by T. E. Woods
“Staz?” Allie took one step closer to Lydia. “No. He’ll stay out here. I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced. I’ve been in the area a few days and wanted to make certain I saw you.” She leaned forward and looked down Lydia’s entryway. “You’re alone, of course. Like always?”
Lydia didn’t reply. Instead, she stepped aside and let Allie pass. A whispered scent of roses trailed in Allie’s wake. Lydia gave another look toward the man standing motionless beside the Mercedes. Then she closed and locked the door.
Allie looked surprised. “That’s not necessary,” she said.
Lydia walked down her entry hall toward where Allie stood in the living room. “What isn’t?”
“Locking the door.” Allie slipped out of her trench coat and draped it over the arm of the sofa. “No one’s here to harm you. But if I wanted Staz to come inside, surely you know no lock would stop him.” She pointed to the wineglass on the table. “Do you have a glass for me? Merlot is your drink, if I recall. Never the highest quality, but always a very good label. Am I right?”
“Why are you here, Allie?”
Allie ignored her question. Instead, she took her time surveying the room. “Your home is as lovely as ever. You have excellent taste.” She nodded toward the large bank of windows. “Sadly, the sun has left us. I’ve been all around the world and I have to say, your view here rivals the best I’ve experienced. I would love to have seen it again.”
“The last time you were here you had a helicopter’s view.” Lydia resumed her spot on the sofa and pointed an invitation to the chair next to it.
“That was a dark night, too.” Allie sat and crossed her long legs at the knee. “But let’s not dwell on the past. You were kind to me, Lydia. When Daddy brought me here, you didn’t need to take me in, but you did. I’ll always be grateful for that. It was a very difficult period in my life.”
Lydia was impressed with how lightly Allie characterized that time. Her manipulation of Lydia could have resulted in both their deaths. And her betrayal of her lover, her father, her brother, and several federal and international law enforcement agencies was near biblical in scope.
“What do you want, Allie?” Lydia asked again. “Why are you here?”
Allie tilted her head, her blue eyes wide and soft. She spoke in the timid voice of a vulnerable child. “Do you have so many friends that you can be cold to the person who only wants to thank you for your generosity?” She glanced down at her hands. “I know I don’t. I was hoping we could talk. If only for a short while. I’d love to hear stories of Mort Grant and that houseboat of his. Has he taken up fishing?”
Lydia felt like she was back in her office, evaluating a patient who had so lost touch with reality she was living in a world of her own design. A world in which she could make small talk with a woman she’d arranged to have assaulted about a man she’d tried her best to destroy.
“Really, Allie? You’ve come all this way to have a chat with me?”
Allie met Lydia’s incredulous stare with warm, pleading eyes. “Would that be so difficult to believe? A pleasant conversation about simple matters sounds very appealing to me. My work takes me to so many places. It doesn’t allow much time for friendships.”
“I can imagine. International crime doesn’t allow you to stay in one place very long, does it?” Lydia almost regretted the cruelty in her tone.
Allie rested one hand over the other, staring down at them for several moments. When she lifted her eyes back toward Lydia, her voice was quiet but direct. “You seem to have found a way.”
Lydia’s breath quickened at the reference to her life as The Fixer. Allie had made the connection during her time living under Lydia’s protection. It hadn’t taken long for Allie to come to the realization that Lydia, her father’s mysterious new friend, was indeed The Fixer her father had been hunting the year before.
“Why are you here, Allie?” Lydia forced herself to remain calm.
Allie heaved a heavy sigh. “Once again, I need your help.”
Lydia was again struck with Allie’s ability to overlook her previous abuse of everyone who had tried so hard to protect her. She pushed away the instinct to consider various diagnoses that might explain her obvious expectation that despite all the chaos she’d rained down on everyone who loved her, Lydia would stand ready to help her again.
“What is it you want?”
Allie sighed softly, as though steeling herself to make the request. “I’m asking for your support as I try to reestablish a relationship with my family. I pose no threat to anyone. I need you to let my father know that.”
Lydia studied her and contemplated the epic audacity of the woman seated several feet from her. “How in the world do you expect me to do that?”
Allie’s smile was hopeful. “You’re the only one who can. I haven’t been the daughter of Mort Grant’s dreams. How’s that for an understatement? The last time we visited, I used him. I’ll admit that. I told him many lies, and those lies led him to lose face with his colleagues. As such, it’s highly unlikely my father would believe me when I tell him the truth. And the truth is that I miss my family. I want us to be close again. But he would believe you. In many ways, you’re the daughter he deserves.” She paused. “He loves you.”
Lydia balked at her description of Mort’s feelings for her. “He’s seen the video, Allie. The video of that little girl’s death. The death you ordered.”
Allie was silent for several moments. Lydia waited to see if she’d offer a denial or feign ignorance of the crime all together. But what Allie finally said stunned her.
“That girl was Chris Novak’s daughter.” Allie’s voice was as calm as if she was describing the weather she’d encountered on her drive to Lydia’s home. “Chris was the local manager of an operation under my control.”
“Your father told me about the prostitution ring you ran. He knows everything.”
Lydia wasn’t sure if the flash she glimpsed in Allie’s eyes was shame or rage. It disappeared too swiftly for further assessment. “Then he knows Chris was using the women in my employ as sacrifices in snuff films. It was an enterprise I did not, nor would ever, condone. Young women died as a result of Chris’s behavior. I demanded he stop on more than one occasion. Each time he ignored me. I couldn’t allow innocent women to continue to be killed. I had to do something to stop it.” She gave Lydia a firm, unwavering stare. “You would have done the same.”
Lydia steeled herself again at Allie’s reference to The Fixer’s activities. She was right. Lydia would have done something to stop those snuff films from continuing. But she never would have harmed an innocent in order to stop the guilty. Allie didn’t know that Delbe Jensen, the last of Allie’s “employees” killed, had been a patient of Lydia’s. And no one knew she had done something to ensure the man behind the snuff films would never make another.
“You know it’s the truth, Lydia.” Allie’s blue eyes softened again. “I miss my family. My work finds me in a position of what some would call power. I…” She paused as though thinking of the right word. “I supervise a great number of people and manage a significant financial enterprise. As you can imagine, people treat me in whatever way they need to to stay on my good side. But that’s not real love.” She looked away for a moment. “I haven’t felt that since Patrick, actually.”
And look how well that turned out for him, Lydia thought. Dead at the hands of a murderer you sent. A murderer you then took as a lover.
“I have a lot to offer my family,” said Allie, justifying her outrageous request. “Financial security. Travel. Access to a world they’d never be able to experience without me standing next to them.”
For an instant, Lydia felt sympathy for Allie. They were alike in some ways. Both lived in a dangerous and lonely world. Both had constructed that world based on their own decisions and behaviors.
But I’m not like you, Allie. I don’t hurt for personal gain. I don’t hurt for sport. Lydia looked around her exquisite home, th
en shook her head at her own hypocrisy.
“I can’t do it, Allie.” Lydia kept her voice level. She understood she was in no position to judge. “What’s going on between you and your father has to remain between the two of you. Talk to Mort. Tell him your plans. Tell him what you need and listen, really listen, to what he needs from you. He loves you, Allie. Despite everything, I know he does.”
“You’re saying no, then.” Allie stood and took her trench coat from the sofa’s arm.
Lydia stood, too. She nodded. “I’m saying I can’t…run interference for you.”
Allie held Lydia’s gaze. She reached into the pocket of her trench coat, pulled out a small square box, and handed it to Lydia. Lydia opened it and bit her bottom lip to keep from reaching behind her back for the Beretta. She’d seen the medal nestled in the box before.
It belonged to Oliver Bane.
Lydia felt the memories rush over her. She’d seen the medal in Oliver’s house. He’d been awarded it years earlier by the Washington Association of Sheriffs and Police Chiefs for his work in successfully prosecuting a statewide cartel of meth producers. It was a prized possession of his—a reminder that sometimes, just maybe, the good guys could win.
“This is from that fellow I met,” Allie told her. “He owns a coffee shop I stopped in this afternoon. He is such a dear. And so eager to tell this newcomer to his city all the spots I needed to visit.” Her smile lingered. “It didn’t take much to convince him the first spot this lonely visitor needed to see was his home. And, like I said, one thing led to another. His lovemaking left something to be desired by way of technique, but still…he seemed so genuine and was sweet afterward. Promised to buy breakfast if I stayed the night. But, of course, I needed to come see you. So I tucked him in, kissed that adorable mop of hair, and left him to dream of me. I don’t know what possessed me to pick this up on my way out. Maybe you could find a way to get it back to him?”
Allie walked toward the front door, then turned.
“Please reconsider, Lydia. A word of support from you would go a long way toward helping me heal my relationship with my family.” Allie tilted her beautiful head and smiled. Her tone was playful as she made one last attempt to charm. “You know me: I always find a way to get what I want. You might as well just give in now.”
Lydia watched from her doorway as the luxury sedan carried its elegant passenger back down the long driveway. When she saw the rear lights turn right on Island View Drive, she closed and locked the door.
Then she threw Oliver’s medal against the far wall.
Chapter 21
“You guys want something to eat?” Bilbo Runyan settled his lanky body down on the top step of Carlton Smydon’s porch. He pulled a pack of Camels from the pocket of his flannel shirt and shook out one filterless cigarette. “I’m not much of a cook or nothing, but I got some cheese and bean burritos I can nuke up.”
Mort noticed Bilbo was more hospitable than he’d been during their previous visit. Was it Larry’s assurances he was interested only in Carlton’s religious artifacts and research material that put the man at ease? Or was it the contents of that small pipe Bilbo just stuffed into the pocket of his sagging sweatpants?
“That’s okay, Bilbo.” Mort followed Larry up the stairs to the front door. “My digestive system’s a little too sleepy to take on burritos this early in the morning.”
“It’s Friday, man.” Bilbo’s eyes were at half-mast. “Don’t need to follow no rules on Friday. That’s why they give it the ‘TGI’ designation. Besides, a burrito always sounds good to me.”
Mort had no doubt.
Larry had wanted to make another pass at Carlton’s office. He’d been sidetracked the first time by the cache of letters from Helen. Mort accompanied him for at least two reasons. First and foremost, he’d be there to support his friend as he plowed through a lifetime of Carlton’s papers. There were sure to be references to Helen, and Mort would be there if Larry needed him. The second reason Mort wanted to join Carlton was he hadn’t yet heard back from Rita Willers. The chief said she was going to interview Blue Dancer herself to see if there was any doubt in her assessment that Bilbo Runyan wasn’t the man she’d dropped off at the sweat lodge the day Carlton and the others were killed. Until Bilbo could be ruled out, Mort wanted to stay close.
But there was another reason Mort was willing to spend his morning standing by Larry as he went through a dead man’s records. He knew Lydia would be using every one of her resources to locate Allie. Until she did, he couldn’t calculate his next move. Mort hated the helplessness of waiting. Even if there was nothing more to be learned from Carlton’s papers, and Blue Dancer was certain Bilbo was not the second killer, he’d rather be chasing dead ends than twiddling his thumbs hoping a phone would ring.
Mort laid a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Enjoy the morning, buddy. Larry and I will be back in Carlton’s office.”
“This may take a while,” Larry warned before entering the house. “If you need to be somewhere, we can lock up after we leave.”
Bilbo shook his mop of uncombed hair. “This is my kingdom, man. Ain’t no other place for me to be. You know the way, right?”
Larry assured him they did.
Carlton’s office was bigger than Mort had expected. The room filled the entire back half of the small house. Windows were centered on the east and west walls, but on this Friday morning, with gray clouds hanging low and thick, they offered little illumination of the heavy furnishings. The north wall was filled with floor-to-ceiling cherry bookshelves laden with tidy rows of books and binders interspersed with figurines, photos, and statues. The door to Carlton’s office was flanked by nearly a dozen framed photographs and paintings. An oversized desk and a table large enough to seat eight people were the main pieces of furniture. Each was made of dark-stained oak, and each had one chair behind it. This is where Carlton had done the bulk of his research, as evidenced by the neatly stacked books and papers. There was no overhead lighting. Instead, green-shaded banker’s lamps were positioned on the desk and table. One overstuffed chair, its worn velour upholstery testifying to its age and frequent use, was off to the corner, serviced by a side table and sturdy brass reading lamp. The overall effect was a room furnished for solitary work as opposed to entertaining. This was a sanctuary for serious scholarship.
“This is where Helen’s uncle spent most of his time?” Mort stepped to the back bookshelves and glanced at the titles of some leather-bound volumes. “He didn’t have a job?”
Larry was already at the large table, separating three tall piles of books into numerous shorter piles. “This was his job. His partial ownership in Abraham’s fish business allowed him to focus on what he considered his true calling.”
Mort picked a figurine off the shelf. It was a replica of a human hand carved from soapstone. The hand was positioned with its thumb holding the pinkie and ring finger down while the pointer and index finger were extended forward. He held it up for Larry to see. “What’s this?”
Larry looked up from his sorting. “That’s a sword finger. In Qigong that positioning of the hand is used in various rituals. Carlton was specifically interested in the concept of forgiveness. The Temple of the Celestial Cloud has a detailed ritual for that. A person recites prescribed chants and intermittently makes a cutting gesture across his face while holding his hand in the sword finger position.” Larry mimicked the gesture with his own hand and made a diagonal slice in front of his face from his left forehead to his right chin. Then he nodded toward the shelf just to the right of where Mort stood. “See that lei?”
“This?” Mort pointed to a necklace of dried leaves.
“That’s woven from the fruit of the hala tree. It’s given in native Hawaiian culture upon completion of a ho‘oponopono ceremony.”
“What’s a hopo…hoponon…hell, Larry, what’s that?” Mort asked.
“Ho‘oponopono is an ancient island practice for granting or seeking forgiveness. The Hawaiians say there�
�s two kinds of forgiveness. Now or later. They say, and I believe, not forgiving blocks a person from moving forward. The ceremony’s actually quite moving. I’ve had the opportunity to participate in ho‘oponopono on two occasions. It’s centered on four statements: I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you, and I love you.”
“And just like that everything’s made right?” Mort was frowning.
“If only that was true. But Carlton knew mercy was the only way out of the pain he felt after Helen was murdered.” He pointed to a painting on the wall. “That’s Saint Paul. In the Christian tradition he commands us to forgive as the Lord forgave us. And, of course, Christ is the ultimate symbol of forgiveness to His followers. I think Carlton spent his life looking for a way to absolve Kenny Kamm for this terrible thing he did to Helen. He knew that if he didn’t, his hatred and resentment would eat away at him and destroy him.” Larry opened his arms to indicate the room. “That’s what all this is about. That large sword mounted above the window? That’s from the Hindu tradition. Vidura taught forgiveness subdues all.” He closed his eyes and recited from memory. “ ‘What can a wicked person do to anyone who carries the sabre of forgiveness?’ Carlton was desperately seeking his own peace. He knew there would be no stillness for him until he found a way to reconcile Kamm’s brutal act.”
Mort surveyed the room again. Everything he saw took on new meaning. The gilded dove on Carlton’s desk brought a memory from his Sunday school years that the bird was to be a sign of hope and pardon. He smiled at the small framed print of daffodils and recalled the spring afternoon early in his marriage when Edie had filled their bedroom with a dozen vases of the flowers. He’d done something incredibly stupid. He couldn’t recall the details but remembered he’d hurt her in a big way and she’d gone on a two-day freeze-out. He would always remember his relief when he’d come home to that explosion of yellow and white flowers. Edie had pulled him into a warm embrace and explained daffodils were the floral symbol of pardon. She was his girl again.