Fixed in Fear (19 page)

Ratchnikov shook his head. “We have a saying in Russia. If the horse is running, don't shoot it. Everything is good. The money. The men. There is no need for change.”

A memory flashed through Allie's mind. Back in high school. A teacher telling her she couldn't do something. What was it? She pushed the nagging remembrance away.

“Our drug distribution channels are cumbersome.” Allie leaned back and crossed her legs at the knee. “Especially in North Africa. And the way we're funneling our earnings into reportable income is costing too much. I've designed a way to streamline and to lower our overhead. I want to diversify our legitimate portfolio. I have my own ideas, and I'm open to listening to your suggestions.”

Ratchnikov grimaced. “I need no suggestions. Things are running the way they need to be. You cannot understand this. I can. It's just that simple.”

Once again, Allie swallowed her irritation. “We need to modernize. We're leaving too much money on the floor. We're missing opportunities. We need to tighten—”

Ratchnikov interrupted her. “You need more money? More than the tens of millions you earn every month? How many baubles can one girl buy?”

Allie said nothing.

“You like to travel, I know.” Ratchnikov looked around the room. “And your tastes are expensive. But we give you enough money. Travel. See the world. Out of respect for Vadim Tokarev and his love for you, we will keep the money flowing. But there will be no changes.”

Allie remained silent and let him continue to dig his hole.

Ratchnikov shrugged. “You Americans care so much about feelings. Have I hurt yours?”

Allie waited wordlessly for the Russian to realize he'd disrespected his czarina.

Ratchnikov leaned forward. “Is this a pout? Like my three-year-old grandson? Are you not speaking to me?” He shook his head and pulled his cellphone from his pocket. “I will call Vassily. If you want, we will stay for your feast. If you don't want, we will leave you to your temper tantrum. You leave this to the men and you will be all right.” He dialed a number and leaned back against the cushions.

Allie watched his face, waiting for recognition to dawn. She saw Ratchnikov frown when Vassily's voicemail kicked in.

“He's not answering.” The Russian hung up. “Perhaps they are too busy with that
entertainment
you arranged for them.” He sneered the word. “Tell me where this villa is you've arranged for Staz and Vassily. I'll walk there myself and join in on their fun. We'll send Staz back to you when we're finished. He can enjoy your feast. Then Vassily and I will be—how is it you Americans say? On our way?”

“You're not going anywhere until I dismiss you.” Allie's voice was as firm as her stare. “You'll need to always understand that.”

The front door opened before Ratchnikov could respond. Staz appeared in the living room three seconds later.

“Where is Vassily?” Ratchnikov asked, frowning. “Is he still with the whores?”

Staz ignored him. He nodded to Allie. Then he walked over to stand at her side.

“As I see it, we can divide our discussion into two sections.” Allie kept her voice relaxed. “We have the issue of streamlining our drug distribution. That will lower our overhead and provide better service to both our suppliers and our buyers. It's a win all the way around. We also need to discuss—”

“Where is Vassily?” Again, Ratchnikov interrupted.

Allie heaved a soft sigh. “Vassily is gone. He's not coming back.”

Ratchnikov blinked his attention between Staz and Allie as though not comprehending. “Where is he?”

Allie stood. Ratchnikov made a move to do the same.

“Sit!” Allie commanded.

Ratchnikov froze.

“Three months ago I killed my beloved Vadim to save myself. To save this organization,” Allie told the Russian lieutenant. “I stood with the blood of my dearest heart rushing toward me and declared it a new day for all of us. I asked for and received the loyalty of every man there. I promised to love and lead you as your czarina. I committed myself to love and care for you like a mother. And like that mother I vowed to punish any man who dared disrespect or harm our family. You, Fyodor, were the last to kiss my ring. But kiss it you did. I will keep my promise to love, to protect, and to punish. Vassily walked into my home and met me with disrespect. And now he is gone. Take that as evidence of my ability to keep my promise.” Allie stared down at Ratchnikov. “Do I need to demonstrate further?”

Allie watched the Russian think. She could almost hear the calculations running through his mind as she held his stare. She felt Staz's readiness to react radiate beside her. She'd paid a high price to stand where she stood today. Her own family were strangers to her. Her lover was dead. She'd been beaten and raped again and again by his killer. She would not tolerate so much as a hint of anyone taking away from her what had cost her so much.

She watched Ratchnikov's eyes and saw the acceptance of his situation emerge. His stare softened. He nodded his head slowly and put his hands on the cushions beside him, preparing to stand. Staz took a step toward him, but Allie held him off with one raised hand. She kept her attention on Ratchnikov as he stood and reached for her hand. She offered it to him.

This time his lips made contact.

“My czarina,” he whispered. “I am at your service.”

“Sit, Fyodor.” Allie's tone returned to its earlier cordiality. “We have much to discuss before our meal. As I said, I have ideas on streamlining operations and I look forward to hearing yours. The other thing we need to discuss is diversifying our legitimate portfolio. My ideas center on the Russian infrastructure. There are roads and cities to be built. Power lines and Internet services to improve. I see us as a major force in the modernization of the motherland.”

Allie watched Ratchnikov's face as she spoke about her vision for the future of her organization. His eyes were vacant. She was certain he wasn't understanding 5 percent of what she was laying out. But that was fine.

Ratchnikov had gotten her message.

“Maybe he's running an errand?” Larry asked when Mort announced Bilbo Runyan was nowhere to be found.

Mort shook his head. “He said he had no place to be. Besides, he wasn't in any condition to drive.” He pulled out his cellphone and dialed the direct number to the police dispatching center. He gave the address of Carlton's bungalow, a description of Bilbo and his car, and asked all patrol officers to be on the lookout for him. “He couldn't have gone far. Have whoever finds him bring him back home. If he puts up a fuss, bring him in to the station. Keep me posted as to where he lands.” Mort ended the call and turned to Larry.

“Grab Carlton's calendar. Let's drop by Abraham's office and see what he has to say about this.”

Larry picked up the calendar as well as Carlton's personal journal. “It's noon on a workday. Abraham's boats have been unloaded from their morning catch. He'll be at home now, tending to business from his office there. He won't go back down to the docks until his boats set out again.”

Mort was surprised. “I thought you hardly knew him.”

“I know him well enough to know the man never changes his schedule. Helen had to plan our wedding around her father's boats. She told me when her father arrived home at eleven o'clock every day, he was not to be disturbed until he walked out at precisely three thirty. Said her mother made her stay outside if she could, and whisper if she needed to speak. That's why Helen and her mother spent so much time at her grandfather's house. The great Abraham Smydon was never to be bothered.”

Mort remembered how noisy his own house would get when Allie and Robbie were growing up. While he loved the solitude of his houseboat, there were times he'd shave five years off his life for just one more afternoon living in the middle of his boisterous young family.

“Well then, what d'ya say we go bother him?”

Surprisingly light traffic made for an easy drive from Carlton's cozy Capitol Hill neighborhood to the enclave of sprawling lawns and lakeside mansions that was Laurelhurst. Mort pulled his Subaru to a stop on Abraham Smydon's circular driveway just a few minutes past twelve thirty. He got out of the car, surveyed the house, and gave a low whistle.

“Whoa. A whole lot of fish paid for this place.”

Larry closed the passenger-side door and took his own long look at the enormous stone and cedar house with leaded windows and a copper roof. “Helen loved it here. She used to tell me she had no memory of the early years when her father was building his business. This is the life she recalled. I always worried she would never be satisfied with the long hours and low pay of a university professor, but she never complained. Not once.” He turned to Mort, his eyes troubled. “And, of course, she was always welcomed to drop by and visit the life she once knew. It's sad. She died when all I could provide her with was a secondhand car and the rare dinner out. And that was only if we had a two-for-one coupon. What I wouldn't give to share whatever success I've had with her. She would have made the most of being Mrs. L. Jackson Clark.” He was quiet for a few seconds before giving Mort a crooked smile. “Helen would have loved Stockholm. Greeting the king at a gala dinner? She'd have shopped for a month.”

“I think the same thing about Edie and the houseboat. We would have had a ball. Just the two of us. Waking up every morning to the call of the seagulls. Watching the sun over the water.” The two widowers stood quietly for several long moments before Mort finally spoke. “Let's go see what enlightenment Abraham might have for us.”

Larry pressed the button mounted beside a double front door with an inserted glass and lead panel. Less than thirty seconds later it was opened just wide enough to reveal a middle-aged white man dressed in chinos and a fleece pullover.

“Can I help you?” he asked. Mort noticed a thin gold band on the man's left hand. He stood shoulder high to Mort and would have benefited from a thirty-pound weight loss. Dark blond hair circled his bald head like a laurel wreath, wispy and thin.

Larry spoke first. “I'm Larry Clark, Abraham's son-in-law. This is my friend. We've come to speak to him.”

The man alternated his gaze between them. “He wasn't expecting you. I suggest you call his office and make an appointment.”

Mort reached into his jacket pocket and produced his badge. “While this
is
Smydon's son-in-law and I
am
his friend, I'm also chief of homicide, Seattle PD. This is an official visit, Mr….?”

The man leaned forward to scrutinize Mort's shield, no doubt memorizing the number. “I'm Frank Shelby,” he said impassively. “My wife, Alice, and I take care of the house and grounds for Mr. Smydon. Can I tell him what this is about?”

“No.” Mort stepped forward and Frank Shelby opened the door wider in a mindless reaction. “But we'll wait right here while you go get him, how's that?”

The houseman closed the door behind Larry and promised he'd be right back before heading down a hallway off the entrance. Mort and Larry found themselves standing in a fifteen-foot square slate entry hall. A staircase with heavy oak newels and banisters done in an Arts and Crafts style switchbacked on the far wall. To the right of the stairs a wide arch led into what Mort imagined was a large living space. He could see the back of a leather sofa running perpendicular to the entry wall, forming a hallway within the room. The walls of the entrance hall extended up two stories, with an iron and amber glass chandelier suspended from the ceiling's center. Matching sconces flanked the double door. The walls of the space were decorated with framed black-and-white photos. One showed muscled fishermen in full rain gear hauling in nets laden with salmon. Another showed the prow of a vessel pushing its way through a ten-foot wave. The vessel's name was centered in the shot:
Helen.
Yet another showed men pulling in crab pots. Dozens of photos. Each showcasing the industry that supported this majestic house. None showing the man who owned it all.

Frank Shelby came back to them before Larry and Mort could share any comment about the house that Abraham built. “Come with me,” he told them.

They followed the stocky man down a broad corridor tiled in the same slate as the entry. Two archways opened on the left, each furnished with sofas and tables. The right side arch revealed a library with ceiling-high shelves filled with books. Frank led them past it to a closed nine-panel oak door.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything?” he asked without opening the door. “Alice made a nice salmon chowder this morning. And she's roasted some early squash with late tomatoes straight from the garden. I had two helpings of that myself.”

Mort felt his stomach rumble at the mention of such delicacies. He hadn't eaten a thing since he'd toasted a frozen bagel before leaving the houseboat. “No, thanks, Frank. I'm good.” He turned to Larry. “You?”

L. Jackson Clark held himself in a steadfast pose that signaled to Mort he'd rather starve than break bread in Helen's father's house. “I'm fine. Thank you, Frank.”

The houseman shrugged, rapped on the door, and opened it wide. “These are the fellas I told you about. I offered them refreshments but they didn't bite.”

Abraham Smydon looked up. He was behind his desk, an enormous slab of cedar with natural edges. “Thank you, Frank.” Smydon nodded toward the west wall of the office, where a single overstuffed chair sat next to a small side table holding a tray with a single glass, bowl, and plate. “You can take that, if you wouldn't mind.”

Frank Shelby walked over to grab the detritus of Smydon's lunch.

Abraham thanked his employee again. “Close the door behind you, will you, please?”

Smydon waited until Frank was gone to address his two visitors.

“I've already answered your questions, Detective Grant. And if you're here to verify that I'm staying safe until you have someone in custody, you can see Frank is quite particular about whom he lets into the house.” He turned to his son-in-law. “I wasn't aware you had any official capacity in the police investigation into Carlton's death.”

“Carlton was my friend,” Larry responded. “Mort's been generous enough to include me in some aspects of the case. There may be some insights I can provide.”

Smydon looked up at Mort with a face that betrayed little evidence of his seventy-five years. He had the bearing of a lion who wanted his visitors to understand that they were standing in his territory. “If only we all had such access to our civic officials,” he said.

There were no chairs for visitors in Abraham Smydon's office. This was his lair. Intruders were not welcome. Mort recalled Larry's tale of Helen being banished to the outdoors when her father was in this room, never to be disturbed.

“We have reason to believe you misrepresented your earlier statement to us.” Mort went straight to the point.

Smydon seemed unperturbed by the fact that the chief of homicide had just called him a liar.

“What statement is that, Detective? And what causes you to doubt me?”

“You told Chief Willers and me you hadn't seen your brother since Kenny Kamm's last parole hearing,” Mort said. “That was almost a year ago.”

Smydon's face remained calm. “I'd remind you again Carlton is my half brother, but something tells me you are perfectly aware of that. Helen's husband, Carlton, and I were all there, as I'm sure your friend will attest.” He tilted his head toward Larry.

Mort wondered how long Abraham Smydon planned to hold his grudge against the pauper who'd dared to marry his daughter. It was apparent Larry's international success wasn't enough to wash away Smydon's initial impression that a lowly professor wasn't worthy of his attention, and certainly not the hand of his only daughter.

Mort turned to Larry. “You got it?”

Larry pulled Carlton's personal date book from his briefcase and gave it to Mort. Mort flipped to the page for June.

“This is Carlton Smydon's private calendar. You'll see your name there. June fourteenth. He had a lunch date scheduled with you.”

Abraham slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, took the calendar, and looked at the document. He flipped several pages forward, then an equal number of pages back, then handed it back to Mort. “Carlton may have wanted this, but it didn't happen. It's my habit to take lunch alone before heading back to the waterfront. I'm not one to sacrifice my quiet time for idle chatter.”

“What makes you think that was Carlton's intent?” Mort asked.

Abraham Smydon smoothed his hand across the polished desktop. “Because I know my father's second son. Carlton was an indulged child who grew into a shallow man. As a result of my hard work and our father's shortsighted last will and testament, Carlton never had to work a day in his life. He filled his time with fanciful quests and idiotic journeys. Those matters that so captivated my half brother hold no interest to me.” Smydon gave Larry a look of disdain that telegraphed he felt the same about Larry's chosen field as well. “I suppose you find me cruel to have denied Carlton the pleasure of a simple meal. But I'm not the type of man who squanders time, and I try very hard to avoid hypocrisy.”

“You're saying the appointment Carlton wrote in his calendar never happened,” Larry said.

Mort thought he saw a softening in Abraham's face as he turned to the man who was once his son-in-law. But any trace of warmth disappeared when he spoke.

“It was a simple statement. Certainly not one requiring a lifetime spent in the schoolhouse to understand.”

Mort drew a long inhale and forced the words trying to escape his lips to stay tucked in silence at the back of his throat. His instinct to defend the man who'd seen him through the darkest days of his life urged him to put an end to Smydon's bully tactics. But his years as a cop told him that would be ineffective. Instead, he followed Larry's lead, stepped away from Smydon's insult, and tried a different tack.

“How well do you know Bilbo Runyan?” Mort asked.

Abraham's glance toward his watch was not subtle. “Carlton kept that man around him since they were in grade school. Runyan's another man who doesn't know the value of an honest day's work. He and Carlton were cut from the same cloth. It's my understanding Runyan will remain in the house he shared with my half brother.” Abraham shook his head. “Even from the grave he's still taking care of that worthless piece of skin.”

“They were friends,” Larry protested. “Dear and lifelong. Have you no compassion, Abraham, for the loss he's experiencing…that I'm experiencing…following the brutal murder of your only brother? Are you truly that heartless?”

“I would give all I have to be heartless, Larry.” Abraham's voice was cold and quiet. “I find it to be an organ that brings unbearable pain with every beat. I would welcome its exorcism from my chest.” He looked down at his hands for several seconds, then raised his eyes back to Larry. “I have loved two women in my life. I've buried them both. My wife was taken from me and my daughter far too soon. Then my daughter…” Abraham's voice cracked. Mort couldn't detect if it was from grief or rage. “She died because I failed to protect her. I did everything asked of me when she was abducted. Only to find it was all for nothing. I live every second of every day of my life knowing it was
my
money they were after.
My
success that made Helen a target.” He fell silent again. “You loved her. I imagine you live with your own pain. But you loved her for a season. I loved her for a lifetime. So you'll understand me when I tell you my compassion…my appreciation for the losses of others…I'm afraid I'm fresh out of that particular currency. What the hell good does compassion do anyway?”

Larry said nothing as his wife's father finished his speech and fussed with papers on his desk. Then he turned, patted Mort on the shoulder, and walked to the window overlooking Abraham's deep lawn as it tumbled to the lake.