Fixed in Blood

by T. E. Woods

  “Allow me to explain the basics of the trust. I’ll leave you to examine the particulars at your leisure. Do feel free to share them with your own barrister.” Fiddymont paled as though caught in a grievous error. “Forgive me. Have your lawyer review them should you feel the need. My contact information is on the cover sheet. It’s quite straightforward. Every year the trust will send one hundred thousand U.S. dollars to be used for educational expenses. You’ll find your sister has been quite liberal in what is to be considered educational expense: tuition, clothing, supplies, anything the girls might need. That sum arrives the first of every September until such time as the children matriculate to university. At that point the amount doubles and is sent directly to the by-then adult Hayden Edith and Hadley Francine Grant.”

  “What the hell?” Robbie shoved the stack of papers back toward Fiddymont. “There’s no way I’m accepting this. My wife and I will take care of our daughters’ education. Give me my sister’s phone number and I’ll tell her myself. And there’s sure as hell no way she’s giving those kids a hundred grand a year for college spending money.”

  Fiddymont turned to Mort, his eyes pleading for assistance.

  “Don’t look at me, buddy. You have any idea where this money comes from?”

  Fiddymont looked away. “My role is limited and specific. I’m to manage and disperse the funds. As you can see, that’s precisely what I’m doing.”

  “It’s drug money.” Robbie’s angry outburst had Mort checking the kitchen once again for any signs of Claire and the girls. “My sister’s a drug whore, Mr. Fiddymont.”

  The blood drained from the Brit’s face. “Those are rough words. And it’s none of my concern—”

  “He was Russian, wasn’t he?” Mort interrupted. “Allie’s driver. I asked you if he was local and you got spooked.”

  Fiddymont’s hand trembled in synchronized rhythm with his lower lip. “I’m here to inform you of your daughter’s arrangements, Detective. There’s no need to bring me into your affairs any further.”

  Mort locked eyes with the man. “Do you know the name Vadim Tokarev?”

  The British barrister struggled to speak. “I stay abreast of the news,” he whispered. “I hear the rumors, of course. London is awash these days with Russian billionaires.”

  “Then you know the brutality of this particular Russian billionaire,” Mort said. “It is my understanding my daughter is currently serving in the role of his chief consort.”

  Fiddymont’s voice was barely audible. “That is mine as well.”

  “So you can appreciate why my son isn’t going to let one dime of Tokarev’s money anywhere near his girls. It’s dripping in blood.”

  Fiddymont turned frantic eyes to Robbie. “There’s no other choice.” He shifted back to Mort. “You know your daughter. How clever she can be. If the two of you refuse the funds, I am compelled to inform you the terms of the trust dictate any and all future monies be immediately redirected to the bank accounts of an intermediary identified in the paperwork as Mr. Smith. Ms. Grant assures me Mr. Smith will then, through a series of financial transactions of which I am not privy, provide the money to the Righteous Red.”

  Mort and Robbie leaned back in shocked unison.

  “The organization waging warfare throughout Central Africa?” Robbie asked. “That Righteous Red? My God. They’ve killed hundreds of thousands of people. Slaughtered children. Burned entire villages.”

  Fiddymont nodded. He turned to Mort. “As you said, Vadim Tokarev is a man well known to the world. Does it surprise you he has associates tied to such an organization?”

  Mort struggled to breathe and wondered how the girl he and Edie raised could justify being involved with such a butcher. And she was bringing his filth into Robbie’s house. He swallowed the iron taste of bile and pointed to his own stack of papers.

  “What’s mine say?” he asked.

  Fiddymont rolled his shoulders and struggled to resume his role. “What you’ll find are the documents associated with the full payment of the mortgage on your recently purchased houseboat. The loan with the bank has been satisfied and your mooring fees have been paid ahead thirty years.” He hesitated. “Your daughter asked me to learn if you’d taken up fishing.”

  Mort wasn’t interested in sharing the small details of his new life on the water. He laid his hand on the papers. “And if I call the bank and cancel?”

  Fiddymont shook his head in defeat. “There’s no canceling, Detective. The deed is there. The transaction is completed.”

  The three of them sat silently in Robbie’s dining room for several minutes.

  “Get out of my house.” Robbie’s tone was angry resignation. “Tell my sister I am not thankful. I am not appreciative. Tell her she can do with the money what she wants, but I will not touch one cent if it is deposited into my accounts.”

  The fear returned to Fiddymont’s voice. “Do not cross her, Mr. Grant. I beg you. I understand your hesitancy, to be certain. But trust me when I tell you, you do not want to deny Allison Grant her intentions.”

  “What has she done to you?” Mort asked. “You fly from London to Seattle to present us with blood-soaked money. What’s to stop me from calling whatever agency regulates English barristers and report you are knowingly dealing with international criminals and are involved in schemes designed to divert monies to genocidal maniacs?”

  Fiddymont’s entire body shook. His skin lost all color. His lips moved wordlessly until he was finally able to spit out his plea. “I’ve built my career on ethical and honest work. Your daughter sought me out for my expertise in establishing international trusts. She lied to me. Your daughter led me to believe the funding for these trusts were a result of her successful business enterprises. It was only when, after my own due diligence, I discovered that was a falsehood, she revealed her true intentions.” He turned back toward Robbie. “You must take the money. I must return to England and assure her the educational trust will be used.”

  “Tell me what my daughter has done,” Mort said.

  Fiddymont said nothing. Mort realized it wasn’t attorney-client privilege that held his tongue. It was fear.

  “Tell me what my daughter had done,” Mort repeated. “I’ll give you five seconds before I make a call to Homeland Security and have you held until you’ve satisfied the American government there’s no reason your name should be placed on a no-fly list.”

  Fiddymont had the eyes of a drowning man grasping for a lifeline just beyond his reach. “Your daughter insisted my wife and fourteen-year-old son accompany me to that pub dinner I mentioned earlier. As I said, her driver deposited me at my flat when dinner was over.” Tears spilled down his cheeks. “But only I was allowed to leave the car. I will leave here and fly back to London on the same private jet your daughter had bring me here. Someone will meet me at the airport. Your daughter assures me that only after I hand that someone your written acceptance of the terms of the trusts will she release my Gwen and Will. If I fail, she will kill them both.” He could no longer contain himself and spoke through choking sobs. “I believe her, Detective Grant. I believe her.”

  Mort’s breath slowed. His daughter was holding hostages. For several long moments he couldn’t move. Finally, he reached across the table and laid a reassuring hand on his son.

  Robbie’s arm was as cold as stone.

  Chapter 11

  “An early reprieve!” L. Jackson Clark slid into their usual booth. “I’ve been working on a reinterpretation of Saint Paul’s words about love and charity in light of the world’s current volatility and grew bloody from beating my head against that brick wall in my mind.” He set his pint of Guinness on the table. “I could literally see it. Bricks, mortar, little snippets of spray-painted graffiti telling me I’ll never again have an original thought. Thank you for your text. The devilish notion of a beer at four in the afternoon may be just what I need to divert me from my conviction my career is doomed.” He glanced at the empty spot in front of
Mort. “Where are the papers? Oh, good Lord. Don’t tell me Mauser’s sold them from under us.”

  Mort Grant and L. Jackson Clark had been meeting at the Crystal Tavern every Thursday afternoon at five thirty for nearly thirty years, and they knew their friendship might be tough for some folks to figure out. Mort was a white cop with a blue-collar background. Larry was an African American scholar raised in a world of international travel and big ideas. They met by chance when Mort, practicing his addiction to crossword puzzles, called out to the late-afternoon patrons in Mauser’s neighborhood establishment for help with a difficult clue. It was Dr. L. Jackson Clark, professor of religious studies and philosophy at Seattle University, who answered him. Mort bought him a beer in gratitude and Larry brought his puzzle over to join him. Thus began a standing appointment for Thursday afternoons with the New York Times that grew into a bond deeper than brotherhood. The world-renowned philosopher had been “Uncle Larry” to Mort’s kids, and Mort was one of the few people in the world who understood what that connection meant to the international celebrity. They’d shared holidays, disappointments, and rites of passage. Mort had been the first person Larry called when the Nobel Committee announced he’d won the prize for literature and Larry had been the first number Mort dialed when the emergency room doctors told him Edie died from her aneurysm.

  Larry took his first good look at his friend after noticing there were no crosswords on the table. “What is it, Mort?” His voice lost all of its earlier jocularity when he saw Mort’s sullen expression. “Robbie? The girls?”

  Mort bit his lower lip. He’d called Larry from his car as soon as he left Robbie’s. He knew he should head back to the station. Micki and Jimmy would be there with more information about the Crystal Tillwater murder. But he needed to get steady again. He needed the routine comfort of a beer with Larry.

  “Talk to me, Morton.” Larry’s resonant basso demanded attention. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Allie,” Mort said.

  Larry nodded slowly, as though preparing himself for the worst. “She’s been found? Dare I hope she’s alive?”

  Larry knew everything, of course. He’d first met Allie when she was a long-legged ten-year-old filled with talent, intelligence, curiosity, and bravado. Larry knew the joys and the scares she’d brought Mort and Edie through the years. He knew the guilt Mort carried. Allie’s penchant for adventure had turned her into a reckless young woman, too bored for the rigors of college and too full of herself to abide by house rules. So different from her brother. Despite her intelligence, Allie made shortsighted decisions, always opting for the new experience over the traditional path. Larry knew about that awful night when Mort accompanied a colleague to process a drug bust that had netted the arrest of the West Coast’s largest supplier of illicit narcotics. He knew Mort’s stunning shame when he walked into the precinct and learned his beloved daughter had been arrested as well. She’d been identified as the main dealer’s girlfriend. In his desperation to stop Allie from the destructive path she was barreling down, Mort made the decision to let her be processed and spend the night in jail. And Larry knew Mort’s desolation when he returned the next morning, prepared to bail her out and lecture her on decisions and consequences, only to learn Allie had left an hour earlier, bailed out by a white-shoe lawyer and leaving in the same Mercedes that carried the kingpin.

  Micki Petty and Jim DeVilla knew the surface story of Allie. But it was L. Jackson Clark alone who understood what Allie’s disappearance cost Mort. He knew of Edie’s rage and Mort’s self-blame. When Allie returned, after so many years away, Larry understood Mort’s frantic compulsion to keep her safe. And when Allie disappeared again, in the helicopter of yet another drug lord, Larry knew the searing fear Mort lived with as he awaited word that she’d finally paid the ultimate price for her thirst for excitement.

  “I just left Robbie’s.” Mort focused on his beer as he told Larry what had happened. He spared no detail. He didn’t need to. The man sitting across from him would hold no judgment or criticism. He would absorb the words and stand by his friend.

  Mort didn’t drink as he spoke. Instead, he kept his eyes on the amber liquid, rotating the glass in his hands. Letting the words come as they might while Larry listened in silence.

  “She’s a kidnapper, Larry.” Mort finally looked up at his friend. “My daughter is holding a woman and her son hostage while some terrified Brit flies over in her private jet to deliver her demands.” It was hard for him to breathe. Like he was wearing a concrete vest. “This is my girl.” His words were whispered. “And she’s worse than the animals I arrest.”

  Larry waited before responding. He tapped a finger in front of Mort’s glass and signaled him to drink. When he did speak, his voice was steady and calm. “It’s not fair, Mort. This love we lavish on our children. The protection. The guidance. It’s a perverse joke to think we can mold or shape the behaviors and thoughts of those we love.” Larry took a long pull from his own beer. “The twisted reality is we are powerless to make anyone do anything. To think anything. To love or respect anything. And yet we keep on trying, don’t we?”

  Mort didn’t need a lecture on helplessness. He felt it in his bones.

  “Allie is who she is, Mort,” Larry continued. “This has nothing to do with you or Edie or any sort of mistake you think you may have committed as a parent. Allie is the result of all those decisions she’s made…from the very first time she reached for something she shouldn’t, you told her no, and she grabbed it in defiance anyway.”

  Mort didn’t need that, either. Of course this has to do with me. She’s my daughter. It’s my houseboat she’s paid off. It’s my grandchildren she’s trying to ruin.

  “Can you hear me? Do you comprehend what I’m saying? There’s no one to blame but Allie. Your only move is to decide what you’re going to do in response to what she’s done. You need a plan. She’ll expect a reaction.” Larry gave him a sorry stare. “And knowing Allie, she’ll be prepared to neutralize it.”

  Mort’s mind flashed to Lydia. Was it because Larry insisted there was no one to blame? Oh, but I blame Lydia, don’t I? She could have stopped her. She could have kept her from flying off with Tokarev.

  Or did Lydia come to mind because Larry had used the word “neutralize”? The Fixer had neutralized so many threats in the past. Did he somehow want Lydia to bring justice to a place he’d been incapable of bringing himself?

  He shook his head clear.

  “I need time to think,” Mort said. “I can’t have her hurting more people.”

  Larry’s face was stern. “You’ve got to stop deluding yourself into thinking you have any influence over what she does. Don’t waste your time where you’re powerless.”

  Before he could respond, Mort was distracted by a sound. It took him a heartbeat to recognize it was coming from his cell. He pulled it from his jacket, saw it was Jimmy calling, and for a moment was tempted to ignore the call of responsibilities. How could he focus on the murders of others when his own daughter was such a looming menace? He pushed the urge aside and answered.

  “You’re gonna need to get down here, Mort.” Jimmy’s tone left no room for discussion. “There’s no way in the world you’re gonna believe what we found.”

  Chapter 12

  “Where’d you get this?” Mort leaned over Micki as she sat in his chair manipulating his computer.

  “Schuster. Says it’s off one of the oh-so-many sleazeball websites he and his fellow pervs in Vice get paid to watch.” Jimmy DeVilla sat with one hip on Mort’s desk, Bruiser’s head resting on his thigh. “About fifteen minutes in you’ll see why he decided to share the joy.”

  Micki looked over her shoulder. “You ready? I haven’t seen it, but Jimmy says it’s bad.”

  Mort nodded, Micki clicked on an arrow, and the image of a long-haired blonde in a glittery champagne-colored dress, wobbly on her feet and supported by a man only visible from the side, emerged on the computer screen. There was no audio,
but the visuals were sharp and full-color hi-def. Mort kept his eyes on the screen as the pair made their way across an elegantly appointed room. They crossed the threshold of a door and the camera angles changed. Another room emerged; smaller, but just as beautifully decorated. For the first time the video showed the woman’s face.

  “It’s Crystal Tillwater,” Micki said. “That’s the dress she was wearing when we found her.” She turned toward Jimmy. “Don’t tell me.”

  Jim’s face was grim as he rubbed a spot behind Bruiser’s ear. “Afraid so.”

  Mort swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the screen. He watched Crystal struggle to stay upright. He saw her lips move, but with no sound he couldn’t tell if her words were slurred. He saw male hands trace gently through her hair.

  “White guy,” he said. “No rings, no watch. Looks like a manicure. We ever get a look at this guy’s face?”

  Jim shook his head, still focusing on his dog. “Whoever shot this was a pro. Schuster says there were two cameras involved. Editing is tight. Crystal’s the focus. All we get of the guy is hands and shoulder. Even then we only get what looks like a very expensive suit jacket.”

  Mort watched Crystal being led to what looked like an elevated table. He saw her head loll to one side as the man’s hands guided her onto it.

  “She’s been drugged,” Micki said. “This isn’t just drunk. Look at her arms and legs. He’s having to move them. She’s completely lost control of her body.”

  Crystal’s head flopped to the other side of the pillow supporting her. She may have been drugged, but she wasn’t totally out of it. Mort saw her eyes snap from blurry diffusion to laser-sharp attention. The camera opened to a wider shot. Mort caught broad shoulders clothed in sleek black fabric. “Come on,” he whispered. “Gimme something. A hair color. A beard. Anything.”

  But Jimmy’s description proved accurate. The editing was precise. No additional part of the man now caressing Crystal’s prone body was made visible to the viewer. As the camera panned right, Mort was able to see what had caught Crystal’s attention despite her drugged state. A tray covered in shimmering blue fabric and holding an array of knives came into view. Mort looked back at the image of Crystal. The camera pulled tight on her eyes, giving the viewer a five-second gorge on her terror.