Fixed in Blood (12 page)

Lydia poured herself a glass of merlot and grabbed the remote. She activated her sound system and set Pandora to Lyle Lovett. As the Texan crooned about wishing he had a boat to sail away with his pony, she settled onto her sofa and replayed the day’s events. She’d driven up to Seattle to see if there was any connection between Delbe’s debts, which according to her mother were to Rite Now Finance, and her sudden disappearance. But after she’d seen Mort and Micki, it took her every bit of focus to keep the conversation with Greg Dystra on track. Throughout their meeting a single drone pulsed through her mind:
Mort and Micki are homicide cops. Somebody is dead.

The moment she’d arrived home, she’d headed downstairs to her study. She’d checked all Thurston County hospitals and jails the day Delbe disappeared, but after seeing Mort and Micki, she expanded the search to Pierce and King Counties as well. Nothing. She searched on Seattle homicides and learned there had been two in recent weeks. Both young women. Neither of them Delbe Jensen.

Mort’s presence at Rite Now could have been a coincidence, but her instincts screamed against it. His involvement cemented her belief Rite Now was involved with Delbe’s disappearance. She reclined into the cushions of her sofa, physically and emotionally exhausted. She needed to recharge in order to help Delbe. She focused on the music. Lyle was singing a cover of an old Tammy Wynette tune. She closed her eyes. The song, once scorned as an anthem for weak women, became a hymn in the hands of Lyle Lovett. A prayer. Acknowledging a man was nothing without his love as he pleaded with his own to stand by him. Her muscles unwound and her breathing eased.

A flash of headlights yanked her from her respite. In an instant she turned off the sound system and killed all interior lighting. She sat in darkness and listened. One car. Moving slowly. Her hand found the drawer of the side table. She pulled out the Glock, clicked off the safety, and inched toward the front door. She watched from the corner of the entry as a green Subaru swung parallel to her front deck. Her breath caught as the driver emerged, walked straight up to her door, and knocked.

“I know you’re in there, Lydia.”

The door was solid. She pushed herself back against the wall.

“I can stay here knocking all night.”

She knew he would. Lydia reactivated the safety, slid the Glock into the pocket of her robe, and opened the front door.

“Hello, Mort.”

His eyes held hers for several heartbeats before he pointed inside. She stepped to the right and felt the odd mixture of feelings she’d always experienced when Mort Grant was in her home.

“You want some coffee?” she asked. “Maybe a beer?”

He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the rooms. His eyes came back to hers. “Guinness if you’ve got it. Then you can tell me what you were doing yet again in the middle of one of my homicide investigations.”

While Mort sipped his beer and she finished her wine, Lydia explained her suspicions Delbe Jensen’s disappearance was linked to Rite Now Finance. As she spoke, she felt the tension of their estrangement combine with a small sense of comfort at having him near. Mort asked only a few clarifying questions as she told him what she’d learned from Greg Dystra.

“Those leeches charge an interest rate that keeps people bleeding forever.” Mort set his beer on the side table. “Did Dystra seem leery about your questions?”

“No. I told him I had a cousin with spending habits I was worried about. That I was curious about her options. He explained how their operation works. Everything sounded legit. I might have assumed I was barking up the wrong tree if it wasn’t for you and Micki walking in. I checked as soon as I got home. Both of your dead women are the same age range as Delbe. You were meeting with Charlie Fellow. You think there’s a link, too.”

Mort took a long pull from his beer.

“I’ve told you everything I know, Mort. Can you return the favor?”

He watched her for several moments and she didn’t shrink from his gaze. There was no need. She had no secret he didn’t already know.

“Charlie Fellow is quite the guy.” Mort leaned back against the sofa. “Natural-born salesman. Slick. Talky. Seems eager to cooperate but doesn’t give you a thing.” He summarized what he and Micki had been able to learn. “So, as you can see,” he said in wrap-up, “we didn’t accomplish much.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Sometimes it’s what people aren’t saying that tells us the most.”

“That the shrink talking?”

Lydia shrugged. “People don’t talk about what they’re defending against. Trust that gut of yours.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning despite Charlie’s shoeshine-and-a-smile presentation, you still think there’s a link between Rite Now and these murders. Trust that.”

He said nothing. Lydia understood the debate raging inside him. His anger toward her was epic. He blamed her for the loss of his daughter. Lydia held his gaze and hoped he’d remember their history together and the trust he knew she’d earned.

Mort got up, grabbed his empty bottle, and headed toward the kitchen. Lydia sat still, waiting to gauge his position by what he did next. She heard the refrigerator door open.

“You want something?” he called out.

A breeze of relief drifted across her. “I’m good, thanks.”

Mort returned holding a fresh Guinness. He opened it, settled back on the sofa, and told Lydia everything about the murders of Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael. Lydia interrupted only to ask more about Crystal’s daughter Nyla and Francie’s mother and boyfriend. Mort detailed Schuster’s discovery of the snuff film starring Crystal Tillwater, and Lydia felt the primal drums of justice rumbling in her gut.

“Anything on the man in the film?” she asked.

“Steer clear of whatever you’re thinking, Lydia. We’ll handle this.”

“Was Francie’s murder filmed?”

“If it was, we’ll handle that, too.” He leaned forward with a stern stare. “Don’t make me regret what I’ve just told you.”

Lydia felt no need to reassure him. She shifted focus instead. “I might be able to help find the ‘Jennifer’ Nyla said was babysitting her. You said she made the call from a prepaid burner?”

“Yeah. Part of a shipment dumped on several regional convenience and discount stores. Without a specific serial or phone number, we’re out of luck.” He looked at her with guarded curiosity. “You think whatever it is you got going down there in your bat cave can come up with something we can’t?”

Lydia wondered if that was the real reason for his visit. As a law enforcement officer he was bound by rules that held no meaning for The Fixer. Was he so stymied by his case he was willing to set aside his anger and avail himself of her resources? She hesitated, not wanting to be used ever again by any man. But any using would be reciprocal. If Delbe’s case was connected to Mort’s two murdered women, she’d have a better chance of finding her with Mort on her side.

“Get me specifics on delivery dates and stores,” she said. “Same thing with the tattoos you found on Crystal and Francie. Send me a photo.”

He paused as though considering the cost of a potential alliance. “You’ll have it first thing in the morning.”

“Good. You haven’t answered my question,” Lydia said. “Do you still think there’s a link between Rite Now and these murders?”

Mort stared at his beer. “When we trace that film, we find the killers. But I’m sensing something bigger here. Like you, I’ve never been one for coincidences.” He rolled his Guinness between his hands, as if he was trying to warm it. Lydia sensed a shift in his mood.

“Listen, Lydia. About that last time. When you came to my houseboat.”

Her spine stiffened. She’d have to face another of his angry tirades. Was he going to set rigid boundaries? Would he use her to help with his case but warn her not to read anything more into it?

“Mort, there’s no need—”

“There is,” he interrupted. “I was wrong.” He looked her in the eyes. “I was angry. Hurt. A whole lot of things, I guess. Helpless, mostly. Helpless to keep my daughter from running off and ruining not only her life but the lives of everyone she touches.”

She wanted to turn away from his gaze. There was too much pain there. But he needed to speak and he needed her to listen.

“I blamed you.” He cleared a catch in his throat. “That was wrong. I was wrong. It was my screw-up. Hell, I can see it now. All of it…so clearly. These last couple months I’ve been doing a lot of remembering and I can point to times when Allie was as little as two years old. She would always—
always
—charge down the path that would get her what she wanted…everyone else be damned. Maybe if I’d done something then. Maybe…”

“Stop it, Mort. You raised Robbie, too. Take it from a psychologist. People like Allie are born, not made. She was going to turn out to be who she was independent of who raised her.”

Mort shook his head. “I have trouble believing that.”

Lydia leaned forward, almost wanting to touch him. “I could bury you in research papers supporting my position. But with all that reflecting you’ve been doing, a part of you knows I’m right. Allie is who she is.”
Just like I am who I am,
she thought.

Mort wiped a hand over his face. “There’s more.” He told her about the recent visit from Archibald Fiddymont, the British barrister whose family had been held hostage until he and Robbie agreed to accept Allie’s money. Lydia heard the shame in his voice. She watched his face twist in disgust as he described his daughter’s latest escapade.

“Am I supposed to accept my own daughter is evil? I don’t know if I’m able to do that.” He shook his head. “But I am able to see you did everything you could. Lydia, she tried to have you killed, and still you tried to protect her because I asked you to. All I gave you in return was cruelty.” He looked down at his hands, his voice barely a whisper. “You’ve had enough of that for ten lifetimes.” Deep regret radiated from his eyes when he looked up. “I don’t have the right to ask, but I’m doing it anyway. Forgive me.”

A clammy shiver enveloped her. Her mind raced through a montage of pain. An image of her mother abandoning her. A circus rotation through the foster system. Smiling for social workers in order to avoid the beatings that would surely come if she complained. All those dark childhood nights spent on alert, praying to a God who never seemed to listen that the doorknob wouldn’t turn. No one believing her. No one caring. No one ever acknowledging her pain. No one ever apologizing or asking her forgiveness.

Yet here was Mort. The one man who’d protected her, believed in her, cared for her with no other motivation than his misguided belief she was worthy. The one man she trusted with her life.

She felt her body warm as she whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

Mort’s hand moved toward hers. She regretted the instinct that pulled her own back. He returned his hand to his knee. “I’ve missed you, too, Liddy.”

They sat in awkward silence for a few moments.

“You’ve got a houseboat on Lake Union free and clear?” Her tone was an attempt to ease the discomfort they both felt. “Just so you know, I’ve reached for the check for the last time.”

She watched his shoulders relax. A sorry smile came to his lips. “Any time we grab a beer, it’s on me. How’s that?” He paused. “I’ve got two dead girls, you’ve got a missing patient. What d’ya say we partner up and catch some bad guys?”

It took every bit of his concentration to walk. Not to mention the pain. How was he supposed to look like a man in charge hobbling around like this? He looked down at his right leg. A clumsy black boot with Velcro straps held his foot steady. Hardly the companion for the suede loafer he wore on his left.

He supposed it could be worse. Staz had swung that hammer hard. But X-rays showed only two minor breaks.
I’m tougher than that bastard thinks. And a hell of a lot more man than that cunt boss of his has any idea.

At the emergency room he’d made up a story about dropping an anvil while cleaning out his garage. The doctor and nurses didn’t seem interested. Who even had anvils in their garage these days?
Bet if I was a broad they’d be asking all kinds of questions. What really happened? Was I safe at home?
He knew the bullshit. But no one had one bit of curiosity about a man like him limping in with a bloodied foot.
What Staz did to me was abuse…sure as shit. The only difference between some beat-up bitch and me is I’ll get my revenge. I’ll pick my time, but that silent ape and the woman barking orders from the phone are gonna pay.

He opened his desk drawer, grabbed a bottle of aspirin, and threw four of them in his mouth. He cursed out loud when he realized his bottle of water was across the room. The pills were beginning to dissolve, filling his mouth with the taste of acrid chalk.

“Jennifer! Get your ass in here.”

He heard her hustling down the wooden hall. She opened the door and poked her head in. He hated the way that long black hair always fell into her face. Girls didn’t take pride in their appearance anymore.

“Get me my water.”

Jennifer’s attention followed where he pointed. She grabbed the water bottle, crossed the office in three quick steps, and handed it to him. He drained it in rapid gulps.

“Just one!” he bellowed. “Just one damned thing to go right today. Is that too much to ask?” He didn’t expect the teenager to answer. She had one speed around him: frightened little kitty. That act was getting old. The whole thing was getting old.

He’d had a sweet operation going. Lots of stupid girls getting themselves in too deep and willing to do whatever he told them to dig themselves out. A nice steady side income that would someday bring in even more cash than his legitimate business did. But he’d made the mistake of chasing an even bigger score and now
she
was in charge. He’d never make that mistake again.

Then some Hollywood asshole came looking for a bit of nasty to film. Things got out of hand and one of his best workers ended up dead. And another one when, like an idiot, he believed the guy when he said safety precautions were now in place. Another mistake to put on his no-repeat list.

So here he was. Off-the-books cash reserves depleted, some bitch’s voice over the phone telling him how to run his business, and his foot in a damned rehab boot.

To frost that cake of bad luck, the cops were coming by asking questions.

“You need anything else, Boss Man?”

He’d forgotten the frightened kitty in the corner. What was he supposed to do with her? She wasn’t old enough to make any real money for him. Kiddie shit brought the feds in, and he was smart enough to steer clear of that mess. But she had a debt to pay. Sure, it was her old man’s bill, but what good was a one-armed, legally blind man to him? Maybe he should feel bad about keeping Jennifer around, doing his grunt work. He pushed the thought out of his mind.
What kind of father offers his own daughter up to work off his balance? It’s his problem, not mine.

“She here?” he asked.

Jennifer nodded and her hair fell back over her face. “Waiting. I got her in the back like you said.”

He inhaled loud and slow. “Anybody else around?”

The long black head of hair shook. “Everybody’s working.”

“Bring her in. And get a barrette or something, will ya? You look like Cousin Itt.”

Jennifer scurried out of the office. He bent down and loosened the straps on his boot. The foot was throbbing like crazy. He hoped it was a sign it was getting better. He had to make an appearance at his legit office.

And he’d need to be in shape for what he had planned for Staz and his bossy bitch.

His office door opened and Delbe Jensen walked in. He liked her red hair. Men paid more for a ginger.

“Grab a seat,” he said.

Delbe glared at him with hatred in her eyes. He was used to that. A few weeks at work and she’d settle down. Especially if he gave her the right assignments.

“I said sit down.”

She crossed the room and plopped herself in the chair across from his desk.

“Lift your blouse.”

“What the hell for?” Delbe’s tone was less respectful than he liked from his girls. Normally a good backhand across the face was enough to correct the tone, but he’d have to get up and his foot had finally stopped aching. Instead, he leveled his sternest glare.

“They call me Boss Man around here. Reason’s pretty simple. I do the ordering and you do the obeying. Now lift your blouse.”

Boss Man held her in an old-fashioned stare-down. This one had spunk, he’d give her that. There might be a customer or two who liked that kind of fire. But what he preferred was a docile sheep.

Delbe was the first to blink. She started to unbutton her blouse.

“I said lift your blouse. I want to see your ink. Save the peep show for the paying customers.”

She pulled her blouse up to reveal her left flank. There, on the soft flesh just below her rib cage, was the tattoo his new boss required of all the girls. A double-headed eagle the size of a silver dollar encircled by a thick red border. He didn’t mind the new boss lady’s idea of branding the merchandise. He just hated the design. But for now, it was her show.

“Looks a little red. You keeping it clean?”

Delbe said nothing.

“When Boss Man speaks, you listen. When Boss Man asks a question, you answer. Are you keeping it clean?”

“Ask that filthy creep you sold me to last night. Dirty enough to infect any six women.”

He hated this part of the process. The part where they paid attention to who the customer was. It wouldn’t take long before Delbe found a way to block the customer out of her mind. They all did. Once he got them to that point, he could send them wherever with whoever and they’d do whatever they were told.

It was a process.

“Jennifer!”

Another scurried shuffle brought the teenager back into his office. “Grab some cleaning supplies. Especially the scouring powder.” He smiled toward Delbe. “And the strongest scrub brush we got.”

Jennifer turned in alarm toward Delbe.

“Now, Jennifer. I don’t have all damned day.”

The teenager returned less than minute later with a small bucket holding a can of Comet and a large, stiff-bristled brush.

“Grab a bottle of water and get over here,” Boss Man commanded. “That tat’s expensive. We can’t have her calling in sick with an infection. Gotta keep her shiny and bright for the customers.” He chuckled. “Everybody likes that fresh-from-the-factory finish.”

Jennifer set the cleaning items on his desk.

“I pay you to keep things clean around here, don’t I?” He nodded toward Delbe. “Go scrub that filthy pig.”

Jennifer alternated her terrified gaze between the scrub bucket and Delbe.

“Get me some alcohol wipes,” Delbe said. “I’ll clean it myself.”

He slammed his hand hard on his desk and roared. “When Boss Man gives an order, he’s not looking for suggestions. Now get to scrubbing, Jennifer.”

Delbe jumped up and turned toward the door. Despite the stab of pain in his foot, Boss Man impressed himself with his own speed. He caught her by that red hair and tightened his fist, pulling her closer to him. He dragged her back and threw her into her chair. Each flail of her arms or legs made him slam her head back harder. He wanted to punch her in the face, but she’d be out of commission for at least a week while the bruises healed, and his cash flow couldn’t sustain the lost revenue. He kept his right hand tight in her hair and used his left arm to pin her to the seat.

“Get over here, Jennifer. Now.”

Jennifer inched her way closer. She locked eyes with Delbe, her gaze begging forgiveness.

“Don’t pay attention to her. Do as I tell you. Now open that bottle of water. Lift up her shirt there. Splash some on the tattoo.” He pulled harder on Delbe’s hair. “We’re gonna get you all cleaned up.”

Jennifer opened the bottle and, still with pleading eyes, poured a little water on Delbe’s belly. Delbe flinched as the cold liquid spread across her midsection. Boss Man pinned her tighter.

“Now sprinkle that Comet. Make sure you get a nice thick blanket over that tat. We don’t want any bad little germies hurting our girl, now, do we?”

Jennifer’s hands shook as she complied.

“More! Make it like a paste.”

Jennifer did as she was directed. It wouldn’t be long until Delbe was as compliant as this frightened little kitty.

“Now scrub. Hard.”

Jennifer hesitated while Delbe swore like a sailor drunk at the Peg Leg Saloon. Boss Man freed his right hand from her hair and locked it around her throat. “One more peep and I’ll crush the life out of you. Right here. Right now. Jennifer knows I can do that, don’t you, girl?”

Jennifer kept her wide eyes on Delbe and gave a slow nod.

“Now scrub, damn it!”

Jennifer put the brush to Delbe’s skin. He felt Delbe recoil, but could see Jennifer was holding back. “Harder! Like you’re scrubbing a toilet.” He leaned in close to Delbe’s ear. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Nothing but a fucking toilet. And you have to be sparkly clean for the next guy to use.”

He felt Delbe struggle to breathe against his hand. Her body writhed in protest, but he settled her with a tighter grip on her neck.

“Harder. Get my toilet clean.”

Jennifer was crying now, and Delbe’s tears were flowing over his hand. He heard the spiteful woman choking and saw the blue tinge on her lips.

“That’s enough. Rinse her off.”

Jennifer dropped the scrub brush like it was on fire. She grabbed the bottle of water and flooded Delbe’s belly, using her free hand to brush away the slurry of cleanser, blood, and water. When the bottle was empty, she looked up at him. He sensed her request for more water.

“Go ahead. One more.”

Jennifer hurried to grab another bottle while he held Delbe in place. She wasn’t fighting anymore. He hoped this exercise had hurried her training process along. He relaxed his hold on her throat. Delbe gasped for air but didn’t make a move to escape. Jennifer was back and poured water until Delbe’s flesh was clear. He stepped back, released his hold, and returned to the chair behind his desk.

His foot was hurting like a son of a bitch. And it was her fault.

“Go on, Jennifer. Take this shit and put it back in the cleaning closet. Then come back and escort this whore back to her room.”

He waited until the teenager had bundled the brush, cleanser, and empty water bottles back into the bucket and left the room before he spoke to the quietly weeping woman slouched in the chair.

“You brought this on yourself. I don’t like taking a firm hand, but I won’t step away from it if you make me use it. Understand?”

Delbe hung her head.

“I asked if you’re clear on who’s the boss around here.”

She raised her head and leveled eyes filled with hatred. “You bet, Boss Man. I’m clear on that.”

If his foot wasn’t throbbing, he’d have knocked her across the room. This one was going to be trouble.

But he’d handled worse.