The Unforgivable Fix (17 page)

“Patrick would never come any way but alone,” Allie assured her father. “He's different with me. Softer. He knows that would make him appear weak in front of his men. As angry as he may be, I can assure you he misses me. He won't bring backup.”

Despite Allie's confidence, Mort explained the ease of defending a location that had only one entrance: the gangplank. The DEA would have agents stationed as neighbors, looking to all the world like upper-income haves enjoying the good life on their floating architectural trophies.

“If this goes down the way I hope it does, Duncan is in handcuffs before he gets within twenty feet of my boat. At least twelve jurisdictions have outstanding warrants waiting for the DEA to serve.”

Lydia kept her eyes on Allie. She reminded herself Allie had lived with Patrick Duncan for more than four years. They'd shared a life and a bed. Now she was about to hand him over to be held accountable for every despicable act that had funded the lavish life they'd shared. Her lover would be arrested and most likely spend the rest of his life in prison. Lydia settled on a name for what she saw in Allie. It was betrayal.

“Are you ready?” Mort asked his daughter. “Do you want to take a few minutes?”

Allie looked at the clock. It was nearly nine thirty. “When do you want him to come?”

“The sooner the better.” Mort's voice was firm. “Find out where he is. As soon as he can get to Seattle, have him meet you. Remember the time. Two thirty in the afternoon. We want that dock to be as empty as possible.”

Allie picked up the phone. “You sure you two want to be here while I do this?”

“The conversation's going to be recorded, you know that. And Lydia and I will both be listening in on this end. I have to be able to testify you did nothing to tip Duncan off.” Mort nodded toward Lydia. “And I'd like Lydia to be here to verify that testimony. Just in case anyone questions what I might do to protect my daughter.”

“Suit yourself. Just be aware you may hear some things you don't want to. Oh, and he'll call me Olwen. That's his pet name for me. It means beautiful in Welsh.” Allie turned to Lydia and smiled. “Patrick really can be very romantic.”

Lydia and Mort said nothing in response to her picture of the drug lord with a poet's soul. Each of them plugged the buds attached to the phone into their own ears. Allie inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Yes?” The voice Lydia heard answer the phone sounded hesitant.

“Patrick? Is it really you, my love?” Lydia shot a look to Mort. Allie's voice had dropped two octaves from that of the chatty young woman she'd been listening to for a week. From the look on Mort's face, he'd never heard his daughter use that sultry voice, either.

“I'm here, Olwen. Where are you?” Patrick sounded angry now.

“I love you to the moon and back, my heart.” Allie's voice was pure seduction. “Each day without you has been a day without light in my soul. I can't bear to be without you one moment longer.”

“Where are you, Olwen?” His voice was softer.

“I had to leave, my darling.” Allie shifted her tone to one of desperation. “The Russian was coming for me. I couldn't risk having you near when he found me. Then you'd be in danger, too. My plan was to go as far from you as possible. To keep you safe. I'd let him find me.” Allie allowed her voice to crack, as though on the cusp of tears. “I'd let him kill me. It would be worth it to keep you safe, my love.”

Lydia had to hand it to her, she was good.

“But I realized life without you is already death.” Allie's voice was full of throaty whispers. “It weakened me. I wanted to die in the place where it all began. Oh, Patrick, if only the gods would grant us one wish. To meet again. Do you remember, my love?”

“I do, Olwen,” Patrick said. “Of course I do. Are you telling me you're in Seattle?”

“I am.” Allie said.

Patrick gave a joyous sound. Lydia couldn't tell if it was laughter or tears. “My darling, once again our souls are in communion in a way our minds could never comprehend. I, too, am in Seattle. My heart told me to find you. It led me to you.”

Allie's head jerked up. She glanced at her father, who nodded fiercely. He tapped his watch to remind her that the sooner she could set up the meeting, the better.

“Are you saying my agony is over?” Allie resumed her teasing voice of sexual promise. “What about the Russian?”

“We'll face him together, my love.” Patrick's voice was that of a child learning he'd be headed for Disneyland tomorrow. “Let him come. I'll protect you, dear Olwen. You were willing to die for me. Let me show you we can live. Come to me now, Olwen.”

Allie looked up to see her father shaking his head. Mort mouthed
plan
to remind his daughter to stick with what he and the DEA had decided.

“I want to be ready for you, my love,” Allie told Patrick. “Tomorrow. We'll meet tomorrow…and, and…” She looked to her father for reassurance. Mort used his fingers to remind her: he flashed her two fingers, then three, then made a zero of his thumb and forefinger. “Meet me at two thirty. I know a place. I've rented a houseboat. I wanted to die by the water. It could remind me of our wonderful times by the sea.” Allie gave him the address.

“My darling Olwen.” Patrick now sounded like the besotted lover Allie had described. “Our lives begin again tomorrow. Know I will hear every word of this call in my dreams tonight. And, and—”

Allie interrupted him. She looked embarrassed. “And save those thoughts for when we're together, my Patrick. I, too, will count the minutes. Until tomorrow, my prince.”

Patrick chuckled. “And…and—” He hung up.

Allie clicked off the phone. She pulled out her earbuds, looked up to her father, and offered a sheepish smile.

Mort disconnected himself and pulled his daughter into a bear hug. Lydia watched him rock Allie back and forth. She heard him tell her again and again how proud he was of her.

Allie locked eyes with Lydia and smiled.

Lydia forced a smile back to her houseguest.

“Is it me, or is the rain being a particular pain in the ass today?” Sharon Luther shook her raincoat and hung it on the hook next to their table. “And let's not even get started with what the wind is doing to my hair.”

“Maybe it's nature's way of reminding us November has arrived.” Lydia lifted her coffee cup. “I started without you.” She hadn't been able to sleep the night before. The phone call to Patrick had left Allie in such a state that by the time Mort and Lydia were able to calm her enough to get her to bed they were each too wired to turn in. “I've been here for an hour. I needed the kind of industrial strength caffeine only a greasy spoon open at five
A.M.
could provide.”

Sharon sat down, pulled her steaming mug toward her, and inhaled. “Ah. Is there anything more divine than the smell of hot black coffee?” She looked around at the tables filled with men in wool caps and flannel shirts. “I hope you don't mind this joint. The Shipwreck may be rough around the edges, but it serves the best breakfast on Puget Sound.”

“Actually, this is one of my favorite places.” Lydia particularly liked the wisecracking waitresses. She sometimes came here to have her eggs and sausage in a corner booth while listening to the morning crew trade trash talk with loggers starting their workday and overnight longshoremen ending theirs. Lydia found the smell of frying bacon mingling with the salty air wafting in from the bay just behind the roadside diner intoxicating. “I have to admit, I never would have pegged this as a faculty hangout.”

Sharon pulled her laugh from deep in her belly. “It's not. And on the list of why I love this dive, that particular aspect ranks even higher than the oyster omelet. You had breakfast yet?”

Lydia shook her head. “I waited for you. I usually have the Fisherman's Plate.”

“Good choice. This isn't the place to come looking for whole grain or gluten-free.”

A middle-aged woman sporting the name tag
Swede
came to take their order. She was tall and lanky, and wore a pink lace ribbon on a crayon-red bouffant sprayed into a hurricane-proof helmet. “Special today is chef's scramble. Don't ask me what's in it, because it changes every time I ask him. Guess that's what makes it so damned special. Comes with toast and hash browns for $6.95.”

Lydia and Sharon each ordered their favorites. Each asked for orange juice.

“And keep the coffee coming,” Sharon said. “We've got a lot of talking to do.”

Swede raised a Maybelline eyebrow. “I expect my tables to turn over every forty-five minutes. Stay as long as you'd like and I'll keep pouring. Just remember the rental fee come time to tip.”

Sharon promised she'd be taken care of and Swede nodded in contract before leaving.

“Tell me how my boy's doing.” Sharon wasted no time getting down to business. “I told him when I sent him to you that if he did anything to screw up my pipeline of research subjects coming out of your practice I'd have him scrubbing lab trays until he was eligible for social security.”

“Oh, God. Don't do that. Let the guy get a job so he can go clothes shopping, will you?”

Sharon shook her head. “The old man getup? What's with that? I remember being as poor as a church mouse in graduate school, so I get he's on a limited budget. But it's like the guy's trying to look like a schlep on purpose. I'm trying to decide if it's some kind of retro cool vibe he's reaching for, or if he just doesn't know how to shop a Goodwill sale.”

“We're being catty,” Lydia warned.

“You're probably right. I won't tell if you don't. So, how are his clinical chops?”

“Zach's doing well,” Lydia answered. “He's impressed me in a lot of ways.”

“Yeah? What do you have him doing?”

Lydia took a sip from her sixth cup of coffee that morning. She felt an electric humming in her ears and pushed her mug aside. “His patients run the gamut. He's seeing adolescents to adults. Men and women. Therapy and assessments.”

Sharon leaned back and smiled. “I knew you were the right fit for him. You like his work?”

Lydia considered her answer. She was aware that Sharon held the final say as to when he would be eligible to seek licensing. She wanted to be fair to Zach. At the same time, she respected Sharon and knew she'd see through anything less than a brutally honest assessment.

“Zach's work ethic is beyond reproach,” Lydia said. “He's there early and he stays late.”

Sharon nodded and both women leaned back to let Swede place their breakfasts in front of them. Despite her fatigue, Lydia felt her body respond to the aromas coming from her plate.

“I'll be right back with your orange juices, so there's no need to shift your nag wagon out of neutral.” Swede tucked the towel she'd used as protection while carrying the hot plates into the belt of her apron. “I only got two hands and I figure food's more necessary than juice this time of the morning.”

Lydia and Sharon sighed their agreement as Swede walked away. The tall waitress was good on her word and returned in less than a minute with their beverages in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. She refilled Sharon's cup. Lydia held her hand over her own in an attempt to stave off a caffeine overdose.

“So, he's punctual,” Sharon said once Swede left their table. “That's what you lead with? Sweet Jesus, how bad is he?”

“It's not bad,” Lydia said. “I've listened to tapes of his sessions. Patients like him. He develops rapport easily. His skills with therapies are good. I'd have to say he sticks a little too close to the manual, but that will change with experience.”

Sharon stabbed an oyster and closed her eyes as she savored it. “I remember my first few patients. My God…I thought I would die from fright.”

“Me, too. Until I realized they were real people and I was able to talk to them in a straightforward manner. I hope you don't take my remarks as criticism. Zach's green, that's all. He needs some seasoning.”

Sharon pointed her fork at Lydia. “You're hedging. Give it to me straight. I'll stipulate that Zach knows what he's doing. His record is stellar from an excellent school. Let's not waste time on what's good about him. Let me know where he's veering off course.”

Lydia wanted her words to be an accurate reflection of what she saw in Zach. “I've read his letters of recommendation, too. Everybody sings his praises. But, I have to tell you, for all his intelligence and ability, I find him a bit, I don't know…sloppy.”

Sharon stopped midchew. Her brow knitted as she swallowed. “ ‘Sloppy' is not a word I'd ever use to describe Zach Edwards. If anything, I find him overly focused. He's a young man who knows exactly what he wants to do, plots his course, and does it without so much as a blip on the radar screen. Give me details.”

“Like I said, I listen to the tapes of his sessions,” Lydia explained. “For the most part, he's fine with patients. But despite my instruction…sometimes pretty forceful, I might add…I still find him telling instead of asking.”

Sharon seemed completely uninterested in her omelet. She understood the implications of what Lydia was saying.

“And I had to get pretty insistent when he needed to contact CPS and report what a child told him.”

“What do you mean by insistent?” Sharon asked.

“At first I reminded him of his duty to report.” Lydia sipped her juice and hoped it would calm her caffeine-induced jitters. “He balked. Said he wanted to encourage the girl to report on her own. I gave him a little leeway and allowed that. But when they met again, the report still hadn't been made. I gave him a deadline. I told him if he didn't call, I would.”

“Did he make the report?”

Lydia nodded. “He told them the girl's abuser was out of town, so CPS wasn't too eager to act.”

Sharon scowled. “Overworked is what they are. Their idea of a priority is pretty gruesome.”

Lydia agreed. “At least it's on the record.” She shifted gears and shared her concerns about Zach's lack of clinical precision when he wrote about or discussed cases.

“Rookie mistake,” Sharon said. “It's only natural to want to accept whatever anyone says as the truth. I have to say, Lydia, what you're saying is miles away from what I see in the lab. There, Zach pays attention to the details.You want me to talk to him about this?”

“No. I'm on it. And besides, for the overwhelming majority of his work, he's really quite good. Even with tough cases.” Lydia recapped Zach's excellent work with the unemployed marijuana abuser he was treating. “And he's done excellent work with a kleptomaniac. You know how tough those cases can be.”

Sharon nodded and returned to her breakfast.

“I even gave him a court evaluation to do,” Lydia said.

“If it was a sexual assault case, he's done dozens of them,” Sharon told her. “He spent six months with an agency down in Oregon, as I recall. I assume he did a stellar job.”

Lydia again chose her words carefully. “With the interview, yes. But again, the wording in his report wasn't objective. I pointed it out and he was kind of casual about it.”

“What did you do?”

“I basically rewrote the report and told him to make the changes exactly as I did them.”

“And did he?”

“Yes,” Lydia said. “The report that went to the judge was fine. I just would have expected more from someone with his experience.”

“Well, my dear”—Sharon raised her glass of orange juice in salute—“if anyone can whip him into shape, it's you.”

Lydia headed home after her meeting with Sharon. Mort had to drive to Seattle to coordinate the apprehension of Patrick Duncan. The DEA was assembling their team, and he needed to meet with the Seattle officers who would be involved in the coordinated arrest.

“I've got to leave right away.” Mort checked his watch the moment Lydia entered the house. “It's almost eight o'clock. With morning traffic, I won't hit Seattle til nearly nine thirty. We want everyone in place by noon.”

Lydia understood the crucial factor of time in any capture scenario. The Fixer's targets always met their end at precisely the moment she'd determined.

“Where's Allie?” she asked.

“In her room. I haven't heard a peep from her.”

Lydia looked him up and down. Mort's eyes were bloodshot. “Did you get any sleep?”

“About as much as you.” He pointed to her coffeemaker. “I drained the pot. If you want more, you'll need to make a fresh batch.”

“I'm good.” She reached toward him but lowered her hand before touching his sleeve. “Go. Don't worry about anything here.”

“I'll call you. But my guess is this takedown is going to be fast and quiet.”

Lydia ignored his attempt to reassure her. It was likely at least ten officers from the DEA, the Seattle PD, and the FBI would be involved. The more complicated an operation, the greater the likelihood for error. And in cases like this, errors could be deadly.

That's why The Fixer preferred to work alone.

“Be safe,” she told him. “I'll be thinking of you at two thirty.”

Mort took one last glance down the hallway where his daughter slept. “I'll call you, Liddy. Take care of my girl.”

Lydia snapped awake the moment she heard footsteps headed her way. She laid her hand on the Beretta beside her but relaxed when she saw it was Allie who approached. Lydia threw off the afghan and sat up.

“What time is it?” she asked.

Allie wiped a cascade of hair out of her face and squinted toward the clock on the opposite wall. “Eleven thirty.” She looked at the rumpled blanket on the sofa. “You slept out here all night?”

“No. I lay down after your dad left.” Lydia pointed to the kitchen. “Why don't you make yourself some coffee?”

Less than ten minutes later, Lydia entered the kitchen, teeth and hair freshly brushed. Allie sat at the breakfast nook. She offered coffee and Lydia was glad for it. Apparently her lack of sleep had been stronger than the caffeine buzz she'd experienced earlier. The two women sat and sipped. Allie was the first to break the awkward silence.

“My dad say anything when he left?”

“In reference to what?” Lydia asked.

“Me. Like maybe about what might happen to me after they bring Patrick in.”

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to center herself. “You do understand that your father and who knows how many other officers are walking right into a meeting with an extremely dangerous man, right? A man who, by your own description, thinks nothing of killing before he knows all the details.”

Allie pulled herself taller in her chair. Lydia recognized the defensive posture but felt little sympathy for her.

“It's his job,” Allie said. “He's arrested hundreds of bad guys. Bringing in a fish as big as Patrick will be a big boost to his career and his ego. And like you said, there's going to be lots of people to protect him.”

“Are you the least bit concerned for his safety?”

A cloud of fear flashed over Allie's face for one brief moment. It was immediately replaced by a defiant pout. “Of course I am, Lydia. Believe it or not, I'm not the heartless bitch you seem to have painted me as. I love my father. Did you ever think that might be the reason I came back?”

Lydia typically enjoyed the performances of overly dramatic narcissists, but not this time. “You're peddling the notion you came back to Seattle not to escape the revenge of an angry Russian mobster…not to get out of the way of what could be a very bloody turf war between your boyfriend and any number of other bad guys looking to muscle in…but because you love your daddy? Is that what you want me to believe?”

“Why do you hate me so much?” Allie's voice went up half an octave. “What did I ever do to you?”