The Red Hot Fix (6 page)

Reinhart left the room. Ingrid knew the time she would have cared what or who kept him from their evening plans was long past.

Mort looked at his cell phone and saw his son was calling. “Hey, Robbie. How are the girls?”

“We’re fine, Dad. Hadley and Hayden have a calendar marking the days until your next visit. Dates still the same?”

“Far as I’m concerned. What’s new?”

Robbie updated his father on the latest goings-on in the Denver home he shared with Claire and their twins. Mort laughed at the story of his eight-year-old granddaughters climbing so high in a tree their victims couldn’t tell who was throwing those water balloons.

“You’re earning your money with those two,” Mort said. “How’s the book tour?”

“Sales are brisk.” Robbie sounded proud. “Believe it or not, my agent says there’s some Hollywood interest in
The Fixer
. Guess the true story of a sexy hit woman who kills the baddest of the bad, then disappears without a trace is too juicy for them not to bite.”

Mort’s gut reacted in anticipation of the havoc a Hollywood movie might bring. He forced an enthusiasm he didn’t feel.

“I should get your autograph now, huh? Who you gonna have play me?”

“Some strong silent type.” Robbie’s voice shifted to concern. “You sound beat.”

Mort growled, “Just back from a meeting with the chief. I’m sure he’s catching it from the mayor. Nobody’s happy.”

“Your case is one of the reasons I called, actually.”

Mort sat up. “You got a lead for me, Mr. Fancy Crime Writer? One good name gets you a case of your favorite whiskey.”

Robbie laughed. “It’s about another book. My agent says I need a follow-up while my name’s hot.”

“You leaving the paper?”

“I’m thinking ahead. No way a reporter’s salary covers college tuition for my girls. Let me help, Dad. Don’t forget it was me who brought The Fixer to your attention last year when you were working that college professor’s murder. How about we crack this Trixie case together?” Robbie paused and let the notion sink in. “I could be out there tomorrow. Claire’s taking the girls to France for her mother’s fifty-fifth. They’ll be gone a month.”

Mort liked the idea of having something other than empty rooms and a basement workshop to greet him at the end of a day. “They’ll miss school?”

“I think their teachers are happy for the reprieve.”

The memory of a red-faced chief spitting out warnings came to Mort. He knew Robbie had first-rate investigative instincts and could keep things confidential. A no-cost extra pair of eyes and legs couldn’t hurt the budget, either.

But he worried about Lydia. How vulnerable would she be if Robbie, who’d spent more than a year researching The Fixer, was just across the bay?

“Dad? You there?”

“I’m here, son.” Mort looked at the whiteboard listing the names of Trixie’s seven victims. Notes and scribbles adding up to nothing. He shifted his gaze to the framed photo of Robbie, Claire, and the girls and saw the same twinkle in Rob’s eyes that had delighted him in Edie’s, the same sandy hair Robbie shared with his sister.

“What the hell. Come on. We’ll see what we can see.”

Lydia dropped three volumes into the library’s book-return slot, greeted the man behind the checkout counter, and headed to the periodicals. She could afford to have whatever she wanted delivered directly to her door or e-reader, but she’d haunted libraries since she was a child. She felt safe surrounded by books and the people who loved them, and her thrice-weekly trips to the library on Second Street allowed her a semblance of human contact.

The girl was there again. Lydia had seen her enough times to know she preferred the overstuffed armchair in the far corner of the kids’ section. She appeared to be seven or eight years old. Old enough to enjoy the latest easy-reader mystery or dragon-laced fantasy, but too young to be there unattended. The girl stayed at the library for hours, yet Lydia had never seen a parent or teacher. The girl often wore the same clothes. Her habit of breaking from whatever she was reading to monitor the front door each time the tinkling bell sounded triggered a deep memory in Lydia.

This girl was hiding from someone.

The girl watched Lydia settle into a chair with the newspapers she’d selected, then went back to her book. Time passed in silence as Lydia read the latest accounts of Seattle’s serial killer. Mort was quoted several times in various articles and she sensed the frustration in his words. She knew it was only a matter of time before he put the pieces together and found the woman the press called Trixie.

He’d found
her
, after all.

When Lydia was finished, she gathered the papers to return them to the shelves. The girl tracked Lydia’s movement and seemed to shrink deep into the cushions as Lydia neared. Lydia gave the girl a wink and continued past on her way to select three books to take home.

“What’s the little girl’s story?” Lydia handed her library card to the man behind the counter. “She’s here a lot.”

“Even more than you,” the man replied. “I’m George, by the way. Will you be joining us permanently in Langley, Lydia?”

Adrenaline surged when the man mentioned her name. A heartbeat later Lydia realized she’d been handing him her card three times a week for nearly two months. She wasn’t accustomed to small-town familiarity.

“Still trying to decide that.” She forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, George.”

“Same here.” He processed her books and handed them to her. “She’s Maizie Dunfield.
Sweet little thing. I knew her mother.” His tone hardened. “And, of course, I know her father.”

“You say that like everyone does.”

George raised a conspiratorial brow. “You stick around this island long enough, you will, too. Owns that dump he likes to call a salvage yard about four miles outside town.”

“The one with the rusting cars?” Lydia had wondered why such an eyesore was permitted to function on this picturesque island. “And those antigovernment billboards?”

“That’s the one,” George said. “Folks say he makes a fortune stripping those hulks and selling the parts over the Internet. The county’s been trying to shut him down for years, but he’s got money for lawyers and isn’t afraid to spend it. Why he doesn’t use some of that for his little girl is beyond me. Some days she’s here all day and I don’t see her eat a thing.”

“What about school?”

George shook his head. “Gary Dunfield doesn’t believe in public schools. Or anything associated with rules or law. He’s hooked up with those folks who like to meet in the woods, play with guns, and talk about how the government’s a puppet for some shadow group of Jews and Chinese controlling everything. Crazy stuff. A bunch of them got together and submitted papers to run their own school.” George glanced over to Maizie. “But he doesn’t give a care about her. I don’t mind her coming in. She reads everything I got. At least she’s learning something.”

“You said you knew her mother.”

George nodded to a wistful memory. “Hannah. Every bit as sweet as little Maizie. When she first came to the island, she’d come in here and read the fashion magazines.” He leaned in and whispered. “It wasn’t long before she was showing up with black eyes and bruises. Always with some story about how clumsy she’d been. I figured old Gary got out of hand. One day she came in with her arm in a cast and the look of a beaten dog too scared to bite. She was bringing back a couple of magazines I let her take home even though they’re not supposed to leave the premises. Said she wouldn’t be coming back. That her duty was to her husband and she couldn’t be wasting time here at the library.” He clucked his tongue. “Can you imagine anyone thinking time here was wasted?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, she left the island soon after that. Gary was fit to be tied. Stormed into town cussing Hannah’s name and swearing anybody who’d had a hand in helping her run away would see him in court. I, for one, didn’t think of her as having run away. More like she escaped.” He looked back over to Maizie. “I can’t for the life of me figure out why Hannah’d leave her daughter with a man like that.” He shook his head. “I guess there’s no telling what a person will do if they’re scared enough.”

Lydia picked up her things and gave a long look to Maizie, sitting with her skinny legs tucked up underneath her, turning pages in a book nearly as large as she was. “No,” she said. “I guess there’s no telling.”

Reinhart Vogel rocked on his heels and watched the Wings stumble through halfhearted practice shots. “They’re playing like overpaid assholes afraid to break a sweat. No wonder we’re one game away from getting tossed. I don’t spend my money to watch the playoffs at home, Wilkerson.” He spread his arms wide to take in the state-of-the-art arena. “And the good folks of King County didn’t spend two hundred million hard-earned tax dollars to build a showcase for losers.”

Allen Wilkerson took a deep breath. “I don’t know why you come down here, Reinhart. It only gets your blood boiling. We’ll get past Portland.”

Reinhart sneered at his coach. “We got one guy working out there. What’s your plan for him?”

Wilkerson watched the players and zeroed in on the only one who’d managed to take off his warm-ups. Number 9. Barry Gardener. A standout at Gonzaga since his freshman year. Every team in the NBA knew he was a dynasty builder and started courting him early. Instead, he stayed, graduated, and was named first-team All-American his last two years. Reinhart had appealed to Gardener’s sense of loyalty. “You’re Washington born and raised, kid. Play for me and break all the records here at home.”

Gardener signed with the Wings, took his bonus, bought his parents a house in Renton, and saw less than three minutes playing time per game.

“The kid’s gonna be great.” Wilkerson watched Gardener dribble past three teammates for a hanging slam dunk. “But the NBA is a world away from college. I want to pace him. LionEl’s the money.” Wilkerson pointed to the player dancing the ball between his legs in the back half of the court. “He’s proven himself in end-of-season heat. We get enough of a lead against Portland, I’ll give Gardener time. But he’s not ready to lead. Do this my way and we’ll be fine.”

Reinhart yelled across the court, “LionEl!” The highest-scoring point guard in the NBA glanced over, dribbled behind his back, took a fading shot, and pumped his fist at the swish. He called out trash to teammates and strolled to the sideline. LionEl stopped three feet in front of Reinhart and gave him a droopy-eyed stare.

“What you want, boss man?”

What Reinhart wanted was to punch the smirk off the giant’s face, but he wouldn’t do that any more than he would smash a computer or dent a company car. He respected his business
equipment.

“What’s your plan for Portland?”

LionEl’s smirk broadened into a lothario’s grin. He wiped a hand across his chin. “My plan is always the same, boss man. Give the folks a show. Make ’em happy they plopped down seventy bucks to come see LionEl. I’m good for at least twenty-five against Portland.”

Reinhart turned to his coach. “You happy with that?”

Wilkerson nodded. “LionEl’s our guy. He’ll get us to postseason.”

Reinhart pointed to the floor. LionEl turned, called for his teammates to throw him a ball, and returned to his solo practice in the back court.

“Gardener!” Reinhart yelled. The rookie stopped mid-dribble and jogged over. He nodded first to Reinhart and then to Wilkerson. “Yes, sir?”

“What’s your plan for Portland?” Reinhart asked.

Gardener glanced at his coach. “My goal is for my team to win. Do what needs to be done to make them sorry they even thought they could play in our house.” He rested his hands on his hips and beamed. “Fill their long trip home with sadness and regret.”

Reinhart slapped his shoulder and sent him back to his team. When Gardener was out of earshot, he turned to Wilkerson.

“Which of those smells more like a leader to you, Coach?”

Two hours later Reinhart walked into Rainy Day and smiled at the middle-aged man trying to unfold a collapsible kayak. “Can I help you there, friend?”

The overweight man in the khaki shorts looked up at him. Reinhart saw the recognition in his eyes.

“Well, as I live and breathe.” The man struggled to pull himself straight, wiped a sweaty palm dry, and offered Reinhart his hand. “Josh Thurmond. Nice to meet you.”

Reinhart gave the man a hearty smile. He preferred the retail outlet to his online operation. While the Internet gave him access to millions of customers, he couldn’t see them. Couldn’t watch their body language as they raved about the outdoor gear that had built his empire or get a sense of what might be the next thing on which they’d be interested in dropping as much of their discretionary income as Reinhart could get.

“You like the boat?” Reinhart glanced over each shoulder and dropped his volume. “I got an in with the owner. Might be able to cut a great deal for you.”

The customer laughed. “Wife says I gotta get active.” He patted his stomach. “Lose the
love handles and the suitcase they’re attached to. But keep your boat. I’m more a roundball man.” His face grew serious. “Wings are playing for shit. No offense intended to the man who signs the paychecks. Is our team gonna have any postseason action?”