The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  Jimmy waited until Mort reached for the second envelope to leave.

  Chapter Forty

  “Where have you been?” Trixie cooed when Mort entered the interview room. “You bring that bottle of Pinot?”

  Mort set an evidence box beside him. He took a seat across the table from the woman who’d killed and mutilated at least eight men and meant his son to be number nine.

  “No hello, Mort?” Trixie struggled to look relaxed despite the heavy chains anchoring her wrists to the table and feet to the floor. “Is that any way to greet a lady?”

  He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “You want me to call you Connie? Or would you prefer Constance?”

  He enjoyed watching her pose of superiority melt away. He reached into the box, pulled out a high school yearbook, and turned to the first of several pages marked with yellow tabs.

  “Constance White. Graduate of Madison West High School. Here’s a picture of you, Connie, standing next to your French teacher.” He flipped the book and Trixie’s eyes locked onto the twenty-year-old black-and-white photo.

  “Your hair’s a different color, of course, and you’re a much healthier weight now, but there’s no mistaking that face.” Mort swung the book back around. “You had the face of an angel, Connie. Shame what you’ve grown into.”

  “Where did you get that?” Trixie yanked at her chains. “I have a right to know.”

  “You’d be surprised how few rights you have.” He turned to the next marked page. “And you’d also be surprised what we know about you. No more secrets.” He showed her another yearbook page. “For example, right here where all the other spirit-minded West High Regents have their senior photos, you don’t have one. What was it? Avoiding any photo trail even as a teenager? Or was it that your mama didn’t feel like shelling out the cost?”

  Her jaw flinched. A faint shine of sweat moistened her upper lip. Mort flashed on Robbie, unconscious in the back of that Camry, and didn’t worry about offering her a tissue to wipe it away.

  “Must have been tough for a pretty girl to go so unrecognized.” Mort set the yearbook aside and pulled a file out of the box. “Must have been even tougher having a whore for a mother.” He opened the file and read. “Stella White. A.k.a. Stella Black. A.k.a. Stella Rose.” He paused. “Not very creative, was she?” He flipped through pages. “Busted eleven times for solicitation by the Madison PD. Even longer rap sheet in Chicago. Couple of shoplifting entries, two petty thefts. If my math’s right, your mother plied her trade all the while you were growing up.” He tossed the file on top of the yearbook. “Madison’s an academic town. Lots of overly involved parents making sure their kids excel. Mommy’s career couldn’t have made you very welcome at birthday parties.”

  Connie swallowed hard. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

  “Wrong again. I know your mother was killed when a Madison Metro bus backed up and smashed her head into the pavement. City handed you a check for three hundred fifty thousand dollars five months after you graduated high school. That what you been living on? How you’ve been able to avoid a work record?”

  Connie lifted her chin, recovering a bit of her earlier swagger. “You’d be surprised how easy it is for a good-looking woman to find men willing to take care of her.”

  LionEl’s description of Allie and the drug lord flared. Mort forced himself back to the moment. “You slipped up, Connie. We have your fingerprints now. DNA. You’ve been in custody, what? Little more than twenty-four hours?” He sifted through sheets of paper. “You may not have been popular back in Madison, but a whole lot of people want to get next to you now. Here’s an invitation from Wheeling, West Virginia. Seems your prints were all over the Dairy Queen bathroom where a local prom queen was found stabbed seventeen years ago.” He glanced up. “You would have been a teenager yourself. Was that your first? Maybe getting even with all those kids who didn’t have time for you back in Wisconsin?” He shifted to another sheet. “The honor of your presence is also requested in Corpus Christi. Four prostitutes got their throats slit nine years ago. What was that? Mom stuff? Trail went cold when the fingerprints at the scene matched nothing in the databases. Man, I know that feeling.” He shook his head. “They give the needle in Texas, Connie. And those Rangers don’t stop till there’s someone to shove it into.” Mort leaned in. “Did that scare you? That why you changed your M.O.? Did you think you’d throw us all for a loop switching from knives to rope?” Mort set the reports aside. “We got you now, Trixie. Tell me where the next fax is going to come from.”

  She said nothing. The smallest smile tugged at her full lips.

  “You think it’s over?” Her smile blossomed. “Remember that bet I made you? A thousand dollars I’d never see the inside of a prison? What do you say we make it more interesting? Say … ten thousand. Can you cover that, Mort?”

  “You threatening suicide? That your way out?” Mort returned his items to the box and called for the guard. “We have you so locked down you won’t be able to hiccup without ten monitors going off. You’re not leaving this life until you’ve memorized every square inch of a very small concrete cell.”

  Three armed escorts entered the room. Two held Connie’s arms while the third unlocked her chains from the floor and the desk. Connie ignored them as they pulled her to her feet.

  “You like movies, Mort?” She turned her head and laughed when he ignored her. “Get ready for the final scene.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Lydia bent on one knee, held Maizie’s hands, and looked her square in the eye. “You can do this. You’ve done tougher.”

  Maizie looked over her shoulder. “But there’s so many of them.”

  Lydia glanced into the reading room of the Langley library. Nine kids, mostly girls, chattered and picked their spots as a woman dressed in flowing velvet robes called them in for story time.

  “I don’t like being read to.” Maizie focused on her feet. “Can’t we just go for a walk and have a picnic?”

  “You like it fine when I read to you.” Lydia ran a finger comb through Maizie’s tangle of curls. “Besides, it might be fun to hang with kids your own age, huh? Do you know any of them?”

  “That one in the green slicker was in my grade. I saw her eat paste once.”

  “And I’ve seen you lick ice cream off a rock. Already you two have something in common.” She spun the girl around and gave her a gentle nudge. “Try it, kiddo. I’ve got a special lunch packed. You give this a go and we’ll hike anywhere you want.”

  Maizie looked unsure. She shifted her attention to the mothers saying their goodbyes.

  “Can you stay?”

  Lydia squeezed Maizie’s shoulder. “This is just for kids.” She pointed across the library. “I’ll be right there. Come tell me all about it when you’re done, okay?”

  Maizie mumbled a halfhearted agreement and shuffled into the room. She chose a spot removed from the other kids and looked back when the storyteller urged her forward. Lydia nodded encouragement and stayed until Maizie leaned in, captured by the talented velvet-robed lady’s tale.

  Lydia crossed the library and settled into what had become “their” spot and pulled out her electronic tablet. The cottage she was renting didn’t have Internet access. What she was looking for didn’t require the security necessitating another trip to Olympia, so the library’s Wi-Fi was a convenient option. She entered the access password and began her search.

  She keyed in Maizie Dunfield and waited. Langley’s library didn’t have the high-speed response of her own installation, but it wasn’t long before a few dozen options appeared on her screen. Lydia scrolled past several sites that were obviously not the little girl currently engrossed in a mystical tale of wizards and fairies. She found what she was looking for on the second page and clicked to Maizie’s birth certificate, pleased that hospital regulations demanded Gary Dunfield comply with state laws and register the live birth of his daughter.

  Maizie had been small, le
ss than six pounds and only seventeen inches long. Lydia scrolled down the official document to information about Maizie’s mother. Hannah Louise Dunfield. Maiden name, Roswell. Lydia learned Hannah had been born twenty-two years before her daughter in Camden, Maine.

  Lydia jotted down the information and keyed in another search. Hannah Louise Dunfield, Langley, WA. The computer didn’t keep her waiting long before it produced six items. One was a link back to Maizie’s birth certificate, another to Hannah’s marriage license. Lydia scanned the record attesting to the wedding of Gary and Hannah Dunfield and jotted down the names of the bride’s parents. The remaining four entries were links to police reports. Lydia read the official papers documenting three visits from Langley police officers spanning an eight-month period. She recalled librarian George’s description of Hannah explaining her bruises with tales of her own clumsiness. He said she’d come in one last time, her arm in a cast. The final police report was Dunfield’s filing of his wife’s disappearance.

  Her next search centered on Hannah’s parents. Within minutes she learned both Maizie’s maternal grandparents were dead of natural causes. Hannah had a younger sister, Rebecca, who married Aaron Farraday at Saint Thomas’s Episcopal Church in Camden six years earlier. Four years ago they had a daughter they named Bella. Rebecca and Aaron had a family webpage filled with photos and news items. Maizie’s little cousin shared her blue eyes and tiny frame. Bella smiled in every photo. Lydia wondered if Maizie’s smile could ever be that broad and easy.

  She ended her search of Hannah’s family and glanced over to the reading room. Velvet Robe had the children up and moving as she strummed what looked like a lute. Maizie held Paste Eater’s hand as they made their way through a courtly folk dance. Lydia was about to shut down her tablet when an impulse brought her to key in one more search.

  Bane & Friends Olympia WA

  Oliver’s official website was the first hit. Lydia clicked and saw photos of patrons enjoying their daily cup in the coffee shop’s warm interior. She scrolled past articles on the history of the shop, Oliver’s philosophy of roasting and brewing, and a description of the special blend of the day. She clicked on the tab marked Staff. A tug pulled at her gut when Oliver’s gentle, bespectacled face smiled out from the screen. She traced a finger along his jaw and rested it on his lips.

  Lydia read the brief bios beneath the baristas who were so familiar to her. There was the pierced and tattooed Goth who’d been with Oliver from the beginning, the dreadlocked fellow with the easy grin, and the middle-aged blonde who called every customer “doll.” Two staff members were new to her: a gray-haired man with kind eyes and a grinning kid with impossibly large ears who listed his greatest accomplishment as “graduating from Capital High this year.”

  There was a photo of Callie in a sidebar on the staff page.

  Callie Barker, a familiar face to Bane & Friends, leaves us to seek new adventures Down Under. We wish her all the best as she explores a new life in Australia. Somewhere in the great outback a coffee shop is about to get a little classier.

  Lydia read the brief article several times. She flipped through the tabs of Oliver’s website, but found no more information about Callie’s departure. She struggled not to read anything into it. She’d treated him poorly. She didn’t deserve to know what was happening in his life.

  A clamor of children’s voices pulled her back. Story time was over and mothers were trying to corral charged-up kids. Maizie made a beeline toward Lydia as few vibrant ribbons trailed from a clip in her hair.

  “Look at these!” Maizie pulled the rainbow strands forward. “It’s like I’m a human maypole. Wanna see the dance?” She didn’t wait for a response before she demonstrated a few steps. Lydia applauded and asked if she’d teach her.

  “Let’s go.” Maizie pulled on Lydia’s arm. “I’ll tell you the story on our picnic.”

  “Just a minute, okay?” Lydia looked down to close her screen. On impulse she clicked the Contact Us tab. She typed her first name, phone number, and hit Send before she could rethink her move.

  Lydia tucked her tablet into her bag. “C’mon. I can’t wait to hear this story.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Charlotte pulled a bottle of Scotch from her desk drawer. “You need something more than coffee.” She poured three fingers into two glasses and handed one to Mort. “This isn’t about Nancy, is it? My God. I still can’t believe she’s Trixie.”

  He’d been heading home. Despite being weary to his bones after the day’s events, he drove two miles out of his way in order to go past CLIP headquarters. He saw her SUV and pulled in.

  He savored the smooth burn of the Scotch. “Her name’s Connie White. I got at least four jurisdictions looking to tie her to killings.” He settled onto the sofa. Charlotte took a seat at the opposite end.

  She took a small sip from her glass. “Tracking down a serial killer hasn’t got you this bent out of shape. What’s going on?”

  Mort rested his left arm on the sofa’s back and wished Charlotte was four inches closer. A lock of hair teased her eyelashes. He wanted to brush it away.

  “Long day’s all.” He stretched forward to put his glass on her desk. “While I appreciate the booze, I don’t think it’s going to help.”

  Charlotte tucked her legs up under her. “I’m right here, Mort. Tell me.”

  He pivoted for a better view. Her skin glowed in the soft light. Her blue eyes shone with an enthusiasm for life he remembered feeling once. Impulsively he reached for her hand and was grateful when she gave it. He rubbed his thumb over her smooth nails and smiled at their delicate shade of pink. He’d forgotten women take time for manicures.

  “Is this about Robbie?” she asked.

  Mort shook his head. It felt like a year since he’d put his son on a Paris-bound jet. Einstein’s right, he thought. Time is an illusion. He squeezed Charlotte’s hand, took a deep breath, and decided to trust.

  “I have a daughter named Allie.” Charlotte’s quiet nod encouraged him. “I haven’t seen her in nearly three years.”

  The words came easier than he had imagined. He began with tales of his exceptional girl. “To say she was the apple of our eyes is about as strong an understatement as you can make. Probably every father says that, right?”

  “I’m not interested in what every father says. I want to hear more from you.”

  “She wasn’t the easiest child. All that intelligence and bravado.” He rubbed a hand over his head. “She worked hard to give me these gray hairs.”

  “Salt and pepper looks good on you.” Charlotte traced a thumb over his hand. “I’ll have to send her a thank-you note.”

  Mort felt the heaviness that always accompanied thoughts of Allie. “I’d love for you to meet her. My fear is I’ll never see her again.” He continued his story of adolescent Allie. Her never-ending appetite for stimulation. “It didn’t matter what it was. School, sports, boys. Edie and I tried every parenting tool we could muster. Grounding, warning, pleading, none of it worked. Neither did weekly appointments with psychologists. She was determined to experience everything all at once.” The familiar pain behind his eyes burned. “Almost like she was afraid she’d die young and had to take life while she could.”

  “You and Edie must have been scared out of your wits.”

  It had been too long since he had felt this safe. He knew Charlotte could absorb his deepest fears. Pull them from him. Bury them deep and promise him he’d survive.

  “Tell me about the last time you saw her,” Charlotte whispered.

  He allowed himself to give words to the image that never left his consciousness. The biggest dealer on the West Coast had just been arrested after a yearlong sting, and Mort had wanted in on the action. His voice choked as he described the moment his world shifted on its axis. Seeing Allie in handcuffs, hearing the undercovers describe her as the kingpin’s girlfriend, unaware she was his daughter.

  “They told me they’d never seen her use. That it appeared
she was just a thrill-seeker along for the ride with the baddest bad boy.” Mort bit his bottom lip. “She looked at me with such shame.” Several seconds passed. “And I let them take her away. I watched my own daughter get shoved into the back of a police cruiser and I did nothing.”

  He reached for his Scotch and took a long, hard swallow. “It was almost the end for me and Edie. But I stood my ground against her pleading and insisted a night in the slammer might stop Allie’s race down a very dangerous road.” He looked at his glass and knew liquor wasn’t what he needed. “When I got to the station the next morning, ready with my lecture, she was gone. Two lawyers got there before me and bailed both Allie and the kingpin out. I haven’t seen her since.”

  Charlotte took the glass from his hand, set it aside, and slid closer to him. “Does she know Edie’s passed?”

  Mort shrugged. “I have no way of knowing. In fact, I knew nothing of her life after that moment until today.”

  “You heard from her?” The hope in Charlotte’s question twisted the razor slicing behind his eyes.

  “Heard about her.” He relayed the story LionEl told. His daughter was living a life financed on human misery. “She’s my girl, Charlotte. The six-year-old who painted my toenails blue when I fell asleep on the sofa.” His breath grew shallow. His pulse pounded. “A drug whore who has some overpaid basketball wizard offering a million bucks to take her to bed.”

  Charlotte pulled him into an embrace. She stroked the back of his neck as he leaned into her. Mort felt her strength battle his failings. The warmth of her body erased the chill he hadn’t been able to shake since he’d found Robbie in the trunk of that Toyota. He inhaled her scent and let it chase away his ache. He pulled away, looked into her blue eyes, and dove into the comfort women have provided wounded men since the dawn of time. He kissed her, and the tenderness of the ages greeted him in response.