The Unforgivable Fix (18 page)

Lydia realized Allie had her there. Mort's girl certainly had a track record of hurting people, but so far she'd done nothing to Lydia beyond borrowing her clothes and making a mess in her kitchen. Was the negative opinion she had of Allie due to the pain she'd inflicted on Mort? Or was she simply resentful that Allie had a family?

“I don't hate you, Allie.” Her voice was warmer now. “I guess I'm just worried about your dad.”

Allie reached across the table and playfully punched Lydia's arm. “Toughen up. You want to hang with a cop, you're going to have to get used to him running off and doing daring feats and death-defying acts. Pats on the back from the chief don't happen all by themselves. Those shelves on the wall don't fill with awards and citations on their own.”

Lydia heard the sarcasm of a wounded child in Allie's words. She hadn't allowed herself to think about how Mort's dedication to his career might have cost Allie.
You should know better. People aren't born bad. They're made that way. Allie's hurting, too.
Lydia's highly developed internal critic began its well-rehearsed chorus of self-damnation and shame.

“Tell me what frightens you, Allie. What were you afraid your dad said to me this morning before he left?”

Allie looked down at the napkin she was folding and refolding. “I'm going to prison,” she whispered. “After they've arrested Patrick, I have no bargaining power with the DEA. Daddy may be able to tell himself I was an innocent in all this. That I was just Patrick's girlfriend and not involved with his activities in any way.” She looked Lydia straight in the eye. Gone was the childlike woman who played on her father's good nature with lilting teases and poses of helplessness. She was replaced with the beautiful, intelligent, poised sophisticate it would take to stand beside an international drug baron for nearly five years. She was the woman who fully inhabited the sexy siren who made the phone call to Patrick. “But you know better, don't you? Patrick and I were a team. He may have done the killing and the plotting…but you know as well as I do he could have never have built his empire without me.”

Lydia found herself appreciating Allie more now that she'd dropped her pose of helpless bystander. Here was an equal. A woman who'd made choices and decisions and now found herself in the position of having to meet the consequences.
I can relate to you, Allie. It's hell to face the reality of what we've done.

Lydia shook her head. “Your father didn't say anything beyond wanting you to get some rest. He said nothing about what might happen next.” Lydia leaned forward to command Allie's full attention. “Your father is going to do whatever he can to keep you safe. Do you get that? He's willing to lay his career, his reputation, even his life on the line for you. You'll need an attorney. But don't for one moment underestimate what it means to have Mort Grant in your corner. You hear me?” She waited for Allie to nod. “There's nothing you can do right now to change what's going to come of all this. So do your damnedest not to think about it. I mean it, Allie. It'll eat you alive.”

In Allie's blue eyes, so different from Mort's that she was sure she was seeing Edie's, Lydia saw fear battling determination. She wondered which would win.

“Come on.” Lydia pushed herself clear of the table. “We'll drive ourselves crazy if we stay here staring at the clock wondering what's going on. We need distraction. Let's go for a hike.”

Allie grimaced. “I don't hike.”

Lydia acknowledged that the lifestyle of a billionaire drug lord and his mistress probably didn't entail strapping on boots and conquering a hidden wilderness. “You want to play a game? Watch a movie? Trust me, Allie. Distraction is your best friend right now. It'll do you no good to sit and stew. Surely there's something you like to do.”

A small smile tugged the corner of Allie's full lips. “I like to shop.”

S
EATTLE

“You might as well slap a For Sale sign on that bucket of bolts right now, buddy.” Jim De Villa leaned back on the park bench overlooking the marina and tossed a treat to the huge German shepherd standing at full attention a few feet away. It was two fifteen and Jim and Mort had settled into their poses forty-five minutes earlier. With a long-lensed camera mounted on a tripod, a cooler covered with bumper stickers, and weather gear appropriate for long hours in the damp drizzle, they looked exactly like the roles they'd been assigned. They were wildlife photographers, checking light meters, adjusting lenses, clicking photos in the direction of harbor seals, and generally ignoring the long walkway leading to the string of houseboats moored in this section of Lake Union. In actuality, their job was to secure that approach to the marina. Should Patrick Duncan make his way from their direction, they'd signal the agents waiting in Mort's houseboat that he was on his way. And if it looked like Duncan was coming any way other than alone, they'd relay that information as well.

Mort trained the long zoom lens on a pelican perched atop a weathered piling. “What do you mean? I haven't spent one night in it. Hell, I haven't even been able to take in all that Micki did to set up the place. One two-minute walkthrough is all I got before the feds moved in to set up.”

“My point exactly.” Jimmy made a show of double-checking the lens. “You're not even in yet, and already you're using your house to make a big-time bust. I don't think I'd count on your neighbors rolling out the welcome wagon. And after your shenanigans of the recent past, you may find yourself needing a new group of pals.”

Mort had had to confess to Jim De Villa, chief of forensics at Seattle PD and his lifelong friend, and to Micki Petty, another friend who happened to be his best detective, why he'd been out of touch for nearly two weeks. He explained Allie's predicament and his need to keep her hidden and safe until Duncan and Tokarev could be contained. Jimmy cracked a joke about goldbricking to avoid the hassles of moving and immediately volunteered for the interagency team arresting Patrick Duncan. Mort knew he'd understood and forgiven the need for subterfuge. Micki, on the other hand, was furious at what she perceived as Mort's lack of trust in her. She'd chastised him about leaving her with the lion's share of the work associated with getting him settled into his new houseboat, only to be lied to about what was really going on. Micki glared at Mort when he apologized, and turned on her heel when he offered to file her arrest warrants for a month as penance. But when the DEA was looking for officers to represent the Seattle Police Department during Duncan's takedown, Micki had been the first to step forward. She was now a hundred yards away, dressed in the upper-middle-class young-mother uniform of yoga pants and hooded windbreaker, while she pushed a baby carriage down the marina's southern boardwalk.

“You got Allie at that shrink's house? Lydia?” Jim asked. “The one who nearly died that time you got shot?”

“Yeah.” Mort wanted to keep his answers as honest and as evasive as possible.

“Why her? And why'd she agree to it? I mean, how's something like that go down?” Jim raised his fist and knocked on an invisible door. “ ‘Excuse me, Dr. Lydia. You may remember me as the guy who was with you that time you got all shot up. Sorry about that whole bullet-in-the-head thing. Anyhoo, I'm wondering if I can park my daughter with you for a few days while I chase down her drug-dealing, maniac murderer boyfriend.' Was it like that? And then what? She invites you in and bakes an apple pie?”

Mort knew the caliber of detective his friend was. Jimmy smelled something and was tracking it down. “We've kept in touch a bit. You remember she swung by the office that time a few months ago, right?”

Jimmy nodded. He stood, acting like a photographer scouting the marina, but Mort was certain he was chewing over the situation in his mind. “She's in Olympia, right?”

“That's right. I have no connections down there. I figured anyone who might come looking for Allie would start looking for ties I have around here. They might come to you, or Micki. Hell, maybe they'd even go see if Larry had any news. So, I thought putting Allie with Lydia was a good bet.”

“Uh-huh.” Jimmy's eyes narrowed. “You take the daughter you haven't seen in nearly five years…the one on the lam from some really bad bad guys…and you stash her with someone you see once or twice a year.” He broke into a wide grin. “Mort Grant, are you hiding a ladylove? Have you been tearing up Interstate 5, driving down to meet the lovely Lydia all this time? What? You afraid we'd give you crap for dating someone so young? Hell, buddy. I got nothing but praise for a guy who can pull that off.”

The crackle in their earbuds saved Mort from having to answer. The two of them continued their casual adjustment of photo equipment while the voice of Jerry Gehrking, the DEA agent in charge, spoke into the ears of every officer deployed around the marina.

“Heads up. It's 2:28. Any sign of our target?”

Mort reached his hand in his pocket and pressed a button that would activate the microphone clipped to the collar inside his rain jacket. “Grant here. No sign.” He clicked his mic off.

“Petty here. Nothing.”
Mort realized how much he missed the sound of Micki's voice. Three other teams representing the rest of the surveillance squad echoed the observation. There was no sign of Patrick Duncan anywhere around the marina.

Jerry Gehrking's voice came across again. He and three other agents were inside Mort's houseboat.
“Open your mics, everyone. First one sees him lets us all know.”

Jimmy and Mort exchanged glances. Despite how often a major bust is rehearsed, no matter how well each player may know their part, the few minutes before the raid actually begins are always filled with shallow breaths and raised pulses. Every sound gets louder. Every shadow moves faster. Every fear looms larger. Every hand trembles slightly.

Mort took a breath and waited for the moment when the pulsing mass of anxiety is expelled in one sudden burst of well-orchestrated professionalism. From start to finish, each movement would be coordinated. If all went according to plan, it would be over in seconds and Duncan would be in custody. Guns would be holstered. Jokes would begin. Everything would return to baseline and life would be predictable again.

Until then there was only pressure.

Gehrking's voice burst into Mort's ear again.
“It's 2:32. Anything?”

“Grant here. Nothing.”

“Petty here. Nothing.”

Three other teams made the same report.

Mort forced himself to continue the ruse of nature photography. Jimmy kept his eyes on Bruiser. The big dog sensed tension and stood ready to react to the subtlest hand signal from his master.

“Petty here.”
Her voice entered the entire team's ears simultaneously.
“I got a guy approaching from the south. Headed toward me. Carrying a package. Tall. Camel-tan raincoat. Belted.”

“I got him.”
Mort recognized the voice of Cal Brookings from the DEA.
“He's passing the boathouse.”

Mort oriented himself and saw the man approach. From this distance he couldn't see his face. Mort had only seen Patrick Duncan once. Almost five years ago. The day of that drug bust that landed Allie in jail overnight. The day before Duncan bailed his daughter out and took her away. He fought the urge to swing the camera around and focus on the nearing man with its powerful zoom.

“He's past me now.”
It was Micki's voice.
“He's headed down the boardwalk toward the houseboat. This is it.”

“
Any signs of others?
” Gehrking asked.

Each team reported that they saw nothing. Mort allowed himself a moment's respite. Allie had done her job. She'd predicted Duncan would be too emotional when he met her to have his men around, and she'd been right. He allowed himself to break from his role long enough to step forward a few paces. His eyes followed the man in the raincoat down the long gangplank. Mort's boat was moored in the last slip. The man walked confidently, carrying his package in front of him. Mort watched him cover the last few feet and step onto the houseboat.

What followed was a burst of activity. The moment Mort heard
“DEA!”
screamed into his earbud, he took off running.

“You're under arrest!”
Mort recognized Gehrking's voice and continued running.

“Hands up!”

“Hands up!”

“Up where I can see them!”

It was a mixture of voices yelling orders to the man. Mort was close enough now to see the man in the raincoat surrounded by four officers pointing three rifles and an automatic handgun at him.

He'd dropped his package on the deck of Mort's new boat.

Mort arrived at the exact moment Micki did. Jimmy and Bruiser were three steps behind. Together with the other agents, they implemented the next phase of the arrest. Each turned their back on the man, leaving the DEA officers to handcuff him and read him his rights. Mort, Jimmy, Micki, and the remainder of the team drew their weapons and assumed their predetermined positions, forming an outward-facing perimeter around the scene. If Patrick Duncan had planned an escort, they'd be prepared to meet them.

But no one came.

“Damn it!” Jerry Gehrking's angry yell grabbed everyone's attention. “Grant! Get over here.”

Mort glanced at Micki, who nodded to let him know she had his position covered. He held his pistol in two hands, turned, and climbed aboard his boat.

“You recognize this guy?” Rachel Sampson, the other DEA agent asked him as she grabbed the arm of the handcuffed man in the raincoat.

Mort looked into the terrified eyes of a kid. He couldn't have been out of high school yet. The heavy mist had plastered his hair against an acne-scarred face. Even though Mort had only seen Patrick Duncan once, and it was long ago, he was certain this boy wasn't him.

“What's your name, boy?” Mort asked.

“A-a-a-aaron, sir.” The boy's lips lost their color as they quivered in the rain. “Aaron Gentilly.”

“You got ID for that?” Mort was certain he knew the answer.

“Yes, sir.” The kid struggled with his hands cuffed behind him, turned slightly to his right, and pushed his chest out a bit. “Inside my j-j-j-jacket. I got my wallet. I got my delivery sheet. You can call my boss. H-h-he'll tell you who I am.”

Rachel Sampson reached in for the kid's wallet while Mort looked down. There on his deck, in the package Aaron had carried from his delivery van at the top of the pier, was a potted rhododendron in a now-broken ceramic pot.

“License looks legit.” Agent Sampson handed the delivery sheet to her colleague. “Get Frinell's Florist on the line. See if they can verify Aaron here.”

Mort reached down for the small white envelope attached to the plastic trident sticking out of the plant. He pulled out the card and felt his stomach lurch.

Sorry, Old Man. Not Today.