by T. E. Woods
The Unforgivable Fix is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Alibi eBook Original
Copyright © 2014 by Teresa Woods
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 9780345549280
Cover design: Caroline Teagle
Cover photo: © Andreas Kuehn/Getty Images
www.readalibi.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Acknowledgments
By T. E. Woods
About the Author
Chapter 1
OLYMPIA
The door should have been locked. Lydia Corriger looked up and down the residential side street and saw no movement through the chilling November rain. The porch was wet with footprints that weren’t hers. She pulled her Beretta out of her pocket, clicked off the safety, and pushed the door open.
She knew better. Never enter a situation without full control.
But she’d been in a hurry.
Lydia stepped into the foyer. Wet footprints directed her right, into the living room. She held her gun to her side, stepped across a faded Oriental rug, stood in the middle of the space, and listened. She was met with nothing but the low-level buzz of an empty house.
She entered the kitchen. The odors of bacon and coffee lingered in the air. She touched the half-filled carafe in the coffeemaker. Barely warm. Whoever made the pot hadn’t touched it for at least an hour.
Lydia circled left, past a powder room and a cluttered office across from a polished wooden staircase. She glanced back down the hall toward the front door, placed her left foot on the far side of the first stair, and brought her right foot to the opposite end. Until she was sure the entire house was unoccupied, she didn’t want to reveal her presence with a creaky step to the center. She mounted the stairs without a sound, turned on the landing to begin the full climb to the second story, and saw the body. One leg protruded over the uppermost steps; the other was bent to the side.
I know those old-man shoes. I told him he was too young for wing tips.
Lydia scrambled up the stairs, not bothering to stifle her scream.
“Mort!”
Chapter 2
SEATTLE, SIX WEEKS EARLIER
Lydia tightened the twine around yet another bundle of newspapers, tossed it onto the pile growing next to Mort’s open garage door, and shoved a sweaty hank of auburn hair off her face. “Five more minutes. Then I’m going to take my aching muscles back down to Olympia.”
Mort looked up from a box of screws and bolts. “I’m on a deadline here, Liddy. House sold faster than I thought it would. I have to be out of here in thirty days.”
“My hunch is Micki’s got a spreadsheet of assignments for every cop in Seattle.” She stretched her back. “You’ll be fine.”
“Still, I appreciate you coming by.” Mort wiped his hands and motioned her over to the picnic bench. He poured two glasses of iced tea, then pointed to an enormous rhododendron hiding the fence. “I won’t miss that son of a bitch. It wasn’t knee-high when Edie and Robbie planted it on his tenth birthday. Now look at the damned thing. It’s a quiet green giant now, but I’m raking pink petals for a month when it’s shedding.”
Lydia lifted her face to the warm October sun. “Does it help to focus on things you won’t miss?”
“Ever the shrink, huh?” Mort eyed the back of the house he’d lived in for nearly twenty-seven years and ached to see Edie come through that back door one more time, carrying two beers and smiling, the kids finally asleep. “This is a family joint. Let the house have what it needs.”
“But a houseboat? Are you sure?” she asked.
“The only yard work tossing tuna to the sea lions? Yeah, I’m sure.”
“What about your workshop? You gotta have ten thousand dollars’ worth of saws and sanders and who knows what else down there.”
Mort would miss the smell of freshly cut wood; the satisfaction of sliding stain with the perfect touch to make the grain in a straight piece of cedar sing. “Robbie’s new place has plenty of room. He’s always had an itch for building.”
“Still, that floating conclave down on Lake Union…” She sounded doubtful. “Can you be happy anchored alongside tech millionaires and corporate moguls?”
“I’ll bet I’m the only civil servant in the ’hood. I can’t believe what JoAnne got for this place. It’s the only way I could afford the houseboat. Reward for staying put, I guess.”
The two of them sipped their tea in the silence of the golden afternoon.
“There’s a whole crew coming tomorrow to pack me up,” Mort said. “You could come back.”
Lydia looked over the yard. “You want me to take a cutting from that rhoddie? I’ll plant it at my place. You could visit it any time you want. I’ll even let you rake up the blossoms for old times’ sake.”
Mort ignored her dodge. “Micki and Jimmy will be here.” He kicked at the grass. “Opportunity to meet some new folks.”
Lydia was quiet. “I already know enough people. I just wanted to help with your move.”
“You can’t do this forever, you know.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Punish yourself. Isolate yourself. Whatever the hell it is you’re doing by closing off from everyone. You haven’t practiced psychology in nearly two years. You needed to heal from that bullet, sure, but that was a while ago.” He ran a hand across the thin white scar on his cheek. “And I’ll always appreciate you were in the saving-my-ass business a few months back. But you’ve been doing a whole lot of nothing since you left Whidbey Island.”
“I keep busy.” Her tone warned him to back off.
He wanted to reach out and touch her. Reassure her he had her best interest motivating him. But he k
new she found no comfort in the feel of human skin.
“You need social contact, Liddy.” He was mindful to keep his tone soothing. “We all do.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “With all due respect, Mort, you have no idea about my needs.”
“I’m sure I don’t.” Mort leaned forward. “But I know loneliness, kiddo. It’ll eat at you until you’re sick to the bone. When’s the last time you saw that coffee-shop guy? Oliver, right? Bring him tomorrow. We’re going to the Crystal for burgers after a few hours’ packing. Could be fun.”
Lydia focused her attention on the rhododendron Mort was so eager to abandon. “I appreciate your concern, Mort. But how I spend my time is up to me.”
“Is it, Liddy?” He needed her to understand. “I have more than a passing interest in your activities.”
Lydia stood and walked a few paces away. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist and kept her back to him. Mort wondered if it was guilt or fear that had her defenses so high.
“I wonder.” Her voice was cold and clipped. “Is it a good idea for us to be in any contact with each other? I appreciate your concern.” She turned to face him. “But I’m long past the need for a daddy. And I’m too old to be babysat.”
“Liddy, I’m not saying anything like that. What I mean is—”
“What you mean,” she said, interrupting him, “is that you’re second-guessing your decision to let The Fixer go.”
His own guilt for allowing a vigilante assassin to escape justice was never more than a heartbeat away. “We are both vulnerable here,” he reminded her. “But my concern has nothing to do with that. I worry about you. Getting back into a normal life is a good idea.” He asked her to sit but she held her ground. “It’s tough to live with the knowledge of what we’ve done. I gotta tell you, sometimes my friends…having people to interact with…the distraction of normal life…sometimes it’s what stops me from climbing the walls or revealing things that are best left buried.”
She stepped close enough to look down on him where he sat. “There is no we in what was done, Mort. We didn’t kill twenty-three people. I was on my own with that. What you did was let a desperado get away. That’s it. Folks find out and worst case is you take an early retirement. Maybe that sterling Mort Grant reputation gets a little mud on it.” Her voice held an edge he hadn’t encountered before. “On the other hand, if my past gets exposed, the best I can hope for is eternal damnation following a very long time in a very tiny cell. So don’t worry. There’s no need to advise me on how best to leave the past buried.”
He held her stare until she turned away, then he stood.
“Liddy, listen, I didn’t mean…”
She held up a hand to silence him. He could tell the brief smile she offered was forced. She nodded toward the garage. “You better get back to packing. Good luck with your move.”
He watched her walk to her car, get in, back out, and head down the street without a wave or backward glance.
Chapter 3
BARBADOS
Nigel Lancaster tapped his sterling silver butter knife against his glass. The tinkling crystal caught the attention of the seventeen people relaxing over their dessert of raspberry mousse and coconut cookies. He stood and smoothed a manicured hand over his dinner jacket. “I hate to intrude on what I assume is everyone’s wonderful time.” A collective chorus of jovial support affirmed the Brit’s supposition. “But let’s steal a moment in all this conviviality to lift a glass to our gracious hostess.” Lancaster turned to the sandy-blonde beauty seated at the foot of the long candlelit table. “Thank you, dear Olwen, for gathering us all in this lovely spot. As a Londoner, I rarely get the opportunity to dine with the stars as my ceiling while the sea breeze caresses my wife’s hair.”
Molvado from Portugal interrupted. “I told you he should have been a poet!”
The dinner guests chuckled as Lancaster smiled and continued. “The evening is superb. The food is exquisite, the service impeccable, and the setting challenged only by the loveliness of our ladies, who put up with us come what may.” Lancaster lifted his glass. “To Olwen.”
“To Olwen!” the guests echoed, and sipped their champagne.
Lancaster shifted his attention to the opposite end of the table. “And to our host. Lest we forget his generosity and leadership.” He raised his glass again. “For all Patrick does for so many, hear, hear!”
“Hear, hear!” the chorus answered. A few guests called for a speech. Patrick Duncan made a brief show of waving them off before standing to address his guests.
“Thank you, Nigel, for those kind words.” Patrick’s gaze settled on the woman seated twelve feet opposite him. “And I’ll start, as always, with a declaration of my devotion and appreciation to my extraordinary Olwen. Without you, this night doesn’t exist.”
Olwen bowed her lovely head and smiled in a well-rehearsed show of humility.
“And to all of you,” Patrick continued. “Thank you for coming. I know it’s never hard duty to fly away to a tropical island…” The guests laughed on cue. “But still, these three days take you away from your duties at home and I appreciate the sacrifice. We men have much to discuss. And as they say, there’s no time like the present.” He signaled for his hostess to stand. “So, if you ladies would be gracious enough to follow Olwen, she’ll escort you up to the hotel’s roof garden, where I’m told a fashion show awaits that is sure to inspire your men here to work even harder to repair the considerable hole you’re about to put in their wallets.”
Eight women pushed back their chairs, kissed their companions goodbye, and followed Olwen off the terrace and into the penthouse. Patrick raised his voice to be heard above their excited chattering.
“And Molvado here will lead you men to a conference room one floor below. I’ll be along in a moment.” Patrick waved his finger in mock warning. “Leave a cigar and at least one drop of cognac for me.”
The men stood, clapping one another on the shoulders in congratulations for a record-breaking sales quarter in the cocaine, heroin, and illicit pharmaceutical market.
“Nigel,” Patrick called out. “Can you and Jillian hold back? I need a private moment with you both.”
The enthusiasm rushed out of the room. The women quieted. Those nearest Nigel’s wife offered comforting hands and concerned faces. The men focused their attention on their own shoes.
Olwen directed the women out of the penthouse. She locked eyes with Patrick one last time before leaving and made a mental note to call room service as soon as she got the ladies settled up on the roof.
There’d be two fewer guests for brunch tomorrow.
Chapter 4
OLYMPIA
Lydia stood ankle-deep in the icy salt water of Dana Passage, shielded her eyes from the sun’s slanted autumn rays, and stared up at the top of the 150-foot cliff. The view of her property was different here at sea level. An infinite number of small pebbles crusted the sand. Seaweed and driftwood littered the beach. The echo of waves off ten-ton boulders nearly drowned the call of seagulls gliding overhead. She zipped her windbreaker and bent to rinse her hands in the rising tide as the breeze whipped her hair about her face. In an hour, the spot on which she stood would be under five feet of water. She glanced at the switchbacked wooden staircase that had brought her twelve stories below her backyard to this secluded strand and considered taking them back up, brewing a strong cup of tea, and settling onto her deck to watch the sun’s descent behind the Olympic Mountains.
But that would be too easy.
She dried her hands on her leggings and walked toward the cliff. Twenty feet east of the staircase was the most vertical plane. She reached up with her right hand, feeling along rocks and dirt until she found a hold. She duplicated the process with her left hand and pulled herself twelve inches above the incoming tide. Her left foot found purchase and she shifted her weight. She planted her right foot on a moss-covered rock and pushed herself higher.
Her face stayed an inch away
from the cliff wall. Pulling with her arms and pushing with her legs, she climbed. Her mind focused on each effort. She used the diagonal tension of her arms and legs to steady herself between moves. One slip early in the climb would send her down a few feet. She’d be damp and might have to pull seaweed out of her hair, but only her dignity would be bruised. After ten minutes of ascent a miscalculated handhold or poorly placed boot would break the tentative stalemate she had with gravity, and she’d hurl down into the sea rising below her. Crushed against the rocks or pulled out into the waves, she’d be just as dead.
Left hand…right foot…left foot…right hand…left hand…right foot…left foot…right hand… The mantra cleared her mind of judgments of her past and dread of her future. Although the climb strengthened her body in ways a gym never could, it was the total cognitive clarity that was Lydia’s primary reason for torturing herself with this twice-weekly climb.
But it wasn’t working today.
Lydia struggled to stay in the moment. She inhaled the earthy scent of mud and decaying moss. She kept her eyes focused on the roots and rocks protruding from the cliff’s face. She traced the tension in her shoulders, arms, and legs as she shifted positions.
Still Mort’s words invaded.
He’s right. I have no connection to anything. She mentally shook her mind clear and climbed. Shift right and pull. Shift left and push. I’m alone. Lydia looked down to the waves now crashing eighty feet below her. She looked up. The edge of the cliff seemed miles away. Her heart pounded, and the sound of sea and wind grew louder. She pulled her left leg loose and a cramp burned inside her calf. She resettled her leg on instinct and flexed the muscles until it cleared. She tossed her head as much as balance would allow, to dislodge an errant strand of hair teasing across her eyelid.