by T. E. Woods
“You wanted to talk to me.” Mort wanted out of that room. “Why?”
Trixie smoothed a long-fingered hand over the rough fabric of her jumpsuit. “I’m not a woman who gives second chances, Mort, but as I said, I like you. I’m offering you a unique opportunity.” Her gaze was that of a disappointed schoolmarm chastising an errant pupil. “I’ve asked you here to hear your apology. Offer it now, sincerely and contritely, and all will be forgiven.”
Mort had come to the jail expecting some sort of manipulation from Trixie, but this caught him off guard. He turned to Jimmy and his friend’s wide-eyed stare telegraphed his own surprise.
“What the hell am I supposed to apologize for? You put your hands on my son, you fucking nut job. The only thing I’m sorry for is that I didn’t tear your head right off your shoulders.”
Trixie’s hands remained crossed serenely in her lap. “Any danger Robbie was in was your own doing, Mort. You know that.”
Mort kicked his chair back and towered over the petite woman locked in chains. Jimmy sprang to his feet and pulled him away.
“Easy there, partner.” Jimmy inched him back. “Big Brother’s watching. Besides, this whack case is headed to six-by-eight concrete till Jesus comes back. Let it be.”
Trixie seemed unaffected by Mort’s outburst. “You served a purpose. And I liked you. Still do, despite your poor manners. But you brought Robbie’s adventure on all by yourself when you announced I was responsible for killing that Donald Trump wannabe. You disappointed me. I had to teach you a lesson in respect. Ask any hunter. They’ll tell you the key to success is respecting your prey. You insulted me. Your own behavior put your son in play.”
“So you want me to apologize for my stupidity?” Mort knew her game now. Perform for the cameras. Lay the groundwork for an insanity defense.
“That would be nice. Add to it the disrespect for not being up to the challenge of having me as an adversary.” Her tone switched to indulgent mother. “And I’m a lady like any other. Vain when I know I shouldn’t be. You tackled me and badly scratched my face. I’m sure you didn’t mean it, but you hurt me nonetheless. I’m owed a statement of sincere regret for that. Offer it to me now and we’ll move past your regrettable failings.”
Mort shook his head and patted Jimmy on his shoulder. “Well, the last hour wasn’t a total loss. Least I have a good story to tell over the next Guinness I get Larry to buy me. C’mon, partner. That steak’s sounding good.”
Jimmy called for the guard.
“Apologize now, Mort.” Trixie’s voice had taken on an irritated edge.
Mort ignored her as he stepped to the door. “Call Micki. Tell her dinner’s on me.”
“I won’t offer this chance again, Detective,” Trixie screeched. “Ask my forgiveness now or deal with the consequences.”
“Let’s see what Larry’s up to. Make it a real party.” The guards opened the door while Trixie screamed for attention.
“She’s all yours, gentlemen.” Mort could hear her shouted vows of revenge all the way to the elevator.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Lydia held Gary Dunfield’s face in her mind as she oiled the barrel of the Beretta Px4. The evening had become a familiar meditation as she assembled and cleaned her gear. Four boxes of ammunition and two automatic magazines sat beside a backup Beretta 92. She doubted she’d need the laser sight, but she’d take it in case Dunfield’s lizard instincts kicked in and he made a run for it.
Lydia didn’t plan to give him time for that.
She glanced at the clock. Eight fifty-three. The sun had long set. Endless black haunted her at every window. She packed the guns into the canvas bag and carried it to the bedroom. She should go to bed. She had a busy day tomorrow.
But she wasn’t tired. Her body buzzed an electric vibration energizing every cell. When she inhaled, odors were distinct and identifiable. The kitchen was two rooms away, yet the hum of the refrigerator was a Chevy hemi daring her to race. She closed her eyes and focused on her ankles, then shifted her attention to her forehead. Sure enough, she could detect the slight temperature difference in the air. When she opened her eyes, the colors in the dim room glowed as though lit from within.
She was ready. It had been too long since she’d felt this invincible.
Lydia went back to the living room and poured herself a glass of merlot. She sat at the dining room table and clicked on the stereo. Diana Krall’s sultry voice filled the room. Lydia reached for her phone.
No messages. No texts.
Leaving her contact information on Oliver’s website was an impulse she regretted. Oliver deserved a woman as open and forthright as he was. Any honest involvement between the two of them was impossible. If he knew she’d spent six years as The Fixer, the least she could expect was abandonment. He could just as likely make one call and assure the rest of her days were spent in a very small prison cell.
And there was no way he, or anyone, could know what she was planning for tomorrow.
But he hadn’t called her. He’d made his decision. Lydia closed her eyes and let another sip of wine carry warmth to the pain in her core.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“There’s a Detective Morton Grant here to see you.” The woman behind the reception desk listened for a moment. She hung up and dazzled Mort with the megawatt smile available only to twenty-somethings whose greatest disappointment in life was that delayed flight to Cancun last spring break. “He’ll be right out.” Mort thanked her and turned his scrutiny to the reception area of Rainy Day world headquarters.
“Detective Grant?”
Mort recognized the fair-haired man. Mid-thirties, just at six feet. He shook Pierce Stinson’s hand and felt a grip firmer than his slight build would have telegraphed. Stinson led the way back to his office. After the ritual asking-and-declining of beverages, Mort offered his condolences for Vogel’s death.
“Thank you.” Stinson looked like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks. “It’s been a difficult time for all of us. Mother especially.” He took his place behind his desk. “She told me you were very kind when you spoke to her. I appreciate that.”
Mort knew the searing, soul-deep stab inflicted by losing a spouse unexpectedly. “How’s she holding up?”
Stinson took several seconds to answer. When he did, his voice was choked. “My mother is stronger than I ever comprehended.”
Mort softened his approach. “This has to be rough on you. Your mother tells me Reinhart was the only father you ever knew.”
“My mother told you that?” Stinson bristled.
Mort was intrigued by the man’s reaction to an innocent remark. “Did I get it wrong?”
Stinson regained his composure. Still, his smile was forced and thin. “No, no, Detective. You’re absolutely right. Bird …” His smile disappeared. “Forgive me, ‘Bird’ was my pet name for Reinhart. Bird was, indeed, my father. At least in my eyes. I’m just a bit surprised my mother recognized it.”
“Was there a problem with that?”
Stinson took his time answering. “My mother’s not given to sentimentality. My relationship with Bird was something she never fully understood, or so I thought.” He looked down at his hands. “Apparently, I was wrong. It’s nice to know she appreciates what Bird means …” Again his voice choked. “What Bird meant to me.”
“And now you’re running Rainy Day.”
Another lag before answering. Mort remembered the dulling sluggishness of grief.
“He’s left large shoes,” Stinson said.
“I’m sure you make him proud.” Mort shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with pressing someone so obviously drowning in sorrow. “What can you tell me to help me better understand your stepfather?”
Stinson’s jaw churned. He pushed himself clear of his desk, crossed to a wall of shelves, and repositioned some trinkets on display. “You’re asking how Bird could find himself with a hooker who turned out to be a serial killer.” He kept his back to Mort as he moved to
a credenza and shifted the placement of a stylized bronze statue. “You have that woman in custody. Trixie. Perhaps that’s a question best answered by her.”
Mort ran a hand across his chin and gave his best Columbo performance. “Trixie isn’t talking, I’m afraid. You know how it is once people lawyer up.”
Mort watched him shuffle back to his desk, aware that loss crippled faster than any bullet or virus. “I have to make sure our case against her is airtight,” he continued. “Don’t want some slick attorney pulling on a loose end and unraveling our good work. Did Reinhart have any friends? Anybody who might know how he came to have Trixie in his penthouse?”
Mort was about to repeat his questions when Pierce Stinson finally answered. “Bird built an empire. With a small investment from my mother, he built a series of businesses worth in excess of four hundred million dollars.” He gave a sarcastic laugh. “And it didn’t take him three generations to do it. You don’t accomplish that by taking time to attend to a social life. He had business contacts and he had family. My mother and me. We’re it.”
Mort wondered if Pierce held to the same social isolation as Reinhart Vogel. Was there anyone beyond his mother who could support him in his grief? Despite the Stinsons’ endless wealth, he felt sorry for him. He stood and offered a handshake.
“Thanks for taking the time. I told your mother I’d keep her up to speed on our investigation. I’m offering you the same. You have any questions, or if there’s anything I should know, call me.”
Mort waved to the receptionist on the way out. He was halfway down the stairs when a tight-bodied redhead wearing a deep purple jogging suit called his name from several steps below. She hurried her pace and stopped one step below him. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that horrible grilling you gave me?” Her broad smile indicated she held no grudges.
“Good morning, Felicia. You look chipper.”
“Well, it’s a lovely morning. I’m on my way to sign some papers that will make me a very rich girl. If that doesn’t deserve chipper, I don’t know what does.”
Mort nodded at two employees climbing the stairs and waited for them to pass. “Now, Felicia.” He kept his tone as playful as hers. “Picking the bones of the dead? You don’t strike me as someone who’d go after the wallet of the married man she’d been sleeping with. No matter how wealthy he was.”
She wrinkled her upturned nose and smoothed his collar, letting her hand linger a heartbeat longer than necessary. “And you don’t strike me as a man who’d be as mean to me as you were at the station.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Not unless I wanted you to, of course.”
He pulled back. She laughed. There was nothing uglier than a gorgeous woman who used her beauty to manipulate. They all thought they were special, but Mort knew a dime a dozen was too high a price.
“Relax, Detective.” Felicia geared down several notches and shifted to bragging. “I don’t have to pick anyone’s pockets. Fit with Felicia is a gold mine. Reinhart let his arrogance get in the way of business. Pierce is smarter than that.” She brushed a hand under her hair and released a crimson cascade across her shoulders. “In six months I’ll be on every prime-time talk show, teaching America how to beat the middle-aged spread. Chicago’s just the beginning.”
It never ceased to amaze Mort how narcissists assumed everyone knew every detail of their self-assessed-as-fascinating lives. He didn’t know what she alluded to, but bluffed and hoped she’d bite. “Big plans?”
Felicia nodded. “Carved in stone and upstairs awaiting my Jane Hancock. I learned my lesson with Reinhart. I’m not trusting anything to promises. As soon as Pierce said we were back on, I got myself a lawyer. She cooked up a no-backing-out contract.”
“Well, I better let you get to it, then.” He jerked a thumb behind him. “Go get rich and I’ll tell everyone I knew you when.”
She wiggled her hips and scooted past him, saying something about getting together for lunch sometime. Mort hurried down the stairs. He waited until he was out on the street to call Micki.
He had another dig job for her.
Chapter Fifty
The final coroner’s report greeted Mort back at the office. Doc Conner ruled Vogel’s death was the result of a blow to his left temporal lobe somewhere between 6:30 and 7:00 p.m. Tox screens showed Vogel had no alcohol or drugs in his system when he died.
He pulled the X-ray of Vogel’s head and traced a finger around the shattered area of skull. Relatively small, about the size of a large walnut. The damage suggested something round, heavy, and pointed. A knock on his office door interrupted his speculation as to possible weapons. He looked up and his heartbeat quickened.
“If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed …” Charlotte smiled and waited for Mort to wave her in. “I hope I’m welcome.”
He slipped the X-ray back into the folder. “Of course you are. Please, sit down.” Mort flashed to sixth grade when pretty little Lissa Morgenstern caught him staring when he should have been studying dividing fractions. He recalled feeling trapped and ashamed.
He felt the same way now.
“No time to sit. I’m running errands and wanted to speak with you before I left.” Charlotte wore a sweater that made Mort think of blueberries and cream.
“I should have called, I know. Charlotte, it’s this case. It’s …”
She rescued him before any excuse embarrassed them both. “We’re both busy.” The look in her eyes told him she hadn’t forgotten their kiss.
“Listen, Charlotte. I’m sorry. About the other night, about not calling. About a lot of things.” He shook his head clear. “Wait a minute. You said you wanted to talk to me before you left. Where are you going?”
“Washington, D.C.” She checked her watch. “My flight leaves in just over two hours. I wanted to make sure I said goodbye.”
The way she said “goodbye” tugged at his gut. He stepped closer and took her hands in his. “How long will you be gone?”
She squeezed his fingers gently before pulling her hands free. “My board of directors has been after me for months to open an office in D.C. We need to be close to where policy is formed. Get familiar with the players.”
“So you’re scouting office space. Any chance you’ll be back by next weekend?”
Charlotte hesitated and Mort knew he wasn’t going to like what was coming. “I’ve set up several meetings. I’ve also agreed to do some speaking engagements with local groups in Virginia and Maryland.” She looked away. “I really don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
Mort closed his office door. He leaned against it, hoping on some level he could keep her in his life by the sheer weight of his body against the exit. “Listen, Charlotte. I know I could have handled that whole kiss thing better.”
She raised her eyes and her warmth radiated across the room to caress his face. “You’re still in love with Edie.” She paused. “You’ll be ready to move forward someday. But it’s not going to happen now. I don’t want to invest myself … my heart … in something that’s doomed simply because the timing’s wrong. I have a strong feeling you and I could be terrific. Let’s not ruin it by forcing it.”
He stepped toward her. Words of protest formed, only to be silenced by the wisdom of his heart. She was right. And too smart to be talked into something they both knew was wrong.
“We’ll stay in touch?”
She reached a soft hand to his cheek. “I’m not changing my number.” She pulled her hand away and let her voice grow light. “And until the Crystal closes, I’ll know where you are every Thursday at five-thirty.”
He wished he could meet Charlotte’s jovial tone. “Give ’em hell in D.C.” He wanted to kiss her. Seal that promise of greatness Charlotte felt awaited them. But Micki, Jimmy, and Bruiser’s boisterous entry stopped him.
“Hey, Charlotte.” Jimmy stepped in front of Mort and gave her a hug.
Charlotte shared small talk with Micki and Jimmy and bent down to give Bruiser a long embrace. She
made a show of the time and fretted the plane would leave without her. She gave one last look to Mort and hurried out of the office, promising them all she’d see them soon.
Mort kept his eyes on her until she turned the far corner of the building.
“Whoa. We didn’t scare her off, did we?” Jimmy tossed his notebook on the table and took a seat. “Looked like we interrupted a moment.”
Micki took a seat beside Jimmy, and Bruiser settled down by the door. Mort stood watching the empty hall.
“Mort.” Micki’s voice was gentle. “Come see what we’ve got. You’re gonna like it.”
Edie always teased him his romance bone was wrapped in arthritis. Mort promised himself if he ever got another chance with Charlotte, he’d exercise it more. He grabbed his notebook and sat down with his team.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Whaddya want first?” Jimmy asked. “Trixie or the latest from the No Fly Zone?”
Mort wanted to focus on Vogel’s case, but his gut told him to keep an eye on Trixie. “What’s the latest with our gal in the slammer?”
Jimmy flipped a few pages. “She’s keeping them hopping, that’s for sure. She’s burned through four lawyers in less than two days.”
Mort frowned. “I thought David Jonnell was itching to defend her. Pro bono. His retainers typically start at six figures. Why’d she turn down the free services of such a hot shot?”
“Beats the hell outta me, but she did. Told the judge she couldn’t work with the next three he offered, either. But when Judy Knoll showed up, Trixie took an immediate shine and told the judge she’d found her lawyer.”