The Fixer mg-1

by T. E. Woods

  “Wait a minute.” Mort heard his friend rustle some paper. “How you spelling it?”

  “Toni Morrison, you Neandrathal. The writer.”

  “Holy Mother of God.” Jimmy sounded skeptical. “You’re not liking her for Bastian or Buchner, are you?”

  “Just Google her, will you, Jimmy? I’d do it myself except I’m going to be on the road for the next hour. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “I’ll be here,” Jimmy said. “Anything you need me to work with Micki on?”

  Mort clicked his phone closed and started the car.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mort got back to the station around 2:30. Daphne let him know Jimmy was looking for him.

  “Oh, and your son called. Said he tried your cell but you didn’t pick up.”

  “I was driving.” Mort took the stack of letters and memos Daphne handed him.

  “He didn’t leave his name.” Daphne looked worried.

  Mort smiled and wondered how she found her way to work every morning.

  Back in his office he tossed the pile of mail on his desk and hung up his coat. He settled into his chair and dialed Robbie’s cell.

  “Hey, Robbie.” Mort glanced at the clock. “Where is my wandering son today?”

  “I’m still in Miami, Dad. Listen, Martin told me how he contacted The Fixer. His lawyer was squawking all the way, begging him to shut up, but I guess he figures he’s already sunk.”

  Mort reached for paper and pen. “I think these guys enjoy the attention they get by spilling their guts. Even if it makes them look dumber. And what the hell are you still doing in Miami? Claire’s going to skin me alive for keeping you gone.”

  Robbie chuckled. “You worry too much, Dad. Claire knows what this story means for my career. She’s cool.”

  “Well, don’t cool yourself out of your marriage, son. You get more like me the older you get. We both married out of our league. Don’t blow it. What did you find out?”

  “Like I said, Martin first heard about The Fixer through the grapevine. Said it sounded worth a try.”

  “How’d he reach her?” Mort asked.

  “It’s pretty slick. Martin said you put an ad in the classifieds of three different papers. The New York Times, Rolling Stone, and USA Today. First Thursday of the month. You say you’re looking for someone to help translate an old family cookbook and you leave your contact information. Said it took four days.”

  Mort was scribbling his notes. “Then what happened?”

  “He got a call. The voice was disguised. Digitized.”

  Mort tapped his pen against his desk. “Lot of that going around these days.”

  “Huh?” Robbie asked.

  “Nothing. Another case I’m working. Then what?”

  “Martin arranged a meet. Hot tub of some hotel near Miami International. He wasn’t expecting a woman.” Robbie sighed. “You know the rest.”

  Mort sat still for a moment. “You checked out these papers?”

  “The minute I left Martin.” Robbie sounded like he did when he was nine years old and Mort brought home that second-hand bicycle. “Dad, there’s dozens of those ads. But none before six years ago.”

  Mort jotted down the timeline. “Must be when she set up shop. Any around the time Halloway wound up dead in Costa Rica?”

  “You bet. An ad was placed one month before Halloway died. Martin’s ad was seven months before that.”

  Mort looked at his notepad, filled with dates and leads. “Well, I’d say brick by brick you’re building a strong case that Halloway was murdered by this Fixer woman. Any idea who hired her?”

  “Dad, after Halloway’s scheme was exposed, I’d bet there’s at least fifty people who’d hire someone to take him out.”

  “You’re probably right.” Mort remembered Jimmy saying whoever hit Bastian was a saint. “Keep writing. In the meantime, save your Old Man some trouble, huh?”

  “Name it, Dad.”

  “Give me the dates of the last six ads. I’ll take a look and see what I come up with.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Got a pencil?” Robbie asked.

  “Ready when you are.” Mort started writing. When he was finished he asked his son for an update on the girls. He hung up smiling about Hayden and Hadley’s latest shenanigans. Mort kept his hand on the phone while he whispered a quiet prayer for his own daughter. He took a deep breath, shook his concerns to a back corner of his brain, and called Jim De Villa.

  “You up there alone?” Jimmy asked.

  “You mean is Micki with me? When are you going to stop tripping over your own dick and realize she already loves a guy your age? She calls him ‘Daddy’.”

  “Every man needs a hobby, Mort. Mine’s worshiping at the feet of the delectable Micki Petty.”

  “Yeah? You’d have better luck with fly fishing, Buddy.” Mort shifted the receiver to his left hand. “Listen, I got a little project for one of your people. That a problem?”

  “This on Buchner or Bastian?”

  “Neither,” Mort said. “It’s a problem or not?”

  “What do you need?” Jimmy asked.

  Mort brought his friend up to speed. He could hear Jimmy scribbling notes on the other end of the line.

  “So you need copies of the classifieds from these dates? Hell, that’s so easy Daphne could do it,” Jimmy said. “You got something in mind?”

  Mort wondered how to answer. His gut was telling him there was more to this than his son’s story.

  “I’m doing Robbie a favor, is all,” he said.

  “I’ll put one of the rookies on it. I’ll use the same one who pulled the stuff for your book report.” Jim grunted out a laugh. “That ought to keep her wondering why she wanted to join the exciting world of forensic investigation.”

  “What are you talking about? What book report?” Mort asked.

  “You asked me to run Toni Morrison. You getting Alzheimer’s early, Mort?”

  “Oh, for the love of God, Jimmy.” Mort closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I asked you to Google her, not run her. She’s a freaking Nobel Prize winner.”

  “Relax. Slip of the tongue.” Jim chuckled and Mort wished he was in the room. Close enough to smack. “I meant Google. Got the stuff right here.” Mort heard papers shuffling. “What do you want to know? Hey, you know she hangs with Oprah? You’re swimming in the deep end of the estrogen pool now, my friend. Let’s see. First novel published in 1970. Won the Pulitzer in ’88. The Nobel in ’93, but you already knew that.”

  “What about where she was born?” Mort interrupted. “Where she grew up? You get that?”

  “Let me see.” More paper shuffling. “Here it is. Born Chloe Anthony Wofford. Says here she was raised in Lorain, Ohio.”

  “Your folks got time for a fishing expedition, Jimmy?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Seattle’s murder rate is in a decline.”

  “Great. Can you run a Lydia Corriger in Lorain, Ohio?” Mort spelled the names. “Let me know what you find.”

  “You mean Google or ‘run’?” Mort didn’t miss the snicker in Jimmy’s voice.

  “I mean ‘run’, Jimmy. Go deep.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lydia poised her small scissors over the bonsai plant and contemplated her next slice. This one was her favorite. Something about the bend in the uppermost branch captivated her spirit and held her heart. She’d been grooming it nearly three years. Cut by cut, snip by snip. The tiny tree had revealed its elegant perfection. For twenty minutes she gave her mind over to the process. Trying to focus on nothing more than shape and color.

  But the pleasure of mindful discipline proved ineffective. Searing visions of Savannah laying in the ICU charred her memory. Innocent little Greta grown into wounded lovely Savannah. Floating between life and death because the one person she dared hope would save her couldn’t.

  Her failure with Savannah wasn’t the only intrusion. She set her scissors down and recalled her
meeting with Mort. He brought her favorite sandwich. Lydia smiled when she remembered his description of his one true love. She liked the way he made fun of himself about the Morrison book. Said he was too dumb to read it. She knew anyone who underestimated Mort Grant’s intelligence did so at their peril. Lydia promised herself she’d not make that mistake.

  He said it was nice having lunch with her. A whimsy drifted through her mind that he was right. Lydia grabbed the scissors, resumed her pruning, and banished the pleasant notion.

  Memories of how it all started barged into her consciousness. She shook her head and recalled herself as a hopeful new psychologist. Bound to rid the world of the evils she’d experienced. Determined to fix things. But as good a therapist as she was, it wasn’t enough. Power rolled over the innocent. Justice was absent.

  Lydia looked at her reflection in the darkened window and saw the face of failure. She couldn’t stop evil. She couldn’t save Savannah. All her efforts had been meaningless. It was time to stop. Let the wickedness of humanity find another champion. She was tired.

  Lydia put her pruning gear away and made the rounds of her house, checking each door and window to make sure the locks were tight. Along the way she clicked off lights until only the lamp on her bedside table was lit. She tossed several pillows to the floor, folded the heavy damask duvet to the foot of the bed, pulled back the blanket, and stumbled back in surprise.

  A pink envelope contrasted against the white sheet.

  Bile rose in the back of her throat. The icy grip of terror held her as she reached for the offending missive. She slipped a finger under the sealed flap and withdrew a Valentine card. Roses and cupids encircled a glittered heart. Lydia opened the card and dozens of photos of Cameron Williams tumbled across the bed. None larger than her thumb. Malevolent confetti celebrating a morbid expectation. She brushed them clear and read the typed message inside the card.

  Happy Valentine’s Day, Fixer.

  Lydia spun around, knowing she’d find nothing. She pulled the drawer of her nightstand open. The nine millimeter Lugar semiautomatic was exactly where it should be. She picked it up and checked the magazine. Loaded. She turned the pistol over and anger replaced fatigue.

  A small sticker decorated the grip. A tiny pink heart bearing the inscription “Thinking of you”.

  The bedside phone rang. Lydia glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven o’clock. She grabbed the phone, held it to her ear, and waited for Private Number to start a Streisand-voiced taunt.

  “Dr. Corriger?” a female voice asked.

  Lydia said nothing.

  “Hello, is anyone there? This is Dr. Nancy Tessler calling for Dr. Lydia Corriger. Do I have a connection?”

  Lydia blinked her mind clear. “Yes, Dr. Tessler. I’m here. Is this about Savannah?”

  The ICU attending’s voice softened. “Yes.” Her pause told Lydia all she needed to know. “I’m sorry to inform you Savannah died about fifteen minutes ago. She never regained consciousness. If it’s any consolation, her fiance was by her side.”

  Lydia hung up the phone, reached for the Lugar, and crawled under the sheets.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mort swore into the receiver and immediately apologized. It wasn’t Micki’s fault.

  “No connection between Bastian and Buchner at all?” He was counting on a lead. “But they’re both at the university.”

  “Yeah,” Micki said. “Along with 43,000 students, nine thousand faculty, and another ten thousand employees.”

  “I’m not buying it. The gear at Buchner’s house proved a hit was out on Bastian. Bastian ends up dead and Wally follows a little later. There’s got to be something.”

  Micki sighed over the phone. “You’ve worked with me four years now, Mort. Name one time I missed anything.”

  Mort apologized a second time. “You’re the best there is, Mack. I know that. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”

  “I dug deep. Bastian was the chair of Neuroscience. Buchner was a low-level researcher in Audiology. In university circles those are opposite ends of the food chain.”

  Mort shook his head. “I hear you. Listen, thanks for your work.”

  He was still staring at the phone when Jim De Villa knocked.

  “You willing it to ring?” Jimmy asked. “Or trying to levitate it off the desk?”

  Mort threw his friend a defeated look. Bruiser bounded over to him and offered a handshake. Mort took it and felt a little better. “Just hung up from Micki. She couldn’t find a connection between Bastian and Buchner.”

  “So Wally was just an innocent bystander, huh? Unlucky enough to have the synthesizer in his living room when the bad guys came looking for it. Micki ask about me?”

  “No,” Mort growled.

  “No she didn’t ask about me or no Wally wasn’t an innocent?” Jimmy took a seat across from Mort’s desk. Bruiser circled back and settled in at his feet.

  “No to both. Something’s not passing the sniff.” He nodded to the files in his friend’s hand. “What do you have there?”

  Jimmy leaned forward and tossed a file to Mort. “I’ve completed my assignments, Teacher. Can I have extra recess, please?”

  “This from Tyler Conner?” Mort flipped the file open and scanned the coroner’s updated report. “Bingo! Succinnylcholine in Bastian’s bloodstream?”

  “Doc says it’s a super-strength muscle paralyzer. Stopped Bastian’s heart and lungs from working. Bastian would have been dead within two minutes.”

  Mort nodded. “Tyler have any idea how the dose was administered?”

  “Flip to the back photograph.”

  Mort pulled out a 5 by 7 full color close-up of Bastian’s neck as he lay on the coroner’s gurney. A red line circled a small needle prick.

  “The medical examiner on the first report didn’t mention it when the meat wagon brought Bastian in,” Jim said. “Doc Conner took one look at the morgue photos and found it right away.”

  Mort leaned back in his chair. “Two minutes is a long time, Jimmy. Somebody jams a needle in my neck I’m going to fight. We got pictures?”

  Jimmy tossed another file folder onto Mort’s desk. “A few. Bastian’s fiance found him and called it in. There was no reason to believe it was anything other than a routine heart attack. The scene wasn’t processed.”

  “This fiance got a name?” Mort flipped through the six photos. He saw a comfortable, masculine room. A large potted poinsettia suggested Christmas. Nothing appeared out of place. “Could she have injected Bastian and tidied up the room before she called 911?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jimmy said. “Doc Conner says Bastian’s muscles would have been paralyzed in a heartbeat. Said he’d be conscious for a while, but unable to move.”

  “So his killer would have a captive audience for two full minutes.” Mort closed the file. “Like I said, that’s a long time. The synthesizer’s recording put the hit as retaliation for what Bastian did to his lab animals, especially that gorilla.”

  Jimmy’s face turned grim. “His name was Ortoo.”

  “Right. Maybe our killer wanted the two minutes to torture Bastian.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Then why not cut off his head? Tit for tat? I know I’d be tempted.”

  “You got blood, you got police. The killer wanted us to think Bastian died of natural causes. Get a team into that room, Jimmy.”

  De Villa smiled. “Per usual, I’m one step ahead of you, Buddy. Doc Conner amended cause of death to homicide. DA’s got the case and four of my best are out there now. According to the fiance the room’s not been entered since the ambulance took Bastian on the night he died.”

  Mort stood up. “What are we waiting for? Let’s roll.”

  De Villa stood to face him and Bruiser scrambled up in tandem. Jim’s tone of voice guaranteed Mort’s attention. “I got my team on it.” He held out the thick file remaining in his hand. “Like I said, I got all my homework done. I found your Lydia Corriger.”

  Mort took the
file.

  “She a friend of yours?” Jimmy’s voice signaled Mort wasn’t going to like what he found.

  “More like a puzzle. A psychologist wanting to help with the Buchner case. Micki found Mapquests to her house on Buchner’s computer. My radar’s up, that’s all.”

  Jimmy turned for the door. “It’s ugly, Old Friend. I suggest you read it sitting down. I’ll head out to Bastian’s. Join me when you’re done.”

  Mort closed the door behind him, returned to his desk, and opened the file. The first two pages duplicated what he already knew about Lydia. Honor student through UPenn and Carnegie-Mellon. Dissertation won a national award. Mundane information about her life in Olympia.

  Copies of legal documents followed. Court records granting the petition of Peggy Denise Simmons to legally change her name to Lydia Justine Corriger. Filed and granted on her eighteenth birthday. Mort swallowed hard and hoped he was wrong about why a young girl would want to change her name the first moment the law said she could. He took a deep breath and read.

  Peggy Denise Simmons was born to Edith Louise Comstock in a charity ward in Lorain, Ohio. No father was listed on the birth certificate. Police records document eight calls to three addresses linked to Edith Louise. The last one resulted in an ambulance taking Peggy, emaciated and limp, to the emergency room of the same charity hospital where she was born eleven months earlier. Tests of the near-dead toddler revealed four broken bones, scarring from cigarette burns, and signs of internal bruising. Police were summoned. They questioned a belligerent Edith who described the child as “nothing but trouble”. Edith threatened to pee her pants if the officers didn’t allow her to go to the bathroom. They did and Edith was never seen or heard from again.

  Mort flashed on Allie, so close in age to Lydia. He remembered her first few months at home. He breathed deep and his memory sent him the powder-soft scent of her infancy. He closed his eyes and saw the yellow and green nursery Edie worked so hard to get right. The pastel plaid bunnies standing guard over her crib. The white wicker rocker where Mother and daughter cooed to each other for hours. A tear formed in his left eye and he let it fall. For Lydia and Allie both.