The Red Hot Fix (26 page)

“This is an outrage, Officers. Mr. King needs to be out with his team. Direct any inquiries to me and let him get back to business.” Like anyone who followed basketball, Mort knew the short man with the tall demands. Lyndon Baines Johnson. Mort had used the legend of their friendship as a model for teaching his own grandkids the value of loyalty and commitment.

“Our questions are for LionEl.” Mort calibrated his bad-cop voice to subtle intimidation. He trained his eyes on the giant against the wall. “He may be better served by a lawyer than an agent.”

LionEl didn’t blink, but the mention of the prospects of needing an attorney sent LBJ into near apoplexy.

“A lawyer? Why would LionEl be needing a lawyer?” LBJ rolled his shoulders in a jacket Mort was sure cost more than his mortgage payment.

The giant spoke. “LionEl isn’t scared of you, Mr. Po-lice Man.”

LBJ thrust a hand in his client’s direction. “Let me handle this.” He looked up at Mort. “What’s this about?”

Mort took one step toward the Lion in Winter. “I was there when Gardener came out of nowhere to show you how the game was played. My kid got me courtside seats.” Mort looked over his shoulder to Jimmy. “I never get tired of saying that. ‘My kid got me courtside seats.’ ” He turned back to LionEl. “It’s a wondrous thing to have children who care about pleasing their
old man. What did your dad think about your temper display that night, LionEl? Or your pout in front of twenty thousand fans before you abandoned your team and headed off to the showers?”

“What the hell is this?” LBJ demanded.

Mort ignored him and kept his focus on LionEl. “You were mad as hell that night. I could feel it.” He watched for a reaction. “Wilkerson pulled you after getting a phone call. My guess is it was Vogel telling his coach to keep his superstar on the bench and let the rookie give the fans a show. Am I right?”

“This interview ends right now.” LBJ waved his hand in his client’s direction. “Come on, LionEl. You’ve got practice and I’ve got a police chief to call.”

LionEl stood his ground, his focus latched on Mort.

“Let’s go, LionEl,” LBJ’s snapped.

“Let’s see where this goes.” The corner of LionEl’s lips lifted in a humorless grin. “What’s the po-lice man with the kid who wants to please daddy got to say?”

Mort gave a slow nod. “That must have pissed you off, to be humiliated like that. And the game in L.A.? The kid rallies the team while you’re sitting idle? Big man calls down again and the next day papers are all Barry Gardener.” Mort shook his head and huffed out a laugh. “Man, you must have been burning to be disrespected in front of millions.”

LBJ raked fat hands through his hair. “Are you boys crazy?” He waddled in a circle. “You two are like the story about that Japanese sniper holed up in a tree on some punk-ass Pacific Island twenty years after the war was over. Somebody forgot to tell the brother his side lost. You looking to pin Vogel’s got on LionEl?” He laughed. “Read the papers. Turn on a radio. Your killer’s in the can.”

Mort and LionEl let LBJ’s performance go unnoticed.

“How pissed were you at Vogel, LionEl?” Mort watched the giant’s lower lip tighten. “Enough to set this up?”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” LBJ turned to Jimmy. “Are you getting this?”

Jimmy put on his best I-can’t-take-Mort-anywhere face.

“I want Boss Man gone, I don’t rely on crazy-assed psycho bitches.” LionEl spoke only to Mort. “I do it myself or I trust my boys.”

“Shut the fuck up, LionEl.” LBJ stepped toward Jimmy. “That’s a reaction to your partner’s provocation. He doesn’t mean what he’s saying. Hell, I don’t think he even knows what he’s saying. This is fucking crazy.”

LionEl and Mort stood three feet apart, locked in stare-down while LBJ fumed and Jimmy played bored. Finally LionEl relaxed.

“I know you, Mr. Po-lice Man.” He rubbed his diamond-studded earlobe and shook his head. “Yes, sir, I do. You wanna tell me all about your boy and how he makes his daddy proud?
Try to get a rise out of old LionEl? Maybe get me to … what? Confess? Throw a punch?” LionEl stepped forward to close the gap between the two of them. “How’s about I tell you a story?”

Mort didn’t budge. LionEl pulled out Wilkerson’s chair and took a seat behind his coach’s desk.

“Starts out about a year ago.” He turned to his agent. “That about right, LBJ? I flew down to the Dominican Republic last year, right?” He shifted his focus back to Mort. “Ever been to the D.R., Mr. Po-lice Man? Expensive, but beautiful.”

“You need to stop talking, LionEl,” L.B. warned.

LionEl ignored the counsel. “It was a tough season. You’re right. Vogel rides me hard. I needed the break. Let loose. Party in a way I don’t get to during the season, if you catch what I’m throwing.”

“I catch it.” Mort let LionEl’s bravado unwind.

“Got me an invite to the fanciest penthouse at the shiniest ho-tel on the island. Get told the gentleman spending the month in that ten-grand-a-night apartment is a big fan of mine. So I go. Man, I seen a lot of shit in my life, but never nothing like that party. There was blow laid out like it was peanuts at the corner saloon. Celebrity DJ spinning like we at some NYC club. Dom and Cristal by the bucket.” LionEl smacked his lips in memory.

“And the pussy! Let me tell you about that!” He stabbed a giant finger toward Mort. “I get me some groupies, as you might imagine. Grade A, too. I’m not talking those skanks who’ll suck the equipment manager’s dick just to hop a ride on the team bus. LionEl gets prime. But I ain’t never seen tuna the quality as I seen at that little soiree. Movie-star beautiful. Diamonds dripping off ’em like they don’t care to mention. Each one lovelier than the last. My host tells me take my pick. Waves his arms around a room full of God’s female perfection and says they’re all here for me.” LionEl’s grin turned into a leer. “Except for one, of course. Says I can have any cooch in the room except for the woman holding on to his arm. Lord have mercy, she was a beauty. Dark blond hair. Body carved from pink marble. Tits that would make them professors think twice about antigravity.” He bored into Mort’s gaze. “Lips so soft and cushiony you just had to have them wrapped around your pole.”

“There a point here, LionEl?” Mort asked.

LionEl huffed. “I’m getting to it.” He settled back into his story. “So I play it subtle. I tell my host I have to see all the ladies before I make my pick. Ask if his lady might introduce me around. He says, ‘Of course.’ Kisses the top of her perfect little head and tells her be a good hostess. We walk around and I lay on the charm.” He placed a beefy hand over his chest. “She won my heart. I had to have her. My host comes back around an hour later with a bottle of Dom and asks if I’ve made my selection. So I make my move. Tell him I want his lady. He laughs and
I say I’m serious. He ain’t laughing no more. So I make him a deal. I offer him a million dollars for one night.” LionEl laughed. “Just like that movie where the Sundance Kid spent a long m for one night with G.I. Jane. Host man gets angry. I tell him name his price. I’ll pay.” LionEl slapped both his knees and reared his head back in laughter. “And
that
was when I get my black ass thrown out of the ten-grand-a-night penthouse in the shiniest hotel in the D.R.”

Mort waited for him to stop laughing. “I’m not getting the point.”

“The point, Mr. Po-lice Man, is that Primo Pussy and I spent an hour getting to know one another. She told me what a fan she is. Says she’s from Seattle and followed me since I arrived. We talk about clubs we both been to. I ask her where she likes to shop. Tell her I want to take her on a spree. Ask her about her people.” LionEl shot Mort a knowing glance. “Pussy always likes it when you ask about their family. Shows interest in them as a person. She tells about how Mommy is a dance teacher and Daddy is a big-time detective with the Seattle PD.”

Mort’s sense of space disappeared. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint of light at the end of a dark tunnel before snapping back into focus. He leaned forward and stutter-stepped past Jimmy.

“Allie?” Mort cleared his throat and tried again. “You saw her?”

“Allison Edith Grant.” LionEl’s laugh bore no trace of good humor. “Damn, I can’t remember my own address half the time, but that bitch spun her web around old LionEl so tight I remember her middle name. I mean, she
got
to me. But I’m a smart man.” He pointed a giant hand toward his agent. “L.B. gets me some serious coin, don’t you, old buddy?”

The short man shook his head. “Will you just shut the fuck up?”

LionEl ignored him. “But even with all my millions, I know that snatch is out of my league. Only bankroll can support a woman like that come from giving people what they need.” His face lost all humanity. “What they willin’ to pay anything for. Suck a dick dripping with disease for. Let you fuck their babies while you make ’em watch for.”

Mort wanted to sit before he fell. Somehow he willed himself to remain upright.

“Sing your song of pride about your children now, Mr. Po-lice Man.”

Jimmy yanked the office door open and growled to Lyndon Baines Johnson, “Get him out of here. Now!”

“You heard him, LionEl.” L.B. took two steps into the hall. “This is over.”

The highest scorer in the NBA ignored the two men. “Best clean up your own store before you come shopping in mine.” He held Mort’s gaze a heartbeat longer before he kicked his chair back and pulled himself to his full height. “You want a piece of me, you look in the sports page. Man can’t keep his daughter outta candyman’s bed ought not to be trying to mess with trouble this big.” LionEl nodded his goodbye and left the room.

Jimmy slammed the door shut, placed an open palm on his partner’s back, and steered
him to Wilkerson’s chair.

“Well, that went well, don’t you think?”

Mort fell back into the soft leather, glad for the support. He tried to swallow but his throat wouldn’t cooperate. He grabbed the wastebasket next to Wilkerson’s desk and spit out the venom.

“Deep breath, Mort.” Jimmy returned to his chair across the desk. “LionEl didn’t seem fazed we were asking about his involvement in Vogel’s murder. If the coroner places TOD during game time, LionEl’s probably thinking his alibi’s airtight. Millions watched him drag his team to defeat. I’ll do some digging on who his posse is. See where they were when LionEl was losing to L.A.”

Mort recognized the words his partner was saying, but they sounded dim and far away.

“I’ll get into this LBJ guy, too,” Jimmy continued. “He’s got as much to lose from Vogel’s trashing his golden goose as LionEl himself.”

Mort took a long, deep breath and felt Jimmy’s hand on his shoulder. “Let’s roll, Mort. Bruiser’s gotta be wondering what kind of trouble we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

Mort looked up when Jimmy’s phone rang. He watched his partner talking but didn’t catch a word.

Jimmy folded his phone. “Guys found Felicia Fatone. They’re bringing her to the station.” He opened the door. “I’ll take this one, partner. Whaddya say I drop you off at home?”

Mort closed his eyes. He saw Allie sitting on the back of a convertible, trying to balance a spray of red roses as she waved to the folks lining the streets for the Seafair parade. Laughing and grabbing her fake-diamond tiara when she spied Edie and him in the crowd. He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaled, and pulled himself out of the chair. “Let’s go.”

Mort, Jimmy, and Micki watched Felicia Fatone pace the interrogation room through the two-way mirror. She checked her watch, paused to stretch against the far wall, and resumed her path.

“Think we’ve cooled her enough?” Jimmy asked. “Guys say she was pretty mouthy on the way in.”

“They tell her what this is about?” Micki asked.

“They offered the invitation and the transport. According to them, she started yakking right away. Saying everything she’s got in her possession belongs to her. Demanding to talk to Vogel’s kid.” Jimmy turned to Mort. “You ready?”

Mort nodded a lie. His mind was glued to the picture LionEl had painted of Allie. “You stay back, Jimmy. She might feel more comfortable with a woman.” Mort stepped aside to let Micki enter first.

“Well, it’s about damned time.” Felicia tossed her red hair and glared. “I’ve been in here almost an hour.”

Micki gave her most gracious smile and pointed to a chair at the metal table in the center of the room. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Fatone. I’m Detective Petty and this is my boss, Chief of Detectives Mort Grant. Please call me Micki.” She took a seat opposite Felicia while Mort leaned against the far wall. “We appreciate you coming.”

“Like I had a choice.” Felicia traded attention between the two of them. “I go to get my mail and two cops are waiting. If somebody’s saying I took something from that apartment that didn’t belong to me, you can stop right there. Check with the movers. I got nothing that wasn’t packed up under the watchful eyes of Reinhart himself. If Ingrid’s saying anything different, she’s lying.”

Micki opened a notebook. “You have reason to believe Mrs. Vogel would challenge the ownership of your property?”

Felicia huffed. “Do the math. Miss Money couldn’t keep her husband happy at home, so he turns to me. Reinhart dies and she feels like taking revenge on the other woman. What’s she saying? I stole her jewels or something?”

Mort loved a talkative suspect. “Did you?”

“That fucking bitch. She
is
coming after me, isn’t she? It’s not enough I have to be hidden like some tramp. Now she needs her pound of flesh?” Felicia pulled a tube of lip balm from the pocket of her pink warm-up jacket and smeared her bottom lip. She directed her
response to Micki. “Look, I know what this looks like, okay? Young beautiful woman being kept by an older guy. But it wasn’t like that with me and Reinhart.”

“Tell me what it was like.” Micki used her just-between-us-gals tone.

“We were in love. Real love.” Felicia glanced up toward Mort. “He wanted to leave Ingrid so many times, but it was complicated. Comingled enterprises and all that. But we loved each other deeply.”

“It must have been hard on you,” Micki commented. “Seeing the two of them in the society pages all the time. Smiling and happy for the cameras.”