“She’s not here. We tried calling her home. No answer. Her baker tried her cell. I got a bad feeling when it rang right here. Behind the refrigerator.”
Mort realized the Chief of Forensics wouldn’t be called to a routine breakin.
“What aren’t you not telling me, Jimmy?”
He heard De Villa take a deep breath. “There’s blood, Mort. Lots of it. You better get down here.”
Bruiser was sitting at attention just inside the bakery’s front door. Mort ruffled the dog’s neck and called out to Jimmy. His friend waved him in. He was careful not to step in any blood before Jimmy’s team had a chance to photograph the smears and take samples. Mort sidestepped technicians and overturned kitchen mixers, blenders, and stools. Baking pans and cooking utensils littered the polished concrete floor of the industrial kitchen. Mort watched a member of Jimmy’s team process a bloody palm print on the stainless steel counter.
“Somebody put up a fight,” Mort said as his eyes scanned the room. “Anybody reach Williams yet?”
“We reached two of the gals she works with.” Jimmy pulled a notepad from his blazer pocket. “According to them Cameron closed up shop for the day not long after you left. They said they had one lunch to cater on campus. Cameron told them to take care of it and leave her alone. She was still crying in her office when they got back to unload and clean-up. They left up around 3:30. They assumed she was alone.” Jimmy nodded to the uniformed officer across the room. “I sent Ironson over to Cameron’s house. All she found was her dog, eager as hell to get out and do his business. Cameron’s baker says she’s crazy about that pooch. Wouldn’t dream of letting him miss a walk.”
“Any idea how old this blood is?” Mort swallowed the bitter metallic that gathered at the back of his throat.
“Only the shallowest smears are dried.” Jimmy dipped a gloved index finger into a small dollop of blood on the floor. “This is recent. Couldn’t have happened more than a couple of hours ago.”
“So Williams is alive and alone at 3:30. By 8:30 the joint’s trashed and she’s missing.” Mort scanned the ceiling. “Any security cameras?”
“That would be too easy.” Jimmy nodded down the hall. “You think this is bad? Walk this way.”
Mort followed his friend, dodging technicians and drops of blood splattered down the length of the narrow corridor. They turned into a room and gave their eyes time to adjust to the glare of the photographer’s floodlights.
“The baker says this is Cameron’s office.” Jimmy inched past his busy staffer to stand beside a desk cluttered with blood-blotched papers. “My guess is this is where the intruder got her.”
Mort grabbed the vinyl gloves Jimmy offered, snapped them on and lifted pages off the floor. “What are you thinking, Jim? Was she hit with something? Maybe stabbed?”
“Look here.” Jimmy stepped over a broken picture frame and crossed behind the desk. He tapped his pen next to a hole in the plaster. “We pulled a slug from the wall.”
Mort breathed deep and caught a faint scent of gunpowder. “She was shot? Then what? Stumbles into the kitchen for a fight?”
“Maybe,” Jimmy said. “Maybe she startles the bad guy in the kitchen, he shoots but just grazes her. They fight, she breaks away and runs into the office, he follows and finishes her off.”
Mort looked around. “Then where is she?”
“We got alerts out to all the hospitals,” Jim said. “Nothing. Want to hear something interesting?”
Mort opened Carmen’s top desk drawer and started sifting through. “I’ll take anything.”
“Guess who Cameron was all set to marry before she ups and falls in love with Bastian The Ape Butcher?” Jimmy pointed a thumb over his left shoulder. “Leisha out there tells me it was all the scandal in certain circles. None other than Bradley Wells. Leisha’s husband works at Wells’ headquarters. Said Mr. Got Money was out of his head about it. Took it out on his staff for months, she says.”
Mort looked around the ravaged room. “The same guy who grew up working corners with guys who do stuff like this if they’re bored on Friday night.” He nodded slow and easy. “Now he takes power lunches with university presidents.” He shook his head at the bloody mess. “So, the guy who steals his sweetheart gets a contract put out on him and now the sweetheart herself goes dead.” Mort smiled at his good friend. “What do you say we have a little chat with Wells tomorrow?”
Jimmy grinned. “Micki’s gonna love this story. Come on. My team can finish up here. Let’s head to Smitty’s and strategize.”
Mort turned to close Cameron’s desk drawer. A business card peeked out of the stack of paperclips and straight pins. He teased it out with his latexed finger and jerked his head back.
Lydia Corriger
Licensed Clinical Psychologist
He tucked the card into his pocket before turning. “You and Bruiser head on out, Jim. I think I’ll go home and strategize on my own.
Lydia wiped her hand over her face. Had she dreamt the noise? She glanced at the clock. Eight seventeen. Only four hours of sleep last night.Loud pounding cleared any drowsiness. Her feet hit the floor as she grabbed her pistol off the nightstand. She held the Lugar in a two-handed grip and dashed down the hall.
“Lydia!” A muffled voice called through the wooden front door. “It’s Mort Grant. Open up.”
She aimed the gun at the door and glanced into the living room. The dawn gave just enough light to prove the room empty. A dozen thoughts raced through her mind as to the purpose of Mort’s presence. None of them promising.
“Hang on, Mort.” Lydia feigned grogginess. “You woke me up. Let me get a robe.” She hurried through her bedroom and peeked out the bathroom window. No squad cars in her driveway. Mort was alone. She willed her breathing to slow and pulled a white terry cloth wrap from a hook behind the bathroom door. She dropped the Lugar into a deep pocket, cinched the belt tight, and headed for the entry hall.
“It’s Saturday.” Lydia held her front door open a few inches. “And it’s early.”
Mort widened the gap with a no-nonsense push. “I didn’t want to give you time to come up with excuses.” He stepped in and looked across the living room. The rising sun glistened off the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Dana Passage was streaked with gold.
He turned and scanned her from head to toe. “Where’s your kitchen? I’ll make us some coffee.”
Lydia kept her hand in her pocket, holding the Lugar tight against her leg. She stared at Mort and saw something in his eyes she couldn’t identify. He held her gaze. She pulled her hand free and ran it through her bed-tossed hair.
“Right through there.” She pointed down the hall. “Coffee’s in the copper canister next to the pot. There’s milk in the fridge.”
Mort nodded. “Go brush your teeth.”
Ten minutes later they were at her dining room table. She’d changed into her workout clothes and left her pistol in the bedroom. There were others.
Mort sat to take full advantage of the view. Lydia was across from him. She wanted an unobstructed sightline to the front door.
Mort tapped the coaster under his ceramic mug and stared at her. Though she was exhausted to the point of uselessness, every cell in Lydia’s body was on high alert. She forced her hands calm and lifted her own mug to her lips.
“Why are you here, Mort?” She was pleased with the steadiness of her voice.
He kept his eyes on her, reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt, pulled out her business card, and pushed it her way. “Guess where I found this.”
Ancient fears screamed inside her brain, urging her to run.
“How do you know Cameron Williams?” Mort’s question left no room for game-playing.
“Cameron Williams?” Lydia needed to buy time. Force Mort to expose what he knew.
“Cut the crap, Lydia.” Mort nodded to the business card. “I found that in her desk drawer. Care to tell me how it got there?”
Her jaw muscles tensed as she silently cursed herself. She was off her game. She’d never before overlooked a detail that could lead anyone back to her. “You mean the caterer?” She smiled and opted to tell him the same lie she’d told Cameron. “I’m having a dinner party. I met with her last week.”
Mort’s eyes narrowed. “No caterers in Olympia? You gotta go seventy miles north for weenies on a toothpick?”
A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. “She came highly recommended.”
“When’s the last time you threw a party, Liddy?” Mort’s voice was firm. “Give me dates and the names of six people who attended.”
Lydia struggled to keep her breathing steady. Her heart pounded. She blinked twice before answering.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but my social life is no concern of yours.”
Mort broke his gaze and blew out a long breath. Lydia tucked her hands under her legs and swallowed hard. She steeled herself and reviewed the weapon placement around the house.
Mort pushed his chair away and stood. Lydia shifted her feet, ready to spring to her own defense.
He crossed to the window and focused on the view. “I thought we had this all worked out. Or maybe I should say
I
thought
I
had this all worked out. But now this. What am I to make of Cameron Williams, Liddy?”
Terror grabbed her throat with one hand and covered her mouth with the other. Her mind flashed back twenty years. In an instant she was the terrified abandoned child wanting only to live to the next morning. She sat in silent paralysis and forced her breathing to slow. She felt her heartbeat settling into a more normal rhythm. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
Mort’s voice softened. “I thought I made it clear that you were not to go anywhere near this case until we discovered who hired Savannah to kill Bastian. How am I supposed to keep you safe if you insist on sticking your nose where it might get blown off?” He shook his head. “I thought you were going to trust me.”
Lydia’s jaws clenched. She’d trusted before and paid more than anyone should be expected to. She couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.
But a piece of her longed to reach out to this man. A long-banished voice drifted to her; urged her to take a risk.
“What do you want to know?” she whispered.
Mort pulled out his notepad. “What really took you to her? No more bull about some dinner party.”
Lydia blinked her mind clear and allowed a lie to unfurl. “It was Savannah. She spoke often of Cameron. I had the feeling they were friends. I thought if I got to know her she’d tell me the truth about Savannah’s life.” She shrugged. “My behavior was unprofessional, I know. But I needed to learn more if I was to understand her involvement with Buchner’s death.”
“So you made up the dinner party ruse as a way to meet her?”
“Yes. She seems quite nice.” Lydia smiled. “Maybe I’ll have her cater your next birthday.”
“Lydia, Cameron was Fred Bastian’s fiancé. Did you know that?” His face was stern. His voice was gentle. “And now she’s dead.”
Lydia’s eyes flew open. “You found her?”
Mort and Jim were escorted into the study of Bradley Wells’ Lake Washington mansion a little before two o’clock. Bruiser followed at Jim’s heels. Mort was sure the walk from the front door to this elegant room with floor-to-ceiling windows took a full five minutes. He tossed Jim a weary smile when he saw the silver-haired mogul sitting behind a granite-topped desk the size of a double bed. Wells obviously wanted to demonstrate his power to the two detectives.
“I’ll join you if you don’t mind.” A female voice pulled Mort and Jim’s attention to a sitting area behind them. Meredith Thornton sat on a green brocade sofa flanking a large stone fireplace.
He returned his attention to Wells. “We’re here to have a frank talk about what may be an unsettling topic. It’s up to you if you want her here.”
Before Wells could answer Meredith stood and walked toward them. “We imagine you’re here to discuss Professor Bastian’s murder. I’m here to see the conversation takes no turns toward Dr. Bastian’s research.”
Mort looked at Wells who nodded his agreement. He glanced toward Jimmy and dove in. “When’s the last time you saw Professor Bastian’s fiancé, Mr. Wells?”
He watched Wells rankle at hearing the woman he planned to marry described as Bastian’s betrothed. Mort saw his rage seething just below the surface of his ski-slope tan and guessed Wells was unaccustomed to having his plans aborted.
“If you’re referring to Cameron Williams, I haven’t spoken to her in months.” Wells pushed up the sleeves of his black cashmere sweater and leaned back in his leather chair. “I don’t anticipate I’ll ever speak to her again.”
“Is that so?” Jimmy asked. “What makes you so sure?”
Before Wells could answer Meredith Thornton clicked her heels over the hardwood floor and circled behind him. She placed a manicured hand on the billionaire’s shoulder and addressed Mort like Queen Victoria speaking to a chimney sweep.
“What is the point of your question, Detective? Mr. Wells and I are busy people.” Her eyes could have been beautiful if they weren’t so cold. “We have no time to discuss Fred Bastian’s caterer.”
“You’ll excuse me, Meredith,” Mort said. “But we asked Bradley here the question, not you.”
Meredith stepped back as though she’d been slapped. Mort figured she was as unaccustomed as Wells to a power-down position. Before she could respond Wells reached up to pat her hand.
“It’s all right, Meredith,” Wells said. “I’ll answer their questions.” He waved his hand to two suede club chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat, Officers. And let me know if I can get that splendid animal of yours a bowl of water.”
“His name’s Bruiser.” Jimmy leveled his best don’t-fuck-with-me gaze at his host. “And he’s fine right here.”
Wells met Jimmy’s gaze in kind. “You get five minutes.”
Mort settled in. “I’ll repeat my partner’s question. What makes you so sure you’ll not see Cameron Williams again?”
Wells’ face shifted into smug pretension. “I’m a decisive man, Detective Grant. One doesn’t build what I have with second guesses. Cameron was a whimsy on my part. It ran its course. Now it’s over.”