The Fixer (5 page)

“It wasn’t ecstacy that killed your friend, Mikey.” Mort leaned forward. “When did you move on to heroin?”

Mike shook his head and turned terrified eyes to Mort. “We didn’t. I swear to God we didn’t.” He looked back over to Bruiser. “Rich and I were enjoying the ride. Meaghan and this idiot start making out. I mean hot and heavy. I told Rich maybe we should leave but Meaghan just laughs and tells us to stay. That’s when the heroin came out.” Mike’s eyes bounced between Mort and the dog. “Rich and I freaked out. Meaghan and the asshole shot up. Then just sort of lulled about and giggled. It got boring. After about twenty minutes I had to pee real bad. Rich said he’d join me. We went off to find a bathroom and decided, what the hell. We caught a cab and went home.”

Mort had enough interrogation experience to know when he was hearing the truth. He glanced over to Jimmy and saw the Chief of Forensics felt the same way.

“This guy who showed up,” Mort asked. “He got a name?”

Mike trembled and dropped his eyes.

“Satan.” Richard turned his tear-stained face toward Mort. “He introduced himself as Satan.”

A few minutes past three Jimmy’s SUV was parked across the street from the waterfront home of Angelo Satanell. Mort sat shotgun and watched the front door of the faux Georgian McMansion.

“You think Junior’s in there?” Jimmy glanced behind to see Bruiser sleeping in the back seat. “He’s got his own condo downtown.”

Mort kept his gaze on the house. “He thinks he’s partying. Playing the street tough with the artistic types. Girl ends up overdosing on shit he provides. He panics like the piss ant he is and shoves her body behind a dumpster.” Mort looked back to his friend. “No way he goes to his place. He heads straight to Daddy and wraps himself up in all that high-priced lawyering.”

Jim shook his head. “Angelo’s been bailing his ass out since high school. Remember when Junior broke into the church to steal the communion wine? What was he, all of fourteen?”

Mort nodded. “Playing the street hood even then. Angelo had three lawyers down at the courthouse before we brought him in. How about the girl he beat up two years ago?”

“First time I heard him call himself ‘Satan’. Daddy had her bought off and changing her story while she was still in the emergency room.” Jim clicked his teeth and Bruiser sprang to attention. “Let’s go, big guy. Time to talk to the devil.”

The liveried maid’s eyes widened when she saw Bruiser. Her hesitancy disappeared when Jim and Mort flashed their badges and asked to speak to Angelo, Jr. She stepped aside, told them to wait in the entry, and scurried down the slate hall.

“Look at this place, Mort.” Jim spun around and took it all in. “This damned entrance’s bigger than my apartment. I bet Micki would love this.”

Mort didn’t respond. He kept his focus on the man walking toward them in the green velvet jogging suit. The man’s smile was ice and his eyes were steel.

“Detective Grant.” The man nodded toward Mort. “Inspector DeVilla” He tipped his chin to Jimmy and looked down to Bruiser. “I’m unaccustomed to having animals in my home.”

“We’re here to see your son.” Mort kept his voice even.

Angelo Satanell crossed bony arms across his narrow chest. “In regards to what?”

“Just get him,” Mort said. “He’s pushing thirty, Angelo. He can speak for himself.”

Angelo held Mort’s gaze. Mort imagined him considering his legal options. The few he had disappeared when Junior trotted down the stairs. Six feet tall, one-sixty, wearing a bulky sweater over a pair of loose khaki shorts. Leather deck shoes with no socks. Mort thought the skinny, greasy-haired punk offered a poor imitation of the Prince of Darkness.

Junior smiled a slimy grin. “Why, it’s Officer Krupsky and Detective Tweedle Dee. Look, Dad, they brought their little puppy.”

“Shut up, Angie,” Angelo, Sr. barked. “Say nothing.”

Junior’s grin left his face for a millisecond. “Is it that time of year, officers? Time to buy tickets to the policemen’s big ball? Let me get my wallet.”

“I said shut the fuck up, Angie.” Angelo’s tone wiped the smirk off his son’s face.

Mort stepped toward the son of the most successful defense attorney in Washington State. “Where were you last night, Angie?”

“If this is in relation to a criminal investigation I’m going to stop your questions right now.” Angelo, Sr. shot his son a commanding look. “If you’ve got a warrant for his arrest, let’s see it. If you don’t, leave.”

Mort took a second step toward the son. “Beating up girlfriends not enough for you anymore? You killing them now?”

Angelo, Sr. turned toward Jimmy. Bruiser’s guttural growl stopped him mid-step.

“I want you two out of my house immediately.” The brilliant lawyer’s face turned crimson. “And take your damned beast with you.”

“We’ll leave.” Mort smiled at Angelo, Sr. “This time you can’t help him.” He turned toward the visibly shaken son. “You got spooked, Satan. You may have tried to hide her body, but you ran away too fast. You forgot to clean up.” Mort put his nose one inch from Junior’s. “This time we got DNA. Eye witnesses, too. Daddy can’t help you now.”

“I’m calling the Chief.” Angelo, Sr. pulled out his cell while Angelo, Jr. ran up the stairs.

Mort and Jimmy walked out the front door. Bruiser followed. Jimmy pulled away from the curb once his dog was settled in the back.

“Well, that was fun,” Jimmy said.

Mort flashed on the dead cellist behind the dumpster. His mind bounced to the last time he saw his daughter. He looked out the window to the warm glow of the October afternoon.

“You have no idea, buddy.”

At eight-seventeen that evening Mort threw his cell phone across his kitchen. It hit the wall beside the refrigerator and shattered onto the linoleum. Jim had called. The evidence from the dumpster crime scene had gone missing. Mort wasn’t surprised when Jim told him his two eye witnesses, Meaghan’s best buddies Mike and Richard, had recanted their statements. Any further questions were to be directed to their attorneys.

Meredith Thornton looked out the cathedral window of her inner office, watched the undergrads shuffle to class, and let her mind wander back thirty years to another campus washed in autumnal gold. She smiled at the memory of Tim Jeffrey crossing the quad on his long legs, wearing those damned plaid bell bottoms she hated so much. She loved his thick curly hair and how he’d kiss her in greeting, not a care for who might be watching. Her memory flashed to long nights studying in his apartment, distracted by the delectable aromas from the Greek restaurant two floors below. The two of them in twisted sheets, exhausted from love-making yet determined to stay awake to whisper promises of forever while Michael Bolton crooned on the stereo. She heard Tim was a baker now. Somewhere in Massachusetts. Meredith breathed deeply and forced her focus. She’d made her decision and her calendar held no room for might-have-beens.

As university president she was responsible for the financial viability of the entire institution. Meredith enjoyed tremendous success during her four years as president of Washington’s premier university. Under her guidance the endowment had grown nearly sixty percent. Research grants were up, graduate programs had become more competitive, and the basketball team, under the direction of her hand-picked coach, had gone to the NCAA Final Four for the first time in a quarter century. Some of the faculty disliked her leadership style, but she knew academics were malcontents by nature. The Board of Trustees liked her, and they were who she served. Meredith smiled at the idyllic tableau outside her window. Life, for the most part, was damned good. Still, the sight of sweatered students and tumbling leaves could make her wistful for life as a baker’s wife.

Especially with Bradley Wells hounding her.

She’d made it her mission to increase his financial support to the university. When Meredith was first named president, Wells gave virtually nothing to the system that provided him with the bulk of his work force. The development office seemed intimidated by the home town billionaire and spent their efforts groveling for whatever crumbs Wells threw their way. Meredith worked her plan to bring him into the fold and now Bradley Wells’ annual contribution to the university was in the mid-six figures. She was grooming him to accept a seat as Trustee, thereby insuring millions of dollars in annual support. She hoped he would endow a chair and perhaps build a state-of-the-art building for the school of business.

But Bradley Wells wanted too much in return.

Meredith knew Wells had a never-failing eye for money-making projects, and that eye had fallen on one of the most beloved sites at the university. Two hundred acres of virgin woodland along Lake Washington. Home to undisturbed wild life and vegetation. An oasis of solitude in the middle of Seattle. A place students, residents, and tourists hiked and picnicked. Fished and frolicked. The fondest memory of any alum and a charming lure for recruiting new students and faculty.

Wells wanted it.

He promised tasteful development marked with low rise condominiums and high-end retail, restaurants, and entertainment. Boardwalks to keep “an adequate” amount of water open to public access. Discrete parking ramps for the thousands of people who would enter the area daily. In return for full development rights, Wells was willing to pay seventy-five million dollars.

She refused to even consider his offer at first. The land was too well-integrated into the identity and character of the university. But Wells was persistent. His attorney visited her last week, upping the offer to eighty million. Meredith was irritated Bradley hadn’t come himself. She knew his introduction of an intermediary was his signal that this was strictly business. He didn’t care about whatever relationship she may have fantasized they’d built over the past four years. She also heard the quiet undercurrent the attorney offered as he left. He said this would be Wells’ final offer. She knew if she didn’t have the sale of the land on the Board of Trustee’s spring agenda, with her full endorsement, Wells’ involvement with the university was over.

A gentle knock shifted Meredith’s focus. She looked up to see Carl Snelling, her Executive Provost, lean his shock of red hair into her office.

“Got a minute?” He walked toward her before she could answer. “There’s something I want you to be the first to see.”

Meredith took a seat on the silk chenille sofa that flanked her office’s fireplace. She indicated an armchair and Snelling sat down. Meredith had little regard for her Executive Provost. He struck her as weak-willed, too easily rattled, and much too in love with the sound of his own voice. But he’d been at the center of university administration for nearly twenty years. He knew everyone and wasn’t hesitant to share. Meredith found his knowledge and low resistance to manipulation useful. She would have liked to have had a full partner in his position, but she could work with what she had in Carl Snelling.

“You’re not going to like this.” Carl handed her one of two files he held in his lap. “Remember, shooting the messenger ended with a millennia ago.”

Meredith opened the file and glanced at the title page. “Greek.” She flipped through the sheave of papers. Her brow furrowed as she read. “These are your final calculations?”

“Please don’t consider them mine, President Thornton.” Snelling held a thin hand to the side of his pale cheek. “As you know, I’ve been looking for a viable option for months. I’ve long been capable of producing solutions to problems others couldn’t solve. My idea to expand the Continuing Education offerings to courses appealing to local retirees comes to mind. You’ll recall those programs netted over a hundred thousand dollars last year. But as to the Greek situation the numbers, as my friends in Accounting are fond of saying, don’t lie.”

Meredith ignored his nervous smile. “I’m looking at the enrollment projections. Grim. Have you spoken to Popolapolus? What are his plans?”

“I’m afraid no plans can work on the impossible.” Snelling crossed one thin leg over another. “I blame the public school system. They haven’t taught the classics for decades. Surely a handful of the private preparatory academies do the right thing and teach Greek and Latin. I found myself inspired by the ancients during my own prep years at Andover. But the few students who wish to continue their studies won’t attend a state university with three faculty members in the entire department. They prefer one of the Ivies.”

“Those faculty members turn out important work. We could incorporate Greek as a sub-division into another department,” Meredith offered.

“Please refer to tab five. You’ll find I’ve anticipated your idea and researched the possibilities.” Snelling flipped his own file to the spot he named. “Greek has not had a single student enrolled in eleven years. They are, quite frankly, pure overhead.” Snelling offered the smug little grin that inspired Meredith to fold her hands to avoid slapping him. “There’s no interest on the part of any department to take on three scholars who have no students and no interest in contributing to any work beyond their own. Nor would I want to be anywhere near Popolapolus when Greek being relegated to sub-division status was discussed.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Would you be surprised to know he once threw a glass of ouzo in his dean’s face simply because the poor man said he preferred walnut to pistachio baklava?”

Meredith pictured the passionate, barrel-chested Popolapolus’ response to Snelling suggesting his department be downsized and smiled. She’d pay a hundred dollars to watch that encounter.

“Closing the department would have ramifications,” she said. “Beyond the livelihoods of three noted faculty. It’s the oldest department on campus. It’s really all that’s left of the classical character that established this university.”

“Characters change, President Thornton.” Snelling closed his file. “Unless you have a secret pot of money or some other miracle, I’m afraid we must eliminate the entire department.”

Mort walked into the Crystal Tavern just past 5:30, nodded to Mauser behind the bar and headed toward a booth in the far corner. He sat down across from a six-foot-three, two-hundred pound black man with tightly curled graying hair. He’d been meeting L. Jackson Clark for more than fifteen years. Mort made it a habit back in the day to swing into the Crystal, work a crossword puzzle, and drink one Guiness before heading the four blocks home to Edie and the kids.