The Red Hot Fix (2 page)

Mort parked his car on the ferry and climbed steep metal stairs to the observation room. The April chill kept most passengers inside, sipping coffee and focused on their electronics, but he needed air. He walked onto the open deck, leaned against the railing, and let the salty breeze invigorate him. Three stories below, the churning engines roiled the waters of Puget Sound. The lowering sun painted Mount Rainier pink. He remembered how Edie loved riding this ferry. When they were first married, they’d pack a picnic lunch, sit in the biggest booth they could find, make up stories about the passengers, and call it a date. After the kids were born, the whole family would ride. Robbie was fascinated with the masterful gesturing of the deckhands directing the cars for maximum load. Allie was only four when she stood on one of the tables and entertained the commuters with her off-key rendition of “It’s Not Easy Being Green.”

As the Mukilteo terminal receded into the distance, Mort mourned the passing of days. Edie dead nearly three years. Robbie in Denver raising twin daughters with his knockout French wife. Allie lost to them all, probably not knowing her mother had dropped dead of an aneurysm while cooking spaghetti sauce.

He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and sent his love across the water and sky to wherever Edie was. He wondered if what the priests said was true. Did the dead look down on the living? If so, what did Edie think? She’d spent their marriage proud of her detective husband. How deep was her disappointment about the criminal he’d become?

Mort watched Whidbey Island grow closer. In a few minutes he’d head back to his car, turn the volume high on his Springsteen CD, head north up Highway 525, and be in Langley in plenty of time to make his appointment with his partner in damnation.

“Liddy.” Mort motioned for her to stand. “Let me look at you.”

She rose for his inspection.

“You look good,” he said. She’d gained a few much-needed pounds. “Healthier, I mean.” Ten seconds later, awkwardness forced them to sit.

Lydia Corriger pushed a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “I see you on the news. That prostitute-slash-murderer. How’s that going?”

“Don’t ask.” Mort looked around the bistro she’d selected. “Tell me about you.”

“Ten months in rehab. But you know about that. Now I’m here.”

“How are the headaches?”

“Haven’t had one in months.” Lydia sounded tired. “All this serenity up here. How’s your arm?”

Mort rubbed the spot where the bullet meant to kill him had entered. “Nothing left but a dimple.” She didn’t need to know the physical therapy it had taken to regain his strength. “And your eyesight?”

Her smile was rusty. “My eyesight is fine. As is my balance and my strength. You can stop worrying.”

The waiter interrupted them. Mort ordered Scotch neat and Lydia asked for a glass of merlot. He waited until the young man was out of earshot.

“Liddy, you took a bullet to the back of the head. I was the one sitting bedside in ICU for three weeks while you were in your coma.”

Lydia looked out the window, then down at her lap. “I remember,” she whispered. “I’m trying to make sense of it.”

“Yeah, me too.” Mort regretted his bark and softened his tone. “Like I said, you look good.”

The waiter returned. They were silent as he placed drinks in front of them. Mort nodded his thanks while Lydia stared into her glass.

“You happy up here?” he asked.

“I have no right to happiness. You more than anyone should know that.”

Mort couldn’t imagine how she managed the burden of living with what she’d done. “What’s past is past,” he whispered sharply. He took a sip of his Scotch and shifted gears. “What have you been up to on this island?”

Lydia looked away. “How’s your son?”

Mort allowed her the evasion. “Robbie’s fine. Working the book-tour circuit. It’s part of the gig, I suppose.
The Fixer
’s selling big.”

Lydia’s face reflected a fear as constant as her heartbeat.

“Relax, Liddy. The book’s about The Fixer’s exploits. Only you and I know who’s who.”

She gave him a reluctant nod. “And that binds us till death, doesn’t it?”

Mort tried to keep the conversation light during their meal. The salmon she recommended was source enough for polite table chatter. It wasn’t until the waiter brought them coffee and hazelnut
mousse that he tried again.

“My life’s simple.” Lydia focused on the candle’s glow. “I get up. I walk the beach. I prowl the village. I write.”

“About what?” Mort didn’t need any record of what they’d done.

Lydia looked out at the darkness over Saratoga Passage. “Journals mostly. Getting my thoughts down.”

“Sounds like something you’d prescribe one of your patients. You keeping names out?” He hated the selfishness in his voice. He’d gotten himself into this and would have to deal with any fallout. “I’m glad it’s helping.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“How about that guy who kept visiting while you were in your coma? Oliver, right? He been up to see you?”

She traced an unseen design on the tablecloth. “No one but you knows I’m here.” Lydia stayed silent for a while. “It’s better that way.”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw their waiter delivering strawberries and cream to an elderly couple across the room. Mort leaned close. “Maybe it’s time to see someone, Liddy. Get some help.”

She blinked. “A psychologist? Is that what you mean?”

“Maybe the doctor could take her own medicine.” Mort hoped his voice conveyed the concern he felt.

“And say what, Mort? ‘Can you help me, please? You see, while everyone thought I was a dedicated clinical psychologist, I actually spent six years as an assassin. What words of wisdom do you have to help me cope?’ Think that would work?”

He looked again to make sure no one overheard them. “Liddy, it’s done. I’ve told you dozens of times: those people you took out …” He had a long drink of water and held his napkin to his lips. “The world’s better with them out of it.”

“So I should explain to my shrink I was a force for justice? A righteous vigilante? Maybe I should fill them in on the details. Dates of kills. Methods.” Lydia’s voice was barely a whisper. “They’d diagnose me as psychotic. Deluded by your son’s bestseller into thinking The Fixer’s exploits were my own. They’d have me in a padded room before sundown.” She paused. “Maybe you think that’s where I belong.”

Mort wished he could reach into her, pull out the torment, and cast it into the sea coursing around her island of exile. “That was then and this is now. And you’re not in this alone. I’m the one who covered it up. That makes me just as culpable.”

Lydia returned her gaze to the inky void beyond the windows.

“Maybe that’s my greatest sin,” she said.

“The past is dead,” he whispered. “I remind myself every day why I made my choice. You’re a good woman.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Lydia tilted her head and gave him a melancholy smile. “What I am, Mort, is a stone-cold killer.”

Reinhart Vogel strode into the breakfast room of his Mercer Island mansion, took a seat at the head of the table, and focused his attention on the Seattle skyline glimmering on the opposite shore. He smiled at the rotund woman placing a mug of decaf and a glass of orange juice in front of him.

“Thank you, Hildy.” He pulled a napkin across his lap. “Do you think you could strong-arm Scott into making me one of his special spinach-and-cheese omelets?” Reinhart knew how to use his deep green eyes. “And if he’s got any garlic hash browns, I’ll take those off his hands, too.”

His sixty-two-year-old Hungarian housekeeper nodded. “I no ask,” she said. “You are boss. Tell me what you want. I will tell. He will cook.” She winked. “I bring you toast,
ja
?”

“You take good care of me, Hildy.” Vogel reached for his coffee. “Don’t ever stop.”

She handed him the morning paper and headed toward the kitchen. Vogel pulled out the sports section and grimaced.

“ ‘A Wing and a Prayer,’ ” he said, reading the headline out loud. “ ‘Can Washington Back into Playoffs?’ ” Vogel set the paper aside and glared at the blonde across the table. “Sportswriters are getting wittier in their humiliating. But then, you give them so many opportunities to practice.”

Ingrid Stinson-Vogel looked up from her dry toast and yogurt. “And good morning to you, dear.” She nodded toward his mug. “This isn’t a longshoreman’s diner.”

Vogel looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows and watched three kayakers paddling across silver-streaked waves. “I like my mug. Saves Hildy the trouble of refilling some rose-petaled thimble again and again.” He tapped the newspaper. “You have a plan?”

Ingrid dabbed her napkin across collagen-plumped lips and smiled at her husband of twenty-five years. “The plan is to beat Portland. Last game of the season. A win puts us in the playoffs.” She used both hands to lift her hair off her shoulders. “I’m CEO of this team, Reinhart. Let me do my job.”

Vogel’s voice knocked the warmth out of the yellow and white room Ingrid’s designer had worked so hard to make cheery. “You’re one game over .500. If Salt Lake hadn’t tripped on their dicks, your season would be over. Like everything else in your life, you’re where you are because it was handed to you.” He quieted when Hildy returned and placed his omelet, potatoes, and toast in front of him. He thanked her with a wink and told her to go enjoy her own breakfast.

He waited until the housekeeper was gone. “I’m sole owner of the Washington Wings. And the sole owner is telling one very lucky CEO that he wants his team in the playoffs or changes will be made.” He glared across the table. “Am I clear?”

Ingrid threw her shoulders back. “Are you threatening me, Reinhart?”

Vogel leaned over his plate, closed his eyes, and breathed in the heaven of cheese and garlic. He grabbed a fork, loaded a bite of hash browns, and smiled as he chewed. “I don’t threaten, Ingrid. I announce.”

Mort descended the concrete stairs to the basement of the Westmoreland Methodist Church and was greeted by an attractive dark-haired woman seated behind a folding table and wearing a “Hi, My Name Is Nancy” nametag. He introduced himself and asked if he was in the right place for the CLIP meeting.

“Is this official business?” Her smile offered a warm understanding. “Or have you lost someone?”

Mort balked at her question. For a moment he wondered what Nancy knew about his losses. Then he realized that CLIP stood for Children Lost in Prostitution, which made her question obvious.

“Your organization’s been recommended.”

Nancy dropped her voice and leaned her heart-shaped face forward. “This about the Trixie murders?”

There were times Mort regretted the dogged determination of Seattle’s journalistic community. “I’m here to learn what I can.”

“Then you’re in luck. Our speaker today is Charlotte Conklin. She founded CLIP.” Nancy grabbed a sticky-backed nametag and wrote “Mort” in heavy black marker. “Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll introduce you to Charlotte after the meeting.”

Mort thanked her and entered what looked like a teen meeting room. The cinder block walls were covered with Bible verses sprayed graffiti-style in vibrant colors. The far end of the room had a raised platform. Mort estimated sixty folding chairs faced it, nearly every one filled with a somber-looking adult, most female. Despite the crowd, the room was quiet. He glanced at his watch and took a seat in the back row. In less than three minutes Nancy took the stage and what little whispering there was ceased.

“Welcome, everyone,” she said. “My name is Nancy Mader. Thanks for coming.” She glanced toward the small windows set high in the basement walls. “It’s a lovely spring afternoon and I’m sure we all wish we could be somewhere else.” Nancy inhaled long and deep, apparently hesitant to begin. “My daughter, Valerie Amber, was just thirteen years old when her father and I discovered she was smoking marijuana with friends after school.” She gave a weak smile. “That wasn’t supposed to happen to us. Matt, that’s my husband, was an aviation engineer and I sold real estate. We had a wonderful life and Valerie Amber was its center. She ran track and played soccer. We went as a family to church every week. Drugs weren’t supposed to touch our lives.”