Fixed in Fear (12 page)

Lydia turned to face the water again. “That didn't set well with Allie.”

Mort felt a sharp knife of guilt stab at his gut. Lydia knew Allie better than he did. She wasn't blinded by his history of loving Allie for more than three decades. The weeks Allie had stayed with Lydia, brought to her home by Mort in an effort, once again, to keep his daughter safe while he tried to protect her from the consequences of her reckless behavior, had given Lydia insights into Allie that no doting father's eyes could ever see. Despite it all, Lydia had stood ready to die in order to keep her promise of protecting Mort's daughter.

“No. No, it surely didn't,” he said. “She didn't say a word when I told her I knew about Maria. Left me standing there in the middle of all those kids with a veiled threat.”

“What exactly did she say?” Lydia's clipped tone let him know she wanted to hear it word for word.

“She told me I must think she's a monster. And that if it's true, I ought to be careful of how I dealt with her.”

Lydia was quiet for several moments. “What's Robbie think?”

“I haven't spoken to him since this afternoon. He was mighty pissed. Got the girls right out of there. He loves his sister, but he's not going to let her anywhere near the twins until Allie makes changes.”

“Can he keep his family safe?”

Mort's stomach tightened. His instinct was to challenge Lydia for even suggesting Allie posed a threat to Robbie, Claire, and the girls.

But she saw Allie more clearly than he did.

“He can.” Mort cleared the catch in his throat. “I can.”

“Then that's all you can do.” Lydia stood. She set her nearly full wineglass on the table. “I'm going to head back. I've got a full day tomorrow. First patient at eight o'clock. It's good to see you, Mort. Good luck with your case. Let me know if there's anything I can do.”

He thought of her bunkered basement. She had computers and communication equipment that rivaled the NSA's. “Thanks, Liddy. I don't think we'll be needing your bat cave for this one.”

“Get some sleep,” she said. “Like they say, tomorrow's a new adventure.”

“You take care of yourself. Don't give me any reason to worry.” He watched her walk down the pier, well aware she hadn't promised him anything.

“Missed a good one last night, buddy.” Jimmy DeVilla walked into Mort's office without knocking. He tossed a pastry bag onto his desk. “Swung by Jeanine's on the way in. Man, that place is getting popular. There was a line out the door. Got you a jelly and a glazed.”

Mort peered inside the bag and inhaled the heavenly scent of sugar and grease. He set the bag aside and clapped his hands to bring Bruiser to his side. “So what happened last night?”

“I'm down at the Crystal with Schuster. We're enjoying a little brew and chat and who should walk in but Three Finger Louie.”

Mort struggled to keep from choking on his coffee. “Louie McMiner? Bail bondsman from Renton? I thought he was dead.”

“Not dead,” Jimmy said. “Just wished he was. He didn't die when his girlfriend caught him doing the nasty with his wife. Took four bullets to the thigh and points central. He pees out of a hose or some such now. Anyway, I'd heard he and the missus patched things up and were living down in Florida.”

Mort rubbed that spot between Bruiser's ears that always caused the giant dog to lean into him. “He was shot about four years ago, right?”

“Correct,” Jimmy said. “The girlfriend got five to seven and Louie got surgery and rehab. Anyway, in he walks with a boisterous party of ten following right behind him.”

“His wife still with him?”

Jimmy chuckled. “That's just it. Louie walks in, fatter than hell but still with that swagger of his, and who's on his arm but the redhead who shot him. I tell Schuster the story and he, of course, doesn't believe me. So I grab that vice cop by the arm and take him over to Louie's table. Louie takes one look at me and Bruiser and it's like old home week. Gets all teary introducing me around, telling everybody stories about the old days when we'd slam the bad apples into the jail cells and he'd bail 'em out. Said you and I were his cash cows back in the day.”

“What about the girlfriend?” Mort asked.

Jimmy shrugged. “Seems she made her date. With good behavior she was out. Released the week before. No papers or anything. Free as a bird. Guess she and Louie had been pen pals the whole time she was locked up. She gets released, Louie leaves the wife in some trailer park in Ocala, and heads up here. Says he and the girlfriend are gonna make it legal as soon as he divorces the wife.”

Mort chuckled at the memory of Three Finger Louie. “Well, he better be careful. He's running out of body parts to lose. What did Schuster think?”

“Who gives a flying fig? He paid up the beer he bet me. That's all I care about.”

“I hope I'm not interrupting.” Rita Willers held a file folder up. “I don't have an appointment, but I have some information.”

Jimmy stepped aside and eyed the small woman in full police dress blues. He offered his hand. “You're chief down in Enumclaw. I met you when I gave a talk. Convention a while ago. Nice to see you again.”

The two exchanged names and pleasantries about the drive up and the difficulty finding parking. Jimmy turned toward Mort and whistled. Bruiser trotted over to his partner, sat, and raised a paw to the lady in front of him. Mort saw Chief Willers's professional mask melt as she cooed over the showboating behemoth.

“Gotta go, Mort,” Jimmy said. “Looks like you're on the clock. Let's catch up later.”

Mort promised they would. He thanked Jimmy for the doughnuts and waved Rita Willers into his office.

“It's just seven o'clock,” he said. “You hit the road early. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I can't promise it'll be hot, but it will be bad.”

Willers declined and took a seat opposite Mort's desk. “We have a lead on one of the killers.” The chief's statement explained why she'd made the trip from Enumclaw so early. “He was spotted in Seattle. That's why I'm here instead of calling.”

“Tell me.” Mort cleared a spot on his desk for her file and leaned in.

Rita Willers told him about Officer Dalton Rogers receiving a call the night before from Cindy Easton, aka Blue Dancer. Mort recognized the name from the file he'd reviewed prior to meeting Willers for the first time. Easton worked at the lodge where Carlton Smydon had been staying. She'd driven the participants to the sweat lodge ceremony.

“Blue Dancer was pretty shaken,” Willers continued. “She said she'd seen the guy who was missing from the sweat lodge while she was up here on her day off. I had Rogers escort her in. I took her statement last night. It's here for your review. Along with photos of the man Easton identifies as one of the Andrews brothers.”

Mort picked up the clipped stack of four black-and-white photos. Two were wide angle. Two were enlargements of the wider shots. Each focused in on the head and shoulders of a white male. Stocky build. Dark hair. Three-day stubble on his jaw.

He looked up. “She sure?”

“Sure enough to ask for police protection. Blue's not stupid. She figured out if this guy was delivered to the sweat lodge and wasn't dead, he most likely had a hand in killing those folks.”

“She take these photos?”

Willers shook her head. “Blue Dancer was in Seattle visiting a friend. Weather was good yesterday. They were outside, down by the water. Blue says she and her friend were heading back to their car after dinner at Stanley's on the Wharf. That's when she saw him. Stanley's is in a popular tourist area. Lots of bars and shops. Blue was able to pinpoint the time she and her friend would have walked toward the parking lot. I contacted the businesses in that area. Sent a couple of patrolmen up to pull the film from security cameras. I stayed with Blue down in Enumclaw until the guys got back. It took a while, but Blue was able to make him out from the security camera footage outside a hotel. She's certain that's the man she delivered to the sweat lodge the day those people were killed.”

Mort was impressed. Chief Willers had acted quickly and was smart about getting to those cameras before they automatically erased and reset themselves. “You could have called me. I live on Lake Union. It would have taken me a hell of a lot less time to get to these cameras than for your patrolmen to drive from Enumclaw. A Seattle shield carries a lot of clout with the store operators around here.”

Chief Willers squared her shoulders. Something flared in her eyes. Anger? “This is my investigation, Mort. And I'm sitting here with photos. Seems my small-town shields carried enough clout to get the job done.”

Mort glanced at the clock. Seven twenty. It had taken less than half an hour for him to make his first insult to the chief that day.

“That's not what I meant.” He realized it was
exactly
what he'd meant and she knew it. “I'm just saying we're a team. Let's work together like one. I'll take these photos and run them through the NCIC database and see if we can grab a name. Folks don't typically cut their criminal teeth on murder. If this guy's been arrested before, maybe we can get a match comparing these photos to a mug shot.”

“Thanks for the lesson on criminal development. I scanned these photos off to the FBI around three o'clock this morning. They'll let me know if they catch a match.” Rita Willers tapped the file folder on Mort's desk. “These are duplicates for your records. I want to keep you informed on my progress.”

Mort glanced again at the clock. Seven twenty-two. At this rate he might set a new personal record for the number of times he could offend a woman in one day.

“Tell me how it went on your end yesterday,” Rita Willers said.

Mort told her about his and Larry's trip to Carlton Smydon's house. “Larry's been named executor of Carlton's estate.”

A fleeting smile softened Chief Willers's face and Mort saw how lovely she could be when she wasn't holding herself with rigid authority. “Good choice. Larry seems more than trustworthy.”

Mort nodded. “I'd trust him with my life.” He paused. “Hell, I
have.
On more than one occasion, actually.”

“Did you two find anything that might be of use to the investigation?” Willers had returned to her all-business attitude.

“Carlton Smydon had a housemate. An old friend from childhood. Bilbo Runyan.”

Willers jotted the name on the pad she rested against her leg. “Anything noteworthy about this Runyan?”

Mort considered that for a moment. “He's a lifelong stoner. Dependent on Smydon for room and board. Seems Smydon promised to take care of him forever. There's a trust Larry's overseeing to make sure that happens.”

Willers looked up from her note taking. “Any reason to suspect there may have been bad blood between Runyan and Smydon? Maybe something that might make Runyan want to hurt the man?”

Mort thought about the brutality of the sweat lodge murder scene. He didn't make Bilbo “Keep It Mellow” Runyan as capable of organizing such carnage. And at nearly forty pounds lighter than a man of Bilbo's height should be, Mort couldn't see him overpowering five terrified people. “I don't think there's anything there.”

Willers tapped her pen against her pad thoughtfully, then nodded. “Still, it wouldn't hurt to get a photo of him. Run it by Blue Dancer. See if she makes him for the other Andrews brother.”

“I can't bring him in here, see if he's willing to sit for a couple of pictures. Like I said, I don't see him as any part of this.”

Willers made another note. “Don't worry. I'll handle it.”

Mort's clock read 7:48. He was on a roll.

“Mort? Can I come in?” Rita Willers turned around at the sound of L. Jackson Clark's voice coming from the doorway. Mort appreciated his friend's arrival saving him from having to apologize yet again to the Enumclaw chief.

“Join the party, Larry.” Mort watched Willers gather the photos and reports back into the folder and close the file. “You remember Chief Willers?”

Larry stepped in and offered his hand to Rita. “I do. I was certain I'd be the first to darken Mort's door this morning. How lovely you arrived before me to bring the light.”

Mort could have sworn he saw Chief Willers blush.

“Any news on the investigation?” Larry asked. “The hour is early. Dare I hope that means some sort of progress?”

“We're making headway,” Chief Willers answered carefully. “I understand you met with Bilbo Runyan yesterday.”

“I wouldn't say we met with Bilbo. Mort and I went there to take a cursory look into Carlton's office.”

“I understand you've been named executor,” Willers said. “Did that come as a surprise to you?”

Mort's spine stiffened. Was Willers thinking Larry was somehow involved with Carlton's death?

“A bit, I must say.” If Larry was offended by Willers's question, he showed no sign. “But, then, perhaps his options were limited. Carlton spent little time in one place. His studies took him all around the globe. I would imagine he didn't have time to cultivate many deep friendships.”

“What did you find in Smydon's office?” Willers asked.

Larry blinked several times as though struggling to organize a response. Mort wondered how rarely the great scholar must have found himself at a loss for words.

“I found the most cherished gem.” Larry's voice was barely a whisper. “A treasure of unspeakable value. At least to me. I spent last night reading and rereading letters I'd never seen before. From my wife.” He turned toward Mort with moist eyes. “It was like Helen was there, in the room with me. Once again I heard her voice.”

Mort noticed Chief Willers's near-imperceptible shift of position. Was she uncomfortable with Larry's emotions? Was she disappointed he hadn't produced a clue that would crack the case wide-open?

“You find anything that could help us here, buddy?” Mort asked.

Larry's gaze seemed so very far away, somewhere there and then. His smile, though, filled the here and now. “I'd forgotten the depth of the connection between Carlton and my Helen. It was more than close. And the playfulness! It's right there on the page. Like the two of them are frozen in time. Helen in her early twenties. Carefree and brave.” He shook his head in memory. “How those two could have been related to Abraham Smydon remains a mystery of genetic logic. And she described her life with me. To Carlton. She talked about how happy she was. How much in love we were. She knew it, Mort. Helen knew how fortunate we were to have the love we shared.” He turned toward Willers with a shrug. “Of course, she complained about being as poor as church mice. I was just starting out. It's understandable, I suppose. Abraham let her want for nothing. And I had nothing to give her but my heart.” He turned back toward Mort. “Apparently that was enough.”

Rita Willers's cellphone bleated before Mort could determine what that look on her face was about. She stood and stepped away from Mort and Larry, still carrying her pad and pen. She murmured
yes
and
um-hum
while she went to the sofa on the far wall. She sat and began writing notes.

“Can you spell that for me, please?…His DOB?…Any aliases?…Priors?” Willers jotted for a while in response to that question. “Where?…And the dates?…Any known associates he might have had a pattern of teaming with?” Her eyes registered disappointment a heartbeat after she asked that question. “Thank you very much. You have my fax and email, right? Send me hard copies. I'll let you know if I find out anything and trust you'll do the same.” Rita Willers thanked the caller again and hung up.

“We have an ID,” Willers announced.

“On whom?” Larry asked. Mort updated him on Blue Dancer's spotting of one of the men she dropped off at the sweat lodge.

“He must be one of the killers!” Larry gasped. “You've cracked the case.”

“Hold on.” Mort didn't want to build his friend's hopes. “What we have is an ID on a man Blue Dancer
says
was one of the men. People look alike. She was scared. We're a long way from an arrest. Besides, knowing a man's name and having him in custody are two different things. Who is he?” he asked Rita Willers.