Fixed in Blood (2 page)

Lydia Corriger locked her front door behind her. She tossed her purse and briefcase to the entry hall floor, crossed to the kitchen, and stood by the sink to wash the day off her hands.

Dana Passage, that broad Puget Sound waterway between Olympia and Anderson Island, greeted Lydia outside her large living room windows. She took a moment to watch the water glisten in the lowering June sun before heading to her bedroom to change into her at-home uniform of yoga pants and T-shirt. She pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail and glanced over her shoulder to her king-sized bed, neatly covered with a rose and beige damask spread. She reached for a remote control, pressed the power button, and the familiar voices of NPR’s evening correspondents filled the speakers throughout the house. She went back to her kitchen and set about making her evening meal of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables.

An hour later she sat on her deck, sipping a glass of merlot as the last rays of sunlight disappeared. Blue jays, sparrows, and starlings fed from various stations around her deep yard. High above, a woodpecker worked on an aging limb of cedar. Its rat-a-tat provided a syncopated beat to the calls of seagulls searching for one last fishy snack before night darkened the water.

I should be happy,
she thought.
This is paradise. I am safe. I have meaningful work. Enough money for three lifetimes. I should be happy.

But she was a woman with bloody hands.

And he was finished with her.

I tried, Mort.

But he wouldn’t listen. And he was finished with her.

“What the hell time do you get up?” Mort Grant sat on the deck of his houseboat and called to the woman paddling by in the electric-yellow kayak. “Coffee’s fresh if you want a cup.”

He had purchased the houseboat on impulse, a behavior unlike him. But with Edie gone almost three years, it had been time to step away from that drafty old house where they’d raised their kids. He liked the idea of a small space close to the downtown headquarters of the Seattle Police Department but couldn’t see himself in one of those high-rise condos turning the city into a canyon of reflective glass. When his Realtor suggested a houseboat on Lake Union, he was intrigued. That was six months ago and life on the water suited him. He’d been warned the deep pockets it took to have a floating address might bring neighbors who wouldn’t appreciate a middle-aged, middle-class detective in their midst. But he’d been welcomed by the community of salt-loving iconoclasts, even the dot-com millionaire hipsters who’d taken to throwing their hands in the air and declaring “I didn’t do it” each time they passed him. And he’d won the neighbor lottery with Agatha Skurnik, the eighty-three-year-old retired literary agent with whom he shared a dock. She lived alone and relished her privacy but didn’t mind sharing a cup of coffee or a pint of stout as they sat and watched the world float by.

“I like getting up in the dark.” Aggie pulled her boat alongside her own dwelling. She fastened one mooring, braced her paddle across the open pit of her craft, and hoisted herself up onto her deck with the agility of a woman sixty years younger. “Floating out there with the ducks. Watching the sunrise.” She ran a hand through thick short hair. “Come with me sometime. See what the lake’s like before all the wage slaves wake up.”

Mort glanced at his watch. “It’s not six thirty yet. You make me tired watching you.”

Aggie crossed the planking separating their two houseboats, made her way to Mort’s galley, and joined him on his deck with a cup of coffee.

“I smelled a little must back there,” she said. “When’s the last time you checked your bilge pump?”

Mort had had to learn a new set of home maintenance chores since moving to the water. “You have the nose of a drug dog. There’s nothing wrong with my bilge. I let the sheets sit too long in the washer is all.”

Aggie swirled her coffee and tested the temperature with a small sip. “The machine’s got a little dinger to tell you the washing’s done. This isn’t string theory. I’ll not tolerate a needy recluse living next door. Next thing you know, you’ll be saving fingernail clippings in a jar.”

Mort shook his head. “No wonder you never married. No man would have been good enough for you.”

Aggie raised an eyebrow. Her blue eyes radiated a playful condescension. “There’s no man good enough for any woman, Mort. How you ever married continues to baffle me.”

He wished Edie had had the chance to know Aggie. “I think it had something to do with my devastating charm.”

Aggie’s laughter brought a chorus of quacking from a family of ducks floating by. Mort’s ringing cellphone added to the sounds of the morning. He picked it up and saw it was Jimmy DeVilla.

“What’s up?” Mort wondered if the entire city had gotten up early.

“We got a call.” Jim didn’t bother with greetings. “Time to dust off those clue-sniffing skills and get to work.” He filled Mort in on the location. “Forensic team’s been dispatched.”

Mort hung up and turned to Aggie. “I’ve got to go.”

Aggie nodded. The playfulness left her eyes. “Any call coming this early isn’t about paperwork. Go. I’ll close up.”

Mort stood, then pivoted back around to lay a hand on her shoulder. “You’re right, you know.”

“Of course I am.” Aggie patted his hand with her own age-marked one. “But to what are you referring this time?”

“There’s no man good enough for you.”

Aggie turned away and focused on the clouds turning pink with the rising sun. “Don’t discuss the obvious, Mort. People will find you boring.”

“Well, our little vacation has come to a screeching halt.” Jim DeVilla lifted the sheet and turned to Mort when he joined him in the wooded ravine. The deep and narrow valley looked like the perfect spot for a weekend hiking challenge. But four police cruisers throwing a blue and red light show on the handful of forensic officers announced this quiet parcel of paradise was now a crime scene. “Looks like I’m gonna have to cancel that salsa-dancing class.”

Mort, Seattle’s chief of detectives, didn’t react to his friend’s humor. He stared down at the body and thought how beautiful she looked.
Like she lay down after a picnic and decided to take a nap,
he thought. Her long blonde hair had the tousled look of someone who had spent the morning exploring this lush part of the forest. The faint tinge of blue on her lips and eyelids seemed eerily in keeping with her pale complexion.
She’s just a kid. I’ll bet she’s hardly old enough to buy a beer.
He heaved a sigh.
What do I know about anything? They all look young these days.
He spoke to a wiry man kneeling next to the body and jotting notes with gloved hands.

“What d’ya got, Doc?”

Tyler Conner shook his head. “I’ll know more once I get her back to the morgue.” Dr. Conner used his pen to trace a slice on the dead woman’s neck. “This wasn’t the fatal cut. It looks worse than it is. Somebody was taking their time. She’s got dozens of these superficial wounds.” He lifted the hem of her blood-soaked dress. Mort noted the shiny fabric. Whoever she was, this girl wasn’t dressed for a day in the woods.

“This is what killed her.” Dr. Conner pointed to a deep gash on the upper thigh. “Femoral artery. Deep and clean enough to make me suspect some sort of surgical instrument. She would have bled out in less than two minutes.”

Mort’s jaw tightened. “This happen here?”

Conner shook his head. “Her dress soaked up blood, sure enough. But look at the ground. Not a drop. It hasn’t rained in days. The grass is dry. See her shoes?” Mort and Jimmy both followed his direction to catch a glimpse of the dead woman’s strappy footwear.

“No mud,” Jimmy said. “I peg her at about one-ten, maybe one hundred fifteen pounds.” He looked up the ravine wall to where four uniformed officers leaned against their squad cars. “If she walked down here, she’d have driven those spike heels deep into the ground. More than likely broken ’em off. Somebody carried her in.”

Mort agreed. “You got an estimate to when this happened?”

“It was balmy last night. Nothing that should have messed with my reading of the body’s core temperature. She’s been dead no more than eight hours. Probably a half hour less than that. Again, I’ll know more once I get her back to the shop.”

Mort looked at his watch. Ten minutes after eight on a beautiful June morning. Whoever this lovely young woman was died somewhere around midnight last night.

“We got an ID?” Mort asked Jimmy.

“We should get so lucky. No personal effects anywhere that we can see. But I took some quick prints,” DeVilla answered. “Sent Micki and Bruiser back to run ’em. Hopefully, we’ll get a hit. Sent her with a couple of photos, too.”

“Face? Dress?” Mort asked.

Jim DeVilla shrugged. “Pretty routine for the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“So you
are
listening. You been walking around all zombielike I didn’t know if you were tuned in.” DeVilla raised the dead woman’s arm and turned it toward Mort. “I thought this was interesting. Mick’s gonna run this through the computer and see what’s what.”

Mort stepped forward for a closer look at the decorative red circle tattooed on the inside of the dead girl’s wrist. “Looks like a couple of eagles to me.”

“Yeah,” Jim agreed. “Either that or a bird with two heads. You ever see anything like that before?”

Something teased at the back of his brain. He tried to focus but couldn’t catch it. “Family crest, maybe?” He looked again. “Looks like it might be some sort of official emblem.”

“Well.” Jim DeVilla lowered the woman’s arm and stood. “It sure as hell wasn’t her good luck charm.”

He kept his eyes on his hands, forcing them steady. What he really wanted to do was grab the cellphone from where it hung on a chain around the neck of the three-hundred-pound slab of beef masquerading as a human, throw it to the floor, and punch a two-by-four into the guy’s throat. Instead he studied his cuticles.

“I asked if you understood.” The woman’s voice came over the speaker. The sound of her condescending calm made his hands itch for yet another target. “I appreciate the concept is new to you.”

What did she know about concepts he did or didn’t understand? He’d grown his business from the ground up. He’d had no problem managing his girls before. He knew how to keep them in line. Now she was in charge? Wanting to change everything?

“Yes, ma’am.” She demanded to be called that. Forcing him to treat her as his better. He hated it. “Like I said, I’m sorry. I guess the client got carried away.”

“It’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Her voice wasn’t calm anymore. He looked up. The massive man in the nylon jogging suit had a face carved from brick. He stood motionless, holding the phone and staring at him. “Things are different now. Nurture our staff. Select them carefully. These aren’t drugged-out sacks of flesh hooking to score their next hit. Our associates are women in difficult circumstances. We’re here to help them.”

He’d heard the lecture before and was sick of it. A whore was a whore, no matter what. But he had to play along…until the day he could make his move. Then she’d see how a real man manages things.

“Explain how Crystal ended up dead,” the woman’s voice demanded.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I wasn’t there. The guy says things got hotter than expected. He’s a movie guy. Money. Used to getting his way. Like I said, he gave us an extra ten large.”

“Ten?” the voice asked. “For such a significant loss?”

He looked up again. The giant standing in the doorframe didn’t make a move. “Maybe it was twenty. But I had expenses to cover. I called in guys to clean up and move the body. Ten’s what’s left.” He wiped a trace of sweat from his brow and waited for her response.

“No more deaths,” she finally said. “It’s a new world. All these women have right now is their body. We will be successful when our women leave us on their own accord, confident they can do more. Then we’ll recruit others.”

He wondered what kind of dope she was smoking and where could he get some. Whores didn’t walk away. They spread their legs and took their money until they died. Needle in their arm or on the job like Crystal. Either way, it was the same. Still, he had to bide his time.

“I gotcha,” he said. “New world. Nurture.”

Her voice was as professional as a banker. “There must be consequences for your mismanagement of Crystal.”

His left eye twitched. He looked to the giant man but couldn’t catch a read. “What d’ya mean?”

“You have this week’s receipts?” she asked.

He patted the zippered bag. The one with the double-headed eagle emblazoned on it. “Right here. Seven grand and change. It was a good week.”

“Add to it the twenty thousand Mr. Hollywood gave you.”

A flare of anger rose in him. He was smart enough to choke it off. “Like I said, I had to pay a crew.”

“Twenty. And add an extra five for stepping away from my policies.”

He shook his head. “That ain’t gonna happen, lady. That’s my end for the whole last month…maybe six weeks. No way I’m giving you that much.”

A response was slow coming. Maybe he should have stood up to this bitch a long time ago. Sure, she was protected, but a hole is a hole and sometimes they have to be put in their place.

“Twenty-five thousand in addition to this week’s revenue.” She sounded firm. “Put the money in the pouch, hand it to Staz, and do it now before I raise the rate.”

He shifted his right hand toward the desk drawer. The one where he kept his pistol. “I can’t let you bleed me like this. I got a business to run.”

His heart pounded while he waited to hear what she’d say next. He hoped he could open the drawer and draw his piece before the big guy got to him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she finally said. “Staz?”

In an instant Staz kicked a tree-trunk leg and the man behind the desk flew up, landing in a crumpled heap two feet away. The giant man stepped to him, rained a series of kicks to his back and chest, and dragged him across the floor to a safe.

“The price is now thirty thousand in addition to the weekly receipts.” The bitch was still on the phone. “Put the money in the bag before I increase my fees in body parts.”

His right arm didn’t want to move. Staz saw his hesitation and rewarded it with another kick straight to his hip. He fumbled with the combination, forcing his mind on the numbers. He managed to open the safe. Staz dragged him clear.

He watched in shivering pain and plotted the revenge he’d wage as the large man bent down and began counting. He realized Staz hadn’t said one word the entire time he’d been in his office. Not in greeting. Not in beating. The only communication had been from the woman on the other end of the phone hanging around his neck.

Staz stood. A dusting of bills remained in the safe where there had been stacks. Staz zipped the pile of money inside the bag and tucked it under his arm.

That cold female voice was back on the speaker. “Staz will be back next week. Remember what I said about the way you treat the women.”

He waited until he could no longer hear Staz’s footsteps. He tried his left leg first, but a searing jolt of agony urged him to start with his right. It took him a full five minutes to make his way back to his desk. Another three to pull himself up into his chair.

I’ll remember,
he thought.
I’m not gonna forget one damned thing.