The Unforgivable Fix: A Justice Novel

by T. E. Woods

  Lydia understood his compassion for young Emma. However, he needed to learn to temper his beliefs in order to be effective. “Were you there?”

  Zach looked confused. “Of course not.”

  “Then how do you know what happened in that pool house?”

  Zach’s face reddened at her pointed question. “Because Emma told me.”

  Lydia nodded. “Then that’s what you report.”

  “Didn’t I do just that?”

  “No, Zach, you didn’t. You said it happened. And that’s something you can never know.”

  Zach squirmed. He looked like a guy who wanted to argue but understood his position in this particular power dynamic.

  “I believe her. The judge should know that.”

  Lydia set the file aside. “The judge should know the facts, Zach. And beliefs and feelings are not facts. Emma told you what happened. That’s what you tell the judge. If she wants your opinion she’ll ask for it. She’ll listen to all the facts, hold them against various opinions offered, and then she’ll make her ruling.”

  “But this guy did this.” Zach’s voice rose. He stopped himself and continued in a calmer fashion. “Emma’s father trusted me to do the evaluation. He’s trusting me to make sure the judge keeps his daughter safe.”

  “It doesn’t matter what’s true, Zach.” Lydia hated this harsh reality of the world. “What matters is what works. What’s effective. And if you submit this report as is, which I’ll never let happen, by the way, you’ll set yourself up for some brutal attacks from Kenton’s lawyers. They’ll say the same thing I just did. You weren’t there. You can’t say what happened.”

  Zach fumed silently across from her. She handed him her edited copy of his report.

  “Rewrite this. I’ve highlighted the changes you need to make. Say things like ‘Patient reports her stepfather invited her to the pool house…Emma states he forced her to have oral sex.’ Get my drift? You can only say what you know to be true, not a word about what you feel or think unless the judge asks for it. Are you clear on how I expect this to look?”

  Zach’s face was hard to read. Lydia had been blunt with him; she’d expected the defensive silence he offered. After several seconds he smiled and nodded.

  “Thank you, Dr. Corriger.” His tone was sincere. “This is exactly what I was hoping for. You’re giving me just the kind of guidance I need to improve. I’d love it if you could keep these comments coming.”

  Lydia wasn’t accustomed to hearing a student take constructive criticism as well as Zach did. “I look forward to reading the rewrites. Talk to me about the patients you’ve been seeing.”

  Zach laid a hand on his stack of folders. “Everything’s proceeding well. At least I hope it is. I’ve again recorded all the sessions…I love your system, by the way. One little press of the button and the entire office becomes like a recording studio. When I review them I’m stunned at how well I can hear everything, even between sobs and whispers.”

  Lydia appreciated that he took the time to review his own work. It might help him hear his own missteps and correct them before she had to. Despite the time he needed to put in at the research lab, Zach seemed completely dedicated to improving his clinical skills.

  “You had another intake,” she said. “Tell me about that.”

  “Her name’s Brianna Trow.” Zach reached for her file but recited the particulars without opening it. “Twenty-eight years old. High school dropout, string of fast-food jobs. She’s currently unemployed, lives at home with her dad. Brianna’s been sleeping too much—” Zach caught himself and smiled. “She reports she’s been sleeping more than twelve hours a day. She states she’s withdrawn from any social activity and sticks pretty much to her room. She complains of stomach pains and difficulty with constipation and gut aches. Says she’s been to the free clinic several times. Twice to the emergency room, even. But according to the medical records, the docs can’t find anything physically wrong, so they sent her here. Sweet girl. Shy. Something’s stressing her.”

  “What’s her alcohol and drug use?” Lydia asked. “A girl with no prospects might look where she shouldn’t for a little relief.”

  Zach nodded. “She denies using any drugs. Says she has the occasional drink and has never been drunk. Sounds like depression to me. More will be revealed, I’m sure. I’ll keep you posted.” He handed Lydia a thumb drive. “This week’s sessions. I’m looking forward to your feedback.”

  Lydia thanked him. “Now, bring me up to date on…” She scanned her memory. “Heather, is it? The teenager who told you her uncle was abusing her. What did CPS have to say when you reported what she’d told you?”

  Zach looked down at his hands. “I haven’t called yet.”

  Lydia’s jaw tightened. “Why not?”

  He looked up. Lydia wasn’t sure if she saw fear or defiance in his face. “Heather asked me not to. I’ve had a couple more sessions with her. I told you her family’s ultrareligious. She came here looking for ways she could stay away from her uncle, not to have the whole family blow up because of this.”

  “You have a legal obligation, Zach.” Lydia’s tone left no room for dissent. “You’re working under the auspices of this clinic. That means I’m involved in this.”

  “But you yourself said I can’t know what’s happened.” He sounded desperate. “I wasn’t there. Maybe Heather misunderstood what her uncle did. Maybe that’s why she’s so worried about not having her family find out. Wouldn’t it be better if I had a few more sessions with her to figure out exactly what was going on before I bring in the authorities? Remember, her uncle’s out of town. There’s no way Heather’s in any danger.”

  Lydia held her hands tightly together. It was more than Zach’s delayed compliance with the law that irritated her. He was using his undeveloped discretion to determine what needed to be done to assure a child’s safety. He wasn’t taking this seriously…and Lydia had too much personal experience with that to let it slide.

  “Zach.” She focused on speaking as calmly as she could. “I’m enjoying working with you. I have a hunch you’ll make a fine clinician. But I’m telling you to report this. Call CPS before you leave here today and tell them exactly what Heather told you. We’ll deal with what, if anything, comes next, when and if it does. You have no choice in this. A minor has told you she’s in danger. You must act. You do this or I will.”

  She saw Zach’s hand quiver slightly as he reached for his folders. “I understand exactly what I need to do, Dr. Corriger. Thank you for your time. And the sandwiches.”

  Lydia said nothing as he left. At this point, all she wanted was to finish her day and have a quiet evening at home.

  Three hours later, she locked her open patient charts in her desk drawer, promising herself she’d finish them tomorrow. She packed her briefcase and sighed in disappointment when she heard the front door open. She entered her reception area and felt her breath catch in her chest at the sight of the man who stood in the middle of the room.

  Oliver Bane shrugged his shoulders and offered an apologetic smile. “I don’t know if this makes me the mountain or Mohammed.” He took one step toward her. “But I had to see you. Please tell me this is okay.”

  Lydia felt his rumpled warmth radiate across the eight feet separating them. His kindness, which she knew to be genuine and deep, immediately tugged on the protective cloak she kept wrapped tightly around her essential core.

  “I got your message,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to call.”

  Oliver’s brown eyes signaled his sadness. “Let’s not waste time with polite lies, okay? I know you, Lydia. If you were going to call you would have. I don’t mean to disrespect any boundaries you’ve set between you and me. I just need to know, directly from you, what they are.”

  Lydia stood on weakening legs as two forces waged a battle in her mind. One internal voice screamed in warning, Send him away. You’re safest when you’re alone. You’ve been fooled before. Don’t let him in. It’s not
worth the risk. Another voice, this one filled with a quiet, gentle strength, pulled her in a different direction. You’re not a helpless child anymore. This is Oliver. He cares. He’s worth the risk.

  She took a shaky breath and walked toward him. He opened his arms and she surrendered to the security of his embrace. Lydia leaned her head against his chest and allowed his soft murmurings and gentle kisses against her hair to calm her. She inhaled the aroma of autumn clinging to his jacket. When Oliver pulled a half step back and lifted her chin toward him, his coffee-flavored kiss held the promise of Christmas morning.

  “I’ve missed you,” he sighed. “I don’t have the words to tell you how much.”

  She kissed him again and allowed herself a moment to pretend it could always be this way. The world would not be granted access to the sacred circle of their arms.

  He stepped back and held her face in his hands. “I want to know everything. Where you’ve been, what you’ve done.” Oliver ran a gentle hand across the back of her head. “Are you all healed? My God, Lydia. I was so terrified.”

  She nodded. “It took lots of rehab, but I’m fine.”

  He pulled her back in to his chest and laughed. “I don’t want to let go of you. Do you want to have dinner? Can I take you home? Will you finally show me where you live?” He squeezed her playfully. “What do you want for Christmas, Lydia Corriger? Will you be my date for Thanksgiving dinner and save me from yet another round of parental questioning as to when I’m going to settle down with a nice girl?”

  A nice girl. He needs a nice girl. His parents are waiting for her. Someone they can call their daughter. Someone they’ll hang a stocking for and make a fuss about at birthday time. They don’t need you. Don’t bring an assassin to their door.

  She stiffened in his arms. He stepped back.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  She let her eyes linger. She wanted the sight of him to be forever locked in her mind. This gentle man with the keenly honed intellect. His hair, perpetually battling attempts at control. His features, weathered from years of skiing and hiking. His eyes that danced with gold when he was happy.

  How long would he be happy with you? How many times will you see those eyes clouded by disappointment or regret?He deserves more. He deserves his nice girl.

  “Lydia, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

  She lowered her gaze and said nothing.

  “Listen, if I’ve come on too strong, tell me. I know I can be a bull in a china shop sometimes. But I take direction well.” His voice didn’t sound as playful as his words.

  Lydia turned and looked toward her office.

  “Do you want me to leave, Lydia? Was this a mistake?”

  You don’t want me, Oliver. You don’t need a woman like me. Go find someone to make your parents proud.

  She bowed her head. She kept her eyes focused on her shoes as the two of them stood there in awkward silence. She steeled herself as she heard his footsteps walking away. She didn’t raise her gaze until she heard him close the door behind him.

  —

  “If this is a joke, you’ve caught me at a bad time. Besides, you’ve blown the punchline.” Lydia shifted her glance between her two visitors.

  “I’m open to alternatives.” Mort’s desperation lined his face. “But Allie needs a place where no one knows her.”

  Lydia understood the unspoken part of his request. Mort’s daughter also needed protection and The Fixer’s home was a fortress run by a woman who knew how to use every weapon in her considerable arsenal.

  “How long?” Lydia asked him.

  Allie looked around Lydia’s kitchen. “You have a lovely home. Everything seems so new and fresh.”

  Lydia ignored her. From the moment she’d opened her door, Lydia’s internal radar had been loudly warning her to keep her distance from Mort’s long-lost daughter.

  “I don’t know. Like I said, she’s running from what is likely to turn out to be a very bloody drug war.” Mort laid his hand over his daughter’s. “This Duncan character is taking on the head of the Russian drug cartel—”

  “And your daughter’s afraid she’s the Russian’s target,” Lydia interrupted. She turned to Allie. “Because your boyfriend cut off the hands of Tokarev’s lover in retaliation for the murder of his friends.” Lydia turned back to Mort. “Who just happened to be employees of the largest drug cartel in the Western hemisphere. Nice folks your daughter hangs with.”

  Allie’s face clouded over. “Let’s go, Daddy. I’m not comfortable staying someplace I’m not wanted.”

  Lydia leveled a stare at her. “I’m not worried about your comfort.” If The Fixer was going to cross paths with such a violent enterprise, it would be for the assassination of the man responsible for the destruction of millions of lives, not the care and succoring of his whore.

  Allie reached for her purse. Lydia recognized the Hermès Birkin; she knew the handbag cost more than Mort’s Honda sitting outside.

  Mort kept his daughter in her chair with a hand on her shoulder. He turned to Lydia with a softer tone. “Liddy, please. This is a mess. It’s my mess, I know. But she’s my daughter.”

  “And for her you’re going to put yourself in between two very nasty kingpins?” Lydia shook her head. “And do what? Negotiate turf? Take out both Patrick Duncan and Vadim Tokarev? You’re Seattle Homicide, Mort. Leave this for the DEA.” She tilted her chin toward Allie. “Get her to cooperate with the feds. Let them hole her up in some safe house.”

  “Allie plans to offer any information she has to whatever agency needs her.” Mort sounded like a guy trying to convince himself. “But she can’t cooperate if she’s dead. Give us time to put this Tokarev character away. Then she’ll be out of your hair and working with international authorities to bring an end to Patrick Duncan’s empire.”

  “You’re a city cop, Mort. You have no authority to go after the Russian. No matter how much you love your kid.”

  “Tokarev killed Patrick’s men,” Allie offered. “That’s why he did what he did to that woman. Now Tokarev will come after me. Justice is very important to these guys. If Daddy can arrest the Russian for these guys’ murders, I’ll be safe.”

  Lydia hung her head. The drug idiots confused revenge with justice. And Allie didn’t strike her as the type who would delude herself by thinking Patrick Duncan would look the other way once she ratted him out. Mort’s daughter had something else in mind.

  “The authorities know about the killings in England and Atlanta,” Mort said. “Things are getting hot. Allie’s in a unique position to provide very important inside information. She can save us time and maybe even lives with what she knows.”

  Lydia’s eyebrows shot up. “Us? Your daughter decides to break up with her drug lord lover and you’re working with Interpol now?”

  Mort’s jaw tightened. “I’ve agreed to act as liaison between her and the international agencies.”

  “The murder action is so slow in Seattle?” Lydia wanted no part of this. “Keep her with you. You’ve got that fancy new houseboat.”

  Mort’s irritation showed itself. “You know my place is Duncan’s first stop. Nobody knows you and I are still in touch, so nobody’s going to look for her here.” He leaned forward. “We have an opportunity to make a significant dent in the drug trade with Allie’s information. Please, Liddy. Keep my girl safe and let us do what we need to do.”

  Lydia looked around her kitchen. Allie was right. Her home was fresh and new. She’d purged herself of everything associated with the last time her sanctuary was invaded, and swore she’d never allow her haven to be compromised again. But the same radar warning her Allie was up to something Mort’s fatherly love kept him from seeing was urging her that the best way to figure it out was to keep her close.

  “There will be rules,” Lydia said to Allie.

  “I’m thirty-one years old,” Allie protested. “I don’t need anyone to—”

  Mort interrupted. “She’ll follow them to the
letter, Liddy. I guarantee it.” His eyes telegraphed gratitude mixed with relief.

  Lydia held his gaze. She looked at Allie and saw Mort’s jawline and posture. She’d seen photos of Mort’s son Robbie. Allie shared his coloring. That must have been Edie’s genetic contribution. What, she wondered, was the source of Allie’s wildness?

  “Her bedroom’s down the hall. The one with the blue walls,” Lydia said. “There’s a bathroom attached.”

  Chapter 22

  OLYMPIA

  “Did you always want to be a psychologist?” Allie asked. “Are you analyzing me now?”

  Lydia poured herself another cup of coffee. It had been a tiresome night trying to keep Mort’s daughter contained, and the first hour of this day threatened the same. “Listen, Allie. I’m not really much of a talker.”

  “I noticed that.” Allie tugged at the oversized T-shirt she’d been given to sleep in. “Not much of a dresser, either. It’s lucky we’re the same size.” She looked at Lydia over the rim of her own mug. “Same age, too, would be my guess. What do you think that’s about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Allie tilted her head and smiled. “My dad’s fifty-eight. Fit as a fiddle and all that, but still, he’s old as dirt.”

  Lydia heard the disrespect despite Allie’s playful tone. “Your father is an acquaintance. If you’re wondering if we’re romantically involved, we’re not.”

  “C’mon. It doesn’t get your shrink juices flowing wondering what a guy like my dad has in common with someone half his age?”

  Lydia realized this was a mistake. Allie may be impetuous, but that didn’t mean she was stupid. Lydia didn’t want anyone wondering what the connection was between her and Mort. “For the record, I’m thirty-six. Your dad needed an out-of-the-way place to park you. If someone is looking for you, don’t you think a close friend of your father’s would be on the top of his or her list?”

  “But why you?”

  Lydia needed a plausible story that would put a halt to Allie’s questions. “Your dad helped me out about a year ago. A case I was working on.”