Fixed in Blood (11 page)

Lydia pulled her Volvo into a stall opposite the worldwide headquarters of Rite Now Finance and surveyed the scene behind the intermittent pulsing of her windshield wipers. The storefront operation sat in the middle of a highway strip mall probably built when Lyndon Johnson was promising a Great Society. The eastern end was anchored by an outlet of a nationwide drugstore. The west end boasted a same-day dry cleaner. A Chinese takeout restaurant and three vacant units completed the parcel. She remembered Greg Dystra saying it wasn’t exactly Morgan Stanley.

She turned off the Volvo’s ignition and pulled the hood of her rain jacket over her head. Paul Bauer’s take on Delbe’s disappearance rose in her mind.

“She’s a grown woman. She’s allowed to take a powder,” he’d said in his confident baritone. “Give her a week. She’ll call complaining you don’t have an opening for the next month and she simply
must
get in to see you.”

But his assurances couldn’t shake her own instincts warning her that her patient was in serious trouble. Delbe said her problems stemmed from her debts. Her father said Delbe’s debts were to Rite Now Finance. It was as good a place to start as any. A phone call earlier this morning to Greg with a lie that she’d be in Seattle and wondered if he’d be interested in a touch-base cup of coffee had been met with an enthusiastic yes. She canceled her appointments and drove the hour north, knowing she likely was heading into a dead end.

But Delbe sounded so desperate.
Lydia’s thoughts were as bleak and low as the clouds swirling outside.
She said the debt was too big. Someone had found a way for her to pay.
Delbe said there was no other way; she was merchandise now, branded and belonging to them.
She said they were sending her away.

A familiar compulsion pounded inside her. She opened the car door and stepped into the pouring rain.

The lobby of Rite Now Finance echoed the style and sophistication of the building in which it was housed. Worn gray linoleum laid the base for two distinct areas. To the left, seven empty orange vinyl chairs were aligned in an L shape. Three sat with their backs to the glass-paned storefront, while four took their position against the adjoining pea-green wall. Serving both sets of chairs was a low coffee table originally designed to be used in an outdoor patio setting. It was covered with coloring books, crayons, and an assortment of pamphlets hawking Rite Now products and services. To the right, a half wall stood in front of a reception desk. It was the same bilious green as the others and was accented with scuff marks and dents. A rail-thin woman in her mid-sixties, boyishly cut hair more salt than pepper and wearing candy cane reading glasses sat separating stacks of papers. A sleek wedge of hand-carved polished wood announced she was Esther Hardgrove, Receptionist.

“Good morning. I have an eleven-thirty appointment with Greg Dystra. I’m a bit early. Traffic was light.”

Esther took an exaggerated glance at a large mounted wall clock. “You got like fifteen minutes. You wanna wait or you wanna go grab a cup and come back? Works for me either way.”

Lydia was surprised by the woman’s accent. “New York?”

Esther shrugged. “Brooklyn. What can I tell ya? Fell for a soldier boy back when I was stupid. Promised me he’d show me the world. This is as far as we got. What the hell, two sons and five grandsons later, I’m still crazy about the guy. You stayin’ or what? I could let him know you’re here, but Greg keeps to his schedule like it’s an official state document. I tell him lighten up but he’s like everybody else here. Nobody listens to me.”

Lydia sensed that wasn’t the case. Esther was the type of woman who kept whatever parade she was in marching to her orders. Lydia pulled a copy of the
New York Times
from her leather carryall. “I brought the paper. If you could let him know I’m here, I’d appreciate it.”

Esther’s eyes twinkled over her readers. “You wouldn’t mind leaving it when you’re done?”

“My pleasure.” Lydia turned, chose the chair in the corner, and settled into the headlines. She scanned past stories of City Hall shenanigans and water main breakages. A report of the president’s plan for resolving the latest hostage situation caught her eye. She read until directed to continue on page A17. Her fingers flipped through the pages. She looked up out the large-paned windows as she simultaneously popped the paper open to where the story picked up.

That’s when she saw him.

Actually, she saw Micki Petty first. It took a heartbeat for her to recognize the familiar-looking auburn-haired woman with an athlete’s body exiting a green Subaru. Another heartbeat later she saw Mort getting out of the driver’s seat. The two of them stood there, Mort speaking, Micki nodding. Lydia stared at him. He’d lost weight. He walked with a heavy step. The lines around his mouth were more pronounced. She had a moment to wonder if it was missing Allie or hating her that caused his obvious pain. All speculation disappeared when she realized they were heading her way. A surging heat rushed through her. She looked to her left. Esther was busy again. A long hallway behind her desk promised a back exit, but there wasn’t time to use it. She glanced out the front windows to see Mort and Micki step onto the wide sidewalk in front of the strip mall. She opened the paper wide, held it in front of her, and inhaled shallow, quiet breaths.

Lydia heard the front door open. Footsteps went straight to Esther’s desk.

“I’m Detective Petty and this is Mort Grant, Seattle PD.” Lydia remembered how no-nonsense Micki could sound. “We’re here to see Charlie Fellow.”

Lydia heard the rough but comforting Brooklyn accent. “Don’t I know it? I’m the one who talked to you…what…all of twenty minutes ago? You got damn lucky is what you got. Charlie’s here today. Supposed to be playin’ golf but canceled. Twisted his ankle or something. Says I’m to bring you right back.” Lydia heard a chair scrape across the floor. “You’re showing a lot of class coming in plain clothes. This about some customer? We get all types in here. I keep telling these guys we need more security. Nobody listens to me, though.”

As three sets of footsteps receded down the hall, Lydia risked a glance behind the paper. She saw Esther knock on a far door as she opened it. Mort nodded his thanks before stepping inside.

Lydia exhaled.

She lowered the paper, scrambled to fold it, and stood. She looked toward Esther as the wiry woman made her way back, intending to make her apologies and leave. Before she could speak, another office door opened and Greg Dystra spilled into the hall, all smiles and welcome.

“Hey, Doc.” He buttoned his sports coat as he approached. “I’m glad to see you. Come on back to my office and we’ll catch up.”

Lydia glanced past him, her eyes on the far end of the hall. “Actually, Greg, I’m dying for some coffee. Let’s go grab a cup.”

Greg looked at the clock. “Right now? So close to lunch? I had us scheduled to chat here for a bit.”

Lydia nodded toward Esther, tossed the newspaper onto her desk, linked her arm through Greg’s, and headed toward the door. “Come on, Greg. Live dangerously.”

Mort and Micki thanked Esther as she closed the door to Charlie Fellow’s office, then turned to see a short man, heavier than he looked in his commercials, struggle to stand behind a large desk.

“Make yourself at home.” He waved a hand to the comfortable grouping of two chairs and a small sofa facing him. “I’m nursing a bum leg or I’d come greet you myself.” Micki handed him her card, as did Mort. He made a show of patting the pockets of his jacket and trousers. “I’m afraid I don’t have a card of my own to give you. But, hell. Everybody knows me. I’m Charlie Fellow. Got my mug on enough billboards and buses that I couldn’t fool you into thinking I was anybody else even if I wanted to. Now, what can I do you for?” He sat in a tall leather chair and leaned back. “I already sponsor two Police Guild Little League teams, but hell. I’m always willing to do more if I can. Wife and kids would have my hide if I didn’t. What is it this time?”

“What happened to your leg, Mr. Fellow?” Micki asked.

“Call me Charlie.” He let his smile linger and Mort knew she was wondering the same thing he was. Why was he hesitating with his answer?

“I guess you might call it a war injury,” he finally said. “I fought the greens and the greens won.” He chuckled and turned to Mort. “You golf?”

“Only when I have to.”

Charlie pointed a finger across the desk. “Smart man. Easy enough game. But it becomes an obsession.” He turned back to Micki. “I swung too deep. Threw a divot the size of a pie plate. My cleat must have caught. My foot went one way and my leg went the other. Put me on the injured reserve list after just two holes.” He smiled wide, exposing perfect teeth. “I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“How do you know Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael?” Mort asked.

Charlie’s smile lost some of its radiance. “Who’s that now? Sounds like girls’ names. You thinking of starting a girls’ team?” He raised an eyebrow toward Micki. “I don’t mean any offense, but I’ve never been one to think little girls should run around trying to be little boys. Know what I mean? May make me politically incorrect, but if you two wanted to start a girls’ garden club or maybe an inner city art class…something like that, I might be able to kick a few bucks your way. But like I said, I got my two Little League teams, and I’m happy to keep them all-boys.”

Micki turned to Mort with a “Can I please?” look in her eye. He nodded.

“We have a community affairs department handling our outreach programs. We of course thank you for your support.” Micki used her best professional tone. “But we’re homicide detectives, Charlie. Two women were found dead within ten days of each other. Murdered. We have reason to believe there’s a tie-in with Rite Now Finance. Now I’ll repeat Chief of Detectives Grant’s earlier question. How do you know Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael?”

The smile disappeared from Charlie Fellow’s face. Mort watched his eyes morph from open congeniality to steely determination and imagined he was finally meeting the man who had built the largest payday loan empire in the state.

“This is the first I’ve heard of these deaths,” he said.

“The first one’s been headlines in the papers for nearly two weeks.” Micki remained calm and steady. “Lead story on TV news, too.”

Charlie’s lips tightened. “I’m a busy man. I don’t read much beyond the sports and financial sections. And I seldom watch television.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen all those ads you have on late night.” Micki’s eyes twinkled as she made Fellow’s signature fist-swing. “How you’re here to help us fellow to fellow?”

Fellow kept his eyes on Micki. Perhaps a reaction from someone not used to hearing anyone speak to him in anything other than reverential tones. A few seconds later Fellow’s smile returned. But he shifted his attention to Mort.

“I’m sorry to hear about these young girls. Even sorrier to hear you’ve not yet captured the murderers. You haven’t said how you think this company might be involved.”

“What makes you say they were young girls, Charlie?” Micki asked.

Fellow blinked several times and directed his answer to Mort. “I was just told.”

“No, Charlie,” Micki answered. “I said two women were murdered. You’re the one who changed it to young girls.”

Fellow continued to ignore her as he answered to Mort. “I guess I made an assumption. Isn’t it always the young girls who get murdered? I’m a busy man, Detective. Please tell me what you think links these women to Rite Now. Are they employees?”

“Is your business so large you wouldn’t notice two employees not showing up?” Mort asked.

“I’ll check with Bill Blankman, if you’d like. He’s Rite Now’s vice president of human resources. I doubt he’d leave me out of the loop if two of our employees were killed.”

Mort jotted the name down in his pad. “Both women killed had accounts at Rite Now.”

Charlie Fellow’s breathing caught and a heartbeat later relaxed. His smile came back. “That’s it?
That’s
your link?”

“We’d appreciate it if you’d call up their accounts. Let us take a look through them. Perhaps we can find something that could help our investigation.”

Charlie leaned back in his leather chair. “I have a finance guy who oversees all the accounts. Tell you what, get a warrant and I’ll introduce you.”

“We’re right here, Charlie,” Mort said. “You could save us a lot of time and let us have a look now.”

Charlie kept smiling. “I’ll save you even more time. This
link
you talk about?” He shot Micki a disdainful glare. “This ‘been in all the papers’ thing?” Fellow turned back to Mort. “Read something other than the funnies and the police blotter. This economy’s in the toilet for a whole lot of folks. When there’s not enough money at the end of the week to buy groceries or somebody’s kid knocked out a tooth or, hell, maybe somebody’s just sick to the bone of wearing shoes with worn soles, they come to me. And I help.” He pumped his fist. “Fellow to fellow.”

Charlie Fellow leaned forward and pointed a finger at Mort. “What you have here isn’t a
link.
It’s a coincidence. I’ve got shops up and down western Washington. Go out there. Anywhere from Bellingham to Vancouver. Grab two people off the street. How about two college kids with student loans they can’t stretch to cover expenses? Maybe two military personnel who’d like to furnish that shithole apartment with something other than milk crates and cinder blocks. Oh, don’t even think about pulling two people from the fast-food joints. That would be too easy. But grab any two people you want from the Canadian border to the Columbia River. Ask ’em if they do business with Rite Now.” Charlie Fellow’s face was a twisted mask of bravado and anger. “Odds are you hit a bingo.”

Mort felt a rumbling disgust deep in his gut. “And you lure them in with paper-moon promises and hook them forever with interest rates high enough to keep you repairing divots at a country club they’ll never see the inside of.”

Fellow massaged his hands as if trying to keep them from forming fists.

“Like I said,” he finally responded, “I’ve got a finance guy. But we’ll need that warrant.” He opened his top drawer and tossed two business cards across his desk. “That’s my lawyer. You want to talk to me again, call him first.” His eyes held Mort’s in daring punctuation, but his voice softened as he turned again to Micki. “And if you’re ever ready to stop playing games better left to boys, give me a call.”