Fixed in Blood (6 page)

“An early reprieve!” L. Jackson Clark slid into their usual booth. “I’ve been working on a reinterpretation of Saint Paul’s words about love and charity in light of the world’s current volatility and grew bloody from beating my head against that brick wall in my mind.” He set his pint of Guinness on the table. “I could literally see it. Bricks, mortar, little snippets of spray-painted graffiti telling me I’ll never again have an original thought. Thank you for your text. The devilish notion of a beer at four in the afternoon may be just what I need to divert me from my conviction my career is doomed.” He glanced at the empty spot in front of Mort. “Where are the papers? Oh, good Lord. Don’t tell me Mauser’s sold them from under us.”

Mort Grant and L. Jackson Clark had been meeting at the Crystal Tavern every Thursday afternoon at five thirty for nearly thirty years, and they knew their friendship might be tough for some folks to figure out. Mort was a white cop with a blue-collar background. Larry was an African American scholar raised in a world of international travel and big ideas. They met by chance when Mort, practicing his addiction to crossword puzzles, called out to the late-afternoon patrons in Mauser’s neighborhood establishment for help with a difficult clue. It was Dr. L. Jackson Clark, professor of religious studies and philosophy at Seattle University, who answered him. Mort bought him a beer in gratitude and Larry brought his puzzle over to join him. Thus began a standing appointment for Thursday afternoons with the
New York Times
that grew into a bond deeper than brotherhood. The world-renowned philosopher had been “Uncle Larry” to Mort’s kids, and Mort was one of the few people in the world who understood what that connection meant to the international celebrity. They’d shared holidays, disappointments, and rites of passage. Mort had been the first person Larry called when the Nobel Committee announced he’d won the prize for literature and Larry had been the first number Mort dialed when the emergency room doctors told him Edie died from her aneurysm.

Larry took his first good look at his friend after noticing there were no crosswords on the table. “What is it, Mort?” His voice lost all of its earlier jocularity when he saw Mort’s sullen expression. “Robbie? The girls?”

Mort bit his lower lip. He’d called Larry from his car as soon as he left Robbie’s. He knew he should head back to the station. Micki and Jimmy would be there with more information about the Crystal Tillwater murder. But he needed to get steady again. He needed the routine comfort of a beer with Larry.

“Talk to me, Morton.” Larry’s resonant basso demanded attention. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Allie,” Mort said.

Larry nodded slowly, as though preparing himself for the worst. “She’s been found? Dare I hope she’s alive?”

Larry knew everything, of course. He’d first met Allie when she was a long-legged ten-year-old filled with talent, intelligence, curiosity, and bravado. Larry knew the joys and the scares she’d brought Mort and Edie through the years. He knew the guilt Mort carried. Allie’s penchant for adventure had turned her into a reckless young woman, too bored for the rigors of college and too full of herself to abide by house rules. So different from her brother. Despite her intelligence, Allie made shortsighted decisions, always opting for the new experience over the traditional path. Larry knew about that awful night when Mort accompanied a colleague to process a drug bust that had netted the arrest of the West Coast’s largest supplier of illicit narcotics. He knew Mort’s stunning shame when he walked into the precinct and learned his beloved daughter had been arrested as well. She’d been identified as the main dealer’s girlfriend. In his desperation to stop Allie from the destructive path she was barreling down, Mort made the decision to let her be processed and spend the night in jail. And Larry knew Mort’s desolation when he returned the next morning, prepared to bail her out and lecture her on decisions and consequences, only to learn Allie had left an hour earlier, bailed out by a white-shoe lawyer and leaving in the same Mercedes that carried the kingpin.

Micki Petty and Jim DeVilla knew the surface story of Allie. But it was L. Jackson Clark alone who understood what Allie’s disappearance cost Mort. He knew of Edie’s rage and Mort’s self-blame. When Allie returned, after so many years away, Larry understood Mort’s frantic compulsion to keep her safe. And when Allie disappeared again, in the helicopter of yet another drug lord, Larry knew the searing fear Mort lived with as he awaited word that she’d finally paid the ultimate price for her thirst for excitement.

“I just left Robbie’s.” Mort focused on his beer as he told Larry what had happened. He spared no detail. He didn’t need to. The man sitting across from him would hold no judgment or criticism. He would absorb the words and stand by his friend.

Mort didn’t drink as he spoke. Instead, he kept his eyes on the amber liquid, rotating the glass in his hands. Letting the words come as they might while Larry listened in silence.

“She’s a kidnapper, Larry.” Mort finally looked up at his friend. “My daughter is holding a woman and her son hostage while some terrified Brit flies over in her private jet to deliver her demands.” It was hard for him to breathe. Like he was wearing a concrete vest. “This is my girl.” His words were whispered. “And she’s worse than the animals I arrest.”

Larry waited before responding. He tapped a finger in front of Mort’s glass and signaled him to drink. When he did speak, his voice was steady and calm. “It’s not fair, Mort. This love we lavish on our children. The protection. The guidance. It’s a perverse joke to think we can mold or shape the behaviors and thoughts of those we love.” Larry took a long pull from his own beer. “The twisted reality is we are powerless to make anyone do anything. To think anything. To love or respect anything. And yet we keep on trying, don’t we?”

Mort didn’t need a lecture on helplessness. He felt it in his bones.

“Allie is who she is, Mort,” Larry continued. “This has nothing to do with you or Edie or any sort of mistake you think you may have committed as a parent. Allie is the result of all those decisions she’s made…from the very first time she reached for something she shouldn’t, you told her no, and she grabbed it in defiance anyway.”

Mort didn’t need that, either.
Of course this has to do with me. She’s my daughter. It’s my houseboat she’s paid off. It’s my grandchildren she’s trying to ruin.

“Can you hear me? Do you comprehend what I’m saying? There’s no one to blame but Allie. Your only move is to decide what you’re going to do in response to what she’s done. You need a plan. She’ll expect a reaction.” Larry gave him a sorry stare. “And knowing Allie, she’ll be prepared to neutralize it.”

Mort’s mind flashed to Lydia. Was it because Larry insisted there was no one to blame?
Oh, but I blame Lydia, don’t I? She could have stopped her. She could have kept her from flying off with Tokarev.

Or did Lydia come to mind because Larry had used the word “neutralize”? The Fixer had neutralized so many threats in the past. Did he somehow want Lydia to bring justice to a place he’d been incapable of bringing himself?

He shook his head clear.

“I need time to think,” Mort said. “I can’t have her hurting more people.”

Larry’s face was stern. “You’ve got to stop deluding yourself into thinking you have any influence over what she does. Don’t waste your time where you’re powerless.”

Before he could respond, Mort was distracted by a sound. It took him a heartbeat to recognize it was coming from his cell. He pulled it from his jacket, saw it was Jimmy calling, and for a moment was tempted to ignore the call of responsibilities. How could he focus on the murders of others when his own daughter was such a looming menace? He pushed the urge aside and answered.

“You’re gonna need to get down here, Mort.” Jimmy’s tone left no room for discussion. “There’s no way in the world you’re gonna believe what we found.”

“Where’d you get this?” Mort leaned over Micki as she sat in his chair manipulating his computer.

“Schuster. Says it’s off one of the oh-so-many sleazeball websites he and his fellow pervs in Vice get paid to watch.” Jimmy DeVilla sat with one hip on Mort’s desk, Bruiser’s head resting on his thigh. “About fifteen minutes in you’ll see why he decided to share the joy.”

Micki looked over her shoulder. “You ready? I haven’t seen it, but Jimmy says it’s bad.”

Mort nodded, Micki clicked on an arrow, and the image of a long-haired blonde in a glittery champagne-colored dress, wobbly on her feet and supported by a man only visible from the side, emerged on the computer screen. There was no audio, but the visuals were sharp and full-color hi-def. Mort kept his eyes on the screen as the pair made their way across an elegantly appointed room. They crossed the threshold of a door and the camera angles changed. Another room emerged; smaller, but just as beautifully decorated. For the first time the video showed the woman’s face.

“It’s Crystal Tillwater,” Micki said. “That’s the dress she was wearing when we found her.” She turned toward Jimmy. “Don’t tell me.”

Jim’s face was grim as he rubbed a spot behind Bruiser’s ear. “Afraid so.”

Mort swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the screen. He watched Crystal struggle to stay upright. He saw her lips move, but with no sound he couldn’t tell if her words were slurred. He saw male hands trace gently through her hair.

“White guy,” he said. “No rings, no watch. Looks like a manicure. We ever get a look at this guy’s face?”

Jim shook his head, still focusing on his dog. “Whoever shot this was a pro. Schuster says there were two cameras involved. Editing is tight. Crystal’s the focus. All we get of the guy is hands and shoulder. Even then we only get what looks like a very expensive suit jacket.”

Mort watched Crystal being led to what looked like an elevated table. He saw her head loll to one side as the man’s hands guided her onto it.

“She’s been drugged,” Micki said. “This isn’t just drunk. Look at her arms and legs. He’s having to move them. She’s completely lost control of her body.”

Crystal’s head flopped to the other side of the pillow supporting her. She may have been drugged, but she wasn’t totally out of it. Mort saw her eyes snap from blurry diffusion to laser-sharp attention. The camera opened to a wider shot. Mort caught broad shoulders clothed in sleek black fabric. “Come on,” he whispered. “Gimme something. A hair color. A beard. Anything.”

But Jimmy’s description proved accurate. The editing was precise. No additional part of the man now caressing Crystal’s prone body was made visible to the viewer. As the camera panned right, Mort was able to see what had caught Crystal’s attention despite her drugged state. A tray covered in shimmering blue fabric and holding an array of knives came into view. Mort looked back at the image of Crystal. The camera pulled tight on her eyes, giving the viewer a five-second gorge on her terror.

The three of them were silent as the video continued. Mick and Mort kept their attention on the screen as those male hands did their work. Small knives were used first. Crystal’s mouth opened wide in silent screams as cuts were made on her arms, neck, and ears. The digital high definition caught her blood as it emerged and traced its way where gravity willed. The male hands were splattered now as he reached for a longer-bladed knife. The camera zoomed in to catch a small section of Crystal’s dress. Champagne lace and delicate sequins were held in tight focus as blood was absorbed across the fabric. Mort wondered if this was an attempt at making the barbaric artistic.

Blood and knives dominated the screen, but they weren’t the focus. The star of the show was Crystal and her terror. Between shots of cuts and slices, the camera always returned to her face, contorted in panic. Her tears mixed with her own blood to form rivulets down her delicate cheeks. She grew weaker with each cut, but it was clear she was fighting. Mort wondered if she was struggling to hold on to consciousness, maintaining hope the torture would stop.

The scene opened wide and again Mort hoped for one slip. One clue that might help identify the man behind the pain. But there was nothing. Hands pushed up Crystal’s now sodden dress. A larger knife emerged and the man poised its cutting edge on Crystal’s pale thigh. Mort recalled Doc Conner’s analysis that it was a slice to the femoral artery that had been the final blow. He inhaled deeply in preparation.

One quick slice opened a crimson eruption. Blood pulsed three violent surges in rapid succession before slowing. The camera focused one last time on Crystal’s eyes, giving the viewer the sight of terror quietly disappearing into an empty stare.

At that moment audio was added for the first time. The head-banging beat of heavy metal blasted through the speakers.

“Here it comes,” Jimmy said. “Schuster didn’t know who Crystal was, but when he saw this he decided to share.”

Mort watched the camera open the scene. The beautiful room was now a place of unspeakable carnage. Gory knives were strewn across the table and floor. Crystal’s body lay prone and blood-drenched. One arm dangling off the side of the table. The camera angle opened even wider. It still revealed nothing of the man who’d wreaked such torture, but a window was now in view. It was high, large, and curtainless, framing a lovely shimmer of stars.

And there in the distance was Seattle’s Space Needle, outlined in lights. A glittering scepter against the dark summer sky.

Lydia’s smile was genuine as she entered her reception area. “Delbe? Is that you?”

Delbe Jensen stood and spun in a clumsy circle, allowing Lydia to see her transformation in its entirety. Gone were the wrinkled khakis, grease-stained shirt, and oily hair pulled back in a tattered scrunchie. Delbe wore a pale green cotton sundress, closely fitted at the bodice, then opening to fluttery folds that rustled as she turned. The dress’s color enhanced her amber eyes. Lydia realized this was the first time she’d seen Delbe’s hair fully free. It cascaded around her shoulders in freshly shampooed ginger waves. She wore a touch of coral lip gloss, just enough to bring a hint of summer to her freckled face. “Is this what you had in mind? Do I look like someone the world should treat well?”

“Get in here.” Lydia stood aside and let Delbe lead the way into her office. She sensed the pride in her patient’s step. Delbe chose her customary spot on the sofa, but this time she made an attempt to settle herself gracefully, crossing one leg over the other before leaning back.

“Nice shoes,” Lydia commented, regarding Delbe’s strappy wedged sandals.

“Thanks. They’re cheaper than they look. I never get a chance to wear ’em slinging hash and busing tables.”

“Well, if clothes make the woman, I’m wondering what you think about yourself right now.”

Delbe smoothed a hand over her dress. “I’ll bet it’s been three years since I had this on. Surprised it still fits.”

“You look marvelous,” Lydia assured her. “There’s no one in the world who would peg you for…let me see…what is it you call yourself…the poster child for fucked-up losers?”

Delbe flinched. “I said that, didn’t I? Your memory ever get you in trouble?”

Only every time I let it.
Lydia shoved the thought aside and refocused on her patient.

“You’re dodging my question. What do you think about yourself right now?”

Delbe’s face clouded. Her voice lost its earlier playfulness and fell back into the well-worn tone of self-loathing. “I took a shower and shaved my legs. It was my homework. Let’s not get carried away.”

“You had three assignments, as I recall. Obviously you’ve nailed this one; what about the other two?”

“You mean have I been staying away from the teenagers I work with?” Delbe’s defensiveness rang in every word. “Yes, Dr. Corriger. I’ve somehow managed to steer clear of them for two entire days. I haven’t purchased any beer, I haven’t toked up with them. So if you’re thinking about calling Protective Services on me, you can hold off.”

“Ouch. That was sharper than I deserved. You wanna try that again?”

Delbe sighed. “I’m sorry. But who has to be told that? What twenty-four-year-old has to have her psychologist tell her not to hang with high schoolers? God, I’m such a loser.”

“Is that what you’re doing, Delbe? Trying hard to prove your parents right?”

“Well, they have me pegged.” Delbe’s volume had risen. Lydia was pleased to hear her lower it without being prompted, when she added, “I’m sure I’m not living the dream they had for me.”

“I don’t care about their dream. This is your life, Delbe. Which brings us to the third piece of homework. Did you do that?”

Delbe showed a hint of her earlier humor. “What? Two out of three’s not good enough?” She reached into her straw purse and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Here it is. An itemized list of what my life would be like if I was living my best life ever. By the way, did you steal that from Oprah or did she cop it from you?”

Lydia pointed toward Delbe’s list. “Come on. I’m dying to hear it.”

Delbe made a show of unfolding the paper and pressing it flat. She cleared her throat and adopted a television announcer’s throaty alto as she read from her list. “I’d be married to Ryan Gosling and having a torrid side affair with Justin Timberlake.”

“Stop it, Delbe. Remember when I said I’d work hard, but never harder than you? Show me how hard I need to work today.”

Delbe grimaced. “Geez. Lighten up, why don’t you?” She turned her list around. “See? It’s not really on here.”

“I’m glad. Now tell me what is.”

Delbe read from her paper again, this time in the sheepish voice of a young woman asking for something she knows she’ll never have. “I’d have time to do my music. I’d sing my songs and people would like them.” She looked up apologetically at Lydia. “That’s egotistical, sorry.”

Lydia shook her head. “It’s your life. I want to hear what it will take to make it the best.”

“I’d have my high school diploma.” Again she looked up. “I was a good student. Academically, I mean. I was stupid in how I was living, but I always was on the honor roll. My guidance counselor—another woman who tried to talk me out of dropping out—said I had the highest GPA of anyone who’d ever quit school.”

“I believe you. What’s next?”

Delbe returned to her list. “I’d study music.” She looked up again to explain. “But I don’t mean in college. I want one-on-one with someone, you know? A really good teacher who could help me with my guitar and my lyrics. Maybe even a voice coach. Not all the theory and background bullshit. No offense intended to someone who must have spent like fifty years in college, right? I just wanna grow my music. That make any sense at all?”

Lydia nodded. “College was
my
dream. And it wasn’t exactly fifty years.” She wondered if Delbe realized she was less than fifteen years older than her. “Although sometimes, I admit it felt like it. Studying with a master musician makes a lot of sense. Tell me more about your best life ever.”

Delbe went back to the paper. “I’d have an apartment. Maybe a roommate. Somebody cool, you know? Maybe she’s a musician, too. We’d share expenses so we wouldn’t have to work so hard. Free up time for our music. We’d come home and we’d just get out our guitars and start playing. We’d write songs about what happened during our day. People we met. Things we saw.”

Lydia wondered if Delbe noticed she’d set her paper on her lap. The dreams now were coming straight from her, fully formed.

“I’d do the cooking…I’m pretty good. She could do the cleaning up. I don’t like that at all. We’d tell each other our problems and fears. We’d listen, really listen to each other. We wouldn’t even own a television.”

“Any room for romance on that list of yours?”

Delbe shook her head. “You told me to write down what I wanted now. Let me tell you, watching my parents’ marriage up close and personal has cured me of ever wanting anything like what they have. I want something real. Friendship seems about all I want right now. I don’t mean the phony types my mom and dad play bridge with. I’d like real friends.”

“How many?”

Delbe shrugged into a light moment. “Well, I’d have my rockin’ guitar-playin’, dish-washin’ roomie. So, maybe one other.”

Lydia took the time to let Delbe’s dream float in silence. “What else is on that list of yours?”

Delbe looked perplexed. “Isn’t this enough?”

“Let me get this straight. You’re telling me to live your best life ever you’d have your GED, be singing and writing while you studied with a music teacher, share an apartment with a roommate, and have a friend.” She paused. “What would you say to someone who asked why you feel that’s so out of reach?”

Delbe looked away. It took a while for her to gather herself. When she spoke, her voice was choked with emotion. “You the one askin’?”

“Yes. What’s getting in the way of you achieving those very simple things?”

Delbe bit her lower lip. She picked up her dream list and refolded it, pressing each seam tight before putting it back in her purse. “You remember me askin’ you how long a person was expected to pay for their mistakes?”

“I do. You told me your parents look at you each day in that ‘told you so’ way.”

Delbe nodded. “Oh, they do. There’s no doubt I’m payin’ every day for that major disappointment I handed them when I ditched school. But they don’t charge me a dime for rent and, like you said, there’s always a fridge full of food waitin’ for me when I get home. The only thing they ask is that I pay my own bills.” Delbe looked at Lydia and her voice dropped to a whisper. “And that’s why this list can never be more than dreams.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I wanted to head out to L.A., get someone to hear my music and make me a big star. Remember that?”

“I do. That’s why you were the dropout with the highest GPA.”

“Well, there wasn’t a thing my parents could do to stop me. I mean, I was of age to make the decision. But they weren’t about to support me in it. No, sir. If I was headed to California against their wishes, I had to bankroll it myself. So I got a job.”

“Where?”

“Lots of places. You’d be surprised how many folks’ll hire high school dropouts if they’re willing to work for less than minimum wage and take cash under the table. I stocked shelves in a couple of retail stores, roasted coffee on the overnight shift, even did some babysitting. I took every penny I earned and put it in my sock drawer. When I thought I had enough, I headed south.” She shook her head slowly. “But it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near. I couldn’t get my songs heard, couldn’t land a steady job…turns out they’ve got high school dropouts in California, too. That and illegals who’ll work for even less. I picked up work here and there, enough to keep me in a fleabag by-the-week hotel, but I was starving.”

“What did you do?”

“I was so certain stardom was just around the corner. This was just gonna be some colorful story about how I paid my dues. I let my dreams take my mind off my growling stomach.” Delbe shook her head in self-disgust. “One day I’m standing on a street corner, singin’ for handouts. This guy saunters up and stuffs ten bucks in my paper cup. Tells me I’m great and I should keep at it. He shows up the next day. And the day after that. I got so I was lookin’ for him. Smilin’ when I see him and wonderin’ if he’s got a special song he’d like to hear. He gives me his card. Says he’s an agent and wants to shop my demo around.” She looked up at Lydia and shrugged. “I didn’t have a demo. I didn’t have jack squat. He said he knew record execs who would be very interested in what he called my ‘fresh sound,’ but I needed that demo disk. Said he’d cut me a favor and produce one for me on the cheap. That’s how much he believed in me. All I had to do was sign with him and get him three thousand bucks.”

Delbe spoke so softly Lydia needed to lean in to hear her. “So I signed the papers he gave me and had myself an agent. And I went looking for money. I needed that demo, so I borrowed the three thousand and started writing songs like crazy. That took time away from pickup jobs and singin’ on the street corner, so I borrowed a little more, just to get me by. I thought I’d be landing a record deal any day now and pay everything back. I’d heard my dad talk about it all the time growing up. ‘Leverage your credit.’ ‘Secure your cash flow.’ Hell, they borrowed. I figured why not me?”

Lydia imagined the type of lender who would be willing to deal with an underemployed high school dropout. “But it snowballed?”

Delbe huffed in disgust. “More like avalanched. Interest on interest on interest. Late fees. More and more and more money.” She shook her head. “That’s one job I never should have taken. And I guess I don’t need to tell you I never got in to any record execs. Never saw the inside of a studio. There was no demo. He was a con man. Took my money, hung around long enough to see if I could get more, and when I started asking questions he didn’t want to answer, he laughed in my face, told me to go back to whatever hay wagon I fell off. By then I was so in debt there was no way I could make it. So I called my folks, begged them for a ticket home, and back I came.”

“But the debt followed you?”

Delbe’s eyes, already brushed with tears, filled with fear. “These folks follow you to the grave, Dr. C. There’s no getting away from it.”

“Have you thought about bankruptcy? Have you spoken to an attorney? Maybe your parents can help you line up—”

“My parents can never know,” Delbe interrupted. “I’m already a Class A fuckup in their eyes. And there’s no bankrupting these bills. This is mine to deal with. I dug this hole. That’s why I work so many hours. That’s why I practically dance a jig for extra tips.” She hung her head again. “And that’s why I keep the change when the high schoolers send me on a beer run. My dreams might sound simple to you, Dr. C. But they may as well be on the moon.”

Lydia watched her patient reach for a tissue, dab her eyes, and blow her nose. She imagined the helplessness Delbe felt, the hopelessness her growing debt must represent to her. It had taken her six sessions to feel comfortable enough to share her shame with Lydia. She wanted to lighten the burden, if only in this moment.

“It occurs to me now,” Lydia said, “I’ve never heard you sing. I’d like to remedy that.”

Delbe signaled her confusion through puffy eyes. “What? You mean, like, now? You want me to sing for you now?”

“I don’t want you leaving here feeling stuck in this hole. Singers sing. Let’s hear one.”

Delbe’s confusion continued. “What song? What if I don’t know it?”

“Sing me one you do know. Sing the song you know better than any other.”

“You mean, like, my favorite?”

“I’d love to hear your favorite song.”

Delbe took another tissue and wiped her face. She sat up straighter on the sofa. She looked down, then up, drew in a deep breath, and began. Lydia expected to hear an original creation. Instead, she heard one familiar to her; one of her own favorite songs. Delbe delivered it with a throaty, raspy alto as though she was born to sing the blues.

“I can’t make you love me if you don’t.

You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.”

Lydia was stunned by the magnitude of her patient’s talent. She wanted to hear more, but Delbe had lowered her head. Her sobs were full now, as though the evidence of her own gift rubbed her nose in what she had lost to teenaged impatience.

“Take a deep breath, Delbe.” Lydia leaned back. “We’re going to find a way to fix this.”