by T. E. Woods
What Robbie didn’t know was that Allie had graduated from being the woman standing next to the criminal and had overseen criminal operations of her own. She’d captained a prostitution ring right here in Seattle that resulted in the deaths of at least three women. And she’d ordered murders herself. Even the execution of an innocent child.
Mort kept that damning information to himself. He saw no reason his son should have to grapple with the knowledge that his sister was a murderer.
“Look, Allie.” The original rage accompanying Robbie’s surprise at seeing his sister eased at the mention of the pain she’d endured. “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through. But you’ve made some choices, you know?”
“I miss my family.” Allie sounded the same way she did as a teenager, when Edie would ground her and she’d come to Mort for sympathy. “I just want to see my nieces.” She alternated her gaze between Mort and Robbie. “I want to see my dad and my brother. That’s all.”
Robbie looked at his dad. Mort could see the pain in his eyes. He felt it himself.
“So, what’s that mean?” Robbie asked her. “You coming home now? What does Tokarev think about that?”
“Tokarev is dead.” Allie’s voice held no sorrow. “Months ago. A risk of his chosen career, I suppose.”
Mort was stunned. While his beat was Seattle homicide, he was tuned in to police agencies across the country and around the world. This was the first he’d heard of Vadim Tokarev’s demise.
“Where’s that leave you?” Robbie wanted to know. “Are you coming home? Are you willing to live a real life?”
Allie brushed a stray lock of sand-colored hair behind her ear. “You know nothing of my life, Robbie. I’m not the monster you think I am.”
“No?” Robbie’s anger surged back. “What about your threat to transfer money to the Righteous Red if Claire and I refused your trust for the girls? That doesn’t sound monstrous to you?”
Allie smiled again. The same smile so empty of emotion. “I said that to get you to take the money. That’s all. I never would have given such large sums to that pack of genocidal maniacs.”
“I saw the papers, Allie!” Robbie was nearly shouting. “I talked to that lawyer you sent over here!”
“Let’s stop this,” Mort intervened. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
“And it’s not going to be any time or any place near Claire or my girls unless I know Allie’s putting that life behind her.” Robbie ran a frustrated hand through his own thick, sandy hair. “Is that what you’re telling us, Allie? Are you ready to come home and live an honest life?”
Allie said nothing as she held her brother’s gaze. Robbie huffed his frustration and turned to Mort.
“You deal with her, Dad. Just make sure she stays the hell away from my girls.”
Mort and Allie watched Robbie make his way back to where Claire sat with his daughters. Mort saw the twins digging their feet into the turf as their mother and father gathered up the lawn chairs and blankets. They walked with their little blond heads down as Claire and Robbie led them by the hand off the field and toward the parking lot. There’d be no soccer for the twins today. When they rounded the building, Mort turned back to Allie. He stood, letting his eyes drink in the image of the daughter he hadn’t seen in nearly a year.
“You okay?” His tone was soft. “You have access to doctors?”
Allie shrugged. “My bruises have healed. And there are doctors all around the world, Daddy. I’m all right.”
Mort tasted the bitter metallic bile at the back of his throat. He was glad Vadim Tokarev was dead. Knowing what the Russian had likely done to his daughter, he hoped Tokarev’s death was slow, hot, and exceedingly painful.
“You look good,” he said. “How are you on the inside?” Mort regretted the question as soon as he asked it.
Allie draped her navy scarf behind her neck and crossed her arms over her chest. “You mean, do I need a shrink to tell my troubles to? Maybe someone like Lydia? Is that what you’re asking?”
He didn’t like the derision in Allie’s voice. Lydia had been prepared to die protecting Allie from herself.
“Where are you living these days?” Mort hoped a change of topic might keep the conversation flowing in a more productive way.
Allie shrugged. “I’ve grown accustomed to hotel living. It’s quite convenient once you get the hang of traveling light. I get to experience a lot of different places.”
Mort wondered if she meant she was able to stay ahead of any law enforcement agency looking to arrest her. Or worse. Did she travel around hoping to elude enemies she might have made as she sat beside Tokarev atop one of the largest criminal enterprises in the Northern Hemisphere?
“Why are you here, Allie?” Mort waved his hand to reference the lovely and obviously expensive wardrobe she displayed. “My hunch is you’re not here looking for a handout.”
She smiled. “I’m the one who paid off your houseboat, remember? It’s like I said. I miss you. I miss Robbie and the girls.” Allie tossed one end of her scarf over her shoulder. The breeze caught and floated it behind her head—a royal train heralding a queen in the midst of a children’s field day. Unexpectedly, her voice softened. “I’m lonely. I miss my family. I want to know my nieces.”
Mort pushed his heels into the grass beneath him. He jammed his hands into his pockets. He needed to keep himself from succumbing to the paternal instinct to reach out and pull his wayward daughter toward him into a welcoming embrace filled with the promise of a lifetime of protection. He looked around, past the swarming milieu of girls, coaches, parents, and teachers. He saw an equipment shed off to his right. Mort nodded toward it and started walking. Allie followed in silence, as though she understood he needed more privacy to say what would come next. When they arrived at the far end of the shed, he turned back to her.
“Listen, Allie. The first thing I want you to know is I love you. I miss you like crazy. And despite his anger, I know your brother misses you, too.”
Allie leaned against the rough-sided building. “I sense a but coming.”
“No but, maybe an and.” Mort took a long slow breath and drank in his daughter’s polished beauty. This is what Edie would have looked like if she had the inclination or the money, he thought. “We miss you and we need to know this life you’ve been living is over.” He steeled himself for what he needed to say. “I know, Allie.”
She tilted her chin, as though confused. Mort saw the dare in her eyes. “You’ll need to be more specific, Dad. What is it you think you know?”
An odd thought came to him. I need a time machine. I need a vehicle to take me back. Back to a time when I could stop her from stepping foot on the road that led us here. But he wondered how deep into history he’d have to travel. Could he remember a time when Allison Edith Grant, his beloved firstborn, hadn’t been determined to break every rule she encountered? No matter how small?
No. He couldn’t.
“I know about the prostitution ring. You ran it for Tokarev.”
Allie’s eyes flashed for one fleeting moment. With what, he wondered. Rage? Fear? In the next heartbeat he could see she’d regained control of her emotions. Still, she didn’t respond.
“I know about the snuff films. Three women in your employ died, Allie. And you let that happen.”
“I needed something to do.” Her voice was calm and laced with a plea for understanding. “Being Tokarev’s mistress didn’t particularly lend itself to taking classes at the local community college or volunteering at the food bank.” She looked Mort square in the eyes. “You may not believe this, but it’s the truth. I wanted to help the women who worked for me. I wanted to show them a way to make enough money to escape whatever trap they found themselves in. I had nothing to do with the films.” She locked her jaw and stared at him. “That was all Tokarev’s doing. When I found out about it I confronted him. It was one of the worst beatings I took. I thought he would kill me with his bare hands. I had nothing to
do with the deaths of those women. Whether you believe me or not, it’s the truth.”
“I believe you. I’ve spoken with Chris Novak.”
Allie’s voice was quiet. “He was my local man. I trusted him to take care of the women I employed.”
“I know that.”
“Then you know it was Tokarev who demanded the films. Did Chris tell you I fought him on that?”
“He did.” Mort wiped a hand across his face and wondered how he’d have the strength to say what he needed to next. “And he told me the way you impressed upon him just how disappointed you were.”
Allie said nothing, but held his gaze.
“I’ve seen the video, Allie.” Mort swallowed hard. “I watched your man…Staz was the name Novak said he used. I watched Staz kill Novak’s little girl. Drown her for no reason other than you wanted him to know the cost of disobeying you.” Mort’s voice choked. He didn’t mind. He wanted his daughter to hear the pain he felt knowing Allie had ordered a fourteen-year-old’s death. “Maria was just a kid, Allie. And you killed her.”
“And you believe him? You believe the story of a man who’s been convicted of conspiracy to murder? A man who’d probably say anything to reduce what certainly must have been a very, very long prison term?” Allie’s blue eyes narrowed. “You’d believe that about your own daughter?”
A flash of memory invaded Mort’s mind. Five-year-old Allie calling the neighbor boy a liar. Little Bennie told his mother Allie had picked up a rock and thrown it through his dad’s car window on a dare. Allie denied it, crying to Edie and him that Bennie had done it. Who you gonna believe, Mommy? Mort remembered her tiny voice asking. Me or that lying boy who ate a worm last week?
Mort inhaled and held his breath for a slow count of four. He exhaled slowly before speaking. “I believe Novak. You had his daughter murdered.”
“Then put the cuffs on me, Detective Grant. Haul your own daughter in for murder.”
“You know I can’t do that. You’ve covered the evidence well. Like you said, all I have is the video and the word of a man in jail. Novak doesn’t know you’re my daughter. He doesn’t even know your name. No, Allie, I can’t arrest you.”
“Are you saying you would if you could, Daddy?”
Oh, Edie, he thought. What has become of our girl?
“What I’m saying, Allie, is that I’m your father and I love you. I hate what you’ve become, but I love the woman I know you could be. You say you’re lonely? I say come back home. You say you want a relationship with me, your brother, and his girls? Let us stand beside you…behind you…whatever. Let us support you. I’ll get the best lawyers I can afford. I’ll call in every chit I have. Work with the authorities to pay for what you’ve done. Start living a life you can be proud of. Be the aunt Hadley and Hayden deserve.”
Allie turned and took two steps away before spinning back toward him. “You’d have me locked up? You want me in a cell just to prove I’m living up to your standards? And do what? Bring Robbie and the girls by on visiting day?”
“You can’t go on like this, Allie. You can’t.”
Allie squared her shoulders and stepped back. Her face was composed, but Mort saw the anger raging in her eyes. “You have no idea what I can or cannot do, Dad. Those girls are my nieces. I want to know them.”
“Not like this, Allie. Not until you make good on what you’ve done. We’ll stand with you, but we can’t let the girls near the person you are now.”
Allie stared at him. Screw the time machine, Mort thought. What I need now is the equipment to help me read my girl’s mind. She was silent for a while. Mort held her gaze, willing her to make the right decision. When she finally spoke, it was with an icy, detached voice.
“Think about what you’re accusing me of, Dad. Think long and hard. If I’m one-tenth the monster you think I am, is it wise to deny me what I want? I wonder what Chris Novak would give to be able to rethink his particular decision to cross me.” She paused. “Assuming, of course, his fanciful story was true.”
Allie turned and walked away. Mort watched her disappear into the milling crowd, burning the image of her strong, sure gait into his mind; hating himself for hoping the memory of her hair shining in the light of a bright September afternoon would be the last he’d ever have of his daughter.
Chapter 12
L. Jackson Clark walked out of the ivy-covered stone building housing his campus office at precisely three o’clock. Mort tooted his Subaru’s horn, and his punctual friend walked over and settled himself into the front seat. After the drama of his surprise encounter with Allie earlier that day, Mort was eager to bask in the calming atmosphere that always seemed to surround Larry.
“You ready for this?” Mort asked as he pulled away from the curb, inching his car through the stream of students meandering back and forth across the narrow lanes of Seattle University, each more attuned to the music blasting through their earbuds than to the moving car just behind them.
“Wednesdays are always rough for traffic. Most courses meet, bringing nearly the entire student body to campus. Take a right behind the law library,” Larry said, buckling his seatbelt. “There’s a back road that’ll get you out of this mess sooner. And yes, I’m ready for this. It appears going to Carlton’s house is not only the last favor I can do for Helen’s uncle, but now it’s my responsibility as well.”
Mort followed the lane leading him off campus into Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood and turned left. “What do you mean?”
“I got a call just after lunch from Carlton’s attorney. Carlton named me executor of his estate. I was stunned. He never told me he was considering me for the position. He never asked me.”
“Did you think he’d ask his brother? Maybe he wanted someone younger than himself—more likely to survive him. And who better to handle your affairs after you’re dead than the man Time magazine once called the Most Trusted Man in America? You know if I bite it before you, you’re the guy who’s sorting through my paperwork.”
“It’s giving me pause is all. Carlton and I were connected through Helen, of course. And I’ve always considered him family. But I’d see him only a handful of times each year. Why didn’t he pick someone closer to him to serve as executor?”
“He trusted you, buddy. That’s a good thing.”
Larry’s broad shoulders heaved as he sighed. “I suppose. But it’s hard to think of any good thing coming from such a death, isn’t it?”
Mort considered his question as he drove toward the address Larry gave him. He thought of Edie, taken from him in one brief heartbeat. Larry’s wife, Helen, off to celebrate her father’s birthday when she crossed the path of a kidnapper and was swept away from this world. Her uncle, murdered as he prayed in a sweat lodge. Mort’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as the image of Maria Novak, the fourteen-year-old held under water until she breathed her last came into his mind. Little Maria, dead at his own daughter’s order.
You’re right, Larry. It’s hard to think of any good thing coming from such a death.
Mort shoved the image aside and refocused. “Did his attorney give you any idea of the size of his estate?”
“She’s bringing me a copy of Carlton’s will tomorrow. From what I gather it’s pretty straightforward. He wants me to take what I’d like from his religious books and artifacts. Carlton’s amassed an impressive collection. Other than that, the rest of his estate is there for Bilbo Runyan to use. Carlton’s property, personal effects, as well as his five percent ownership in Abraham’s seafood business is to go into a trust, which I’ll oversee, to provide for Bilbo’s basic needs. At such time as Bilbo passes, the trust passes to Seattle University. Carlton wanted to endow a chair in my department for the study of forgiveness.”
Mort slowed to make a turn into Carlton’s neighborhood. “That’s quite an honor. Who’s Bilbo Runyan?”
Larry smiled for the first time since Mort picked him up. “You’ll meet him. He’s quite the character. A friend of Carlto
n’s from way back. They met in grade school, if I’m not mistaken. Growing up, Bilbo and Carlton shared a love of marijuana and skipping school. You remember I told you Carlton had been a bit of a handful when I first met him? Maybe that comes from being raised with privilege. Anyway, Bilbo was always Carlton’s wingman throughout his years of wild oat sowing.” The momentary whimsy in Larry’s voice disappeared. “Of course, all that changed when Helen died. Carlton changed. Turned his life around and focused on study and travel. He roamed the world and ripened into a learned and honorable man. I always had the impression he was doing it to honor Helen.”
“You mean like to prove to her somehow that he wouldn’t remain the screwup he’d been?” Mort asked for the address again, and Larry told him they still had three blocks to go.
“Could be,” Larry said. “Or maybe he was trying to please Abraham. At any rate, Carlton changed, but Bilbo remained the perpetual adolescent. Never held a job as far as I know. Always on Carlton’s couch. He’s gotta be, what? Almost sixty years old now? Wait till you see him. Bilbo moves to his own rhythm.”
“Why did Carlton keep him around?” Mort pulled to a stop in front of the tidy Craftsman bungalow Larry identified as Carlton’s.
“Who knows? Nostalgia? Maybe a sense of loyalty? At any rate, having Bilbo in his house allowed Carlton to travel without worrying about the security of his home and collections. I’ve met the man on several occasions. For all his other-mindedness, he keeps things neat and orderly.” Larry studied the house for several long moments before taking a deep breath and opening his car door. “Let’s get this done, Morton.”