by Woods, T E
Mort leaned back against the orange vinyl booth. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed at me for not talking about the Buchner investigation. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m doing you a favor. Without me your car gathers snow and impound fees. And you have to find your way back to Olympia. Then back up here tomorrow to bail it out.” He reached for his coffee. “I think the least you could do is offer pleasant conversation while we’re killing time.”
She turned away from the window and glanced at him before taking another sip of tea. “I’m not angry with you, Detective. I’m disappointed in me. I should have known you couldn’t say anything.” She offered a small smile. “I do appreciate what you’re doing for me. I’d consider it a kindness if you’d let me buy your dessert.”
Mort tried to categorize her and decided he couldn’t. She wasn’t being coy. Nor mean. She wasn’t playing games. Mort wondered how it was that an intelligent professional woman felt so guarded sharing a cup of coffee with someone.
“My idea, my treat,” he said. “And there’s no need to be disappointed. You took your shot. I admire that.” He reached for his fork. “What’s your interest in Buchner, anyway? And don’t give me any bull about writing a book.”
She snapped her head up. “You don’t think I can write, Detective?”
“I think you could probably do anything you set your mind to, Lydia.” He enjoyed another bite of pie before continuing. “But I’ve been in this line of work a long time. I know a snow job when I hear one.” Mort jerked his head toward the window. “And your story’s bigger than what’s going on outside. What’s your real interest in Buchner?”
“My interests are my own, Detective. I think I can be of some help.”
Mort took a sip of coffee. “Yeah? How’s that?”
Lydia pulled her spine ramrod straight. Mort felt a quiver of discomfort as her eyes surveyed him with laser precision. She began her scan at the top of his salt and pepper hair and trailed her focus down his face, lingering a while on his mouth. She continued down his shoulders, concentrated on one arm at a time, and finished by scrutinizing his chest. Mort was glad they were sharing a booth. He didn’t want her sizing up his crotch like she was the body parts north of the table.
“You’re between 50 and 55 years old,” she said. “Closer to 55. You wear your hair in a classic cut. No product. You prefer barber shops. Been going to the same one for over twenty years. You’re fit, but you don’t belong to a gym. The cragginess of your skin tells me you prefer outdoor exercise. You have more age spots than you should have, which says you spend a lot of time in the sun. Hiking and biking would be my guess.”
Mort scooped a bite of pie. “You’re pretty good. All those years with patients? Must come in handy at cocktail parties.”
She tilted her head. “You’re widowed. The love of your life died about a year ago.” She lifted her mug. “How’s that for parlor games, Detective?”
He set his fork down and narrowed his eyes. “If that’s your attempt at being cute, you missed. Every guy in my building knows about Edie and me. Give me a name and I’ll stop the gossip.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you. No one told me. It’s your shirt.”
He looked down. Edie liked the way this one went with the grey suit he was wearing. “What about my shirt?”
“You’re not the type of man who’d choose pink pinstripe. Nor would you spend what that shirt cost. A woman bought it. A woman who loves you very much.” She leaned forward and pointed to the right cuff. “You haven’t noticed this yet. But any woman who bought a shirt like this wouldn’t let her man out of the house wearing it frayed. She’s not around to dress you anymore.” Lydia looked up at him. Her eyes were warmer. “You don’t have the edgy bitterness of someone recently divorced.” She smiled and her face softened. “There’s no gossip, Detective. No parlor game. I observe and conclude. I just happen to be extremely good at it.”
“That so?” Mort was eager to move the conversation away from Edie. “What else can you see? Knock my socks off.”
Lydia gave him another overall scrutiny. “You have a shop in your home. Most likely woodworking.”
Mort’s eyes opened wide. “Now that’s impressive, Doc. How’d you get that?”
She nodded toward his hands resting on the table. “Your nails. Battered and split, but not chewed. Small scratches on your fingers. Two slashes of loose flesh where you pulled splinters out. Probably last night. I’ll bet you were working on something special for your granddaughters. Two of them? Around five or six years old? Maybe twins? Are you making them dollhouses?”
Mort sat frozen. “Now where the hell did that come from?”
She leaned back. Was she finally relaxing?
“Not so tough if you know what to look for,” she said. “Workshops in basements are a dime a dozen in your particular demographic. I noticed two small plastic kittens clipped to your notebook when you walked into the interview room this afternoon. Perfect gift from a young granddaughter. One yellow, the other pink. Identical except for color. Ergo, twins. Now, what’s a woodworking grandfather who loves his girls enough to bring their kitty trinkets into a macho police station going to make for them? Dollhouses.”
He was impressed. “Observe and conclude, huh?”
“Nothing more. Let me share another observation, Detective.” She folded her small hands on top of the table. “Mr. Buchner’s been dead eight days. There have been no arrests. No press releases about persons of interest. No police artist sketch posted on the front page. The trail to his killer is getting colder. Your willingness to meet with me, unannounced, tells me you’ve got nothing and are willing to grasp at any straw that comes your way.”
Mort looked around the diner for anyone who might hear her irritatingly accurate description of his case.
“Let me help, Detective,” she said.
He sat motionless.
“You wouldn’t be the first detective to consult with a psychologist. The FBI hires people like me by the dozens.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m damned good at what I do.”
Mort stared at her, wishing he could borrow her powers of observation and deduction for two minutes. Three decades of policing and fifty-eight years of living made him a pretty good reader of people. But he couldn’t grab a clue off the woman sitting across from him. And he needed to know her connection to Buchner.
“What’s in it for you?” he asked.
Lydia kept her eyes on him. Solid and assured. “I can help.” She bit her lower lip. “I’ll keep my reasons to myself.”
His cell rang before he could respond. His eyes stayed riveted on Lydia as he answered. “Grant.” Three seconds passed. “Good enough.” He closed his phone. “Your car’s back. Zeke says I got five minutes to sign off or he’s locking it up.”
Lydia pulled on her coat, reached for her purse, and slid out of the booth. “What do you say, Detective?”
Mort tossed a twenty on the table and waved goodbye to Francie. “I’ll think about it. And call me Mort, will ya?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You’re late.” L. Jackson Clark offered his deepest basso sotto as Mort sat down and proffered a pint of Guiness in penance. “Had I any life or pride beyond Thursday crossword puzzles with you I’d have left an hour ago.”
“You didn’t want to brave the snow. Besides, weren’t you the one on the television three nights ago? Teaching Charlie Rose the subtle distinction between poly and pan theism?” Mort took a long sip of his beer. “You’ll get no pity from me, Larry.”
“A wonderful man, that Charlie. Always punctual.” The professor of religious studies tapped his completed puzzle. “You’ll enjoy today’s theme. Subterfuge and skullduggery.”
“I was helping a damsel in distress.” Mort loosened his tie and recalled the clues his shirt gave Lydia.
Larry tossed his Times aside. “Tristan and Isolde. Antony and Cleopatra. Bogey and Bacall. How I love a save-a-dame story. Speak.”
“Nothing much. Some shrink sticking her nose into one of my cases. Got her car towed.” Mort glanced around the room. The wholesome after-work crowd was being replaced by more dedicated drinkers. He wondered when Mauser would get around to taking down the neon Santa over the front door. “I drove her to impound and got it signed out.”
“A psychologist, you say?” Larry’s grin was subtle. The type that never failed to irritate Mort. “I don’t suppose she had any insights into your warped and nefarious character.”
“Some. Kind of scary what she knew just by looking at me.”
Larry’s grin grew. “You wear your heart, your liver, your spleen, and nearly everything else on your sleeve, Mort Grant. Don’t be surprised that someone reads you. Doctor or no.”
“I’m not a man of mystery is what you’re saying?”
“Not even of riddle.” Larry leaned back. “For example, right now I can tell you’re working a calculation that’s not adding up. Anything to do with the damsel you just rescued?”
Mort reached into the bowl on the table and tossed back a handful of peanuts. “She’s not being straight with me, that’s for sure.”
“What’s her interest?”
“Says she’s writing a book.”
“And you don’t believe her.”
“No, I don’t.” Mort washed the peanuts down with another pull of Guiness. “But something is telling me to stay close.”
“Something cosmic perhaps?” Larry re-donned his half-grin.
Mort scowled. “Save it for the students, Dr. Clark. Pass me my puzzle and let me enjoy the skullduggery.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Lydia pulled into her driveway. The winter storm made the drive down Interstate Five long and slow. Too much time to think about the happenings of the day. She wanted a hot shower and a hard workout. Something told her a good night’s sleep wasn’t an option.
She heated a can of soup and thought about Mort Grant’s kindness. She’d send him a bottle of scotch in the morning. She needed him and the investigative resources of his department to help her find the truth behind who killed Walter Buchner. Lydia shook her head and hoped the trail wouldn’t lead to Savannah.
She was putting her bowl in the dishwasher when her phone vibrated along the kitchen counter. She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock straight up. She reached for it and felt a wash of relief to learn it was the hospital calling.
“Dr. Corriger?” A familiar male voice. “It’s Darrell Johnson from Black Hills E.R. I thought you might like to know we’ve got your girl down here again.”
“My girl?” Lydia held the phone to her left ear.
“Savannah Samuels. I called a few nights ago. The cops found her wandering the park?”
Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to quench the fire of fatigue and fear. “Yes, Dr. Johnson. I remember. Savannah’s back?”
“She is, but she won’t be for long. Ambulance brought her in about an hour ago. Barely a pulse when she arrived.”
Lydia took a deep breath. “What happened?”
“Police found her. You’ll be getting a call from them, too.” Johnson’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought I’d give you a head’s up.”
“Why would the police want to talk to me?” Lydia’s stomach muscles clenched. She didn’t like the idea of answering any questions about Savannah.
“A patrol car making the rounds found her hanging from the rafters of your office porch.”
Lydia’s legs dropped from under her. She grabbed the counter for support. The screams of the six year old Greta echoed in her brain. She replayed the last time she saw Savannah, running out into the winter twilight, so convinced she was beyond saving. Lydia summoned every ounce of will to sound professional. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s intubated. Unconscious. On her way to intensive care. I’m afraid there’s no way to know how long she’d been hanging. We can’t know the extent of damage until she wakes up. Doctors will be with her all night. Tomorrow’s better.”
“I’ll be there first thing. Thank you for calling, Dr. Johnson.” She closed the phone without waiting for his goodbye, stumbled to the breakfast nook, and collapsed into a chair.
Lydia knew that as a psychologist, it wasn’t a matter of would a patient suicide, but when. Her training had prepared her to accept the reality of her profession. Through the years several of her patients made less-than-lethal attempts, but she had never lost one.
And Savannah wasn’t merely a patient.
Lydia’s mind raced backward in time. She was just thirteen. Was it her fourth foster placement or her fifth? She remembered the day the social worker dropped the timid little girl with black curly hair and sad blue eyes into the care of Lenny and Cindy Huntsman, who fawned over her in the presence of the county worker and assured the harried woman that Greta would be fine. The social worker smiled at Lydia and told her she was counting on her to take the tiny girl under her wing.
Lydia remembered nodding, wishing she could tell the social worker what went on when Cindy passed out after her twice-weekly bottle of gin. Lenny’s stare kept her quiet.
Lydia rubbed a hand over her face. The memory of a hot summer night six days after Greta arrived materialized. They shared a bedroom. She’d been stupid enough to allow herself the fantasy that she could keep Greta safe. Then came the familiar soft click of the bedroom door opening.
He stood over her. Watching. She forced her breathing to roll slow and steady, mimicking deep sleep. She waited for him to snap the covers back as he had many times before.
But this time he turned. Lydia hoped she’d hear him shuffle back to the door. Instead she heard Greta cry out. She heard the swearing and the slapping as Lenny tried to silence the terrified child.
She remembered reaching for the baseball bat under her bed. Yelling for Greta to run. The first swing. The second. The warm splash of Lenny’s blood on her face as she connected for a third time.
The rest of that night was lost to her.
But on this night she sat at her table, buried her head in her hands, and cried for the little girl she failed to save and the women they’d both become.
Lydia needed sleep. She went to her bathroom and turned the water to the hottest setting. She ran it while she undressed, filling the room with steam. She pulled the glass door open, stepped under the spray, and hoped the hot water would float the pain out of her consciousness. She turned to face the hot water, careful to keep the right side of her head away from the spray. She was reaching for the shampoo when she heard it.
Her front door scrapped against the slate tile of her foyer.
She stood stock still. Naked and wet. Instantly alert. She knew the distance between her front door and her master bath. She also knew the sound of the water would let any intruder know exactly where she was.
Lydia opened the shower door and stepped out onto the mat. She shuffled in place, aware she’d need the traction of dry feet. She kept her eyes on the closed bathroom door and took one step to the tall cabinet next to the pedestal sink. She reached behind the stack of white cotton towels and her hands found what she needed: a Smith and Wesson 686 Silhouette revolver.
Lydia stepped lightly, allowing the sound of the shower would mask her movement. She pressed her left ear to the door. Nothing. She turned out the bathroom light, steadied the heavy gun in her right hand, and entered her bedroom. The small reading light on her nightstand was lit. The bedroom was empty.
Lydia heard her front door scrape the entry slate again. Still naked, she trained the gun on the open bedroom door, crossed to the window, and lifted a corner of the drape. Lydia peered into the starless night. She could see less than twenty feet down her snow-filled drive. She listened for footsteps or car engines, but heard neither.
She crossed back to her bathroom and pulled a white terry cloth robe from the hook, keeping her eyes and her gun on the closed bedroom door.
She reached into the shower stall and turned off the water. Three minutes past with no sound or movement. Lydia opened the door.
A small lamp in her entry was on. It wasn’t supposed to be. She inched down the hallway, the gun steady in a two-hand hold. She strained to listen. Motion. Breathing. Anything. She heard nothing. She reached the foyer and flipped the switch controlling the lights in the living room. She saw the splintered door jamb. Small pools of water glistened on the entry slate; melted snow from the boots of an intruder. No wet footprints led into the living room. She turned toward the kitchen and saw dry hardwood flooring. Whoever came in had entered, took a few steps, turned, and left.
She turned off the small table lamp and flipped the living room switch again, casting the interior in darkness. She crossed the wet entry slate and turned on the exterior lights. From her vantage she could see her entire front yard and down her long drive.
Nothing but blowing snow.
Lydia closed the front door as best she could. She’d nail it until a repair could be made. She clicked on the living room lights.
A large manila envelope sat on the foyer table. No address. She picked up the envelope and weighed it in her hands before heading to the kitchen. She sat at the breakfast table. The envelope in front of her; her gun two inches to the right.
Lydia tried to steady herself by taking inventory of the emotions swirling inside her. There was rage at the invasion of her home. Fury for whoever had robbed her of her illusion of security. There was also vulnerability, for herself and Savannah, and sorrow for what had become of them both. An orgy of feelings swelled despite her exhaustion. One feeling screamed louder than any other. She gave the emotion its name: Fear. Mortal, primal fear. Lydia watched her hand shake as she reached for the envelope’s clasp.
She touched the gun and glanced outside before she pulled the contents onto the table. Her pulse quickened. She felt the burning flush of adrenaline course through her body. She tucked her hands beneath her thighs. A vain attempt to control the shaking.