by T. E. Woods
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.
Chapter Forty
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 fiance. 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?”
Chapter Forty-One
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 fiance, 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.”
“That ten carat ring you put on her finger didn’t look like whimsy.” Jimmy leaned forward, his eyes focused on Wells. “You two were on the cover of all the gossip magazines when you got engaged. I remember thinking at the time, ‘What’s that good looking gal doing with some old guy?’”
Mort watched Wells’ fists clench against his Italian wool slacks. He saw his blood pulsing in his neck and knew that despite the billionaire trappings, Wells wasn’t far removed from his gangster roots.
Wells kept his eyes on Mort and answered Jimmy’s question. “I give diamond rings to the women who clean my toilets. What’s your point?”
“My point is we have reason to believe Cameron Williams is dead.” Mort watched Wells take in the news. A short, sharp intake of breath. Three rapid blinks of his steely eyes. Nothing more.
“What do you mean, ‘reason to believe’?” His tone revealed nothing.
“Her baker came for his shift last night.” Mort looked to Jimmy. “Around 8:30, right?” He returned to Wells. “He finds the place trashed. There’s blood. He calls us. We can account for everyone who works there except Cameron. No one’s seen her since yesterday afternoon. This morning the lab tells us the mess in the bakery matches Cameron’s blood type.”
Meredith Thornton’s smile was polite but distant. “You’ll forgive us, Detectives, if we don’t understand why you’re bringing this to us.”
“We didn’t bring it to you.” Mort held Wells’ gaze. “We brought it to him.”
“No body?” Wells asked.
“We’ll find her, Bradley.” Mort smiled. “You have personal experience with how fast the Seattle PD catches bad guys.”
Wells’ jaw muscles churned. His rocking was barely noticeable. He didn’t blink.
Neither did Mort.
Wells broke his stare and turned to look up at Meredith. He smiled and patted her hand again before opening his desk drawer. Mort saw Jimmy’s right hand slide to the holster on his belt.
Wells pulled out a card and tossed it across the granite slab. “My private number, Detective. Call me when you’ve got something more than ‘a reason to believe’. I’ll send flowers.” Wells looked up to the perfectly dressed woman behind him. “Meredith, could I ask you to see the officers and their animal out, please?”
He reached for the phone before she could answer.
Mort and Jimmy got up. Bruiser stood immediately and watched his master’s face for instruction. Jim nodded his assurance to the dog and grabbed the card from Wells’ desk. Mort knew he planned to offer it to Micki as a souvenir. Meredith circled around the desk and led them out of the study.
Another five minutes got them to the front door. Meredith Thornton smiled. Warmly this time.
“Detective, I’m being harangued on a daily basis by a determined Executive Provost.” She played with a long gold chain that hung from her neck. “You’re holding a valuable piece of research equipment. Walter Buchner wasn’t authorized to take the synthesizer from the lab. It’s a one-of-a-kind prototype.” Meredith touched a gentle hand to Mort’s arm. “I’d count it as a personal favor if you could release it back to Audiology first thing Monday morning.”
Mort reached for the door knob. “I’ll think about it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Lydia grabbed a towel from the stationary bike and wiped the sweat off her face and neck. Her hour-long workout stretched into two as she struggled to stop the carousel of mental anguish.
Savannah was dead. Lydia climbed on the bike and pedaled fast. Savannah was dead. She leaned forward, aerodynamic to the misery flooding toward her. Savannah was dead. She increased her speed. Legs burning. Lungs bursting. Palms slick with sweat on the grips. Savannah was dead. Faster still. Gasping. Feet slipping off abused pedals. Chest collapsing onto the handlebars. One wail of pain into the empty room, and still Savannah was dead.
She heaved in life-affirming air and wished she could halt the instinct. The Fixer was out of business. Mort and his son had uncovered too much. She was useless. Drained. Worthless.
Her mind skipped to Mort and a hand went to the wooden whistle hanging from her neck. The whisper of hope struggling to be heard against a cacophony of self-loathing suffocated. Buried by the memory of Cameron staring at her that last day. Innocent eyes confused and frightened as Lydia aimed her gun.
Lydia whispered to the void, “I’m done”.
She tossed the sweaty towel into the hamper, climbed the basement stairs, rounded the corner into her kitchen, and stopped mid-step.
Two dozen red roses in a crystal vase stood on the counter next to her sink.
Lydia stood stock-still, listening for movement. Hearing none, she crossed to the counter and pulled the small card tucked into the thorny stems.
Well done, Fixer.
She swallowed hard. A throat spasm threatened. She ran to the sink and vomited. She didn’t bother to check the house. They could enter at will. They controlled her.
She rinsed her mouth clear, scrubbed the sink clean, and watched the swirling eddy rush down the pipe. She tore the florist card into tiny pieces and forced them down the drain.
Lydia walked back to the roses. She put her nose next to a perfect bud, breathed in the heavenly scent, and plunged her thumb into a thorn. She recoiled in pain, pulled her hand free, and counted the drops of blood that splashed onto the granite.
Chapter Forty-Three
Meredith expected to see Carl in her office. She called him from the car on her way back from the trustee dinner for major donors. What she hadn’t expected was to walk in and see Bradley Wells sitting across from her desk. She
viewed it as a stroke of efficient luck.
“Brad. I’m glad you’re here.” She draped her velvet coat over the credenza and used both hands to re-settle her hair. “Did you enjoy this evening?”
“Not really.” He threw Carl a pointed look. “Your conversation with Kellen seemed to have you captivated so I left without saying goodbye. I called Carl immediately. He said you were coming back and I made the decision to invade your meeting.”
Meredith glanced toward the cabinet on the far wall. Carl rose from his seat, opened the cabinet, and poured two shots of Smirnoff’s over ice. He brought the drink to Meredith and asked Wells if he wanted anything. Wells asked for scotch, neat.
“Carson Kellen is a good friend to the university. His family endowed two chairs in medicine and he and his wife contributed the first large gift to the pediatric library. I’m hoping his generosity will extend to a new genetics lab.” Meredith focused her attention on the chill the vodka traced down her throat. “He’s angling for a seat as trustee, you know.” She offered Wells a slow smile. “But I have another nominee in mind.”
Wells took the tumbler of scotch Carl offered him and stared into his glass. “I’m aware of that, Meredith. After what I heard this evening, however, my enthusiasm is waning. In fact, I’m beginning to question my association with the school at all.”
Meredith leaned against her desk. She set her own glass down. “What did you hear, Brad?”
Wells glanced at Carl and took a sip of scotch.
“You know my philanthropic philosophy. We had a long discussion about it when you first approached me.” He shot Carl another hard glance and Meredith asked if Wells wanted to speak privately.
“No,” Wells said. “It’s best you both hear what I have to say. You remember me telling you I don’t give to charities? That I invest in success?”