The Red Hot Fix (38 page)

Authors: T. E. Woods

BOOK: The Red Hot Fix

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“Liddy, I’m not saying anything like that. What I mean is—”

“What you mean,” she interrupted, “is that you’re second-guessing your decision to let The Fixer go.”

His own guilt for allowing a vigilante assassin to escape justice was never more than a heartbeat away. “We’re both vulnerable here. That’s true. But my concern has nothing to do with that. I worry about you. Getting back into a normal life is a good idea.” He asked her to sit but she held her ground. “It’s tough to live with the knowledge of what we’ve done. I gotta tell you, sometimes my friends … having people to interact with … the distraction of it all … sometimes it’s what stops me from climbing the walls or revealing things that are best left buried.”

She stepped close enough to look down on him where he sat. “There is no
we
in what has happened, Mort.
We
didn’t kill twenty-three people. I was on my own with that. What
you
did was let a desperado get away. That’s it. Folks find out and worst case is you take an early retirement. Maybe that sterling Mort Grant reputation gets a little mud on the far corner.” Her voice had an edge he hadn’t encountered before. “On the other hand, if my past gets exposed, the best I can hope for is eternal damnation following a very long and lonely time in a tiny cell. So don’t worry. There’s no need to advise me on how best to leave the past buried.”

He held her stare until she turned away, then stood.

“Liddy, listen, I didn’t mean—”

She held up a hand to silence him. He could tell the brief smile she offered was forced. She nodded toward the garage. “You better get back to packing. Good luck with your move.”

He watched her walk to her car, get in, back out, and head down the street without a wave or backward glance.

Chapter Three

Barbados

Devon Lancaster tapped his sterling silver butter knife against his glass. The tinkling crystal caught the attention of the seventeen people relaxing over their dessert of raspberry mousse and coconut cookies. He stood and smoothed a manicured hand over his dinner jacket. “I hate to intrude on the sound of so many conversations … and it sounds like we’re all having a good time.” A collective chorus of jovial support affirmed the Brit’s supposition. “But let’s steal a moment in all this conviviality to lift a glass to our gracious hostess.” Lancaster turned to the sandy-blond beauty seated at the foot of the long candle-lit table. “Thank you, dear Olwen, for gathering us all in this lovely spot. As a Londoner, I rarely get the opportunity to dine with the stars as my ceiling while the sea breeze caresses my wife’s hair.”

Molvado from Portugal interrupted. “I told you he should have been a poet!”

The dinner guests chuckled as Lancaster continued. “The evening is superb. The food exquisite, the service impeccable, and the setting challenged only by the loveliness of our ladies, who put up with us come what may.” Lancaster lifted his glass. “To Olwen.”

“To Olwen,” the guests echoed, and sipped their champagne.

Lancaster shifted his attention to the opposite end of the table. “And to our host. Lest we forget his generosity and leadership.” He lifted his glass again. “For all Patrick does for so many, hear, hear!”

“Hear, hear,” the chorus answered. A few guests called for a speech. Patrick Duncan made a brief show of waving them off before standing to address his guests.

“Thank you, Devon, for those kind words.” Patrick’s gaze settled on the woman seated twelve feet opposite him. “And I’ll start, as always, with a declaration of my devotion and appreciation to my extraordinary Olwen. Without you this night doesn’t exist.”

Olwen lowered her lovely face and smiled in a well-rehearsed show of humility.

“And to all of you,” Patrick continued. “Thank you for coming. I know it’s never hard duty to fly away to a tropical island …” The guests laughed on cue. “But still, these three days take you away from your duties and families at home and I appreciate the sacrifice. We men have much to discuss. And as they say, there’s no time like the present.” He signaled for his hostess to stand. “So, if you ladies would be gracious enough to follow Olwen, she’ll escort you up to the hotel’s roof garden, where I’m told a fashion show awaits that is sure to inspire your
men here to work even harder to repair the considerable hole you’re about to put in their wallets.”

Eight women pushed back their chairs, kissed their companions goodbye, and followed Olwen off the terrace and into the penthouse. Patrick raised his voice to be heard above their excited chattering.

“And Molvado here will lead you men to a conference room one floor below. I’ll be along in a moment.” Patrick waved his finger in mock warning. “Leave a cigar and at least one drop of cognac for me, will you?”

The men stood, making a show of clapping one another on the shoulders and congratulating each other for a record-breaking sales quarter in the cocaine, heroin, and illicit pharmaceutical market before turning to follow their Portuguese colleague.

“Devon,” Patrick called out. “Can you and Jillian hold back? I need a private moment with you both.”

The enthusiasm left the room instantly. The women quieted. Those nearest Devon’s wife offered comforting hands and concerned faces. The men focused their attention on their own shoes.

Olwen directed the women out of the room. She locked eyes with Patrick one last time before leaving and made a mental note to call room service as soon as she got the ladies settled up on the roof.

There’d be two fewer guests for brunch tomorrow.