Fixed in Blood (23 page)

“Our killer is on that set,” she said. “I’m going to find him.”

“You’re not going to do anything, Lydia.” He regretted the sharpness of his words even as he was saying them. “The Fixer is dead, you got that? We’ll find Delbe. And the bastard who killed Crystal and Francie, too. But if I have to worry about you putting us both at risk by resurrecting histories better left buried, I swear to God I’ll put you under house arrest with three armed guards until this whole damned thing is over.”

She kept her eyes on the cars around them as Mort turned into the precinct parking lot. “If it was your life’s goal to see me in a jail, you could have done that a couple of years ago.”

Mort pulled into his parking stall, killed the engine, and turned to her. “I need you to hear me, Lydia. I’ve got you. I’ve got your back. I’ve got you covered. I’m in your corner.” He threw his hands up in frustration. “I’m running out of clichés here. No one will ever learn about The Fixer from me. You and I are the only ones who know what we did.” He’d sacrificed too much of his own integrity to risk that she’d crumble now. They’d both end up locked in a cage forever.

“I’m not the one who hurt you all those years ago,” he told her. “I’m not going to be held hostage to whatever dark demon you’ve got lurking inside you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve been watching you.” He looked out the closed window. No one was in the lot. “I don’t know if we can ever really leave the past behind. Hell, I think about Edie, Allie. All the mistakes I’ve made. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to really get past them. But I’m going to try. I’m going to do what I can, right here, right now, to do the right thing.”

“And I’m not?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing.” His frustration was morphing into something he couldn’t name. “This look comes over you. It scares me. It makes me wonder if The Fixer is roaming around, getting all heated up. We’ll find Delbe. The right way. Micki, Jimmy, me. We find bad guys. And you can either help us or I can put you in a corner somewhere until this is all over.”

Her eyes were cold blue ice. “You think you can do that, Mort?”

He stared at her for several seconds. “Don’t make us find out.” His phone rang before she could respond. He looked at the screen. “It’s Jimmy.” Mort hit the speaker button and held the phone between them.

“Tom Lightfoot’s dead. I just got back from his place. No sign of Jennifer.”

“What happened?” Mort and Lydia both released their seatbelts and got out of the car. “Where are you?”

“I just left the scene. Micki’s there with a team. Looks like a bullet straight to the head.”

Mort was furious. “Who was watching the house? Who let the killer walk right past them?”

Lydia matched him step for step. They entered the back door of the police station, striding past uniforms making the shift change. They each focused on Mort’s phone.

“Doesn’t look like that’s how it went down,” Jim said. “Tom Lighthouse decided to make Jennifer an orphan all by himself. Pulled himself into his dress blues and dusted off his Marine-issued service revolver.”

“Suicide?” Mort said as they reached the elevator. The door opened; he was glad to see it empty. He and Lydia boarded and he punched the number for his office floor. “He leave a note?”

“He did, indeed. Said to tell Jennifer he was sorry. Wants her to be brave. Says he can’t wait to be with Mary. Asks to be cremated and have his ashes spread across the Quinoc reservation.”

The elevator doors opened and Mort and Lydia headed down the corridor. “And no one heard anything.”

“You were on his street, Mort. It’s not exactly Shady Lane. Cars and buses all the time. I know where you’re at. I want to bust a few heads myself. But he was in the back bedroom. Caliber was just the right size to kill him without making a big boom doing it. No way my guys could have heard it.”

Mort swore under his breath and unlocked his office door. “I want Doc Conner on the autopsy. Tell him to look for anything that might indicate this wasn’t a suicide.”

“I hear you, partner. But sometimes trains are on their own track. This is gonna turn out to be one of those times.”

Mort didn’t want to hear one more word about destiny. He turned to Lydia. “We needed what Tom Lightfoot knew to come out on top.”

“You’re in the murder business.” She sounded weary. “You win when you catch the bad guy. But someone’s still dead. There’s no coming out on top.”

Mort looked at his whiteboard. “We need Jennifer…Delbe…Eddie Yaz. Hell, I’ll take the tattoo artist. Any one of those will lead us to Charlie Fellow.”

“Or…”

He turned back to her. “There’s no ‘or,’ Lydia. We’re going to get this. All we need is one more link.”

“Dad?”

Mort and Lydia turned in unison to the office door. There stood Robbie, holding a large box.

“Hey, Robbie.” Mort shifted his tone from angry frustration to as near a semblance of welcome as he could muster. “Good to see you, son.” He pointed to Lydia. “You’ve met.”

Robbie headed to Mort’s desk, but kept his attention on Lydia. “You on the payroll now? It’s good to see you again.”

Lydia nodded and said the same.

“She’s pitching in on a case. Giving us some psychological insight.”

“Like profiling?” Robbie asked. “Hey, maybe you’d let me pick your brain sometime. Dad tell you about what I’m working on?”

“No, he hasn’t. Last I knew, you were touring the world promoting your book on The Cleaner.”

“Ouch.” Robbie set the box on Mort’s desk. “It’s The Fixer, actually. And you haven’t read it.”

Lydia shrugged. “Sorry. You said you’re working on something else?”

“Still doing the true-crime thing. I’m drafting a manuscript on Dad’s Trixie case. He ever tell you about that one?”

Mort swallowed hard. His hand went to his cheek on reflex. To the scar left by Trixie’s cut. Lydia had saved his life when serial killer Trixie had him duct-taped to a chair in his own kitchen, slicing him like yesterday’s tomato with Edie’s filleting knife. It was Lydia, the same woman he’d been sharp with minutes ago, who’d burst through the door and killed her seconds before the knife would have found its way to his jugular.

But no one could ever know that.

“What’s in the box, Robbie?” Mort asked. “And why do you have it cluttering my desk?”

Robbie’s mood darkened. He lifted the lid off the box. “Special overnight delivery from London. From your daughter.” Robbie pulled out two glass apothecary jars, each wrapped with a red ribbon. “Claire’s furious. She wanted them out of the house before the girls saw them.” He turned to Lydia. “You tried to help my sister. I appreciate that. I apologize if she did anything to hurt you.”

Mort was ashamed. His son was showing Lydia more compassion and gratitude than he did for all her time with Allie.

“My sister has turned into someone my wife and I want nothing to do with. We need to keep her away from our twins.”

“She’s in London?” Lydia asked.

“As far as we know.” Robbie turned toward his father. “Dad, this can’t go on. I won’t let her destroy my family.”

Mort lifted one of the jars. “What are these?” He turned it this way and that, looking at the discs of silver and copper. “Looks like coins.” He set the jar down.

“If she thinks she can start some whimsical piggy bank thing with the girls,” Robbie said, “she’s got another think coming. Or worse, if she wants the girls to think this is spending money on some European holiday, I’ll…”

Mort didn’t want his son even thinking how he’d end that sentence.

Lydia pointed to the jars. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Robbie said. “Take ’em home if you’d like.”

Lydia opened the jar and pulled out a few coins.

“Listen, Robbie,” Mort said. “If you want me to talk to Claire, I will. In the meantime, let me see what I can do about diverting these packages before they get to your house. We can’t stop Allie from sending things, but maybe I can pull some strings down at—”

“Mort, look at these.” Lydia interrupted. She held up three coins, one after another. “Look.”

He flipped the coins in his hands. One side had a bold-faced number. Around the edges were markings he couldn’t identify. He turned them over and stopped.

A double-headed eagle was on the back of each coin.

“What are these?” Mort turned to Robbie. “Was there a card or an explanation?”

Robbie shook his head. “No, just packed like this. I assumed, since there are two, she meant for Hayden and Hadley to each have one. What are you two seeing?”

Mort hesitated. “It’s an odd coincidence. This murder case Lydia’s helping on. The victims each have a tattoo of a double-headed eagle.”

“Oh, great,” Robbie groaned. “Now you’re telling me my sister is killing people in Seattle.”

“No.” Mort hoped murder was a line his daughter would never cross. “This is local stuff. Allie’s halfway around the world.”

“Yeah? That doesn’t stop her from wrecking my home life.”

Lydia leafed through the box. She pulled out the packing, smoothing the crumpled newspapers across Mort’s desk. She reached for the lid of the box and examined the label.

“This package came today? Exactly like this, Robbie?” she asked.

“Special delivery. Less than an hour ago. I brought it right down to hand off to Dad.”

“And you’ve not touched the packing?” Lydia asked.

Robbie shook his head. “Other than to take a look inside. Why?”

“Mort, look at this.” Lydia pointed to the lid. “This package originated in London. The time stamp reads a little after midnight this morning.”

“We know Allie’s been in England. Her attorney paid us a visit. She seems to spare no expense in getting what she wants delivered where and when she wants it.”

“Look at the paper she used for packing.”

Mort read the torn sheets of newspaper Lydia had smoothed out. He saw the familiar typeface. He ran his hand down one page and then another. “What the hell?” He knew the photograph. The one that ran the day after Crystal Tillwater’s body was discovered. A newspaper photographer had captured his look of frustrated anger at the ravine and plastered it above the fold on page one. Another newspaper sheet showed a picture of Micki and Jimmy standing behind him at a press briefing on the status of the investigation. Still another carried a story linking the deaths of Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael. Photos of each girl topped the column.

“What is it?” Robbie asked.

“I don’t know how she got them, but every one of these newspaper sheets carries a story about the murder case your father is working.” Lydia looked up at Robbie. “Your sister sent you a bunch of Russian coins. Each with a double-headed eagle. She’s wrapped them in your father’s murder case.” She turned to Mort. “Allie’s helping you. She’s pointing you in the direction of the killer.”

“Tokarev?” Mort asked. “Is she telling us he’s behind these snuff films?”

“He has the infrastructure in place to facilitate the instant distribution we’ve seen,” Lydia said. “And the kind of resources to make it happen.”

“You’re telling me my sister’s latest lover, in addition to every other murderous enterprise he’s involved in, is making snuff films?” The color drained from Robbie’s face as he stumbled to sit in the nearest chair. “My God. What is she thinking?”

Mort had no answer. He was stunned himself. Was Allie giving him a clue? Was she reaching out to him to do her part to find justice for these murdered girls?

“Do you think Tokarev is here? In Seattle?” Mort asked.

“No.” Lydia sounded very certain. “He wouldn’t get his own hands this bloody. But his reach is wide. Wide enough to use a network of payday loan stores to move and probably launder his money. If Charlie Fellow hooks some of his more vulnerable customers into prostitution in order to pay off their debts, and Tokarev has a market for people with an appetite for viewing a murder, it would be a venture lucrative enough to capture both men’s attention.”

Mort nodded. His internal cop compass told him they were getting close. He listened for that silent
click
he always felt when the pieces of an investigation fell into place. It wasn’t there. In its stead was a nagging awareness that while Allie’s clues were of great value, they weren’t complete. He went to the whiteboard. He looked at the two main columns listed. One headed with Crystal Tillwater’s name, the other with Francie Michael’s. He went over every name listed: Greg Dystra, Charlie Fellow, Dalton “Dax” Kingsley, Kristof “Chris” Novak, Esther Hardgrove, Tom Lightfoot, Jennifer Lightfoot, Anthony Feldoni, Eddie Yavornitzky, Ben Verte.

He examined the places and organizations listed as well: Frabolini’s Italian Market, Rite Now Finance, the Shoe Stop, Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Quinoc Indian Reservation,
Nothing but Money.

Mort looked at the random words jotted as well:
Social Services, Nyla, 98119, movie, tattoo, burner, snuff, cameras.

He grabbed a marker and added another name:
Vadim Tokarev.

First his eyes, then his finger traced the arrows they’d drawn, erased, and redrawn in the team’s attempt to connect these two murders.

He realized one name wasn’t up there. Delbe Jensen’s. Jennifer and her burner were the link between Crystal Tillwater and Delbe Jensen. He added her name to the board, stepped back, and looked at it all over again.

His internal compass was ticking. He was getting close.
Loose ends,
it nagged.
Tie them up.

Mort kept his eyes on the whiteboard and called over his shoulder. “You’ve got your notes about your time with Delbe, right?”

Lydia pulled an electronic tablet out of her bag. “What do you need?”

He wasn’t sure. “Let’s start with her parents’ names.”

“Roz and Bud. I don’t need notes for that.”

“You guys mind if I take notes myself?” Robbie asked. “Something’s cracking here. Something that might make a great book.”

Mort looked at Lydia.

“My focus is Delbe,” she said. “It’s up to you how much he knows about the rest.”

Mort turned to his son. “Same deal holds. Nothing sees print until the case is closed.”