The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  “Let it go, Mother.” Pierce offered his pale hands to the officer. Ingrid cried out when the silver manacles snapped tight.

  She stepped toward Mort, her eyes now more pleading than imperial. “Is this really necessary, Detective? Pierce is a Stinson. Do we need a photograph of him walking away in handcuffs?”

  “I said stop it.” Pierce turned to Mort. “I’m glad you’re here, Detective Grant. I want this done.”

  “For God’s sake, Pierce,” Ingrid hissed. “Keep your mouth shut. Let me handle this.”

  Mort ignored her. He kept his tone gentle when addressing the broken man. “Was it Chicago? Is that what caused this?”

  Pierce was quiet for a moment. “I guess that’s as good a reason as any. Or maybe Chicago was the proverbial straw that broke this tired camel’s back.” Tears welled in his eyes. “It hasn’t seemed real. What I’ve done, I mean.”

  “Pierce, no!” Ingrid screamed. Micki placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I didn’t plan it.” Pierce’s voice had a faraway sound to it. “I found out about his canceling the lease … stopping construction on the Chicago store. I wanted to hear his reasons and have him listen to mine.” He shook his head violently. “But he wanted none of it. Kept saying he’d made up his mind. It was over.” Pierce focused on Mort. “Have you ever just had your fill, Detective? Of settling? Of always begging at the side of the table for whatever scraps might fall your way?”

  “Oh, Pierce.” Ingrid sank into a chair.

  “I was nothing to anyone,” Pierce continued. “I’m not really a Stinson. Not a Vogel, either.” He bit his lower lip. “But I foolishly thought maybe, just maybe, if I gave him what he wanted most—money—he’d come to think of me as worthy. But his mind was made up. It was over. Told me to call for the car. All he could think about was getting to the stupid basketball game.”

  “And that’s when you picked up the statue?” Mort asked.

  Pierce nodded. “It was like a reflex. At least the first blow was.” He continued to sound eerily distant. “But when I saw him collapsed at my feet, a dam burst. I kept hitting him over and over.” He closed his eyes and murmured, “I loved him so much.”

  Mort looked over to see Ingrid turn her attention to her lap and dust an unseen speck of lint off her black lace skirt.

  “Take him downtown,” Mort said to the officer. “I’ll check in with him tomorrow.”

  Pierce allowed himself to be escorted away, stopping only for a moment when he passed his mother. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” he whispered.

  Ingrid Stinson-Vogel turned her head. When the door closed behind her son, she stood to face Mort.

  “Pierce’s grief has obviously gotten the better of him. My attorney will have him out before midnight, and after a call to the mayor, I’m sure you’ll be out of a job by morning.”

  “You may want to call your lawyer for another reason. Ingrid Stinson-Vogel, you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice, accessory after the fact, and mutilation of a human corpse.”

  “You’re out of your mind. Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

  “I do. You’re the woman the cameras can’t stop watching. The woman captured on video all alone in her owner’s suite when game three began. Wearing an outfit that dazzled even Officer Petty here. You’re the woman who wasn’t available for half-time interviews, despite it being your ritual to always talk to the press.” Mort reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. “And you’re the woman wearing these during the first half of the game.”

  The blood drained from Ingrid’s face. She glanced around the room. Mort wondered if she was looking for an exit or someone to come to her rescue.

  “We found them in Reinhart’s apartment. Here’s our rough sketch. I’m sure your son can fill in the details.” Mort tossed the bagged cuff links to Jimmy, who tucked them into his pocket. “I think Pierce is telling it straight. He lost it with your husband and on impulse picked up that bronze walking-guy statue. When Vogel was dead, Pierce did what he always does when things get tough.” Mort stepped toward her. “He ran to Mommy.”

  Ingrid’s jaw twitched. “I don’t have to stand for this.” Her voice didn’t match her bravado. “This is all the speculation of an overeager city employee wanting to make his mark.”

  Mort continued. “Once Pierce was here—and we have him on camera, too—my hunch is he confessed what he did and you scooted back to the penthouse. We have video of the arena parking garage showing your car leaving just before half-time and returning about forty minutes later. Maybe you were thinking of ways to get Pierce out of this on the drive over. Trixie had been all over the headlines and you remembered her M.O. At least what we leaked to the press about it. You get to the penthouse, see your dead husband, and hatch a plan to make his murder look like a Trixie hit.” Mort pantomimed at his wrists. “You literally rolled up your sleeves and went to work. You stripped your husband naked, tied him up just like you’d read about in the papers, and left him there exposed and alone.”

  “This is nothing more than wild speculation.” Ingrid stepped away. “I want my attorney contacted immediately.”

  Mort nodded. “Okay. While you’re at it, let’s see what he has to say about the DNA on the outfit you wore for game three.” He looked at his watch. “The search at your house should be completed about now. Your housekeeper knew just what dress we needed. Said you had her take it to the cleaners the next day. But DNA doesn’t get destroyed, Ingrid. There’s always residue. We searched Pierce’s office. Picked up that bronze statue, the one you brought here after you finished with your husband. We should find both your and Pierce’s DNA mixed in with your husband’s on that.”

  Mort held Ingrid’s gaze. “You’re going away. Not for life. But so long you’ll think it was.” Mort nodded and Jimmy slipped handcuffs on Ingrid’s thin wrists. Micki started reading her Miranda as she escorted her to the elevator.

  “Not a bad night’s work, huh, partner?” Jimmy stood by the wide windows.

  Mort stared onto the basketball court and thought about the seamless flow of life. Fifty feet below, Coach Wilkerson and his roster of millionaires played their game, oblivious to the fact their owner was in the back of a police cruiser. Seattle fans would wake up tomorrow to discover the sports and crime pages merged. But for this moment the arena was filled with fans enjoying the contest. He felt the urge to stay. To hold himself in the innocent fantasy that giant men running to stuff a ball through an orange hoop was important. He glanced at the scoreboard. Twelve minutes into the first half. Los Angeles had just sunk a three-pointer that put them ahead of the Wings by seven. Mort watched LionEl take the ball in, spin free of a defender, and barrel down the hardwood. Three steps ahead of his nearest defender, LionEl spun a 360 for the showboat slam dunk, just in time for a Laker guard to crash into him. The crowd let out a unified groan as LionEl was thrown off balance and landed on his back with a thud so solid Mort swore he heard it up in the owner’s suite. The referees called time-out as the Lion in Winter lay writhing on the floor, cursing in pain.

  “Looks like LionEl’s out for the night,” Jimmy said.

  Mort watched the trainers hover over the fallen star. He saw Wilkerson standing with his team, Barry Gardener by his side. When the floor cleared for the stretcher that would take LionEl off the court, the crowd stood and applauded the man who’d given them so many seasons of great play. Mort shook his head at the short fat man in the expensive suit trotting next to the EMTs.

  He turned away and took a long look around the owner’s suite, nodding to the newly arrived forensic team coming through the door. “Bruiser’s waiting, Jimmy. And I could sure use a beer.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  “It’s a freakin’ mob scene out there.” Micki walked into Mort’s office at noon the next day with several bags of greasy hamburgers and fries, their customary celebration after cracking a case. “I had to threaten six different reporters with obstruction charges to move the
m out of my way.”

  Jimmy reached into a bag and pulled out two burgers. He unwrapped one and tossed it to the corner. Bruiser snagged it midair and settled down to enjoy his treat. “Ingrid Stinson-Vogel’s a celeb catch, kiddo. The beast needs to be fed.”

  Mort took the burger and bag of fries Micki handed him and settled behind his desk. It had been a long night of paperwork and phone calls from nervous politicians who wanted assurance the case against Pierce and Ingrid was rock solid. All mouthed the party line of wanting justice to run its course, but their jitters convinced Mort they were more concerned about returning campaign donations. He was bone tired and the anticipation of a bacon double cheeseburger was the only thing keeping him awake.

  “The kid okay?” he asked.

  “He’s been processed. Due to be arraigned tomorrow,” Jimmy said. “Jail’s got Pierce on a suicide watch. Word is he’s sitting on his cot, crying and staring at the walls. Can’t say the same about his mama.”

  Micki chewed and swallowed. “I was over there this morning. Ingrid’s cell needs a revolving door. Sports lawyers, business lawyers, estate lawyers. David Jonnell is leading the criminal stuff.”

  “Any representation for Pierce?” Mort asked.

  Jimmy shook his head. “Not yet. I think Mom’s the prize. I’m sure she’ll get him the best money can buy once she’s settled in.”

  Mort felt a wave of pity for Pierce Stinson that even the vision of Reinhart Vogel lying in a pool of blood couldn’t ease. “Keep me posted.” Mort needed a change of topic. He tapped the newspaper sitting on his desk. “Nineteen-point loss. Lakers take it in six and the Wings are out of the playoffs.”

  “And LionEl’s out of a career,” Jimmy said. “Papers are reporting four broken vertebrae. He’s headed for surgery this afternoon and many long months of rehab. Let’s hope he’s invested well.”

  Mort remembered the sneer on LionEl’s face as he told the story of meeting Allie in the Dominican Republic. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about LionEl’s stock portfolio.

  “It’s going to be interesting to see what happens to the Wings.” Micki washed down the last of her burger with an icy sip of Dr Pepper. “Owner’s in jail. So’s her only heir. The team’s privately held. I think lawyers are gonna get rich and the commissioner’s gonna get ulcers figuring this one out.”

  “I hope Barry Gardener’s okay.” Jimmy reached for a second burger. “I like the way that kid rolls.”

  Mort was about to add he did, too, when his cell phone rang. It was a ringtone he’d assigned to just one person. He grabbed his phone, told Micki and Jimmy he’d be right back, and stepped out into the hall to answer.

  “Hey there,” he said.

  “Mort Grant and his team solve another puzzler.” Her tone seemed lighter than the last time they spoke. “I’m seeing you all over the television today. Told you Trixie didn’t kill Vogel.”

  “So you did.” He was surprised how much he missed her. “Are you in town?”

  “I am. What do you say I take the crime buster of the hour out to dinner tonight?”

  “You’re on. I’m finishing up here and then I’m headed home for a nice long nap.”

  “I’m sure you need it. How about I swing by and pick you up?” He loved how relaxed she sounded. “Six o’clock good?”

  “Make it seven,” he said. “I want to be wide awake.”

  They said their goodbyes and Mort returned to his office to find three grinning faces waiting for him, two human, and one canine.

  “Only a woman would make you dart out of here like that,” Micki said.

  Mort gathered the wrappings from his lunch and stuffed them in the wastebasket. He started to load his briefcase but stopped. “Who am I kidding? I’m headed straight to bed.” He turned to his friends. “You guys can close up here, right?”

  “A hot date, Mort?” Jimmy asked. “You wanna borrow Bruiser? Women love him.”

  Mort looked at the fuzzy behemoth staring longingly at the few remaining fries in front of Jimmy. “I think I can handle this. See you guys tomorrow. And let’s have nothing happen between now and then, okay? We’ve had enough excitement.”

  Mort was playing golf with Edie. Allie and Robbie were in the cart, not quite teenagers. They were all singing a song about Ohio. Mort lined up his putt and was about to tap his ball when a clanging eruption torqued his aim. He looked up, ready to chastise the culprit breaking the etiquette of the links, only to see his children disintegrate into a million dots of color and drift away on a soft breeze. Panic stabbed as he turned to Edie. She stopped singing and graced him with loving eyes. The clang roared again. His wife disappeared into the wind. He called out for her and was answered only by the recurring din. The mist of sleep lifted and Mort determined the source. He opened his eyes, pulled himself up on one elbow, and reached for his cell phone.

  “Yeah.” Mort glanced at the bedside clock. Two minutes to six. He rubbed a hand over his face in a vain attempt to wipe away the fog.

  “Get down here fast.” Jimmy’s urgency shoved any filament of fatigue out of Mort’s consciousness. “Trixie’s loose.”

  Mort threw the comforter aside and swung his feet to the floor. “What the hell happened?” He stumbled his way to the bathroom.

  “She’s been on the run fifty minutes.” Jimmy was all business. “We got the city locked down. Airports, taxis, train and bus stations. Her mug shot is all over the television and every patrol car in the state is on alert.”

  “She on foot?” Mort tried to calculate the distance she could cover. “And how the fuck did she get loose?”

  Jimmy grumbled a half moan. “Dipshit bailiff. Trixie had a court appearance this afternoon. Routine reading of the charges. Witnesses say she doubled over a few minutes in. Her attorney asks for a recess. Wants to take her into the bathroom, see what’s what.”

  “You telling me there’s no security?” Mort gulped mouthwash, swirled the sleep out of his mouth, and spit into the sink.

  “Standard court appearance. Last of the day. Just a pair of bracelets,” Jimmy said. “Bailiff escorts Trixie and her lawyer to the bathroom, takes her cuffs off and stations himself by the door. Her lawyer takes her in. Bailiff says the lawyer rushes out a few minutes later yelling over her shoulder that Trixie got her period and is cramping like a son of a bitch. Tells the bailiff there’s blood everywhere and asks him to stand guard while she tracks feminine hygiene products. Bailiff stands there like a dickwad for nearly forty minutes before the judge’s clerk comes by asking about the holdup. Somebody finally bothers to check the bathroom.” Jimmy’s irritation came in loud and clear over the phone. “There’s blood, all right, but it’s pouring out of Judy Knoll’s nose and ears.”

  “Judy Knoll?” Mort knew the name. “Trixie’s lawyer?”

  “Now we know why Trixie kept firing the high-priced talent. We thought she went for the rookie to set up an appeal. Turns out they look enough alike that if Trixie put on her clothes and ran past some dick-for-brains with an uncle connected enough to get him a bailiff’s job, she could scoot right past him. I’m sure it didn’t hurt she was screaming about some girl on her period.”

  “The lawyer okay?” Mort pulled his shoes on.

  “She was unconscious when they found her, but the paramedics caught a pulse. She’s on her way to Harborview.”

  “Get Micki down there. Have her call me the second the lawyer’s conscious.” Mort closed the phone, grabbed his service revolver off the bureau, and headed down the stairs. He snatched his car keys from the table by the front door, crossed to the kitchen on his way to the garage, and fell to the floor when Edie’s favorite cast-iron skillet crashed into the left side of his skull.

  “Come on, Mort,” Trixie cooed as she dribbled ice water over his head. “Wake up. Our movie’s about to start.”

  Mort struggled to lift his head and electric sparks arced from one ear to the other. His right arm flexed, but wouldn’t move. He pried unwilling eyes open. It was like lookin
g through Vaseline. Slow blinks cleared his vision enough to assess his situation. He was in his kitchen. Duct-taped to a chair. Shoulders and chest secured so tightly it was work to breathe. Each ankle lashed to its own chair leg. He swallowed and tasted the bitter metal of blood.

  Trixie stepped in front of him and pushed his head up. “Wakey, wakey.” She bent to bring her nose within an inch of his. Her blue eyes soulless ice. “You’d rather be sipping that glass of Pinot with me right now, wouldn’t you?” Trixie stepped to the counter. She ran her hands over the knife block. Mort remembered the summer he bought it for Edie. He could afford the heavy wooden block and only one of the expensive Japanese knives she’d drooled over in the pages of her cooking magazine. It took him nearly four years, but he filled every slot. He loved how his wife casually found ways for guests to fawn over them.

  And now Trixie defiled it with her touch. She made a show of selecting her tool, settling finally on a long fillet knife. “Time to pay the piper, Mort.” She inched the knife from the block, turning her wrist to inspect the working end.

  I’m going to die on the same kitchen floor as Edie.

  Trixie laid the edge of the knife against his left cheek. She snapped her wrist and a surge of adrenaline laced with pain raced through him. His left arm instinctively flexed, bringing only a small hop of his chair.

  “Rethinking that apology?” Trixie’s voice was satin insanity. “Pride will cut you faster than any junkie desperate for a score.” She traced the knife down his chest and lingered at his hip. Mort saw his blood smeared on its blade, gleaming red. Her hand pulled two inches farther and she poised the knife across his thigh. “Wanna see?”

  Mort grimaced as another quick slice tore through fabric and skin and a pulse of torture stung his body. Mort’s breath came in gasps.

  Trixie lifted his chin with the knife point. He forced his eyes open despite the anguish and locked onto his assailant.

  “Nothing to say, Detective?” She dug the tip just deep enough to puncture his skin before scraping it up to his mouth. “Some nasty cat got your tongue?”