The Fixer (25 page)

“I can’t talk about anything therapy related, Mort. You know that.” Lydia took a long drink of water and followed it with a bite of sandwich. “But,” she smiled again. “I can tell you I met Childress for the first time yesterday. I was surprised when he introduced himself as Savannah’s fiancé.”

“Fair enough.” He was happy to see her fear subsiding. “What’s your read on him?”

“Childress?” she asked.

“Yeah. What’s your great power of observation tell you about Lover Boy?”

Lydia smiled and Mort watched her eyes dance in spite of their obvious weariness. He thought she could be beautiful if she loosened up. Maybe use a little make-up and do something with her hair besides pulling it back in one of those scrunched-up thingamabobs.

“I think he’s pompous, rude, arrogant, and condescending. In a nutshell, scared witless and all wrapped up in his defenses. The kind of man who’ll fight for power and hang onto it like a she-bear protecting her cub because he knows no one will ever willingly give him any.” She popped a potato chip in her mouth. “And he’s unhealthy. Fleshy and greasy. He’s spent a lifetime using fine wine and buttery French food as a substitute for the warmth of human companionship.”

Mort wondered what Lydia used as her substitute. “Wow. That’s a lot from just the one meeting.”

Lydia shrugged. “Like I told you, I’m good.”

He was glad she was still smiling. “Good enough to tell if he’s capable of murder?”

Mort watched the smile slide off her face. She crumpled the potato chip wrapper and laid it on the table.

“You think Childress killed Buchner?” The vein in her neck throbbed with her rising pulse. Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Him?”

Mort leaned forward. “Take it easy, Kid. I’m just asking.” Mort was surprised at her flash-triggered fear. “You wanna ride shotgun with me, you’re going to have to be brave.”

Lydia’s face turned stony. “There’s nothing wrong with my courage, Detective.”

She reminded Mort she had a patient at one o’clock. He knew she’d retreated far enough that any more questioning would be futile. He tried another tack to lower her defenses.

“You don’t mind my saying, you seem awfully upset about Savannah’s suicide attempt. I’d have thought you shrinks had thicker hides than that, given the folks you work with.”

Mort watched her sway nearly imperceptibly in her chair. She stared into the distance and he wondered if she was lost in grief or fatigue.

“Sometimes hides are thinner than we hope,” she whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushing off a near-instinctive desire to tell her everything would be all right. Instead, he stood, gathered the lunch rubbish into the paper bag and tossed it into the garbage can before pulling on his jacket. Lydia rose and walked him toward the office door.

“We’ll work together on the Buchner case, then?” she asked.

Mort shook his head and smiled. “You’re a tough one, Lydia. Tell you what. Next time you buy lunch and we’ll talk more about who killed old Wally.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “In the meantime, there’s anything I should know, you’ll call me, right?”

Lydia nodded. “Thank you for lunch, Mort.”

He hesitated before leaving. “And take care of yourself, will you? You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.”

He left her office, sloshed through the melting snow, and settled into his car. He stared back at Lydia’s office and wished she’d relax long enough to tell him what had her so frightened. He pulled out his cell and punched number three on speed dial.

“Hey, Mort,” Jim De Villa answered.

“You get down to the coroner? Speak to Dr. Conner?” Mort kept his eyes on Lydia’s building. He hoped the rest of her day was easier than the morning had been.

“I did. He promised to run a complete tox screen on Bastian’s blood. Says he’s got several vials on hand.”

“Good,” Mort said. “Let me know as soon as he calls, will you?”

“Anything else you need?”

“No.” Something tugged at the back of Mort’s mind. “Well, maybe. Can you run a background on Toni Morrison for me?”

“Wait a minute.” Mort heard his friend rustle some paper. “How you spelling it?”

“Toni Morrison, you Neandrathal. The writer.”

“Holy Mother of God.” Jimmy sounded skeptical. “You’re not liking her for Bastian or Buchner, are you?”

“Just Google her, will you, Jimmy? I’d do it myself except I’m going to be on the road for the next hour. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I’ll be here,” Jimmy said. “Anything you need me to work with Micki on?”

Mort clicked his phone closed and started the car.

Mort got back to the station around 2:30. Daphne let him know Jimmy was looking for him.

“Oh, and your son called. Said he tried your cell but you didn’t pick up.”

“I was driving.” Mort took the stack of letters and memos Daphne handed him.

“He didn’t leave his name.” Daphne looked worried.

Mort smiled and wondered how she found her way to work every morning.

Back in his office he tossed the pile of mail on his desk and hung up his coat. He settled into his chair and dialed Robbie’s cell.

“Hey, Robbie.” Mort glanced at the clock. “Where is my wandering son today?”

“I’m still in Miami, Dad. Listen, Martin told me how he contacted The Fixer. His lawyer was squawking all the way, begging him to shut up, but I guess he figures he’s already sunk.”

Mort reached for paper and pen. “I think these guys enjoy the attention they get by spilling their guts. Even if it makes them look dumber. And what the hell are you still doing in Miami? Claire’s going to skin me alive for keeping you gone.”

Robbie chuckled. “You worry too much, Dad. Claire knows what this story means for my career. She’s cool.”

“Well, don’t cool yourself out of your marriage, son. You get more like me the older you get. We both married out of our league. Don’t blow it. What did you find out?”

“Like I said, Martin first heard about The Fixer through the grapevine. Said it sounded worth a try.”

“How’d he reach her?” Mort asked.

“It’s pretty slick. Martin said you put an ad in the classifieds of three different papers. The New York Times, Rolling Stone, and USA Today. First Thursday of the month. You say you’re looking for someone to help translate an old family cookbook and you leave your contact information. Said it took four days.”

Mort was scribbling his notes. “Then what happened?”

“He got a call. The voice was disguised. Digitized.”

Mort tapped his pen against his desk. “Lot of that going around these days.”

“Huh?” Robbie asked.

“Nothing. Another case I’m working. Then what?”

“Martin arranged a meet. Hot tub of some hotel near Miami International. He wasn’t expecting a woman.” Robbie sighed. “You know the rest.”

Mort sat still for a moment. “You checked out these papers?”

“The minute I left Martin.” Robbie sounded like he did when he was nine years old and Mort brought home that secondhand bicycle. “Dad, there’s dozens of those ads. But none before six years ago.”

Mort jotted down the timeline. “Must be when she set up shop. Any around the time Halloway wound up dead in Costa Rica?”

“You bet. An ad was placed one month before Halloway died. Martin’s ad was seven months before that.”

Mort looked at his notepad, filled with dates and leads. “Well, I’d say brick by brick you’re building a strong case that Halloway was murdered by this Fixer woman. Any idea who hired her?”

“Dad, after Halloway’s scheme was exposed, I’d bet there’s at least fifty people who’d hire someone to take him out.”

“You’re probably right.” Mort remembered Jimmy saying whoever hit Bastian was a saint. “Keep writing. In the meantime, save your Old Man some trouble, huh?”

“Name it, Dad.”

“Give me the dates of the last six ads. I’ll take a look and see what I come up with.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Got a pencil?” Robbie asked.

“Ready when you are.” Mort started writing. When he was finished he asked his son for an update on the girls. He hung up smiling about Hayden and Hadley’s latest shenanigans. Mort kept his hand on the phone while he whispered a quiet prayer for his own daughter. He took a deep breath, shook his concerns to a back corner of his brain, and called Jim De Villa.

“You up there alone?” Jimmy asked.

“You mean is Micki with me? When are you going to stop tripping over your own dick and realize she already loves a guy your age? She calls him ‘Daddy’.”

“Every man needs a hobby, Mort. Mine’s worshiping at the feet of the delectable Micki Petty.”

“Yeah? You’d have better luck with fly fishing, Buddy.” Mort shifted the receiver to his left hand. “Listen, I got a little project for one of your people. That a problem?”

“This on Buchner or Bastian?”

“Neither,” Mort said. “It’s a problem or not?”

“What do you need?” Jimmy asked.

Mort brought his friend up to speed. He could hear Jimmy scribbling notes on the other end of the line.

“So you need copies of the classifieds from these dates? Hell, that’s so easy Daphne could do it,” Jimmy said. “You got something in mind?”

Mort wondered how to answer. His gut was telling him there was more to this than his son’s story.

“I’m doing Robbie a favor, is all,” he said.

“I’ll put one of the rookies on it. I’ll use the same one who pulled the stuff for your book report.” Jim grunted out a laugh. “That ought to keep her wondering why she wanted to join the exciting world of forensic investigation.”

“What are you talking about? What book report?” Mort asked.

“You asked me to run Toni Morrison. You getting Alzheimer’s early, Mort?”

“Oh, for the love of God, Jimmy.” Mort closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I asked you to Google her, not run her. She’s a freaking Nobel Prize winner.”

“Relax. Slip of the tongue.” Jim chuckled and Mort wished he was in the room. Close enough to smack. “I meant Google. Got the stuff right here.” Mort heard papers shuffling. “What do you want to know? Hey, you know she hangs with Oprah? You’re swimming in the deep end of the estrogen pool now, my friend. Let’s see. First novel published in 1970. Won the Pulitzer in ’88. The Nobel in ’93, but you already knew that.”

“What about where she was born?” Mort interrupted. “Where she grew up? You get that?”

“Let me see.” More paper shuffling. “Here it is. Born Chloe Anthony Wofford. Says here she was raised in Lorain, Ohio.”

“Your folks got time for a fishing expedition, Jimmy?”

“Haven’t you heard? Seattle’s murder rate is in a decline.”

“Great. Can you run a Lydia Corriger in Lorain, Ohio?” Mort spelled the names. “Let me know what you find.”

“You mean Google or ‘run’?” Mort didn’t miss the snicker in Jimmy’s voice.

“I mean ‘run’, Jimmy. Go deep.”

Lydia poised her small scissors over the bonsai plant and contemplated her next slice. This one was her favorite. Something about the bend in the uppermost branch captivated her spirit and held her heart. She’d been grooming it nearly three years. Cut by cut, snip by snip. The tiny tree had revealed its elegant perfection. For twenty minutes she gave her mind over to the process. Trying to focus on nothing more than shape and color.

But the pleasure of mindful discipline proved ineffective. Searing visions of Savannah laying in the ICU charred her memory. Innocent little Greta grown into wounded lovely Savannah. Floating between life and death because the one person she dared hope would save her couldn’t.

Her failure with Savannah wasn’t the only intrusion. She set her scissors down and recalled her meeting with Mort. He brought her favorite sandwich. Lydia smiled when she remembered his description of his one true love. She liked the way he made fun of himself about the Morrison book. Said he was too dumb to read it. She knew anyone who underestimated Mort Grant’s intelligence did so at their peril. Lydia promised herself she’d not make that mistake.

He said it was nice having lunch with her. A whimsy drifted through her mind that he was right. Lydia grabbed the scissors, resumed her pruning, and banished the pleasant notion.

Memories of how it all started barged into her consciousness. She shook her head and recalled herself as a hopeful new psychologist. Bound to rid the world of the evils she’d experienced. Determined to fix things. But as good a therapist as she was, it wasn’t enough. Power rolled over the innocent. Justice was absent.

Lydia looked at her reflection in the darkened window and saw the face of failure. She couldn’t stop evil. She couldn’t save Savannah. All her efforts had been meaningless. It was time to stop. Let the wickedness of humanity find another champion. She was tired.

Lydia put her pruning gear away and made the rounds of her house, checking each door and window to make sure the locks were tight. Along the way she clicked off lights until only the lamp on her bedside table was lit. She tossed several pillows to the floor, folded the heavy damask duvet to the foot of the bed, pulled back the blanket, and stumbled back in surprise.

A pink envelope contrasted against the white sheet.

Bile rose in the back of her throat. The icy grip of terror held her as she reached for the offending missive. She slipped a finger under the sealed flap and withdrew a Valentine card. Roses and cupids encircled a glittered heart. Lydia opened the card and dozens of photos of Cameron Williams tumbled across the bed. None larger than her thumb. Malevolent confetti celebrating a morbid expectation. She brushed them clear and read the typed message inside the card.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Fixer.

Lydia spun around, knowing she’d find nothing. She pulled the drawer of her nightstand open. The nine millimeter Lugar semiautomatic was exactly where it should be. She picked it up and checked the magazine. Loaded. She turned the pistol over and anger replaced fatigue.

A small sticker decorated the grip. A tiny pink heart bearing the inscription “Thinking of you”.

The bedside phone rang. Lydia glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven o’clock. She grabbed the phone, held it to her ear, and waited for Private Number to start a Streisand-voiced taunt.