by T. E. Woods
But he was prepared in case Trixie had something else in mind.
Charlotte came around a corner and did a double take when she saw him. She waved, obviously pleased he was back. Mort watched her smile turn into bewilderment as she registered Jimmy, Micki, and the large German shepherd standing beside him.
“Where’s Nancy?” he asked, going to her.
“Who’s with you, Mort?” Charlotte looked past him. “I mean, I know Micki. She looks a bit better, I must say. But who is that guy with the gorgeous dog?”
He reached for her arm. “Where’s Nancy, Charlotte? Tell me right now.”
Charlotte looked down at Mort’s grip and he released his hold. She scanned his face and looked back to Jimmy, Micki, and Bruiser.
“Nancy left here around an hour ago.” Charlotte’s voice signaled an understanding of Mort’s visit. “Your son was right on time. Nancy talked about little else this morning than her interview with a big-time author. That and how silly you all were for thinking Trixie had killed that Vogel fellow.” Charlotte glanced around the room. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation in my office?”
Mort signaled Micki and Jimmy as his mind screamed damnations for allowing his son to work on his own that day. “Get Robbie on the phone,” he told Jimmy as they all headed down the back corridor. Mort pulled a radio out of his jacket pocket.
“All units hold.”
Charlotte’s eyes locked onto Mort’s. “You’re telling me Nancy is Trixie, aren’t you?”
Mort liked her matter-of-fact reaction. She didn’t question, doubt, or debate. Didn’t fall into hysterical “How could I have not known?” puddles.
“What do you need?” she asked.
Mort ignored her question. He called to Jimmy, “You got him yet?” Phone to his ear, Jimmy shook his head. Mort turned back to Charlotte. “We’ll need you to tell us everything you know about Nancy. How you met her. How she came to be involved with CLIP.”
“My hunch is she chose you,” Micki said. “Came up to you at one of your meetings. Maybe drifted in here to volunteer one day.”
“She lost her daughter to drugs and prostitution.” Charlotte crossed her arms against her chest. “Sadly, her husband died shortly after they buried their daughter. Nancy started coming to CLIP meetings and pretty soon she was an active volunteer for us.”
“Mort told me the story she told at the CLIP meeting. Daughter named Valerie Amber, husband Matt an aviation engineer. It’s all a lie.” Micki rattled off the facts she’d gathered after Mort used his time on the ferry to tell her everything he recalled about Nancy Mader. “No Valerie Amber Mader was ever enrolled in any school in the state of Washington. No Matt Mader was ever licensed as an aviation engineer. Nor was anyone by that name ever employed by any of the aircraft firms in the state. No death certificate in either name has been issued.”
“Nancy, or whatever her name really is, needed a cover story to get close to your group,” Mort said.
Charlotte’s brow wrinkled. “Why? We’re a small nonprofit. There’s no money to steal.”
“It’s part of her game,” Micki explained. “Nancy made her decision to start killing. For reasons I’m sure we’ll find out later, she decided to kill men who frequent hookers. But psychopaths need to play. Part of her particular game was to pose as a virtuous victim. Adored in a group that was somehow touched by her crimes. Being in CLIP allowed her to bask in the chaos she was creating.”
Charlotte nodded. “She did like to talk about Trixie. Whether she was stuffing envelopes or serving coffee at a meeting, she somehow managed to turn the conversation to the murders.” She looked up at Mort. “She especially liked to wonder why the police seemed so ineffective.”
Jimmy spoke up. “Whack jobs like to feel smarter than us. Sometimes they send us little letters. Sometimes they call.” He paused half a heartbeat. “Robbie’s not answering, Mort.”
“Charlotte, did Nancy or Robbie say where they were headed?” Mort asked.
“Just that she was going to introduce him to some families. I should have asked for names. Mort, I’m so sorry.”
He felt a near-primal need to protect her. “She was a valued volunteer. You trusted her.” He looked toward Jimmy. “Try again. Just find out where they are. We don’t want to tip our hand to Trixie.”
Jimmy opened his cell phone. “This is going in his book, for sure. I can see it now. ‘The day I rode shotgun with a killer, by Robert Grant.’ Little shit’s gonna eat off that for a year.”
Mort pulled out his radio and called off the troops outside. “As soon as we know where she is, we’ll reassess.” Maybe Robbie and Nancy had stopped for pie somewhere and they could just drop by and put her in cuffs.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
Jimmy shot him a worried glance. “No answer. Four rings and voice mail kicks in.”
“Maybe he’s interviewing someone and doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Charlotte said.
Mort pulled out his own phone. Robbie might ignore calls from Jimmy, especially if he was taking notes. But Mort had promised to let him know if anything concerning the case came up. He’d take a call from his father.
“Damn it.” Mort snapped his phone shut. He struggled against fears surfing acid waves in his gut. “What exactly did she say as they left?”
Charlotte lowered her head in thought before replying. “Nancy and I spent the morning working on budgets. She seemed distracted. Excited about her time with Robbie. And like I said, irritated with the police.” She closed her eyes. “Robbie was punctual. They used this office for their chat. I know they left around ten forty-five. The courier’s coming at one o’clock to pick up our grant applications. I’ve been monitoring the time.” She snapped her head up. “She mentioned you, Mort. She told Robbie she’d drive. Said she knew right where they were going. Handed him a cup of coffee and told him to relax. Then she said, ‘It’s time to show your dad how it’s done.’ ”
Mort flipped his cell open and stabbed the digits of his son’s number again. “Pick up, Robbie,” he urged. When he heard the voice mail cut in, he closed the phone.
“Get me Nancy’s number.” His tone left no room for question. Charlotte crossed to her desk, pulled a black address book from her top drawer, and flipped through the pages. Mort punched the numbers into his cell as Charlotte called them out. He knew he was in trouble when he heard the irritating tone.
The number you have dialed is no longer in service …
He looked at his phone’s screen and called the numbers back to Charlotte. “That right?”
“That’s the number she gave us.” Charlotte closed her address book. “I can’t recall ever calling her, so I can’t say if it’s ever worked.”
A grisly montage of Trixie’s eight victims paraded past Mort’s eyes. The ropes tied tight around their necks. The humiliating posing. The garish red smear of lipstick on each forehead.
And now Trixie had his son.
“He was driving a new Toyota Camry. Silver. Picked it up at the airport.” Mort turned to Micki and barked out the date Robbie had flown in from Denver. “Find out what rental company. Use every officer back at headquarters. I want whoever’s manning that rental desk on the phone.”
Mort looked at his watch. Twelve-ten. Robbie had been with her for more than two hours. He closed his eyes and home movies played against his eyelids. Robbie chasing toddler twins around the backyard. Claire snapping photos as her husband scooped them up, one in each arm, carrying them over to their grandfather and dropping them onto Mort’s laughing chest.
“Mort.”
He opened his eyes as Micki shoved a phone at him.
“Rental company. They’ve got Robbie’s file.” Micki’s voice was all business and her eyes were all friend.
Mort grabbed the phone and gave his identification. “I assume you have a LoJack or OnStar or some tracking device on each of your vehicles. Tell me where that car is.”
The male voice on the other end hesitated. “
I don’t know, sir. We use that only if the car’s not back twenty-four hours past its expected return. And even then only if we can’t contact the renters by other means.”
Mort wondered how much blood a body could lose in ten seconds. He was stunned at his level voice when he spoke. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Daniel, sir,” the boy on the line said. Mort estimated him somewhere south of twenty-one. “Daniel Hilley, assistant manager. And if you’re about to ask for the manager, well, I’m afraid I’m all you’ve got. It’s lunchtime.”
“Daniel, I want you to listen to me. You have a choice to make. You can tell me where that car is, save a life, be interviewed by the local news shows, and sit back waiting for the girls to unzip for the hero of the day. Or you can wait for your manager to return, get your ass fired for ignoring law enforcement’s request, have innocent blood on your hands, and deal with my police force and me for the rest of what will certainly be your very unpleasant life.” Mort notched his volume up. “Now tell me where that car is.”
He heard two seconds of terrified silence, the rapid click of computer keys, and Daniel’s whispered curses. Less than fifteen seconds later the kid was back on the phone.
“That car is currently parked at 623 Stillwater Drive. Our system says the doors are locked, the keys are out of the ignition, and the engine’s not been activated for six minutes.”
Mort closed the phone and barked out the location Daniel had given him. Jimmy relayed the address back to headquarters. “I want squads rolling now,” Mort said. “Tell them to secure the address and wait for instruction.”
Micki looked up from her cell. “Six twenty-three Stillwater is a motel off the airport strip. We can be there in less than four minutes. I’ll drive.”
“I’ll follow.” Jimmy snapped his fingers and Bruiser fell in behind him. “Squad cars are dispatched. They’ll beat us there.”
Mort raced out of the office. He didn’t look back at Charlotte.
Micki slammed her brakes and swerved seconds from missing two cruisers forming a barricade behind the silver Camry parked in front of room 8 of the Skyline Motel. Mort jumped out of the car even as Jimmy pulled up beside him.
Mort was glad to see Joe Thompson on scene. The seasoned pro described the situation while keeping his eyes trained on the motel door and his hand on his sidearm in case the artillery already aimed proved insufficient. “That door is the only way in. One small window in the back. Rest of the rooms have been evacuated. We’re in contact with a woman inside via the room phone. Insists she’s not coming out till she speaks to you.”
Mort ran to Robbie’s rental car. He looked inside and felt a wave of relief. No blood. He prayed the same was true about the room behind the door.
He yelled back to Thompson, “Any sign of anyone else in there?”
Thompson shook his head. “Just the woman.” He pointed to an officer holding a cell phone. “She’s seen you. Says she’s ready to talk.”
“Talk, hell.” Mort pulled his sidearm. “I’m going in.” He stalked past officers poised with guns trained. “You boys hear a shot, open fire on anything female.” He pounded on the sheet metal door. “This is Detective Grant. Stand clear.”
Mort didn’t wait for her response. He reached for the knob and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. He stepped back, braced his left leg, and kicked his body weight against the low-bid hardware. The door casing splintered. Mort peered in and saw nothing but a cheap bed wearing a threadbare blanket. He steadied his gun in two hands and entered the room.
“Robbie?”
“He’s not here, Mort.” Nancy Mader stepped out of the bathroom holding the cordless room phone against her chest. Her grin tested Mort’s trigger finger.
“Where is he?” Mort saw she was unarmed. A spool of twine sat on the pressed-board dresser next to a noose fashioned from bright wool. He kept his gun trained. “Where’s my son?”
Nancy Mader, or Trixie, or whatever her name was, said nothing. Her eyes gleamed and her smile struggled to seduce. Mort called for officers to enter. He only lowered his gun once they had her hands cuffed behind her back. She was read Miranda rights and Mort informed her she was under arrest for eight counts of murder in the first degree. An officer grabbed the arm of the still-silent woman and escorted her out. They were three feet out of the room when Mort grabbed her other arm, twisted her free, and kicked her legs out from under her. He forced her face into the damp gravel, planted his foot on her neck, and shoved the muzzle of his gun into her ear.
“Where’s my son?” he yelled. “Tell me now or you’ll never see the inside of a jail.”
“Mort!” Jimmy warned from ten feet away. Mort jerked his attention away long enough to see Bruiser bounding from where Jimmy stood.
The furred behemoth raced past the drama of Mort and his prisoner and jumped on the rear of Robbie’s rental car. He slammed his body again and again against the trunk lid. A bullet to the throat had robbed the dog of his ability to bark and Mort knew this was a dog who wanted to rant as long and as loud as he needed to get their attention.
“Somebody open that damned trunk!” Jimmy bellowed. “Get a fucking crowbar or sledgehammer. I see some jackass reach for his gun and I swear to God I’ll blow his head off before he clears his holster.”
Mort lifted his foot off the neck of the serial killer in the gravel. He ran to the Camry and pushed aside the young cop pressing his weight on the crowbar. Mort shoved once, twice, but the lock held. Jimmy came up beside him and added his heft to the thrust. The trunk door groaned. Mort side-kicked the lock. The door popped open and bounced on its hinges.
Mort moaned when he saw his son. Arms and legs akimbo in the trunk. Face drained of color. He looked for blood and saw none. He reached in and grabbed Robbie’s head in both his hands. Warm. He held a finger under his son’s nose and felt a small wisp of air.
“He’s breathing,” Mort whispered. “Get an ambulance, damn it!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mort gave the guy behind the counter ten bucks and told him to keep the change. One thing about Seattle, he thought. You can get a great cup of coffee anywhere. Even a hospital cafeteria.
The day had started with the two of them sharing breakfast. Now he was trudging back to his son’s hospital room to say good night. If life was like a box of chocolates, he thought he’d just as soon take a pass on this particular piece.
Toxicology showed Robbie was loaded with enough Rohypnol to put three people to sleep for a week. He’d be fine, but the doctors wanted to observe him overnight. The ER attending told him Robbie would be of no help with any investigation into how he ended up in the trunk of his rented Toyota.
“Once he swallowed the drug, it was lights out.” The doctor had been kind but blunt. “That’s why the frat boys like it so much. Fast acting and no trace of memory afterward. You might end up with your panties on backwards or you might end up in a car trunk. Either way, you have no clue.”
Mort recalled Charlotte’s description of Nancy handing Robbie a cup of coffee before they left.
The doctor assured Mort Robbie showed no signs of physical trauma. He flashed back to the tools of Trixie’s trade sitting on the dresser in that cheap motel room and knew that was only a benefit of lucky timing.
If we’d been ten minutes later … He banished the thought. Robbie was here. He was safe.
And Trixie was parked in a downtown holding cell.
Mort walked into his son’s room and handed L. Jackson Clarke one of the two Styrofoam cups he carried and thanked him again for sitting with Robbie.
Larry nodded to the chair behind Mort. “We have another visitor.”
Mort turned to see Charlotte sitting in the corner, her face a study in worry. He set his own coffee down and engulfed her in an embrace.
“You didn’t have to come.” Mort had forgotten how it felt to hold on to a good woman when times were dark. “But, damn, I’m glad you did.”
“I know it’s ridiculo
us, but I feel somehow responsible. Larry tells me he’s going to be fine.”
“He is indeed.” Mort summoned a lightness he didn’t feel. “By the time his next book hits the stores, this will be nothing more than a colorful story to tell at signings.”
There was a stirring in the bed and all three of them froze. Robbie opened one groggy eye and then the other. He stared at them, flopped his head to one side, and blinked.
“What the … What time is it?”
“Leave it to a bestseller to avoid the cliché.” Larry laughed and moved to Robbie’s bed. “It’s 6:32 p.m. You’re in the hospital, dear boy. It’s pouring outside. I’m sure your father can’t wait to tell you how you’ve spent your day.” The Nobel-winning scholar leaned down, draped his linebacker shoulders across Robbie, and gave him as close an approximation to a hug as the IVs allowed. “Welcome back to the land of the confused and hopeful.” He looked across the bed to Charlotte. “What do you say we give the Grant men a chance to catch up?”
Charlotte smiled down at Robbie and told him how glad she was to see him. She gathered her jacket and purse, squeezed Mort’s arm in goodbye, and followed Larry out.
Mort pulled a chair close. He reached for his son’s hand and relished the warm lifeblood coursing through his veins.
“Start talking, Dad.” Robbie’s voice was gravelly. “I was on my way to an interview. Now I’m hooked up to drips. What the hell happened?”
Mort began at the beginning: the last memory Robbie would have before he drank the drugged coffee. He took him through his own discovery that Nancy Mader was Trixie and the massive display of police power that descended on CLIP headquarters.
“When Charlotte told me you were with her, I’d have made any bargain the Devil wanted to get you back to us.”
“I’m here,” Robbie croaked. “Whatever you did worked.”
Mort revealed Act Two. Tracing the rental car, surrounding Nancy in the cheap motel, his mortal fear when Robbie wasn’t inside. His awareness that Nancy intended Robbie to be Trixie’s next victim.