Dead End Fix (11 page)

Mort brought her up to speed on what happened since she'd handed Hadley off to him at the airport. He paused only when the server came by to take their drink order. Scotch for him, merlot for her. When the waiter was well out of earshot, he continued.

“The FBI will have questions,” he said. “Nothing I can't handle.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Hadley has nothing but glowing things to say about Sheila, the nice lady who brought her home from Aunt Allie's.”

Lydia shrugged. “Seemed as good a name as any. Hadley's a delight, by the way. Smart.”

“She bragged about beating you in hangman. I believe the word was ‘homework.' ”

The server was back, depositing their drinks before describing the night's special: a pork tenderloin glazed with maple syrup and served with whipped butternut squash and sautéed asparagus. Lydia told him it sounded delicious. Mort asked for a rib eye, medium rare, with garlic mashed potatoes. The waiter thanked them and left.

“I suppose you have questions,” Lydia said.

Mort took a sip of his scotch, puzzled. “You have no idea what you've done for me and my family, do you? Did you think that's what tonight was about? A debriefing?”

Lydia looked suddenly uncomfortable.

“We have lots to talk about, sure. But first will you let me thank you? As insufficient as words are, will you let me try to tell you how grateful I am—we all are—for what you did?”

“Robbie and Claire don't know?” A tinge of anxiety colored her tone.

“Of course not. I told them Sheila was someone I used to work with. They were both so thrilled to have Hadley home I could have told them Santa Claus flew her in on his sleigh and they would have thought it made perfect sense.”

“Again I have you lying for me.”

He wished he could reach across the table and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. But Lydia didn't welcome touch. Given what he knew of the pain she had suffered at the hands of others, he understood. Still, the urge to comfort her pulled at him.

“Look at me, Lydia.” He waited until her eyes were on his. “Thank you. From the depths of the love I have for my family. Thank you. Hadley is safe at home. You did what no one else could have done. You found my granddaughter and brought her home.”

Lydia glanced down, focusing her attention on her drink. Mort waited several moments, allowing her to regain her bearings after enduring the discomfort of his gratitude.

“How did it go with Allie?” he asked.

“I expected more resistance. She put up a bit of an argument, but I think she knew it wasn't in her best interests to keep Hadley. A child made her vulnerable. I think she understood their time together couldn't last, no matter what fantasy she may have had when she first took her.”

Mort flashed on the memory of another little girl. One he had seen in a videotape. Murdered at the instruction of his daughter. He shivered to think how Hadley's inconvenience might have ended, had Lydia not found his granddaughter in time.

“How did she treat you?”

Lydia savored a long sip of her wine before answering. “My relationship with your daughter is complex.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

Again Lydia paused before responding. Mort wondered how terrible the interaction had been that she was being so careful with her words.

“I went to her prepared,” she finally said. “My goal was to bring Hadley back and I wasn't going to let anyone stop me.”

“How did you find her? You said she wasn't using any of her cards. How'd you track her?”

Lydia played with her wineglass. Mort felt no impatience. He knew she was protecting him from what his daughter had become.

“Do you remember Oliver Bane?”

Mort was confused by the change of topic. “The coffeehouse guy? Sure.”

“Yes. Former state's attorney. Gentle heart.”

“You dating him again?”

Lydia shook her head. “No. Somehow Allie found out about my past relationship with Oliver. She was so…what? Angry? Enraged? Whatever she was when I refused to intercede with you on her behalf—”

“You mean when she wanted me to open my arms and welcome her back into the family. I hung the condition that she needed to turn herself in to the authorities before I'd do that.”

“Yes. Allie thinks I have influence with you. That I've replaced her in your life. When I told her I wouldn't interfere with Grant family decisions, she became upset with me. Threatened that if I stood in her way, she would take from me what I wanted.”

“Are you saying Allie went after Oliver?”

Lydia nodded. “A few days before she took Hadley. She went to his coffee shop. Posed as someone new to town. Allie is a very beautiful woman.”

Mort felt his throat closing. “And well versed in using her charm to get what she wants.”

“She was able to seduce him and wasted no time letting me know it. Told me she could take anything I held dear. It was another threat to get me to do her bidding, I suppose.”

“But you held firm.” Mort's eyes rested on Lydia's cheek, focused on the faint outline of a bruise.

“My leads for tracking Allie had dried up. I visited Oliver, hoping Allie might have let something slip during her seduction. Oliver gave me a lead that panned out.”

“What kind of welcome did you receive?”

Again Lydia considered before answering. “She's living well, if that's your question. She's well protected. She intervened when her bodyguards tried to stop me. She put up a willful argument but in the end handed Hadley over. Hadley appeared well cared for. Pampered. Those two suitcases were crammed with new clothes and toys, and we left much more behind. Hadley didn't suffer while she was with her aunt.”

But what
could
have happened?
Mort wondered.
Allie's a warlord. There's a target on her back twenty-four/seven. Hadley could easily have been caught in the crossfire.

“How'd she leave it with you?” Mort asked. “She's got to be angrier than ever that it was you who came for Hadley.”

Lydia raised confident eyes to meet his. “I can handle Allie. We've not seen the last of her. She wants her family.”

“And she sees you standing in the way of that.”

Lydia nodded.

What he wanted to say next was postponed when the server came back to the table, this time balancing a large tray on his shoulder. Lydia's pork looked tasty, and Mort didn't realize how hungry he was until the aroma of his sizzling steak drifted up from his plate. Lydia must have been just as famished. When the server left, they each spent time enjoying their meal. He felt his tension ease as their conversation focused only on how satisfying the food was. But when the plates were cleared and the waiter brought them each a cup of coffee, Mort returned to the other reason he had asked to meet with her.

“You remember Jim DeVilla?”

“Of course,” she said. “How's Bruiser?”

“That pooch was born terrific and shows no sign of changing. Jim got a call from Tukwila PD this morning. They found a dead man in the trunk of a Mercedes. From the looks of things, the guy's been dead close to ten days.”

Lydia set her coffee cup down and looked him in the eye.

“The Mercedes was registered to the Larchmont.” He held her gaze. “The place Allie stayed while she was here. She was registered under the name Edith Roberts. That's the same guest the Larchmont's manager rented the Mercedes to.”

Lydia had no response.

“Is he the guy who gave you those bruises?”

Lydia's hand went to her chin reflexively.

“Did Allie send him to kill you?”

Lydia stayed silent.

“Tell me what my daughter did to you.” He waited, hoping his stare would convince her the subject wouldn't be dropped until he had his answer.

Lydia glanced around the restaurant. They were in a corner booth in a near-empty room. Still, she leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“His name was Staz. I don't have a last name. Allie sent him, yes. But not to kill me. To take me.”

“Take you? Where?”

Lydia shook her head. “I don't know specifically. But I was to become her gift to some Middle Eastern associate. Allie promised I'd become his personal assassin.”

Mort's stomach tightened at the thought of what else the associate might have wanted from Lydia. “And he hurt you.”

“I wasn't about to go easily, if that's what you mean. Actually, he did more damage to my house than he did to me.”

“I thought I smelled new construction when I was there.”

“I did what I needed to, Mort.” There was no remorse in her eyes. “And I removed the evidence so no one would connect Staz to you, me, or Allie.”

“But the Larchmont…”

“The Larchmont knows Edith Roberts. They know nothing about Allison Grant. Allie's good, Mort. Trust me. She left no trace of herself. The authorities will never link Staz to her. No matter how good Jimmy is at directing the Tukwila PD.”

Mort hated the conflict he felt in his gut. Allie needed to be held to account for the death and destruction she left in her wake. But she was his daughter. He hated the part of him that was relieved the police wouldn't be able to find her.

“This Staz, he was important to Allie?”

Lydia nodded. “She reminded me, just before we woke up Hadley to get her packed for the trip home, that we still had unfinished business. I don't want you to worry. I'm ready for Allie. Can you say the same? Can Robbie?”

Mort didn't want to believe his daughter would hurt him. Or her brother and his family. But Allie had grown into something beyond his ability to understand.

“I'll work with Robbie,” Mort said. “We'll come up with a way to keep them all safe.”

“Let me know if you need anything. Allie's elusive. But I'm surveilling her whenever I can. If I learn anything, you'll know.”

“No matter how innocent or small the move is? If she charges a hankie at a London shop, you'll let me know?”

“I will.”

“She'll be back, Liddy.”

“I understand.”

The silence hanging between them crackled. The server brought the check. Mort signed for it, adding a generous tip in gratitude for the man's lack of intrusion. As the two of them stood to say goodbye, Mort had one other thought.

“And get with that Oliver,” he said. “If Allie thinks he was the one who led you to her, he might be getting a visit as well.”

“How lovely you look this day.” Fyodor Ratchikov opened his arms wide as he walked into the main salon of the dacha thirty miles outside the city. Vadim Tokarev, the former mastermind of a Russian crime syndicate with international operations, had spent millions building this sanctuary in the woods. He had adored his remote palace and hoped to bring his beautiful American fiancée here so she could make it their haven. Instead, Tokarev was dead. Killed by the same American lover he had planned to imprison. Now she ran the empire. The dacha was hers.

“My dear Ratchikov.” Allie spoke in fluent Russian as she held out her hand so her lieutenant could kiss the ring signifying her power. “Welcome to my cottage.” She looked beyond him to the two men who were never more than four steps from his side. “Alexi, Misha. This is your first visit to my home. I trust you will let me know whatever it is you need to make this time comfortable for you.”

Alexi, Ratchikov's new man from St. Petersburg, bowed as he kissed her ring before backing away. Allie then turned her attention to Misha, the rebellious, bald muscleman who had given her such difficulty at their last meeting. Misha held her gaze, signaling a feral strength mixed with pure erotic threat. Allie felt a pull in her loins. In another setting she might have taken him up on his telegraphed offer. But she was his czarina. If she took him to her bed, it would be only after he understood he would walk into hell if she ordered him to. She pulled her shoulders back, brought an icy stare to his gaze, and said nothing until he kissed her ring.

Misha stepped back to stand beside Alexi. Ratchikov came forward, looking around the room. “Where is our little princess? Is she in the garden? I have some cookies for her.”

“My niece is gone,” Allie replied. “We have business. This is no place for a child.”

Ratchikov tilted his head, as if considering whether or not to believe her. Then he clapped his hands together. “Yes! Business! It is time to discuss important matters.”

Allie pressed a button on the lacquered mahogany table next to her. Seconds later the housekeeper she had inherited along with the dacha appeared, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her thick waist.

“Nika, take Alexi and Misha to join my men for lunch.” Allie turned toward Ratchikov's bodyguards. “Nika will take away every longing you have for your mother's cooking. Enjoy your time. Make friends with my men. I will tell you when it is time to leave.”

Alexi walked toward Nika. Misha turned his attention to Fyodor Ratchikov, as though asking his permission to do what his czarina had just ordered.

“Go now, Misha,” Allie commanded. “Dear Fyodor is safe with me.”

Misha hesitated. Then he turned and joined his colleague to follow the waddling Nika down the hall. Allie knew the reception awaiting Ratchikov's men in the dacha's enormous kitchen. In addition to Rick and Johnny, the two Cockney recruits she had picked up in London, they'd meet six additional members of her personal security force. Large, dedicated men from around the world. Allie wanted Ratchikov's men to be impressed with the size of her personal guard. Their boss would know that if anyone decided to mount a coup against her, she'd be ready.

“It is a welcome treat to see you back in the motherland,” Ratchikov said after his men were gone. “You are a woman who likes the glamour of Paris and Rome. The tranquillity of a southern island. But our enterprise is Russian. We are thrilled to have our queen back in her capital.”

“Our operation is global now, Fyodor. That was the dream of my dear Vadim. He wanted the entire world held in our hand. My hand. The hand that once held Vadim Tokarev's.” She motioned to a small sofa upholstered in heavy red and gold velvet, urging him to sit. Allie despised the dacha and every overly ornate piece of furniture in it. But she understood she could not change a single item in the onion-domed house. The Russians loved ostentatious shows of wealth. They equated them with power. If she was to be their czarina, she needed to appear to share the same values. Her people could never know she'd prefer to burn every stick in this house. Replace it with the elegance of clean lines and simple, exquisite fabrics. There would be time enough for that. For now, let them believe.

“The Middle East is a big part of the globe, my czarina. Forgive me when I say this, but you have disappointed in this region.” Ratchikov's tone held no hint of desire for the forgiveness he requested.

“Abu Al Fared.”

“Yes. Word travels quickly. Weaknesses are relayed as quickly as washerwomen's gossip. An operation as large as ours has many wolves lurking just beyond our sight. Your failure to deliver your promise to Al Fared has put us at a disadvantage in the region. In turn, our own men see our vulnerability. There are whispers.”

“Tell me of these whispers.”

Ratchikov lowered his gaze. He shook his head slowly. Allie watched his performance. Here was a man trying to look like the last thing he wanted was to be the purveyor of bad news. But Allie knew better. If there was anyone in her organization poised to strike, it was her highest-ranking lieutenant.

“Tell me, Fyodor. What do our men think? I have feathered their bank vaults considerably since I've taken over, have I not?”

“But it is the rich man who craves. The poor man is grateful for any scrap; the rich man wants the banquet. You have made our men rich. You cannot blame them for wanting more.”

“And they are concerned I cannot provide more?”

“Their concerns, not mine. Perhaps, they say, we were wrong to follow a woman. They remember your promises. You were to be our Catherine. Our warrior queen who would lead us to greatness. Greatness lies in the Middle East. These men do not appreciate failure.”

“And you, Fyodor? Do you think I've failed?”

Ratchikov was silent for several long moments. Allie watched him from across the room, enjoying his performance, knowing he was about to reveal his true position.

“A Russian promise is always kept. You promised the Fixer to Abu Al Fared. You have not delivered. It brings shame to our organization.”

“My promise to Abu Al Fared was a steady supply of drugs and prostitutes. We can give him that. The Fixer was a gift. A token of my esteem and appreciation for his business. The Fixer will be a toy for him. She will not bring him money. I can make him richer than he dreams. In turn, my men will know the banquet the rich man craves.”

“These are words, czarina. Russians are men of action.”

“Do not doubt me, Ratchikov!” Allie's furious voice echoed off the towering gold-leafed ceilings. “I will not tolerate it!”

The Russian was unbowed. “Al Fared wants the Fixer. He stresses his patience is not endless.”

“And his supply expectations?” she countered. “What does he say?”

Ratchikov shrugged. “He assumes our products will meet his standards. But he is an Arab. Again, the idea of a woman in charge is proving difficult. His words, not mine, czarina.”

But your sentiments, Ratchikov. If you hadn't seen me kill your beloved Vadim Tokarev with my own hands, would you be kissing my ring?

“Is he open to a one-time transaction? A demonstration of what I am able to provide?”

“I might be able to convince him. But it would have to be considerable. This is the Middle East. There are religious zealots at every turn. While there are those in power who protect Al Fared and his business, no one desires to lose their head. Your sample would have to be attractive enough for him to warrant the risk.”

“What would you suggest?”

“I think I could persuade him to consider an offer of five kilos of cocaine and, shall we say, two women? White women. Fine-boned Eastern European women.”

Allie stepped over to stand in front of him. “Contact Abu Al Fared. If he's interested, have him moor his yacht off the coast near Al Ghaydah.”

“Yemen, czarina?” Ratchikov displayed his first nonrehearsed reaction of the day. “We have no operations there. That area is overrun with religious zealots and local tribes.”

“Tell him I will keep him safe. He has my word. He's to take a launch from his yacht to the port of Al Ghaydah. I will meet him there myself. He can bring men of his own if he'd like. If he's interested, I will provide him with ten kilos of cocaine and five of the most beautiful women his eyes have ever seen. There will be no cost to him. This will be proof of the quality of goods and safety of delivery my organization can provide.”

“Czarina, this is absurd. There's no way we can—”

“Speak to him, Ratchikov,” Allie interrupted. “Or tell me if I need to find another man who will.”

Fyodor Ratchikov stared at her. She saw confusion in his eyes, slowly replaced by a look of satisfaction. Ratchikov nodded. “I will do this, czarina. Abu Al Fared will be there.”

You bastard,
she thought.
You'll make sure he's there. You want him to have a front-row seat to my failure.

“Seven days from now. One week. Tell Al Fared I will meet him on the dock at ten p.m. local time.”

Ratchikov stood. He reached for her hand, bowed, and kissed her ring. “Your confidence is well placed, my queen. Abu Al Fared will be there.”