“That shrink’s turning into your inside source, isn’t she?” Jimmy asked. “When do I get to meet this secret weapon of criminal investigation?”
Mort flashed on Jimmy’s infatuation with Micki and worried that his friend might think Lydia was more his type. He shook his head. “Let’s focus on the work at hand, shall we?”
Jimmy caressed the canine head resting in his lap. “So Bastian and Buchner are both out of the way and Wells goes a-courtin’. That what you’re thinking?”
Mort leaned back and nodded. “He didn’t count on Cameron being so deep in mourning. She rejects him. Maybe even a few times. I call on Cameron that morning, tell her Bastian didn’t die of a heart attack. Wells just happens to stop by later in the day. He’s heard the sad news from when he stopped by Bastian’s house.”
“I always thought the timing of that drop-in with the university president was a little too perfect.” Jim drummed his free hand on the table. “He finds the caterer crying in her cupcakes. Tries to soothe her and she turns on him. She can think of only one person who might want Bastian dead. She accuses him and threatens to call the cops.”
“Wells loses it and Cameron ends up dead.” Mort loved the moment everything dropped into place. “He realizes what he’s done, calls a few of his old cronies to come get the body, cleans himself up, and heads back to his office where he calls an emergency meeting with thirty of his closest advisors.”
The two partners sat in silence and let the plan marinate. Mort ran every contingency through his mind.
“Okay, loose ends,” he said. “Name ‘em and tie ‘em.”
Jim scribbled in his notebook. “Voice synthesizer left at Buchner’s.”
“Easy,” Mort said. “The thing had been scrubbed clean. Memory banks
and
outer casing. There’d be no reason for anyone to take it. In fact, taking the center of Buchner’s research might raise red flags.”
“The Fixer suicides.” Jim looked up from his writing. “What kind of cold-hearted killer does that?”
Mort shook his head. “Robbie and I don’t believe for one minute that The Fixer was cold-hearted. In fact, she’s busted people looking for a run-of-the-mill hit. This woman kills out of a drive for justice for the little guy.”
Jim fixed a stern gaze on his friend. “I wouldn’t mind having the balls to do what she’s done.”
Mort was quiet for several seconds. His mind drifted to Meghan Hane, dead behind a dumpster; Angelo Satanell’s jeering face taunting him. He recalled the indescribable grief of Meghan’s father as Mort walked him through booking. He inhaled deeply and shook the images away.
“This is about The Fixer, not us. I think her suicide was more about falling in love. She was going to leave the life and run off with Childress, remember? Nothing like the reflection in the eyes of someone you love to make you see yourself clearly.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw. “What I saw in Edie’s eyes after Allie was gone, man, it damned near killed me. I think Savannah didn’t like what she saw and couldn’t find her way out. Top it off with finding out she’d infected Childress with HIV. I think that pushed her over the edge.”
Jimmy responded with a slow nod. “That’s why I stick with my fantasy of the unattainable Micki. Sometimes real love just sucks, doesn’t it?”
Mort skipped the obvious reply and got to the biggest loose end. “No body for Cameron Williams.”
Jim tilted his head toward the room. “All this blood? Dogs leading straight to the Sound? Wells’ connection to guys who know some guys? Plus this chain of circumstances? I think we got no problem.”
Bruiser stretched out at his master’s feet. The silent rumination of the facts lingered several minutes.
“We ready?” Mort asked.
Jimmy flipped his notebook closed. “I’ll head over to the prosecuting attorney now. You coming?”
Mort checked his watch. “You mind taking this alone, Partner? I have some calls to make.”
Mort poured the foamy milk into the espresso, sat down at his kitchen table, and punched number two on his speed dial. Claire answered on the second ring.
“How are my girls?” he asked.
“Bien, Beau Pere.” Claire’s voice danced in his ear. “They are with their father down for ice cream. They will be so sorry to have missed you.”
“’Their father’, huh?” God, he missed the sassy play between husbands and wives. “When are they due back?”
“You have news?” she asked. “Robert has spoken of little else but this case you’re sharing. This is why I demand he takes his little girls for ice cream.”
Mort loved the way she called Robbie Ro-bear. “And why didn’t he take you?”
Claire laughed. “I have to watch my figure. Et voila, I can speak with my father-in-law at my leisure, no? So tell me, who is this new woman in your life? Robert tells me she has been helping on this case, oui?”
“She tries,” he said. “Let me take that back. She helps plenty. I don’t think I would have made some key connections if Lydia hadn’t been looking out for a patient of hers.”
“Ooh, La Docteur Lydia.” Mort heard the tease in Claire’s voice and knew he’d have to explain away any romantic notion his daughter-in-law might hope for. “Is she lovely? Does she have a last name?”
Mort chuckled. “I think she could be beautiful if she tried, but she’s more of a home-spun type. Just right for a psychologist, I guess. And it’s Corriger, Lydia Corriger.”
“Ah ha!” Claire trilled. “Another Grant man with exquisite taste. Elle est Francais, n’est ce pas?”
Mort used what little French he’d been able to pick up since Claire entered their lives. “No, I don’t think so. What makes you think she’s French?”
“Her name,” she said. “But it is perfect for a psychologist, no?”
“I’m not following.” Mort wondered if he’d ever understand women.
“Corriger, n’est ce pas? It is French. It means “To Fix”.
Lydia kicked off her wet shoes and brought the morning paper into the dining room. Exhaustion, the kind that sleep could never relieve, pulled on every muscle. She stood beside the table and stared out the window thinking of the time Mort drank coffee and admired the same view.
Low grey clouds loomed over Dana Passage; the water the color of wet concrete. Two massive cedar trees at the edge of the cliff swayed in the same direction as white-capped waves. Roiling mist obscured the mountains in the distance.
The eagle was back. Lydia allowed herself the indulgence of claiming it as her own. She watched it surf the wind of the incoming storm, banking and coasting before it found the spot to float suspended over the passage. Immobile. Perfect.
She turned, surveyed her home, and recalled how she selected each piece of furniture, art work, and rug. Remembering the care she took in building her sanctuary. Impregnable. Perfect.
Private Number’s invasion stripped away that delusion.
She pulled out a chair, sat in Mort’s spot, tugged the paper out of its soggy plastic wrapper, and tried to find solace in mundane routine. The headline announced the pending departure of troops from nearby Fort Lewis. A photograph of a soldier in dessert fatigues hugging her five-year-old daughter while her husband stood beside her and wept into the shoulder of their year-old son accompanied it. She read the story, turned the page, and felt the breath rush out of her.
A picture of Walter Buchner smiled from the bottom of the paper beneath a sidebar caption that read “Recent Murder Victim Part of Study”. Lydia’s eyes darted to the main article.
University Chairman Honored
She quickly read that Robert Passow, head of the Audiology Department had been recognized at an international symposium for development of breakthrough technology in voice synthesizing. Her heart raced as she read the description of a device that could take varieties of input and produce recognizable, conversational speech. Any accent. Any age. Either gender. Passow spoke of the hope the device offered. In accepting his award, he thanked the people who contributed to the project’s development, listing several researchers and engineers.
“And a special thanks goes out to Meredith Thornton, our university’s president,” the article quoted. “She’s known now as a leader of academic institutions, but before she climbed the administrative hill, Dr. Thornton was a pioneer in voice synthesis. Her ground-breaking work formed the foundation of this achievement and we owe her an eternal debt of gratitude.”
Lydia knew that name. A memory of Cameron Williams describing Bastian’s history of dating powerful women. How he’d broken things off with the university president to be with her. Lydia’s eyes swept to the sidebar. She read about Wally’s participation in the development and testing of the breakthrough synthesizer. A quotation from Robert Passow alluded to Wally’s genius and the loss his murder had created. Lydia read the next paragraph twice.
“His death is a tragedy,” said University President Meredith Thornton. “To our school, our community, but more importantly to science. I learned of Mr. Buchner’s potential during his undergraduate years. I recruited him myself to join our graduate research staff and I count his death as a personal loss.”
Lydia set the paper aside and returned to the view outside her window. Rain sheets pelted the churning waves. The eagle was gone. The Fixer had her target.
Mort threw down the morning paper, swore out loud, and shoved his screaming thoughts into a holding cell in his brain. Then he picked up his ringing cell phone.
“Guess who’s dead?” Jim DeVilla asked. “I’m getting a little tired of this body count.”
Mort’s hand tightened around the phone as Jimmy told him.
“Gunshot?” Mort’s stomach threatened to return his huevos rancheros to the plate sitting in front of him.
“Yeah.”
Mort swallowed hard and pushed himself away from the table. “The casings are going to match up with the ones we found at Buchner’s.”
“Looks like it to the naked eye.” Jim barked an order to some investigator on his end. “What makes you so sure?”
Mort brought his friend up to speed on what he’d read in the morning paper.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jimmy let out a low whistle. “Okay, Buddy. I’m on it. We’re having quite the party down here. You coming?”
Mort stood in front of his refrigerator and took in the gallery of family photographs magneted to the door. His eye lingered on one of his favorites. Edie and Allie on Christmas morning. His bed-headed wife laughing as their seven-year-old daughter tried to get new ice skates on over footed pajamas. He put a finger to each of their faces and cursed the cold of the enamel door. One more touch would be enough for him.
Just one more chance to make things right.
“Give me twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll bring coffee.”
Mort walked the familiar five minutes from Bradley Wells’ front door to his library past a half-dozen uniformed police. He handed Jimmy a Styrofoam cup before turning to the body behind the big desk.
Bradley Wells, Prince of the City, sat in his leather chair with half his face missing. Gun powder residue darkened what skin remained on his skull. Bits of flesh and bone mottled his silver mane. Mort took a sip of coffee.
“Shoots our theory all to hell, doesn’t it?” Jimmy asked.
“You pick her up?” he asked.
Jimmy nodded. “Sent a couple of unmarked cars. Told her it was routine questioning. No need to make a scene. She didn’t seem to feel the same. Raised quite a ruckus. Swore she’d have all of our shields before close of business. So far we’ve been able to keep it out of the media.”
“She’s not one to get her hands dirty.” Mort nodded to the corpse. “Somebody’s on her team.”
“Way ahead of you, Buddy. Security cameras picked up a visitor.”
“Man or woman?” Mort hoped he’d hear the right answer.
“Walks like a man, dressed dark, wearing a cap. Micki’s got the tape now. If there’s any way to pull an i.d. of it, she’ll find it.”
“We’re going to need it.” Mort shook his head. “We can’t have any holes in this one.”
“My crew’s at her office now. They found one of those remote gizmos for the synthesizer. And a gun I’m sure ballistics will tell us is a match.”
“What says the D.A.?”
“She says we better be sure. Evidently everyone from the mayor to the governor is on this woman’s Christmas card list. Says she’s got our backs but if we’re wrong she’ll personally hand us our balls before she ships us off to be crossing guards in Moses Lake.”
Mort took one last look at the Sovereign of Seattle. “Then let’s not be wrong.”
Lydia parked her car three blocks away and walked with her head down to the official residence of the university president. The cold rain provided the cover of empty streets and a hooded parka. The Smith and Wesson in her pocket held the promise of one last blow for justice.
It was nearly noon. Fantasies of a final confrontation with Meredith played in her mind during the ninety minute drive north from Olympia. Private Number was identified. Lydia imagined both ends of a conversation culminating with Meredith understanding the power she’d stolen had been returned. The manipulation was over. But as the Space Needle entered her view, Lydia decided against it. She’d keep it clean. One perfectly-placed silenced bullet and she’d be free.
She walked past the stone path leading to the mansion situated high on a manicured lawn, circled the side of the house, and looked for security guards or staff. One car sat parked in front of a four stall garage. Lydia kept walking. The back yard was hidden behind a six foot brick privacy wall that abutted a dense row of arbor vitae. She looked up and down the street, saw no one, and stepped into the cover the small copse of towering trees provided.
The brick wall was rough enough to gain hold. She pulled herself up and surveyed the residence’s backyard. A white gazebo sat off to her right, adjacent to a formal rose garden. A well-trimmed lawn led straight ahead to a flagstone deck running the width of the house. Lydia steadied herself on the wall just high enough to see over. Fifteen minutes passed with no observed movement. She hoisted herself over and crossed to the lattice arbor surrounding the back door. She reached a gloved hand for the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked. Lydia pushed the back door open and stepped into the mud room.