The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  “She’s from Wisconsin.” Lydia nodded to his computer. “Can you get me to the Internet?”

  Mort minimized the interview and called up his browser. “How’d you get Wisconsin?”

  Lydia leaned forward and maneuvered her fingers across Mort’s keyboard. “Two things. First, listen to those consonants. Harsh, with a hint of nasal. Upper Midwest. Maybe Chicago. But she used the word ‘bubbler.’ That’s a Wisconsin term.”

  Mort shook his head. “You oughta teach a class. Observation for Dummies.”

  She clicked away with confident speed. “That’s the difference between cops and shrinks. You guys follow the trail, looking for things that add up. Psychologists look for what doesn’t. Here it is.” Lydia tapped the computer screen. “She’s from Madison. She said you weren’t Cowboy Eddie. Trixie and I are about the same age. I read like a fiend now, but you should have seen me when I was a kid. I’ve never heard of Cowboy Eddie. So Trixie wasn’t making a literary allusion.” Lydia pointed to the monitor. “Cowboy Eddie was a character on a local kids’ television show. Circus 3, hosted by Howie Olson.”

  Mort leaned forward. “Says here it was broadcast in the Madison area. Canceled in 1982.”

  “Which would place it at the perfect time to make an impression on a young Trixie.” Lydia pushed her chair away. “Trixie’s from Madison, Wisconsin.”

  Mort stood. “You’re good, Dr. Corriger.”

  Micki and Jimmy walked into the office. Bruiser trotted over to Lydia and rested his head in her lap.

  “Hey.” Jimmy crossed over and held out his hand. “You’re looking great, Doc. Being alive agrees with you.”

  “Last time I saw you, I was in rehab.” Lydia shook his hand before she reached for her purse and jacket. She turned to Mort. “We’ll be in touch.” She glanced toward the computer. “Hope it helps.”

  “It does.” Mort felt his internal radar go off again. “Stay close.”

  He watched her exit down the hall, then shifted his focus to the work at hand. Micki detailed the latest on Trixie’s night in jail. Jimmy explained the DA’s position.

  “Five counts of murder in the first degree.” Jimmy slumped into a chair and signaled Bruiser to settle in at his feet. “Only those cases where we got solid physicals. Keeps Trixie’s defense attorney from inferring reasonable doubt in the other deaths and gives us a logical explanation for why she’s not being charged with Vogel’s murder.”

  “Buying us time for the real killer to think we’ve put the investigation to bed,” Micki added.

  “How’d you do at Vogel’s penthouse?” Mort asked.

  Jimmy DeVilla pulled his notebook out of jacket. “Anybody who doesn’t have a key checks in at the security station. No one signed in that night. Which means whoever did Vogel either had their own key or walked in with him.”

  “Any film?” Mort knew the answer. If there’d been surveillance footage, he’d have it by now.

  “It’s a building filled with Seattle’s elite and international A-listers who keep a crib for when they’re in town,” Jimmy said. “Yet the security guys are it.”

  “Maybe these A-listers don’t want a record of who comes and who goes,” Micki remarked. She shrugged. “Hookers, drugs, mistresses, gigolos. Stockbrokers arriving with insider trading tips. Politicians come to kiss the ring of the corporate fat cats who keep ’em elected. Regulators walking out with heavier briefcases than they carried in.”

  “Micki Petty.” Jimmy tsk-tsked her assessment. “When did you become so cynical?”

  “So there’s no tape.” Mort forced the conversation back on track. “The maid said a woman was living there. Anything on that?”

  Jimmy referred to his notebook. “Security IDs her as Felicia Fatone.”

  “The fitness woman?” Micki asked. “I have a couple of her DVDs. She’s great. Are they sure it’s her?”

  “The very same,” Jimmy said. “Two of the security guards are big followers. Judging from the size of their guts, they’re more a fan of seeing her bounce around in a leotard than they are of her exercise techniques.”

  “I bought my DVDs at Rainy Day. That’s Vogel’s store.”

  “So Vogel was shacking up with the hired help.” Mort scribbled her name on a yellow legal pad. “The maid said she moved out a few days ago.”

  “More like was moved,” Jimmy said. “According to the guys at security, Vogel paid movers to clear her out. When Fatone came back, she sashayed past their desk with the same cheery chat she always gave them. Came back down fifteen minutes later walking fast. Said they sure missed watching her come and go every day.”

  “We know where she lives now?” Mort asked.

  “I figured you’d want to have a chat. Security’s been instructed to forward her mail to a PO box. I got a guy watching it.”

  Mort tapped his pen against the pad. “Mistress gets angry when lover won’t leave his wife. Issues a her-or-me. Vogel throws her aside and kicks her out of the love nest. A couple days later he winds up dead.” He drew a star next to Felicia’s name. “I’m scheduled to talk with Vogel’s stepson this afternoon. Maybe he knows where we can reach her. Micki, get back to the coroner. We need as tight a TOD as we can get.”

  Micki headed out. Mort turned to Jimmy.

  “You ready to play some ball?”

  “Of the basket variety, I assume.” Jimmy jumped to his feet and Bruiser echoed the move.

  Mort slipped into his jacket and glanced at his watch. “Game four is eight hours away. Let’s see if LionEl’s tantrums might have led him to do something he shouldn’t have.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  They flashed their badges at four different security stations before gaining access to the main floor of Wings Arena.

  “The dog doesn’t go in.” Rent-a-cop number five rocked on his scuffed heels. “Not even if you’re a blind man, which I can see you’re not. Those floors are polished like the Hope Diamond. No way his claws get anywhere near.” He reached for Bruiser’s leash. Jimmy caught his wrist.

  “Officer Bruiser is a sworn member of the Seattle Police Department,” Jimmy said. “Any attempt to interfere with his duties will be greeted as obstruction of justice.”

  The security guard’s face reddened. He reached for Bruiser’s collar with his free hand. Jimmy caught it with his own. “Don’t double-dog dare me, now.”

  Mort patted the guard’s shoulder and read the nametag pinned above the skinny man’s pocket. “We’re big Wings fans, Mr. Lawson. We’ll take care of your floor.” Mort took Bruiser’s leash and walked past before the man could answer. Jimmy released his grip a heartbeat later and followed.

  They walked down concrete steps to the arena floor. Jimmy told Bruiser to stay put in the first row of seats. “But if I call, you tear up every inch of this precious hardwood.”

  The building seemed larger to Mort. “Twenty thousand screaming fans have a way of shrinking a cavern down to size, huh?”

  At the far end of the court, multimillionaire giants warmed up with the familiar dribbling, passing, and shooting that preceded every game, whether played on an inner-city asphalt slab or in a state-of-the-art sports complex. A cluster of men, Mort estimated the count just shy of fifteen, sat in the third row. Some watching, some texting, some talking into cell phones. Assistant coaches stood on the side, calling out instructions to the players on the floor. Overseeing it all was Allen Wilkerson, head coach of the Washington Wings.

  Mort nudged his shoulder into Jimmy’s as they neared the center court line. “We’ve been spotted.”

  An assistant jogged toward them. “I don’t know how you fellas got in here, but you need to turn around. This is a closed practice.” He pointed to the door. “Press room opens at three.”

  Mort and Jimmy executed a synchronized presentation of badges. “We’ll need a quiet room.” Mort turned to Jimmy. “Wanna start with Coach?”

  “This about Mr. Vogel?” The assistant coach curled his hands around his whistle lanyard. �
��The marketing office is set to handle any questions about that. So if you don’t mind …” He reached out and touched Jimmy’s arm. A guttural growl echoed from the black recesses and reverberated around the sky-high rafters.

  “What the hell?” The assistant squinted into the darkness.

  “Our backup,” Jimmy said. “You need to drop that hand right now.”

  The man re-grabbed his lanyard and stepped back. He looked over his shoulder to see all practice and deal-making stopped. Everyone focused in the direction of Bruiser’s warning.

  “I’ll get Coach. Stay here.” He trotted toward his team as Mort and Jimmy walked behind him. They showed their badges again when Wilkerson approached and offered the same marketing resource his assistant had.

  “I understand you’ve got L.A. on your mind. We also intend to speak to LionEl King. Out of consideration for your busy schedule, Officer DeVilla and I have come here, but we certainly can conduct our business downtown.”

  Jimmy smiled at the coach. “Figure forty-five minutes to the station, another, what, hour or so before we can find an interview room? Damned station’s too small for a city our size. We’d appreciate it if you’d remember that next time you vote, sir. Then after our talk, another forty-five-minute trip, probably double that by the time rush hour hits. Might put you back here with just enough time to catch the second-half tip-off.”

  Wilkerson weighed his options. “I have an office in the locker room. We can talk there.” He turned to the men clustered courtside. “Ritter! Drill defense. I’ll be right back.” Wilkerson turned back. “Won’t I, Officers?”

  Mort smiled. “I got twenty bucks riding on this game.”

  Wilkerson slammed himself into the chair behind his desk, braver now in his inner sanctum. “What the hell are you doing interfering with my practice?”

  “How well did you know Reinhart Vogel, Mr. Wilkerson?” Jimmy sat in a vinyl bucket chair designed for maximum discomfort. Mort leaned against the closed door of the coach’s cinder-block bunker. “Any help you give us will be greatly appreciated.”

  “Help with what? You’ve already got the bitch who did this.” Wilkerson scowled when Jimmy repeated his question. “I’ve been his head coach for four years. Day-to-day operations and overall strategy I deal with Ingrid … Vogel’s wife. She’s CEO. But Reinhart’s the kind of guy who always likes to remind you he’s the owner.” Wilkerson stared at his hands for several moments. “When he was pleased with the team’s performance or our picks in the draft, he’d call me. Maybe send me and my wife two tickets to some exotic getaway.”

  “And when he wasn’t pleased?” Jimmy asked. Mort kept his eyes on Coach.

  Wilkerson’s jaw tightened. “It’s his team. He has … had … a right to his input.”

  “Second half of the season was rough for the Wings,” Jimmy said. “Barely made it into the playoffs. Vogel give you any advice on how to handle L.A.?”

  Wilkerson’s teeth churned like he was eating something too tough to chew and too big to swallow whole. The knuckles of his clenched hands turned white.

  “He expected the best from this team.” Wilkerson’s voice was tight.

  “Was there an ‘or else’ associated with his expectations?” Jimmy crossed his legs. “What is it they say in your business? ‘Coaches are hired to be fired’? You’ve got the best talent in the league. LionEl and Gardener? With talent like that, my seventy-three-year-old mother could have this team leading the division. Yet the Wings are barely hanging on. Was Vogel ready to see what someone else could do with all the firepower he assembled?”

  Wilkerson slapped his desk. “Where the fuck is this going? You asking if I’m glad Reinhart’s dead?”

  Mort pulled himself away from the wall. “A very powerful man has been murdered, Mr. Wilkerson. There’s a lot of follow-up necessary when something like this happens. My partner here gets excited, that’s all.”

  Jimmy gave Wilkerson the apologetic face he’d practiced over nearly two decades of good-cop/bad-cop partnering with Mort.

  “What we’re looking for is how Trixie came to be in Vogel’s penthouse, that’s all, Coach.” Mort kept his tone polite. “We’re wondering if you could give us some insight to how he spent his time away from work. Did you two drink together? Maybe go to certain clubs or massage parlors?”

  Wilkerson exhaled. His shoulders relaxed and his jaw stopped chewing. He pushed himself away from his desk, stood, and stepped toward the door. “I get the same preprinted Christmas card all his employees do. Once a year he and Ingrid have their executive-level employees over to their Mercer Island place to watch the boat races and eat catered cookout. We didn’t share secrets.” He reached around Mort for the door handle. “I can’t say I’m surprised he wound up dead in some seedy sex thing. Reinhart Vogel was never known for restraint.” He shook his head. “I got nothing to give you.” He looked down at Jimmy, still seated in the chair. “Can I get back to my team?”

  Mort and Jimmy exchanged ambivalent shrugs and Mort stepped clear of the door. “Okay we use your office for a little chat with LionEl?”

  Wilkerson shot a disapproving look to Jimmy and followed it with a respectful nod to Mort. “Do what you need, but remember I got a game to win.”

  Jimmy waited until Wilkerson was out of sight. “Guy’s got something going. Angry. Anxious. Guarded. But I believe him when he says he wasn’t close to Vogel.”

  “Me too. But you don’t have to be drinking buddies to want someone dead. Especially if you’re making a few million a year and your boss makes a move to cut off the gravy train. He sure did relax when we let him think we were pinning Vogel’s murder on Trixie.”

  “He did indeed. Wanna switch for LionEl?”

  The superstar was known for his temper. Mort was interested in seeing it close up. “Sure.” He looked out the open door. “Here he comes. And he’s got company.”

  At an even six feet, Mort wasn’t used to feeling small. But when LionEl brought his nine extra inches into the room, Mort understood any teenaged fantasy he may have harbored about playing in the NBA had been a genetic impossibility. LionEl’s companion was five foot five, maybe five-six, rocking almost three hundred pounds. Mort marveled at the variance in the human species.

  LionEl grunted when Mort and Jimmy introduced themselves. He took a position at the far wall, crossed his arms, and settled into an I’ve-got-better-things-to-do pose. His body, covered in a patina of sweat, glistened in the overhead light. Trademark cornrows were contained by a terry-cloth headband. A diamond stud the size of Mort’s thumbnail threw prisms of light from his earlobe.

  “This is an outrage, Officers. Mr. King needs to be out with his team. Direct any inquiries to me and let him get back to business.” Like anyone who followed basketball, Mort knew the short man with the tall demands. Lyndon Baines Johnson. Mort had used the legend of their friendship as a model for teaching his own grandkids the value of loyalty and commitment.

  “Our questions are for LionEl.” Mort calibrated his bad-cop voice to subtle intimidation. He trained his eyes on the giant against the wall. “He may be better served by a lawyer than an agent.”

  LionEl didn’t blink, but the mention of the prospects of needing an attorney sent LBJ into near apoplexy.

  “A lawyer? Why would LionEl be needing a lawyer?” LBJ rolled his shoulders in a jacket Mort was sure cost more than his mortgage payment.

  The giant spoke. “LionEl isn’t scared of you, Mr. Po-lice Man.”

  LBJ thrust a hand in his client’s direction. “Let me handle this.” He looked up at Mort. “What’s this about?”

  Mort took one step toward the Lion in Winter. “I was there when Gardener came out of nowhere to show you how the game was played. My kid got me courtside seats.” Mort looked over his shoulder to Jimmy. “I never get tired of saying that. ‘My kid got me courtside seats.’ ” He turned back to LionEl. “It’s a wondrous thing to have children who care about pleasing their old man. What did your dad think abou
t your temper display that night, LionEl? Or your pout in front of twenty thousand fans before you abandoned your team and headed off to the showers?”

  “What the hell is this?” LBJ demanded.

  Mort ignored him and kept his focus on LionEl. “You were mad as hell that night. I could feel it.” He watched for a reaction. “Wilkerson pulled you after getting a phone call. My guess is it was Vogel telling his coach to keep his superstar on the bench and let the rookie give the fans a show. Am I right?”

  “This interview ends right now.” LBJ waved his hand in his client’s direction. “Come on, LionEl. You’ve got practice and I’ve got a police chief to call.”

  LionEl stood his ground, his focus latched on Mort.

  “Let’s go, LionEl,” LBJ’s snapped.

  “Let’s see where this goes.” The corner of LionEl’s lips lifted in a humorless grin. “What’s the po-lice man with the kid who wants to please daddy got to say?”

  Mort gave a slow nod. “That must have pissed you off, to be humiliated like that. And the game in L.A.? The kid rallies the team while you’re sitting idle? Big man calls down again and the next day papers are all Barry Gardener.” Mort shook his head and huffed out a laugh. “Man, you must have been burning to be disrespected in front of millions.”

  LBJ raked fat hands through his hair. “Are you boys crazy?” He waddled in a circle. “You two are like the story about that Japanese sniper holed up in a tree on some punk-ass Pacific Island twenty years after the war was over. Somebody forgot to tell the brother his side lost. You looking to pin Vogel’s got on LionEl?” He laughed. “Read the papers. Turn on a radio. Your killer’s in the can.”

  Mort and LionEl let LBJ’s performance go unnoticed.

  “How pissed were you at Vogel, LionEl?” Mort watched the giant’s lower lip tighten. “Enough to set this up?”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” LBJ turned to Jimmy. “Are you getting this?”

  Jimmy put on his best I-can’t-take-Mort-anywhere face.