing’s in your belly.”

Mindy turned the granola bar over and over in her hands. Finally she looked toward Lydia, shrugged her shoulders, and sat on the sofa. She peeled the foil and licked the corner of the snack.

“We’ll be here all day at this rate,” Lydia said. “Don’t you have classes this afternoon?”

Mindy took a miniscule nibble. “It’s chemistry.” She chewed the gooey bar. “I missed a step in the experiment on Friday.”

“So you made a mistake?” Lydia asked. Mindy closed her eyes and nodded. “And still the sun came up this morning?”

The thin woman’s giggle lifted Lydia’s weariness for one brief moment. “Keep eating, kiddo. I’m on the clock here.”

Lydia’s fatigue pulled on her as she moved into the afternoon. At one o’clock she asked Jim Claussen to remind her of his mistress’ name. Half-way through her two o’clock she excused herself to splash water on her face. Deshaundra Clemmons was her three o’clock and demanded to know what kind of doctor Lydia was when she asked the dosage of her antidepressant for the third time. After apologizing and explaining she hadn’t slept well, Lydia thought Deshaundra displayed incredible judgment as she stomped out of her office and said she’d have to think about re-scheduling.

Lydia leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and steeled herself for her four o’clock.

Savannah stumbled into the office at 4:20. She went directly to the sofa, sat down, and stared into space. She wore no make-up on her mottled and tear-stained face. A knit cap left only a few oily bangs exposed. Her orange nylon parka was marked by what Lydia hoped was a coffee stain. Her hands lay pale and motionless in her lap. A yellow hospital identification band flashed at her thin wrist.

Lydia wasted no time on pleasantries. “Tell me how you came to be wandering in the park in the middle of the night.”

Her patient sat quietly.

“You got yourself here, Savannah. You want something from me. Tell me what it is.” Lydia struggled to stay calm.

“You don’t have a clue who I am.” Savannah stared straight ahead, her voice a whisper.

Lydia ignored the challenge.

“And you don’t know what’s wrong with me, do you?”

Lydia calculated what addressing Savannah’s drama head on might cost their relationship. “Tell me what happened since the last time we met. What sent you walking in the snow and rain?”

“I want to die.” Still no movement. “I want to go back and start all over.”

Lydia was too exhausted for histrionics. “Which is it? You want to die or you want to start over?”

Savannah snapped her head around. “You don’t care much for me, do you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Lydia wanted to call back the words as soon as she’d said them. “Forgive me, Savannah. I’m exhausted.” She offered a smile. “I was awakened quite early this morning with an emergency call regarding one of my patients.”

“I’m sorry if I’m such a bother, Dr. Corriger.” Savannah’s eyes narrowed.

Lydia exhaled long and slow. She leaned forward. “Savannah, we can’t get anywhere with these games. I have a hunch you’re tired of them, too. Now, if you want to talk about what landed you in the emergency room last night, I’m right here. But if you’re here to play another round of “guess what I’m hiding”, well, you’re going to have to find another partner.”

Lydia watched Savannah’s pose turn from defiant to helpless.

“You’re going to have to trust someone some time,” she said. “It’s either that or stay miserable. Make a choice, Savannah.”

Savannah folded her delicate hands together. Her chest pulsed with small gasps of breath. Lydia held her own face passive as Savannah gazed at her with imploring eyes. She sat silent while Savannah stood and paced the room.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Savannah stopped next to the bookcase.

Lydia kept her voice and pose neutral. “Make a choice, Savannah. Trust me or leave.”

Savannah glanced toward the door. She walked to the window, placed her hands on the wooden cross sash and pressed her forehead to the pane. Lydia could almost hear the debate raging in her frightened patient’s mind. Minutes passed before she spoke.

“My name’s not really Savannah,” she whispered.

Lydia offered a gentle smile of encouragement. “Well, if you wanted to make up a name to hide behind, Savannah’s a pretty one.”

Savannah turned around and leaned against the window. “I guess that was what I was hoping for. Something pretty.” She risked a hesitant glance toward Lydia. “More than anyone, you should know there wasn’t much pretty in my life before I became Savannah.”

Lydia tilted her head and again felt the nagging pull she was missing something. “You’ve shared some of your foster history with me. I’d like to hear more.”

Savannah pulled herself from the window and shuffled back to her spot on the sofa. “Have I changed that much? Do you not remember me at all?”

Lydia’s throat tightened. She was certain Savannah had never been a patient of hers. Not in Olympia, not back in graduate school. She would have remembered someone as lovely and as troubled as the woman seated across from her now.

Did she know her from before? Was that the missing piece? She crossed one knee over the other and interlaced her fingers to steady her hands.

“What do you mean, Savannah? How should I remember you?”

Savannah held her gaze. Lush lashes blinked over ice-blue eyes. She inhaled long and deep before blowing out a slow breath. “I was named Greta when I was born.”

Lydia felt the air rush out of the room. The walls around her pulsed in synchrony with her pounding heart. Her ears throbbed with the freight-train roar of memory. She blinked twice and coughed her throat clear.

“Greta Ryder?”

Savannah nodded her head. A weary smile emerged behind her tears. “You remember. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

“My God.” Lydia willed her breathing to normalize. “You were six years old. You’d just arrived.”

Savannah wiped her hand across her cheek. “That’s right. You gave me a plastic bag filled with broken crayons and a torn coloring book my first day there. I thought it was so great that a real teenager would play with me.”

Lydia shook her head. “I was thirteen. You were hungry, I remember. Wouldn’t eat with the other kids.”

“You brought me food. A tuna sandwich and three Oreo cookies. Wrapped in a paper towel with little yellow flowers on the edges. Smuggled them into our room before lights out.”

“You were scared then, too.” Lydia allowed herself a brief smile. “I’m detecting a pattern.”

“I wasn’t scared when you were around.” Savannah’s gaze dropped to her lap.

Ethical quandaries marched through Lydia’s mind. Still, she wanted to know more about what had happened to the little girl she said goodbye to twenty-three years ago.“You stayed in the foster system til you aged out?”

Savannah nodded. “You did too. Too bad, huh? Some family lost a hell of a chance to have a daughter like you.”

Lydia cleared her throat and settled back into her chair. Savannah was no longer the vulnerable child she had tried to save. She was her patient. “How did you find me?”

“I went looking for you after I left the system. A social worker told me what happened after… after that night.”

“She shouldn’t have.” Lydia felt a mixture of anger and shame. “At least we were both out of that house. You had a rough road.”

Savannah gave a short, tight nod. “I still manage to screw things up.”

Lydia wrapped her arms around herself. “Tell me how you found me.”

Savannah reached for a tissue. “Do you believe in God, Dr. Corriger?”

“Are you telling me God lent you a GPS to my door?”

“Maybe.” Savannah slipped back into her sadness and stared at the floor. “It was eight years ago. My first assignment. The very first time I ruined someone’s life for money.”

Lydia needed to keep her focused on the question; out of the quicksand of her misery. “How did you find me, Savannah?”

“My clients needed me in Philadelphia. A family was squabbling over an Old Line inheritance. Two guys wanted their half-brother cut out from their father’s estate. Lucky for them there was a morals clause in Daddy’s will.” Savannah raised an eyebrow and smirked. “They hired me to make sure the unlucky brother was caught in a most compromising situation. When I was done he had a choice. He could relinquish his claim or the state’s three largest newspapers would receive photographs of him in bed with me and a particularly cute sailor-boy home on leave.” Savannah leveled a look at Lydia. “Did I mention Brother Unlucky was a prominent prosecuting attorney with a wife, two children, and gubernatorial aspirations?”

“I’m still not hearing how you found me.” Lydia had no immediate interest in the details of Savannah’s job.

Savannah rubbed the back of her neck. “The day I was leaving Philadelphia I treated myself to a pedicure in the hotel spa. I took along a cup of tea and the local paper. There was an article on University of Pennsylvania’s latest graduates with a photograph of you accepting some big award. A brand-spanking new clinical psychologist.” She wiped away another tear. “Your name was different, but I knew it was you. I still have that article.”

Lydia silently scolded herself. A simple photograph allowed her past to find her.

“I’ve wanted to contact you for so long. To thank you for what you did for me,” Savannah said. “But I wasn’t proud of who I’d become. And you’re such a success.”

Lydia wondered what else Savannah knew. “Then why now? By the way, would you prefer I call you Savannah or Greta?”

“I’m Savannah, Dr. Corriger. Greta’s long gone.” The steely cold of Savannah’s defenses had returned. “And I’m here now because I want this all to stop. I want you to save me one more time.”

“Save you from what? No more games, okay?” Lydia waited several long minutes in silence as Savannah got up, crossed back to the window, and considered her next move.

“Did you read about that murder, Dr. Corriger?” Savannah stared into the gloom of the damp afternoon. “That guy from the university?”

“Are you talking about that Bastian fellow again?” She chose her words carefully. “We discussed this, remember? The papers said he died of a heart attack.”

Savannah turned her back to the window and leaned her hips against the wide sill. “Not Bastian.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m talking about the other one. The guy who was shot.”

Lydia’s exhaustion disappeared. Her brain snapped to full attention as she swiveled her chair to face Savannah. The murder of Walter Buchner was the lead story on every local news outlet. He was a research assistant at the university. The reporters titillated their audience with descriptions of a gunshot wound to his face.

“I know about it, yes.” Lydia could hear her blood pulsing in her ears. “Why does this death interest you, Savannah?” Lydia’s clinical training taught her that reality wasn’t as important as the patient’s interpretation of it. But Savannah was now more than merely a patient and Lydia needed the truth.

Savannah opened her mouth, but no words came.

“What do you want to say to me, Savannah?” Lydia’s breath accelerated as a rapid replay of her past sessions with the enigmatic beauty flashed through her mind, juxtaposed next to the memory of a small child crying out for help more than two decades earlier. She struggled against the question that screamed in her brain. Every cell in her being wanted to ask if she killed Walter Buchner.

Savannah drew in a loud gasp of air. A sob broke from her throat. She swiped tears away with shaking hands. “You can’t help me, can you?

Nobody can save me this time.” She reached for her coat.

Lydia stood and stepped toward her. “No, Savannah. Please stay.”

“I have to go, Dr. Corriger.” She shoved her hands into her jacket pocket and took three wide steps. “I’ve done too much. I’ve hurt too many people. I don’t deserve saving.”

“Will you come back?” Lydia struggled with her own sense of helplessness. “Please, Savannah. Promise me you’ll come back.”

Lydia stood motionless as her patient ran out into the cold without answering her.

Chapter Eighteen

Mort watched the snow falling outside his office window and wondered what the hell was going on with the weather. He’d lived in the Pacific Northwest his entire life. Fifty-eight winters. He’d seen snow maybe ten times. Enough to snarl traffic for an hour or two, then it was gone. In these parts snow stayed on the mountains where it belonged.

Not this winter. Nine inches of snow crippled western Washington a few days before Christmas and most of it was still on the ground. Minor storms followed, adding another foot. Now, late into January, it was snowing again. Mort mumbled a curse, turned back to his desk, and reached for the case file.

He’d picked up the murder eight days ago. Walter Buchner. Lab assistant at the university. Gunshot to the face. Stabbed in the chest post-mortem. Twenty-nine years old. The same age as Meaghan Hane, the cellist Angelo Satanell, Jr shoved behind the dumpster after she overdosed on his heroin. The same age as Allie. Mort pushed the coincidence out of his mind and set his attention on the ticking clock. Eight days of interviews had gotten him nowhere. Mort looked out at the snow again. The trilling of his desk phone startled him back to reality.

“Got time to meet a lady?” It was Daphne from main reception. “Says she doesn’t have an appointment. Says it’s about a murder you’re working on.”

Mort reached for a pen. “She got a name? Herself or the victim. Either will do.” Mort heard Daphne repeat his questions and shook his head. Daphne was easy on the eyes but would never be confused with someone able to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without a recipe. Speculation as to how she got her job kept the squad room guessing for nearly a year. How she keeps it was still a matter of conjecture.

“Says her name is Lydia Corriger.” Daphne’s voice was like a six-year old on helium. “Says she’s a doctor from down in Olympia. Says it’s about Walter Buchner. You want me to send her up?”

Mort looked at the whiteboard dedicated to the Buchner homicide mounted on the wall behind him. By this point it should have listed an arrest, but a dozen interviews turned up zero. Buchner’s landlady only seemed interested in who was going to pay for the days the crime scene was locked down. His parents had flown back from a month-long trip to Australia and were too stunned to be of any help. Buchner’s co-workers offered no more than he was a nice guy who loved dogs, kept to himself and was focused on his job. Eight days of nothing.

“Show her to an interview room, okay, Daphne? I’ll be right down. Get her some coffee, would you?”

“I’ll put her in room six, Mort.” Daphne shifted to a whisper. “But I’m not allowed to get coffee anymore. Remember?”

Mort recalled the incident with the assistant chief. He remembered being impressed that the EMTs got to him so quickly.

“That’s okay, Daphne. Put her in six and I’ll bring the refreshments.”

Mort offered his hand as he entered the windowless room. “Mort Grant, Homicide. Can I get you something? We have bad coffee or tap water.”

“I’m fine, Detective.” She handed him her card. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

Mort read the card before turning his attention to the woman. He pegged her as five-seven, one-twenty. Mid-thirties. No make-up. Mousy hair pulled up in a clip. Trying hard to look plain. Typical granola-eating, tree-hugging bookish type from Olympia.

He pulled out a chair for his guest and circled to take an opposite seat. “A psychologist, huh? Chief call for an intervention?” He smiled and tossed his notebook on the green formica table separating them. “Daphne said you had some information on the Buchner murder.”

She shook her head. “She must have misunderstood. I’d like to talk about the case, if you don’t mind.”

Mort pulled his pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Daphne’s prone to misunderstandings, Dr. Corriger. What’s your interest?” He clicked his pen and poised it over his notebook, never taking his eyes off his unexpected visitor in the dated red plaid overcoat.

“I’m wondering if you have any leads. What you’re thinking,” she said.

“Do you have information you feel might be helpful?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d share with me, Detective.”

He clicked his pen closed and laid it on the table. “You ever been in a police station, Dr. Corriger?”

Lydia shook her head.

“Ever participate in a murder investigation?”

She shook her head again.

“You watch television? Cop shows? Read true crime books? Anything like that?”

Lydia pulled herself taller in the seat and her brown eyes turn stern. “What’s your point, Detective?”

“My point, Dr. Corriger, is that I’m the one who asks the questions.” He leaned across the table. “Now, what brings you up from Olympia? What’s your connection to Buchner?”

Lydia fixed her gaze on Mort. He saw gold flecks dancing in her eyes. “I have no connection. You might say I have an interest.”

“Describe that interest.”

Lydia tucked a loose strand of hair into compliance. Mort noted the simple gold stud in her left ear. “I’m writing a book. One of those true crime things you alluded to. The mind of a killer. The psychology of the investigators. Stuff like that. I’ve wanted to write one for years. Then this murder happens. Virtually in my backyard.” She smiled and folded her hands on the table. Mort noted the lack of rings or bracelets. A reliable watch on a good leather band. “I thought this is as good a place to start as any.”

He tapped his fingers on the table and studied her. “What’s your specialty, Lydia?” Her flinch was nearly imperceptible.

“My specialty? Oh, you mean my practice?”

He nodded. “What type of patients do you see?”

Lydia breathed deeply before answering. “General psychology. Depression, anxieties. Addictions. Pretty routine.”

“That’s why you want to write a book? Break your routine a little bit? Or maybe you have a patient I might be interested in.” Mort watched the soft spot of her throat, counting her pulse.

Lydia reached for her coat. “I told you. I’m writing a book. You’re not going to help me, are you?”

Mort shook his head. “Hey, it’s nothing personal, okay? It’s an on-going murder investigation. Need-to-know basis and all that.” He pushed clear of the desk and stood. “You understand.”

She gathered her purse and gloves. “I understand perfectly, Detective. Thank you for your time.”

Mort nodded and watched her walk away. He picked up his things and took the elevator back to his office. He tossed his notebook on his desk, pulled Lydia’s card from his pocket, walked straight to the whiteboard, and grabbed a red marker. Under the column marked “NEXT” he wrote: “Lydia Corriger…lying?”

Chapter Nineteen

The Fixer pulled her ringing cell phone from her pocket and checked the screen. Private Number. She slid the phone open and answered. Bile rose in the back of her throat when she heard Barbara Streisand’s greeting.

“Well, hello, gorgeous. Pull up a seat and let’s have a chat.”

She fought to keep her voice calm. “How’d you get this number?”

“Relax.” The British male voice now. She’d come to hate that one the most. “We know all about you.”

“What do you want?” She was losing her grip on her temper.

“I have a job for you. Oh, let’s not use that term. Sounds so Mafioso, don’t you think? Let’s call it an errand.” The Brit purred in her ear. “Yes, that’s much more civilized. I have an errand for you, Fixer.”

She wanted to reach through the cell and pull out his eyes. Break his teeth as she smashed the phone into his mouth. Rammed it down his throat. Do things to him that would leave him incapable of uttering another threatening word.

Instead she took a deep breath. She knew nothing of her tormentor and the video of her undisguised life demonstrated he knew everything about her. She shook her head in frustration as she realized she didn’t even know how many of them there were.

She choked out the words. “I’m listening.”

“That’s the good girl,” the synthesized voice said. “Expect a package detailing your next errand. Her name is Cameron Williams. Choose your own method. You are, after all, the professional.”

The Fixer flinched at the backhanded compliment. “What is it you want?”

A soft Southern drawl replied. Female. “I want her neutralized, Darlin’.”

The Fixer clenched her left fist. Dug her fingernails deep into the flesh of her palm. “Why? What has she done?”

A gentle chuckle came over the receiver. “You’ve got to set that way of thinking aside, sugar. You work for me, now, remember? I’ll send you on errands. You’ll complete them as directed and go on with your life. Quiet and undisturbed.” Another soft sigh. “Until I require your services again.”

The Fixer bit hard on the inside of her cheek. She let the rusty taste of her blood linger on her tongue before swallowing. “That’s not how I work. I have to know…”

The high squeal from her phone stabbed into her ear. Loud and sharp. A sonic scalpel ripping at her ear drum. She threw the phone down, covered both her ears with shaking hands, struggled to stay upright, and blinked to clear her blurred vision. She stuttered four short steps to the nearest wall and leaned against it. She closed her eyes, listened to her heart pounding a staccato beat, and knew it was marching toward explosion.

Six full minutes passed. The Fixer felt her heartbeat slow to a more natural rhythm. She risked opening her eyes and was shocked to see her vision intact. She lowered her hands from her head, stared at the streak of red on her right palm, and brushed away the trickle of blood that snaked from her ear. The air around her hummed a low whistle as she struggled to remain conscious. She hobbled away from the wall, crouched down to retrieve her cell phone, and clicked the wounding instrument shut. Her hands shook too much to return the phone to her purse. Before she could push it in her pocket, it rang again.

The Fixer stared at the screen announcing Private Number again. She opened the phone and held it against her bloody right ear.

“Two weeks, Fixer.” The British voice was back. “I want Cameron Williams gone by Valentine’s Day.”

Chapter Twenty

Mort was surprised to see Lydia Corriger trudging through the snow-filled parking lot as he headed toward his car. Her red plaid coat offered a slash of color against the grey winter dusk. He watched her walk fifty feet in one direction, reverse course, then re-cover the area she’d just left. It didn’t require a detective with thirty years experience to deduce she’d forgotten where she parked her vehicle.

“Dr. Corriger,” he yelled. “Lydia! Over here.”

He saw her head snap up as she tried to locate who was calling. When she turned his way he waved and slogged toward her through four inches of new snow. She scanned the parking lot and Mort wondered if she was always this nervous.

“You look like you’ve lost something.” He hoped his smile would put her at ease. “Can I help?”

Lydia glanced over his shoulder like he was the last person she wanted to see. “It’s my car. I could have sworn I parked it right here.”

Mort pointed to the seven empty stalls in front of them. “You parked your car right here?”

Lydia looked annoyed. “I thought I did, Detective. I must have gotten turned around. Maybe I came out through a different door.” She turned to stare at the building that housed police headquarters.

“Do you remember climbing any stairs or taking an elevator to get to Daphne?” Mort asked.

Lydia looked back at the seven vacant stalls. “The receptionist? No.” Her tone was dismissive. “I walked right up to her desk. Why?”

“Then this is the only door you could have used. You didn’t get turned around.” Mort’s boots crunched as he walked to the end of the parking row. He reached a gloved hand and brushed a large clump of snow off a small sign. “You got towed.”

Lydia marched over in the fading light.

Emergency Vehicles Only

“You’ve got to be kidding.” She looked right and left. “It was snowing like crazy. The sign was buried.” Lydia turned her attention toward him. “So fast? I couldn’t have been in there more than a half-hour.”

Mort glanced at his watch. “Closer to ninety minutes, would be my guess. They’re sticklers about keeping this lane clear. I’m afraid you got tagged, lady.”

Lydia’s glare told him she didn’t appreciate his tease. “Now what?”

He pointed to his left. “My car’s right over here. Let me drive you to impound. See if my rank’s worth anything these days.”

Lydia backed up two steps and scanned the parking lot again.

“Take it easy,” he said. “I’m offering a ride to the lot. That’s all.”

She shook her head and took another step back. “No need, Detective. I’ll call a cab. If you’d give me the address I’d appreciate it.”

Mort tapped his watch. “It’s after four, Lydia. Those guys are union. Won’t process you out til morning. Charge you an extra day impound, too.” He could see her apprehension from ten feet away. “Tell you what, call your mother, your husband, whoever. Let them know what happened and that you’re with me. Keep the cell phone open the whole way there, how’s that?”

Lydia pushed her sleeve up to read her own watch. She looked around the darkening parking lot before turning toward Mort. “Is it far?”

“Down in the flats. I can have you there in less than fifteen.” Mort tried to look as harmless as possible. “Might even be able to talk someone into releasing your car tonight.”

She stood weighing her options. A fresh round of snow began to fall. She looked up into the gun metal sky. “I appreciate the offer, Detective.” Mort thought she sounded more resigned than grateful. “Let’s go.”

“Nothing like that’s come in yet. Let me give a shout out and see what’s what.”

Mort was glad to see Zeke McCallum behind the counter at the city’s lot. They’d first met at the downtown YMCA back when Mort was a patrolman. Zeke wanted to join the force but couldn’t get his weight down to academy standards. Mort offered to work out with him, and the two hit it off. Edie became fast friends with Zeke’s first wife Kim and the couples spent a weekend together on the Oregon coast when Mort made detective. Zeke’s fondness for donuts and sausage kept him out of the academy, but he stayed close to law enforcement working vehicle impound. Zeke’s second wife Alice didn’t care for his police friends, especially those who were fans of Kim, and they’d fallen out of touch. Still, Mort knew Zeke was always good for a smile and a stroll down Glory Days Road whenever their paths crossed.

Mort leaned against the counter while Zeke worked the radio. He kept an eye on Lydia, seated on a grimy bench across the small room.

“We’re in luck.” Zeke put the microphone down and called out in Lydia’s direction. “Your car’s on its way in. Donna Johns’ driving. She never leaves a mark. I was able to grab her before she hauled it to Center City.” Zeke turned to his old friend and leaned a beefy right arm across the counter. “That lot’s a sewer hole. Why the city doesn’t shut it down’s beyond me. I wouldn’t take a dying rat there.” He looked back toward Lydia. “Says she’ll be here within the hour. You guys want some coffee?” Zeke smiled and leaned closer. “Hell’s bells. It’s almost five, right? Got a little something in the bottom drawer could take the chill off.”

Mort shook his head. He doubted Lydia would be interested in anything that might melt her protective shield. He walked over to her.

“We could sit here and listen to Zeke jawbone about days gone by.” He pointed across the street. “Or, we could go over to Annie’s. Small, but brightly lit, warm. Plus she makes the best pie this side of the Cascades.”

Lydia shook her head. She’d spoken fewer than ten words on the drive over.

“Thank you, Detective. You don’t need to wait with me. I’m sure you have other places to be.”

“Zeke runs a tight ship. He’s not going to let your car out without me signing the paperwork. That paperwork’s in Donna’s cab.” He smiled and hoped she’d relax. “I’m afraid we’re stuck with each other til she gets here.”

Zeke looked up from his end-of-the-day chores. “Hey, lady. Old Mort here ever tell you about the time he and I decided to take a kayak out in the Ballard Locks?” Zeke chuckled to himself. “Sumbitch, that was back when we both lied about our ability to hold liquor.”

Lydia looked up at Mort. “A slice of pie sounds nice, Detective.”

The waitress set the heavy china plate holding a mountain of whipped cream in front of Mort.

“You sure there’s pie under there, Francie?” he asked.

“Double spiced pumpkin. Same’s you been having twice a week since Jesus was twelve.” The bleached blonde winked at Lydia. “Don’t let him kid you, hon. We don’t put that football of cream on there, he’s back in the kitchen asking Annie what he’s done wrong.” She took a stoneware mug and carafe of hot water off her tray and placed them in front of Lydia. “Sure I can’t get you anything else? Blueberry Cream’s looking special today.”

Lydia pulled the mug toward her and held it with both hands. “This is fine. Thank you very much.”

Mort asked Francie to give his best to Annie and watched Lydia focus on her steeping tea bag.

“You don’t like pie?” he asked. “They’ve got other desserts. Dinner, too, if you’re hungry.”

Lydia blew on her steaming tea before taking a small sip. Mort scooped a forkful of whipped cream and savored it before swallowing.

“Nothing like the real thing, huh?” He grabbed another scoop. “Anything less would be disrespectful to Annie’s masterpieces.”

Lydia stared at the snow swirling in the wind.

Mort leaned back against the orange vinyl booth. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed at me for not talking about the Buchner investigation. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m doing you a favor. Without me your car gathers snow and impound fees. And you have to find your way back to Olympia. Then back up here tomorrow to bail it out.” He reached for his coffee. “I think the least you could do is offer pleasant conversation while we’re killing time.”

She turned away from the window and glanced at him before taking another sip of tea. “I’m not angry with you, Detective. I’m disappointed in me. I should have known you couldn’t say anything.” She offered a small smile. “I do appreciate what you’re doing for me. I’d consider it a kindness if you’d let me buy your dessert.”

Mort tried to categorize her and decided he couldn’t. She wasn’t being coy. Nor mean. She wasn’t playing games. Mort wondered how it was that an intelligent professional woman felt so guarded sharing a cup of coffee with someone.

“My idea, my treat,” he said. “And there’s no need to be disappointed. You took your shot. I admire that.” He reached for his fork. “What’s your interest in Buchner, anyway? And don’t give me any bull about writing a book.”

She snapped her head up. “You don’t think I can write, Detective?”

“I think you could probably do anything you set your mind to, Lydia.” He enjoyed another bite of pie before continuing. “But I’ve been in this line of work a long time. I know a snow job when I hear one.” Mort jerked his head toward the window. “And your story’s bigger than what’s going on outside. What’s your real interest in Buchner?”

“My interests are my own, Detective. I think I can be of some help.”

Mort took a sip of coffee. “Yeah? How’s that?”

Lydia pulled her spine ramrod straight. Mort felt a quiver of discomfort as her eyes surveyed him with laser precision. She began her scan at the top of his salt and pepper hair and trailed her focus down his face, lingering a while on his mouth. She continued down his shoulders, concentrated on one arm at a time, and finished by scrutinizing his chest. Mort was glad they were sharing a booth. He didn’t want her sizing up his crotch like she was the body parts north of the table.

“You’re between 50 and 55 years old,” she said. “Closer to 55. You wear your hair in a classic cut. No product. You prefer barber shops. Been going to the same one for over twenty years. You’re fit, but you don’t belong to a gym. The cragginess of your skin tells me you prefer outdoor exercise. You have more age spots than you should have, which says you spend a lot of time in the sun. Hiking and biking would be my guess.”

Mort scooped a bite of pie. “You’re pretty good. All those years with patients? Must come in handy at cocktail parties.”

She tilted her head. “You’re widowed. The love of your life died about a year ago.” She lifted her mug. “How’s that for parlor games, Detective?”

He set his fork down and narrowed his eyes. “If that’s your attempt at being cute, you missed. Every guy in my building knows about Edie and me. Give me a name and I’ll stop the gossip.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you. No one told me. It’s your shirt.”

He looked down. Edie liked the way this one went with the grey suit he was wearing. “What about my shirt?”

“You’re not the type of man who’d choose pink pinstripe. Nor would you spend what that shirt cost. A woman bought it. A woman who loves you very much.” She leaned forward and pointed to the right cuff. “You haven’t noticed this yet. But any woman who bought a shirt like this wouldn’t let her man out of the house wearing it frayed. She’s not around to dress you anymore.” Lydia looked up at him. Her eyes were warmer. “You don’t have the edgy bitterness of someone recently divorced.” She smiled and her face softened. “There’s no gossip, Detective. No parlor game. I observe and conclude. I just happen to be extremely good at it.”

“That so?” Mort was eager to move the conversation away from Edie. “What else can you see? Knock my socks off.”

Lydia gave him another overall scrutiny. “You have a shop in your home. Most likely woodworking.”

Mort’s eyes opened wide. “Now that’s impressive, Doc. How’d you get that?”

She nodded toward his hands resting on the table. “Your nails. Battered and split, but not chewed. Small scratches on your fingers. Two slashes of loose flesh where you pulled splinters out. Probably last night. I’ll bet you were working on something special for your granddaughters. Two of them? Around five or six years old? Maybe twins? Are you making them dollhouses?”

Mort sat frozen. “Now where the hell did that come from?”

She leaned back. Was she finally relaxing?

“Not so tough if you know what to look for,” she said. “Workshops in basements are a dime a dozen in your particular demographic. I noticed two small plastic kittens clipped to your notebook when you walked into the interview room this afternoon. Perfect gift from a young granddaughter. One yellow, the other pink. Identical except for color. Ergo, twins. Now, what’s a woodworking grandfather who loves his girls enough to bring their kitty trinkets into a macho police station going to make for them? Dollhouses.”

He was impressed. “Observe and conclude, huh?”

“Nothing more. Let me share another observation, Detective.” She folded her small hands on top of the table. “Mr. Buchner’s been dead eight days. There have been no arrests. No press releases about persons of interest. No police artist sketch posted on the front page. The trail to his killer is getting colder. Your willingness to meet with me, unannounced, tells me you’ve got nothing and are willing to grasp at any straw that comes your way.”

Mort looked around the diner for anyone who might hear her irritatingly accurate description of his case.

“Let me help, Detective,” she said.

He sat motionless.

“You wouldn’t be the first detective to consult with a psychologist. The FBI hires people like me by the dozens.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m damned good at what I do.”

Mort stared at her, wishing he could borrow her powers of observation and deduction for two minutes. Three decades of policing and fifty-eight years of living made him a pretty good reader of people. But he couldn’t grab a clue off the woman sitting across from him. And he needed to know her connection to Buchner.

“What’s in it for you?” he asked.

Lydia kept her eyes on him. Solid and assured. “I can help.” She bit her lower lip. “I’ll keep my reasons to myself.”

His cell rang before he could respond. His eyes stayed riveted on Lydia as he answered. “Grant.” Three seconds passed. “Good enough.” He closed his phone. “Your car’s back. Zeke says I got five minutes to sign off or he’s locking it up.”

Lydia pulled on her coat, reached for her purse, and slid out of the booth. “What do you say, Detective?”

Mort tossed a twenty on the table and waved goodbye to Francie. “I’ll think about it. And call me Mort, will ya?”

Chapter Twenty-One

“You’re late.” L. Jackson Clark offered his deepest basso sotto as Mort sat down and proffered a pint of Guiness in penance. “Had I any life or pride beyond Thursday crossword puzzles with you I’d have left an hour ago.”

“You didn’t want to brave the snow. Besides, weren’t you the one on the television three nights ago? Teaching Charlie Rose the subtle distinction between poly and pan theism?” Mort took a long sip of his beer. “You’ll get no pity from me, Larry.”

“A wonderful man, that Charlie. Always punctual.” The professor of religious studies tapped his completed puzzle. “You’ll enjoy today’s theme. Subterfuge and skullduggery.”

“I was helping a damsel in distress.” Mort loosened his tie and recalled the clues his shirt gave Lydia.

Larry tossed his Times aside. “Tristan and Isolde. Antony and Cleopatra. Bogey and Bacall. How I love a save-a-dame story. Speak.”

“Nothing much. Some shrink sticking her nose into one of my cases. Got her car towed.” Mort glanced around the room. The wholesome after-work crowd was being replaced by more dedicated drinkers. He wondered when Mauser would get around to taking down the neon Santa over the front door. “I drove her to impound and got it signed out.”

“A psychologist, you say?” Larry’s grin was subtle. The type that never failed to irritate Mort. “I don’t suppose she had any insights into your warped and nefarious character.”

“Some. Kind of scary what she knew just by looking at me.”

Larry’s grin grew. “You wear your heart, your liver, your spleen, and nearly everything else on your sleeve, Mort Grant. Don’t be surprised that someone reads you. Doctor or no.”

“I’m not a man of mystery is what you’re saying?”

“Not even of riddle.” Larry leaned back. “For example, right now I can tell you’re working a calculation that’s not adding up. Anything to do with the damsel you just rescued?”

Mort reached into the bowl on the table and tossed back a handful of peanuts. “She’s not being straight with me, that’s for sure.”

“What’s her interest?”

“Says she’s writing a book.”

“And you don’t believe her.”

“No, I don’t.” Mort washed the peanuts down with another pull of Guiness. “But something is telling me to stay close.”

“Something cosmic perhaps?” Larry re-donned his half-grin.

Mort scowled. “Save it for the students, Dr. Clark. Pass me my puzzle and let me enjoy the skullduggery.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Lydia pulled into her driveway. The winter storm made the drive down Interstate Five long and slow. Too much time to think about the happenings of the day. She wanted a hot shower and a hard workout. Something told her a good night’s sleep wasn’t an option.

She heated a can of soup and thought about Mort Grant’s kindness. She’d send him a bottle of scotch in the morning. She needed him and the investigative resources of his department to help her find the truth behind who killed Walter Buchner. Lydia shook her head and hoped the trail wouldn’t lead to Savannah.

She was putting her bowl in the dishwasher when her phone vibrated along the kitchen counter. She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock straight up. She reached for it and felt a wash of relief to learn it was the hospital calling.

“Dr. Corriger?” A familiar male voice. “It’s Darrell Johnson from Black Hills E.R. I thought you might like to know we’ve got your girl down here again.”

“My girl?” Lydia held the phone to her left ear.

“Savannah Samuels. I called a few nights ago. The cops found her wandering the park?”

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to quench the fire of fatigue and fear. “Yes, Dr. Johnson. I remember. Savannah’s back?”

“She is, but she won’t be for long. Ambulance brought her in about an hour ago. Barely a pulse when she arrived.”

Lydia took a deep breath. “What happened?”

“Police found her. You’ll be getting a call from them, too.” Johnson’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought I’d give you a head’s up.”

“Why would the police want to talk to me?” Lydia’s stomach muscles clenched. She didn’t like the idea of answering any questions about Savannah.

“A patrol car making the rounds found her hanging from the rafters of your office porch.”

Lydia’s legs dropped from under her. She grabbed the counter for support. The screams of the six year old Greta echoed in her brain. She replayed the last time she saw Savannah, running out into the winter twilight, so convinced she was beyond saving. Lydia summoned every ounce of will to sound professional. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s intubated. Unconscious. On her way to intensive care. I’m afraid there’s no way to know how long she’d been hanging. We can’t know the extent of damage until she wakes up. Doctors will be with her all night. Tomorrow’s better.”

“I’ll be there first thing. Thank you for calling, Dr. Johnson.” She closed the phone without waiting for his goodbye, stumbled to the breakfast nook, and collapsed into a chair.

Lydia knew that as a psychologist, it wasn’t a matter of would a patient suicide, but when. Her training had prepared her to accept the reality of her profession. Through the years several of her patients made less-than-lethal attempts, but she had never lost one.

And Savannah wasn’t merely a patient.

Lydia’s mind raced backward in time. She was just thirteen. Was it her fourth foster placement or her fifth? She remembered the day the social worker dropped the timid little girl with black curly hair and sad blue eyes into the care of Lenny and Cindy Huntsman, who fawned over her in the presence of the county worker and assured the harried woman that Greta would be fine. The social worker smiled at Lydia and told her she was counting on her to take the tiny girl under her wing.

Lydia remembered nodding, wishing she could tell the social worker what went on when Cindy passed out after her twice-weekly bottle of gin. Lenny’s stare kept her quiet.

Lydia rubbed a hand over her face. The memory of a hot summer night six days after Greta arrived materialized. They shared a bedroom. She’d been stupid enough to allow herself the fantasy that she could keep Greta safe. Then came the familiar soft click of the bedroom door opening.

He stood over her. Watching. She forced her breathing to roll slow and steady, mimicking deep sleep. She waited for him to snap the covers back as he had many times before.

But this time he turned. Lydia hoped she’d hear him shuffle back to the door. Instead she heard Greta cry out. She heard the swearing and the slapping as Lenny tried to silence the terrified child.

She remembered reaching for the baseball bat under her bed. Yelling for Greta to run. The first swing. The second. The warm splash of Lenny’s blood on her face as she connected for a third time.

The rest of that night was lost to her.

But on this night she sat at her table, buried her head in her hands, and cried for the little girl she failed to save and the women they’d both become.

Lydia needed sleep. She went to her bathroom and turned the water to the hottest setting. She ran it while she undressed, filling the room with steam. She pulled the glass door open, stepped under the spray, and hoped the hot water would float the pain out of her consciousness. She turned to face the hot water, careful to keep the right side of her head away from the spray. She was reaching for the shampoo when she heard it.

Her front door scrapped against the slate tile of her foyer.

She stood stock still. Naked and wet. Instantly alert. She knew the distance between her front door and her master bath. She also knew the sound of the water would let any intruder know exactly where she was.

Lydia opened the shower door and stepped out onto the mat. She shuffled in place, aware she’d need the traction of dry feet. She kept her eyes on the closed bathroom door and took one step to the tall cabinet next to the pedestal sink. She reached behind the stack of white cotton towels and her hands found what she needed: a Smith and Wesson 686 Silhouette revolver.

Lydia stepped lightly, allowing the sound of the shower would mask her movement. She pressed her left ear to the door. Nothing. She turned out the bathroom light, steadied the heavy gun in her right hand, and entered her bedroom. The small reading light on her nightstand was lit. The bedroom was empty.

Lydia heard her front door scrape the entry slate again. Still naked, she trained the gun on the open bedroom door, crossed to the window, and lifted a corner of the drape. Lydia peered into the starless night. She could see less than twenty feet down her snow-filled drive. She listened for footsteps or car engines, but heard neither.

She crossed back to her bathroom and pulled a white terry cloth robe from the hook, keeping her eyes and her gun on the closed bedroom door. She reached into the shower stall and turned off the water. Three minutes past with no sound or movement. Lydia opened the door.

A small lamp in her entry was on. It wasn’t supposed to be. She inched down the hallway, the gun steady in a two-hand hold. She strained to listen. Motion. Breathing. Anything. She heard nothing. She reached the foyer and flipped the switch controlling the lights in the living room. She saw the splintered door jamb. Small pools of water glistened on the entry slate; melted snow from the boots of an intruder. No wet footprints led into the living room. She turned toward the kitchen and saw dry hardwood flooring. Whoever came in had entered, took a few steps, turned, and left.

She turned off the small table lamp and flipped the living room switch again, casting the interior in darkness. She crossed the wet entry slate and turned on the exterior lights. From her vantage she could see her entire front yard and down her long drive.

Nothing but blowing snow.

Lydia closed the front door as best she could. She’d nail it until a repair could be made. She clicked on the living room lights.

A large manila envelope sat on the foyer table. No address. She picked up the envelope and weighed it in her hands before heading to the kitchen. She sat at the breakfast table. The envelope in front of her; her gun two inches to the right.

Lydia tried to steady herself by taking inventory of the emotions swirling inside her. There was rage at the invasion of her home. Fury for whoever had robbed her of her illusion of security. There was also vulnerability, for herself and Savannah, and sorrow for what had become of them both. An orgy of feelings swelled despite her exhaustion. One feeling screamed louder than any other. She gave the emotion its name: Fear. Mortal, primal fear. Lydia watched her hand shake as she reached for the envelope’s clasp.

She touched the gun and glanced outside before she pulled the contents onto the table. Her pulse quickened. She felt the burning flush of adrenaline course through her body. She tucked her hands beneath her thighs. A vain attempt to control the shaking.

She’d been foolish enough to believe she was free; that she was safe.

Lydia picked up the first item in the envelope. A 5 by 7 black-and-white of a woman in her early thirties. Blonde hair. Generous smile. Eyes vibrant. She stared at the photograph and frowned at its implication. She reached for another item. A business brochure for Elegant Edibles. Lydia opened it and read their promise of an unforgettable event. Complete party planning. Corporate or private. Small or large. Full service catering. Wedding receptions their specialty. Visit their website for menu samples and more.

Her eyes focused on the photograph at the bottom of the brochure. Next to the company’s address and phone number. A picture of a woman in chef’s whites. Smiling for the camera. Blonde hair. Generous smile. Eyes vibrant. She read the caption.

Let Culinary Genius Cameron Williams Make Your Next Event Unforgettable

Lydia set the brochure aside and studied the rest of the envelope’s contents. There was a MapQuest to Cameron Williams’ shop and another to her residence. A schedule from a local gym with a Tuesday/Thursday Pilates class circled in red. Several magazine clippings. A candid snapshot of Cameron walking a brindled boxer down a neighborhood street. Another photograph of the two of them frolicking with a Frisbee. An attached note read: “Golden Garden Dog Park, 8498 Seaview Place. Every morning 7:00. Sundays 1:00”.

Someone had gone to a lot of effort to document Cameron Williams’ comings and goings.

Lydia leaned back and rested her head against the breakfast nook wall. A morbid montage of memory flashed across her closed eyes. Back six years to a fifty-seven year old bookkeeper. Serial rapist. Nineteen victims identified. Likely triple that. None older than seven. Each too terrified to testify. An audio recording of him bragging about how to lure kids away from a playground withheld by a judge bothered by the suspect’s lack of knowledge that he was being taped.

The next memory was the father of a four-year-old girl put into intensive care by the raping bookkeeper. He cried impotent tears in Lydia’s office, unable to give justice to the daughter he couldn’t protect; asked her how he was supposed to live with that. She knew his pain. The harsh, cruel slap of justice denied. The worthless moaning that nothing could be done. The righteous clinging to a system so bent on protecting the accused that victims were tossed aside. Their pain less than trivial. Their loss ignored. The collective tsk-tsk before people moved on to the next bit of office gossip.

She’d tried before to save a child from a rapist. As a teenager she’d failed. As an adult she wouldn’t. An anonymous note sent to the powerless father told him how to reach someone called “The Fixer”.

He made the contact and Lydia had her first assignment.

She hadn’t planned on the wave that followed. First Thursday of every month. For every twenty requests, Lydia turned down nineteen. She wasn’t an assassin. She was justice.

Her mind reviewed every mission in chronological order. Not one regretted. Each one righteous.

And now the work was over.

Her cell phone snapped her out of her reverie. She didn’t need to look at the screen. She slid it opened and waited.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Streisand said. “You’ve had time to review the package?”

Lydia said nothing.

A short electronic blip announced a shift to British Man’s voice. “Valentine’s Day, Fixer. Either I hear by February 15 ^ th that Ms Williams is dead or on February 16 ^ th the murderer of Fred Bastian will be exposed.”

The call ended. Lydia glanced at the calendar magnet on the side of her refrigerator. She had seventeen days.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mort Grant barely heard his phone ring over the noise of his cappuccino machine. He glanced at the screen. Robbie was calling.

“What has you up so early?” He switched off the milk steamer.

“It’s an hour later here, Dad.” Robbie chuckled. “When are you going to get your time zones down?”

“That was your mother’s job.” Mort cradled the receiver under his neck as he blended the foamy milk with the rich espresso. “Hey, I’m using that fancy coffee pot you and Claire got me. I just made myself a latte.”

“You’re a true metrosexual. Next it’s weekly manicures.”

Mort glanced at the fingernails that allowed Lydia to conclude so much about him. “Not much chance of that. How are the girls?”

“Driving us crazy about their dollhouses. You should know better than to send pictures before you’re ready to ship them. You raised two kids, for God’s sake.”

“That was your mother’s job, too.” Mort took a long drink of coffee. “What good are grandkids if you can’t rile them up and turn them loose on their parents? Did Claire like that I’m making them chateaux?”

“She did,” Robbie said. “Said maybe you’re getting over the fact your son married an immigrant.”

Robbie’s dreams of being a trench-coated foreign correspondent climbing the ranks to CNN’s Paris Bureau Chief were thwarted when a semester abroad left him too homesick for an expatriot’s life. So he begged the lovely woman he’d fallen in love with to follow him home.

“Hey, only way a mope like you gets a good looking French woman is she’s looking for a green card. Count your lucky stars.” Mort smiled at the mention of his beloved daughter-in-law. “What’s new with you? That Halloway story shaping up? I want to see you with a Pulitzer before I’m drooling in the home.”

“That’s why I’m calling. Mind if I poke around in that detective head of yours?”

Mort pulled out a stool and took a seat at the breakfast counter. “You still leaning toward something more nefarious than a romp-in-the-sack turned ugly?”

Robbie blew out a long sigh. “Every bone in my body tells me it was a hit, Dad. I’ve learned Halloway loved hired help. I’ve spoken to a few of his favorites. They tell me he wasn’t into anything kinky. Wham, bam, get-off-me, ma’am. That was his style. And there’s still no lead on that hooker. A city that small, all the pros know each other. No one knew her. I’ve tried to track her down from her registration. Name’s Anna Galleta Salada. Credit card’s legit. Opened six years ago and only used once: to book her room where Halloway died. Paid in full with a wire transfer from a numbered account in the Caymans. Hasn’t been used since.”

Mort shifted his weight. “I don’t know many hookers with offshore accounts. You pull the original credit application? Gotta be a job or phone number. Social security.”

“I thought I’d be one step ahead of you.” Mort could hear his son smile all the way from Denver. “I owe someone big time, but, yeah. I got a look at the original application. Connects with a P.O. Box in Ohio. Secured with a five thousand dollar escrow account. No need to verify employment. Social security number matches up with someone named Sela O’Brian.”

“And since you’re not telling me that Sela O’Brian turned out to be Anna What’s-her-name, my hunch is Sela’s dead.” Mort reached for the pen and paper Edie always kept on the counter by the phone.

Robbie was quiet for a moment. “Died sixteen years ago. Charleston, South Carolina. Drowned at her seventeenth birthday party. How the hell did you know that?”

“Easiest way to get a phony birth certificate is to request it in the name of someone who won’t find out. Dead people are your best bet. Get the birth certificate, you have easy access to a social. Simplest form of identity theft. Comb the obituary archive for a name and you’re off to the races.” Mort tapped the pen to the tablet. “You’re looking for someone in her early to mid-thirties. Age of the social should match up close enough to pass eye inspection. What was the hooker’s name again?”

“Anna Galleta Salada. S-A-L-A-D-A.” Robbie sounded excited. “You think I’m on to something, Dad?”

“Two and two usually add up to four, Robbie.” Mort took another sip of coffee. “Let me see what I can find out on my end, huh? I got some digging I need to do on another front, might as well go for a two-fer.”

“I appreciate it.” Robbie’s voice softened. “Everything else okay?”

“Everything’s fine. You worried about me or something?”

“You’re my dad,” Robbie said. “It’s my job to worry about you. I’ll give your love to the girls. Tell ‘em Papa’s whipping those dollhouses into shape.”

Mort said goodbye, hung up the phone, and wondered what Allie worried about.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Nancy Tessler had been an attending physician at Black Hills’ ICU for nine years and knew how to recap a patient’s situation in five sentences or less. Once Lydia introduced herself as a psychologist with admitting privileges, the seasoned veteran got right to the point.

“Still unconscious. Still intubated. Pulse and blood pressure erratic. Reflexes intact but sluggish. Body temperature relatively stabilized. We’ll know more when she wakes up.”

Lydia searched her face for any sign of encouragement. “When do you anticipate that will be?”

“No way of telling.” Dr. Tessler’s shifted from her clinical voice. “I heard she hung herself on your porch.”

Lydia nodded.

“Tough break. Go see her. Couldn’t hurt. Might help. I’ll call you if there’s any change.”

Lydia thanked her, left her contact information, and headed toward Bay 13.

She was surprised to see someone sitting beside Savannah’s bed. A rumpled man with thinning brown hair rested his head against Savannah’s leg while he caressed her hand. Lydia heard him cooing her name, urging her to wake up. Savannah was pale and small on a high bed surrounded by blinking and beeping monitors. Her delicate beauty graced the starched white pillowcase despite the waxy stillness of her face and the garish bruise across her neck. Lydia tapped on the open glass door and the man snapped his head in her direction. His middle-aged face was blotched and puffy. He wiped his tears with both hands and stared at her.

She stepped closer to the bed. “I’m Dr. Corriger.”

The man shoved his chair back and strained himself upright. Lydia imagined he’d been locked in that uncomfortable position for hours. He wiped both hands on his slacks before extending his right one.

“I’m Jerry Childress, Dr. Corriger.” His voice was weak. He cleared his throat and gained volume. “Savannah speaks highly of you. Thanks for coming.”

Lydia shook his hand. “You know me?”

“From Savannah.” His voice weakened. “She said she was counting on you to fix her.” He dropped his head. It was several seconds before he composed himself enough to continue. “I only wish you could have.”

“I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mr. Childress.” Lydia nodded toward Savannah. “How is she?”

He lowered his eyes before turning toward the bed. “No change. I try to tell myself she’s just sleeping.” He reached for Savannah’s hand, pulled his chair back, and resumed his vigil.

Lydia stepped to the bottom of the bed and placed a hand on Savannah’s blanketed foot. “How do you know Savannah, Mr. Childress?”

He sat up and directed his red-rimmed eyes toward Lydia, never letting go of Savannah’s unresponsive hand. “I’m her fiance, Dr. Corriger.” He blinked several times and turned back toward Savannah. “At least that’s how I think of myself. I’ve asked her, no, begged her, to marry me dozens of times. She hasn’t said ‘yes’ yet, but she hasn’t turned me down, either.”

Lydia’s brows shot up. Savannah never mentioned a boyfriend, let alone a fiance. She always described men in distant and disparaging terms. “How long have you been together?”

Childress looked at her and Lydia felt an unease she couldn’t explain. He was not unattractive, but his demeanor suggested he was accustomed to blending in with the crowd. Lydia got the impression he was a man familiar with the power of anonymity. His nose was finely chiseled but his cheeks were soft and fleshy. His eyes were a nondescript brown. His complexion bore the ashy pale of someone who seldom saw daylight. “Since August. Not long, I know.” He smiled and a spark of gentility flickered. He squeezed Savannah’s hand. “I’ve waited my entire life for someone to love. I can’t lose her.”

Lydia pulled a small chair away from the wall and sat. “How did you two meet?”

He wiped another tear away. “I know what you’re thinking, Doctor.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “You’re wondering how a guy like me gets a woman like her.” Childress smiled again. “I appreciate your curiosity. But we are in love. It may not have started out that way, but it’s true.”

“How did it start out, Mr. Childress?”

He stroked Savannah’s limp hand. “You know how Savannah makes her living, don’t you?” He bit his lower lip. “ Made her living. She’s left that line of work.”

Lydia weighed her response. She had only Childress’ word he was who he said he was. “You met her through work?”

He looked outside the room to see who might overhear, scooted his chair closer to Lydia, and lowered his voice. “You know people hired her for special projects. Well, I was one of those.” He cast a loving glance back to the disturbingly still form in the bed. “I was her last assignment. This thing has gotten completely out of hand.”

“How so, Mr. Childress?” Lydia wanted to keep him talking. She needed to learn more about Savannah, her work, and what drove her to hang herself.

“If you’re not going to call me Jerry you might as well get it correct.” He sat close enough for Lydia to see his perfectly straight teeth. “It’s Dr. Childress. I’m with the university. Interim Chair of Neuroscience.”

Lydia willed her breath to remain steady. She hoped Childress missed her blink of surprise.

“I imagine you and Savannah talked about Fred Bastian.” he said.

“If Savannah has told you I’m her psychologist, Dr. Childress, and I’m not saying I am, then you must know I can’t say a word about what we may or may not have discussed.”

He gave her another timid smile. “I can see why Savannah is impressed with you. But I can assure you, we have no secrets from one another.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss.” Lydia leaned back and crossed her legs. “But I can listen to whatever you’d like to tell me.”

Childress nodded his understanding. “You’ve heard of Fred Bastian, certainly?”

Lydia held her voice low. “I’ve read the news accounts of his recent death.” She watched him, hoping to catch a reaction to her mention of Bastian’s demise.

His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “He was a bastard, Dr. Corriger. A lot of people are glad he’s gone.” Childress looked past Lydia’s shoulder, again assuring their conversation wasn’t overheard. “Name a corruption and Bastian was involved.”

“I’ve read about his research. Something about emotions.”

“Yes,” he said. “His research is quite brilliant. But don’t for a moment assume he was seeking answers to benefit humanity. Bastian’s work existed for one reason only: to propel the fame of Fred Bastian. Every move he made was calculated to bring him a step closer to that Stockholm stage.”

“No offense,” she said. “But it’s long been my impression that having an overblown ego is a basic job requirement for success at Bastian’s level.”

Childress shook his head. “There’s overblown and there’s dangerous. Bastian was a tyrant. He ran the department as his personal fiefdom. I’ve seen him take great glee in destroying careers of ethical and dedicated researchers. One carefully worded comment to the right ear at a conference cocktail party and young scientists looking for their first faculty job are suddenly unable to land an interview. A single phone call to one of his cronies at NIH could assure that someone’s grant application is rejected before reaching review.”

Lydia needed to hear more. “Couldn’t that be said of chairmen at any number of universities?”

She watched his tear-stained face turn cold. “Not like Bastian. His abuse of office knew no bounds. Grant money funneled into his personal accounts. Staff fired on a whim. Even…” Childress dropped his head.

“Even what?”

Childress paled. “Neuroscience was a particularly difficult department for women, Dr. Corriger. Secretaries, junior faculty, graduate students. Bastian viewed sexual access as one of the perks of his position.”

“But wasn’t he chairman for years?”

Childress nodded. “Nineteen to be exact. That’s unheard of in academia. Typically someone serves four or five years before moving on to a higher administrative post.”

“Why’d he stay?”

“No respectable department would have him. Besides, Bastian never applied to any higher position. He liked his power. Pure and simple.” Lydia could almost hear his teeth grinding. “Over the years Bastian built the perfect staff of sycophants and stooges. Insecure fools too frightened to do anything but lick his boots.” He looked Lydia square in the eye. “The faculty votes biannually for chairman. Ballots go out named and numbered. Bastian reviews the votes as they come in. Anyone not turning in a ballot is reminded by his hatchet man to make their selection. Anyone supporting a candidate other than Bastian is targeted. A reason for termination is always found before the next election.”

Childress pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. “As a result, the university president got a 100 % endorsement to keep Bastian as chairman. President Thornton would hold him up as a shining example of how to cultivate and maintain faculty loyalty.”

Lydia let Childress’ comments sink in. They were consistent with what Wally had told her about Bastian’s love of obedience and adoration. She wondered if Childress knew about the secret lab Bastian kept off-campus or his butchering of Ortoo.

“In all these years, no one tried to stop him?”

“In the beginning, certainly.” Childress hung his head again. “But Bastian’s hatchet man was charged with keeping the faculty in line. Methods didn’t matter. If complaining professors could be co-opted with sabbatical or research funding, Bastian got it for them. If that didn’t work, well, let’s just say the environment would become hostile enough that they’d either transfer or be fired. Within a few years he had the faculty he wanted. A group of weak-willed children terrified of upsetting daddy.”

“I’m sorry.” Lydia crossed her arms and leaned back. “I can’t see a bunch of Ph. D.’s allowing this.”

He raised his head to look at her. “That may be because you don’t understand how effective Bastian’s hatchet man was.”

“And you do?”

Childress turned to look at Savannah, motionless on the bed. Lydia watched his face soften as he stared at the woman he clearly adored; the whirr of the respirator and the bleeps of the heart monitor the only sound. In time he turned his tear-stained face back to Lydia.

“I’m sorry to say…”. He cleared his throat and gained volume. “I’m sorry to say I do. I was Bastian’s man. It was my job to make sure he could do whatever the hell he pleased.” He hung his head and whispered. “And I was frightfully good at my job.”

Lydia felt a pang of pity that instantly morphed into disgust. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the soft academician cry so hard his shoulders shook.

“Now he’s dead,” she said. “And you’re Interim Chairman. New boss same as the old boss?”

Childress snapped his head up. “No.” He looked over at Savannah. “Not now. Not with her. I want to be a man she can be proud of.”

“You still haven’t told me Savannah’s connection to all this. How you two met”

He sighed and struggled to stand beside his beloved. “It’s a tale I hoped would have a happy ending.” He stroked Savannah’s cheek and spoke to the comatose patient. “We were on our way, weren’t we, girl?” He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “For a while Bastian and I thought we had the faculty right where we needed them. Rubber stamps to anything he proposed. Turning their collective blind eye to whatever sin he committed.” He brushed a raven lock from Savannah’s ghostly brow. “Bastian’s abuse worsened with each acquiescence. Eventually a group of three faculty members found their courage and banded together. Bastian couldn’t be voted out until the next biennial vote, of course, but they devised a plan to render him powerless. It was their hope President Thornton would then investigate. They wanted to rescue the department.” He smoothed a hand over the hospital blankets. “And my sweet Savannah was the key to the entire coup d’etat.”

“I’m listening.” Lydia forced herself to remember it was the adult Savannah he was talking about. The innocent little Greta she’d rescued all those years ago was gone.

“The group needed to approach the rest of the faculty.” He stared down at his own hands. “They knew I was their roadblock. I monitored gossip. I watched who was having coffee with whom. Who attended whose child’s baptism or bar mitzvah. My misguided loyalty to Bastian was legendary. They knew if they came to me I’d have had the three of them castrated on the spot. Somehow they learned about Savannah’s special services.”

Lydia was learning more about Savannah than she’d ever shared during appointments. If there was any hope of helping her, and saving herself, she needed to hear more. “What services did she offer?”

His attention was on Savannah as he spoke. “She, shall we say, distracted me. It was all orchestrated, of course, but to me it seemed the romantic miracle I’d always prayed would happen. I have no illusions, Dr. Corriger. I’m a plain man with the physique of a lazy academic. Sex was a solitary act. Intimate connection with a woman something I could only fantasize about.” He chuckled. “Maybe that’s why I was so horrible to others.”

Lydia ignored Childress’ self-pity. She needed more about Savannah’s involvement with the Bastian affair and if that involvement extended to shooting Wally Buchner before stabbing a note into his chest. She needed to know if Savannah could lead her to the voice behind the synthesizer who now threatened her existence.

“How did it begin?” she asked.

He traced a finger down Savannah’s motionless face, careful not to disturb the breathing tube lodged in her neck. “She was seated next to me at a faculty recital. Tchaikovsky’s First. Is there a more romantic concerto in the world?” He closed his eyes, lost in the memory. “I noticed her, of course. She was dressed in the subtlest of beige. Her black hair gleaming in contrast. Her skin glowing.” He tossed an anxious glance toward Lydia before returning his attention to his fallen angel. “I tried to concentrate on the music. Would I sound too much like a school boy to say I spent most of the recital pretending she was my date?” He shook his head clear. “I even looked around the room to see who might see me seated next to such a goddess.”

Childress sat again in the chair next to the bed. “Too soon applause signaled both the recital and my fantasy were over. I stole one last glance her way. A pearl of a tear slid down her cheek. She sat there as others gathered their things to leave. I sat with her. The room emptied and still we sat. Two strangers. Together. Sharing something. Savannah said not one word.

“Eventually, of course, a custodian arrived to lock up.” He inhaled deeply, re-living the next moment. “She turned to me and thanked me for staying with her. ‘You were kind to sit with me’ she said. I don’t know what possessed me. I asked her if she would care for a glass of sherry. Perhaps we could discuss the piece. She agreed.”

Childress brushed a piece of lint off his grey woolen trousers. “As I said, what I thought was a random encounter of two kindred souls was actually a well-choreographed plan. Savannah was hired to meet me, seduce me, gain my confidence, and co-opt me into agreeing with the faculty overthrow of Bastian.” He smiled. “But of course something else entirely happened.”

Lydia braced herself for his next statement.

“We fell in love,” he said. “We’ve been nearly inseparable since. She changed me somehow. Melted me. I came to see the kind of man I’d become. In me I think she found the genuine love she craved. She knew I would die before hurting her. She told me I was her home.” He took a deep breath. “I met with the faculty trio. They didn’t have to sell me. I knew more of Bastian’s evil than they did and Savannah’s love gave me the courage to follow through. We developed a plan. I’d help arrange meetings with other faculty members and make sure Bastian remained ignorant. They’d get their no-confidence vote from the faculty. He’d have no time to devise a counter-attack. Surely, he’d resign to save face. I’d step in as Interim Chair and we’d purge the department of the oppressive stench in which Bastian had it wrapped.”

“And you, of course, would seek the position of Chairman permanently.” Lydia knew men like Childress better than to think he’d had an altruistic epiphany. There’d be a payoff promised.

He grinned like the school boy he was afraid he was portraying. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Dr. Corriger. I agreed to stay on as Interim only until we could elect a new chairman. In fact, it was our plan to leave the university.”

“Our?” she asked.

He looked over his shoulder to Savannah. “I have a bit of money saved. A bachelor has few expenses. As it turns out, Savannah is quite wealthy. We promised each other a fresh start. Together. A small fishing village in Maine. I’d write and she would learn to play the piano.” A tear dropped onto his sweater. “A simple life. For as long as it lasted.”

Lydia felt a pull of sadness for the woman little Greta had become and the pitiful man who loved her. “So why are we in this intensive care cubicle? What went wrong?”

He blinked his eyes clear. “The faculty plan worked as intended, of course. Bastian was blindsided. Eviscerated. Powerless.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Unfortunately, he chose that very night to have his heart attack. That was the beginning of the road that led us here. Savannah felt responsible. That the meeting had somehow brought on his attack. No amount of logic could dissuade her. She couldn’t get over the coincidence of his dying on the day our plan was executed. She began to fall apart. Little things at first. Her mind would wander. She took less care of herself. I begged her to return to you but she would just repeat her idea that she was broken and no one could fix her. That she’d sinned and Bastian’s heart attack was a sign of the punishment that awaited her.”

Childress didn’t try to stop the tears. “And then that graduate student was murdered. Do you remember reading about that?”

Lydia’s pulse quickened. “Yes. What does he have to do with Savannah?”

“She became obsessed his death was her fault, too.” He looked up at Lydia. “I suppose someone in your profession would call it paranoia or even psychosis, but she got herself into such a state. She wasn’t eating. She never slept. I tried to tell her it was an unfortunate coincidence. A random act of violence. But she grew evermore certain there was a connection between the two deaths and that the sins of her past somehow caused both men to die.”

Lydia leaned in. “Were Bastian and the student connected in any way?”

Childress gave a bewildered shake of his head. “Bastian was head of Neuroscience. The student, Buchner was his name. Walter Buchner. A nothing. A second year graduate research assistant. Audiology as I recall. No connection whatsoever.” He raised his hands in frustration. “But there was no convincing her. I think her concerns over the deaths of Bastian and that poor boy rendered her too vulnerable for the news we received recently. It was too much for my fragile darling.”

“What news was that?”

Childress gave her a baffled stare. “You don’t know?” He stared back at his fiance. “I begged her to call you. She was so upset.”

Lydia flashed upon Savannah leaving her office. “Tell me what happened.”

He leaned back in his chair, breathed a heavy sigh, and caressed Savannah’s hand. “Savannah is HIV+, Dr. Corriger. A work-related condition, you could say. She informed me not long after we met; when we realized things were serious between us. She told me she never gave it a second thought. That for years she welcomed the death she knew would come soon. She didn’t know which of the many ‘special projects’ had infected her. She said she assumed it was divine justice for the life she led.”

Childress smiled at the woman on the bed. “But that changed when we fell in love.” He looked up at Lydia. “She sought treatment for the first time. She began taking care of herself; even travelling to Italy to learn about a new intervention.”

Lydia remembered Savannah’s explanation for the seven weeks between her first and second appointment with her. She said she’d been someplace warm on a business-related trip.

“She adhered religiously to her medication regimen,” Childress continued. “Her doctors told her she had every reason to be optimistic. HIV is no longer a death sentence, you understand.”

Lydia nodded. She was stunned at what she didn’t know about Greta/Savannah.

“But her optimism died with the news.” A tear slid down his cheek. “Despite how careful we were in our affection, I learned yesterday that I’d become infected myself.” He brought Savannah’s hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. “I told her it didn’t matter. That I’d pay any price for the man I’d become as a result of her love. We’d enjoy our life in Maine for as long as we were given breath. We’d be together. But the agony of guilt consumed her. I begged her to call you. She said her shame was too large. She wanted you to remember her as she once was.” He turned his rheumy eyes to Lydia. His shoulders shook as he cried out. “But she made one last visit to your office porch. Why, Dr. Corriger? Why did she do it?”

Lydia told him she had no answer. She offered her sympathy and her support and sat with him as he cried. Still, she needed one more question answered. “Where were you when you found out about Buchner’s death?”

Her question stopped his tears. “Me?” He gave her a befuddled stare. “I was at my home, of course. It was on the news the morning after his murder.”

“Was Savannah with you?”

The look on his face signaled he wasn’t following her logic. “No. She was away for a few days. She’d gone to Maine to find us a house. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, Dr. Childress. Like you, I’m trying to make sense of things.”

The Fixer sat with the desolate man and his comatose beauty a few minutes longer. She rose, reiterated her sorrow, and promised to return. She walked out of the ICU, headed for her car, and cried for innocent little Greta.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“I’m having a deja vu experience, Mort.” Jim DeVilla, Chief of Forensics for the Seattle Police Department, stood in Walter Buchner’s kitchen as his team searched the crime scene for the second time in nine days. “You got anything in mind or are we just fishing?” Jim scratched the ears of the eighty-five pound German Shepherd sitting beside him.

Mort opened the freezer and eyed the contents. He pulled out a half-eaten container of ice cream and frowned. “Man, wouldn’t it be easy if we found a ball of cash or two inches of blow instead of half a pint of Cherry Garcia?” He slammed the freezer door shut. “There’s got to be something.”

De Villa called out to the two women re-dusting the living room for prints. “You hear that? We highly-paid investigative types will continue to stand here with our thumbs up our asses while you diligent forensic officers re-do what you did last week. Make sure to give us a shout if you run across, wait a minute.” He turned toward Mort. “What was it you said you were looking for, Detective? Oh, that’s right. ‘Something’. Officers, make sure you let us know if you find ‘something’.”

The two women responded with stifled grins. Mort walked past them into Buchner’s bedroom. De Villa followed, his canine shadow matching step-for-step. They stood at the foot of the unmade bed. Mort, hands on hips, surveyed the room while De Villa rocked on his heels and Bruiser sat at attention.

“We’re missing it, Jimmy. Buchner was Joe Average. No record. No tickets. Look at this place. It’s a dump. The only thing worth stealing is his laptop and that fancy recording gear in the front room.”

De Villa flipped through his notebook. “Buchner was a research geek in audiology. According to his co-workers, he was working on something to do with voice synthesizing. Cutting edge stuff and all that bullshit.” De Villa closed his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. “That’s what the world needs. More talking.” De Villa reached down and tousled the shepherd’s rough fur around the scar from a bullet that had ripped apart Bruiser’s throat when he leaped in front of an undercover cop to save him from a drug dealer’s deadly intent. “Maybe we could hook you up, huh, Buddy? I sure would love to hear you bark again.” De Villa looked up at Mort. “University wants to know when they can pick the stuff up. I guess it’s worth more than you and I make in any given year combined.”

“That’s just it.” Mort turned to the man he’d trusted with evidence for more than a quarter century. “That fancy tape recorder’s still here.”

“Voice synthesizer,” De Villa said.

“What-the-fuck-ever. It’s here, not in some pawn shop. No forced entry. Nothing gone.” Mort took another look around Buchner’s room. “But Average Joes don’t get their faces blown off. You get anything off his background?”

De Villa shrugged. “Hard working boy genius type. Paid enough to live in this palatial splendor. A little more than two hundred in his savings account. Less in his checking. Sent twenty buck’s a month to the humane society, I thought that was nice. Car’s eleven years old. No girlfriends. No boyfriends, either. According to everybody he knew Buchner went to work, excelled at it, then came home. Occasionally he’d meet his cronies for pizza and beers.”

“What do we know about these cronies?” Mort asked.

“Same as Dead Old Wally. Nerds and geeks. A little beer, a little marijuana. Nothing to crank up the sirens about.”

“What about his folks?”

De Villa sighed and pulled the notebook back out of his pocket. He flipped through it and read. “Greg and Dana Buchner. Of the Walla Walla Buchners. Both fifty-seven years old.” He looked up from his notebook. “Hard to believe folks our age got kids in grad school, huh? Enough to make a fella feel old.”

“What do we know about the Buchners?” he asked.

“Greg’s a high school principal. Dana owns a fitness studio. Pillar of the community types. Wally’s their only child. They were in Australia chaperoning a group of students when they got the news.” De Villa’s voice softened. “Fuck. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”

An image of Allie at four flashed through Mort’s mind. Twirling across the living room in her pink tutu. Mud half-way up her white tights from a puddle she found irresistible. Edie applauding. Allie holding up her arms for a dance with Daddy. A call from the other room pulled him back.

“Micki’s here.”

The two men and Bruiser left Buchner’s bedroom. Micki Petty stood in the living room, speaking with the forensic team. Mort smiled. Everyone did when they saw Micki. She was five feet five of no-nonsense cute. Thirty-two years old. Light brown hair streaked with gold and red. Blue eyes and a dusting of freckles across her nose. Exhibit A that not all techies are social misfits.

Mort met Micki when she was fifteen. Her best friend Jodi had left Micki’s house the morning after a sleep-over, running home to be on time for Sunday school. When Jodi’s parents called an hour later wondering where their daughter was, Micki went looking. She found her friend in a ditch, bloodied and broken. Mort remembered the resolute young Micki answering his questions through her tears and her tireless vigil during Jodi’s hospital stay. She displayed an endless curiosity about police work and Mort arranged a few ride-alongs with uniforms on routine day patrol. When Mort arrested the drunk who ran Jodi down, Micki convinced her friend to testify. “If there’s something we can do to stop the bad guys, Jodi, we gotta. We just gotta.”

Micki never missed a day of the trial and was fascinated by the trail of paint chips, tire treads, and time lines that led to a conviction and twelve year prison sentence. “It’s like putting a puzzle together, isn’t it?” They stayed in touch through the years and Mort teared up when he pinned on Micki’s badge the day she and Jodi graduated from the police academy. Nineteen months later Jodi walked up to a car she pulled over a car for a busted tail light and was shot in the face. At the funeral Micki told Mort she wanted in on the investigation. “I don’t have the seniority, but this guy’s mine.” He made significant withdrawals from his chits account and got her transferred. Ten years later she was still the best detective he ever supervised.

Micki walked toward Mort and Jimmy and signaled for Bruiser. She bent to one knee and ran her hands across the shepherd’s coat, cooing sweet nothings into the lovesick dog’s ear. She stood and pointed her briefcase in the direction of a small table. “You boys want to sit?”

Jim asked his forensic team if they were done in the kitchen. They were and he headed in ahead of Mort and Micki. He moved the toaster, pizza box, and seven soda cans covering the table. He pulled out a chair, brushed the grey residue of fingerprint powder off the seat, and offered it to Micki. Mort shook his head and smiled at a memory. Edie telling him one of the main differences between men and women is that women knew they looked stupid when they went gaga over someone twenty years younger.

Micki took a seat and pulled a folder from her briefcase. Mort sat across and Jim pulled his chair beside her. Bruiser settled in under the table, his giant head resting on her feet.

“What’ve you got for us, Mack?” Mort asked.

“I examined Buchner’s laptop. His computer at the university, too. Still waiting for the phone company to come up with his cell records. Desk sergeant told me you two were here so I decided to swing by.” She shifted her gaze between the two of them. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” De Villa looked at Mort. Then back at Micki. “It’s always okay.”

Mort saw the two women in the living room smile and shake their heads.

“And so I repeat, what did you find?” Mort asked.

Micki flipped open the folder. “Most of the stuff is pretty routine. Lots of drafts of schematics for various electronics. Research articles he’s writing.” She ran her hand down the inventory list. Mort noticed a smudged stamp from a waterfront nightclub just above her thumb and hoped she was developing a life outside the precinct. “Outlines for classes he’s teaching. Student lists. Grades. Typical stuff.”

“How about e-mails?” Mort asked.

Micki shook her head. “Nothing unusual there, either. Mostly business. Lots to his parents. A couple of exchanges with someone named Aubree about a year ago. Sounded like a blind date thing. Finally arranged to meet at a bookstore. One last note from Aubree the next day giving him the brush off.”

“Poor Wally,” De Villa said. “You know I read somewhere that over fifty percent of people meet their true love at work. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Friends first, shared interest, common social circle. That make sense to you, Micki?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Jimmy.” Mort leaned back in his chair. “You want me to see what Disney’s got on? You could watch while the grown-ups get back to work?”

Micki looked down at the file and ate a grin.

“What about the internet?” Mort asked.

“Those searches proved more interesting.” Micki turned to the third sheet of her report.

De Villa’s voice dropped an octave. “Porn? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, Micki. Mort and I can handle anything you got.”

Micki looked at Mort. “How do you put up with this?”

“He only weirds out around you, Mack.” Mort patted his friend’s shoulder. “Most time we can take him out in public. What did you find?”

“Again,” she said. “Pretty typical stuff for someone in Buchner’s position. Academic searches. Links to electronic and audio sites. He does his banking, such as it is, online. Buys his parents gifts over the internet and has them shipped directly.”

De Villa nodded his head. “Saves a lot of hassle. I’m a no hassle guy myself.”

Micki ignored him. “Buchner had Mapquest on his Favorites list. That’s where it got intriguing.”

“How so?” Mort asked.

“Buchner got to the university nearly two years ago. Back then he called for directions around town. Typical newcomer stuff. He must have made himself comfortable because there’s no maps requested for the past fifteen months. Until the last few weeks. Then there’s a little flurry of activity.”

Mort felt something kick inside him. “I’m all ears, Mack.”

“One’s to an idle warehouse down on the pier. I checked. Old import-export business locked up until the dead owner’s estate gets settled. I checked it out and Buchner has no ties to the deceased.”

Mort jotted in his notepad. “What else?”

“Three days before he dies. Two addresses in Olympia.”

Mort snapped his head up. “What’s a Seattle graduate student from Walla Walla looking for in Olympia?”

Micki smiled. “I wondered the same thing. Imagine my chagrin when I did a cross back on the addresses and found they’re listed to the same woman.”

Mort’s pulse quickened. “Who?”

Micki read off her notes. “A Dr. Lydia Corriger. One’s her home, the other’s her office. I looked her up. She’s a psychologist. You think our dead guy needed a shrink and went all the way to Olympia to find one?”

Mort wrote down the two addresses. The earlier playfulness in his voice was gone. “I don’t know. But I’ll look into it.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lydia decided against any disguise for her meeting with Cameron Williams. Whoever wanted the young caterer dead knew who she was and she needed them to see she was proceeding as directed. She sat at a small table in the Queen Anne headquarters of Elegant Edibles and sipped the cup of tea offered her when she arrived fifteen minutes earlier.

She was about to ask the counter worker what was delaying her boss when Cameron emerged from a back room. The caterer was pale. Her blonde hair pulled up in a haphazard grooming attempt. She approached with a leaden walk and forced a smile when she introduced herself, her green eyes bloodshot and flat. She wore blue jeans and a grey work shirt, both streaked with dried batter and berry stains. Cameron laid a large black binder on the table and sat down.

“What did you have in mind, Ms Corriger?” She showed no indication she was interested in Lydia’s answer.

Lydia tried to sound cheerful. “I’d like you to cater a dinner party. The winter’s been so dreary I think we could all use something festive, don’t you?”

Cameron didn’t react. Lydia had the impression she was medicated.

“Do you have a date in mind?” She opened her binder to the calendar section and glanced at several pages. “February’s nearly booked. March has some dates open.”

Lydia watched her closely. “I’m thinking a Saturday.”

Cameron flipped the calendar pages without glancing up. “It looks like the first Saturday I have is March 23 ^ rd. Then April 6 ^ th. After that we’re into wedding season.” She cast a look up at Lydia. “Does it have to be Saturday?”

Lydia smiled. “A mid-week party might be fun. Unexpected.”

Cameron nodded and returned to her calendar. “If you’re willing to host on Tuesday or Wednesday, we have several options.”

“Let me give that some thought. Perhaps we can discuss menu.” Lydia moved her tea cup to the side. “Do you cook at my home or is it done here?”

Cameron flipped to another section of her notebook. “It depends on the menu and the type of kitchen you have. Those are details we can work out later.” She pulled out two heavy vellum pages. “People usually start with a cocktail hour. Here’s our bar list and hors d’ouerve offerings.”

Lydia scanned the menus but kept her focus on Cameron. She watched her lean her head to one side and stare off into the void, completely detached from the customer seated across from her. Lydia moved the menus to her lap, placed her hands on the table, and leaned forward.

“Is this a bad time, Ms Williams? You don’t seem particularly interested in my party.”

Cameron blinked to attention. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Elegant Edibles is very interested in your dinner. Allow me to get one of my associates for you.” She pushed her chair away from the table. Lydia asked her to stay.

“Please.” Lydia set her voice to warm and soothing. “You come so highly recommended. I’d prefer to work with you.” She smiled as Cameron pulled her chair back. “I don’t mean to intrude, but you look a little off your game. Can I be of any help?”

The young blonde trained her vacant green eyes on Lydia. Her lower lip quivered. “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t see how anyone can help.”

Lydia glanced across the room and saw the counterwoman cleaning a glass shelf well out of earshot. “Let me try,” she said. “I’m a psychologist. People tell me a good one. And if you don’t mind my saying, if anyone ever looked like they needed to talk to a good psychologist, it’s you.” Lydia pulled her cup back in front of her. “What do you say we dispense with menu planning for a few minutes and have some tea?”

Tears welled in Cameron’s eyes. She bit her lip, nodded, and went to fetch them each a fresh cup.

“People who know you describe you as vivacious and enthusiastic.” Lydia accepted the warm pot and poured herself a generous amount of citrus-scented liquid. “What has you so down today?”

Cameron traced a lazy finger around a saucer covered in red English roses. “That woman they describe died in December. This is who I am now.”

“What happened? May I call you Cameron?”

She nodded. “My fiance died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly.” Cameron dropped her head and wept. “Friends tell me it’ll get easier. But it doesn’t.”

“Oh, Cameron,” Lydia whispered. “I’m so sorry. How did he die?”

She wiped her eyes with a damask napkin. “Heart attack. He’d been under a lot of strain at work. Long hours. I told him he needed a vacation.” Her voice shook. “We planned to elope to Paris the end of May. When classes were finished and before my summer season got too busy. He said we’d take a month and bike the countryside.”

“Were you with him when it happened?” Lydia asked.

“No. It was just before Christmas. The shop was crazy with holiday parties. We planned a late dinner. When he didn’t come by I called him.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “No answer. I tried later. When he still didn’t answer I drove to his house.” She covered her face with both hands. “I could see him in the chair. I thought he was asleep. I let myself in. He was already cold.”

Lydia let her cry for a few moments, knowing the release would help. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Cameron shivered despite the shop’s cozy warmth. “Every morning I wake up. For a heartbeat or two I’m fine. Then I remember he’s dead. I’ll never see him again. Never hear his voice.” She turned to Lydia with an empty gaze. “My life is over.”

Lydia sat and wondered what kind of threat this grieving woman posed that could drive someone to order her execution. She hoped Cameron could provide clues to the person who held control over both their lives.

“You said you were going to elope when classes were over. Was your fiance a school teacher?” Lydia asked.

Cameron offered a brief smile. “No. He was with the university. His work was very important. I hate to admit I didn’t understand most of it. You give me six ingredients and I’ll give you a gourmet meal in twenty minutes. You start talking hormones and neurotransmitters and my eyes glaze over.” She shook her head. “Fred and I were about as opposite as two people could be.”

Lydia’s attention clicked into hyper-focus. “What position did your fiance hold at the university, Cameron?”

She lifted her tear-streaked face in pride. “He was chairman of the neuroscience department. Fred Bastian. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“I believe I have.” Lydia felt herself tumbling down a black hole. The night at the warehouse flashed through her memory. Bastian butchering the Silverback Gorilla. A flush of sweat tickled under her arms. Bastian was the link between Cameron and Private Number.

“Didn’t your fiance work with animals? Something about emotions?” Lydia began with the obvious: was Cameron connected to the slaughter of Ortoo?

“I hated that part of his work. I mean, don’t we have computers for that nowadays? But Fred assured me his animals were well cared for. He even offered to take me on a tour of his lab anytime I wanted.” She crinkled her nose. “But I never did.”

Lydia sensed she was telling the truth. What else could Cameron know that would inspire someone to want her dead?

“Was there anything at work that was bothering him, I wonder?” Lydia hoped she sounded pleasant enough to keep Cameron talking.

Cameron shrugged and wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. “Typical stuff. It’s not easy running a department that big. But he’d been doing it a long time and his people loved him.”

But Lydia knew someone wanted both Bastian and Cameron dead.

Cameron wiped her tears and tilted her chin. “Why are you interested?”

Lydia smiled. “I’m just trying to get you talking about your fiance, is all. Maybe help you see he might have had some peace when he died.”

Lydia watched Cameron consider the idea. “I’d like that. I’d like to know he was at peace.”

“Tell me how you met.” She hoped Cameron would reveal something that could lead to Private Number. “How’s a gourmet chef hook up with an Ivory Tower genius?”

Cameron’s shoulders relaxed and she took a deep breath. “Fred called it kismet. Every year he hosts a party. Invites the entire department to his home. Spouses, too. Well over two hundred people. He’s so generous. There’s always a theme for the decorations and the food. He holds it on Valentine’s Day so they’ll keep their heart in their work.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “That was his little joke.”

Lydia sat quietly as Cameron relished the memory.

“Last year’s theme was Romance in the Rockies. Fred always used Julie Christopher as his caterer. But Julie fell and broke both arms five days before the party. She was frantic. Called and begged me to take it.” Cameron stopped for a moment. “I arrived at Fred’s house at noon to begin cooking for a party that started at seven. He hung around.” Cameron’s faraway smile seemed fueled by the thought. “He asked questions. Then he asked for samples. He pitched in and washed dishes. I was impressed.” She gave a small laugh. “By the time guests started to arrive I was sorry to see him leave. But he kept coming back, checking on things. He helped me close up after the party. Sent my staff home. When the last box was loaded into my van he took me into his arms and kissed me.”

“So you got the gig and the guy, huh?” Lydia hoped she sounded cavalier. “How did Julie Christopher feel about that?”

Cameron looked confused by the question. “Julie? She loves to tell the story. Brags that her fall made Fred fall. She’s a real romantic. She and Michael have been married over forty years but they’re as in love as a couple of high schoolers.”

Lydia felt the chill of another trail gone cold. Neither animal cruelty nor business rivalry appeared to be motivating the hit on Cameron. She tried again.

“It does sound destined, doesn’t it? And not just Julie’s fall landing you the job. I mean, what are the odds two people your ages would both be free to act on such an instant attraction?”

Cameron winced. “Fred was used to dating powerful career women. No one seriously. But I had an obstacle.” She looked down at her lap. “I was engaged at the time. The wedding was just weeks away, actually.” She looked up with sheepish eyes. “My fiance didn’t take my announcing I’d fallen in love with Fred very well.”

Lydia felt the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders begin to tingle. “Tell me about that.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mort sat with his third cup of coffee and stared at the folder he’d just closed. He’d requested a background on Lydia after she offered to help with the Buchner investigation. The Mapquest files on Buchner’s computer made him even more interested to learn about the Olympia psychologist with such keen observation skills.

A lot of it was pretty much what he’d expected. No criminal history. Purchased the property listed at the Mapquested address four years ago. Paid her taxes on time. Credit score in the mid seven hundreds. Graduated with honors from the University of Pennsylvania with a Ph. D. in Clinical Psychology. Biology undergrad out of Carnegie-Mellon. Member of two professional organizations, one of which managed her retirement fund. Owns a four year old Volvo that’s never been ticketed or stopped for a traffic violation. Same office since she arrived in Olympia eight years ago, straight out of grad school. No complaints lodged against her professional license.

Squeaky clean. Not even a ne’er-do-well husband to check into.

How’s a woman like that end up being checked out by a guy who gets his face blown off?

It wasn’t Lydia’s boring background that kept Mort quiet and thinking. It was where the background check ended.

There was no trace of Lydia Justine Corriger before the day she stepped her freshman foot onto Carnegie-Mellon’s campus. Mort wanted to know why. He also wanted to know more about those personal reasons she mentioned for wanting to help find Buchner’s murderer.

His cell phone rang. He looked at the screen and pulled himself into the present.

“Hey, Robbie.” He looked at the clock. “How much snow you got in Denver?”

His son laughed. “I’m in Miami, Dad. I got sunshine and tropical breezes.”

“Miami? Claire and the girls with you?”

“They’re home. I’m out here following some leads on the Halloway case. You have anything for me?”

Mort reached for the folder beneath the one holding Lydia’s truncated background check. “What have you got, a spy in the department? I just got the stuff back a half hour ago.”

Robbie chuckled again and Mort found himself longing for the sound of his daughter’s laughter.

“Call me lucky,” Robbie said. “Or impatient. You make the call.”

“With you I’d go with impatient every time. Remember the time you slipped out of your cast because your broken arm was itching? I’ll bet that little bit of impulsivity still sings to you every time it rains.” Mort flipped the file open and scanned the contents. “Well, the taxpayers just spent some money running down a short blind alley. I’m afraid we got nothing on Anna Galeta Salada.”

“Nothing at all?” Robbie asked. “How can that be?”

“Want me to read the entire one page file to you? Says here no records found in any database domestic or international. Several different spellings tried.” Mort let out a snort. “Here’s fun facts to know and tell. Says here ‘Galeta Salada’ is Spanish for ‘cracker’. Sounds like your little hooker has a sense of humor.”

“I’m thinking she isn’t a hooker at all. What about her passport? How’d she get into Costa Rica?” Robbie asked.

“No record of such a passport being issued legitimately. But you got enough money, Robbie, you can get anything.”

“And if my theory about her being a gun for hire is correct…”

“Then she’d have enough money to buy anything she wanted.” Mort closed the file. “You said you were running down leads. What else you got?”

“You tell me. You ever hear of somebody called ‘The Fixer’?”

Mort tossed Galeta Salada’s folder aside. “Isn’t that a television show? No, I’m thinking of something else.” He scanned his memory bank. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”

“While you were running background on Galeta Salada, I tried some different angles. The desk clerk at the hotel where Halloway died couldn’t stop talking about how beautiful this woman was. How Halloway was drawn to her right away. Said she was flawless except for a port wine stain on her neck.”

“I’m listening,” Mort said.

“I get to thinking that being a gorgeous hooker wouldn’t be a bad cover for a shooter, right?” Robbie sounded excited. “So I put out some feelers to see if anybody knows anything about drop-dead beautiful babes putting a hit on someone. I mean, gorgeous women draw attention, right?”

“Very clever. You’re a regular Woodward and Bernstein.” Mort reached for a pen and paper. “What did you learn?”

“Well, I didn’t get the names of anybody who’d been killed by a supermodel, but I did stumble onto something, could be nothing. Turns out a guy got nailed last summer for contracting a hit on his wife. Some low life scum owned car lots up and down the Florida coast. Gets tired of his wife, hooks up with his kids’ nanny, and decides a divorce would cost too much. Hears about someone called “The Fixer” from a friend of a friend who knew some guy with a cousin who used the services once. Says The Fixer makes problems go away permanently. So this guy makes contact. Sets a meet at an airport hotel. The Fixer turns him down but tells him an associate will meet him tomorrow. The guy gets burned when The Fixer calls the local cop shop and busts the guy. Cops send in a decoy and nab his fat ass.”

Mort chuckled. “So what’s this Fixer got to do with Halloway?”

“Here’s the thing.” Robbie sounded like a kid at Christmas. “I interviewed this douche today. Martin’s his name, and he says The Fixer is a woman! A drop-dead looker. Martin said he got a hard on just looking at her. What d’ya think, Dad? Think I found my beautiful hit man?”

Mort was impressed with his son’s work and told him so. “I’ll see what I can find on this end. Martin have a name for this woman?”

“Yeah,” Robbie said. “Said she called herself ‘Graham’.”

Mort wrote it down and tapped his pen against the paper. “Like the cracker.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mort slammed the door to the Subaru. He’d gotten the call half-way through lunch and could have handed it to anyone on the homicide squad, but this one was worth abandoning his pastrami-on-rye. He walked over to the body lying on the rain-slicked pavement, looked down, and fought the impulse to kick the dead man’s vacant stare off his face.

Angelo Satanell, Junior, aka Satan, had a gaping hole in his neck. Mort figured a. 36 caliber at least.

He glanced over to a nondescript middle-aged man sitting on the curb, staring into nothing, oblivious to the freezing rain. Mort recognized him. Mark Hane. Father to Meaghan, the oh-so promising cellist left stuffed behind the dumpster after she overdosed on Satan’s heroin.

“Why isn’t he in cuffs?” Mort asked the uniform standing next to him.

The policeman shrugged. “He hasn’t given us any grief. Called it in himself. We found him sitting right there. Handed us his piece soon as we pulled up.” The officer spit into the street. “You know who this dirtbag is, right?” He leaned into Mort and whispered. “The way I see it, this gentleman did us a favor. I got half a mind to cut him loose and let this one go cold.”

Mort shot the officer an “If Only” look. He took another look at Junior, grabbed the forensic cop’s umbrella, and approached the man on the curb. He held it over the man’s drooped head.

“Mr. Hane?” Mort knelt to face him. “You may remember me. Mort Grant.”

Hane’s focus shifted. He looked at Mort and nodded. Rain dripped from his hair, nose, and chin. Mort recognized the powerless desperation in his eyes. He reached out his hand and lifted a fellow father to his feet.

“You’re going to have to come with me, sir.” Mort steered him to his car and opened the front passenger door. “Careful with your head, okay? What do you say you and I stop for some coffee before we head to the station?”

Hane stumbled into the car. He still hadn’t said a word.

L. Jackson Clark caught the newspaper Mort tossed him as he neared their booth. “You’re early. Making up for past sins?”

Mort took a sip of Guiness. “Needed to get out of the deluge. Started without you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Larry shook the rain off his parka, ran a hand over his gray hair, and pulled the waiting beer closer to him. “You get to the theme yet?”

Mort shook his head. “Two clues in is all.”

The men worked their puzzles in silence for several minutes. “You have anything for 28 across?” Larry asked. “’Another cold dish’?”

“I’ve got an r and an e as the first two letters,” Mort said. “Not enough spaces for ‘refrigerated’.”

A few more minutes of silence. “Ha! Catch 49 across. ‘Another unstrained quality’. There’s the theme. Get that one and you’ve got 28 across.”

“Mercy’s a quality that’s not strained,” Mort said. “At least that’s the rumor. But it’s eight spaces. Ends with ‘cy’.” Mort began writing. “Got it. ‘Clemency’. Old Will wants us looking for synonyms.” Mort pushed his reading glasses up on his nose. “That cold dish served is revenge, huh? So the synonym starting with an r and an e would be…” He filled in the spaces, leaned back, and took a long drink of beer. “Retribution.”

Larry set his paper aside. “You want me to beg or guess?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That deluge you wanted to get out of.”

“I’m that obvious?” Mort signaled Mauser to bring another round. “Call it a rough day. Remember that Satan character?”

“I do. Your impatience getting you again?”

Mort frowned. “That asshole’s off this city’s worry list.” Both men thanked the waitress as she replaced their empty glasses with fresh-filled mugs. “And in reward, the guy who made it possible will probably get ten years in prison.” He nodded to the puzzle. “Where’s the clemency or mercy in that?”

Larry asked for background and Mort filled him in on the details of Satan’s demise at the hands of a grieving father. “Tragic.” The big man shook his head. “I have no envy for your profession, Morton.”

Mort stared into his glass. “I play a vital part in the justice system. That’s what the recruiting posters say anyway.” He took a long drink. “Where’s the justice for Meaghan?” He took another. “Give me ten minutes with the guy who took Allie and I’m not sure what I’d do.”

“You wouldn’t kill him.” Larry’s voice was calm and steady. “Justice is meted out through law, Mort. You’ve dedicated your career to overcoming wanton revenge. No matter how understandable.”

Mort leveled a sad gaze at the good professor. “Let’s talk about your career, Dr. Religious Studies. Don’t your books talk about an-eye-for-an-eye and all that?”

Larry exhaled long and slow. “That’s Bronze Age man’s code. Devastating for developed civilizations. I’m certain the transcendent power of the universe hopes we’ve evolved.”

Mort took another drink and knew he’d need a cab home. “Have we, Larry? Some dick-wad with a rich daddy kills somebody’s daughter and we’re supposed to stand on his side? Against a father who buried his little girl?”

“Justice is different from revenge, Mort. In the words of Gandhi, ‘An eye for an eye leaves everyone blind’.”

Mort looked at his friend. “Maybe there are worse things than blindness.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lydia knew that seven o’clock in the evening wasn’t the time for a double espresso but she brewed herself one anyway. An afternoon filled with appointments had given her the distraction she needed from worrying about Savannah, but also forced her to postpone the research she wanted to do on Cameron William’s jilted fiance. If there was any hope of helping Savannah and freeing her own life from Private Number’s control she needed to find the person who ordered the hits on Bastian and Cameron. Since Mort Grant wasn’t sharing details on Buchner’s murder, the ex-fiance was her only lead. By eight thirty she had lots of information, but little idea what to do with it.

Cameron said she met Bradley Wells the same way she’d met Fred Bastian. She catered an event for Wells’ mother’s eightieth birthday. Like Fred, Wells became infatuated with the lovely and talented chef. Cameron described his pursuit as relentless. She said she was hesitant at first. Not only because of their twenty-five-year age difference, but because she didn’t want anyone to think she’d slept her way to the top.

And Bradley Wells was the top. Lydia knew, like most everyone else in the United States, that he was a self-made billionaire with holdings in timber, real estate, and entertainment. One who used his infinite fortune to champion numerous progressive causes and candidates. She’d also read speculation over the years about a dark side to Wells’ climb to unimaginable wealth. Rumors of ties to organized crime. But he appeared impervious to innuendo and emerged unscathed from a senate investigation twelve years ago.

Lydia assessed the full-color photograph of Wells that beamed from his company’s website. Tanned and silvered haired, looking relaxed and confident in a white t-shirt under a navy blazer. Deep blue eyes. Runner’s body. He could easily pass for a man two decades younger than his actual fifty-five years. She could see why Cameron eventually succumbed to his courting.

Lydia wondered how Cameron dealt with the darker side her former fiance. His Wikipedia biography said Bradley Wells was born in Tacoma. His mother tended bar during his childhood while his father served stints in various county lock-ups. At thirteen, Bradley took a job cleaning lockers at Tacoma Golf and Racket Club. He’d caught the eye of Santo Carrerra, owner of a chain of grocery stores and three “Gentlemen Clubs” on South Tacoma Way. Soon Bradley was Carrerra’s shadow. He was arrested at fifteen for dealing cocaine and ecstasy out of a Section Eight apartment complex Carrerra owned. He did six months in juvenile detention and was re-arrested a year later when police found forty thousand dollars worth of stolen cigarettes in the back of a van he was driving. Bradley remained in juvenile custody until his eighteenth birthday.

Wells’ official biography described “an epiphany” he experienced while a “student at a state run boarding school”. He wrote that he realized the path he was on led nowhere and decided to better himself, his family, and his community. The biography said that when Wells “graduated” he cut all ties to his “old friends” and enlisted in the Marines. Military records document him serving with commendation. He used the GI Bill at the University of Washington and graduated with a business degree. His first job was at a lumber brokerage firm. Twenty-five years later he owned 63 % of the privately held timber land in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho. Wells Enterprises owned commercial high rises, shopping malls, and restaurants around the world and had recently purchased controlling interest in the largest motion picture studio in Hollywood.

Lydia scanned through dozens of photographs of Cameron and Bradley taken at exotic locations. More of the couple at the dedication of food banks and free clinics, many with major political figures standing next to them. Lydia looked at the picture of Cameron dancing with the President of the United States while Bradley waltzed with the First Lady and wondered what the billionaire thought when his fiance came home and announced she was in love with a college professor.

She turned from her computer and re-read a sheet she’d printed earlier. Bradley would have been eighteen at the time the particular news item was filed. Just out of juvenile hall. His father was arrested for using a tire iron to put Bradley’s mother in intensive care. The story reported Bradley’s father was released after two days, his bail paid in cash. He was found dead on Pier 37 the next day. His throat sliced. A Coho salmon shoved in the gaping maw.

His killer was never found.

Lydia knew she couldn’t risk approaching Wells, even disguised. Whoever was behind the synthesized voice knew who she was. If Wells was the link to Private Number, she couldn’t afford to let him know she was closing in. She glanced at the clock and reached for the phone.

Her call was answered immediately. “ICU, Nurse Streckert.”

“This is Dr. Lydia Corriger. I’m checking on a patient, Savannah Samuels. Is she awake?”

“I can’t give you any information without a release, Doctor.” Lydia was impressed with Streckert’s adherence to protocol. “I can put you through to her bay, however.”

Childress answered on the third ring. He sounded exhausted.

“There’s been no change. I thought I saw her eyes flutter this afternoon. But the doctors say it’s just a reflex.” Lydia heard his voice catch. “I just want her to come back to me.”

“How are you holding up, Dr. Childress?”

“You’re kind to ask. You know, you’re the only one who’s stopped by or called to check on her. I appreciate that.”

Lydia assumed Savannah hadn’t told him about their childhood connection. “Do you mind if I ask you a rather personal question, Dr. Childress?”

He assured her he didn’t. Lydia hoped his fatigue and grief would keep him vulnerable enough to give her the information she needed.

“I assume you know Cameron Williams.”

Childress sounded confused. As though his mind was shifting gears. “You mean Bastian’s caterer?”

Lydia caught the judgment in his voice. “I was led to believe she was far more than his caterer.”

He sighed. “That whole business of Bastian proposing? Running off to Paris at the end of the semester?” His voice hardened. “I’m afraid I know all about it. I was Bastian’s right hand man, remember? Cameron meant nothing to Bastian. Oh, he acted as though he was in love, but trust me. She was a means to an end. Like everything and everyone who crossed Bastian’s path.”

Lydia thought of the devastated young woman she’d met that morning, lost in her grief. “I’m not following you.”

“Do you remember me telling you Bastian had one goal only? The enhancement of his reputation? Well, in academic circles reputations are built on how much money you bring to the university. Endowed chairs. Buildings. Research funds. It’s all about the money, Dr. Corriger. And Bastian thought he’d stumbled onto his own personal mint. Do you know who Cameron was engaged to marry before Bastian set his sights on her?”

“No, I don’t.” Lydia hoped her lie sounded convincing.

“Bradley Wells. The man God calls when He’s short on cash.”

“Tell me more.”

“Bastian learned about Cameron’s connection when his usual caterer cancelled a few days before a party. Dropped Wells’ name to assure him she’d secured a reputable replacement. Bastian came to me as soon as he got off the phone. He was as excited as a toddler with a new toy. He originally hoped Cameron would simply introduce him to her wealthy fiance and that he’d be able to charm him out of a few hundred million for his research.” Childress’ voice was cold steel. “But once he met her Bastian changed his plan on the spot.”

“How so?”

“He seduced her. Bastian could be anything he needed to be at any given moment. His plan was to lure her away from Wells. Secure the ability to publicly humiliate one of the richest men in the world.”

“What would he gain by that? Wells had the money, not Cameron.” Lydia needed to keep him talking.

“Bastian had no plans of marrying the poor girl. Not for one minute. You can imagine Wells’ reaction. He confronted Fred the day after Cameron broke it off with him. Threatened to ruin him if he continued his romance with her. Fred suggested they work something out. He offered to end things with Cameron if Wells agreed to become his personal patron.”

“You can’t be serious.” She knew he wanted to tell more.

“Fred Bastian was always serious when it came to his reputation. Having access to the personal vault of Bradley Wells would propel him into a scholastic stratosphere unheard of since the Renaissance. He’d never have to beg for federal grants again. He’d be an academic god.”

“What did Wells say?”

“He was furious. Bastian let me listen to a few conversations on speaker phone. Wells said he’d see him in hell first.” Childress let out a small chuckle. “Turns out he did. Funny how things work out.”

“Yes, it is,” Lydia said. “If Wells rejected him, why did Bastian continue his charade with Cameron?”

“Cameron told Bastian about some land deal Wells was trying to put together with the university. Bastian didn’t share the details with me, but I know he thought there might be enough dirt there that Wells might be willing to cut a deal. Bastian told me he was going to see how the whole thing played out. Until that time, he continued using Cameron, hoping to get more information. All the while leading her to believe they had a future together.”

“I’m beginning to understand your hatred for the man.” Lydia sensed Childress had no more to add. “I won’t keep you. Do give my regards to Savannah when she wakes up, will you? Tell her I’ll be by to see her soon.”

Her hand hadn’t left the receiver when her phone rang. An icy mixture of anger and fear stabbed behind her heart. She breathed deep and willed herself calm when the caller ID revealed that the Seattle Police Department was calling. She answered with a pleasant voice.

“Lydia, it’s Mort Grant calling.” His voice was warm but professional. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“Not at all, Detective.” Lydia was surprised that she enjoyed hearing his voice. “Have you thought about my offer?”

“I’ve given you a lot of thought since our last meeting. I need to be down in Olympia tomorrow. Could we have lunch?”

She felt a spark of promise. “I have patients all day, but I could open an hour at noon, if that works.”

“I’ll make it work, Lydia. I’ll be at your office then.” He wished her a good evening and ended the call.

She needed a plan. Mort provided access to resources she’d need to unmask Private Number’s true identity. But she couldn’t allow his investigation into Buchner’s murder to lead him to Bastian. She had a sense of Mort’s skills as a detective. If he came to view Bastian’s death as anything other than the heart attack it was assumed to be, she ran the risk of spending the rest of her life in prison.

Lydia’s panic climbed. She was losing her edge. Savannah’s suicide attempt drained her. Her inability to help the woman she’d once sacrificed so much to save stripped away the confidence and sense of power she may have tricked herself into believing she possessed. She had to reinvigorate herself. The thought of exercising raced across her mind, but her legs were jelly. She’d not make it downstairs to her gym. She looked at her bonsai and knew she her hands were too unsteady for that intricate work. Her left eye began to twitch.

She didn’t try to fight what she knew would calm her. Lydia closed her eyes and the image of a double-edged razor exploded into her consciousness. A flicker of hope stuttered within her.

Lydia headed toward her bathroom.

Chapter Thirty

“It’s nearly midnight, Dad.” Robbie sounded half asleep. “This about Allie?”

Mort could hear Claire’s dusky French accent in the background, asking her husband what was wrong.

“Oh, for crying out loud. I’m sorry, Robbie.” Mort tossed his pen in disgust. “I didn’t even think. Go back to bed. It’s nothing to do with Allie. It’s about that shooter your guy tried to hire. Listen, tell Claire I’m sorry. Call me when you get a chance.”

Robbie coughed the sleep out of his throat. “You home? Let me get downstairs.” Robbie hung up. Mort had time to pour himself a glass of milk before the phone rang.

“Robbie?” he answered. “You sure you want to do this now?”

“I’m fine, Dad.” His son sounded wide awake. “Claire and the girls are all tucked in. What do you have for me?”

Mort opened the file he brought home. “I checked into Martin’s story about the good-looking shooter who turned him in. I got nothing from Miami. Nothing anywhere in South Florida. Nobody down there has any case involving a gorgeous contract gun.”

“So it was just a coincidence, then?” Robbie’s disappointment came through loud and clear. “Halloway’s hooker had nothing in common with Martin’s assassin. Man, I thought I was on to something.”

“Hold on a minute.” Mort smiled. “I’m not calling you empty handed.”

“I knew it.” Robbie let out a war whoop. “Let me have it.”

“I widened my search. Beyond Florida. Beyond hookers and shooters. I put the word out for unaccounted-for female witnesses to deaths. Like your mystery woman in Halloway’s case. I mean, where the hell is she? I looked for cases where someone dies and folks swear they saw the deceased with some woman right before they ended up dead, but…”

“Nobody can find the missing female.” Robbie interrupted. “That’s brilliant, Dad.”

“I got several hits, no pun intended. Three of them might interest you.” Mort referred to the notes in his file. “Dahlia Fianelli? Name ring a bell?”

“You bet,” Robbie said. “California. About two years ago. Arrested for human smuggling. Her attorney got her out on bail and she went right back into business. But a shipment goes bad and ninety-one Chinese, mostly women, die in a closed container truck left in some desert canyon. Man, I salivated over that story. That was some top-notch crime reporting. Didn’t the police track her down in Sicily?”

“You got it. Said she was visiting family but decided to extend her stay when she realized Sicilian extradition laws forbid sending anyone back if capital punishment is an option. California authorities’ hands were tied.”

“She turned up dead, though.” Robbie asked. “I remember the stories about Divine Intervention.”

“Maybe not so divine,” Mort said. “Dahlia drowned when her fishing boat hit a reef and sank. At least seven people who saw Dahlia charter that fishing boat swear the captain was a woman.”

“Let me guess. The captain’s body’s never been found.”

“Bingo,” Mort said. “And they describe that captain as having a large scar across her face. Not something anyone would miss on a Jane Doe floating to shore.”

“You said you had two more?” Mort could hear his son clicking the keys of a computer.

“Nine months before Dahlia’s boat went down. You remember Jeremiah Valshon’s suicide?”

“The CEO of that chemical company with the plant down in Brazil? The one that exploded and killed, what was it, three thousand villagers?”

“That’s the guy. The government wanted to indict him on criminal charges, saying he deliberately placed the plant in Brazil to avoid safety measures that would cost his company a bundle if he built it in the U.S.”

“I also recall the Senate backpedalling. Saying U.S. investments would be hampered if they set the precedent of a CEO being held criminally responsible for activities outside the country. Valshon got a pass. But maybe his conscious got the better of him. Didn’t he hang himself?”

“He did. I remember thinking at the time a guy who’s got stones big enough to become top exec in a company that size doesn’t off himself. It turns out our guy Vashon went to dinner that night with a woman. Took her to his favorite restaurant in Boston. The staff described her as a “can’t miss”. A real good-looking redhead with a tattoo of an angel wrapping her right arm from wrist to shoulder.”

“Never found?” Robbie asked.

“Bingo again. The third was Ritchie Ortega.”

“The movie star? Drowned in his hot tub, right?” Robbie drew in a deep breath of recognition. “After he’d been acquitted of raping those two teenagers. I remember speculation that someone had paid off enough jurors to hang it. Judge declared a mistrial and the prosecutor decided not to re-file despite other young women swearing Richie’d pulled the same thing with them. What did you find?”

“The woman who ran an escort service Richie liked told police a new girl stopped by looking for work a couple of days before Richie called saying he wanted something exotic. The madam said she thought of the new girl right away. Thought the bright red Mohawk she sported would give him a thrill. Madam sent her and Richie turns up dead. No one could find the hooker. Case gets labeled an accident and mothers everywhere exhaled.”

“Three dead people. Three missing female witnesses.” Robbie sounded hopeful. “Sounds like something, Dad.”

“These aren’t just three dead people, Robbie. These are three very bad people. People who wiggled through the justice system. Got away with rape and murder on a horrific scale.” Mort’s voice was firm. “And these aren’t just female witnesses, either. Each had some physical feature that made people take notice.”

“Martin said his shooter, Graham, had a tattoo of a heart and dagger.” Mort could hear Robbie flipping paper. “And Halloway’s hooker was described as having a port wine stain across her neck.”

“Enough to send the cops looking for something specific. If they wanted to look at all.” Mort tapped his pen against the counter. “The shooter in Miami threw your guy…, what was his name?”

“Martin.”

“Yeah,” Mort said. “The shooter threw Martin straight to the cops when she learned he was a no-good husband looking to off his wife. His target wasn’t bad enough for her.”

“What’s your point, Dad?”

Mort blew out a long breath. “You’re looking at a vigilante, Robbie. This woman sees herself as a righter of wrongs.”

Robbie was quiet for a moment. “If you’re right, I can think of a lot of people who’d give her a parade for taking those people out.”

Mort remembered his conversation with Larry. “And that’s exactly why people like her are so dangerous.”

“Sounds like my Halloway story might have gotten a little bigger, huh?”

Mort flipped the file closed. “Can you handle it?”

Robbie laughed. “I always do, Dad. Now let me get to bed. You’ve given me a full agenda for tomorrow.”

“Will you do me a favor?” Mort asked.

“Name it.”

“Find out how Martin contacted the shooter. Let me know.” Mort hung up the phone, drank his milk, and climbed the stairs to his empty bed.

Micki Petty was sitting in his office when he got to work at 7:00 the next morning. Mort tossed his brief case on his desk and hung his soggy parka on the coat rack behind his door. “Jimmy see you yet?”

Micki laughed and the rain outside Mort’s window lost its dreary power. “I figured I’d beat him in. You got some time for me?”

“I got a pulse, I got time for you, Mack.” He nodded toward the expandable file she held in her lap. “What do you have there?”

“You know that sound equipment in Buchner’s living room?” she asked.

“The fancy tape recorders? Jimmy says the university wants them back as soon as we’re done.” He settled one hip on his desk. “So? Are we done?”

Micki held his gaze and slowly shook her head. “Not by a long shot.”

Mort knew Micki could sniff out a grain of sand in a blinding snowstorm. Before he could ask what she’d found his attention was pulled to the sight of Jim DeVilla walking down the corridor, Bruiser lumbering by his side. He rolled his eyes as Jimmy stopped and leaned into Mort’s office.

“Hey, Pardner, what’s up?” Jimmy feigned a double-take. “Why, Detective Petty. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Mort waved him in and told him to shut the door. “Do you have some sort of radar?” Mort watched Bruiser sidle up to Micki for morning kisses. “Or have you trained Officer K-9 here to lead you to her?”

Jim feigned nonchalance. “I might have heard Daphne mention Micki was here to see you. Made me wonder if this has to do with the Buchner case. Maybe there’s some piece of evidence you might want the Chief of Forensics to know about.”

“Sit your love-sick ass down.” Mort watched Bruiser nuzzling Micki’s hair. “The both of you. Micki was about to tell me something about that fancy recording gear in Buchner’s place.”

Micki snapped the band on the thick file and pulled out a folder. “It’s one-of-a-kind, that’s for sure. It’s essentially an amalgam of several different pieces of audio equipment.”

“An amalgam?” Jim turned to Mort. “Do you need me to define the term?”

“Save it for happy hour, Jimmy.” Mort directed a raised eyebrow toward his friend. “Go on, Micki.”

“It’s a digitized voice synthesizer coupled to a powerful microprocessor and accented with a few more devices. What Buchner had in his home is the main unit. Think of it as the mother ship. I found slots for several hand-held remote devices.” She handed copies of the diagram she’d drawn to each man. “The quality’s fantastic. There’s nothing mechanical or artificial sounding in it at all.” She pulled several pages of notes from her folder. “The output is virtually limitless. You could assume the voice of someone famous. You could design a specific accent. Male, female, adult, child. You name it, this bad boy can produce it.”

“How does it know what you want to say?” Jim was using his professional tone now and Mort was glad to hear it.

“Any number of ways. You could type something on a keyboard and the machine will read it. Or, you could speak directly into a microphone and it will reproduce your words in whatever voice you choose. It’ll capture anything digital.” Micki’s excitement over her discovery was obvious. “There are also keys for commonly used words and phrases. A simple touch and the machine will speak. There’s even a scanner where you can insert something printed and have it read to you. This thing could be great. Blind people, folks with cerebral palsy, stroke victims, spinal cord injuries. I get why the university is so interested in this.”

Mort nodded. “You thinking that maybe this gizmo is our motive, Mack? Somebody gets wind of what Buchner’s working on and decides to make it their own?” He scowled. “But wouldn’t they just take it? Why kill the miner and leave the gold behind?”

“Maybe we interrupted them.” Jimmy stroked Bruiser’s head resting on his lap. “You’ve seen the thing. Must weigh a couple hundred pounds, easy. Maybe they offed poor old Wally, then realized they needed more muscle or a bigger car. When they came back they see the squad cars and flashing lights and drive right on by.”

“That doesn’t smell right,” Mort said. “Anybody who knows what this thing does knows how big it is. They’d bring what they needed to haul it out of there.”

“Unless they think they already had what they wanted. Like I said, there are spots for hand-held remote devices. Only the mother ship was found.” Micki pulled out another file. “But if somebody thought they got what they needed by taking the remotes, they thought wrong. This machine records everything that’s run through it.”

Both men knew Micki turned into a pitbull when working a case. Once she locked her jaws on a clue she didn’t let up until she chewed it raw.

“It may be fancy in all its applications,” Micki said. “But at its heart it’s a computer. I ran a forensic dig on its files. I found a lot of test runs. It was when I started looking at what had been erased or downloaded that the fun started.”

“Do tell.” Jimmy leaned in close.

“Like I said, everything the machine does gets recorded, whether it’s produced by the mother ship or one of the remotes. But I discovered several long tracks of conversation manufactured by the machine were erased. They were more than erased. They were scoured. Downloaded first, then erased, then scrambled in the trash file. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make sure what was gone stayed gone.”

“But they weren’t counting on Super Sleuth Petty,” Jim said.

“You can’t believe what I went through to reassemble them. Took me two days and half of last night.” Micki’s eyes twinkled as she pulled a CD out of her file.

Mort pointed to a player on his shelf. He grabbed two notepads and a couple of pens off his desk. He tossed one set to Jimmy.

“Ready when you are, Mack.” Mort crossed his legs and used a knee for a desk.

Micki inserted the CD and pressed “play”. A digitized voice yelling “stop where you are” came over the speakers, followed by “Are you Carr?” Then a man’s voice: “wait”. Then a woman’s: “I’m afraid”. Then a child’s: “Wait Miss Carr”.

Mort signaled and Micki stopped the player. “Each of these voices was manufactured by the machine?”

Micki nodded.

“Incredible,” Jimmy said. “Sounds real to me. Except for the first one, of course.”

Micki graced them with a wide smile and Mort understood why Jimmy turned into an infatuated adolescent around her. “Wait til you hear who’s coming up next. Ready?”

Both men nodded and Micki pressed the button. Mort and Jim dropped their jaws when Barbara Streisand’s voice came out of the speakers. They listened, stunned, as the machine manufactured a Boston-accented male. Mort signaled again for her to stop.

“We’re hearing half a conversation here, Mack.” He checked his notes. “Any idea who this ‘Ms Carr’ is?”

Micki shook her head. “The device only records what it manufactures or what is run through the machine directly. I’m afraid we have no record of who Ms Carr is, what she said, or even how long of a time lag exists between machine items. It’s easy in some spots to infer what Carr might have said, just from the flow of the machine-generated responses.”

“This is all very interesting.” Jim smiled up at Micki. “And it goes without saying I’m always happy to be in your company. But it’s just somebody showing off their machine. Probably Buchner was trying to con some coed out of her panties and wanted to wow her with the power of his nerdiness.” He turned to Mort. “No offense to the socially inept in the room.”

“You won’t think so when you hear what’s next.” Micki stood with her finger poised on the play button. “Buckle those seat belts, boys. It’s about to turn into overtime.”

The recordings started again. Within twenty seconds both men sat bolt upright and scribbled notes throughout the one-sided conversation that could be interpreted as nothing other than a negotiation for a contracted murder on someone named Fred Bastian.

It was over in less than ten minutes. Micki removed the CD and sat down, waiting for them to say something.

“Whose prints are on the machine?” Mort stared down at his notepad. “And if you tell me only Buchner’s, I want to know if it looks like the damned thing’s been wiped down.”

“No prints period, Mort. Not even Buchner’s and it was sitting in his living room.” Micki turned to Jim. “You got a question?”

“I got a million of them. Like for starters, who’s Fred Bastian and what did he do to this monkey Ortoo that would make someone put a hit on him?”

Micki reached into her folder and pulled out another disc. “You remember me telling you the machine records not only what it generates, but everything that’s run through it? How it’ll take anything digital as input?”

Mort tried not to sound inpatient. “What have you got?”

Micki circled behind Mort’s desk and asked if she could log onto his computer. Mort nodded and both men stood behind her as she took a seat at Mort’s console and inserted the DVD into the reader.

“When I heard Bastian’s name I went back into the machine’s memory and ran a trace on it. I was looking for anything anywhere that was tagged ‘Fred’ or ‘Bastian’. Again, I found a slew of records that had been scoured. But these were video. They were stored in another part of the memory. That’s why we didn’t hear any words from them on the first CD, which was strictly audio.” She looked over her shoulder to the two investigators leaning in to watch the computer monitor. “Neither of you are squeamish, right?”

She started the video.

“So that’s Bastian?” Mort asked. “Looks like your typical science geek.”

“This must have been playing when that part about Bastian and his monkeys was being discussed, huh?” Jim said as the video of Bastian giving a tour of his lab screened. “Any video about that gorilla Ortoo?”

“Wait,” Micki said. “And get ready for nightmares tonight.”

The second video came on.

“Holy Mother of God,” Jim whispered. Bruiser snapped to attention at his master’s change of mood. “That’s one huge ape.”

“It’s a gorilla,” Micki corrected. “Watch how he goes berserk when Bastian shows up.”

They watched the magnificent animal rage. Then tranquilized. They saw him chained.

The three of them sat silent and watched Ortoo’s blood spray across his assailant while Bastian cut off the gorilla’s head with a reciprocating saw. Mort felt his stomach lurch and his anger climb as he watched Bastian hold the great creature’s severed head to view his own body.

The video ended and still they remained silent.

Mort stood and tossed his notepad on his desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to will the images from his brain. “We gotta get next to this Bastian.”

“Why?” Jim’s soft voice was focused steel. “I say turn the other way and let the hit happen. Son of a bitch.”

“We’re not paid to turn the other way, Jimmy.” Mort put his hand on Micki’s shoulder. “You got contact info on Bastian, Mack?”

Micki spun around in the chair and looked at Mort with wide eyes. “You guys don’t follow the local news much, do you?”

“Not unless there’s a score or somebody’s bleeding,” Jim said. “What we miss?”

“Bastian’s dead.” Micki looked at each of them in turn. “Died just before Christmas. Heart attack.”

Mort and Jim looked at each other. Nearly three decades of friendship afforded a silent and effective communication.

Jimmy stroked Bruiser’s flank.

Mort glanced at his watch.

“Listen,” he said. “I gotta leave for Olympia in a couple of hours. Micki, great work. Let’s keep this one close for the time being. Run background. You’re looking for anything, beside this, that links Buchner to Bastian. For all we know Buchner just had the plain shitty luck of babysitting this fancy recording thing when the bad guys came looking for it. “

“I’m on it,” she said.

“Jimmy, can you get with the coroner’s office? Find out for sure how Bastian died. Check with Tyler Conner. He’s the best examiner down there. I’ll contact the university and see what I can learn there.”

“I’ll do it.” Mort knew DeVilla’s mind as well as he knew his own. He watched his friend turn toward the door and hesitate before walking through. Jimmy called back to Mort and Micki. “But I’m doing it for Ortoo. Far as I’m concerned, whoever took Bastian out is a fucking-A hero.”

Bruiser followed him. The picture of canine determination.

Chapter Thirty-One

Mort counted it a stroke of luck when he called the Neuroscience Department and learned that Jerry Childress, the acting chairman, was with his fiance at a hospital in Olympia. He walked into the Black Hills ICU around ten-thirty. Mort figured he could ask him a few questions about Bastian and still have plenty of time to meet Lydia at noon. He showed his credentials to the charge nurse and was directed to Bay 13.

The sleeping dog of grief woke up hard and hungry. The chaos of the nurses’ station. The incessant beeping monitors and ringing phones. The stench of antiseptic. Family members standing around like shell-shocked zombies. Each tortured by the same thoughts that paralyzed Mort on Edie’s last day. “What happened?” “What’s next?” He put one foot in front of the other and prayed the snarling mongrel would lie back down.

In Bay 13 a man in need of a shower and shave slouched beside the bed of a woman connected to a tower of equipment. As quiet and pale as death, the patient was still remarkably beautiful. Mort’s eyes dropped to the ventilator tube protruding from her throat, saw the bruises, and didn’t have to ask what happened.

Mort knocked on the doorframe. “Professor Childress?”

The man blinked bloodshot eyes, as though trying to bring Mort into focus. Mort took advantage of Childress’ disorientation and walked into the room.

“I’m Detective Mort Grant, Seattle PD.” He showed his badge and nodded toward the bed. “I’m sorry to bother you at such a sad time, but I have a couple of questions.”

Childress reached for the woman’s hand. “About Savannah?” He sounded like he hadn’t used his voice for awhile. “Why are the Seattle police investigating?”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Childress looked back to the woman. “I wish I knew, Detective. I blame myself.” He bent over and kissed the woman’s chalky forehead. “I always said the department would be the death of me.” He blubbered his next statement. “Instead it may cost me my dear Savannah.”

Mort loved the power of an open-ended question. He had no idea the woman in the bed was connected to Neuroscience. “Is your fiance a faculty member in your department?”

Childress reached for a tissue. “No.” He blew his nose. “She just got caught up in something ugly. Savannah’s much too delicate for the blood sport of academia.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Childress pulled his stiff and ungroomed body as tall as he could manage. “You’ve already asked that, Detective.” His attempt at sovereignty fell flat. “Surely your little report doesn’t require the details of her suicide attempt.”

Mort side-stepped the insult. “I’m not here about your fiance, Professor Childress. Mind if I call you Jerry?” Mort smiled at Childress’ reluctant nod. “I’m actually here about that blood sport you mentioned. Can you tell me more about that?”

Childress’ fatigue disappeared. His eyes darted around the room. Mort wondered if he was looking for support or escape. Childress glanced out to the roiling bedlam of the ICU central desk. He took four quick steps forward and stabbed his index finger in Mort’s direction.

“You have no right questioning me about that.” Mort looked down at the bald spot on Jerry’s head. “You leave that alone. It’s departmental business.” His spit flew. “We did everything by the book.” Jerry spun on his heel and stabbed his finger again. “Which is more than Bastian ever did.”

Bingo. Mort wondered if his current run of luck might extend to a lottery ticket.

“What can you tell me about Bastian, Jerry?” Mort pulled a chair away from the wall and sat. “Sounds like you have no qualms speaking ill of the dead.”

Childress took another look outside the ICU bay before he sat back down beside Savannah. “Is this about the faculty meeting?”

Mort smiled. Childress was making this way too easy for him. “We’ll get back to that. Let’s start with Bastian.”

“He was a monster,” Childress said. “If there’s a hell, Bastian’s one of its newer inhabitants.”

“I’d like to hear some specifics, if you don’t mind.” Mort took a small notepad from the pocket of his parka.

Childress narrowed his eyes. “Are you investigating a sexual harassment charge? Or is it Bastian’s misappropriation of federal funds?”

Mort clicked his pen open. “You paint Bastian with an ugly brush, Jerry.”

“I’m just trying to be of service, Detective.” Mort didn’t buy it for a minute. “Tell me specifically which of Fred Bastian’s mountain of offenses you’re investigating so your time here may be efficiently spent.”

He wanted to tell Childress his arrogance was irritating and ineffective. Out of respect for the circumstances he held his tongue. “I’m a homicide detective, Jerry.”

He watched Childress’ disorientation return.

“Homicide?” He sputtered as he reached out to the sleeping woman. “Why are you asking us about a homicide?” Mort was intrigued by the odd use of pronoun.

“I’m investigating Fred Bastian’s death,” he said.

“Since when does a heart attack warrant a homicide detective?” Childress asked. “Frankly I’m surprised Bastian didn’t have one sooner, the debauched buffoon.” He rubbed his left hand across his cheek. “There’s no mystery, Detective.”

“Maybe so. But since I’m here, I might as well do what the good citizens of Seattle pay me for. Do you know anyone who might have a motive to harm Dr. Bastian?”

Childress barked a hollow laugh. “There aren’t enough investigators in ten police departments to track down every person who wished ill upon Fred Bastian.”

“I’m listening.” Mort leaned back.

Childress began his report of Bastian’s rise through the university ranks. He spared no details of Bastian’s corruption and deceit. Childress painted a portrait of a man who wielded his power without thought to ethics or decency. He also described a hapless faculty brow-beaten into submission.

Childress reached to the nightstand for a cup of water.

Mort decided to see if his luck was holding. “I hear he was involved with animal research. That piss anybody off?”

Childress ran his finger around the cup’s rim. “That may be his darkest dimension.” He looked up and Mort saw the disgust in his eyes. “We humans, we each played a part in our torment. Condoning it in our own hapless way. We kissed Bastian’s feet to get promoted or published or simply to keep our jobs.” He swallowed hard. “But the animals had no input. Their cages weren’t money or prestige or a well-funded pension. Theirs were steel. Triple locked. They had no say into the torture and death Bastian handed them.”

Childress stared at his empty cup. When he looked at Mort his voice was quiet but strong. “Yes, Detective. To use your vernacular, his work with animals pissed a lot of people off.”

Mort saw Childress’ eyes look high and to the left. A brief look of surprise danced over his face.

“Well,” Childress turned to his bed-bound fiance. “It’s a big day for visitors, my dear.”

Mort looked over his right shoulder and snapped his attention back to Childress.

“She’s coming here?” Mort asked. “You know her?”

“I do.” A small smile curled Childress’ fleshy lips. “That’s Dr. Lydia Corriger. Savannah’s psychologist.”

Mort pushed his chair into the corner and leaned back. He watched Lydia enter and greet Childress with a brief handshake.

“Any change?” she asked.

Mort thought she looked bone-on-bone exhausted. And more concerned about her patient than any doctor had been about Edie.

“None, I’m afraid,” Childress said. “May I introduce someone?” He turned to Mort before Lydia could answer. “Forgive me, Detective. I’ve forgotten your name.”

Mort watched Lydia’s tired eyes widen. He was impressed with how quickly she regained her composure.

“It’s Mort Grant.” He stood. “And Dr. Corriger and I have met.”

“You know each other?” Childress sounded intrigued at the notion. “Well, perhaps the world is as small as reported.”

Mort kept his eyes on Lydia. The pulsing vein in her neck revealed more than the passive look on her face. She kept her smile small and tight.

He reached into his parka for his car keys. “I’ll be on my way, Professor. Again, I’m sorry for your troubles.” He shook Childress’ hand. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” Mort turned to Lydia. She still hadn’t said a word.

“And I’ll see you at noon.” His tone was as stern as the look in his eyes. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Mort carried a large paper bag into Lydia’s office at the stroke of twelve. Her office door was closed. Before he could sit down it opened and a middle aged man walked out, drying his eyes and thanking Lydia, who stood behind him. Mort waited for her patient to leave.

“I brought lunch.” He held up the sack. “I don’t want to waste time driving to some restaurant.” He looked around the room. “Where do you want to do this?”

Lydia closed the door to her office. “Out here is fine, Detective.” She picked up a book and glanced at her watch.

“You’ll have to read that later, Doc.” Mort pushed several magazines to the side of a coffee table and unloaded the bag. “An hour’s what you promised me and an hour’s what I’ll take.” He looked up at her and saw her jaw tighten. He nodded toward a chair. “Pull up a seat. I got a tuna and a ham and swiss. Name your poison.”

She watched him arrange lunch before pulling a side chair closer to the table. She tucked her book beside her and reached for one of the bottles of water he brought. Lydia held the water on her lap. Knees together tight. Back straight. Shoulders square. Mort could feel her tension four feet away.

“Tell you what, these are cut. Let’s take half of each and avoid any decision.” Mort laid the sandwiches out. “And for God’s sake call me Mort.” He grabbed half a tuna and took a large bite, watching Lydia as he chewed.

“You’re not hungry?” he asked.

She smoothed a small hand across her corduroy trousers. “I thought we were going to talk about my helping on the Buchner case. You said you’d been thinking about it.”

He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I have. But I have a few questions before I decide.”

“Such as?” Lydia twisted the cap off her water bottle and took a sip.

“Such as why, when I’m interviewing a subject in a homicide investigation, do you show up?”

Lydia shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Detec…Mort.”

He watched her hand tighten around the bottle and softened his voice. “Lydia, Childress told me you were his fiance’s shrink. You’re not violating any doctor-patient privilege.” He put his sandwich back on the table and leaned forward. “I saw the rope marks on her throat. Is that what this is about? Is Savannah’s suicide attempt the reason you want to help solve Buchner’s murder?”

Lydia’s breathing eased a bit. “What are you implying?”

Mort shook his head. “Don’t play games with me, Lydia. We can’t work together if you do.” He saw something that looked like optimism flash in her weary eyes. He scooted his chair closer to the table and leaned in. “Did Savannah tell you in session that she killed Walter Buchner? Is that what this is all about?”

Lydia leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “No, Mort. Savannah did not tell me in session that she killed Walter Buchner.” She held his stare for several heartbeats.

He sighed and leaned back into his chair. “But you think maybe she did.”

Lydia reached for a sandwich and sat back. She took a bite of ham and swiss. “Delicious, thank you. It’s my favorite sandwich.”

“Yeah?” He took another bite of his own. “Well, don’t start thinking I’m like you, some kind of mind reader observing God-knows-what little detail. I can’t get clue one off you.” Mort was relieved to see her give him a brief but genuine smile. Maybe a more oblique approach was what he needed. He nodded to the book beside her.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

Lydia hesitated before reaching for it. “The Bluest Eye”. She handed it across the table to him. “It’s a cautionary tale about the pointlessness of longing for what we can never have.”

Mort looked at the cover. “Toni Morrison, huh?” He smiled and handed the book back. “She’s one of Edie’s favorites. Always trying to get me to read her.” He shook his head and smiled. “I’d try. But her writing is major league and I’m a farm team kind of guy.”

Lydia ran a gentle hand across the cover of the book. “But if you bring yourself to her you’ll read the most beautiful words ever written.” She looked at the author’s photograph and smiled again. “Obviously Toni got something out of school that I didn’t.”

Mort leaned back. “This is nice.”

“What?” she asked.

“Having lunch and talking. I like you much better when you’re relaxed.”

Lydia’s face clouded over. She pulled her back straight, looked to the door and down to her watch.

“Ease up.” Mort reached for a bag of potato chips and pulled it open. “If you’re worried that I’m about to make a pass you can get off that horse.” He popped a few chips in his mouth. “First of all, I’m a one-woman man. Edie Grant’s dead. That doesn’t mean I’m one iota less in love with her than I was on the day we married. Secondly, I’m old enough to be your father. Well, almost. Edie and I have a daughter almost your age.” He took another chip. “I was just saying that if we’re going to work together on this Buchner thing, I like it better like this than when you’re so uptight I can hear you squeak.”

Lydia threw her shoulders back and inhaled sharply. Mort thought he saw a tickle of a grin on the right corner of her mouth.

“Squeak?” she asked. “You can hear me squeak?”

“All the way over here.” He tossed a bag of chips onto her lap. “Thought it was my cheap shoes at first. But it’s you.”

Lydia laughed. Mort got the impression she hadn’t done that in years.

“That’s better,” he said. “Maybe I’ll trot out my old jokes and give you the giggles more often.” He waited a few seconds before asking his next question. “You and Savannah ever talk about Childress?”

“I can’t talk about anything therapy related, Mort. You know that.” Lydia took a long drink of water and followed it with a bite of sandwich. “But,” she smiled again. “I can tell you I met Childress for the first time yesterday. I was surprised when he introduced himself as Savannah’s fiance.”

“Fair enough.” He was happy to see her fear subsiding. “What’s your read on him?”

“Childress?” she asked.

“Yeah. What’s your great power of observation tell you about Lover Boy?”

Lydia smiled and Mort watched her eyes dance in spite of their obvious weariness. He thought she could be beautiful if she loosened up. Maybe use a little make-up and do something with her hair besides pulling it back in one of those scrunched-up thingamabobs.

“I think he’s pompous, rude, arrogant, and condescending. In a nutshell, scared witless and all wrapped up in his defenses. The kind of man who’ll fight for power and hang onto it like a she-bear protecting her cub because he knows no one will ever willingly give him any.” She popped a potato chip in her mouth. “And he’s unhealthy. Fleshy and greasy. He’s spent a lifetime using fine wine and buttery French food as a substitute for the warmth of human companionship.”

Mort wondered what Lydia used as her substitute. “Wow. That’s a lot from just the one meeting.”

Lydia shrugged. “Like I told you, I’m good.”

He was glad she was still smiling. “Good enough to tell if he’s capable of murder?”

Mort watched the smile slide off her face. She crumpled the potato chip wrapper and laid it on the table.

“You think Childress killed Buchner?” The vein in her neck throbbed with her rising pulse. Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Him?”

Mort leaned forward. “Take it easy, Kid. I’m just asking.” Mort was surprised at her flash-triggered fear. “You wanna ride shotgun with me, you’re going to have to be brave.”

Lydia’s face turned stony. “There’s nothing wrong with my courage, Detective.”

She reminded Mort she had a patient at one o’clock. He knew she’d retreated far enough that any more questioning would be futile. He tried another tack to lower her defenses.

“You don’t mind my saying, you seem awfully upset about Savannah’s suicide attempt. I’d have thought you shrinks had thicker hides than that, given the folks you work with.”

Mort watched her sway nearly imperceptibly in her chair. She stared into the distance and he wondered if she was lost in grief or fatigue.

“Sometimes hides are thinner than we hope,” she whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushing off a near-instinctive desire to tell her everything would be all right. Instead, he stood, gathered the lunch rubbish into the paper bag and tossed it into the garbage can before pulling on his jacket. Lydia rose and walked him toward the office door.

“We’ll work together on the Buchner case, then?” she asked.

Mort shook his head and smiled. “You’re a tough one, Lydia. Tell you what. Next time you buy lunch and we’ll talk more about who killed old Wally.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “In the meantime, there’s anything I should know, you’ll call me, right?”

Lydia nodded. “Thank you for lunch, Mort.”

He hesitated before leaving. “And take care of yourself, will you? You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.”

He left her office, sloshed through the melting snow, and settled into his car. He stared back at Lydia’s office and wished she’d relax long enough to tell him what had her so frightened. He pulled out his cell and punched number three on speed dial.

“Hey, Mort,” Jim De Villa answered.

“You get down to the coroner? Speak to Dr. Conner?” Mort kept his eyes on Lydia’s building. He hoped the rest of her day was easier than the morning had been.

“I did. He promised to run a complete tox screen on Bastian’s blood. Says he’s got several vials on hand.”

“Good,” Mort said. “Let me know as soon as he calls, will you?”

“Anything else you need?”

“No.” Something tugged at the back of Mort’s mind. “Well, maybe. Can you run a background on Toni Morrison for me?”

“Wait a minute.” Mort heard his friend rustle some paper. “How you spelling it?”

“Toni Morrison, you Neandrathal. The writer.”

“Holy Mother of God.” Jimmy sounded skeptical. “You’re not liking her for Bastian or Buchner, are you?”

“Just Google her, will you, Jimmy? I’d do it myself except I’m going to be on the road for the next hour. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I’ll be here,” Jimmy said. “Anything you need me to work with Micki on?”

Mort clicked his phone closed and started the car.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mort got back to the station around 2:30. Daphne let him know Jimmy was looking for him.

“Oh, and your son called. Said he tried your cell but you didn’t pick up.”

“I was driving.” Mort took the stack of letters and memos Daphne handed him.

“He didn’t leave his name.” Daphne looked worried.

Mort smiled and wondered how she found her way to work every morning.

Back in his office he tossed the pile of mail on his desk and hung up his coat. He settled into his chair and dialed Robbie’s cell.

“Hey, Robbie.” Mort glanced at the clock. “Where is my wandering son today?”

“I’m still in Miami, Dad. Listen, Martin told me how he contacted The Fixer. His lawyer was squawking all the way, begging him to shut up, but I guess he figures he’s already sunk.”

Mort reached for paper and pen. “I think these guys enjoy the attention they get by spilling their guts. Even if it makes them look dumber. And what the hell are you still doing in Miami? Claire’s going to skin me alive for keeping you gone.”

Robbie chuckled. “You worry too much, Dad. Claire knows what this story means for my career. She’s cool.”

“Well, don’t cool yourself out of your marriage, son. You get more like me the older you get. We both married out of our league. Don’t blow it. What did you find out?”

“Like I said, Martin first heard about The Fixer through the grapevine. Said it sounded worth a try.”

“How’d he reach her?” Mort asked.

“It’s pretty slick. Martin said you put an ad in the classifieds of three different papers. The New York Times, Rolling Stone, and USA Today. First Thursday of the month. You say you’re looking for someone to help translate an old family cookbook and you leave your contact information. Said it took four days.”

Mort was scribbling his notes. “Then what happened?”

“He got a call. The voice was disguised. Digitized.”

Mort tapped his pen against his desk. “Lot of that going around these days.”

“Huh?” Robbie asked.

“Nothing. Another case I’m working. Then what?”

“Martin arranged a meet. Hot tub of some hotel near Miami International. He wasn’t expecting a woman.” Robbie sighed. “You know the rest.”

Mort sat still for a moment. “You checked out these papers?”

“The minute I left Martin.” Robbie sounded like he did when he was nine years old and Mort brought home that second-hand bicycle. “Dad, there’s dozens of those ads. But none before six years ago.”

Mort jotted down the timeline. “Must be when she set up shop. Any around the time Halloway wound up dead in Costa Rica?”

“You bet. An ad was placed one month before Halloway died. Martin’s ad was seven months before that.”

Mort looked at his notepad, filled with dates and leads. “Well, I’d say brick by brick you’re building a strong case that Halloway was murdered by this Fixer woman. Any idea who hired her?”

“Dad, after Halloway’s scheme was exposed, I’d bet there’s at least fifty people who’d hire someone to take him out.”

“You’re probably right.” Mort remembered Jimmy saying whoever hit Bastian was a saint. “Keep writing. In the meantime, save your Old Man some trouble, huh?”

“Name it, Dad.”

“Give me the dates of the last six ads. I’ll take a look and see what I come up with.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Got a pencil?” Robbie asked.

“Ready when you are.” Mort started writing. When he was finished he asked his son for an update on the girls. He hung up smiling about Hayden and Hadley’s latest shenanigans. Mort kept his hand on the phone while he whispered a quiet prayer for his own daughter. He took a deep breath, shook his concerns to a back corner of his brain, and called Jim De Villa.

“You up there alone?” Jimmy asked.

“You mean is Micki with me? When are you going to stop tripping over your own dick and realize she already loves a guy your age? She calls him ‘Daddy’.”

“Every man needs a hobby, Mort. Mine’s worshiping at the feet of the delectable Micki Petty.”

“Yeah? You’d have better luck with fly fishing, Buddy.” Mort shifted the receiver to his left hand. “Listen, I got a little project for one of your people. That a problem?”

“This on Buchner or Bastian?”

“Neither,” Mort said. “It’s a problem or not?”

“What do you need?” Jimmy asked.

Mort brought his friend up to speed. He could hear Jimmy scribbling notes on the other end of the line.

“So you need copies of the classifieds from these dates? Hell, that’s so easy Daphne could do it,” Jimmy said. “You got something in mind?”

Mort wondered how to answer. His gut was telling him there was more to this than his son’s story.

“I’m doing Robbie a favor, is all,” he said.

“I’ll put one of the rookies on it. I’ll use the same one who pulled the stuff for your book report.” Jim grunted out a laugh. “That ought to keep her wondering why she wanted to join the exciting world of forensic investigation.”

“What are you talking about? What book report?” Mort asked.

“You asked me to run Toni Morrison. You getting Alzheimer’s early, Mort?”

“Oh, for the love of God, Jimmy.” Mort closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I asked you to Google her, not run her. She’s a freaking Nobel Prize winner.”

“Relax. Slip of the tongue.” Jim chuckled and Mort wished he was in the room. Close enough to smack. “I meant Google. Got the stuff right here.” Mort heard papers shuffling. “What do you want to know? Hey, you know she hangs with Oprah? You’re swimming in the deep end of the estrogen pool now, my friend. Let’s see. First novel published in 1970. Won the Pulitzer in ’88. The Nobel in ’93, but you already knew that.”

“What about where she was born?” Mort interrupted. “Where she grew up? You get that?”

“Let me see.” More paper shuffling. “Here it is. Born Chloe Anthony Wofford. Says here she was raised in Lorain, Ohio.”

“Your folks got time for a fishing expedition, Jimmy?”

“Haven’t you heard? Seattle’s murder rate is in a decline.”

“Great. Can you run a Lydia Corriger in Lorain, Ohio?” Mort spelled the names. “Let me know what you find.”

“You mean Google or ‘run’?” Mort didn’t miss the snicker in Jimmy’s voice.

“I mean ‘run’, Jimmy. Go deep.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lydia poised her small scissors over the bonsai plant and contemplated her next slice. This one was her favorite. Something about the bend in the uppermost branch captivated her spirit and held her heart. She’d been grooming it nearly three years. Cut by cut, snip by snip. The tiny tree had revealed its elegant perfection. For twenty minutes she gave her mind over to the process. Trying to focus on nothing more than shape and color.

But the pleasure of mindful discipline proved ineffective. Searing visions of Savannah laying in the ICU charred her memory. Innocent little Greta grown into wounded lovely Savannah. Floating between life and death because the one person she dared hope would save her couldn’t.

Her failure with Savannah wasn’t the only intrusion. She set her scissors down and recalled her meeting with Mort. He brought her favorite sandwich. Lydia smiled when she remembered his description of his one true love. She liked the way he made fun of himself about the Morrison book. Said he was too dumb to read it. She knew anyone who underestimated Mort Grant’s intelligence did so at their peril. Lydia promised herself she’d not make that mistake.

He said it was nice having lunch with her. A whimsy drifted through her mind that he was right. Lydia grabbed the scissors, resumed her pruning, and banished the pleasant notion.

Memories of how it all started barged into her consciousness. She shook her head and recalled herself as a hopeful new psychologist. Bound to rid the world of the evils she’d experienced. Determined to fix things. But as good a therapist as she was, it wasn’t enough. Power rolled over the innocent. Justice was absent.

Lydia looked at her reflection in the darkened window and saw the face of failure. She couldn’t stop evil. She couldn’t save Savannah. All her efforts had been meaningless. It was time to stop. Let the wickedness of humanity find another champion. She was tired.

Lydia put her pruning gear away and made the rounds of her house, checking each door and window to make sure the locks were tight. Along the way she clicked off lights until only the lamp on her bedside table was lit. She tossed several pillows to the floor, folded the heavy damask duvet to the foot of the bed, pulled back the blanket, and stumbled back in surprise.

A pink envelope contrasted against the white sheet.

Bile rose in the back of her throat. The icy grip of terror held her as she reached for the offending missive. She slipped a finger under the sealed flap and withdrew a Valentine card. Roses and cupids encircled a glittered heart. Lydia opened the card and dozens of photos of Cameron Williams tumbled across the bed. None larger than her thumb. Malevolent confetti celebrating a morbid expectation. She brushed them clear and read the typed message inside the card.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Fixer.

Lydia spun around, knowing she’d find nothing. She pulled the drawer of her nightstand open. The nine millimeter Lugar semiautomatic was exactly where it should be. She picked it up and checked the magazine. Loaded. She turned the pistol over and anger replaced fatigue.

A small sticker decorated the grip. A tiny pink heart bearing the inscription “Thinking of you”.

The bedside phone rang. Lydia glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven o’clock. She grabbed the phone, held it to her ear, and waited for Private Number to start a Streisand-voiced taunt.

“Dr. Corriger?” a female voice asked.

Lydia said nothing.

“Hello, is anyone there? This is Dr. Nancy Tessler calling for Dr. Lydia Corriger. Do I have a connection?”

Lydia blinked her mind clear. “Yes, Dr. Tessler. I’m here. Is this about Savannah?”

The ICU attending’s voice softened. “Yes.” Her pause told Lydia all she needed to know. “I’m sorry to inform you Savannah died about fifteen minutes ago. She never regained consciousness. If it’s any consolation, her fiance was by her side.”

Lydia hung up the phone, reached for the Lugar, and crawled under the sheets.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Mort swore into the receiver and immediately apologized. It wasn’t Micki’s fault.

“No connection between Bastian and Buchner at all?” He was counting on a lead. “But they’re both at the university.”

“Yeah,” Micki said. “Along with 43,000 students, nine thousand faculty, and another ten thousand employees.”

“I’m not buying it. The gear at Buchner’s house proved a hit was out on Bastian. Bastian ends up dead and Wally follows a little later. There’s got to be something.”

Micki sighed over the phone. “You’ve worked with me four years now, Mort. Name one time I missed anything.”

Mort apologized a second time. “You’re the best there is, Mack. I know that. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”

“I dug deep. Bastian was the chair of Neuroscience. Buchner was a low-level researcher in Audiology. In university circles those are opposite ends of the food chain.”

Mort shook his head. “I hear you. Listen, thanks for your work.”

He was still staring at the phone when Jim De Villa knocked.

“You willing it to ring?” Jimmy asked. “Or trying to levitate it off the desk?”

Mort threw his friend a defeated look. Bruiser bounded over to him and offered a handshake. Mort took it and felt a little better. “Just hung up from Micki. She couldn’t find a connection between Bastian and Buchner.”

“So Wally was just an innocent bystander, huh? Unlucky enough to have the synthesizer in his living room when the bad guys came looking for it. Micki ask about me?”

“No,” Mort growled.

“No she didn’t ask about me or no Wally wasn’t an innocent?” Jimmy took a seat across from Mort’s desk. Bruiser circled back and settled in at his feet.

“No to both. Something’s not passing the sniff.” He nodded to the files in his friend’s hand. “What do you have there?”

Jimmy leaned forward and tossed a file to Mort. “I’ve completed my assignments, Teacher. Can I have extra recess, please?”

“This from Tyler Conner?” Mort flipped the file open and scanned the coroner’s updated report. “Bingo! Succinnylcholine in Bastian’s bloodstream?”

“Doc says it’s a super-strength muscle paralyzer. Stopped Bastian’s heart and lungs from working. Bastian would have been dead within two minutes.”

Mort nodded. “Tyler have any idea how the dose was administered?”

“Flip to the back photograph.”

Mort pulled out a 5 by 7 full color close-up of Bastian’s neck as he lay on the coroner’s gurney. A red line circled a small needle prick.

“The medical examiner on the first report didn’t mention it when the meat wagon brought Bastian in,” Jim said. “Doc Conner took one look at the morgue photos and found it right away.”

Mort leaned back in his chair. “Two minutes is a long time, Jimmy. Somebody jams a needle in my neck I’m going to fight. We got pictures?”

Jimmy tossed another file folder onto Mort’s desk. “A few. Bastian’s fiance found him and called it in. There was no reason to believe it was anything other than a routine heart attack. The scene wasn’t processed.”

“This fiance got a name?” Mort flipped through the six photos. He saw a comfortable, masculine room. A large potted poinsettia suggested Christmas. Nothing appeared out of place. “Could she have injected Bastian and tidied up the room before she called 911?”

“I don’t think so,” Jimmy said. “Doc Conner says Bastian’s muscles would have been paralyzed in a heartbeat. Said he’d be conscious for a while, but unable to move.”

“So his killer would have a captive audience for two full minutes.” Mort closed the file. “Like I said, that’s a long time. The synthesizer’s recording put the hit as retaliation for what Bastian did to his lab animals, especially that gorilla.”

Jimmy’s face turned grim. “His name was Ortoo.”

“Right. Maybe our killer wanted the two minutes to torture Bastian.”

Jimmy nodded. “Then why not cut off his head? Tit for tat? I know I’d be tempted.”

“You got blood, you got police. The killer wanted us to think Bastian died of natural causes. Get a team into that room, Jimmy.”

De Villa smiled. “Per usual, I’m one step ahead of you, Buddy. Doc Conner amended cause of death to homicide. DA’s got the case and four of my best are out there now. According to the fiance the room’s not been entered since the ambulance took Bastian on the night he died.”

Mort stood up. “What are we waiting for? Let’s roll.”

De Villa stood to face him and Bruiser scrambled up in tandem. Jim’s tone of voice guaranteed Mort’s attention. “I got my team on it.” He held out the thick file remaining in his hand. “Like I said, I got all my homework done. I found your Lydia Corriger.”

Mort took the file.

“She a friend of yours?” Jimmy’s voice signaled Mort wasn’t going to like what he found.

“More like a puzzle. A psychologist wanting to help with the Buchner case. Micki found Mapquests to her house on Buchner’s computer. My radar’s up, that’s all.”

Jimmy turned for the door. “It’s ugly, Old Friend. I suggest you read it sitting down. I’ll head out to Bastian’s. Join me when you’re done.”

Mort closed the door behind him, returned to his desk, and opened the file. The first two pages duplicated what he already knew about Lydia. Honor student through UPenn and Carnegie-Mellon. Dissertation won a national award. Mundane information about her life in Olympia.

Copies of legal documents followed. Court records granting the petition of Peggy Denise Simmons to legally change her name to Lydia Justine Corriger. Filed and granted on her eighteenth birthday. Mort swallowed hard and hoped he was wrong about why a young girl would want to change her name the first moment the law said she could. He took a deep breath and read.

Peggy Denise Simmons was born to Edith Louise Comstock in a charity ward in Lorain, Ohio. No father was listed on the birth certificate. Police records document eight calls to three addresses linked to Edith Louise. The last one resulted in an ambulance taking Peggy, emaciated and limp, to the emergency room of the same charity hospital where she was born eleven months earlier. Tests of the near-dead toddler revealed four broken bones, scarring from cigarette burns, and signs of internal bruising. Police were summoned. They questioned a belligerent Edith who described the child as “nothing but trouble”. Edith threatened to pee her pants if the officers didn’t allow her to go to the bathroom. They did and Edith was never seen or heard from again.

Mort flashed on Allie, so close in age to Lydia. He remembered her first few months at home. He breathed deep and his memory sent him the powder-soft scent of her infancy. He closed his eyes and saw the yellow and green nursery Edie worked so hard to get right. The pastel plaid bunnies standing guard over her crib. The white wicker rocker where Mother and daughter cooed to each other for hours. A tear formed in his left eye and he let it fall. For Lydia and Allie both.

Mort read the chronology of chaos that documented young Peggy’s first few years. A series of short-term foster homes, none lasting longer than three months. Social workers documented a long-term foster placement when Peggy was five. She was removed when her kindergarten teacher reported Peggy coming to school hungry, unwashed, and bleeding from lash marks on her legs.

A third- way through he needed a break. His jaws were clenched so tight he could hear his teeth grinding. The description of abuses heaped upon the little girl made Mort wonder how Lydia survived. He walked down the hall and poured himself a cup of near-rancid coffee, hoping to scour away the bitterness in his throat.

His worst fears were confirmed when Mort read the full history of Peggy/Lydia’s time in the system. Sexually abused by a foster father for nearly two years before she found the courage to tell her social worker. Police reports stated the dirt bag was “unavailable for arrest”. Mort shook his head. A year later Peggy does ten months in a juvenile detention facility for taking a baseball bat to another foster father. Mort scanned the court documents and learned that Peggy/Lydia told the judge she’d been trying to save a newly placed foster-sister from the same sexual abuse she’d been forced to endure in exchange for room and board.

The judge didn’t believe her.

The reports grew a bit brighter after Peggy was released from juvie. She was placed with a single woman; Joanne Travis. A widow with twenty year’s experience as a foster mother. Social workers documented Peggy’s slow recovery from her years of brutality and neglect. Her grades in school were excellent. Her relationship with Mrs. Travis was described as close and warm. She was provided therapy. Mort wondered if that drove Lydia’s decision to become a psychologist.

Peggy’s nest of safety disappeared during her senior year in high school when a drunk driver trying to out-run a police cruiser took a corner too fast, jumped a curb, and hit Peggy and her foster mother while they stood waiting for a bus. Peggy’s injuries were severe enough to put her in the hospital for two weeks. Mort read the physician’s report that speculated Peggy/Lydia would have been killed had Joanne Travis not stepped in front of her to take the brunt of the impact. Mrs. Travis was killed instantly.

Jim had included newspaper reports covering the case. The drunk driver turned out to be the police chief’s nephew. He pleaded no-contest to a charge of operating under the influence and was offered the opportunity to expunge his record if he attended alcohol education classes.

Three social workers’ reports completed the file. They described a distant and grieving girl who isolated herself from her next foster mother. Reports from Southview High School indicate she remained an excellent student, graduated at the top of her class and secured a full scholarship to the Ivy League. She aged out of the foster system and marked the occasion with a visit to the courthouse. Peggy Denise Simmons became Lydia Justine Corriger.

Mort had no idea where Lydia or Corriger came from, but he felt certain he knew where the middle name was born.

Finally, she had her justice.

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to make sense of the past few days. His mind flashed to an image of Savannah Samuels lying in the ICU. What had she done that drove her to hang herself on Lydia’s office porch? Jerry Childress linked Savannah to the neuroscience department. That put her at most one degree away from Fred Bastian. Mort recalled Childress telling him Savannah had been terribly upset when Buchner was murdered.

Had Lydia lied to him when she said Savannah never told her she killed Buchner? His gut and his brain screamed for attention. Mort’s frustrated growl caused two secretaries and a uniformed rookie to quicken their pace as they passed his office. He shoved his chair aside and grabbed his parka. He was missing something obvious and he knew it. Maybe time at a crime scene would give him new perspective.

Two hours later he watched the last of Jim De Villa’s forensic team walk out of Bastian’s back door.

“My spidey sense tells me all those prints we lifted are going to check out as belonging here.” Jimmy stood in the middle of the room with his latex-gloved hands on his hips. “Whoever did Bastian didn’t leave a trace.”

“There’s always something, Jimmy.” Mort walked over to take his fifth look at the fireplace mantle. “We’ll keep looking.” He turned and gave the room a broad surveillance. He crossed to the large windows and nodded to Bruiser sitting in quiet vigilance on Bastian’s back deck. Mort glanced to a corner of the room. A foil-wrapped pot held the dying branches of a large plant. Poinsettia leaves, curled and bleached of color littered the top of the table. He bent to read the card displayed in a plastic trident stuck in the pot’s dry dirt.

“’Merry thoughts of you, Meredith’.” Mort called over his shoulder to Jimmy. “Do we know who this Meredith is?”

“I imagine it’s me, Officer,” a woman’s voice answered.

Mort turned and saw Jimmy holding Bastian’s back door open to three people.

Mort shot his friend a look. Jimmy shrugged.

“We’re done here, Mort. There’s no harm.” Jimmy held the door wide and the three newcomers stepped inside.

“I’m Mort Grant, Seattle PD.” He pulled his parka aside to reveal his badge and nodded toward his friend. “That’s Jim DeVilla, Chief Forensic Officer. And you are?”

A tall silver-haired man stepped toward Mort with his hand extended. “I’m Brad Wells, Detective.” Mort placed him as soon as he said his name. Bradley Wells, the Patron Saint of Seattle. The genius with the bright and shiny future and the dark and dirty past. He shook the billionaire’s hand and wondered just how convoluted Bastian’s murder was going to get.

“May I introduce you?” Wells waved his female companion closer. She held her chin proud and high. Her smile a study of condescension. Mort bet she was a knockout in her youth. Ash blonde hair gathered into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. Pale skin showing the slight sag of age at her jaw line. Grey eyes sparkling beneath heavy lids. Mort put her at nearly six feet. He looked down and subtracted three inches for the suede heels she wore.

The other man quickened his step to reach Mort first. Mort estimated late-thirties, early-forties. Thin. Nondescript except for unruly red hair. He stuck his hand out.

“Carl Snelling, Detective. Executive Provost for the university.”

The bureaucrat’s wrist buckled the moment Mort tightened his own calloused grip against the provost’s fleshy hand.

“And this is President Thornton.” Snelling nodded toward the woman standing next to him.

She wore a wool coat wrapped around her small waist by a wide belt. Edie would have called the color winter white. Her pearl earrings matched the necklace encircling her creped throat.

“President Thornton and I were on our way to a foundation luncheon.” Wells shared his smile with Mort and Jimmy. “She was just telling me your people re-classified Bastian’s death as a murder. We saw the police cruisers and Meredith suggested we stop to see if there’s anything new to be learned.”

The tumblers in Mort’s mind turned and reminded him who this woman was. Meredith Thornton, University President. He produced his best civil servant smile.

“We’re in the very early stages of our investigation. All leads are being followed. We’ll keep the public informed as necessary.”

The Lady in White nodded. She held her smile as her eyes bored into Mort. “I am more than the public and Professor Bastian was more than a colleague, Detective Grant. I’d appreciate it if you’d save your canned responses for the media.” She nodded to the dead and dried poinsettia. “I sent him those to wish him a happy holiday. It pleases me he knew I was thinking of him just before he…”. Her voice caught and she glanced away. “Just before he died.” She returned her gaze to Mort. “Fred Bastian was one of ours, Detective. You have the full resources and cooperation of every university employee in your efforts to unravel this tragedy.”

Carl Snelling chimed in. “I’d be happy to make myself available should…” His efforts were cut short by Thornton’s wave. She reached a manicured hand deep into her coat pocket and extracted a small leather folder. “Here’s my direct number. Call me with any new developments. I don’t care how small you think they may be. The university needs to be prepared.” She took a slow look around and Mort wondered what memories were preying on her. She turned and stepped toward the same door she’d entered.

“We’re late, Brad. Come along, Carl.” Meredith Thornton stopped and looked at Jimmy, who shook himself to attention and opened the door for her. She turned and gave them each a goodbye nod. Snelling trailed behind her, eyeing the watchful German Shepherd holding guard on the deck.

Wells stepped to Mort, then Jimmy to shake their hands. He handed each his own card. “Call if I can help.” He smiled apologetically. “This business has her upset. I’m sure she didn’t mean to come off so abruptly.” Bradley Wells nodded toward Bruiser. “Magnificent animal. Seems to be beautifully trained.”

“His bite is worse than his bark.” Jimmy’s voice was sharper than Mort thought it needed to be.

Wells stepped though the door and Jimmy closed it behind him.

“Wait til I tell Micki,” he said. “Think she’d let me buy her a drink to share the details?”

“Only if you could guarantee Wells would be joining you. And you might want to be a hair more diplomatic with the Man with the Golden Touch.” Mort zipped his parka and took one last look around.

“He rubbed me the wrong way.” Jimmy pulled his gloves out of his pocket.

“Guy like Wells buys and sells folks like us every day of the week, Jimmy. Don’t take it personally.” Mort shook his head. “But the lady president. Remember how Edie used to say some people gave her pause?”

Jimmy smiled. “She had a way with a phrase, that Edie.”

“She did indeed.” Mort missed Edie’s way with lots of things. “Let’s just say Meredith Thornton gave me pause.”

“How’s that?”

“All that stuff about Bastian being one of theirs. How glad she was that he knew she was thinking of him.” Mort headed for the door. “Doesn’t it seem curious that she didn’t ask how her friend was murdered?”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lydia had to accept Mort’s invitation. Savannah’s suicide devastated her and the pressure to kill Cameron Williams was ratcheting higher. Her only hope for a way out was finding Private Number. For that she needed Mort Grant and a way to stay close to his investigation.

She walked into the bar of The Olympia Oyster House at 3:00 sharp. When Mort looked up and waved her over to a booth in the far corner, she was surprised the smile she put on wasn’t completely forced.

“Thanks for meeting me.” Mort’s face bore the lines of fatigue and frustration. “We need to talk.”

“About the case?” She slid into the booth and slipped off her parka. “How can I help?”

The waiter came before he could answer. Mort ordered a latte. She asked the waiter to bring her the same.

“You look as beat as I feel,” he said. “You’re off duty, I hope.”

“I’m fine.” She liked the way he was with her. Relaxed. Not afraid to show his weariness. “What are we talking about?”

“You.” He leaned back against the leather upholstery. “I didn’t want to do it over the phone.” He rubbed his hand over his face and Lydia’s pulse quickened. “When you came to my office, wanting to get involved with the Buchner investigation, my radar went off.” He looked her hard in the eye. “I knew you were lying. I just didn’t know why.”

Lydia glanced around the room and located the three nearest exits. “I told you. My reasons for wanting to be involved are my own. I hope you can respect that.”

He held her gaze. “It’s time to stop the bullshit, Lydia.” His voice was a notch above whisper. “You’re not Nancy Drew. You’re not Lois Lane.” He shook his head. “And Lord knows I’m not Superman. But right now I’m all you got.”

The arrival of their coffee allowed her a moment’s distraction. Mort waited for the server to leave before asking his next question.

“You think Savannah killed Buchner, don’t you?”

Lydia checked his face for deception and saw none. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s more bullshit.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I’m a cop, Lydia. I’m investigating a murder. The time for secrets is long gone. Tell me what you know about Savannah’s role in all this.”

She kept her eyes away from his, ran a hand over the heavy linen tablecloth, and calculated her next move.

“Lydia, this thing with Buchner is bigger than you know and I’m afraid if you go it alone you’re going to end up hurt. Maybe worse.” Mort crossed his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “Here’s how it looks on my end. Tell me where I’m wrong.” Mort shifted in his seat. “Buchner’s murdered. You come to me out of the blue wanting to help. Next thing I learn is Buchner’s been mapquesting directions to your house and office.”

Lydia took in a sharp breath.

“You didn’t know that, did you? So much for those keen observational powers of yours.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So I ask myself, ‘What’s going on here?’ and I run a little background on you.”

Lydia shot a look to the nearest door and calculated the distance.

“All I come up with is a law-abiding citizen. And yet I’m still stuck with the link between you and Buchner.” Mort leaned back against the booth. “Which leads me to the next thing you don’t know. Buchner’s murder is tied to another one. Did Savannah ever mention the name Fred Bastian to you?”

She snapped her head up. He’d made the connection. She forced her hands and her eyes back to her lap.

“I see she has.” He drew in a long breath and took his time exhaling. “Imagine my surprise, when I find myself questioning Childress about the Bastian murder, you walk right into the interview. I learn Bastian’s right hand man has a fiance and you’re her shrink. I mix that information with some other stuff I’ve got and I come up with only one answer.”

“What’s that?” she whispered.

Mort’s eyes softened. She wondered if he could sense her fear.

“We know about Savannah’s involvement with the politics over at Neuroscience. Her fiance told us and we’ve verified his story with the professors who hired her.” He shook his head. “Interesting line of work she’s in.”

Lydia didn’t respond.

“Buchner was in possession of a recording of someone putting out a hit on Bastian,” he said.

Lydia forced herself to keep her eyes down despite her rising panic. Mort had Private Number’s synthesized voice from that night in the warehouse. What else did he know?

“Let’s say this someone’s hired gun was seeing a shrink down in Olympia,” Mort continued. “Said someone finds out, starts wondering what gets disclosed during all those confidential sessions, and decides to check you out.”

“Sounds like quite a story, Mort.” She did her best to keep her face passive.

She could feel Mort’s gaze. “The way I see it, Savannah kills Bastian. It might have ended there, but like the song says, she fooled around and fell in love. She wants to stay in Seattle and build a life with Childress, who, I’m sure, doesn’t have the faintest notion about his fiance’s murdering ways. But there’s a bump in her road. Buchner could put an end to her happily-ever-after fantasy with one phone call to us about what’s on his recorder. So she decides to close the loop and shoots his face off.” Mort leaned forward. “I think Savannah let enough drop in your sessions that you started to wonder if your patient was a killer. And that’s when you decided to come see me and find out what was what.”

Lydia sat still as stone. “I don’t know what it is you want me to say.”

He waited a few moments before he scooted closer. His voice was soft, apologetic. “Maybe it’s time for me to put my cards on the table. Lydia, I know who you are. I know it all.”

Her bowels rumbled and she felt the bile rise in the back of her throat. Her breath left her as she frantically scanned the bar. No uniformed officers. No obvious back-up.

“What do you mean? Of course you know who I am.” She hoped her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

Mort kept his eyes on his coffee. “You were born Peggy Denise Simmons. Your mother abandoned you when you were nearly dead from her neglect and abuse. I’ve read your entire file. I know what you went through.” Mort looked up and Lydia saw compassion in his eyes. “I understand why you’re guarded, but I’m asking you to trust me.”

The cold winter rain of shame washed over her. She started to shiver. Mort reached behind her and pulled her parka up over her shoulders.

“You deserved better than you got,” he whispered. “But that was then and this is now. Let’s work together, Liddy. I’m afraid if you keep going it alone you’re going to find yourself in a heap of hurt.” He smiled. “I don’t want that.”

Lydia blinked her tears out of her eyes.

“Now how about you put your stealth shield down and let’s talk?”

She ran a hand through her hair and stared at the gentle man sitting next to her. A surge of warmth relaxed her core. She bit her lower lip and gave him a slow nod.

“That’s better.” Mort leaned back and took a sip from his mug as though the last few minutes hadn’t happened. As though the ignominy of her childhood had no impact on his view of her. “As soon as she’s able, I have to talk to Savannah. She’ll never know we’ve had this conversation.”

Lydia blinked and tried to find mental footing. “You don’t know? Mort, Savannah’s dead. Never regained consciousness.”

Mort reared back. “No one called me. Of course, why would they?” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. “I’ll check back with Childress.” He put his hand on her arm. “Liddy, I’m so sorry. I’m sure you helped her all you could.”

She didn’t know what to think about that. All she knew was her patient was dead.

“Talk to me, Liddy. Tell me about Savannah.”

Lydia looked down at her hands and contemplated the gravity of revealing a patient’s confidence. Especially Savannah’s.

“You seem to know a lot about my past, Mort. Did you learn about my time in juvenile hall?”

He set his notepad aside. His voice soft again. “I did. Your record says you took a baseball bat to your foster father.”

“He was raping a six-year-old at the time.” Lydia kept her eyes focused on her lap.

“Yeah. I got that. The judge didn’t believe you.”

She looked up at him. “Do you?”

He met her gaze. “Yes.”

Lydia let her eyes drift across his face and allowed herself a brief fantasy of what life might have been like if she had a father who believed what she said just because she said it. She dropped her gaze back to her lap.

“Savannah was that little girl,” she said. “She tracked me down after all these years because she believed I was the only one who could save her.”

Mort blew out a low sigh. “My God. I can’t imagine what that was like for you. The pressure you must have felt.”

Lydia felt a surge of regret at her need to continue to lie. She told herself if she kept close to the truth her betrayal might be palatable.

“Savannah never actually said she killed anyone. But she told me she did awful things.” Lydia looked down at her hands, ashamed of her disloyalty. “Things where people got hurt, she said. She even said people died.”

“She give you any specifics?” Mort flipped his notepad open.

Lydia shook her head. “I didn’t believe her at first. I thought it was a dramatic ploy some patients use to hook their shrinks. But as our sessions went on, Savannah changed.”

“How?” Mort asked.

“Savannah was breathtakingly gorgeous. Beautifully groomed. Sophisticated in a way we don’t see in Olympia. She insisted there was something wrong with her that she wanted me to fix.”

Mort’s head jerked up. “She said that? She used the word ‘fix’?”

A flutter of fear caught at her throat. “Yes. Is that important?”

“Could be. Go on.” Mort scribbled a line on his pad.

“As time went on she became less fastidious about her appearance. Subtle things at first, but toward the end she was quite disheveled. She became focused on the deaths at the university.”

“When did that start?”

“Fred Bastian was the first one she mentioned. Said she was responsible for his death. I tried to assure her it was a heart attack. That’s how the papers labeled it. But she was beyond comfort.” Lydia’s breathing grew shallow and hurried. “Then when Walter Buchner died she became a complete mess. I worried that she might be experiencing a psychotic break. She kept talking about all the people who were dead because of her.” Lydia bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “But nothing specific. No names.”

“And you came to believe she killed Buchner.” Mort tapped his pen against his notepad.

Lydia could answer that question honestly. “I don’t know what I believed at the time, but she was adamant she was responsible.” She offered a small smile. “That’s when I came to see you.”

“And offered to play Junior Detective.” Mort took another sip of coffee and grimaced. “This is cold. I’ll get us more.”

Lydia watched him return from the bar with the coffee pot. A fantasy of a loving father sharing coffee with his daughter on a winter’s afternoon danced through her mind.

“Listen up, Liddy.” Mort set the coffee pot down and took his seat. “Maybe you won’t be so eager to play Lois Lane after I bring you up to speed.”

Lydia listened as Mort told her the facts as he knew them. She feigned surprise when he told her about the voice synthesizer they found at Buchner’s apartment. Her distress was genuine when he explained what the police were able to pull off the device’s memory.

“So Fred Bastian was murdered?” she asked. “How?”

“Drug injected into his neck. Tough to trace, but we found it.” Mort gave Lydia a broad smile. “We really are good at what we do.”

Lydia’s stomach tightened. “And you’re confident Savannah killed him?”

Mort nodded. “Remember when I asked you if Savannah used the word ‘fix’ when she came to you?”

Lydia held her face in a bewildered pose. “Several times at each visit. I think I noted her obsessive use of the word in my chart.”

Mort related what he and his son had discovered about The Fixer. She struggled to control her mounting panic in response to his accurate, though incomplete, description of her assignments through the years. Her contact and payment methods had been exposed. They knew about her disguises. Dampness gathered at the roots of her hair as he described Martin’s cooperation with the police.

She was out of business. For that she was glad.

The question was, could she survive?

“This Fixer? You’re thinking it’s Savannah?”

“Maybe.” Mort pushed his mug aside. “I got two detectives running a background on her right now.”

Lydia leaned back in disbelief. Could it be this simple? Would Savannah’s suicide offer her a way out? She turned to Mort and allowed herself another fantasy. Maybe they’d have coffee again. She dug her fingernails deep into her palms and forced the pleasant thought out of her mind. She still had to find Private Number.

“What’s our next move?” she asked.

Mort shook his head and sighed. “I want you out of this. You’re forgetting something.”

She swallowed hard. “What’s that?”

“Savannah may be The Fixer.” He leaned forward and tapped his index finger on her wrist. “But I’m not buying for one minute that Wally was the brains behind this whole thing. It wasn’t those professors in Neuroscience, either. They’d never go so far as to have him murdered. My money says Buchner was used as a stooge. Until we find out by whom I don’t want you anywhere near Seattle. Remember, whoever hired Savannah knows you were her shrink.”

Lydia focused on Mort’s finger and wondered when the last time another human being touched her. Many put their hands on The Fixer; that was part of the job. But Mort’s touch was different. A worried father driving home an important point to a daughter he adored.

She shook her head clear. “I hope you’ll keep me posted.”

Mort’s smile was warm and wide. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. Oh, I almost forgot.” He fumbled in his pants pocket and pulled out a long strip of leather with a wooden whistle attached. “I made this for you.”

Lydia hesitated before reaching out for the gift. She felt her throat closing. She turned the small trinket over in her hands, examining the first gift she’d received in years.

“You made this?” The tightness in her voice was genuine. “For me?”

Mort leaned forward and pointed to the slot of the whistle. “See that little ball in there? It makes the whistle loud. You blow this baby and people will come running.”

“How’d you get it in there?” Lydia looked closely for a glued seam.

Mort shrugged. “Used to be all one piece. I just freed it. Bit by bit, whittling away until it broke free. Now it dances on its own.” His pride brought a smile to her face. “Go ahead. Try it.”

She touched the whistle to her lips and tasted the sweetness in the grain. She gave a furtive glance around the bar. He winked and nodded his encouragement. Lydia drew in a deep breath and blew.

It was louder than she expected. She dropped it from her mouth and Mort laughed as every head in the restaurant turned their way.

“You find yourself in trouble, Liddy, you blow that.” Mort’s voice was soft. “If there’s a way for me to get to you I will.”

Lydia felt the sting of tears rising. She stumbled for words, but none came.

“You know, I made one of these for my daughter years ago. Her name’s Allie.” Mort laid his hands on the table and kept his eyes down. “She’s about your age.”

Lydia watched Mort drift back to another time.

“Allie was a beautiful baby.” Mort smiled, lost in memory. “Smart, too.” He glanced up at Lydia. “Started taking piano at four and by the time she was seven she was playing Gershwin like she was born in a concert hall. She turned twenty-one two days after she graduated from college.”

Mort stared into middle space. “She was our shining jewel. But she was restless. No job could hold her interest. No man could, either. She was always looking for the next big thrill. It was like watching a Formula One racecar speeding straight for a cliff.”

He fidgeted in his seat and Lydia sensed a shame come over him. “A couple of years ago a buddy of mine from the department, Dave Frinell’s his name, heads the drug unit. He’s at our place having dinner with me and Edie when he gets a call that a house they’d been watching just received a major shipment. Heroin and cocaine both. Snitch looking for a get-out-of-jail-free card tells the cops the head of the west coast drug cartel will be there to oversee distribution. Needless to say Dave’s on his way out the door and I ask if I can tag along.” Mort gave a sad grimace to no one in particular. “I guess homicide’s not enough for me. Gotta be the big guy on the drug bust, too.

“Anyway, we leave Edie with the lasagna and head out.” Mort’s eyes glazed over. “We got there just behind the narcotics team. Everyone in the house was cuffed. All we had to do was go in and make sure the drugs were tagged and send the bad guys downtown for processing. But I needed to meet the head guy. I wanted a good story to tell Edie.”

Mort rubbed the base of this palm over his eyes. “You should have seen this dump, Liddy. Strung out junkies lying on couches smellier than a cat’s litter box. Tough guy assholes in handcuffs, making like they’re Al Pacino in ‘Scarface’. But then I see The Man.” Mort shook his head. “Looked like a San Francisco politician. Suit probably cost more than I make in a month. Standing in the middle of the room saying nothing except how he wants his lawyer. I shake my head and walk past him.”

Mort’s gaze returned to nowhere. “Maybe three steps behind Mr. High and Mighty Drug Czar is my Allie. Looking like a million dollars in some fancy dress I don’t know where the hell she got. She doesn’t see me at first and she’s got this scared look on her face. I’m standing there, stunned, and she finally turns.” Tears glazed Mort’s eyes. “For a second she looks glad to see me. Like she knows I’m there to help. But then her look changes. Maybe something she sees on my face, I don’t know. But she gets this look of shame. I can see it like it was yesterday.”

Mort cleared his throat. “So I play the by-the-book tough cop. Hope to scare some sense into her. Don’t even acknowledge I know her. Let the uniforms process her like she was any other drug whore.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But she was my daughter.”

Mort shifted his weight in the booth. “I get home and tell Edie what’s happened and she loses it. Demands I go to the station and get her daughter. I hold firm. Tell Edie a night in jail may be just what Allie needs to realize you don’t go to drug dens looking for kicks.” He nodded his head three slow times. “Biggest fight my wife and I ever had. But I stood my ground. Yes sir, I won that battle.”

Lydia knew when someone needed to tell their story. She sat silently beside him.

“Next day I take my time getting to the precinct. Figure I’d let Allie get a taste of the jail’s cold toast and milk before I sign her out.” Mort looked Lydia in the eyes. “But when I got there, she was gone. Drug King’s lawyer bailed them both out an hour earlier.” Mort seemed unaware of where he was. “I haven’t seen her since. My Edie died without seeing her daughter again.”

Lydia let him be still in the memory. A few minutes of silence passed before she spoke.

“Why are you telling me this, Mort?”

He reached for a paper napkin and blew his nose. He gave a tentative smile. “Two reasons, I guess. First of all, to even the score.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What score?”

“Your file, Liddy. That should have been your story to tell, but I went digging and now I know something about you that you probably wish I didn’t.” Regret poured from his eyes. “You oughta know the same about me. We’re even.”

Lydia wondered if they were. “What’s the second reason?”

Mort reached out to touch the leather strap of the whistle Lydia held in her hand. “I let my daughter down when she needed me most. No one’s ever had your back. You blow that whistle, Liddy, and don’t ever doubt I’ll be there.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Lydia sat at her kitchen table holding Mort’s whistle and tried to make sense of the day. Mort believed Savannah was The Fixer. After so many solitary years of self-protection, could she walk away? Was the normal life she fantasized about a possibility for her? Could that life include a friend like Mort? She looked out into the black night and brought her hand to her reflection in the window. She saw the fatigue in her face and the whisper of hope in her eyes.

“What about it, Liddy?” She tried out Mort’s nickname and found it comforting. “Should we join a book club?” A short giggle escaped into the empty kitchen.

She’d just turned on the flame beneath the tea kettle when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Lydia smiled as she reached for it, hoping it was Mort calling to say goodnight. She glanced at the screen and was jolted back to the reality she knew was hers alone.

Private Number was calling.

Lydia slid the phone open and waited for the synthesized menace to begin speaking.

“Time’s a-wasting, there Fixer.” The voice was George W. Bush, flawlessly reproduced, right down to the iconoclastic snicker. “Just called to say tick-tock, tick-tock. Heh heh heh. Y’all have a good evening and know that I’m working real hard watching over you.”

Lydia slid the phone closed without a response. She stared at the flame under the tea kettle and felt the heat of her foolish dreams climb up her spine. She’d been absurd to think things could be different. She was who she was and if she wanted to survive her fantasies needed to die.

The Fixer had an assignment.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Mort thanked the enthusiastic undergraduate who escorted him through the maze of hallways that led to Meredith Thornton’s office.

“No problem.” The boy who’d introduced himself as Bodie smiled and snapped a salute. “If you need anything, just look for a purple blazer. We’re The Ambassadors and we’re here to help.”

Mort watched the young man bounce down the hall and weighed whether Bodie was on medication or needed to be. He turned toward Thornton’s office just in time to have the door pulled open in front of him. A skinny man with a wealth of red hair grinned.

“Detective Grant. Nice to see you again.” The man waved him in to a large reception room. “I’m Carl Snelling? Executive Vice Provost? We met at Fred Bastian’s? President Thornton and I were with Bradley Wells?”

Mort experienced the same jolt of disgust he had upon their first meeting. “Will you be joining our discussion, Mr. Snelling?”

Snelling’s smile melted. “Actually, it’s Dr. Snelling. Or Executive Provost Snelling if you want a mouthful. And of course I’ll be joining you.” Snelling turned to a gray-haired woman sitting behind a desk tucked a discrete distance away. “Angela, let President Thornton know our guest is here.” He turned back to Mort. “Can I have Angela fetch you anything, Detective? Coffee? Mineral water?”

Mort held Snelling’s gaze for several heartbeats before turning a warm smile to the grandmotherly woman in the corner. “I require no fetching, Angela. Thanks, though.” He returned his focus to Snelling, said nothing, and enjoyed the bureaucrat’s discomfort so much he was disappointed when Meredith Thornton opened her office door and asked them both to come in.

Mort settled into a chair opposite the sofa where the university president sat. Snelling rested his backside against her enormous hand carved desk and tried to look relaxed.

“I appreciate you coming, Detective.” Thornton wore a navy blue dress with matching shoes. She rearranged an intricately patterned shawl over her shoulders and brushed her hair behind her left ear. “I trust you have an update on Professor Bastian’s death. We’d of course be interested in hearing any leads you have before the media does.”

Mort watched Snelling’s slow nod and assumed he was trying to look useful.

“I didn’t come here to update you,” Mort paused. “What should I call you, by the way? Folks around here seem to be touchy about titles.”

He was happy to see the first genuine smile of the morning. “Yes, Detective.” Her grey eyes twinkled and Mort saw ten years disappear from her face. “A university runs on its hierarchy, I’m afraid. Please, call me Meredith.” She tilted her head to the man leaning against her desk. “And this is Carl. Let me know if he says anything different.”

Mort gave Snelling a wink and a grin. “Old Carl and I are off to a fine start, Meredith.” He crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. “What can you tell me about Bastian’s research?”

Meredith focused immediately. “You think his work with animals led to his death?”

“Bastian worked with monkeys and dogs, I understand?” Mort watched her face.

Meredith nodded. “And rats, of course. Animal research is a necessary piece of meaningful advancement, Detective. His labs were overseen by both university and federal regulatory agencies. I can assure you any animal in Bastian’s lab was treated properly.”

He wondered how skilled a woman would have to be at hiding her emotions to climb this high up the academic tower. “How close were you to his research?”

Snelling interrupted. “What’s the point of these questions? Surely you don’t expect a woman running a university this size to be knowledgeable of every faculty member’s work.”

Mort kept his eyes on Meredith. “You said he was a personal friend.”

The president nodded and brought her hand to her throat. Mort sensed their relationship may have been more intimate.

“What can you tell me about Ortoo?” Mort asked.

Meredith glanced away and shook her head. “I don’t know that term.”

Mort’s attention stayed focused. “It’s not a term, Meredith. It’s a name. Tell me what you know about Ortoo.”

Snelling left the desk to stand behind the sofa. “She’s already answered you.”

Mort ignored him. He stayed fixed on Meredith. “You’ve never heard the name Ortoo?”

When she shook her head he glanced up at Snelling. “How about you?”

“Where’s this going, Detective?” Snelling’s voice had an aggressive edge his position didn’t warrant. Mort returned to Meredith.

“We’re in possession of a video of Bastian butchering a primate named Ortoo. A silverback gorilla. We have reason to believe the murder of Ortoo led directly to someone putting out a contract on Bastian. Possibly in retaliation.”

Meredith folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them for several long moments before speaking. “I want to see that tape, Detective.”

He was impressed with her control. “Then you are aware of Ortoo?”

She snapped her head up and Mort took a fast inhale at the fury in her eyes. “You come here and tell me a valued member of my faculty was experimenting with a gorilla. That’s both illegal and unethical. Then you tell me that faculty member, my friend, butchered said gorilla and it led to someone hiring an assassin.” Meredith stood and walked behind her desk. Snelling walked over to his president and reached a hand to her shoulder. She brushed it away with an angry wave.

“Forgive me if I find this situation outlandish,” Meredith snapped. “I need to see that tape. If someone’s fabricated something for YouTube and it’s out there tarnishing the reputation of this university or its faculty, I demand to see it.”

Mort pulled himself out of the chair and reached for his jacket. “You don’t get to demand anything, Meredith. This is my murder investigation. What I can tell you is that the tape wasn’t fabricated. The best computer forensic expert in the business assures us it’s legit. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what you know about Bastian murdering Ortoo.”

Meredith locked her stare on Mort and tapped perfectly manicured nails against the back of her office chair. “You make serious allegations against my faculty. I’m going to stop this conversation now and consult with university attorneys before we speak again. I’m sure you understand.” She turned to Snelling. “Carl, you’ll escort the good detective out?”

Her request left no room for refusal. Mort said his farewell to a silent president and followed Snelling out to the reception area. He pulled on his parka, called out a goodbye to Angela, and was heading for the door when he felt Snelling pull on his arm. He stopped, looked down at the hand that griped his sleeve, and fixed a quizzical gaze at the skinny man with red hair.

“A moment? Please?” Snelling dropped his hand.

“One minute, how’s that?” Mort had had enough of the ivory tower for one day.

“You were rough on her.” Snelling put his hands in his pockets. “There was no need.” Snelling looked toward Angela and lowered his voice. “Next time come talk with me? I’ve seen three university presidents come and go. I know far more about how this place really runs than Meredith ever will.”

Mort shook his head at the frightened sycophant and left. He passed Bodie on his way out and recalled the young man’s assurance of help. Mort wondered if any purple-coated ambassador could tell him why the university president still hadn’t asked how Bastian was killed.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Lydia parked her car three blocks east of Cameron William’s catering shop, grateful for the rain. She pulled the hood of her jacket up and kept her eyes down as she walked, hoping any passer-by or security camera would register her as an amorphous blur.

She stood across the street and watched Cameron’s building. It was nearly six o’clock. When she called the caterer that morning to suggest a meeting to finalize the plans for her dinner party, Lydia asked for an evening appointment. She needed Cameron alone.

Lydia crossed the street. A bell mounted above the shop’s door jamb announced her entry. Pleasant aromas of savory and sweet contrasted with the dimly lit interior. She reached her right hand into her jacket pocket and slid the safety of her Luger off.

“Hello,” she called out. “Cameron?”

No answer. Lydia turned and locked the shop’s front door. She flipped the hanging sign to read “Closed”.

“Anybody home?” Lydia stepped behind the counter and pushed open the aluminum door leading to the kitchen.

Empty.

She walked down the narrow hallway leading to the back of the building. A door fifteen feet away stood open. Soft golden light spilled onto the worn hardwood floors. She glanced over her shoulder before continuing. She saw Cameron. Alone in her office. Sitting at her desk, staring into nothingness.

“Cameron?” Lydia’s voice was barely a whisper as she stepped inside.

Cameron turned to her visitor and blinked twice before speaking. “Dr. Corriger.” She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. Her voice was that of an automaton. Numb. Detached. “Now’s not a good time.”

Lydia closed Cameron’s office door and quietly engaged the lock. She kept her eyes on the disoriented blonde seated in front of her.

“Is something wrong?”

Tears welled in Cameron’s blue eyes. She didn’t answer for several moments. Lydia didn’t move, hoping her steady presence would calm her.

“It’s Fred,” Cameron finally said. She looked up at Lydia. “My fiance.”

“I remember.” Lydia said. “Are you having a bad go of it today?”

Cameron let out a short and hollow laugh. “A bad go of it? You could say that.” She turned to reach for another tissue. “You see, my poor Fred didn’t have a heart attack after all.”

Lydia’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

Cameron blew her nose and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I had a visit from several policemen today. Not long after you called.” She looked at Lydia and new tears rained down. “Dr. Corriger, they told me Fred was killed. Murdered.” Her shoulders heaved with her sobs. “Who would do such a thing?”

Lydia took a deep breath and trudged to a small sofa opposite Cameron’s desk. She was so weary. Tired to her bones and sick of it all. She closed her eyes and recalled the standards she’d once set for her work. Justice only. Never murder.

And yet, here she was. She tried to justify what she was about to do with a reminder that her survival depended upon completing this assignment.

“Who, Dr. Corriger?” Cameron pleaded with her. “Who would kill Fred?”

Lydia pulled the Luger out of her pocket and pointed it at the crying caterer. “I did, Cameron. I killed Fred Bastian.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Mort closed his office door, reached for the phone and punched in Robbie’s number. Claire answered on the third ring.

“Bon soir, Beau Pere.” Mort loved it when she spoke French. “How’s my current husband’s father?”

“My boy giving you trouble?” He smiled at the easy relationship Robbie and Claire had. Playful and sexy. True equals. “Say the word and I’m on the next plane to knock some sense into him.”

“I handle him just fine.” Her laugh was deep and warm. “Shall I get him?”

“If he’s handy. Listen, kiss those girls for me, will you? They like the dollhouses?”

“Mais oui. You make magic for my girls,” she said. “Here’s your son.”

Mort heard Robbie take the phone. “Hang on, Dad. I’m going into my study.”

A few seconds later Robbie spoke. “What’s up?”

Mort had a sudden ache to see his son’s face. He wished both his kids could stay perpetually young. Maybe ten or twelve years old. Where he could always keep them close and safe. “I ran those last six Fixer ads. Got a judge to order the information on who placed ‘em.”

Robbie’s curious tone was replaced with excitement. “Pays to have a dad with connections. What did you learn?”

Mort heard his son’s keyboard clicking. “Pretty much what you’d think. Each payment was untraceable. Wired money orders, cashier’s checks, that sort of thing. They come from all over the world.”

Robbie let out a grunt. “Were you able to tie an ad to any particular homicide?”

Mort hesitated. “My hunch is our girl kills her targets in a way that doesn’t bring in the police.”

“Like Halloway’s death looking like a sex game mishap?” Robbie said. “Or those others you found out about when you searched for no-show females.”

“It would be bad for business if The Fixer got messy. Better every hit have a logical explanation. Keep the inquiries to a minimum.”

Robbie’s excitement came back. “I know that tone, Dad. You’ve got one of your hunches working, don’t you?”

“Could be.” Mort leaned onto his desk. “There was an ad a few months back. Payment to the newspapers was wired from three different Western Union offices.”

“Buyer was being careful.” Robbie sounded confused. “No mystery in that.”

“Each Western Union was in Seattle,” Mort said. “In December a guy up here dies of a heart attack. Big shot researcher at the university. Nothing made of it at the time.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.” Robbie’s keyboard was clicking fast and loud.

“A month later we catch a call on a second guy. Dead in his living room. Another researcher at the university, except this one’s not a hot shot. We run forensics on some hi-tech gizmo we find at the scene and lo and behold we learn that our first guy had a hit put out on him. Our second guy’s caught on tape negotiating with someone he calls ‘Ms Carr’ to kill the hot shot researcher. To make it even more interesting, when I’m checking those first Thursday ads, one comes up a month after Hot Shot Researcher dies.”

“Asking for someone to translate a family cookbook?” Robbie asked.

“Yeah, but that’s not the one that catches my eye. There’s an ad below it that says ‘Thank you Ms Carr’.”

“Same name as the person who accepted the hit,” Robbie said.

“Bingo. I checked and sure enough, the money to pay for that ad was wired from Seattle. Next thing you now, our guy winds up dead.”

“Probably pissed The Fixer off for making follow-up contact.”

“That’s my guess. I’m thinking The Fixer’s good for two murders I’m working on.”

“Dad, if you’re teasing me, stop. If you’re not, I’m buying a new suit for the Pulitzer ceremony.”

“Don’t go shopping yet, Robbie. But the fates might be smiling on both of us. Did I mention digitized voices are involved?”

“Hot damn,” Robbie said. “Martin said The Fixer used digitized communication with him. He got nailed when a local cop got a digitized tip. You want me to come out there, Dad?”

“Not yet.” Mort explained his investigation into Bastian and Buchner’s murders and his belief that Savannah was The Fixer. He told his son about Lydia and her naive attempt to participate in the investigation. He looped several of his hunches back to information Robbie had gathered in his own research.

“And this Savannah,” Robbie asked. “She as good-looking as Martin and the others say she is?”

“A real stunner. Someone you’d remember after just one look. And here’s the kicker. Savannah Samuels winds up hanging herself after intimating that her line of work resulted in lots of people getting hurt. Got Liddy so spooked she came to me trying to figure it all out.”

“It makes sense, Dad. I can’t believe you’ve solved this whole thing.”

“Not just me.” Mort switched the phone to his other hand. “You’re the one who got me all the information on this Fixer. Without you and Liddy I’d be standing in front of an empty white board, trying to explain to the district attorney why I had bupkiss. We got this far together. You’ll meet her next time you’re out.”

Robbie laughed. “If you’re looking for a shared byline, you can stop right there Old Man.”

“No, this is your story. You earned it. A few loose ends and it ought to make one hell of a tale. Then you can go shopping for your Pulitzer suit.”

“What do you mean, loose ends?” Robbie asked. “Sounds like it’s tied nice and neat.”

“Think like a cop, Robbie.” Mort didn’t want to spoil his son’s enthusiasm but knew the case wasn’t done yet. “We still have to find who hired The Fixer in the first place.”

“And Savannah can’t tell us.” Robbie enthusiasm sounded tempered by impatience. “I’ll stay put for now. You keep me posted?”

“You know I will.” Mort sent his love to Robbie’s women and hung up. He glanced at the clock. Almost ten — thirty. He reached for his car keys a heartbeat before his phone rang.

“Where are you?” Jim De Villa asked as soon as Mort answered.

“I’m at the station. Just heading out.” Mort hoped Jimmy wasn’t about to ask him to grab a beer at Smitty’s. He was too tired to listen to his friend moon over Micki.

“Name Cameron Williams ring a bell?” Jimmy asked.

“Bastian’s fiance?” Mort kneed his chair away from the desk and sat down. “Visited her this morning. Told her Bastian’s death had been re-classified a homicide. She didn’t take it very well. She’s on my list to interview tomorrow.”

“You went to her shop?”

“Yeah. On Queen Anne.” Mort’s internal radar beeped. “What’s this about, Jimmy?”

“You want to get back down here. And I don’t mean tomorrow.”

“You’re with her now? What the hell’s going on?” Mort grabbed his parka.

“Call came in less than an hour ago. Her baker works nights. Guy comes in to start his shift, finds the kitchen trashed, calls 911.”

“Is Williams all right?” Mort asked. “She was a wreck when I left her.”

“She’s not here. We tried calling her home. No answer. Her baker tried her cell. I got a bad feeling when it rang right here. Behind the refrigerator.”

Mort realized the Chief of Forensics wouldn’t be called to a routine break-in.

“What aren’t you not telling me, Jimmy?”

He heard De Villa take a deep breath. “There’s blood, Mort. Lots of it. You better get down here.”

Bruiser was sitting at attention just inside the bakery’s front door. Mort ruffled the dog’s neck and called out to Jimmy. His friend waved him in. He was careful not to step in any blood before Jimmy’s team had a chance to photograph the smears and take samples. Mort sidestepped technicians and overturned kitchen mixers, blenders, and stools. Baking pans and cooking utensils littered the polished concrete floor of the industrial kitchen. Mort watched a member of Jimmy’s team process a bloody palm print on the stainless steel counter.

“Somebody put up a fight,” Mort said as his eyes scanned the room. “Anybody reach Williams yet?”

“We reached two of the gals she works with.” Jimmy pulled a notepad from his blazer pocket. “According to them Cameron closed up shop for the day not long after you left. They said they had one lunch to cater on campus. Cameron told them to take care of it and leave her alone. She was still crying in her office when they got back to unload and clean-up. They left up around 3:30. They assumed she was alone.” Jimmy nodded to the uniformed officer across the room. “I sent Ironson over to Cameron’s house. All she found was her dog, eager as hell to get out and do his business. Cameron’s baker says she’s crazy about that pooch. Wouldn’t dream of letting him miss a walk.”

“Any idea how old this blood is?” Mort swallowed the bitter metallic that gathered at the back of his throat.

“Only the shallowest smears are dried.” Jimmy dipped a gloved index finger into a small dollop of blood on the floor. “This is recent. Couldn’t have happened more than a couple of hours ago.”

“So Williams is alive and alone at 3:30. By 8:30 the joint’s trashed and she’s missing.” Mort scanned the ceiling. “Any security cameras?”

“That would be too easy.” Jimmy nodded down the hall. “You think this is bad? Walk this way.”

Mort followed his friend, dodging technicians and drops of blood splattered down the length of the narrow corridor. They turned into a room and gave their eyes time to adjust to the glare of the photographer’s floodlights.

“The baker says this is Cameron’s office.” Jimmy inched past his busy staffer to stand beside a desk cluttered with blood-blotched papers. “My guess is this is where the intruder got her.”

Mort grabbed the vinyl gloves Jimmy offered, snapped them on and lifted pages off the floor. “What are you thinking, Jim? Was she hit with something? Maybe stabbed?”

“Look here.” Jimmy stepped over a broken picture frame and crossed behind the desk. He tapped his pen next to a hole in the plaster. “We pulled a slug from the wall.”

Mort breathed deep and caught a faint scent of gunpowder. “She was shot? Then what? Stumbles into the kitchen for a fight?”

“Maybe,” Jimmy said. “Maybe she startles the bad guy in the kitchen, he shoots but just grazes her. They fight, she breaks away and runs into the office, he follows and finishes her off.”

Mort looked around. “Then where is she?”

“We got alerts out to all the hospitals,” Jim said. “Nothing. Want to hear something interesting?”

Mort opened Carmen’s top desk drawer and started sifting through. “I’ll take anything.”

“Guess who Cameron was all set to marry before she ups and falls in love with Bastian The Ape Butcher?” Jimmy pointed a thumb over his left shoulder. “Leisha out there tells me it was all the scandal in certain circles. None other than Bradley Wells. Leisha’s husband works at Wells’ headquarters. Said Mr. Got Money was out of his head about it. Took it out on his staff for months, she says.”

Mort looked around the ravaged room. “The same guy who grew up working corners with guys who do stuff like this if they’re bored on Friday night.” He nodded slow and easy. “Now he takes power lunches with university presidents.” He shook his head at the bloody mess. “So, the guy who steals his sweetheart gets a contract put out on him and now the sweetheart herself goes dead.” Mort smiled at his good friend. “What do you say we have a little chat with Wells tomorrow?”

Jimmy grinned. “Micki’s gonna love this story. Come on. My team can finish up here. Let’s head to Smitty’s and strategize.”

Mort turned to close Cameron’s desk drawer. A business card peeked out of the stack of paperclips and straight pins. He teased it out with his latexed finger and jerked his head back.

Lydia Corriger

Licensed Clinical Psychologist

He tucked the card into his pocket before turning. “You and Bruiser head on out, Jim. I think I’ll go home and strategize on my own.

Chapter Forty

Lydia wiped her hand over her face. Had she dreamt the noise? She glanced at the clock. Eight seventeen. Only four hours of sleep last night. Loud pounding cleared any drowsiness. Her feet hit the floor as she grabbed her pistol off the nightstand. She held the Lugar in a two-handed grip and dashed down the hall.

“Lydia!” A muffled voice called through the wooden front door. “It’s Mort Grant. Open up.”

She aimed the gun at the door and glanced into the living room. The dawn gave just enough light to prove the room empty. A dozen thoughts raced through her mind as to the purpose of Mort’s presence. None of them promising.

“Hang on, Mort.” Lydia feigned grogginess. “You woke me up. Let me get a robe.” She hurried through her bedroom and peeked out the bathroom window. No squad cars in her driveway. Mort was alone. She willed her breathing to slow and pulled a white terry cloth wrap from a hook behind the bathroom door. She dropped the Lugar into a deep pocket, cinched the belt tight, and headed for the entry hall.

“It’s Saturday.” Lydia held her front door open a few inches. “And it’s early.”

Mort widened the gap with a no-nonsense push. “I didn’t want to give you time to come up with excuses.” He stepped in and looked across the living room. The rising sun glistened off the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Dana Passage was streaked with gold.

He turned and scanned her from head to toe. “Where’s your kitchen? I’ll make us some coffee.”

Lydia kept her hand in her pocket, holding the Lugar tight against her leg. She stared at Mort and saw something in his eyes she couldn’t identify. He held her gaze. She pulled her hand free and ran it through her bed-tossed hair.

“Right through there.” She pointed down the hall. “Coffee’s in the copper canister next to the pot. There’s milk in the fridge.”

Mort nodded. “Go brush your teeth.”

Ten minutes later they were at her dining room table. She’d changed into her workout clothes and left her pistol in the bedroom. There were others.

Mort sat to take full advantage of the view. Lydia was across from him. She wanted an unobstructed sightline to the front door.

Mort tapped the coaster under his ceramic mug and stared at her. Though she was exhausted to the point of uselessness, every cell in Lydia’s body was on high alert. She forced her hands calm and lifted her own mug to her lips.

“Why are you here, Mort?” She was pleased with the steadiness of her voice.

He kept his eyes on her, reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt, pulled out her business card, and pushed it her way. “Guess where I found this.”

Ancient fears screamed inside her brain, urging her to run.

“How do you know Cameron Williams?” Mort’s question left no room for game-playing.

“Cameron Williams?” Lydia needed to buy time. Force Mort to expose what he knew.

“Cut the crap, Lydia.” Mort nodded to the business card. “I found that in her desk drawer. Care to tell me how it got there?”

Her jaw muscles tensed as she silently cursed herself. She was off her game. She’d never before overlooked a detail that could lead anyone back to her. “You mean the caterer?” She smiled and opted to tell him the same lie she’d told Cameron. “I’m having a dinner party. I met with her last week.”

Mort’s eyes narrowed. “No caterers in Olympia? You gotta go seventy miles north for weenies on a toothpick?”

A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. “She came highly recommended.”

“When’s the last time you threw a party, Liddy?” Mort’s voice was firm. “Give me dates and the names of six people who attended.”

Lydia struggled to keep her breathing steady. Her heart pounded. She blinked twice before answering.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but my social life is no concern of yours.”

Mort broke his gaze and blew out a long breath. Lydia tucked her hands under her legs and swallowed hard. She steeled herself and reviewed the weapon placement around the house.

Mort pushed his chair away and stood. Lydia shifted her feet, ready to spring to her own defense.

He crossed to the window and focused on the view. “I thought we had this all worked out. Or maybe I should say I thought I had this all worked out. But now this. What am I to make of Cameron Williams, Liddy?”

Terror grabbed her throat with one hand and covered her mouth with the other. Her mind flashed back twenty years. In an instant she was the terrified abandoned child wanting only to live to the next morning. She sat in silent paralysis and forced her breathing to slow. She felt her heartbeat settling into a more normal rhythm. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

Mort’s voice softened. “I thought I made it clear that you were not to go anywhere near this case until we discovered who hired Savannah to kill Bastian. How am I supposed to keep you safe if you insist on sticking your nose where it might get blown off?” He shook his head. “I thought you were going to trust me.”

Lydia’s jaws clenched. She’d trusted before and paid more than anyone should be expected to. She couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.

But a piece of her longed to reach out to this man. A long-banished voice drifted to her; urged her to take a risk.

“What do you want to know?” she whispered.

Mort pulled out his notepad. “What really took you to her? No more bull about some dinner party.”

Lydia blinked her mind clear and allowed a lie to unfurl. “It was Savannah. She spoke often of Cameron. I had the feeling they were friends. I thought if I got to know her she’d tell me the truth about Savannah’s life.” She shrugged. “My behavior was unprofessional, I know. But I needed to learn more if I was to understand her involvement with Buchner’s death.”

“So you made up the dinner party ruse as a way to meet her?”

“Yes. She seems quite nice.” Lydia smiled. “Maybe I’ll have her cater your next birthday.”

“Lydia, Cameron was Fred Bastian’s fiance. Did you know that?” His face was stern. His voice was gentle. “And now she’s dead.”

Lydia’s eyes flew open. “You found her?”

Chapter Forty-One

Mort and Jim were escorted into the study of Bradley Wells’ Lake Washington mansion a little before two o’clock. Bruiser followed at Jim’s heels. Mort was sure the walk from the front door to this elegant room with floor-to-ceiling windows took a full five minutes. He tossed Jim a weary smile when he saw the silver-haired mogul sitting behind a granite-topped desk the size of a double bed. Wells obviously wanted to demonstrate his power to the two detectives.

“I’ll join you if you don’t mind.” A female voice pulled Mort and Jim’s attention to a sitting area behind them. Meredith Thornton sat on a green brocade sofa flanking a large stone fireplace.

He returned his attention to Wells. “We’re here to have a frank talk about what may be an unsettling topic. It’s up to you if you want her here.”

Before Wells could answer Meredith stood and walked toward them. “We imagine you’re here to discuss Professor Bastian’s murder. I’m here to see the conversation takes no turns toward Dr. Bastian’s research.”

Mort looked at Wells who nodded his agreement. He glanced toward Jimmy and dove in. “When’s the last time you saw Professor Bastian’s fiance, Mr. Wells?”

He watched Wells rankle at hearing the woman he planned to marry described as Bastian’s betrothed. Mort saw his rage seething just below the surface of his ski-slope tan and guessed Wells was unaccustomed to having his plans aborted.

“If you’re referring to Cameron Williams, I haven’t spoken to her in months.” Wells pushed up the sleeves of his black cashmere sweater and leaned back in his leather chair. “I don’t anticipate I’ll ever speak to her again.”

“Is that so?” Jimmy asked. “What makes you so sure?”

Before Wells could answer Meredith Thornton clicked her heels over the hardwood floor and circled behind him. She placed a manicured hand on the billionaire’s shoulder and addressed Mort like Queen Victoria speaking to a chimney sweep.

“What is the point of your question, Detective? Mr. Wells and I are busy people.” Her eyes could have been beautiful if they weren’t so cold. “We have no time to discuss Fred Bastian’s caterer.”

“You’ll excuse me, Meredith,” Mort said. “But we asked Bradley here the question, not you.”

Meredith stepped back as though she’d been slapped. Mort figured she was as unaccustomed as Wells to a power-down position. Before she could respond Wells reached up to pat her hand.

“It’s all right, Meredith,” Wells said. “I’ll answer their questions.” He waved his hand to two suede club chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat, Officers. And let me know if I can get that splendid animal of yours a bowl of water.”

“His name’s Bruiser.” Jimmy leveled his best don’t-fuck-with-me gaze at his host. “And he’s fine right here.”

Wells met Jimmy’s gaze in kind. “You get five minutes.”

Mort settled in. “I’ll repeat my partner’s question. What makes you so sure you’ll not see Cameron Williams again?”

Wells’ face shifted into smug pretension. “I’m a decisive man, Detective Grant. One doesn’t build what I have with second guesses. Cameron was a whimsy on my part. It ran its course. Now it’s over.”

“That ten carat ring you put on her finger didn’t look like whimsy.” Jimmy leaned forward, his eyes focused on Wells. “You two were on the cover of all the gossip magazines when you got engaged. I remember thinking at the time, ‘What’s that good looking gal doing with some old guy?’”

Mort watched Wells’ fists clench against his Italian wool slacks. He saw his blood pulsing in his neck and knew that despite the billionaire trappings, Wells wasn’t far removed from his gangster roots.

Wells kept his eyes on Mort and answered Jimmy’s question. “I give diamond rings to the women who clean my toilets. What’s your point?”

“My point is we have reason to believe Cameron Williams is dead.” Mort watched Wells take in the news. A short, sharp intake of breath. Three rapid blinks of his steely eyes. Nothing more.

“What do you mean, ‘reason to believe’?” His tone revealed nothing.

“Her baker came for his shift last night.” Mort looked to Jimmy. “Around 8:30, right?” He returned to Wells. “He finds the place trashed. There’s blood. He calls us. We can account for everyone who works there except Cameron. No one’s seen her since yesterday afternoon. This morning the lab tells us the mess in the bakery matches Cameron’s blood type.”

Meredith Thornton’s smile was polite but distant. “You’ll forgive us, Detectives, if we don’t understand why you’re bringing this to us.”

“We didn’t bring it to you.” Mort held Wells’ gaze. “We brought it to him.”

“No body?” Wells asked.

“We’ll find her, Bradley.” Mort smiled. “You have personal experience with how fast the Seattle PD catches bad guys.”

Wells’ jaw muscles churned. His rocking was barely noticeable. He didn’t blink.

Neither did Mort.

Wells broke his stare and turned to look up at Meredith. He smiled and patted her hand again before opening his desk drawer. Mort saw Jimmy’s right hand slide to the holster on his belt.

Wells pulled out a card and tossed it across the granite slab. “My private number, Detective. Call me when you’ve got something more than ‘a reason to believe’. I’ll send flowers.” Wells looked up to the perfectly dressed woman behind him. “Meredith, could I ask you to see the officers and their animal out, please?”

He reached for the phone before she could answer.

Mort and Jimmy got up. Bruiser stood immediately and watched his master’s face for instruction. Jim nodded his assurance to the dog and grabbed the card from Wells’ desk. Mort knew he planned to offer it to Micki as a souvenir. Meredith circled around the desk and led them out of the study.

Another five minutes got them to the front door. Meredith Thornton smiled. Warmly this time.

“Detective, I’m being harangued on a daily basis by a determined Executive Provost.” She played with a long gold chain that hung from her neck. “You’re holding a valuable piece of research equipment. Walter Buchner wasn’t authorized to take the synthesizer from the lab. It’s a one-of-a-kind prototype.” Meredith touched a gentle hand to Mort’s arm. “I’d count it as a personal favor if you could release it back to Audiology first thing Monday morning.”

Mort reached for the door knob. “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Lydia grabbed a towel from the stationary bike and wiped the sweat off her face and neck. Her hour-long workout stretched into two as she struggled to stop the carousel of mental anguish.

Savannah was dead. Lydia climbed on the bike and pedaled fast. Savannah was dead. She leaned forward, aerodynamic to the misery flooding toward her. Savannah was dead. She increased her speed. Legs burning. Lungs bursting. Palms slick with sweat on the grips. Savannah was dead. Faster still. Gasping. Feet slipping off abused pedals. Chest collapsing onto the handlebars. One wail of pain into the empty room, and still Savannah was dead.

She heaved in life-affirming air and wished she could halt the instinct. The Fixer was out of business. Mort and his son had uncovered too much. She was useless. Drained. Worthless.

Her mind skipped to Mort and a hand went to the wooden whistle hanging from her neck. The whisper of hope struggling to be heard against a cacophony of self-loathing suffocated. Buried by the memory of Cameron staring at her that last day. Innocent eyes confused and frightened as Lydia aimed her gun.

Lydia whispered to the void, “I’m done”.

She tossed the sweaty towel into the hamper, climbed the basement stairs, rounded the corner into her kitchen, and stopped mid-step.

Two dozen red roses in a crystal vase stood on the counter next to her sink.

Lydia stood stock-still, listening for movement. Hearing none, she crossed to the counter and pulled the small card tucked into the thorny stems.

Well done, Fixer.

She swallowed hard. A throat spasm threatened. She ran to the sink and vomited. She didn’t bother to check the house. They could enter at will. They controlled her.

She rinsed her mouth clear, scrubbed the sink clean, and watched the swirling eddy rush down the pipe. She tore the florist card into tiny pieces and forced them down the drain.

Lydia walked back to the roses. She put her nose next to a perfect bud, breathed in the heavenly scent, and plunged her thumb into a thorn. She recoiled in pain, pulled her hand free, and counted the drops of blood that splashed onto the granite.

Chapter Forty-Three

Meredith expected to see Carl in her office. She called him from the car on her way back from the trustee dinner for major donors. What she hadn’t expected was to walk in and see Bradley Wells sitting across from her desk. She viewed it as a stroke of efficient luck.

“Brad. I’m glad you’re here.” She draped her velvet coat over the credenza and used both hands to re-settle her hair. “Did you enjoy this evening?”

“Not really.” He threw Carl a pointed look. “Your conversation with Kellen seemed to have you captivated so I left without saying goodbye. I called Carl immediately. He said you were coming back and I made the decision to invade your meeting.”

Meredith glanced toward the cabinet on the far wall. Carl rose from his seat, opened the cabinet, and poured two shots of Smirnoff’s over ice. He brought the drink to Meredith and asked Wells if he wanted anything. Wells asked for scotch, neat.

“Carson Kellen is a good friend to the university. His family endowed two chairs in medicine and he and his wife contributed the first large gift to the pediatric library. I’m hoping his generosity will extend to a new genetics lab.” Meredith focused her attention on the chill the vodka traced down her throat. “He’s angling for a seat as trustee, you know.” She offered Wells a slow smile. “But I have another nominee in mind.”

Wells took the tumbler of scotch Carl offered him and stared into his glass. “I’m aware of that, Meredith. After what I heard this evening, however, my enthusiasm is waning. In fact, I’m beginning to question my association with the school at all.”

Meredith leaned against her desk. She set her own glass down. “What did you hear, Brad?”

Wells glanced at Carl and took a sip of scotch.

“You know my philanthropic philosophy. We had a long discussion about it when you first approached me.” He shot Carl another hard glance and Meredith asked if Wells wanted to speak privately.

“No,” Wells said. “It’s best you both hear what I have to say. You remember me telling you I don’t give to charities? That I invest in success?”

Meredith nodded. “I do. And we’ve used your investments well. You’ve been instrumental to our progress in so many ways.”

“There are rumblings, Meredith.” Wells turned in his chair to face her. “I’ve been a businessman long enough to know that major collapses generally start with the same low and persistent murmurs I heard this evening.”

Meredith furrowed her brow. “Rumblings? Murmurs? Of what sort and from whom?”

“The trustees. The donors.” Wells stood. “The university is in the headlines daily after the murders of Bastian and that researcher. That’s not the kind of publicity that bodes success.”

Meredith shook her head. “This is a large university in a major city, Brad. It’s an unfortunate artifact of society, but crime does exist. I’m sure the police will find the culprits soon and this will all be behind us.”

“And now Cameron’s dead.” Wells turned and walked three steps toward the door. “I heard this evening your interim neuroscience chair had a fiance who recently suicided. That’s a lot of bodies, Meredith. I don’t care how big a school or city. These kinds of stories distract focus.”

“What am I supposed to do about that?” Meredith instantly regretted the shrill in her voice. “I’m not Batman. I have a university to run.”

Wells turned and faced her. “I’m beginning to doubt your ability. I learned tonight Bastian did as well. The poor bastard was trying to have you ousted, or so I’m told. Now Snelling tells me research dollars are down. Some might say catastrophically. The mounting murders, faculty lack of confidence, and now this financial crisis; Meredith I don’t see how I can continue my support.”

Meredith glared at Snelling. She’d asked him to keep the financials quiet until she developed a plan to address the shortfall. True to form, he’d been unable to keep from sharing every little secret he knows.

“Carl.” Her voice was cold. “Leave us alone.”

Snelling’s head did a quick bob and he hurried out of the office. Wells and Meredith stared at each other for several long moments. Meredith finally took a deep breath and forced a smile.

“I think we can find a mutually satisfactory solution to all this.” She motioned to the fireplace. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable and talk.”

Chapter Forty-Four

“Damn it all to hell.” Mort had everything riding on the dogs. “They were chomping at the bit. They got nothing?”

Jim DeVilla thanked the canine patrol for their work and closed the door to Cameron’s shop. “Bruiser and I were with them every bark of the way, Mort. Noses to the ground right down to the water. Dogs can’t track what they can’t smell.”

Mort kicked his leg into empty air. “Call a dive team. Wells did Cameron, I know it. We find her body we’ll get something off it.”

“You gonna drag Puget Sound?” Jim held his friend’s stare. “Wells was at work when this went down. No fewer than thirty people can verify it.”

“Convenient, don’t you think?” Mort rubbed the back of his aching neck. “Don’t forget who he’s got on his rolodex. He sits back with thirty alibis while his goons do the wet work. But he’s good for this, Jimmy. Probably Bastian, too.”

“Guys like Wells have supermodels’ and movie stars’ numbers, too. You think he’s gonna stay lonely long?” Jimmy pulled a roll of mints from his jacket and popped a couple in his mouth before offering some to Mort and Bruiser. Mort took one. The dog took two. “Why would he risk offing Bastian and the caterer when he’s got Oscar nominees ready to be his date at the next White House dinner?”

Mort crushed his mint with grinding jaws. “Bastian humiliated him in front of the whole world. I don’t see Bradley Wells walking away from that.” He took a long look around Cameron’s shop. “Or maybe he thought with Bastian out of the way Cameron would come running back. When she didn’t, he got pissed. Look at all this blood, Jimmy. This is a crime of passion.”

“So now what?”

Mort took a seat at a bistro table and pushed out a chair for his friend. Bruiser clicked over to join them. “Now we connect the dots. Bastian to Buchner to Cameron. See if we’ve got enough to make a move on Wells.” He counted the steps on his fingers. “Buchner’s holding a voice synthesizer that proves a hired gun, code name Fixer, did Bastian. From what Robbie’s been able to uncover this Fixer doesn’t come cheap. Wells has the kind of dough that could bring her in. We can prove the money orders used to place the ads all came from Seattle. Buchner makes a second connection to the Fixer with that thank-you note. Hired guns don’t like to be remembered. The Fixer makes sure old Wally doesn’t get another chance to slip up. ”

“That connects Fixer to Bastian and Buchner,” Jimmy said. “We got nothing connecting the caterer. Besides,” Jim pulled his notebook from his jacket and flipped to a certain page. “Your number one pick for The Fixer, this Savannah Samuels? She was on a slab in an Olympia morgue when the caterer gets hit. And none of this connects Wells.”

“Work with me, Jimmy. Suppose Wells hires this Fixer to hit Bastian. Uses Buchner as his go-between.”

“You got anything connecting Buchner to Wells?”

“How about a starving grad student gets a call from the university’s biggest benefactor?” Mort asked. “Wells shows Buchner the tape of Bastian slaughtering Ortoo. We know Buchner’s an animal rights activist. Maybe he hooked him that way. Or how about Childress’ talk about research assistants living and breathing for their next endowment? Maybe Wells promises him a big fat check to underwrite his work on that voice-producing thing. All he has to do is go to the warehouse and hire The Fixer."

“You think Bucher’s got it in him to hire a hit?” Jim rubbed the spot between Bruiser’s ears.

“People do lots of things for money, Jimmy. If Wally became convinced there was no other way to stop Bastian’s research, he might justify it.” Mort leaned forward. “Let’s say The Fixer takes the job. Kills Bastian.” His voice endowed his developing theory with credibility. “Wells thinks he’s done. Bastian’s out of the way and he’s clear to win Cameron back. But Wally goes all sentimental and thanks The Fixer for a job well done. The Fixer goes rogue and takes Wally out. Wells learns about it in the morning papers. He couldn’t care less. In fact, maybe he feels like sending The Fixer a thank-you of his own for tying up a loose end.”

Jimmy nodded and gave a sly grin. “Or maybe it’s not The Fixer who took Buchner out. That would explain the different M.O.’s.”

Mort like that his friend was warming to his ideas. “That bloodbath at Buchner’s apartment isn’t like any of the hits we’ve tied to The Fixer, that’s for sure. It’s much more in tune with Wells’ pals from back in the day. But that wouldn’t explain why Savannah was so upset she went running to her psychologist crying about being responsible for Buchner’s death.”

“That shrink’s turning into your inside source, isn’t she?” Jimmy asked. “When do I get to meet this secret weapon of criminal investigation?”

Mort flashed on Jimmy’s infatuation with Micki and worried that his friend might think Lydia was more his type. He shook his head. “Let’s focus on the work at hand, shall we?”

Jimmy caressed the canine head resting in his lap. “So Bastian and Buchner are both out of the way and Wells goes a-courtin’. That what you’re thinking?”

Mort leaned back and nodded. “He didn’t count on Cameron being so deep in mourning. She rejects him. Maybe even a few times. I call on Cameron that morning, tell her Bastian didn’t die of a heart attack. Wells just happens to stop by later in the day. He’s heard the sad news from when he stopped by Bastian’s house.”

“I always thought the timing of that drop-in with the university president was a little too perfect.” Jim drummed his free hand on the table. “He finds the caterer crying in her cupcakes. Tries to soothe her and she turns on him. She can think of only one person who might want Bastian dead. She accuses him and threatens to call the cops.”

“Wells loses it and Cameron ends up dead.” Mort loved the moment everything dropped into place. “He realizes what he’s done, calls a few of his old cronies to come get the body, cleans himself up, and heads back to his office where he calls an emergency meeting with thirty of his closest advisors.”

The two partners sat in silence and let the plan marinate. Mort ran every contingency through his mind.

“Okay, loose ends,” he said. “Name ‘em and tie ‘em.”

Jim scribbled in his notebook. “Voice synthesizer left at Buchner’s.”

“Easy,” Mort said. “The thing had been scrubbed clean. Memory banks and outer casing. There’d be no reason for anyone to take it. In fact, taking the center of Buchner’s research might raise red flags.”

“The Fixer suicides.” Jim looked up from his writing. “What kind of cold-hearted killer does that?”

Mort shook his head. “Robbie and I don’t believe for one minute that The Fixer was cold-hearted. In fact, she’s busted people looking for a run-of-the-mill hit. This woman kills out of a drive for justice for the little guy.”

Jim fixed a stern gaze on his friend. “I wouldn’t mind having the balls to do what she’s done.”

Mort was quiet for several seconds. His mind drifted to Meghan Hane, dead behind a dumpster; Angelo Satanell’s jeering face taunting him. He recalled the indescribable grief of Meghan’s father as Mort walked him through booking. He inhaled deeply and shook the images away.

“This is about The Fixer, not us. I think her suicide was more about falling in love. She was going to leave the life and run off with Childress, remember? Nothing like the reflection in the eyes of someone you love to make you see yourself clearly.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw. “What I saw in Edie’s eyes after Allie was gone, man, it damned near killed me. I think Savannah didn’t like what she saw and couldn’t find her way out. Top it off with finding out she’d infected Childress with HIV. I think that pushed her over the edge.”

Jimmy responded with a slow nod. “That’s why I stick with my fantasy of the unattainable Micki. Sometimes real love just sucks, doesn’t it?”

Mort skipped the obvious reply and got to the biggest loose end. “No body for Cameron Williams.”

Jim tilted his head toward the room. “All this blood? Dogs leading straight to the Sound? Wells’ connection to guys who know some guys? Plus this chain of circumstances? I think we got no problem.”

Bruiser stretched out at his master’s feet. The silent rumination of the facts lingered several minutes.

“We ready?” Mort asked.

Jimmy flipped his notebook closed. “I’ll head over to the prosecuting attorney now. You coming?”

Mort checked his watch. “You mind taking this alone, Partner? I have some calls to make.”

Mort poured the foamy milk into the espresso, sat down at his kitchen table, and punched number two on his speed dial. Claire answered on the second ring.

“How are my girls?” he asked.

“Bien, Beau Pere.” Claire’s voice danced in his ear. “They are with their father down for ice cream. They will be so sorry to have missed you.”

“’Their father’, huh?” God, he missed the sassy play between husbands and wives. “When are they due back?”

“You have news?” she asked. “Robert has spoken of little else but this case you’re sharing. This is why I demand he takes his little girls for ice cream.”

Mort loved the way she called Robbie Ro-bear. “And why didn’t he take you?”

Claire laughed. “I have to watch my figure. Et voila, I can speak with my father-in-law at my leisure, no? So tell me, who is this new woman in your life? Robert tells me she has been helping on this case, oui?”

“She tries,” he said. “Let me take that back. She helps plenty. I don’t think I would have made some key connections if Lydia hadn’t been looking out for a patient of hers.”

“Ooh, La Docteur Lydia.” Mort heard the tease in Claire’s voice and knew he’d have to explain away any romantic notion his daughter-in-law might hope for. “Is she lovely? Does she have a last name?”

Mort chuckled. “I think she could be beautiful if she tried, but she’s more of a home-spun type. Just right for a psychologist, I guess. And it’s Corriger, Lydia Corriger.”

“Ah ha!” Claire trilled. “Another Grant man with exquisite taste. Elle est Francais, n’est ce pas?”

Mort used what little French he’d been able to pick up since Claire entered their lives. “No, I don’t think so. What makes you think she’s French?”

“Her name,” she said. “But it is perfect for a psychologist, no?”

“I’m not following.” Mort wondered if he’d ever understand women.

“Corriger, n’est ce pas? It is French. It means “To Fix”.

Chapter Forty-Five

Lydia kicked off her wet shoes and brought the morning paper into the dining room. Exhaustion, the kind that sleep could never relieve, pulled on every muscle. She stood beside the table and stared out the window thinking of the time Mort drank coffee and admired the same view.

Low grey clouds loomed over Dana Passage; the water the color of wet concrete. Two massive cedar trees at the edge of the cliff swayed in the same direction as white-capped waves. Roiling mist obscured the mountains in the distance.

The eagle was back. Lydia allowed herself the indulgence of claiming it as her own. She watched it surf the wind of the incoming storm, banking and coasting before it found the spot to float suspended over the passage. Immobile. Perfect.

She turned, surveyed her home, and recalled how she selected each piece of furniture, art work, and rug. Remembering the care she took in building her sanctuary. Impregnable. Perfect.

Private Number’s invasion stripped away that delusion.

She pulled out a chair, sat in Mort’s spot, tugged the paper out of its soggy plastic wrapper, and tried to find solace in mundane routine. The headline announced the pending departure of troops from nearby Fort Lewis. A photograph of a soldier in dessert fatigues hugging her five-year-old daughter while her husband stood beside her and wept into the shoulder of their year-old son accompanied it. She read the story, turned the page, and felt the breath rush out of her.

A picture of Walter Buchner smiled from the bottom of the paper beneath a sidebar caption that read “Recent Murder Victim Part of Study”. Lydia’s eyes darted to the main article.

University Chairman Honored

She quickly read that Robert Passow, head of the Audiology Department had been recognized at an international symposium for development of breakthrough technology in voice synthesizing. Her heart raced as she read the description of a device that could take varieties of input and produce recognizable, conversational speech. Any accent. Any age. Either gender. Passow spoke of the hope the device offered. In accepting his award, he thanked the people who contributed to the project’s development, listing several researchers and engineers.

“And a special thanks goes out to Meredith Thornton, our university’s president,” the article quoted. “She’s known now as a leader of academic institutions, but before she climbed the administrative hill, Dr. Thornton was a pioneer in voice synthesis. Her ground-breaking work formed the foundation of this achievement and we owe her an eternal debt of gratitude.”

Lydia knew that name. A memory of Cameron Williams describing Bastian’s history of dating powerful women. How he’d broken things off with the university president to be with her. Lydia’s eyes swept to the sidebar. She read about Wally’s participation in the development and testing of the breakthrough synthesizer. A quotation from Robert Passow alluded to Wally’s genius and the loss his murder had created. Lydia read the next paragraph twice.

“His death is a tragedy,” said University President Meredith Thornton. “To our school, our community, but more importantly to science. I learned of Mr. Buchner’s potential during his undergraduate years. I recruited him myself to join our graduate research staff and I count his death as a personal loss.”

Lydia set the paper aside and returned to the view outside her window. Rain sheets pelted the churning waves. The eagle was gone. The Fixer had her target.

Chapter Forty-Six

Mort threw down the morning paper, swore out loud, and shoved his screaming thoughts into a holding cell in his brain. Then he picked up his ringing cell phone.

“Guess who’s dead?” Jim DeVilla asked. “I’m getting a little tired of this body count.”

Mort’s hand tightened around the phone as Jimmy told him.

“Gunshot?” Mort’s stomach threatened to return his huevos rancheros to the plate sitting in front of him.

“Yeah.”

Mort swallowed hard and pushed himself away from the table. “The casings are going to match up with the ones we found at Buchner’s.”

“Looks like it to the naked eye.” Jim barked an order to some investigator on his end. “What makes you so sure?”

Mort brought his friend up to speed on what he’d read in the morning paper.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jimmy let out a low whistle. “Okay, Buddy. I’m on it. We’re having quite the party down here. You coming?”

Mort stood in front of his refrigerator and took in the gallery of family photographs magneted to the door. His eye lingered on one of his favorites. Edie and Allie on Christmas morning. His bed-headed wife laughing as their seven-year-old daughter tried to get new ice skates on over footed pajamas. He put a finger to each of their faces and cursed the cold of the enamel door. One more touch would be enough for him.

Just one more chance to make things right.

“Give me twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll bring coffee.”

Mort walked the familiar five minutes from Bradley Wells’ front door to his library past a half-dozen uniformed police. He handed Jimmy a Styrofoam cup before turning to the body behind the big desk.

Bradley Wells, Prince of the City, sat in his leather chair with half his face missing. Gun powder residue darkened what skin remained on his skull. Bits of flesh and bone mottled his silver mane. Mort took a sip of coffee.

“Shoots our theory all to hell, doesn’t it?” Jimmy asked.

“You pick her up?” he asked.

Jimmy nodded. “Sent a couple of unmarked cars. Told her it was routine questioning. No need to make a scene. She didn’t seem to feel the same. Raised quite a ruckus. Swore she’d have all of our shields before close of business. So far we’ve been able to keep it out of the media.”

“She’s not one to get her hands dirty.” Mort nodded to the corpse. “Somebody’s on her team.”

“Way ahead of you, Buddy. Security cameras picked up a visitor.”

“Man or woman?” Mort hoped he’d hear the right answer.

“Walks like a man, dressed dark, wearing a cap. Micki’s got the tape now. If there’s any way to pull an i.d. of it, she’ll find it.”

“We’re going to need it.” Mort shook his head. “We can’t have any holes in this one.”

“My crew’s at her office now. They found one of those remote gizmos for the synthesizer. And a gun I’m sure ballistics will tell us is a match.”

“What says the D.A.?”

“She says we better be sure. Evidently everyone from the mayor to the governor is on this woman’s Christmas card list. Says she’s got our backs but if we’re wrong she’ll personally hand us our balls before she ships us off to be crossing guards in Moses Lake.”

Mort took one last look at the Sovereign of Seattle. “Then let’s not be wrong.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Lydia parked her car three blocks away and walked with her head down to the official residence of the university president. The cold rain provided the cover of empty streets and a hooded parka. The Smith and Wesson in her pocket held the promise of one last blow for justice.

It was nearly noon. Fantasies of a final confrontation with Meredith played in her mind during the ninety minute drive north from Olympia. Private Number was identified. Lydia imagined both ends of a conversation culminating with Meredith understanding the power she’d stolen had been returned. The manipulation was over. But as the Space Needle entered her view, Lydia decided against it. She’d keep it clean. One perfectly-placed silenced bullet and she’d be free.

She walked past the stone path leading to the mansion situated high on a manicured lawn, circled the side of the house, and looked for security guards or staff. One car sat parked in front of a four stall garage. Lydia kept walking. The back yard was hidden behind a six foot brick privacy wall that abutted a dense row of arbor vitae. She looked up and down the street, saw no one, and stepped into the cover the small copse of towering trees provided.

The brick wall was rough enough to gain hold. She pulled herself up and surveyed the residence’s backyard. A white gazebo sat off to her right, adjacent to a formal rose garden. A well-trimmed lawn led straight ahead to a flagstone deck running the width of the house. Lydia steadied herself on the wall just high enough to see over. Fifteen minutes passed with no observed movement. She hoisted herself over and crossed to the lattice arbor surrounding the back door. She reached a gloved hand for the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked. Lydia pushed the back door open and stepped into the mud room.

She stood flat against the wall and listened. Hearing nothing, she climbed two stairs into the kitchen. Recessed lights over a massive marble island chased the grey day out of the room. Lydia saw no signs of a recently eaten lunch. No coffee pot filled with comfort for a busy household staff. She moved to the living room.

Three distinct conversation areas sprawled across the enormous space. Empty sofas and chairs sat on Persian rugs. A wall of windows showcased the drizzled front lawn. Lydia crossed the entrance hall to the ornately carved staircase. She took a step and looked up.

Mort Grant sat on the mid-flight landing. Elbows on bent knees. Head down.

“She’s not here, Liddy.”

Lydia froze. Her heart pounded a panicked staccato to accompany the frenzied dance of a dozen thoughts.

Mort looked up and she calmed a little.

“Where is she?” She saw the disappointment in his face but could offer no apology.

He drew a long breath. “We got her. Picked her up this morning for questioning in the murder of Bradley Wells.

She swallowed hard. The heaviness in her chest threatened to pull her down.

“I want you to go, Liddy.” Mort sounded tired. “Leave now. Don’t go back to Olympia. Just turn around and disappear.”

Lydia took a step toward him but his upraised hand stopped her.

“I don’t understand.” She coughed the catch in her throat clear.

A layer of tears glistened in Mort’s eyes. “I’m familiar with The Fixer’s body of work. I imagine it’s been lucrative. I’m sure you’ve got access to various identities.” He rubbed his hand through his graying hair.

Lydia’s knees buckled. She leaned against the carved railing. “How long have you known?”

Mort looked at her for several long seconds. “I think some part of me knew a while ago. I kept pushing coincidences out of my head. Hell, I don’t know when.” His jaw muscles twitched. “But I know now. My guess is she’s blackmailing you, right?”

Lydia felt the sting of tears and blinked them away.

“Please answer me, Liddy.” Mort was calm. “You came here to kill her. What did she want you to do?”

Her ears were ringing. Her bones ached. She wanted to be back home, sharing coffee with him and watching the morning roll in. “She wanted me to kill Cameron Williams. Then wait for further instructions.”

Mort hung his head. His voice barely a whisper. “You killed Cameron?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.”

Mort snapped his head up. His voice stern enough to press her back to the wall. “Don’t play games with me, Lydia. I asked you if you killed Cameron.”

Lydia could hear her pulse pounding. For the first time in a long time she could tell the complete and unvarnished truth. She knew he’d listen. She stared silently at him, ashamed at her cowardice.

His voice softened. A loving father teaching his daughter a life lesson. “You got used, Liddy. Or I should say The Fixer got used. You and Wally both. Poor Wally thought he was helping his mentor by hiring you. Who the hell knows what she told that kid.” Mort rested his cheek against his palm. “Hell, when I saw what Bastian did to that gorilla I wanted to kill him myself. But why would she want Cameron dead?”

Lydia choked out the word. “Jealousy. Cameron told me Meredith and Bastian were a couple before she met him.”

“So the two spurned lovers concocted the scheme together. Wells had the money and the goons. Meredith had the patsy and the synthesizer.” Mort hung his hands between his knees. “And you had the chops.”

“She had help,” Lydia said. “They got into my house.”

Mort nodded. “We’ve got one on tape. We’ll get him. If there are others we’ll get them, too. You don’t need to worry.”

Lydia’s shame pushed her further back. She wanted to disappear. Run far from the heaviness of Mort’s disappointment. But the pleading look in his eyes riveted her to where she stood.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for the pain I’m causing you.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. Leave right now and you’ll be, too. Go live your life somewhere safe. Away from all this.”

Lydia wiped the tears off her face with both hands. “Why? After all you know, why would you let me walk away?”

Mort’s stare was heartrending. “When this story breaks The Fixer will become a folk hero to every person ever denied justice. I’m sure more than a few cops will be singing your praises, too. But I’m not letting The Fixer go.” Mort’s eyes lased into hers. “I’m giving Peggy Denise Simmons a break. What’s done is done. I know you thought you were doing something good for the world.” He coughed his throat clear. “I promised I’d have your back, and I will. Now go.”

“Meredith knows who I am. She has recordings and photos.”

“She’d have to admit to hiring you. I’m betting she won’t do that. If she does, well, I’m sure you can make yourself invisible.” Mort stood and walked three steps down. “The important thing is you’ll be safe.”

Lydia’s mind raced through her options. Could she start over? Free from The Fixer? She reached inside her parka, pulled out an envelope, and held it Mort’s way.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Lydia was numb. Her voice an echo to her own ears. She felt far away, suspended above the scene, watching it play out. “It’s an address. Go there and find Cameron Williams.”

“You hid her body?” Mort reached for the envelope. “That’s not like The Fixer.”

She shook her head. Mort shrank in her field of vision, as though she was looking at him from the end of a long hallway. “She’s not dead. She’s waiting for you.”

She barely could see the confused look on Mort’s face. “I don’t get it,” he said.

“She knows I killed Bastian.” Lydia allowed herself a little smile. “You’d be surprised how easy it was to convince her to let me draw a few vials of her blood and spray it around the room after I told her I’d been sent to kill her, too. She’s safe. She knows to stay put until you come get her.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m not a murderer,” she whispered.

Mort held the envelope. The sadness on his face tormented Lydia. She could still feel something like love.

His voice was hoarse with regret. “I’ll bring her home. Now go. You’ll have nothing to fear from Cameron. I’ll make sure of it. Just go.”

Lydia shook her head. “I’m not Allie, Mort. You’re not responsible for saving me. And you couldn’t live with yourself if you let me walk away from this. You know what you need to do. I won’t go to jail.” She pulled her revolver from her pocket.

“You gonna shoot me, Liddy?”

The hand that escorted so many to their deaths trembled with the weight of the Smith and Wesson. “Do what you need to do. Please.”

The sound of footsteps interrupted their focus and they both looked toward the kitchen. Lydia took two steps into the living room and saw a man walking toward them. She turned her gun toward Mort.

“Is this an arrest?” Her shame was replaced by despair. “You pretended to care long enough to distract me until your team showed up?”

Mort descended the staircase and stood five feet from her. “You hear any sirens, Liddy?” He looked toward the intruder.

“Hello, Carl.” Mort watched the Executive Provost pull a revolver from the jacket of his pocket.

Lydia turned her own gun toward the red-haired man.

“Well what have we here?” Carl Snelling clucked his satisfaction. “This is all a bit too easy now, isn’t it? God knows I’m in for a bit of luck after the day I’m having.”

“Put down your weapon,” Lydia commanded.

Carl held Lydia’s gaze and stepped closer. He leveled his gun toward the side of Mort’s head. “You first, Fixer. Drop your gun now or the good officer dies. And don’t expect any drama of my counting to three. Drop it now or wish you had.”

Her mind raced. This stranger knew who she was. She wanted to shoot. But the risk of his finger reflexively pulling his own trigger could kill Mort.

“Fine.” He turned his eyes toward Mort.

“Stop!” Lydia threw her gun to the floor.

The red-headed man chuckled and kicked Lydia’s gun across the floor. “That’s a good little girl.” He waved them both to the sofa. “Now sit.”

Mort and Lydia traversed the large room and took a seat across from the expansive windows. Carl Snelling sat in a chair opposite them.

“You okay?” Mort whispered to Lydia. His eyes were filled with concern and she wondered how a man came to be so rock-steady. She nodded and turned her attention back to the man with the gun.

“You’re Private Number?” she asked.

The man looked puzzled. Then a rush of recognition washed over his face. “Is that what you call me? How charming. One would suppose it’s necessary to have some way to identify one’s controller, wouldn’t one? The screen announcing my calls would suffice, I’d imagine. Allow me to introduce myself, My Dear. I’m Carl Snelling. Of course, I already know you.” He turned his attention to Mort. “And you, Detective Grant. I imagine you’re sifting through every conversation we’ve ever had. Wondering what you missed and all that. Am I right?”

Mort’s voice was cold but composed. “I’m not missing a thing, Snelling. You’re Meredith Thornton’s lackey. You do her bidding at the university and you dance the tune she called when it came to killing Bastian and Buchner. Cameron Williams, too.”

Snelling dropped the facade of congeniality. His eyes narrowed and Lydia watched his face turn to ice. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Detective. Meredith is as flummoxed by the deaths as the rest of the university. I tried to tell you I was the one you should be speaking with. True to form, Meredith knows nothing.” He settled back into the chair and crossed one leg over the other. “As relates to who is lackey to whom, I’m afraid you have the arrow pointing in the wrong direction. A common mistake for the poorly educated.”

Mort sat mute, focused on the gunman. Lydia watched both men. Despite the fact Snelling was armed, Mort challenged him for Alpha position.

“You don’t believe me?” Snelling raised an eyebrow.

Mort stayed silent. He held Snelling’s gaze and Lydia wondered if he was breathing.

Snelling glanced toward Lydia. “You think this is about monkeys being beheaded, don’t you?” His grin held no mirth. “My poor, deluded Fixer. As it always is, this is about money.”

“What do you mean?” Lydia needed to keep him talking. She needed time to think of a way to get Mort out of this. A way that guaranteed Snelling didn’t leave the house alive.

“Bradley Wells approached me several months ago. He wanted to develop four hundred acres of university property along the Lake Washington shoreline. He offered me five hundred thousand dollars to convince Meredith to direct the board of trustees to sell it to him. I was offended, of course.” He gave another of his frigid smiles. “But when he upped his offer to seven hundred fifty thousand I reassessed my position. Meredith has always relied on me to keep the university running as she goes about raising funds and seducing the legislature. I knew I could make her see things our way. And let’s be frank. Three-quarters of a million dollars would go far toward feathering my retirement nest. A civil servant’s lot is a thankless one.”

“But Thornton wouldn’t play ball?” Mort asked.

“Ah, you see? You’re wrong again, Detective. As always, I was able to bring Meredith around. I phonied some numbers to make her think the university was on the brink of financial ruin. Wells played his part as the disappointed benefactor. She became convinced selling the property to Wells was the right move for the university.”

“Then why did you have me kill Bastian?” Lydia asked.

“Because Bastian had grown weary of Meredith. He wanted her gone.” Snelling uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. Lydia hoped it indicated he was growing tired. “You see, Wells had shared his land development idea with Cameron prior to her ending their engagement. When she switched her affections to Bastian, she must have mentioned it as pillow talk. I began to hear rumors of Bastian reaching out to various trustees with the idea Meredith be replaced. Some were listening. Meredith was key to convincing the trustees to sell Wells the land. If she was out of the president’s seat Wells was out of a deal and my coffers were empty. I tried to reason with Bastion, but he was resolute. He threatened to reveal my role in Wells’ plan.” Snelling grimaced. “After all I did to get his precious Ortoo into his lab undetected. This is how he thanked me.”

“Did Meredith know you were planning to kill Bastian?” Mort asked.

Snelling laughed. “God, no. Meredith deals in abstracts, Detective. I’d heard of you, Fixer. I thought you were an urban myth, but Wells thought you were worth a try. We developed a plan to have you eliminate our obstacle.”

“And Wally Buchner?” Mort asked.

“A simple conduit, Detective,” Snelling said. “I needed a face to negotiate with The Fixer while I stood behind the scenes. Buchner was extremely loyal to Meredith. He was also a bleeding heart when it came to animals. It took very little effort to convince him to do this for the good of the university. I assured him The Fixer would find a way to humiliate Bastian so that he’d resign.” Snelling threw Lydia a smile. “Poor Wally thought Bastian’s heart attack was a coincidence. It’s my understanding he took quite a bit of convincing when he had to call you to say you’d killed the wrong man.”

“And you followed Lydia from the warehouse. Found out who she really was.” Mort’s voice was arctic steel.

Snelling shifted the gun to his left hand. Lydia knew Mort had the same idea she did. Keep him talking and let that gun grow heavy.

“It was a delightful serendipity.” Snelling turned toward Lydia. “I fully expected to follow you to an airport. Perhaps learn the name of your home city. Imagine my utter joy to find The Fixer lived just down the road. When I told Wells he was as thrilled as I. The thought of having a professional of your caliber, Fixer; available at our beck and call, was quite the unexpected bonus. That’s when poor Wally had to die. We had to get your attention. Introduce you to your new employer, as it were.”

“You’re saying you killed him?” Mort asked.

“Oh, my goodness, no.” Snelling returned his gun to his right hand. “Wells had people who took care of that. I was at the warehouse. The voice behind the synthesizer.”

“And Cameron?” Lydia asked. “Why did she have to die?”

“That was Wells’ idea. Nothing more imaginative than revenge for her humiliation of him.” Snelling tilted his head and gave Lydia a sympathetic look. “A terrible waste of your talents, My Dear. For what it’s worth, I tried to talk him out of it.”

“Who was breaking into my house?” Lydia’s fatigue was weakening her. She willed her voice to remain calm.

“More of Wells’ goons. He seems to have a never-ending supply.”

“Then why Wells?” Mort sounded puzzled. Lydia knew it was a ploy. “Why kill the goose who was laying the golden eggs?”

Snelling grimaced. “A pedestrian metaphor, Detective. But to continue it, I’m afraid he cooked his own goose.”

“What happened?” Mort asked.

Snelling sighed. “As I said, Wells and I worked together to convince Meredith she had no other option than to sell, and she came to agree. But two days later she changed her mind. Holding sacred the university’s stewardship of the waterfront or some such drivel. She took the proposal off the trustee’s agenda. Despite my best machinations she stood her ground. When I informed Wells he reverted to the gutter thug he was. He emasculated me. Called me ineffective and refused to pay me a cent for all my efforts. Threatened to tell Meredith of my involvement. Can you imagine word getting out? I’d be ruined. I tried to reason with him, but he dismissed me as though I was one of his hourly factory workers.”

“So it’s your image we’ll see on the security tapes?” Mort asked.

Snelling’s urbane facade slipped for the first time that afternoon. “Security tapes?”

“At Wells’ mansion. They show a man entering his house just before he was killed.”

Snelling stood, less sure of himself than ten seconds earlier. “There’ll be no need for the tape, Detective. I’m also sure once your investigators search Meredith’s office they’ll find the synthesizer and gun I’ve tucked away. My mission today had been to plant the tapes of The Fixer here in Meredith’s home, thereby securing her conviction in the murders of Bastian, Buchner, and Cameron. But now you two have offered a more air-tight scenario.”

Lydia’s focus was pulled away by movement beyond the giant windows. Three squad cars pulled into the driveway. No lights or sirens. The scene unfolded behind Snelling’s back. She glanced Mort’s way and knew he saw them, too.

“What’s your plan, Snelling?” Mort’s tone was of a mix of boredom and curiosity.

Snelling smiled. “Well, Detective, imagine you asked me to join you in a search of Meredith’s residence. As Executive Provost, of course. We were stunned to find The Fixer here, lying in wait. In an astounding encounter, the two of you shot each other and I was left to call the police and tell them I heard The Fixer confess that Meredith hired her to kill all those innocent people.”

Lydia allowed herself one quick glance outside. Several uniformed officers stood at ease, listening to a man in civilian clothes. A large German Shepherd stood next to him. There was no urgency. She imagined they were there to search Meredith’s house. She focused her stare on them; willing them to see the drama unfolding inside. Not one of them turned their way. Snelling’s laugh brought her attention back into the room.

“I can’t wait to hear Meredith try to explain away the mounting evidence. She’ll see exactly how ineffective she is without me.” His hands quivered again. “I’m sure the trustees will ask me to serve as acting university president until a nationwide search can be mounted. Soon they’ll see I’m not only the sentimental favorite, but skilled beyond others to handle the job on a permanent basis.” He waved his gun toward the kitchen. “A much better plan all the way around. I tip my hat to the both of you for providing it.”

Lydia yelled at the top of her voice. “The police are here! Drop your weapon, Snelling!”

Her words kicked off a choreography of three independent dancers. Snelling turned toward the window, saw the police, and rushed back toward the foyer. Lydia tried to step in front of Mort at the same instant he made a lunge for Snelling’s gun. Their stumble allowed Snelling the fraction of a second he needed to sidestep Mort. Snelling grabbed the detective by the collar, pulled him hard against his chest, and shoved his gun tight against Mort’s skull.

“Get out of here, Lydia.” Mort’s voice was strained by Snelling’s tight grip. “Leave now.”

Lydia looked outside. The group hadn’t moved. She stared at them, paralyzed.

Several police sauntered toward the house.

“Call them off!” Snelling screamed. “Or Mort dies right here.”

“For God’s sake, Lydia, run.” Mort’s eyes were pleading. His neck strained against the noose of his collar. “You can make it.”

“Now, Fixer!” Snelling’s spit flew past Mort’s ear. “Call them off!”

Her left hand went to her throat. She pulled out the wooden whistle. She watched Mort’s face turn deep crimson as Snelling pulled the collar ever tighter.

“Don’t do this,” Mort rasped. “Go.”

She blew loud and long. The shrill penetrated the windows. She saw Mort wrest free at the same instant Snelling fired his gun. Four uniforms stormed the house. Lydia watched Mort stumble forward, shirt covered in blood, as Snelling leveled his gun at her.

The bursting front door startled the crazed Executive Provost. Mort reached his bloody arms toward Lydia at the precise instant Bruiser threw his eighty-five rock-solid pounds against the man holding the weapon. Snelling fell to the ground as his gun fired across the room.

Four officers returned fire.

Lydia saw it all in slow motion.

She watched the plainclothes officer head straight toward the Shepherd; his movements an elongated molasses run. “He’s alright.” The man’s voice was slow and low. A recording played at one-third speed. “Bruiser’s okay.”

She felt the searing pain in the back of her neck.

She saw Mort reaching for her. “Liddy!” His voice like the other man’s: drawn-out and deep.

She felt his arms catch her as they both drifted to the floor. She looked into his face. Saw the pain in his eyes. His blood-soaked clothes. The room went silent. His contorted look of panic seared its way into her consciousness.

Another sharp stab of pain brought the room back to normal speed. Yelling. Stomping. The acrid smell of gun powder.

Mort pulled her into his lap. His warm blood pulsed onto her face.

“Hang on, Liddy.” His whisper was low and soft. “Help’s on the way.”

She shook her head so subtly that only he could see. “This is the only way.” Her whisper was as small as his. “Will you stay with me?”

The pain on Mort’s face crushed her heart. His eyes were riveted to hers. She watched as the sadness in them made room for acceptance.

She gasped for breath and hoped he’d read her thin smile as brave. “Are you hurt bad?”

“Don’t worry about me. You just hang on.” Mort strengthened his hold on her.

“Will you stay?” she whispered.

Mort swallowed hard. “I’ll stay,” he choked. “God speed.”

A man walked up behind them. Lydia wondered if this was Jim, the friend Mort mentioned so many times. A wispy daydream came to torment her. A backyard barbeque. She was serving burgers and corn. Mort was groaning that Lydia and Robbie had just beaten the two older men in croquet. Mort’s grandchildren were calling her Auntie.

Lydia sensed the light drain from the room.

“Get that ambulance now,” the man yelled to the police in the yard. “They’re ninety seconds away, Mort.”

“Step outside, will you, Jimmy?” He kept his eyes on Lydia. “We’re all right here.”

“Mort?” Lydia whispered. “I can’t see you.”

He stroked her hair and rocked her. “I’m right here, little girl. Everything’s going to be okay.” He held her close. “I’ve got you.”

The blindness that enveloped Lydia gave way to a pinpoint of light far in the distance. She focused on the light as it grew, drawing her to its center. Brighter and warmer. Closer and closer.

Lydia closed her eyes, eased into the lullaby Mort was humming, and floated toward the light.

Chapter Forty-Eight

First came the beeping. Steady. Muffled. Then the smell. Antiseptic. Harsh on the in-breath. Next, the sense of a warm cocoon. An awareness to body identified it as a heated blanket. A difficult swallow brought a bitter taste down the throat. An attempt to move. A non-responsive body.

She tried again.

This time the back of her shoulders shifted a quarter-inch to the right and scratched against something rough.

She wrestled weakened muscles and sticky ointment to work her eyes open. She blinked away a greasy blur. The light was too bright. She closed them and tried to speak. Her voice didn’t come.

She tried again.

A whimper rasped free. She opened her eyes a second time. A man sat by her bed, reading a newspaper. She strained to produce another sound, louder this time.

The man lowered his paper. His surprised face seemed familiar.

“Lydia?” The man leaned close. She smelled cinnamon and coffee. “Can you hear me?”

She blinked; tried to focus; tried to place the man. An image of a big dog floated through her consciousness.

“Holy Mother of God” The man whispered before leaning back and yelling. “Mort! Get in here.” He turned back to her. “Lydia, hold tight, okay? Mort’s just out at the nurse’s desk.”

She heard the commotion of three people hurrying in. She focused on the one face she recognized. The man with his arm in a sling.

He looked so tired.

The two strangers converged over her. Feeling and prodding. Pushing and thumping. They called her name again and again. She couldn’t respond.

“For the love of Christ, will you give her a minute?” Mort’s voice danced to her across the room. “She’s been hooked up to your damned machines for nearly three weeks. You’re not going to learn anything more by poking at her now.” She watched him step in front of the stranger who had his fingers on her pulse. He leaned down. His eyes shimmered in the light.

“Welcome back, Liddy Girl. Good to see you again.” His smile soothed her. She croaked two soft sounds.

“Don’t try, Kiddo.” Mort’s voice was warm silk. “They took you off the vent yesterday. You’re going to be sore for a while.”

Mort looked over his shoulder. “Give us a few minutes.” The two strangers exchanged questioning looks. Mort turned to them again. “Please.” They shuffled out, warning Mort not to excite her.

“Can you believe it, Mort?” The man with the paper stood and grabbed his jacket. “You’re here twenty-four/seven and nothing. I step in for ten minutes and sleeping beauty comes back from the dead.” The man smiled at Lydia as he zipped his windbreaker. “I still got a way with the ladies, huh?” He winked at her and slapped his newspaper against Mort’s arm. “Wait til I tell Micki what’s up. Call me.”

Mort waited for the man to leave before he pulled a chair next to her bed. He slid his hand over hers.

“What d’ya say we do one blink for ‘no’ and two blinks for ‘yes’? Sound good?”

She blinked twice. It was easier this time.

“There you go.” Mort’s eyes scanned her face. “I got to ask you a tough one, Liddy.” His voice caught. “Can you see me?”

She blinked twice. No problem at all.

“Oh, Sweet Jesus.” Mort’s smile was wide and strong. “The docs said it could go either way. That part of your brain took a tough hit.” He stroked her hand. “Do you remember what happened?”

She recalled Snelling holding a gun to Mort’s head. Choking him on his own shirt. Shooting him. The police dog charging. The searing pain. The darkness and the bright light.

Lydia blinked twice.

“Let me bring you up to speed.” Mort leaned against the side of her bed. “It’s March 19 ^ th. You’ve been in the hospital nearly three weeks. Came up from ICU yesterday morning. Docs tell me you’re getting stronger by the day, but you’ve got a long rehab ahead of you. You up for that?”

Lydia’s breath grew shallow. She wondered what was at the end of the rehab road. A tear escaped her eye and slid into her ear. She couldn’t lift her hand to wipe it away.

Mort looked over his shoulder before leaning in close. “Liddy, Snelling’s dead. Cameron’s back home singing your praises. She swears it was a stroke of genius for you to make up the story that you killed Bastian. Says she wouldn’t have trusted you any other way.”

He brushed a hand across her forehead and Lydia felt a wisp of hair move. “Robbie’s story’s a hit and The Fixer’s out of business. No one knows where she is.” His voice was firm. “Savannah’s name has never been brought up. Your little Greta can rest in peace.”

Lydia’s mind swirled with half-formed questions and hazy thoughts. What if’s and how’s. She couldn’t block them correctly. Couldn’t speak them if she could.

She watched him lean back and pull a notepad from his shirt pocket. “The joint’s been hopping.” He flipped to the page he wanted. “Let’s see. Some fellow named Jeffe’ says to tell you he’s starting work first of next month and his wife is coming soon. A Deshaundra Clemmons nearly got herself arrested when the staff told her you weren’t ready for visitors. They came and got me. Says she heard your story on the news and knows you were too busy fighting crime to remember details. I’m supposed to tell you she forgives you.” His eyes scanned the sheet. “The list goes on. Looks to me like you’re very well-loved.”

Another tear escaped. This time Mort grabbed a tissue, leaned in, and wiped it away. “It’s done, Liddy. The case is closed.” Mort reached for her hand. “The Fixer’s identity died with Snelling.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Let’s bury her along with him.”

Lydia struggled for breath. Her heart pounded in her ears. She closed her eyes against the power of his gaze.

“Let it be done. The pain, the loneliness. All of it. Let it be done. Let’s see how little Peggy might have turned out if she didn’t have to go it alone.”

She felt his hand caress the top of her head. She opened her eyes and looked at the only man who knew all she was and all she’d done. She scanned his eyes, his face, his body. Lydia let the emotion she saw sink in for a few long moments. She relaxed against the initial urge to defend and felt her body loosen. The ache left her; replaced by something warmer.

Mort reached for her hand. “It’s springtime, Liddy. Time for new beginnings. Can you trust me?”

She thought of her home. The birds. The squirrels rousing from hibernation, darting through her trees. She thought of coffee with Mort, maybe on her deck.

She summoned the strength to squeeze his warm fingers and blinked twice.

Acknowledgements

These things always start with something like “I have so many people to thank”. I get it now. This book would not have been possible without a cast of supporters I am blessed to call mine. There’s Laurel and Christine from the University of Wisconsin. “No, no, Teri. The book starts here.” Lissa’s editing turned countless swine ears into silk purses. Rosie, Patricia, and Teresa provided the road map when I told them “I can’t figure out how to…”. Barbie, Julie, Cynthia and Judy discussed plot points over hot chocolate and smuggled-in cookies at Wednesday afternoon clubhouse meetings. Kate, Anne, and Suz did the same while we learned about wine sitting next to cozy fires. My wonderful agent, Victoria, bounced so many drafts back that when she finally told me I’d created something great I believed her. David provided the technical expertise and creative panache for my knockout website.

And through it all is my man. I announced, never having discussed it before, that I wanted to write a novel and he asked what I needed to get started. I timidly entered a contest and he told me I’d win first place. (He was right.) I stayed in my office for hours and he’d poke his nose in to ask if I needed more tea. The rapture of waking each morning next to the finest man I’ve ever known has made me fearless.

Content

T. E. Woods
The Fixer

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight