Fixed in Fear (6 page)

“Can you tell me about that?”

Larry took another long pull from his water bottle before answering Chief Willers's gentle question. Mort knew what his friend was experiencing. No matter how many years passed, Mort still found it difficult to talk about Edie's death. He was certain the same was true for Larry.

“It was…” Larry cleared his throat. “It was a few weeks before our first wedding anniversary. Abraham had arranged an extravagant celebration to mark his fiftieth birthday. A three-day affair on Orcas Island. Helen had to attend, of course, and she wanted me to go with her.” Mort heard the familiar strain of guilt in his friend's voice as he spoke. After all these years Larry was still dealing with the if-onlys. “But I was busy with classes. Far too eager to impress the tenured dinosaurs in my department. And, truth be told, I wasn't interested in standing beneath Abraham Smydon's withering judgment for three days. I urged her to go alone.” He cleared his throat again. “And she did.”

“Is this line of questioning really necessary?” Mort asked.

Rita Willers remained calm as she answered him. “I like context. It explains so much. Like how Carlton Smydon and L. Jackson Clark became close. If I can get a good idea of what the forest is like, I can identify the trees more clearly.” She turned her attention back to Larry. “Is this troubling for you? Would you like to take a break?”

Larry reached a hand to rest a moment on Mort's shoulder. “I am blessed with caring friends.” He pulled his hand away. “I drove Helen to the ferry. It was a Friday morning. I'm sure you can pull some file and find the exact ferry she took. I kissed her, told her to send my birthday regards to her father, and watched her walk aboard. I never saw her again.”

“Larry, I—” Mort was interrupted before he could finish.

“I'm fine. Helen was due to the compound that Abraham had rented around six o'clock. It's my understanding that there were nearly a hundred guests. Carlton later told me Abraham was furious when Helen still hadn't shown up by seven. Cocktails were being served and, despite his anger, Abraham soldiered on by opening the gifts his friends had stacked beside his table. I came to learn later that one box, wrapped in red and tied with a velvet ribbon, contained a photograph of Helen along with a ransom note. I've since seen the picture, of course. Again, I'm sure it's in some official record somewhere.” Larry paused. Mort and Rita sat in silence until he spoke again. “Helen was chained to a tree. Her eyes wide and her face tearstained. After all these years I still wake up at night, overcome that her last experience on this earth was one of terror. The note demanded $250,000 in cash be delivered by nine that evening to a certain empty stall at Pike Place Market.” Larry huffed a mirthless laugh. “How fitting. It was a place the Seafood King knew well.” Larry went quiet for a few heartbeats more. “Of course, the note demanded no police. Pay the money and Helen would be released immediately. Fail to meet the timeline and she'd be killed.” He fell silent again.

“How about a break, buddy?” Mort asked. “Maybe a walk around the building.”

Larry shook his head without looking his friend's way. “Carlton later told me no one at the party would have guessed what was happening. Apparently Abraham excused himself, saying he had urgent business to attend to. Carlton said he urged his friends to continue with the party, promising to join them shortly. True enough, according to the guests he was back at the party in time to hear toasts over his birthday cake. While he was gone, of course, he arranged to have the money, all cash, delivered right where the kidnappers demanded. Knowing Abraham the way I do, I'm confident he wasn't worried. It was a business transaction. He held up his end and expected the other party to uphold theirs. I'm sure he was stunned when, hours later, two uniformed sheriffs knocked on his door to tell him they'd found Helen. Chained to a tree deep in an Orcas Island forest. Dead.” Larry's jaw churned at the memory. “Abraham's personal secretary was among his party guests. He went to her and asked her to call me.”

Mort saw no reaction to Abraham's callousness register on Chief Willers's face. She simply wrote a few lines on her rapidly filling tablet.

“Kenny Kamm was arrested the next day?” Rita Willers asked the question, but her mention of the man convicted of murdering Helen Clark told Mort she'd done her homework. She'd probably spent the morning reviewing any official record she could access regarding L. Jackson Clark.

Larry's exhale was more resignation than respiration. “Kamm was a drifter. Working odd jobs. He'd been hired by Smydon Fish to unload the boats. Brutal work requiring nothing more than a strong back. The prosecutors think maybe he'd seen Helen one day when she was visiting the docks. There was no doubt Kamm delivered Helen's fatal blows. His blood was found mixed with Helen's. My wife fought valiantly for her life, Chief. She left bite marks on his shoulder and hands. Kamm initially pleaded he had no memory of killing her. He had a long history of drug use and told the authorities he'd taken a mixture of hallucinogenics, alcohol, and meth that night. Said he remembered nothing. The police gathered their evidence, and we prepared ourselves for the trial. That's when Carlton and I began to get close. He was devastated by Helen's death. As I said, they were like devoted siblings. Abraham was crushed, as well, of course. But he had the company…his work.” Larry's eyes lost the deep compassion so often evident in them. “And that damnable iron will of his. Abraham lifted himself up and carried on. Carlton and I leaned on each other.”

“It's my understanding there was no trial,” Willers said.

Larry nodded. “In the end Kamm confessed. He waived his right to trial and was sentenced to life in prison. After seventeen years he had his first parole hearing. Abraham, Carlton, and I went. We heard how Kamm had turned his life around. No more drugs. No problems with the staff or fellow inmates. He'd even earned a college certificate in computer animation.” Larry's voice flattened as he looked Chief Willers in the eye. “I don't know how much you know about my work, but I've devoted my entire career to the study of the human condition. I know in the roots of my soul that compassion and forgiveness and love are the tools we need to thrive. They're our only hope. But sitting there, in that hearing room, I felt no compassion for the man who'd battered my wife's skull in with a rock. There was no love. I had no forgiveness.” He lowered his gaze. “Perhaps that's why Kenny Kamm's life intersected with mine. To teach me the difficulty of the concepts I expound. My only wish is that it hadn't been necessary for Helen to pay the price for my lesson.”

“He wasn't paroled,” Chief Willers said.

“No. Abraham was the only one who spoke at the hearing. His words were as strong as the man himself. Kamm had another hearing just last year. Again, the three of us went.” Larry swallowed hard. “I saw Kamm differently. He's a man living like an animal. Caged and chained. I won't say I felt true compassion, but I did come to realize that my rancor toward him did nothing to honor Helen. Carlton and I had dinner after the hearing. He felt the same way. Perhaps we were both finding a path to healing.”

“His request for parole was denied again,” Chief Willers said.

A wry smile crossed Larry's face. “Obviously I've done a poor job giving you an accurate portrait of Abraham Smydon. He isn't a man who strives to forgive. His speech at the hearing left no room for compassion. As long as Abraham is alive he'll make every one of Kamm's parole hearings. And he'll do his best to make sure the man stays locked up till his dying breath.”

“After what Kamm did to your wife, sounds like Abraham has the right idea,” Willers remarked.

Larry rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't know, Chief. After all my research…all my writings…all those damned awards people seem hell-bent on throwing at me…I think I only know one thing. And that's that I know nothing about anything.”

Mort and Larry were quiet on the hour drive back to Seattle. Larry was freshly grieving Carlton's death and Mort knew the emotions dredged up in the interview had exhausted his already vulnerable friend. Chief Willers had recognized it as well. She'd thanked Larry for his cooperation, promised she would have more questions, and urged him to go home and take some time to recover from the strains of the day. Larry assured her he'd make himself available at any time. It was just after five o'clock when Mort pulled his Subaru next to Larry's Lexus in the parking lot of the Seattle Police Department's headquarters.

“What d'ya say we head to the Crystal and have Mauser pour us a Guinness?” he suggested. “Or maybe you'd prefer a deck chair on my boat?”

Larry reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Another time. I feel the need for solitude, if you don't mind. Go back to your houseboat, Mort. Watch the sunset. Think of all those who can't see its majesty, and be grateful you can.”

Mort watched his friend drive away. He thought about the budget reports and personnel reviews waiting for him upstairs. He pulled out his cellphone and called Jimmy DeVilla, who assured him there was nothing pressing.

“I'm telling you, Mort. It's the weather. Folks are behaving themselves. Micki and I are already down at the Crystal. Want me to have Mauser get a pint ready for you?”

Mort smiled. Things must indeed be slow if Micki Petty was drinking with Jimmy DeVilla without anyone to run interference. “That's okay, buddy. I'm going to head on home. You two play nice, hear me?”

He shifted into reverse, intending to head down to the lake. But an echo of Larry's parting words and their sentiment caused him to point the Subaru in a different direction.

“If my girls 'ope to 'ave the apple tart my girls will 'ave to eat their dinner.” Claire's French accent made the last word sound like
din-air.

Mort leaned back and took in the scene. Twenty-five years ago it would have been Edie keeping the lid on dinnertime drama. It would have been Robbie and Allie negotiating for fewer bites of meatloaf and double scoops of ice cream. But tonight it was his twin granddaughters explaining their positions on main course versus dessert. He ran his hand across the heavy oak table in his son's dining room. It was the same table Mort's own little family had used for nightly meals, homework projects, and discussions about house rules. There'd been no room for it when he moved to the houseboat, and he was glad when Robbie said he and Claire would love to have it. Funny how traditions seem to continue on their own accord. Robbie sat in what had been, throughout all the years in that drafty old barn of a house Edie'd loved so much, Mort's chair. Claire had settled into Edie's spot without even knowing. Six-year-old Hayden sat to her father's right, the side of the table Robbie had anchored from the age of two until he left for college. Hadley perched opposite her twin, in Allie's chair. And Mort sat beside her, in the spot Edie used to save for guests.

“Coffee,
beau-père
?” Claire asked.

“I'd love some.” Mort never tired of his daughter-in-law. She and Robbie had built a solid life for themselves and their girls. Yet as much as he relished spending time with Robbie and his ladies, the joy was always tempered by the painful vision of the kind of life Allie had chosen. He forced his thoughts away from the twisted decisions his daughter made and focused on the warmth of the family in front of him.

“Papa, we had a ten-forty-three at school today.” Hayden never missed an opportunity to use police codes. Mort used to think it was her way of impressing her grandfather, but as she began to present him with more and more arcane codes, he wondered if the little girl with the mop of golden curls was testing him. “What d'ya think about that?”

“Well, I think if they didn't have to call a doctor for
you
I'm happy. But I hope whoever needed medical attention is fine.”

Hayden wrinkled her nose in something that looked like disappointment. The twinkle in her blue eyes told him she'd try harder to trip him up next time.

“It was for Danny Buckley,” Hadley announced. “He climbed up into that tree at the end of the playground. He started shaking the limb back and forth.
Ker plat!
Next thing you know Danny Buckley hits the ground crying like the baby he is.”

“Whoa,” Robbie said. “Is he okay? Where was Mrs. Diggins?”

“She wasn't there.” Hayden was quick to take the story she'd started back from her sister. “We had a subsisuze…a subatoo…a…”

“A substitute!” Hadley corrected her. “We had a
substitute teacher.
It's not that hard a word, Hayden.”

“I know how to say it, Hadley.” Hayden turned her attention back to her mashed potatoes, her cheeks now flushed with embarrassment.

“So what happened to Danny Buckley?” Mort asked her.

“They had to take him away to the nurses' office.” Hadley answered for her sister. “I heard his mom had to come get him and take him to the doctors. I bet he threw up, too. Nobody said anything, but I just bet he did. What a baby.”

“Hadley, stop.” Robbie shot his daughter a stern stare. “Danny could have been hurt badly. What was he doing up there, anyway?”

Hayden looked up from her plate, eager to reclaim her pride. “Hadley dared him, that's why.”

“Nuh-uh!” Hadley cried. “He went up there on his own stupid business.”

“You did, too, Hadley. I heard you,” Hayden insisted. “You said you didn't think he was strong enough to climb that tree, and he said he was.”

“That's not a dare,” Hadley insisted.

Mort smiled at his son. Time may have flown since the days this table sat in Edie's dining room, but the one-upping conversations between siblings remained unchanged. A buzzing in his pocket pulled his attention away from the she said/she said tug-of-war Robbie was refereeing. Mort pulled out his cellphone, recognized the number, and stood.

“I'm sorry, Robbie. I've got to take this.” He looked down on his granddaughters. “I'm trusting you two not to make any trouble.”

“That's a ten-four, Papa,” Hayden said as she glowered at her sister.

Mort accepted the call with a casual greeting as he walked away. It wasn't until he was out in the privacy of the front porch that he spoke the name of his caller.

“I've been waiting for your call, Liddy.”

“Busy day, Mort. I'm just back from a conference. You know how it is. First day back after a couple of days away. Lots of phone calls to return. Lots of patients to see. This is the first free moment I've had. What's up?”

Mort found himself unsure of where to begin. He didn't want to shame her. And he didn't want to put her in a position where she may feel a lie is her best option.

“Mort? Are you there?”

“I am. Look, I'm sorry for saying I was waiting for you to call me. That came off heavier than I wanted it to.”

“Is something wrong?” He heard the concern in her voice. “Your message said to call soon. If it was urgent I wish you'd have said so. Is it Robbie? The girls?”

“Everyone's fine.” He decided to plunge in. “I want you to know I'm proud of you. And to tell you the truth, a little scared for you, too.”

Lydia took a few moments to answer. “You'll have to be more specific, Mort.”

“Edward Dirkin. Eddie Dirkin to his friends. We got word from the FBI that he's been arrested.”

Lydia said nothing. Mort was glad she didn't try to sidestep the issue. She didn't lie. He hoped their relationship had progressed to a point where she could trust him to know the truth.

“All that money he stole from that guy he killed. Feds say it's been shipped back to his wife and kid. Nice work. I guess all that investment you poured into that fancy equipment down there in your bat cave helped you find Dirkin and the money.”

She still said nothing.

“FBI says they've never encountered a system like it. They can't trace how Dirkin's accounts were hacked and all the money siphoned out. Can't figure out how the widow's accounts were accessed, either. Looks like The Fixer's as stealth as she's always been.” When she still said nothing he shifted gears. “Listen, Liddy. I'm damned proud of you. Dirkin's been a black eye on the feds for years. You found him when they couldn't. Good on you. His trail was cold as ice but you found him. You found the money, too. The widow and kid of the man Dirkin killed deserve to have that back at the very least. Again, great job.” He hesitated a moment, then murmured. “It would have been easy to kill him, Liddy. I know that. Loner found dead in the middle of nowhere…living under an alias…no way anyone would have made him for Dirkin. Especially if you made it look like an accident. There wouldn't have even been an inquest. But you did the right thing, Liddy. You didn't kill the bastard. That's what I'm most proud of. Can you hear me, Liddy? Can you?”

“I hear you, Mort. It's an interesting story you're telling.”

She didn't trust enough to admit to anything. He went on with the message he knew he had to deliver. “You've got to stop. You can't keep chasing justice. Not alone. Not outside the channels. It's too dangerous. For you and for me. Look, Liddy. You did the right thing this time, but you can't keep putting that kind of temptation in front of yourself. If you keep this up, one of these days you're going to cross a line and flip into autopilot. You'll pull that trigger. You'll tighten that rope. You've been too long without justice for what's been done to you to keep walking away without doing something that could jeopardize everything you have. Leave the past in the past, Liddy. I'm begging you.” Despite being alone on the porch he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Keep The Fixer dead and buried. Before she buries you.”

She didn't reply.

“Tell me you hear me, Liddy. Can you do that much?”

“You're calling from Robbie's.” Mort understood she must be in her communication center. She'd traced the location from which he was calling. “Everything good there?”

Mort shook his head in frustration with this wounded woman. “Everybody's fine. You? How are things?”

“Things are good, Mort. I appreciate you reaching out. Maybe we can have coffee soon.”

He wished he could reach into the phone and touch her with some kind of spell that would make whatever soul-crushing pain caused her to be so reckless disappear.

But magic spells lived only in the fairy tales his granddaughters loved. He feared Lydia would carry her burden forever.

“I'd like that, Liddy. I'd like that a lot.”

“Take good care, Mort.”

She hung up before he could ask her to do the same.