Fixed in Blood

by T. E. Woods

  “What are you talking about? Delbe, are you sober? Are you alone?”

  Several tense heartbeats pounded in Lydia’s chest before she heard a reply. “I have debts to pay, Dr. C. No more little blue sheets to sign. No more promises he knows I can’t keep.”

  “Where are you, Delbe? Tell me.”

  “I’m not going to kill myself, Dr. C.” Delbe’s voice, stuffy from tears, was firmer now. “My body doesn’t belong to me anymore. It’s not mine to damage. I just wanted to…I wish I’d met you five years ago.” Another sob broke through, but Delbe quickly squelched it. “You’ve been kind to me. It’s been a long time since someone has.”

  “You deserve kindness. Tell you what, swing by my office this morning. I have an opening at ten thirty. We’ll have some coffee. How’s that sound?”

  Her answer took a while. “I’ll think of you at ten thirty. That’s the best I can do. Goodbye, Dr. Corriger.”

  The line went dead.

  Lydia immediately called the answering service. “Bella, I need the number where that call originated.”

  “Certainly.” Lydia heard buttons clicking. “Sorry. That number was blocked by the caller.”

  Lydia cursed under her breath. “How about automatic redial. Can you do that?”

  “Sorry again,” Bella sounded professionally apologetic. “It’s been a busy shift. I’ve taken three calls since I forwarded Delbe Jensen to you. Auto redial would only get me to my last caller.”

  An ugly wave swept over Lydia. She identified the emotion. It was the one she detested most: helplessness.

  “Thanks, Bella. I’m up for the day now. You can put all calls through to my direct line.”

  Lydia threw off the covers and headed into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. She focused on the familiar gurgles of her brew pot and stared out the window, zeroing in on the present moment in an effort to ground herself after Delbe’s distressing call. It was still hours before sunrise and her view offered nothing but black emptiness.

  They branded me…Her patient’s words raced through her mind as she tried to make sense of Delbe’s terrified call…I have debts to pay…He’s shipping me off to market…I’m so scared…I’m so scared…I’m so scared…

  Lydia left the kitchen, passed through her entryway, and keyed in a code on the door leading to her lower level. Once downstairs, another code opened a locked panel, this one opening to her study. She placed her palm on a glass tile next to her computer. Four lights blinked acceptance of her identity and she was booted and ready to roll in three seconds. Lydia never regretted the not-so-small fortune she poured into keeping her communication center equipped with the latest gear. Her work as The Fixer had been lucrative enough to buy her technological power many governments couldn’t afford. For years she’d needed it to make sure she knew what theories the authorities, both domestic and international, were leaning toward to explain the deaths that followed in The Fixer’s wake. Her computing power had proven valuable when Mort dropped his daughter in her lap. She’d been able to unravel Allie’s plot from this desk.

  But none of that mattered to Mort. He believed his daughter’s lies…it didn’t matter how much evidence piled up.

  Lydia shoved away thoughts of Mort. She touched the icon on her computer screen for access to her clinic files. A synthesized male voice asked how he could help.

  “Delbe Jensen,” Lydia said. A microphone embedded into the screen picked up her command and instantly brought to view the entire record of her patient. Appointment schedules…insurance…medical records…authorizations…and, what Lydia needed at the moment, all contact information. She picked up the secured phone next to her computer and called Delbe’s cellphone number. Her voice mail kicked in immediately.

  “You know who I am and you know what the beep means. Go for it and let’s see what I do.”

  Delbe was either on another call or had her phone shut off. Lydia waited thirty seconds and redialed the number. Again, her call was routed to voice mail before the first ring. She waited another half minute. The message this time shot a cold spike of fear down her spine.

  “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please verify that you have dialed correctly.”

  Lydia glanced at the clock: 5:17 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time. Delbe’s phone had been working a few minutes ago. If her service provider was located on the East Coast, it was possible her phone service could have been discontinued at the start of the business day. It would be just after 8 A.M. there. And Delbe did complain about always being behind in her debts. It could be coincidental that her service was cut moments after her dramatic call to Lydia.

  But Lydia was never one for coincidences.

  She turned back to her computer, reviewed Delbe’s file, and welcomed her good fortune. Delbe had first come to see her for problems sleeping, dragged in by her mother, who said she was sick and tired of hearing her daughter roam the house all night. Among the paperwork signed at intake was a release authorizing Lydia to discuss her case with her mother. Lydia called the number provided on the document.

  “What the hell?” a woman answered after four rings. “This better be good.”

  “Mrs. Jensen?”

  “This is Roz Jensen. Who the hell is this calling me at this god-awful hour?”

  “It’s Dr. Lydia Corriger. I apologize for disturbing you.”

  “Do I know you?” The voice on the other end sounded disgusted. “My God. Is this about Delbe? She in the emergency room? If she wrecked my car, I swear I’ll—”

  Lydia interrupted her. “Mrs. Jensen, we met when you brought Delbe in to see me a couple of months ago. Regarding her insomnia.”

  Recognition dawned in Delbe’s mother’s voice. “You’re the shrink. Oh my. You about scared me half to death. Here I had my girl plowed up against some tree. You know, the phone rings in the middle of the night and you don’t know what to expect.”

  Again Lydia interrupted, fearful a defensive rant was about to commence. “I certainly don’t mean to alarm you. I’m wondering if you’ve heard from Delbe tonight. She told me you were in Ocean Shores?”

  “That’s right.” Roz Jensen sounded more apprehensive. “Bud and I like to come here couple times a year and try our hands at the slots. Something wrong with Delbe?”

  “You haven’t spoken to her this evening?”

  “I haven’t talked to her since we left town yesterday morning. What’s this about?”

  “You’re expecting her to be home when you return?”

  “Tell me what this is about or I’ll put my husband on the phone.” Lydia heard anger mixed with fear in Roz’s voice. “Is Delbe all right?”

  Lydia calculated her words carefully. While she had a release to speak with Delbe’s mother, she didn’t want to break confidentiality any more than necessary.

  “I have no reason to doubt she’s anything but fine, Mrs. Jensen. We were speaking a little while ago and our connection was lost. When I tried to call her back, I was told the phone was no longer in service. I’m wondering if you have another number where I might reach her.”

  “The connection was lost? That doesn’t make any sense at all. I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Delbe’s bad with money,” her mother said. “Always has been. You’d think she was the U.S. Congress. Keeps getting farther and farther behind. I tried to warn her, but I guess you can’t tell kids anything. Just like that time she dropped out of school—”

  “Mrs. Jensen.” Lydia bet Roz was used to folks interrupting her. “Delbe’s phone?”

  “I pay for Delbe’s phone. She’s on our what-do-you-call-it…our bundle. Delbe’s phone is on our bundle. If it wasn’t, she’d never have any service. I pay my bills on time. Always have, ever since I borrowed thirty cents from my sister to buy my first Monkees record.” Roz chuckled. “ ‘Last Train to Clarksville.’ God, I loved Davy.”

>   “Mrs. Jensen, please. Do you have another number where I can reach Delbe?”

  Delbe’s mother sighed. “I’m trying to tell you. No. There’s no other number and the one you have sure as hell isn’t disconnected. We’re on the bundle. If one service gets cut, they all get cut. and I’m sitting here in my nightgown chatting with you, aren’t I? Girl probably dropped the phone down the toilet or something. She never did have the sense God gave a goose.”

  —

  One shower and two cups of coffee later, Lydia watched the clock in her kitchen click over to 6:30 A.M. She called up the contact list on her phone and touched a favorite number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Good morning, Lydia.” Paul Bauer could dial his voice to pure seduction no matter how early it was. “How are you this fine June morning?”

  “What time do you need to be at the station? I could grab some bagels and be at your place in half an hour.”

  “That depends. Is it like that or you need a cop?”

  Lydia liked the way he purred into the phone.

  “This time I need a cop.”

  —

  “So there’s nothing the police can do?” Lydia had filled Paul Bauer in on the general outline of her concerns regarding Delbe Jensen’s situation.

  He swallowed the last bite of the asiago cheese bagel Lydia brought him. She made sure it had a schmear of sun-dried tomato cream cheese, just the way he liked it. “Not unless there’s something you’re not telling me. As I understand it, you have a woman, of full legal age, who calls you and announces she’s going away. You, being the super psychologist you are, ask her point-blank if she intends to hurt herself, and she, good little patient that she is, tells you point-blank no. She thanks you for your help and bids you adios.” He shook his head. “Unless you tell me she’s got outstanding warrants or you have evidence she’s involved in some sort of criminal activity, there’s not a thing I or any other cop can do.”

  “Paul, she was despondent. Scared. She talked about how she was in debt and now there was a new plan.”

  “She’s young and impulsive. Her new plan probably involves skipping town, maybe grabbing a fake ID, thinking she can start all over.” He shook his head. “You can’t outrun a computer. You’d think someone her age would know that. You have any idea who she owes?”

  Lydia shook her head. “She said she started borrowing a few years ago. She’d left Olympia to follow her dreams…like you said, she’s impulsive. She borrowed money, couldn’t pay, and the amount grew. Something about signing little blue sheets over and over.”

  Bauer took a long sip of coffee. “Sounds like she got caught up with one of those payday loan places. That’s the basis of their whole gimmick. Grab somebody so desperate they’re willing to pay sky-high interest. Poor schmucks always believe they’ll catch up at the end of the week.” He shook his head. “Too dumb to know better or too naïve to know different. Either way, they get caught in that spider’s web of interest and fees. Next thing you know, they’re in bankruptcy court, ruined for years, and the same scumbags that roped ’em in are always the first in line to get whatever blood’s left in the stone. You know, back when I joined the force, loan sharks on the street charged less interest than what these bottom-feeders do. And we put them in jail.” His green eyes were sympathetic. “My hunch is your patient decided to run away from them. Stupid plan, but I get it.”

  “She said they’d branded her. And she was being shipped to market.”

  “A bad credit score is a tough brand to wash off. She’s probably feeling like a failure.”

  Lydia wasn’t buying it.

  “And how old did you say she was?” Paul asked.

  “I didn’t. Let’s say early twenties.”

  Paul leaned back in mock chagrin. “You telling me this post-adolescent impulsive girl would be the first young woman you’ve encountered who was melodramatic enough to talk about being shipped off or ruined for life?”

  Lydia stared at her own mug of now-cold coffee. What Paul said made sense. But she knew Delbe Jensen in a way he didn’t. Delbe was in trouble. And neither Paul nor the police could be of any help.

  Paul stood, grabbed both their mugs, and put them in the sink. He turned back toward Lydia, reached for her hands, and pulled her to her feet. He drew her into his embrace and hummed an old Smokey Robinson tune as he danced her around the kitchen. Lydia felt herself respond. She leaned her head against his chest and for a moment allowed herself to melt into the steady arms of a good man.

  He nuzzled her hair away from her ear and leaned in. “I don’t have to be to work till nine thirty.” His whisper rumbled against her neck. “How about you?”

  She inhaled. The fragrance of sea breeze emanated from his skin. It would be so easy to let go and let this man love her.

  But she couldn’t do that. Not to him.

  She stiffened her spine. “Tempting, Detective Bauer.” She pushed herself free of his arms. “But if you’re not going to help me fix this, then I’ve got work to do.”

  —

  He used the damn spy phone again, bopping his head along as he counted the rings. As usual, she picked up on the third. Man, this chick needed some kind of surgery to take that stick out of her ass.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He put on his best cheerleader voice. “We’re growing again. I think this one will be a wonderful employee. A great colleague for the other girls, too.” He accented the word “colleague.” He heard it on some television show last night and thought it might work on her. “Her name’s Delbe Jensen. Twenty-four years old. Works as a waitress, but she got herself in some money trouble, and not just with us.”

  “She’s interested in this work? She has time for it?”

  He wondered what kind of idiot he was dealing with. Did she really think any woman woke up thinking, Hey, maybe hooking is the career path for me?

  “She’s troubled.” He tried to sound concerned as he read the notes he’d jotted to himself from last night’s TV show. “We talked at length. She weighed her options. She sees this as a viable opportunity at this juncture.”

  There was silence on the other end. Maybe he’d laid it on too thick. She was a broad like any other, but for now she was sitting where she was sitting and he was down in the street running whores. He’d have to be more careful.

  “What are her hopes?” the woman finally asked.

  He remembered Delbe standing in front of her house when he picked her up. One suitcase and a guitar slung over her shoulders. He’d thrown the bag in the trunk, but she’d insisted the guitar stayed with her.

  “She’s a musician.” He let the lie grow. “I’d love for you to hear her play. I promise you, she’s gonna be a star one day.”

  Chapter 16

  Mort waited until Bruiser was settled in the backseat and Jimmy had himself buckled in. “What the hell was yesterday about? You busting Schuster’s chops.” He backed his Subaru out of his designated spot at the police department.

  Jimmy checked the side-view mirror. “Guy rubbed me wrong. Don’t worry. I know his history. He’s quality.”

  “So what got your goat?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “I didn’t like the way he was all flirtatious with Micki. And from where I was sitting, she was giving it right back at him.”

  Mort glanced toward his partner. “We’re not rolling down this road again, are we? I thought you were over your infatuation. Do I need to get my calendar out? Maybe remind you she’s got about the same number of years to her fortieth birthday you have to your sixtieth?”

  “You’ll be celebrating that milestone right along with me, pal. I’m not the only geezer here.”

  Mort shook his head. “Give it up, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy twisted in the passenger seat to face Mort. “Micki’s a doll. Smart, funny…she’d do anything for anybody. That smiling-beauty thing doesn’t hurt, either. She deserves better than Schuster, is all I’m saying.”

  “Better than an Ivy-educat
ed lawyer who’s working on our side of the system when he could be making the big bucks with some firm downtown?”

  Jimmy resettled himself and stared out at the morning traffic. “She deserves better than a cop. And before you get all psycho-shit on me for what that might mean about my own self-esteem or what have you, admit it. Cops make lousy husbands.”

  Mort thought of his years with Edie. All the times he’d left her alone with the kids while he was out there chasing. It didn’t matter if it was bad guys or gold shields. He was always on the run and she was the one keeping the home life steady. He wanted to believe Jimmy was wrong. But he was too smart for that.

  They spent the rest of the drive in silence. Mort knew this part of town well. Ethnic restaurants and social clubs served Seattle’s large Russian population. They’d first settled here to work in the factories and mills of the old economy. Today young and smart immigrants flooded the same neighborhood, keeping the old traditions alive after a long day in Microsoft’s high-tech corridors. Mort drove down Thirteenth Avenue, past a bakery his kids used to love. Allie’s favorites were the tea cakes rolled in confectioner’s sugar. He shoved the thought of his daughter’s snow-powdered grin aside and parked across from Saint Nicholas Orthodox Church, in front of the Shoe Stop where Crystal Tillwater had been employed. It was two minutes before nine. Bruiser climbed out of the backseat and the three of them walked to the front door just as a man wearing gray sweatpants and a long silk shirt patterned with tropical flowers turned the key from the inside to open the store. The man’s expression turned from bland to irritated when he saw Bruiser sitting at attention next to Jimmy. He shoved the door open but blocked the entrance with his considerable girth.

  “Which one of you is the cop who had all the questions for my girls?” Mort pegged him at five-nine, 220, maybe 225 pounds. Mid-forties would be Mort’s guess, but it was hard to tell with someone that out of shape. His moon face was scarred from what must have been a nasty case of teenaged acne. His thin hair was a nondescript shade of brown. He wore it long; his ponytail smaller around than Mort’s pinky. “They said you had a dog.”