The Fixer

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The Fixer Page 14

by Woods, T E


  She’d been foolish enough to believe she was free; that she was safe.

  Lydia picked up the first item in the envelope. A 5 by 7 black-and-white of a woman in her early thirties. Blonde hair. Generous smile. Eyes vibrant. She stared at the photograph and frowned at its implication. She reached for another item. A business brochure for Elegant Edibles. Lydia opened it and read their promise of an unforgettable event. Complete party planning. Corporate or private. Small or large. Full service catering. Wedding receptions their specialty. Visit their website for menu samples and more.

  Her eyes focused on the photograph at the bottom of the brochure. Next to the company’s address and phone number. A picture of a woman in chef’s whites. Smiling for the camera. Blonde hair. Generous smile. Eyes vibrant. She read the caption.

  Let Culinary Genius Cameron Williams Make Your Next Event Unforgettable

  Lydia set the brochure aside and studied the rest of the envelope’s contents. There was a MapQuest to Cameron Williams’ shop and another to her residence. A schedule from a local gym with a Tuesday/Thursday Pilates class circled in red. Several magazine clippings. A candid snapshot of Cameron walking a brindled boxer down a neighborhood street. Another photograph of the two of them frolicking with a Frisbee. An attached note read: “Golden Garden Dog Park, 8498 Seaview Place. Every morning 7:00. Sundays 1:00”.

  Someone had gone to a lot of effort to document Cameron Williams’ comings and goings.

  Lydia leaned back and rested her head against the breakfast nook wall. A morbid montage of memory flashed across her closed eyes. Back six years to a fifty-seven year old bookkeeper. Serial rapist. Nineteen victims identified. Likely triple that. None older than seven. Each too terrified to testify. An audio recording of him bragging about how to lure kids away from a playground withheld by a judge bothered by the suspect’s lack of knowledge that he was being taped.

  The next memory was the father of a four-year-old girl put into intensive care by the raping bookkeeper. He cried impotent tears in Lydia’s office, unable to give justice to the daughter he couldn’t protect; asked her how he was supposed to live with that. She knew his pain. The harsh, cruel slap of justice denied. The worthless moaning that nothing could be done. The righteous clinging to a system so bent on protecting the accused that victims were tossed aside. Their pain less than trivial. Their loss ignored. The collective tsk-tsk before people moved on to the next bit of office gossip.

  She’d tried before to save a child from a rapist. As a teenager she’d failed. As an adult she wouldn’t. An anonymous note sent to the powerless father told him how to reach someone called “The Fixer”.

  He made the contact and Lydia had her first assignment.

  She hadn’t planned on the wave that followed. First Thursday of every month. For every twenty requests, Lydia turned down nineteen. She wasn’t an assassin. She was justice.

  Her mind reviewed every mission in chronological order. Not one regretted. Each one righteous.

  And now the work was over.

  Her cell phone snapped her out of her reverie. She didn’t need to look at the screen. She slid it opened and waited.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” Streisand said. “You’ve had time to review the package?”

  Lydia said nothing.

  A short electronic blip announced a shift to British Man’s voice. “Valentine’s Day, Fixer. Either I hear by February 15th that Ms Williams is dead or on February 16th the murderer of Fred Bastian will be exposed.”

  The call ended. Lydia glanced at the calendar magnet on the side of her refrigerator. She had seventeen days.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mort Grant barely heard his phone ring over the noise of his cappuccino machine. He glanced at the screen. Robbie was calling.

  “What has you up so early?” He switched off the milk steamer.

  “It’s an hour later here, Dad.” Robbie chuckled. “When are you going to get your time zones down?”

  “That was your mother’s job.” Mort cradled the receiver under his neck as he blended the foamy milk with the rich espresso. “Hey, I’m using that fancy coffee pot you and Claire got me. I just made myself a latte.”

  “You’re a true metrosexual. Next it’s weekly manicures.”

  Mort glanced at the fingernails that allowed Lydia to conclude so much about him. “Not much chance of that. How are the girls?”

  “Driving us crazy about their dollhouses. You should know better than to send pictures before you’re ready to ship them. You raised two kids, for God’s sake.”

  “That was your mother’s job, too.” Mort took a long drink of coffee. “What good are grandkids if you can’t rile them up and turn them loose on their parents? Did Claire like that I’m making them chateaux?”

  “She did,” Robbie said. “Said maybe you’re getting over the fact your son married an immigrant.”

  Robbie’s dreams of being a trench-coated foreign correspondent climbing the ranks to CNN’s Paris Bureau Chief were thwarted when a semester abroad left him too homesick for an expatriot’s life. So he begged the lovely woman he’d fallen in love with to follow him home.

  “Hey, only way a mope like you gets a good looking French woman is she’s looking for a green card. Count your lucky stars.” Mort smiled at the mention of his beloved daughter-in-law. “What’s new with you? That Halloway story shaping up? I want to see you with a Pulitzer before I’m drooling in the home.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Mind if I poke around in that detective head of yours?”

  Mort pulled out a stool and took a seat at the breakfast counter. “You still leaning toward something more nefarious than a romp-in-the-sack turned ugly?”

  Robbie blew out a long sigh. “Every bone in my body tells me it was a hit, Dad. I’ve learned Halloway loved hired help. I’ve spoken to a few of his favorites. They tell me he wasn’t into anything kinky. Wham, bam, get-off-me, ma’am. That was his style. And there’s still no lead on that hooker. A city that small, all the pros know each other. No one knew her. I’ve tried to track her down from her registration. Name’s Anna Galleta Salada. Credit card’s legit. Opened six years ago and only used once: to book her room where Halloway died. Paid in full with a wire transfer from a numbered account in the Caymans. Hasn’t been used since.”

  Mort shifted his weight. “I don’t know many hookers with offshore accounts. You pull the original credit application? Gotta be a job or phone number. Social security.”

  “I thought I’d be one step ahead of you.” Mort could hear his son smile all the way from Denver. “I owe someone big time, but, yeah. I got a look at the original application. Connects with a P.O. Box in Ohio. Secured with a five thousand dollar escrow account. No need to verify employment. Social security number matches up with someone named Sela O’Brian.”

  “And since you’re not telling me that Sela O’Brian turned out to be Anna What’s-her-name, my hunch is Sela’s dead.” Mort reached for the pen and paper Edie always kept on the counter by the phone.

  Robbie was quiet for a moment. “Died sixteen years ago. Charleston, South Carolina. Drowned at her seventeenth birthday party. How the hell did you know that?”

  “Easiest way to get a phony birth certificate is to request it in the name of someone who won’t find out. Dead people are your best bet. Get the birth certificate, you have easy access to a social. Simplest form of identity theft. Comb the obituary archive for a name and you’re off to the races.” Mort tapped the pen to the tablet. “You’re looking for someone in her early to mid-thirties. Age of the social should match up close enough to pass eye inspection. What was the hooker’s name again?”

  “Anna Galleta Salada. S-A-L-A-D-A.” Robbie sounded excited. “You think I’m on to something, Dad?”

  “Two and two usually add up to four, Robbie.” Mort took another sip of coffee. “Let me see what I can find out on my end, huh? I got some digging I need to do on another front, might as well go for a two-fer.”

  �
��I appreciate it.” Robbie’s voice softened. “Everything else okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. You worried about me or something?”

  “You’re my dad,” Robbie said. “It’s my job to worry about you. I’ll give your love to the girls. Tell ‘em Papa’s whipping those dollhouses into shape.”

  Mort said goodbye, hung up the phone, and wondered what Allie worried about.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Nancy Tessler had been an attending physician at Black Hills’ ICU for nine years and knew how to recap a patient’s situation in five sentences or less. Once Lydia introduced herself as a psychologist with admitting privileges, the seasoned veteran got right to the point.

  “Still unconscious. Still intubated. Pulse and blood pressure erratic. Reflexes intact but sluggish. Body temperature relatively stabilized. We’ll know more when she wakes up.”

  Lydia searched her face for any sign of encouragement. “When do you anticipate that will be?”

  “No way of telling.” Dr. Tessler’s shifted from her clinical voice. “I heard she hung herself on your porch.”

  Lydia nodded.

  “Tough break. Go see her. Couldn’t hurt. Might help. I’ll call you if there’s any change.”

  Lydia thanked her, left her contact information, and headed toward Bay 13.

  She was surprised to see someone sitting beside Savannah’s bed. A rumpled man with thinning brown hair rested his head against Savannah’s leg while he caressed her hand. Lydia heard him cooing her name, urging her to wake up. Savannah was pale and small on a high bed surrounded by blinking and beeping monitors. Her delicate beauty graced the starched white pillowcase despite the waxy stillness of her face and the garish bruise across her neck. Lydia tapped on the open glass door and the man snapped his head in her direction. His middle-aged face was blotched and puffy. He wiped his tears with both hands and stared at her.

  She stepped closer to the bed. “I’m Dr. Corriger.”

  The man shoved his chair back and strained himself upright. Lydia imagined he’d been locked in that uncomfortable position for hours. He wiped both hands on his slacks before extending his right one.

  “I’m Jerry Childress, Dr. Corriger.” His voice was weak. He cleared his throat and gained volume. “Savannah speaks highly of you. Thanks for coming.”

  Lydia shook his hand. “You know me?”

  “From Savannah.” His voice weakened. “She said she was counting on you to fix her.” He dropped his head. It was several seconds before he composed himself enough to continue. “I only wish you could have.”

  “I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mr. Childress.” Lydia nodded toward Savannah. “How is she?”

  He lowered his eyes before turning toward the bed. “No change. I try to tell myself she’s just sleeping.” He reached for Savannah’s hand, pulled his chair back, and resumed his vigil.

  Lydia stepped to the bottom of the bed and placed a hand on Savannah’s blanketed foot. “How do you know Savannah, Mr. Childress?”

  He sat up and directed his red-rimmed eyes toward Lydia, never letting go of Savannah’s unresponsive hand. “I’m her fiancé, Dr. Corriger.” He blinked several times and turned back toward Savannah. “At least that’s how I think of myself. I’ve asked her, no, begged her, to marry me dozens of times. She hasn’t said ‘yes’ yet, but she hasn’t turned me down, either.”

  Lydia’s brows shot up. Savannah never mentioned a boyfriend, let alone a fiancé. She always described men in distant and disparaging terms. “How long have you been together?”

  Childress looked at her and Lydia felt an unease she couldn’t explain. He was not unattractive, but his demeanor suggested he was accustomed to blending in with the crowd. Lydia got the impression he was a man familiar with the power of anonymity. His nose was finely chiseled but his cheeks were soft and fleshy. His eyes were a nondescript brown. His complexion bore the ashy pale of someone who seldom saw daylight. “Since August. Not long, I know.” He smiled and a spark of gentility flickered. He squeezed Savannah’s hand. “I’ve waited my entire life for someone to love. I can’t lose her.”

  Lydia pulled a small chair away from the wall and sat. “How did you two meet?”

  He wiped another tear away. “I know what you’re thinking, Doctor.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “You’re wondering how a guy like me gets a woman like her.” Childress smiled again. “I appreciate your curiosity. But we are in love. It may not have started out that way, but it’s true.”

  “How did it start out, Mr. Childress?”

  He stroked Savannah’s limp hand. “You know how Savannah makes her living, don’t you?” He bit his lower lip. “Made her living. She’s left that line of work.”

  Lydia weighed her response. She had only Childress’ word he was who he said he was. “You met her through work?”

  He looked outside the room to see who might overhear, scooted his chair closer to Lydia, and lowered his voice. “You know people hired her for special projects. Well, I was one of those.” He cast a loving glance back to the disturbingly still form in the bed. “I was her last assignment. This thing has gotten completely out of hand.”

  “How so, Mr. Childress?” Lydia wanted to keep him talking. She needed to learn more about Savannah, her work, and what drove her to hang herself.

  “If you’re not going to call me Jerry you might as well get it correct.” He sat close enough for Lydia to see his perfectly straight teeth. “It’s Dr. Childress. I’m with the university. Interim Chair of Neuroscience.”

  Lydia willed her breath to remain steady. She hoped Childress missed her blink of surprise.

  “I imagine you and Savannah talked about Fred Bastian.” he said.

  “If Savannah has told you I’m her psychologist, Dr. Childress, and I’m not saying I am, then you must know I can’t say a word about what we may or may not have discussed.”

  He gave her another timid smile. “I can see why Savannah is impressed with you. But I can assure you, we have no secrets from one another.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss.” Lydia leaned back and crossed her legs. “But I can listen to whatever you’d like to tell me.”

  Childress nodded his understanding. “You’ve heard of Fred Bastian, certainly?”

  Lydia held her voice low. “I’ve read the news accounts of his recent death.” She watched him, hoping to catch a reaction to her mention of Bastian’s demise.

  His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “He was a bastard, Dr. Corriger. A lot of people are glad he’s gone.” Childress looked past Lydia’s shoulder, again assuring their conversation wasn’t overheard. “Name a corruption and Bastian was involved.”

  “I’ve read about his research. Something about emotions.”

  “Yes,” he said. “His research is quite brilliant. But don’t for a moment assume he was seeking answers to benefit humanity. Bastian’s work existed for one reason only: to propel the fame of Fred Bastian. Every move he made was calculated to bring him a step closer to that Stockholm stage.”

  “No offense,” she said. “But it’s long been my impression that having an overblown ego is a basic job requirement for success at Bastian’s level.”

  Childress shook his head. “There’s overblown and there’s dangerous. Bastian was a tyrant. He ran the department as his personal fiefdom. I’ve seen him take great glee in destroying careers of ethical and dedicated researchers. One carefully worded comment to the right ear at a conference cocktail party and young scientists looking for their first faculty job are suddenly unable to land an interview. A single phone call to one of his cronies at NIH could assure that someone’s grant application is rejected before reaching review.”

  Lydia needed to hear more. “Couldn’t that be said of chairmen at any number of universities?”

  She watched his tear-stained face turn cold. “Not like Bastian. His abuse of office knew no bounds. Grant money funneled into his personal accounts.
Staff fired on a whim. Even…” Childress dropped his head.

  “Even what?”

  Childress paled. “Neuroscience was a particularly difficult department for women, Dr. Corriger. Secretaries, junior faculty, graduate students. Bastian viewed sexual access as one of the perks of his position.”

  “But wasn’t he chairman for years?”

  Childress nodded. “Nineteen to be exact. That’s unheard of in academia. Typically someone serves four or five years before moving on to a higher administrative post.”

  “Why’d he stay?”

  “No respectable department would have him. Besides, Bastian never applied to any higher position. He liked his power. Pure and simple.” Lydia could almost hear his teeth grinding. “Over the years Bastian built the perfect staff of sycophants and stooges. Insecure fools too frightened to do anything but lick his boots.” He looked Lydia square in the eye. “The faculty votes biannually for chairman. Ballots go out named and numbered. Bastian reviews the votes as they come in. Anyone not turning in a ballot is reminded by his hatchet man to make their selection. Anyone supporting a candidate other than Bastian is targeted. A reason for termination is always found before the next election.”

  Childress pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. “As a result, the university president got a 100% endorsement to keep Bastian as chairman. President Thornton would hold him up as a shining example of how to cultivate and maintain faculty loyalty.”

  Lydia let Childress’ comments sink in. They were consistent with what Wally had told her about Bastian’s love of obedience and adoration. She wondered if Childress knew about the secret lab Bastian kept off-campus or his butchering of Ortoo.

  “In all these years, no one tried to stop him?”

  “In the beginning, certainly.” Childress hung his head again. “But Bastian’s hatchet man was charged with keeping the faculty in line. Methods didn’t matter. If complaining professors could be co-opted with sabbatical or research funding, Bastian got it for them. If that didn’t work, well, let’s just say the environment would become hostile enough that they’d either transfer or be fired. Within a few years he had the faculty he wanted. A group of weak-willed children terrified of upsetting daddy.”

 

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