Fixed in Fear (27 page)

“Good work, Staz.” Allie sounded pleased. “Is she hurt?”

Lydia wondered what answer might get her the most information. She decided to go with
1.

“I'm sorry to hear that, but I must say I'm not surprised. I told you to expect a fight from her. Does she require medical attention?” This time Allie sounded irritated. Like she hadn't planned on needing to call the Larchmont to arrange for an oh-so-discreet physician to be delivered to her villa.

2.

“Have you secured her?”

1.

“Very good.” Allie's tone was back to pleasant condescension. “Now put me on speaker and hold the phone for the good Dr. Corriger to hear.”

Lydia was intrigued. She pressed the button that would allow Allie's voice to be broadcast through the phone's speakers and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“I made my instructions very clear, Lydia.” Allie's tone was imperial enough to be worthy of the
CZARINA
label used on Staz's phone. “You failed me. I'd say I'm disappointed, but to tell the truth I knew you wouldn't intercede with my father.” She sighed. “And
you
have to know I have a Plan B, of course.”

Lydia dialed her own voice to defiant fear. She'd play her part until she knew what Allie had in mind. “And what happens now? Where's your father?”

Allie's laugh held no humor. “Do you see what I mean about the two of you? Staz is standing there, holding a gun to your head….Sorry about any injury you've experienced, by the way. I'm sure Staz hurt you only as a last resort. He knew I needed you in one piece. Anyway, there you are, battered, bruised, and about to have who knows what happen, and you're worried about Mort Grant. If it wasn't so saccharine it might be a bit endearing.”

“Where is he? What have you done?” Lydia didn't have to feign her concern.

“I'll have to decide what my plans are for Daddy. After all, he didn't
refuse
your request. How could he when you didn't even present it? At the moment my concern is you.” Allie paused. “You'll recall I told you I was in a position of considerable power. Do you remember that?”

“I do. What is this man going to do to me?” Lydia switched back to faking fear in her voice.

“Don't worry about Staz. Unlike you, he follows orders. He follows them better than anyone in my employ. As I said, I get what I want, Lydia.”

An image of Oliver Bane floated into Lydia's consciousness. Allie had used him simply to show her how easily she could take whatever it was Lydia held tender.

“What's he going to do to me?” Lydia asked again, her voice trembling.

“Staz is going to bring you to me. Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you. I've changed my mind about turning you in. Instead, you're going on quite the adventure. I know a man. An extremely wealthy and powerful man. One who operates in an area of the world where narcotics are used only by those wealthy enough and protected enough to avoid the public floggings and executions regularly handed out by the religious leaders. He needs my product. I need access to his clients. I'm sorry to say he's having a bit of trouble getting used to a woman running things. I suppose that's to be expected given the culture in which he was raised. Context is everything, isn't it? At any rate, he doubts my ability to follow through.” Allie sighed. “I'm sure you've run into the same sort of sexism in your profession.”

She's not insane,
Lydia decided.
She's a psychopath. Oh, Mort. No one deserves to have this particular twist of mental pathology delivered to their doorstep. But especially not you.

“When you didn't call me at seven this evening, as we discussed, I thought about this man's predicament. As I said, he's built quite a business for himself in a very hostile environment. He has enemies at every turn. From religious fanatics to jealous underlings who'd stop at nothing to gain what this man has. I called him and offered him your services. Of course, he'd heard of The Fixer. He thought you were an American myth. Born out of our culture's silly fantasies about equal justice. Right conquering might and all. He listened, probably only out of politeness, I would say, as I assured him The Fixer was very real. And very beautiful. I felt like Scheherazade weaving a tale to an Arabian prince. In the end we worked out a deal. He'd give me exclusive distribution rights in his kingdom for one year if I gave him you. You're to be his personal assassin by day and his whatever else he might have in mind by night.”

The psychologist in Lydia was intrigued. The opportunities to study true psychopaths were relatively rare. She had to remind herself she wasn't there as a scientist or therapist. She was there to play the part of Allie's hostage. That was the only way she could get the information she needed to keep Mort and his family safe.

“I won't do that, Allie.” Lydia forced a wobble into her voice. “I'll not let myself be controlled that way.”

“Oh, Lydia.” Allie sounded bored. “Look at where you are. Look at my man standing next to you.”

Lydia did not glance down at the dead giant on the floor.

“You are in no position to bargain,” Allie continued. “And I'm in no mood to continue this conversation. Staz? Gag our friend. Then take me off speaker.”

Lydia made loud sounds of protests, then slapped her hand over her mouth to simulate a sudden end to her speaking. She counted to ten, took the phone off speaker, and held it to her ear.

“You've served me well, Staz,” Allie said. “Now bring her straight back here to me. Transport her in the trunk. She's quite clever. You have almost an hour's drive. If you had her in the cabin during the trip back she'd likely find some way to overcome you. I don't want to take that risk. Do you understand?”

Lydia pressed
1.

“Good.” Allie's voice shifted from benevolent ruler to spiteful spoiled brat. “But if you can manage a rough ride, it wouldn't bother me at all to deliver our package with a few bruises.”

1.

Nineteen minutes later Staz was in the trunk of the Larchmont's bronze Mercedes. Lydia was behind the wheel, dressed in a high-end jogging suit and expensive running shoes. She had her hair pulled up into a baseball cap and wore no makeup. She drove north to Sea-Tac, keeping at exactly the speed limit. There, she parked the Mercedes in the lot of an upper-price-range hotel on the airport strip. Lydia entered the hotel through the lounge and elbowed her way through a lively post-midnight crowd dancing to an '80s rock cover band and made her way to the lobby. She exited through the front doors, got in the first taxi available, and asked to be delivered to a Tacoma hotel. She paid the driver in cash, headed straight into the women's restroom in the lobby, and took off the cap and jacket. She hailed another cab, this time with her hair free flowing and a Portland Trailblazers T-shirt in full view. Lydia asked to be taken to the emergency room of St. Peter Hospital in Olympia. Again, she paid in cash, went inside, and called for another taxi. She sobbed so hard all the way to the driveway of a small house next to Burfoot Park, the cabbie didn't have the heart to try to make small talk. Instead, he waved off any attempt Lydia made to pay him his fare plus an unremarkable tip. Lydia thanked him, waited until his taillights disappeared around the bend, then jogged the two miles home.

She knew Allie would be long gone by the time the police found Staz's body. In fact, it should be just about now that Allie would begin wondering why the big man was late delivering Lydia to her. With her self-described Plan B thwarted, Lydia imagined Allie would be somewhere far away by dawn. She didn't concern herself with where Allie's next landing spot would be as she jogged through the dark countryside. She had only one thought.

How in the hell am I going to explain this to Mort?

It was closing in on nine thirty by the time Mort was able to get to his friend's house. Rita Willers had wanted to go with him after she heard the distress in Larry's voice, but Mort dropped her off at the station instead. Larry had, indeed, been shaken when he called. Something about what he found in Carlton's papers. Something about Helen.

Nothing is as it seems,
Larry had said.
Get here quick.

If Larry needed to make sense about something involving Helen, Mort didn't want his dearest friend constrained in any way by the presence of Chief Rita Willers. Larry wanted to talk about personal matters. He'd asked for Mort and Mort was who he'd get. Mort wished Rita a safe drive home, warning her about drunks out on a Friday night. Rita hadn't been taken in by his dodge. She reminded him they were a team.

“If Larry's wanting to talk about anything that has to do with this case, you'll keep me informed, correct?”

Mort assured her he would and waited until she was buckled into her car before he pulled out of the Seattle PD's parking lot.

Then he drove as fast as he could without inviting red lights behind him straight to the home of L. Jackson Clark. Larry met him at the door. He handed him a bottle of Guinness and led him into the living room.

Mort always felt comfortable in this room. It was a man's space. One that said to anyone who entered that no woman lived here. Yet despite lacking the touch of a feminine hand, the space was warm and inviting. Curved archways anchored the south and west walls. The walls were plastered in deep relief and painted a soft green, a color that reminded Mort of walking through the rain forest on a rare sunny day. The furniture was heavy and accented with soft-stained cherry wood. The upholstery on the three-seat sofa facing the fireplace was a tight tapestry of burgundies, deep blues, and dark green. Two brown leather chairs sat against one wall, perpendicular to the sofa. Mort remembered that Edie had called them club chairs. An old oak desk, which Mort knew Larry had shipped back from one of his trips to England, anchored the opposite wall. That desk, usually as tidy and well-kept as the man who owned it, was now covered with papers and journals and files. Larry slipped on a pair of reading glasses and sat in the straight-back leather chair behind the desk.

“Read this,” he said, handing Mort a single sheet of paper. Then he sagged forward, his head in his hands.

Mort took the document. It was standard lined paper, the type millions of high school and college students use every day. Three punch holes down the left side, double red lines running north to south. Two-inch margin at the top before blue horizontal lines marched down the page. The paper had a yellowed crispiness suggesting whoever had filled those lines with the bold yet graceful handwriting had done so many years ago.

If you're reading this, then I'm probably in deep shit.
The words were written in blue ink.

“Where'd you find this?” Mort asked, looking up.

Larry handed him a thin leather packet. A file that could be closed by weaving a cord around two buttons. Mort had seen them countless times at work. Expandable sides. But the ones at the station were constructed of heavy brown poster board. This was the first one he'd seen made from such fine material.

“It was in the back of Carlton's bottom desk drawer,” Larry answered. “Along with several others just like it. It's Helen's handwriting. I'd recognize it anywhere.”

Helen Smydon Clark. The daughter of the Seafood King. Of course she'd have the best products for organizing her papers.

“Look at the date,” Larry urged.

Mort read the one-page sheet. Then he read it again.

“Could this have been forged? Maybe some sort of joke?” he asked.

Larry shook his head. “I've kept all the love letters and notes Helen ever wrote me. I know how she phrases things. Words she favors over others. There's not a doubt in my mind my wife wrote this.”

Mort dragged over a three-legged wheeled piano stool from its place in the corner. It came from Larry's grandmother's parlor. According to Larry, the piano fell apart years ago, but he hung on to the stool to remind him of the days he'd stand next to his grandmother in the family's parlor, singing hymns every Sunday after church. Larry said it reminded him of gentler times.

He could use that now.

Mort positioned the stool next to Larry's chair and sat. “I don't want to believe this.”

Larry handed him another sheet of paper. This one from a business-sized envelope that had the same brittle yellow patina as Helen's letter.

“That's Carlton's writing.” Larry shifted his hands through piles of papers covering his desk. “You can compare it to any one of these if you care to. I don't know if there would be fingerprints to pull off the paper. Jimmy and Micki would know more about that, I suppose. But I'm telling you it's Carlton's hand; there's no doubt about it.”

This paper was unlined. It was heavier than the notebook paper Helen had used. It reminded Mort of the heavy stationery law firms used. Carlton had chosen black ink for his writing.

Man, I hope no one's reading this. Or if you are, I hope I'm out of the country, sipping rum drinks and watching the waves break.

Mort read on. Like he'd done with Helen's, he had to read it twice to grasp the full extent of the betrayal. He glanced over to his friend after each damning paragraph. How would Larry live with this? His friend was right. This changes everything.

“You said the two of them were close.”

Larry huffed out his disgust. “Do they give an award for understatement, Morton? If so, you'd be a sucker to bet against my winning it.”

Mort felt the need to throw his friend a lifeline. “Could this be something else? You told me the two of them were always playing pranks. Remember your story about the first time you met Abraham?”

Larry turned to Mort with angry eyes sheened over with a thin veil of tears. He reached for a third folder, this one leather like the one holding Helen's papers. Larry unwrapped the clasp and pulled out dozens of photographs. Black-and-white. Curled on the edges, their images fading, but still recognizable. Mort knew those types of prints. They were from one of those old instant cameras. He'd brought one home decades ago. Edie hated the stink from the little foam pads he wiped over each photo to develop the image. But Allie loved posing for the camera. She'd stand behind his shoulder and impatiently wiggle while her images developed.

“What else could this be, Mort?” Larry handed Mort three photos. When Mort handed them back he gave him three more. “Or how about these? Tell me what else my wife and Carlton could be doing?”

Mort didn't want to look. He didn't want to know. He didn't want his friend to have this experience. He'd have given anything to save him the embarrassment of having his best friend aware of the full extent of his wife's betrayal.

“And for the coup de grâce.” Larry reached for yet another sheet, this one written on lined pale green tablet paper. The kind with the spiral rings on top. The handwriting on this was sloppy and at an odd slant. The words didn't always stay on the lines.

Like the wise man said, man. You gotta do what you gotta do.
This one Mort didn't need to read twice.

“You sure this was written by him?”

Larry answered by handing Mort another set of photographs.

The two of them sat in silence and finished their beers. Mort didn't particularly feel like drinking, but Larry seemed to need it, and he didn't want his friend to feel any more alone than what his discovery surely led him to experience.

“What do we do now?” Larry asked after he drained his last drop of Guinness.

Mort held the world-weary gaze of his friend. “You ready for this?”

Larry looked like a man who'd aged twenty years since Mort saw him earlier that morning. He nodded.

Mort pulled out his cellphone and dialed a familiar number. When the party answered he identified himself.

“How can I help you, Detective?” the female voice at central dispatch asked.

“Put out an APB on Bilbo Runyan.” Mort gave the woman Bilbo's description, along with his address and a description of Bilbo's car. “Let me know the second you have him.”

Mort hung up. He stood and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.

“Go to bed, buddy. Tomorrow's soon enough.”