Dead End Fix (8 page)

“I believe you. You said you're not afraid of anything. Maybe. But you
are
vulnerable. You care for Hadley. You want a family. You want someone to love you.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“No. Maybe we're alike in that way too. But Hadley can't love you if she's dead. And the men you work with will take her. They'll use her to control you. You'll give up everything you have and they'll
still
kill her.” Lydia waited for the words to sink in. “Then there'll be no way back to your family. None. Your family loves you. I know this to be true. You can't be part of their lives living the way you do, but Robbie and Mort miss you and love you nonetheless. And you've seen how Hayden and Hadley worship you. If you keep Hadley, she will die. You will lose your empire. Your family will hate you. In an instant. They will hate every memory, every thought. They will hate the sound of your name.”

“I can control any threat.”

“You know that's not true. But let's say you
can
beat back every single threat to your empire. Let's pretend you
can
keep Hadley safe. You'll still lose her. Not to death but to the pain she'll feel being separated from her family. Robbie and Claire, Mort and Hayden…These are important people in Hadley's life. They're her constants. You're the bright and shining new thing. She's fascinated by you now, but she'll miss her family. If you keep her from them, you'll experience the pain of watching the love she has for you now disappear.”

Allie looked away.

“Allow Hadley to keep the adoration she has for Aunt Allie. Let her love you always. Brag to her friends about the adventures you've taken her on. She'll tell her parents and her papa what kindness you showed her. That keeps your options open. Keep your empire. Keep your family loving and missing you.”

Allie said nothing. Lydia sat with her in silence, watching the lights beyond the terrace. Ready to react. Knowing if her words didn't reach Allie, her bullets would.

“So what's next?” Allie finally asked. “You walk out of here with Hadley?”

“That's how I see it. She'll have tears, I'm sure. But it's better she cry to be leaving you than she cry being forced to stay.”

Allie was quiet for a time.

“Will you tell my father where I am?”

“What good would that do, Allie? You'll be somewhere new before Hadley and I land in Seattle.”

Allie nodded.

“How did you find me?”

Lydia held her gaze.

“I'll not forget about Staz,” Allie warned.

“Nor will I.”

“You could have prevented all of this, Lydia.”

“Save that for another time.” Lydia checked her watch. “I have a charter waiting. After we land in Miami, we'll be ready to board a commercial flight to Seattle.”

“Which means you'll de-arm yourself.”

“Which means I'll be ready for the flight. The sooner Hadley gets used to normal things again, the better. And flying chartered jets is far from normal.”

“I love my niece.”

“I believe you do.”

Another blanket of silence fell upon them. Ten minutes passed before Allie got up and crossed to a credenza in the dining room. She pulled an envelope out of the drawer, stepped back to where Lydia sat, and handed it to her.

“You'll need these travel documents. Hadley's flying under the name Heidi Speavy. She thinks it's a game.”

Lydia thanked her.

“Does she know you?”

Lydia shook her head.

“Well then, let's call down for some cookies and milk. I'll wake her up. We'll have a bit of a party while she gets to know you and I pack up her things. I'll tell her you're a friend of Papa's.”

Lydia nodded.

“And you'll tell my family I returned Hadley willingly? That they can trust me?”

“I'll tell your family the truth. There were cookies and milk and, most likely, a tearful goodbye.”

Allie ambled toward the bedroom wing. She stopped just as she got to the archway and turned.

“You understand this changes nothing between us.”

Mort checked his watch for the fifth time. Lydia had called before dawn. At first he couldn't absorb what she was saying. She told him she and Hadley had just arrived in Miami and would catch the first flight home. He needed her to repeat the flight information. She didn't provide any details other than to assure him Hadley was safe.

“So is Allie,” she told him. “We'll talk more later.”

He walked over to recheck the video display. Flight 1614 was due to land in Seattle four minutes ago. He stood, hands on his hips, inhaling shallow, anxious breaths.

Lydia was right,
he thought.
It's best I didn't tell Robbie or Claire I was headed to the airport. There's no telling what kind of shape Hadley will be in. They don't need the agony of waiting with their emotions on sky-high alert in such a public space.

He also knew Lydia wouldn't want to be around when Hadley was returned to her family. She'd let Mort explain how Hadley had come to be home. Lydia had repelled every effort he had made over the past three years to introduce her to his family. She wasn't rejecting the warmth and camaraderie they offered. Lydia stayed away to protect him. As far as his son knew, Lydia was a casual acquaintance. A psychologist who had helped him on a case a while back. A woman whose path occasionally crossed Mort's, but nothing more.

Robbie was a top-flight investigative reporter. Someone who had become so interested in the enigmatic figure known as the Fixer that he had researched the lore and proved she wasn't a myth. Discovered she was an integral part of the case Mort was working. Robbie had become so fascinated by the international assassin that he had written a best-selling book about her. And while Mort let his son's published assumption that the Fixer had died by her own hand remain unchallenged, Lydia understood Robbie was too bright not to put the pieces of any puzzle together. If Robbie ever questioned her relationship to Mort, it wouldn't be long before he uncovered the truth: the Fixer was very much alive…and his father, the cop, had broken the law to keep her safe.

She'd always stay away.

Mort stared at the airport status board, willing it to change. His inhale was sharp and deep when he saw the designation change to “arrived.” He trotted to the nearest men's bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and sent a silent message into the universe as he bent over the sink.

She's home, Edie. Our granddaughter is home. Whatever comes next, we'll deal with it.

He stared at his face as he dried his hands, hoping Hadley wouldn't be frightened by the bags under his bloodshot eyes or his three-day chin stubble. She'd been through enough. He headed to the gate, grateful his Seattle PD badge was sufficient to prevent any questions when he asked for a security pass to meet the plane.

C'mon.
Mort concentrated on his breathing as he waited for the passengers to disembark. The first person out was an overweight middle-aged man in a white velour jogging suit. His sunglasses perched on his head as he chattered into his cellphone in rapid-fire Spanish loud enough for the entire concourse to hear.
C'mon. C'mon.
Mort scanned the next bolus of people exiting the ramp. Men and women, tired and tanned, waddling past him on their way to baggage claim. Mort fought the primal urge to swim upstream through the steady flow of tourists, businesspeople, and uniformed service personnel who followed.
C'mon, Lydia. Get out here.

Then he saw her. Tall and thin. Auburn hair pulled into a clip behind her neck. Blue eyes scanning left, then right, then finding his. She nodded, then glanced down. Mort's eyes followed hers, landing on a fluffed-up cloud of blond curls. Blood rushed away from his brain. He widened his stance to keep from falling.

“Papa!” Hadley pulled her hand free from Lydia's and darted toward her grandfather. Mort scooped her into an embrace, buried his face in her neck, and held her tight.

“Is Mommy here?” Hadley squirmed in his arms. “I'm in big trouble, right? Is Daddy mad? Am I grounded?” Her questions tumbled out in one long, high-pitched stream of worry.

“We're going straight home to Mom and Dad. It's going to be a big surprise.” Mort set her down, kneeling to her level and holding her shoulders with each hand. “You gave us a scare, little one. I'm sure your folks will have a few things to say. But I wouldn't worry about that now. We're all glad you're home.”

Hadley fell into him, a bundle of tears and hugs. “I'm glad too, Papa. I'm sorry. I missed everybody. Even Hayden.”

Mort rocked her and looked up, searching the mingling crowds for Lydia. He caught sight of her standing ten feet away, watching the reunion. He held out one arm, motioning her to come over.

She shook her head.

He waved her over again. He had to find a thousand ways to express his gratitude to the woman who had risked so much to bring Hadley home.

Lydia raised her right arm and gave a brief wave. Then she turned and walked away. His eyes followed her until she disappeared into the bustling throng making their way to the main terminal.

Mort pulled Hadley back from his chest. “Are you all right?”

The little girl's nose crinkled. “I'm scared about what's going to happen when we get home.” Her voice was contrite and soft. “I'm in it big, huh, Papa?”

“Are you hurt in any way? Are you sick?”

Hadley shook her shoulders free of her grandfather's grip. “Did Aunt Allie tell you about the cake? Okay. Maybe I ate too much. But I didn't get sick! I was on the adventure! I should be allowed to eat as much cake as I want on an
adventure,
right, Papa? Besides, Aunt Allie's the grown-up. I'm just a kid. She coulda stopped me. Maybe you should be yellin' at
her
.”

Mort shoved his relief and concern aside long enough to give Hadley an objective look. He saw tanned and smooth skin. A head full of ringlets a shade or two blonder than when she had disappeared. She wore a blue cotton sundress and white jacket he'd never seen before. He ran his hand over the material, certain the quality fabric was much more expensive than level-headed Claire would ever spend on a still-growing girl. Mort tugged on the small leather purse attached to a strap Hadley wore across her little body.

“Looks like you and Aunt Allie went shopping.”

Hadley grinned for the first time since landing. “Every single day. And presents would show up without me even thinking about it. Aunt Allie says when I'm with her I'm the princess. Anything I want.” She opened the clasp of her purse and pulled out two neatly folded hundred-dollar bills. “You ever see anything like this? Aunt Allie says one's for me and one's for Hayden. I bet even Mommy and Daddy never saw so much money in all their old lives.”

Mort coughed the choke in his throat free. “Sounds like you had a good time.”

Hadley nodded. “But I missed you. I missed everybody. When Sheila came, I was ready to come home.”

“Sheila?”

“That nice lady.” Hadley turned to look. “Where'd she go? Aunt Allie said she was your friend. That you sent her to be with me on the plane. I coulda come home on my own, you know. I'm not a baby, Papa. Alls you hafta do when you fly on a plane is sit there and not get bored. Where's Sheila?”

Mort stood, making sure his hand never lost contact with Hadley. “She had work to do, I guess. Did you two enjoy the flight?”

Hadley nodded. “She's nice. We played hangman. I beat her once. My word was ‘homework.' She only got the
E
and
O
s. I got her good.”

A wave of blessed normalcy swept over Mort, dousing him with relief and hope. “C'mon. We'll call Mom and Dad from the car. This will be the best surprise ever. And there's a little girl who looks just like you who's going to be so happy to see you.”

“Aunt Allie said Hayden and I could come visit anytime we wanted. I bet Hayden would eat just as much cake as I did. She'll tell you she wouldn't, but when she took a bite she'd eat just as much as me. Don't you believe anything else.” Hadley paused. “I wish Aunt Allie could come back too. I miss her already. She told me to tell you hello.”

His wave of bliss receded.

“Did Aunt Allie say anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. I'm supposed to say you're gonna hear from her real soon.” Hadley fished in her purse again, this time pulling out two luggage claim checks. She waved them up at Mort. “Wait till you see what's in
these
things! You can't believe the things Aunt Allie does!”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jim DeVilla walked into Mort's office. Bruiser trotted past him to offer a furry paw before burrowing his enormous head into Mort's lap, begging for a neck scratch. “Get your ass home. Word on the street is you've got celebrating to do.”

“It was quite the day yesterday, no doubt. But probably not the celebration you'd think.” Mort stopped scratching the German shepherd's neck and leaned back in his chair. “When I got Hadley back home it was all hugs, giggles, and tears. Robbie, Claire, Hayden, and Hadley…You couldn't tell where one stopped and the other started. Just one multilimbed pile of Grants.”

“My money says you were in that scrum too.” Jim sat on the sofa on the far side of the office. Bruiser settled in at his master's feet. “Thanks for calling with the good news. This whole precinct was holding its breath.”

“I appreciate that. More than I can say.”

“I still don't know why you're here. Shouldn't it be pancakes and ice cream for you guys? Air the place out, maybe burn some sage once the FBI vacated the premises?”

Mort shook his head. Yesterday two agents had met him in Robbie's driveway the moment he pulled in with Hadley. He had spoken with them on the drive down from the airport, assuring them Hadley was safe and in no need of medical attention. He knew better than to hope they might be gone by the time he delivered his granddaughter home. But they were respectful enough to leave quickly. Mort had heard the warning in Tim Garrison's voice when he promised to meet with Mort after the family had its time together. Garrison was a seasoned agent. He'd dig until he found out everything about Hadley's abrupt return. Hadley would tell him about “Sheila,” Papa's friend who had escorted her home from Aunt Allie's. Mort needed a story.

One that kept the FBI far away from Lydia Corriger.

“I don't know what Robbie and Claire have planned for today. About an hour after I got to Robbie's we all crashed. I guess day after day of little sleep, not to mention all the stress of not knowing if or when we'd see Hadley again, got to us. Claire took the girls up to their bedroom. All three of 'em in the king-sized bed. They were asleep in minutes. Robbie and I chatted a bit.”

“About how to track down his sister and strangle her with his bare hands?”

Jim wasn't far off. His son's rage had oozed from his every pore. Mort had felt the heat of Robbie's anger…almost smelled it as he swore Allie would never get anywhere near his family again. But Robbie's fatigue had made him vulnerable to Mort's attempt at reason. Hadley was home. She was safe. Allie had done a terrible thing. No one was discounting that. But any impulsive reaction would only stoke her fury. He had convinced Robbie the best thing to do was rest. Let things return to normal. Then he, Robbie, and Claire, together as a family, would design a plan to keep everyone safe.

Safe from my own daughter.
Mort rubbed a hand over his eyes, wishing he could erase the agony of knowing it was his and Edie's own child who posed the threat.

“Something like that,” Mort said. “After he settled down, I left and went back to the houseboat. Slept like I was dead. Checked in with them this morning. They're keeping the girls home from school for the rest of the week. Robbie suggested Claire and the girls get out of town for a few days, but Claire won out. She wants everyone under one roof.”

“Makes sense. So, what, you got nothing better to do than come back to work?”

Mort surveyed his office. He'd been chief of detectives for more than ten years. How many conversations about ballistics, blood splatters, alibis, and motives had these four gray walls heard? How many cartons of take-out had they seen during long nights trying to catch a break in a case? This office was the place he had come to two days after Edie dropped dead while making him a spaghetti dinner. This was where he had stood and watched Charlotte Conklin, the woman who had come closest to filling the space Edie had left, walk down the hall and out of his life. As on so many other dark days in his life, he had been able to turn his attention back to the job and pull himself through.

“Bring me up to speed on the kid's murder. Name's Jackson, as I recall. Twelve years old, was it?”

“That's right. Benji Jackson. Folks called him Banjo.” Jim gave Mort a long stare, as if appraising his state of mind. Mort held it until he was sure his friend could see work was exactly what he needed.

Jim stood. “Tell you what. Let me go get Micki. Grab yourself a cup of coffee. We'll meet back here in twenty minutes. How's that?”

Forty-five minutes later Mort stood looking at the whiteboard mounted on his office wall. “So Banjo Jackson is walking down the street. Shots are fired. A car speeds away. Make or model?”

“We've got witnesses.” Micki Petty didn't need to check her notes. “Two women standing across the street from where Banjo was shot. One said the shots came from a burgundy sedan; the other swore it was a black SUV. Nothing more specific. Neither got anything from the license plate. Neither saw enough of the shooter to be sure about gender or race. One of them did say maybe she saw a gloved hand reaching out the window.”

“And the guy these two saw bending over Banjo's body?”

“Both describe a male,” Micki said. “One says it was a black guy. Other says she thinks he might have been Puerto Rican.”

Mort shuffled through photographs taken at the scene. He pulled one, a close-up of Benji Jackson, aka Banjo, lying in a pool of blood. Mort stared at it. Even death couldn't hide the soft smoothness of young skin. He could have been sleeping. Maybe dreaming. Waiting for the smell of breakfast to wake him up.

An image from yesterday came to him. His twin granddaughters, curled in exhausted slumber alongside their sleeping mother. They had looked so safe. So protected. The boy they called Banjo looked just like that in the photographs.

But this boy would never wake up.

Mort taped the photo on the wall next to the whiteboard. “What do we know about Banjo?”

“Good kid from what we can tell.” Micki flipped through her notepad. “Between me and my team, we spoke to at least thirty people who knew him. Teachers, friends, neighbors. Nobody's got anything bad to say. Grades were above average; teachers say he was capable of doing better.”

“Just once I'd like to hear some teacher somewhere tell some kid he's peaked,” Jim commented.

Micki ignored him. “Banjo was the star of the basketball team. Coach says he spent hours in the gym, practicing his shots.”

“In elementary school?” Mort asked. “Isn't that a little intense for sixth grade?”

“Not where Banjo comes from,” Jim answered. “Sports are the way out of the hood. One, anyway. Banjo's mother died a couple of years back. Dad's a straight arrow, loves his sons but has his hands full keeping food on the table. Micki and I met with the family. Dad was more than happy to have his kid in any after-school program he could find to keep him off the streets. Basketball fit Banjo. According to people who knew him, he was the real deal. Natural athlete.”

“You said
sons
. Banjo had a brother?”

“Bayonne Jackson,” Micki answered. “Twenty-two years old. Goes by the street name Three Pop.”

“And that isn't because he's money from behind the arc,” Jimmy added. “Bayonne chose the other way out from the grime of the hood. Guy's a thug from the go. Been lucky enough—or protected enough—not to have spent any major time in prison. We grab him, but it's been strictly catch and release in the past two years. After Micki and I met with Banjo's family, I met up with Lincoln Lane.”

“The department's gang specialist?” Mort asked.

“That's the guy,” Jimmy said. “Three Pop's a major player in the Pico Underground. Lane tells me the gang started in California back in the sixties. Been operating here in Seattle since the mideighties. Drugs mostly. Some prostitution. Got a couple of nightclubs set up for laundering their money. Not the biggest threat in gangland, but no chump, either. Three Pop's been on Lane's radar for a few years. Here in Seattle the Picos are led by Antwan Nevers, aka Spice. Three Pop's his number two.”

Mort frowned. “Does Lane think Banjo's death is linked to gang activity?”

Jim shook his head. “Not directly. Kid was squeaky clean. No involvement with his brother's posse at all. Says it was probably some wannabe gangster making his name. Lincoln says it could have been anybody catching those bullets.” Jim paused. “But that doesn't mean the Picos aren't going to make it their business.”

“Meaning?” Mort asked.

“When Three Pop and his father came by to meet, I noticed a couple of tats on Three Pop's cheek. Teardrops. I figure one's for his mother. She died of cancer. That tat's gonna remain an outline forever. The second teardrop was fresh. For his little brother.”

“A gangster has a loss, he outlines a teardrop,” Micki explained. “One for every loved one lost.”

“Once a death is avenged, the teardrop gets filled in,” Jim added. “I'm betting all I got Three Pop and his gang are going out looking for whoever took out Banjo.”

Mort looked again at the photo of his young murder victim. “These Picos…They have any natural predators in the area?”

“They do indeed,” Jim said. “Like I told you, Pico Underground's been operating here since the mideighties. Small operation, but things are working out for them. According to Lane, some disagreements inside the gang reared up a while back. You know how it is; there's always gonna be some people who never have enough. People who think more money, more drugs, more crime, that's the way to go. One thing leads to another and a civil war breaks out. Picos split down the middle. One side wants to keep the status quo, the other wants to expand the criminal enterprise. Things got pretty bloody. Hatred runs deep to this day. To minimize the body count, the group agreed to split in two. Each with its own area.”

“This second gang have a name?” Mort asked.

“They're called the 97s,” Micki answered. “Named for the year of the breakup.” She pulled a city map out of her bag, walked to the whiteboard, and taped it to the wall. “Lane gave Jim the boundaries of each gang's turf. I marked the Pico Underground's area in red. That's their colors. The 97s use blue to identify themselves.” She pointed to an area on the map highlighted in that color. “This is their territory.”

Mort saw a whole lot of his city delineated by one color or the other. “And the areas not covered?”

“Depends,” Micki replied. “There's any number of start-up gangs claiming turf. Usually they spring up along ethnic lines. Lane says they're kept under control by either the Picos or the 97s. Long as they stay small and don't cut into anybody's profits, they're tolerated. But if any of the smaller gangs got the idea to grow, Picos or 97s would shut them down. It's likely one of those gunned down Benji.”

Mort walked over to the map. He pointed to the spot where Benji had died. “This street doesn't have a color.”

“Think of it as a DMZ,” Jim said. “A buffer between the two turfs. There's a whole lot of restaurants and shops in that four-block area. That brings in tourists, and gangs don't like tourists. Lane says there are pockets like that all over the city. Places neither gang has been able to establish control.”

“Why was Benji there that day?” Mort asked.

“Field trip with his church.” Micki flipped through her notebook. “According to his father, his pastor, and a few others, Benji was part of a youth group where members earned volunteer hours doing odd jobs at houses of elderly or disabled people who couldn't afford to have the work done any other way. Benji spent a couple of hours doing fall cleanup in the garden of Mrs. June Rillets. A few others from his church were working at other people's homes. Everybody was due to meet back at the church van by four o'clock. Benji was headed there when he was killed.”

You never know, do you?
Mort wondered.
You wake up and head off on your day. You got it all planned. Do a good deed in the name of the church, then head back for a game of basketball with your buddies. Except a bullet comes crashing into you and the next thing is, you're dead.

“And Lane's sure this isn't 97 or Pico related?” Mort asked. “What if this Three Pop goon did something to piss off a 97? Or maybe somebody wanted to send a message.”

“Lane says he can't figure someone going after the kid. If anybody had a beef with Three Pop, they'd take it straight to him.”

“Lane says that minimizes police involvement,” Micki added. “Nobody cares much if one gangbanger takes out another. But once a civilian gets popped? My guess is Benji was a wrong-place-wrong-time kind of thing. Random.”

“Either that,” Jim said, “or there's more to this Banjo kid than we're being told.”

“C'mon,” Mort said, “the kid was twelve.”

Jim stood. Bruiser scrambled to his feet and waited for his master to give him direction. “Do yourself a favor, Mort. Talk to Lane. You'd be surprised what some twelve-year-olds are up to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a consult with the Tukwila PD. You get any ideas of what you want me to do next on Benji's case, let me know. Till something new turns up, I'm afraid Benji's case is in limbo.”

Mort looked again at the photograph of the young dead boy.

I'll find who killed you, son. I promise.

“You need me for anything more?” Micki asked.

Mort turned to face his two colleagues and the giant dog. “No. Let me go through Benji's case files. I'll let you know what I need.” He called Bruiser over for a goodbye ear scratch. “What's doing in Tukwila?” he asked Jim.

Jim DeVilla rocked on his heels and smiled. “That's the thing about this job, Mort. Every day it's something fun and new from the land of murderous mayhem.”