The Unforgivable Fix (21 page)

Paul Bauer offered his card to Zach, telling him to call if he had any questions. He turned to leave. “Consider my suggestions about the front here, Lydia. You never know what might walk in on you.”

Mort handed her a glass of wine. “That was good spaghetti. I liked the sauce.”

“It's from Dirty Dave's. I called, I picked it up, I brought it home. Let's not make it any bigger than it is.” Lydia looked past him into the kitchen. “Is she washing those dishes on her own accord or did you put her up to it?”

“Let's just say it was pretty clear to both of us that your irritation meter is closing in on red line. I know Allie's pushing your buttons. Mine, too, for that matter.” Mort looked out the wide windows. “Man, I never get tired of this view.”

“You'll be closer to the water than I am once you settle in on your houseboat.”

Mort nodded. “If we're wearing out our welcome, just give us the boot, Liddy. I know it's been tough these past couple weeks.”

Lydia regretted the sharpness in her tone. “It's not you. I'm not going to be gracious enough to say it's not Allie, either, but it's more than that. I'm just not used to sharing…how's that? I'll adjust. The two of you can stay here as long as you need.”

“What's the more?”

“Huh?”

“You said your irritation was more than me and Allie being here.” Mort's fatigue was even more evident than when she left him this morning. He leaned back and rested his head against the sofa. “Want to talk about it?”

Lydia thought back to her interaction with Paul Bauer. The detective called up an approach/avoid reaction in her. She didn't like the way he appeared in her office unannounced, armed with court orders for patient records. She certainly didn't like the way he maneuvered Zach into divulging information. And there was no way she could spin his curiosity about her that didn't send up warning signals. On the other hand, despite the potential threat should his investigation run deep enough to bring him to The Fixer's door, there was something about him she found attractive. Beyond his physical good looks and impressive stature, he had a way of commanding a room. He seemed to have an ability to handle things that she found appealing. Bauer was a man supremely confident about who he was. One who understood the nature of his power. She pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough to bring her back to the moment.

“It's just stuff at work.” Her own weariness was catching up with her. “I've been thinking I came back too soon.”

Mort's exhaustion was replaced instantly with a look of concern. “Is it your patients? That guy you're supervising?”

She'd known him long enough to appreciate that when Mort Grant cared for someone he took it upon himself to do all he could to keep them worry-free. Though it had taken her a long time, Lydia had come to accept Mort cared for her.

“Remember me asking you about that Olympia detective?”

“Yeah. Paul Bauer. Good cop. You said one of your patients is a party to an investigation he's running. If he's giving you a hard time, say the word and I'll make some calls.”

“Will you stop?” she asked. “The guy's doing his job, that's all. I just have to get used to his style.”

His smile erased a few of the tired lines on his face. “Not everyone's as smooth as me, is that what you're saying?”

They shared a laugh and for a brief moment Lydia felt lighter. As if this tornado of stress wasn't whirling about her. She saw it in Mort, too. But the moment passed and the heaviness she'd seen in his face returned. It was a sadness mixed with acceptance.

“Any word from Seattle today?” she asked.

Mort took a drink of his wine. “Nothing new to report. Everybody's looking for Duncan. I think the chief's trying to figure out how to dock my pay for the officers assigned to that busted arrest attempt yesterday.”

“He'll get over it.” Mort Grant's name commanded respect from every member of the Seattle Police Department.

“Yeah, but will Micki?” He let out a low whistle. “I've never seen a woman I wasn't married to so mad at me.”

“She's upset you didn't let her in on what was going on,” Lydia told him. “She's probably thinking you didn't trust her enough.”

“Bingo. Man, she let me have it.”

“But you said she volunteered for the Duncan arrest.” Lydia looked down into her glass. “And you know damned well it's not what people say, it's what they do that counts. In the wise, wise words of Maya Angelou, ‘If someone shows you who they are, believe them.' ”

Mort was quiet as he considered the advice. When he spoke again, his voice was more vulnerable. “Is that what irritates you most? Do you think I'm so swayed by Allie's sweet talk I can't see my daughter for who she is?”

Lydia glanced again into the kitchen. Allie was drying dishes and dancing to whatever tune was playing in her earbuds. She watched her. Anyone would think she didn't have a care in the world. No one would know by Allie's actions that she was the eye of the hurricane swarming through this house.

“I can't judge your relationship with your daughter, Mort. I'm utterly unfamiliar with the strength of familial bonds.”

Mort looked back out the window. The night was unusually clear for November. A bright moon cast a silvered glow over the water. “My kids are my link to Edie.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Robbie's easy to love. He's always done things right. Never a moment's worry, always a source of pride. Allie's different. Man, she was a handful to raise. And God knows I left the lion's share of that duty to her mother. I can't help but wonder if things would have turned out better for Allie if I'd been there for her. If I hadn't spent so much time building the career. Because seeing what my girl has become…well, the only word to describe what kind of father I've been is ‘failure.' ”

“Robbie had the same ambitious father Allie did.”

Mort shook off Lydia's attempt at reassurance. “Girls are different. You're a shrink. You know that. Don't tell me you haven't laid awake nights wondering what life would have been like if you'd had a decent father.”

“I don't allow myself those thoughts.”

“Bullshit, Lydia! It eats you up inside. That's why it's so difficult for you to let people close. It's like you want it, but life has taught you not to trust it. Don't tell me you haven't wondered what makes you different from people who simply love their friends and family, despite the messiness that comes with them.”

“So now you're the shrink?” She was uncomfortable with the attention. “Remember, Mort. Despite all the late-night ads for psychics, no one can read anyone else's mind. And you sure as hell can't read mine.”

“You'd be surprised what I can read about you, Liddy.” Mort sounded so tired she wondered how he got the sentences out. “Speaking of reading, know what I read a few weeks back? Girls get their sense of self-esteem from their fathers. I'm sure you learned that back in shrink school.”

“I did. What's that have to do with this?”

“Allie. What kind of woman gives herself to a man like Patrick Duncan?” He shook his head. “Not one who thinks much of herself.”

“You're the cop, Mort.” Lydia made sure her voice was firm. “I'm the psychologist. There are plenty of reasons people do the things they do. Allie is who she is because of choices she's made. What she does in this moment has precious little to do with you, so you can kick the impression that you're so damned powerful right out of the equation.”

Mort said nothing.

“What do you think will happen to her?” Lydia asked. “With the police, I mean.”

“All depends on Duncan. If he convinces the DEA Allie was nothing more than window dressing—that she had nothing to do with the criminal side of his life—she could walk.” He shook his head. “But you sat next to her while she made that call to him. I didn't even recognize the voice coming out of my own daughter. You heard him turn into jelly in her hands.”

Lydia nodded her agreement.

“And just like you'd be surprised what I know about you, Liddy, I know my daughter.”

“Meaning?”

Mort drank the last of his wine. “If my daughter has power, Liddy, she uses it.”

“So what do you think will happen to her?”

“Maybe it's time for me to retire.” Mort sounded far away. “Take Allie and get the hell out of here. Take her someplace nobody knows her. Where I can keep an eye on her. Somewhere with no extradition agreements. Because if I don't…” His voice choked out the words. “Allie's going to prison for a very long time.”

S
EATTLE

Patrick Duncan felt a jolt of electric energy as he stepped out of Arnie Harb's car. It would only be a matter of minutes.

“This is it,” Arnie said. “I have to tell you, given the way I imagine you live, this is hardly the place I'd be expecting to bring you.”

Patrick looked at the abandoned warehouse and recalled the last time he was here. It was nearly five years ago. He was putting together his cartel and had recently secured sufficient suppliers and distributors to control the entire West Coast of the United States. He had felt like celebrating and the pharmicist who'd just accepted four hundred thousand dollars in exchange for supplying Patrick with sixty thousand Oxycontin pills told him about an impromptu party down on the wharf.

Patrick lifted his collar against the wind whipping down the dock. “Stay here. I want a few moments alone. Then you can drive us to Vancouver. I have a plane waiting.”

“No way, Mr. Duncan.” Arnie pointed to the boarded-up hulk of a building. “I have my reputation to consider. I can't let you walk in there with no backup.”

Patrick looked at his watch—2:29. “Wait here. We'll leave in ten minutes.”

The private detective hesitated, then shrugged. “You're the guy with the checkbook.”

Patrick walked toward Warehouse Nine. He avoided the large sliding doors and turned the handle on a small side entry. He wasn't surprised to find it open. His heartbeat quickened. He felt a stirring in his groin in anticipation of what awaited him inside.

A flock of sparrows took flight the moment he entered and flapped around the high wooden rafters. Patrick watched them, hoping for a moment they would lead the way. But the birds soon adjusted to his presence and settled onto the crossbeams. He walked into the cavernous space. A few forgotten packing crates littered the arena-sized area. Grey light filtered in through filthy windows set high into the structure. He took several more steps until he stood in the center of the dusty mausoleum of long-dead industry.

“Hello!” His cry echoed as the small birds again took flight. He was about to call out a second time when he heard the footsteps.

“Welcome, Patrick.” A male voice. British accent. Familiar.

Nigel Lancaster, manager of Patrick's operation in Great Britain, emerged from behind a tall crate tagged with spray-painted graffiti.

“What are you doing here?” Patrick demanded. He hadn't seen Lancaster in more than a month. Not since that evening in Barbados. The night of the dinner party. A shipment of narcotics worth nearly twelve million dollars on the street had been seized by Scotland Yard. That never should have happened. Patrick provided an ample budget for Lancaster to ensure that customs officials and ambitious police officers looked the other way. The man needed to understand the consequences of a job poorly done.

Nigel Lancaster walked deliberately toward him. His eyes locked onto Patrick's with the determination of a cougar closing in on its prey. The weight of a heavy metal pipe kept Lancaster's right hand hanging straight down. Patrick pivoted toward the exit but instantly fell to his knees, writhing in pain.

The taser bit him in the back of his neck. His body convulsed as lightning spasms coursed through him. Patrick tried to speak, but his tongue was suddenly useless, too large for his mouth. Sweat drenched his hair and dripped down his face. He blinked twice, then twice more. When his eyes were able to focus he saw a man. Average height. Stocky. His hair as black as his suit. Patrick's addled mind snapped into crystal-clear terror when he saw the dance of light radiate from the man's large diamond ring.

Vadim Tokarev delivered a pointed kick to the underside of Patrick's jaw.

“Jillian may never walk again.” Nigel Lancaster's voice was calm determination. He stepped toward Patrick's sprawled body, swung back with his metal bar, and delivered a crushing blow to Patrick's left leg. Patrick's cry, muffled by his nearly paralyzed mouth, brought another paralyzing jolt from the Russian's taser.

“Her jaw required two surgeries. The doctors say there are several more in her future before she'll eat on her own again.” Lancaster brought the heavy bar down across Patrick's face. Blood poured from the injured man's mouth. He gagged as he spit out broken teeth. Patrick struggled to raise himself off the concrete floor, now slick with his blood, sweat, and urine, but Tokarev's taser kept him down.

“Did I mention her hip?” Lancaster delivered his final blow to the once-invincible drug baron, cracking into Patrick's pelvis with stabs of pain that made Tokarev's electric jolts seem no more than an annoyance.

Nigel Lancaster threw the pipe down and the birds panicked once more at the hollow clang reverberating through their urban nest. Patrick panted and whimpered as he watched him walk away. The Russian stood over him. Patrick could smell the burning ozone of the active taser in Tokarev's hand.

Lancaster returned moments later. Patrick gulped shallow wisps of air and tried to focus. A new wave of horror paralyzed him when he saw what his former lieutenant held out to the Russian. Tokarev tossed his taser to the floor and accepted the oversized bolt cutter.

Patrick felt the cold steel of the blade scissor each side of his left wrist. He heard the snap of bone and felt the fires of hell when Tokarev closed the long handles. He recognized his mind had bid goodbye to reality as he watched the Russian step over his bloody body and duplicate the action on his right wrist.

Why isn't he talking to me? The Russian hasn't said a word.
Isn't that rude, Olwen? Don't you find that odd?

Patrick watched his hands slide down a river of his own blood as he listened to the footsteps of the two men fade away. He looked up into the rafters.

Here, birdie, birdie. Here, birdie, birdie. Olwen, what happened to the birds?