by T. E. Woods
“Wait a minute,” Lydia interrupted. “Are you starting to tell yourself another story?”
Greg took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “I’m well skilled and well educated. They’ve come to rely on me. Last time Charlie was in, he told me he was amazed at how much organization I’ve brought to the place. They’re not going to can me.”
Lydia nodded. “Good work. Stop your fears before they take hold.”
Greg agreed. “And who knows? Seattle’s a bigger market than Olympia. It’s far more likely I’ll leave them for another job.”
Lydia liked his determination. “You said that wasn’t the real reason you were hesitant to move.”
The confidence in Greg’s voice faltered. “It’s you, Dr. Corriger. I was a mess when I called you. You turned me around.”
Lydia dialed her voice to humor, hoping to ease her patient’s discomfort. “Greg, if everyone I saw was as easy as you, I’d be out of work in a week. You came to me discouraged. Anyone would be. You got through it.”
“With you holding my hand.”
“It wasn’t me on all those interviews. And it wasn’t me who sold himself and landed this gig. That was all you.”
Greg nodded his understanding. “You were right there with me.”
Lydia had been well trained and well experienced in keeping boundaries firmly in place as she dealt with her patients. A few had gotten past her professional barriers, but she would be sending Greg off with nothing but good wishes.
She was an expert in holding people far away.
“Greg, I want you to think of your dentist. There’s probably been times you’ve needed to see him or her on a regular basis, right?”
“Ugh! Three times a month when I first got my braces. God, those things were torture. And smack dab in the middle of seventh grade. As if I wasn’t feeling geeky enough.”
“How often do you see your dentist now?”
Greg seemed confused. “Twice a year. Cleanings and checkups. Unless I develop a cavity or something, there’s no need.”
“I want you to think of me like that. You had a need, we worked on it together, and now you’re ready to carry on. We can schedule the occasional checkup, if you’d like.”
“And if I notice some sort of a psychic cavity?”
“I’m not going anywhere. Give me a call and we’ll fix it.”
—
Three hours later Lydia was finished with her appointments and closed her office for the day. Out of habit she checked her cellphone. She dialed a familiar number and walked to her car.
“Bauer here.” His dusky baritone was all business. Lydia knew her number would have flashed on his cell screen. She surmised he was at work and didn’t want his precinct buddies to know this call was personal.
“And it’s me here,” she said.
“Long time.” She heard him stepping across tile as he spoke. “We talkin’ now? Or do you just need a cop?”
“I’ve been meaning to call.”
“No, you haven’t, Lydia.” She heard a door open and close. His voice relaxed. He must be in his office. “You’re a woman who follows through on her intentions. I haven’t heard from you in three weeks.”
“Do you have plans? I’m leaving work. We could get together.”
“Sure. Let’s do that.” There was a playful dare in his response. “Meet me at Jake’s on Fourth. We’ll have a couple of beers. Maybe grab a burger. How’s that?”
“Or you could pick up a nice bottle of merlot on the way home. I could be at your place in fifteen minutes.” She turned the key in the ignition and checked her rearview mirror.
“So it’s like that, huh?” His voice rumbled in her ear.
“It’s like that.”
Detective Paul Bauer paused before answering. “You know, I can call up a woman or two right now who would be downright pleased to accept my invitation to a burger and beer. Am I that repulsive you can’t be seen in public with the likes of me?”
She pulled a mental picture of him as she backed her Volvo out of its stall. Six foot six with a body announcing his history as a standout tight end from Notre Dame. Smooth chocolate skin and piercing green eyes she was certain served him equally well when interrogating a reluctant suspect or convincing a woman to explore an attraction a bit further than she might have planned.
“You could call one of them. Or I could be knocking on your door in fourteen minutes.”
Lydia turned north onto Capitol Boulevard. She stayed in the left lane, ready to turn toward the west-side hills leading to his place, and waited for his resigned sigh.
“Back door’s open in case you get there before me. Make yourself at home.”
—
Paul Bauer pushed himself off her, rolled to the side, and closed his eyes while his breathing returned to normal. A few moments later he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.
“I’ve sunk this low.” He opened his eyes and fixed a lighthearted gaze on Lydia. “I’m a booty call.”
Lydia brushed her hair from her face. “You’re a cop. Examine the evidence. Booty calls happen at bar time. It’s barely seven thirty.”
“Then what am I? Your bed buddy? Friend with benefits?”
Lydia pulled herself up and rested against the headboard. “Do you need a title?”
Paul tugged himself free of the tangled sheets and sat next to her. “I turned forty last week.”
“Happy birthday. Did you make a wish?”
He traced a finger across her naked knee. “I don’t believe in wishes. But a milestone birthday gets a man thinking. I never was the ‘hit it and quit it’ type of guy.”
Lydia’s pulse quickened in defense of what was coming. Paul Bauer was good for her. He was warm and funny and didn’t make small talk. His lovemaking skills allowed her a full-body release when she needed it, and so far he hadn’t required any illusion of a relationship.
“I like you, Lydia.” His voice dripped with seduction. “A lot. Whad’ya say we take this thing we’ve got goin’ public?”
She focused on his fingers gently drawing a light and twisting path up her thigh. “I kind of like what we do in private.” She shifted her leg one subtle move to allow him easier access to his target.
He turned toward her to nuzzle her ear. “I want more, Lydia. We’re better than an occasional mattress tango. We can take it as slow as you want.”
She leaned her head against his. “Can you let this be enough?”
He pulled back. “This about the guy from the coffee shop? You carrying any torches that might be getting in the way of what’s going on here?”
An image of Oliver Bane’s shaggy-haired rumpled comfort floated across her mind. Sweet Oliver. Too idealistic for the ambitious-state’s-attorney track he’d been traveling. He’d walked away from the politics of the law, bought a shop downtown, and built a gentler life serving up fresh roasted drip and easy conversation. He’d found his place. His life was good.
Until he made the mistake of falling in love with Lydia Corriger.
She shook her head clear of the memories and returned her attention to the man beside her. He was so different from Oliver. Paul Bauer walked toward things, not away. He was pragmatic and effective. Strong and protective. Lydia could imagine herself building a life with him. Paul’s intelligence and ambition would lead him to the office of chief of police one day. He was well known and well respected; both in Olympia and, as she learned from Mort, within the greater law enforcement community as well. She allowed herself the occasional fantasy of inviting him to share her Dana Passage home. She could continue her practice…maybe join Rotary or some other civic organization…integrate herself more into the city. She could imagine café au lait children with green eyes romping in her backyard high above the sea.
But a fantasy was all that could ever be. Lydia was an assassin. She could lie to herself and believe what Mort tried to tell her, that it was all in the past. But in moments of crystal-clear self-assessment, Lydia couldn�
��t take the risk of hoping.
She swung her legs over to the side of the bed, retrieved her panties and wiggled into them.
“So, I’m right?” He leaned his muscular arms over his bent knees. “You’re still hung up on him?”
She hooked her bra. “I’m not hung up on anyone.” She smiled, showing him the kindness he deserved. “Listen to me, Paul. I’m not playing hard-to-get. I’m being honest. I like what we have. But this is all it can ever be. If you need it to be more, I understand. But it can’t be with me.”
She stood, half-dressed, holding his gaze in mutual silence for several long moments.
“So you’re leaving?” he finally said. “What about that bottle of merlot?”
Lydia slipped her tank dress over her head and stepped into her shoes. She walked around, sat next to him on the bed, and rested her hand against his cheek. My God, you’re good-looking, she thought. You inspire a long list of “if only’s.”
“Save it for next time?”
Chapter 5
“Her name is Crystal Tillwater.” Mick Petty walked to the whiteboard in Mort’s office that had held the lines, arrows, photos, and questions leading to the discovery of dozens of murderers over the years. This time it was dedicated to the body discovered that morning in the ravine just east of downtown.
Jim DeVilla sat in a chair opposite Mort’s desk. Bruiser, the behemoth German shepherd retired from active duty after a bad guy shot him in the throat and forever robbed him of his bark, settled on the floor next to him. “Three months of no body counts. Not one dealer popped a cap into a rival wannabe. No fed-up wife took a baseball bat to her hubby who let the trash stink up the kitchen while he played just one more round of World of Warcraft. I finally got all caught up on my paperwork. Now this.”
Micki ignored his rant. “I didn’t get anything from her prints at first. But she looked so young I ran them through the juvenile base. Crystal was picked up when she was eleven. Shoplifted two candy bars from the corner market. According to the reports, the owner knew her from the neighborhood. He told the responding officers she was a good kid, but asked them to put a scare into her. They brought her down to the station and ran her through an entire booking before releasing her to her mother.”
“Any record beyond that?” Mort asked.
Micki shook her head. “Not a thing.”
Micki Petty was Mort’s best detective. A cold computer trail wouldn’t stop her.
“What else you find?” he asked.
Micki flipped open her notebook. “Crystal Tillwater turned twenty-one three weeks ago. Lives in a one-room apartment over that Italian market on Euclid. Frabolini’s. According to the management company, she’s lived there nearly two years. Always pays her rent on time. Sometimes in cash, most often with a check. Her rental application states she works as a cashier at the Shoe Stop.”
“Which one?” Jim asked. “They’re all around town. The place to go if you’re looking for a pair of loafers that won’t last a month. And that’s only if you stay out of the rain.”
“The one on Thirteenth,” Micki answered. “Right across from Saint Nicholas Church.”
“That’s, what?” Mort asked. “Maybe four blocks from her house? She could walk to work.”
Micki nodded. “There’s no vehicle registered in her name. IRS has wage statements for the past five years from the Shoe Stop. There’s no record of any other source of income.”
Mort was impressed with how much information she had been able to gather in less than two hours. But then, he was in the habit of being impressed by Micki Petty.
“She have family?” he asked.
“Here’s where it gets interesting.” Micki grabbed a marker and wrote the name “Jennifer” on the whiteboard. “When I got into work this morning, before we caught the call about those hikers finding Crystal’s body in the ravine, I had a voicemail from Tessa.”
“Tessa Slaxton?” Jim asked. “That social worker friend of yours? The one with that candy-apple red Corvette?”
“Yes,” Micki said. “And before you ask, she won’t take you for a ride.”
Jim shrugged. “Tell her I’d pay for the gas. I’ve always wanted to ride in a Corvette. How’s a social worker get the money for that kind of ride, anyway?”
“Focus, please.” Mort felt his jaw tighten. “What’s Tessa have to do with this, Mick?”
“She called around three this morning. Her office got an emergency call last night around ten from a female who wouldn’t leave her name. Gave an address and told the on-call person they’d find an unattended four-year-old there. On-call social worker calls the cops, as is routine, and they head over to the address. Sure enough, they find a little girl all alone. She’s scared but okay. Said it was her birthday but her mommy had to work. Jennifer was supposed to be babysitting her. The little girl gets handed off to foster care for the night and Tessa gets called to start an intake on her. The little girl tells Tessa her mom’s name and Tessa calls me, asking me to check it out.”
“It’s not like we’ve got anything else to do,” Jim said. “Murder business being in a slump and all.”
“I jotted the name down, but before I can do anything, we get called to the ravine. When I ran the prints Jim pulled from the body, I realized I heard that name before.”
Mort leaned back in his chair. “You’re telling us Crystal Tillwater is the mother of the four-year-old Tessa’s handling?”
“I am,” Micki said.
An image of his twin granddaughters’ faces, grinning their gap-toothed magic, flashed across Mort’s mind. He pushed away from his desk, plucked the marker from Micki’s hand, and pointed across the room. He wrote “Crystal Tillwater” across the top of the board as Micki took a seat between Jim and Bruiser.
“Doc Conner puts Crystal’s death somewhere near midnight last night. Now, the little girl…what’s her name?”
“Nyla,” Micki answered. “Nyla Tillwater.”
“Same last name as her mama,” Jim said. “Crystal just turned twenty-one. Nyla’s four. Some punk knocks Crystal up when she’s, what…sixteen? Doesn’t stick around long enough to give his own kid his name. Leaves Crystal to raise his little girl in some one-room above a deli while she walks to work. We got a name for this asshole?”
“No,” Micki said. “But Tessa will pull the birth certificate. I’ll have that name the moment she does.”
Mort nodded. “Nyla’s father is as good a place as any to start. Good work, Mick. Jim, get a forensic crew to Crystal’s apartment. Let’s see if we can learn more about this Jennifer who called. She was babysitting. Maybe she had a glass of water or flushed the toilet. See if you can pull some prints. While you’re there, interview the owners of the Italian market. Maybe they saw something.” He tapped the marker against his leg. “Crystal walked to work every day. Could be someone along the way took a shine to her. She was dressed up in a party dress and high heels. Maybe she was out on a date.”
Jim stood and Bruiser sprang up on four long legs. “I’ll knock on some doors. Little girl said her mama had to go to work. The Shoe Stop isn’t open late. And you sure as hell don’t dress in rhinestones and heels to pull a shift at that dive. I’ll see what I can find out about that, too.”
Mort nodded his approval. “Micki, you pull anything on that tattoo Crystal had on the inside of her wrist?”
“I’ve got photos out to the local ink shops trying to identify the artist. I’ll keep you posted.”
Mort circled Jennifer’s name on the whiteboard. “We need her. She cared enough about that little girl to make a call.”
“And she was scared enough not to stick around.” Jim added. “Tessa said Jennifer called around ten. The coroner places Crystal’s death around midnight. Jennifer bailed before the murder went down.”
“She knew something bad was going to happen,” Mort said.
“And she wanted to be gone before it did,” Jim added. “I’ll pull the phone records. Find out where she made the ca
ll to Social Services. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Mort was feeling a lot of things, but lucky wasn’t one of them.
“Call me when you find something,” Mort said. “I’m heading out. I’ll be back by three.”
—
Mort was a few blocks from the station, heading east through lunch-hour traffic, when his cellphone rang through the speakers of his Subaru. He recognized the number displayed on the dashboard and put on his official cop voice as he pressed the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Detective Grant here.”
A child’s voice responded. “What’s your 20, Papa?”
Mort’s mood lightened at the sound of his granddaughter’s lilt. The twins were identical, but Hayden’s use of police codes gave her away. He glanced at the street sign he was passing.
“I’m about three minutes from the hall. You there already?”
“Daddy’s parking the car. Mommy’s with Hadley. She’s all nervous. I think she’s gonna puke.”
Mort smiled at the six-year-old’s assessment. “Who? Mom or Hadley?”
Hayden giggled. “Mommy never gets butterflies. She told Hadley if she threw up on her new dress, she wouldn’t like it much. I think she’d be in humongous trouble.”
“This is a big deal. Cut your sister some slack.” Mort turned the corner and caught sight of the church where the piano recital would be held. “I have visual on your location.”
“So, that’s a 23 for me?” Hayden used the call number for “stand by.”
“Roger that. I’ll be right there.”
—
Forty minutes later Mort shrugged his shoulder to wake the sleeping child leaning against it. “Your sister’s up next. Act interested. She’d do the same for you.”
Hayden rubbed a hand across her face and shot him an “I doubt it” look. “Hadley’s the one who’s gonna be on stages. There’s never gonna be anything for her to come see me do.”
Mort tucked a sandy wisp of hair behind the little girl’s ear. He leaned in and whispered as the emcee announced the next performance. “Take it from me, kid. You’re gonna do a whole lot and a whole bunch of people are gonna take a whole heap of notice.” He tapped his nose twice. “I got a way of knowing things.”