The Fixer (20 page)

Micki never missed a day of the trial and was fascinated by the trail of paint chips, tire treads, and time lines that led to a conviction and twelve year prison sentence. “It’s like putting a puzzle together, isn’t it?” They stayed in touch through the years and Mort teared up when he pinned on Micki’s badge the day she and Jodi graduated from the police academy. Nineteen months later Jodi walked up to a car she pulled over a car for a busted tail light and was shot in the face. At the funeral Micki told Mort she wanted in on the investigation. “I don’t have the seniority, but this guy’s mine.” He made significant withdrawals from his chits account and got her transferred. Ten years later she was still the best detective he ever supervised.

Micki walked toward Mort and Jimmy and signaled for Bruiser. She bent to one knee and ran her hands across the shepherd’s coat, cooing sweet nothings into the lovesick dog’s ear. She stood and pointed her briefcase in the direction of a small table. “You boys want to sit?”

Jim asked his forensic team if they were done in the kitchen. They were and he headed in ahead of Mort and Micki. He moved the toaster, pizza box, and seven soda cans covering the table. He pulled out a chair, brushed the grey residue of fingerprint powder off the seat, and offered it to Micki. Mort shook his head and smiled at a memory. Edie telling him one of the main differences between men and women is that women
knew
they looked stupid when they went gaga over someone twenty years younger.

Micki took a seat and pulled a folder from her briefcase. Mort sat across and Jim pulled his chair beside her. Bruiser settled in under the table, his giant head resting on her feet.

“What’ve you got for us, Mack?” Mort asked.

“I examined Buchner’s laptop. His computer at the university, too. Still waiting for the phone company to come up with his cell records. Desk sergeant told me you two were here so I decided to swing by.” She shifted her gaze between the two of them. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” De Villa looked at Mort. Then back at Micki. “It’s always okay.”

Mort saw the two women in the living room smile and shake their heads.

“And so I repeat, what did you find?” Mort asked.

Micki flipped open the folder. “Most of the stuff is pretty routine. Lots of drafts of schematics for various electronics. Research articles he’s writing.” She ran her hand down the inventory list. Mort noticed a smudged stamp from a waterfront nightclub just above her thumb and hoped she was developing a life outside the precinct. “Outlines for classes he’s teaching. Student lists. Grades. Typical stuff.”

“How about e-mails?” Mort asked.

Micki shook her head. “Nothing unusual there, either. Mostly business. Lots to his parents. A couple of exchanges with someone named Aubree about a year ago. Sounded like a blind date thing. Finally arranged to meet at a bookstore. One last note from Aubree the next day giving him the brush off.”

“Poor Wally,” De Villa said. “You know I read somewhere that over fifty percent of people meet their true love at work. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Friends first, shared interest, common social circle. That make sense to you, Micki?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Jimmy.” Mort leaned back in his chair. “You want me to see what Disney’s got on? You could watch while the grown-ups get back to work?”

Micki looked down at the file and ate a grin.

“What about the internet?” Mort asked.

“Those searches proved more interesting.” Micki turned to the third sheet of her report.

De Villa’s voice dropped an octave. “Porn? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, Micki. Mort and I can handle anything you got.”

Micki looked at Mort. “How do you put up with this?”

“He only weirds out around you, Mack.” Mort patted his friend’s shoulder. “Most time we can take him out in public. What did you find?”

“Again,” she said. “Pretty typical stuff for someone in Buchner’s position. Academic searches. Links to electronic and audio sites. He does his banking, such as it is, online. Buys his parents gifts over the internet and has them shipped directly.”

De Villa nodded his head. “Saves a lot of hassle. I’m a no hassle guy myself.”

Micki ignored him. “Buchner had Mapquest on his Favorites list. That’s where it got intriguing.”

“How so?” Mort asked.

“Buchner got to the university nearly two years ago. Back then he called for directions around town. Typical newcomer stuff. He must have made himself comfortable because there’s no maps requested for the past fifteen months. Until the last few weeks. Then there’s a little flurry of activity.”

Mort felt something kick inside him. “I’m all ears, Mack.”

“One’s to an idle warehouse down on the pier. I checked. Old import-export business locked up until the dead owner’s estate gets settled. I checked it out and Buchner has no ties to the deceased.”

Mort jotted in his notepad. “What else?”

“Three days before he dies. Two addresses in Olympia.”

Mort snapped his head up. “What’s a Seattle graduate student from Walla Walla looking for in Olympia?”

Micki smiled. “I wondered the same thing. Imagine my chagrin when I did a cross back on the addresses and found they’re listed to the same woman.”

Mort’s pulse quickened. “Who?”

Micki read off her notes. “A Dr. Lydia Corriger. One’s her home, the other’s her office. I looked her up. She’s a psychologist. You think our dead guy needed a shrink and went all the way to Olympia to find one?”

Mort wrote down the two addresses. The earlier playfulness in his voice was gone. “I don’t know. But I’ll look into it.”

Lydia decided against any disguise for her meeting with Cameron Williams. Whoever wanted the young caterer dead knew who she was and she needed them to see she was proceeding as directed. She sat at a small table in the Queen Anne headquarters of Elegant Edibles and sipped the cup of tea offered her when she arrived fifteen minutes earlier.

She was about to ask the counter worker what was delaying her boss when Cameron emerged from a back room. The caterer was pale. Her blonde hair pulled up in a haphazard grooming attempt. She approached with a leaden walk and forced a smile when she introduced herself, her green eyes bloodshot and flat. She wore blue jeans and a grey work shirt, both streaked with dried batter and berry stains. Cameron laid a large black binder on the table and sat down.

“What did you have in mind, Ms Corriger?” She showed no indication she was interested in Lydia’s answer.

Lydia tried to sound cheerful. “I’d like you to cater a dinner party. The winter’s been so dreary I think we could all use something festive, don’t you?”

Cameron didn’t react. Lydia had the impression she was medicated.

“Do you have a date in mind?” She opened her binder to the calendar section and glanced at several pages. “February’s nearly booked. March has some dates open.”

Lydia watched her closely. “I’m thinking a Saturday.”

Cameron flipped the calendar pages without glancing up. “It looks like the first Saturday I have is March 23
^rd
. Then April 6
^th
. After that we’re into wedding season.” She cast a look up at Lydia. “Does it have to be Saturday?”

Lydia smiled. “A mid-week party might be fun. Unexpected.”

Cameron nodded and returned to her calendar. “If you’re willing to host on Tuesday or Wednesday, we have several options.”

“Let me give that some thought. Perhaps we can discuss menu.” Lydia moved her tea cup to the side. “Do you cook at my home or is it done here?”

Cameron flipped to another section of her notebook. “It depends on the menu and the type of kitchen you have. Those are details we can work out later.” She pulled out two heavy vellum pages. “People usually start with a cocktail hour. Here’s our bar list and hors d’ouerve offerings.”

Lydia scanned the menus but kept her focus on Cameron. She watched her lean her head to one side and stare off into the void, completely detached from the customer seated across from her. Lydia moved the menus to her lap, placed her hands on the table, and leaned forward.

“Is this a bad time, Ms Williams? You don’t seem particularly interested in my party.”

Cameron blinked to attention. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Elegant Edibles is very interested in your dinner. Allow me to get one of my associates for you.” She pushed her chair away from the table. Lydia asked her to stay.

“Please.” Lydia set her voice to warm and soothing. “You come so highly recommended. I’d prefer to work with you.” She smiled as Cameron pulled her chair back. “I don’t mean to intrude, but you look a little off your game. Can I be of any help?”

The young blonde trained her vacant green eyes on Lydia. Her lower lip quivered. “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t see how anyone can help.”

Lydia glanced across the room and saw the counterwoman cleaning a glass shelf well out of earshot. “Let me try,” she said. “I’m a psychologist. People tell me a good one. And if you don’t mind my saying, if anyone ever looked like they needed to talk to a good psychologist, it’s you.” Lydia pulled her cup back in front of her. “What do you say we dispense with menu planning for a few minutes and have some tea?”

Tears welled in Cameron’s eyes. She bit her lip, nodded, and went to fetch them each a fresh cup.

“People who know you describe you as vivacious and enthusiastic.” Lydia accepted the warm pot and poured herself a generous amount of citrus-scented liquid. “What has you so down today?”

Cameron traced a lazy finger around a saucer covered in red English roses. “That woman they describe died in December. This is who I am now.”

“What happened? May I call you Cameron?”

She nodded. “My fiancé died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly.” Cameron dropped her head and wept. “Friends tell me it’ll get easier. But it doesn’t.”

“Oh, Cameron,” Lydia whispered. “I’m so sorry. How did he die?”

She wiped her eyes with a damask napkin. “Heart attack. He’d been under a lot of strain at work. Long hours. I told him he needed a vacation.” Her voice shook. “We planned to elope to Paris the end of May. When classes were finished and before my summer season got too busy. He said we’d take a month and bike the countryside.”

“Were you with him when it happened?” Lydia asked.

“No. It was just before Christmas. The shop was crazy with holiday parties. We planned a late dinner. When he didn’t come by I called him.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “No answer. I tried later. When he still didn’t answer I drove to his house.” She covered her face with both hands. “I could see him in the chair. I thought he was asleep. I let myself in. He was already cold.”

Lydia let her cry for a few moments, knowing the release would help. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Cameron shivered despite the shop’s cozy warmth. “Every morning I wake up. For a heartbeat or two I’m fine. Then I remember he’s dead. I’ll never see him again. Never hear his voice.” She turned to Lydia with an empty gaze. “My life is over.”

Lydia sat and wondered what kind of threat this grieving woman posed that could drive someone to order her execution. She hoped Cameron could provide clues to the person who held control over both their lives.

“You said you were going to elope when classes were over. Was your fiancé a school teacher?” Lydia asked.

Cameron offered a brief smile. “No. He was with the university. His work was very important. I hate to admit I didn’t understand most of it. You give me six ingredients and I’ll give you a gourmet meal in twenty minutes. You start talking hormones and neurotransmitters and my eyes glaze over.” She shook her head. “Fred and I were about as opposite as two people could be.”

Lydia’s attention clicked into hyper-focus. “What position did your fiancé hold at the university, Cameron?”

She lifted her tear-streaked face in pride. “He was chairman of the neuroscience department. Fred Bastian. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“I believe I have.” Lydia felt herself tumbling down a black hole. The night at the warehouse flashed through her memory. Bastian butchering the Silverback Gorilla. A flush of sweat tickled under her arms. Bastian was the link between Cameron and Private Number.

“Didn’t your fiancé work with animals? Something about emotions?” Lydia began with the obvious: was Cameron connected to the slaughter of Ortoo?

“I hated that part of his work. I mean, don’t we have computers for that nowadays? But Fred assured me his animals were well cared for. He even offered to take me on a tour of his lab anytime I wanted.” She crinkled her nose. “But I never did.”

Lydia sensed she was telling the truth. What else could Cameron know that would inspire someone to want her dead?

“Was there anything at work that was bothering him, I wonder?” Lydia hoped she sounded pleasant enough to keep Cameron talking.

Cameron shrugged and wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. “Typical stuff. It’s not easy running a department that big. But he’d been doing it a long time and his people loved him.”

But Lydia knew someone wanted both Bastian and Cameron dead.

Cameron wiped her tears and tilted her chin. “Why are you interested?”

Lydia smiled. “I’m just trying to get you talking about your fiancé, is all. Maybe help you see he might have had some peace when he died.”

Lydia watched Cameron consider the idea. “I’d like that. I’d like to know he was at peace.”

“Tell me how you met.” She hoped Cameron would reveal something that could lead to Private Number. “How’s a gourmet chef hook up with an Ivory Tower genius?”

Cameron’s shoulders relaxed and she took a deep breath. “Fred called it kismet. Every year he hosts a party. Invites the entire department to his home. Spouses, too. Well over two hundred people. He’s so generous. There’s always a theme for the decorations and the food. He holds it on Valentine’s Day so they’ll keep their heart in their work.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “That was his little joke.”

Lydia sat quietly as Cameron relished the memory.

“Last year’s theme was Romance in the Rockies. Fred always used Julie Christopher as his caterer. But Julie fell and broke both arms five days before the party. She was frantic. Called and begged me to take it.” Cameron stopped for a moment. “I arrived at Fred’s house at noon to begin cooking for a party that started at seven. He hung around.” Cameron’s faraway smile seemed fueled by the thought. “He asked questions. Then he asked for samples. He pitched in and washed dishes. I was impressed.” She gave a small laugh. “By the time guests started to arrive I was sorry to see him leave. But he kept coming back, checking on things. He helped me close up after the party. Sent my staff home. When the last box was loaded into my van he took me into his arms and kissed me.”