The Unforgivable Fix (26 page)

She locked the door behind her, set her purse on the counter, and leaned in to the mirror to check her makeup. She gently massaged the tiny crow's feet bracketing her eyes.
Too much time in the sun. I should know better.
Still, the whites of her eyes were clear and fresh.
I'm aging. How long will it be before I'm invisible?
She pinched her cheeks and her skin immediately popped back into place.
I've got plenty of time.

She turned away from her reflection, pulled out her cell phone, and scrolled through her screen of contacts. She touched D.

“I was hoping you'd call.” His voice was relaxed. “I don't know how I can ever repay you. I told Jillian. She wept with joy and says she can't wait to thank you in person.”

She conjured up a memory of Jillian, so beautiful with her creamy English Rose complexion and wide-set lavender eyes. Jillian had always carried herself with the regal bearing of a goddess. She hadn't seen Jillian since Patrick used her to teach her husband what disappointing him might cost. She'd heard there was hope Jillian might walk again, though it would always be accompanied by a walker and pain.

“Let her know I send my best,” she said. “And that I look forward to another one of our long discussions. Tell her it's my turn to pick the book this time.”

Nigel Lancaster was silent for a moment. “We both know what this cost you. We are forever in your debt.”

“Did he suffer?” she asked. “I know that was important to you.”

Again he hesitated. “You don't want to hear this.”

“Never speak for me,” she snapped. “And never tell me what I do or don't want.”

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Yes, he was in tremendous agony. But only for a few moments. The Russian put an end to his torment. If it were left to me, I would have had him linger. Though there's no way he could ever experience the years of pain Jillian will.”

She tried to picture Patrick Duncan's last moments. She'd had such high hopes for him in the beginning. But he proved himself incapable of managing his emotions. The danger of his violent tantrums excited her at first, but through the years grew to bore her.

She'd choose better next time.

“I have another task for you,” she said.

“I will do anything.” His gratitude echoed through his words.

“I want you to give the Russian an address. Tell him I will be there.”

“No!” His appreciation instantly morphed to fear. “He'll kill you.”

Her tone left no room for concession. “You will do this for me. Tell him tomorrow. Midnight.” She gave him the address. “Prove to me you're the man Jillian brags about. Keep your word and tell the Russian I'll be waiting for him.”

“As you wish.” His words choked him. “I will never forget you, Olwen.”

“Don't ever speak that name again,” she barked. “That was Patrick's name for me.”

“I don't mean to offend you. Tell me the name I shall remember in my dreams.”

Allie checked her lipstick in the mirror. “Let me think about that. I'll get back to you.”

“We're coming up with nothing, Liddy.” She could hear Mort's weariness over the phone. “Micki's done deep background on both Gehrking and Sampson.”

“The DEA agents?” Lydia was in her communications room. She had her phone on speaker as she sat at the keyboard. “How are you spelling those names?”

Mort rattled off the particulars he had on the two federal agents. “You're down in your lair, aren't you? You think your Batman setup is going to find something we can't, with all the goodies the taxpayers buy for us?”

She rebuffed his exhausted attempt at humor. “You'd be surprised what you can get when you're not burdened with the need to go with the lowest bidder. Who else are you looking at?”

“Besides Gehrking and Sampson, it's their immediate supervisor…a guy named Erskine Hammersly.” He waited while she clicked in that name. “The chief of police here, you, and me. Anybody else in on the arrest—or what should have been the arrest—didn't learn a thing about it until a few hours before it all went down. There's nobody else. Unless…”

Her defenses kicked in. “Unless what, Mort?”

His sigh was long and heavy. “Liddy, my mind keeps going back to that night I left you and Allie alone. The night she heard those gunshots. You told me there were wolves in your yard. You were scaring them away.”

Lydia said nothing.

“What are you not telling me, Lydia?”

Two dead invaders were sunk somewhere in Puget Sound. Silence seemed her best option.

“Not talking? Okay, how about you listen?” His irritation came through loud and clear. “What if those wolves were the kind who walked around on two feet? What if you were right, and someone did follow Allie home from the grocery store? What if whatever it was you heard in the bushes that night were people…sent by Patrick Duncan, or maybe even Vadim Tokarev? What if they placed some sort of device—maybe something stuck to your house—that let them listen in on Allie's call to Duncan? It's the only thing I can come up with. The only way Duncan could have known we were waiting for him.”

Lydia steadied herself for her lie. “I wish it was that easy, Mort, but it just can't be. First of all, I know my property. I get critters here all the time. Secondly, if it was Duncan or Tokarev who sent people, if they came upon two women alone, one of them being Allie, the woman they're both searching for, do you think they'd settle for planting a bug? It would be far more likely they'd barge in, guns blazing, and take what they wanted.”

“No one would get past you, Lydia. Any man who took you as defenseless would pay dearly.”

Lydia again flashed on the two dead men who'd done just that. “And then there's the big thing you're overlooking,” she said.

“Yeah? What's that?”

“Before Allie made the call…remember she was using the government phone?”

“I remember. But you checked it. There was no bug, no recording device, no nothing.”

“That's not what I mean. I came down here and I set up a scramble. I put in an extra layer of antitrace protection. My equipment is better than anything the government buys with its war-on-drugs budget money. Trust me. No one tracked that call.”

She heard the exasperated sigh of a desperate man who'd had his last hope yanked out of his grasp.

“There's got to be something, Liddy.” He shifted gears. “How's Allie? Her mood was a little better after she got out for lunch.”

“She's fine. She's upstairs binge-watching some television show about a high-school show choir.” Lydia didn't mention she had every motion sensor and video monitor in her security system trained on her. Allie had made a few trips to the kitchen for snacks, but other than that, she was right where she said she'd be, glued to the television in her room.

“You didn't tell her about Patrick being dead, did you?”

“Actually, we're both giving each other a pretty wide berth.” Allie had tried to assure Lydia her “secret identity” was safe with her, and seemed more interested in continuing their earlier discussion about human nature and the ability to change. But Lydia's internal warning system was fully activated. People like Allie owed their allegiance to no one but themselves. Lydia had not wanted to put herself in the position of being milked for information Allie might use in future negotiations with law enforcement. “We're enjoying our quiet time.”

“You really don't like her, do you?”

Again Lydia opted not to respond.

“You okay if I spend another couple of hours up here?” Mort asked. “I don't know how many times we can go ramming into a dead end, but who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky and find something we've overlooked.”

“Stay as long as you need, Mort.” Lydia looked at the monitor screen and saw Allie tapping her foot to some unheard music. “I've got this.”

Lydia hung up the phone. She still had a few more details to finish on her estate distribution. She turned back to her keyboard to close the screen where she'd recorded the DEA agents' names, but then, on impulse, began a search on Gehrking and Sampson. Seventeen minutes later, despite the advanced technology she had at her disposal, she came up with the same result Mort and his crew had.

Both agents were clean.

Lydia then searched on their boss, Erskine Hammersly. She learned all about his career, his citations and awards, his family, and his habit of purchasing expensive fly-fishing equipment, despite never having applied for a fishing license. Hammersly's bank statements showed no deposits that couldn't be accounted for by his salary. His home modem showed no relays to off-shore addresses. His cell phones had no suspicious calls or texts. The same was true for his wife, Helene, his nineteen-year-old son Charlie, and Florence, his sixty-eight-year-old mother who lived in Boca Raton.

Frustrated, Lydia called up the file that had captured and recorded Allie's call to Patrick that night. She wondered if Mort might be right. Could one of the men now floating in the deep have planted a device that foiled her electronic scramble?
If so, I've got one well-paid techno-geek who's going to have his ass handed to him
. She clicked through the properties and settings. Hundreds of lines of code flashed over her screen, indicating the random and various times Allie's call had been bounced. She slowed the information down and scanned for a tag, a hack, or a trace.

Nothing. Lydia's equipment had worked precisely as it should. No one had traced the call.

Mort's voice came back to her.
No more than five people knew.
She clicked them off. Jerry Gehrking and Rachel Sampson, the two DEA agents. Erskine Hammersly, their boss. The Seattle chief of police made four, and Mort was the fifth. Of course he wouldn't compromise Lydia by telling any of the others about her.
No more than five people knew.

Lydia screened up the recording itself. She listened to the phone conversation she first heard as she sat next to Allie while she was making it. Lydia jotted notes as the call progressed.

Patrick angry.

“I love you to the moon and back.”

Patrick calmer now.

“I wanted to go back to the place where it all began…”

“If only the gods would grant us one wish…”

“Do you remember?”

“Our souls are in communion…”

“And…and…”

“And…and…”

“Two thirty.”

“And…and…”

“And…and…”

Lydia listened to the call again. Then a third time. She underlined and added to her notes with each passing.

Then she ran upstairs.

Allie came into the living room when Lydia called for her. She was holding a bowl of popcorn and asked Lydia if she wanted some.

“Popcorn goes great with chardonnay. Did you know that?” Allie pointed to the refrigerator. “I pulled a bottle from your rack to chill. It should be ready now. Want some?”

“Sit down, Allie.”

Mort's daughter sat and sighed in reaction to Lydia's tone. “Is this going to be another lengthy denial about you being The Fixer? Liddy, you're safe. Nobody's going to learn anything from me. That's a promise.”

“I imagine you gave Patrick Duncan many promises through the years.” Lydia stood in the middle of the room. “Probably even more heartfelt than the one you're offering me now. Patrick was your lover, after all. And yet, when you needed to, you led him straight to his death. You'll forgive me if I put no trust in your promises to me.”

Allie's face contorted into a mask of fear and confusion. “Patrick? What are you talking about Lydia?”

“Stop it, Allie.” Lydia felt the power she always did when she assumed this role. “You told me earlier how alike you think we are. Perhaps you're right.” She settled into a chair across from Allie. “You reminded me I've killed a lot of people.”

Allie's face relaxed. Her voice slithered down several octaves, from impetuous coed to throaty alto. “At least you're done pretending I'm wrong about you being The Fixer. Now, what is it you want to tell me about Patrick? Have they found him? Is he saying all manner of awful things about me?”

“Return the favor I've just shown you by being direct and honest with me. Yes, they've found Patrick. And you know he hasn't said a word about you. You made sure of that.”

Allie shrugged. “Perhaps he loved me as much as he said. Or maybe he's simply more of a gentleman than I gave him credit for.”

“Or perhaps he's as dead as you intended him to be.” Lydia opened the sheet of notepaper she held. “Your father tells me the coroner estimates Patrick was murdered two days ago…early afternoon. Isn't it amazing how well they can pinpoint the time of death?”

Allie's eyes widened. “Patrick's dead?” Her hand went to her throat. “Murdered? Do they think it's the Russian?” She started to stand. “I need to go lie down.”

“Stay where you are,” Lydia ordered. “And yes, they think it's the Russian. And it probably was. What with his hands being cut off and all. Sounds like the kind of revenge Tokarev would take for what Patrick did to his lover. But your poor dad…he's still up there in Seattle burning the midnight oil trying to figure out who tipped Patrick off. They surmise it's the same person who set him up with Tokarev.”

Allie nodded. “Makes sense.” She was very pale.

“What your father doesn't know is that his daughter is the one he's looking for.”

Allie sat quietly for several heartbeats. Lydia appreciated her lack of denial.

Lydia smoothed her hands over the note. “You and Patrick lived a glamorous, expensive life where anything you dreamed was yours.”

Allie nodded. “You have no idea. I'd always heard that phrase: ‘money is no object.' Well, of course money is always an object. There are always limits. Except with Patrick. His business made anything—and I mean anything—possible. You'd have to live it to have any notion what that means.”

“But that life came with a cost,” Lydia continued. “It was dangerous. You and Patrick were on top, which meant you were the target. Not only for international law-enforcement agencies, but also for bad guys. I imagine in your world, those were the only folks you could associate with. I seriously doubt the local Rotary Club puts out a welcome mat for a drug lord or his woman.”

Allie bristled. “Are we going to insult one another now, Lydia? At least I lived as who I am.” She spread her arms wide to indicate the entire room in which she sat. “I didn't window-dress to make myself socially acceptable. I'm not that much of a coward.”

Lydia pressed on. “So, there you two are, Patrick and Allie…Olwen, as he called you. Living large, surrounded by danger. It would make sense that the two of you would have plans to keep safe.” She looked at her notes. “Patrick was angry when he picked up your call. Who could blame him? You up and disappear on him. He has no idea if you're handing him over to the police or to another crime syndicate. But then you said ‘I love you to the moon and back' and he settled right down.”

“It's dangerous to live with a man like Patrick.” Allie was calm and direct in her explanation. “My power was his love for me. If he was angry, it was because he thought I'd left him. Once he knew I still cared, his anger disappeared. It's been like that our entire time together.”

“I think it's a code. A seemingly innocent expression of love. I think you and Patrick worked it out very early in your relationship. ‘I love you to the moon and back' means…what? We're being monitored? Recorded? Did you have one code for the police and another one if it was a bad guy forcing you to lure him somewhere? I think Patrick Duncan calmed down because the two of you had rehearsed it and he was settling in for what came next.”

Allie crossed her legs and leaned back. Her right foot began to swing back and forth. Not much, but enough for Lydia to note her mounting tension. “And what is it you think came next, Lydia?”

“The true place you wanted him to meet you. I think you two had a system worked out. Stay away from the place I'm telling you to go because there's going to be an ambush there. However, pay attention and I'll tell you where and when I'll meet you.”

Allie's leg continued its swing.

“You said, ‘If only the gods would grant us one wish.' Now
that's
a phrase you don't hear every day. I think that means ‘Here's where I want to meet you.' You then alluded, in the vaguest and most romantic terms, to the place you first met. You even asked him, in that dreamy voice of yours, if he remembered it. He said he did. He gave another odd phrase. ‘Our souls are in communion.' I'm sure that little romantic coo turned your father's stomach. Little did he know Patrick wasn't pitching sappy woo to his daughter. Patrick was telling you he understood
exactly
where he was supposed to meet you. You told me you met Patrick at a rave in an abandoned warehouse down in the Seattle port district.” Lydia tilted her head. “Guess where they found his body?”