The Fixer mg-1

by T. E. Woods

  Mort read the chronology of chaos that documented young Peggy’s first few years. A series of short-term foster homes, none lasting longer than three months. Social workers documented a long-term foster placement when Peggy was five. She was removed when her kindergarten teacher reported Peggy coming to school hungry, unwashed, and bleeding from lash marks on her legs.

  A third- way through he needed a break. His jaws were clenched so tight he could hear his teeth grinding. The description of abuses heaped upon the little girl made Mort wonder how Lydia survived. He walked down the hall and poured himself a cup of near-rancid coffee, hoping to scour away the bitterness in his throat.

  His worst fears were confirmed when Mort read the full history of Peggy/Lydia’s time in the system. Sexually abused by a foster father for nearly two years before she found the courage to tell her social worker. Police reports stated the dirt bag was “unavailable for arrest”. Mort shook his head. A year later Peggy does ten months in a juvenile detention facility for taking a baseball bat to another foster father. Mort scanned the court documents and learned that Peggy/Lydia told the judge she’d been trying to save a newly placed foster-sister from the same sexual abuse she’d been forced to endure in exchange for room and board.

  The judge didn’t believe her.

  The reports grew a bit brighter after Peggy was released from juvie. She was placed with a single woman; Joanne Travis. A widow with twenty year’s experience as a foster mother. Social workers documented Peggy’s slow recovery from her years of brutality and neglect. Her grades in school were excellent. Her relationship with Mrs. Travis was described as close and warm. She was provided therapy. Mort wondered if that drove Lydia’s decision to become a psychologist.

  Peggy’s nest of safety disappeared during her senior year in high school when a drunk driver trying to out-run a police cruiser took a corner too fast, jumped a curb, and hit Peggy and her foster mother while they stood waiting for a bus. Peggy’s injuries were severe enough to put her in the hospital for two weeks. Mort read the physician’s report that speculated Peggy/Lydia would have been killed had Joanne Travis not stepped in front of her to take the brunt of the impact. Mrs. Travis was killed instantly.

  Jim had included newspaper reports covering the case. The drunk driver turned out to be the police chief’s nephew. He pleaded no-contest to a charge of operating under the influence and was offered the opportunity to expunge his record if he attended alcohol education classes.

  Three social workers’ reports completed the file. They described a distant and grieving girl who isolated herself from her next foster mother. Reports from Southview High School indicate she remained an excellent student, graduated at the top of her class and secured a full scholarship to the Ivy League. She aged out of the foster system and marked the occasion with a visit to the courthouse. Peggy Denise Simmons became Lydia Justine Corriger.

  Mort had no idea where Lydia or Corriger came from, but he felt certain he knew where the middle name was born.

  Finally, she had her justice.

  He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to make sense of the past few days. His mind flashed to an image of Savannah Samuels lying in the ICU. What had she done that drove her to hang herself on Lydia’s office porch? Jerry Childress linked Savannah to the neuroscience department. That put her at most one degree away from Fred Bastian. Mort recalled Childress telling him Savannah had been terribly upset when Buchner was murdered.

  Had Lydia lied to him when she said Savannah never told her she killed Buchner? His gut and his brain screamed for attention. Mort’s frustrated growl caused two secretaries and a uniformed rookie to quicken their pace as they passed his office. He shoved his chair aside and grabbed his parka. He was missing something obvious and he knew it. Maybe time at a crime scene would give him new perspective.

  Two hours later he watched the last of Jim De Villa’s forensic team walk out of Bastian’s back door.

  “My spidey sense tells me all those prints we lifted are going to check out as belonging here.” Jimmy stood in the middle of the room with his latex-gloved hands on his hips. “Whoever did Bastian didn’t leave a trace.”

  “There’s always something, Jimmy.” Mort walked over to take his fifth look at the fireplace mantle. “We’ll keep looking.” He turned and gave the room a broad surveillance. He crossed to the large windows and nodded to Bruiser sitting in quiet vigilance on Bastian’s back deck. Mort glanced to a corner of the room. A foil-wrapped pot held the dying branches of a large plant. Poinsettia leaves, curled and bleached of color littered the top of the table. He bent to read the card displayed in a plastic trident stuck in the pot’s dry dirt.

  “’Merry thoughts of you, Meredith’.” Mort called over his shoulder to Jimmy. “Do we know who this Meredith is?”

  “I imagine it’s me, Officer,” a woman’s voice answered.

  Mort turned and saw Jimmy holding Bastian’s back door open to three people.

  Mort shot his friend a look. Jimmy shrugged.

  “We’re done here, Mort. There’s no harm.” Jimmy held the door wide and the three newcomers stepped inside.

  “I’m Mort Grant, Seattle PD.” He pulled his parka aside to reveal his badge and nodded toward his friend. “That’s Jim DeVilla, Chief Forensic Officer. And you are?”

  A tall silver-haired man stepped toward Mort with his hand extended. “I’m Brad Wells, Detective.” Mort placed him as soon as he said his name. Bradley Wells, the Patron Saint of Seattle. The genius with the bright and shiny future and the dark and dirty past. He shook the billionaire’s hand and wondered just how convoluted Bastian’s murder was going to get.

  “May I introduce you?” Wells waved his female companion closer. She held her chin proud and high. Her smile a study of condescension. Mort bet she was a knockout in her youth. Ash blonde hair gathered into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. Pale skin showing the slight sag of age at her jaw line. Grey eyes sparkling beneath heavy lids. Mort put her at nearly six feet. He looked down and subtracted three inches for the suede heels she wore.

  The other man quickened his step to reach Mort first. Mort estimated late-thirties, early-forties. Thin. Nondescript except for unruly red hair. He stuck his hand out.

  “Carl Snelling, Detective. Executive Provost for the university.”

  The bureaucrat’s wrist buckled the moment Mort tightened his own calloused grip against the provost’s fleshy hand.

  “And this is President Thornton.” Snelling nodded toward the woman standing next to him.

  She wore a wool coat wrapped around her small waist by a wide belt. Edie would have called the color winter white. Her pearl earrings matched the necklace encircling her creped throat.

  “President Thornton and I were on our way to a foundation luncheon.” Wells shared his smile with Mort and Jimmy. “She was just telling me your people re-classified Bastian’s death as a murder. We saw the police cruisers and Meredith suggested we stop to see if there’s anything new to be learned.”

  The tumblers in Mort’s mind turned and reminded him who this woman was. Meredith Thornton, University President. He produced his best civil servant smile.

  “We’re in the very early stages of our investigation. All leads are being followed. We’ll keep the public informed as necessary.”

  The Lady in White nodded. She held her smile as her eyes bored into Mort. “I am more than the public and Professor Bastian was more than a colleague, Detective Grant. I’d appreciate it if you’d save your canned responses for the media.” She nodded to the dead and dried poinsettia. “I sent him those to wish him a happy holiday. It pleases me he knew I was thinking of him just before he…”. Her voice caught and she glanced away. “Just before he died.” She returned her gaze to Mort. “Fred Bastian was one of ours, Detective. You have the full resources and cooperation of every university employee in your efforts to unravel this tragedy.”

  Carl Snelling chimed in. “I’d be happy to make myself avail
able should…” His efforts were cut short by Thornton’s wave. She reached a manicured hand deep into her coat pocket and extracted a small leather folder. “Here’s my direct number. Call me with any new developments. I don’t care how small you think they may be. The university needs to be prepared.” She took a slow look around and Mort wondered what memories were preying on her. She turned and stepped toward the same door she’d entered.

  “We’re late, Brad. Come along, Carl.” Meredith Thornton stopped and looked at Jimmy, who shook himself to attention and opened the door for her. She turned and gave them each a goodbye nod. Snelling trailed behind her, eyeing the watchful German Shepherd holding guard on the deck.

  Wells stepped to Mort, then Jimmy to shake their hands. He handed each his own card. “Call if I can help.” He smiled apologetically. “This business has her upset. I’m sure she didn’t mean to come off so abruptly.” Bradley Wells nodded toward Bruiser. “Magnificent animal. Seems to be beautifully trained.”

  “His bite is worse than his bark.” Jimmy’s voice was sharper than Mort thought it needed to be.

  Wells stepped though the door and Jimmy closed it behind him.

  “Wait til I tell Micki,” he said. “Think she’d let me buy her a drink to share the details?”

  “Only if you could guarantee Wells would be joining you. And you might want to be a hair more diplomatic with the Man with the Golden Touch.” Mort zipped his parka and took one last look around.

  “He rubbed me the wrong way.” Jimmy pulled his gloves out of his pocket.

  “Guy like Wells buys and sells folks like us every day of the week, Jimmy. Don’t take it personally.” Mort shook his head. “But the lady president. Remember how Edie used to say some people gave her pause?”

  Jimmy smiled. “She had a way with a phrase, that Edie.”

  “She did indeed.” Mort missed Edie’s way with lots of things. “Let’s just say Meredith Thornton gave me pause.”

  “How’s that?”

  “All that stuff about Bastian being one of theirs. How glad she was that he knew she was thinking of him.” Mort headed for the door. “Doesn’t it seem curious that she didn’t ask how her friend was murdered?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Lydia had to accept Mort’s invitation. Savannah’s suicide devastated her and the pressure to kill Cameron Williams was ratcheting higher. Her only hope for a way out was finding Private Number. For that she needed Mort Grant and a way to stay close to his investigation.

  She walked into the bar of The Olympia Oyster House at 3:00 sharp. When Mort looked up and waved her over to a booth in the far corner, she was surprised the smile she put on wasn’t completely forced.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” Mort’s face bore the lines of fatigue and frustration. “We need to talk.”

  “About the case?” She slid into the booth and slipped off her parka. “How can I help?”

  The waiter came before he could answer. Mort ordered a latte. She asked the waiter to bring her the same.

  “You look as beat as I feel,” he said. “You’re off duty, I hope.”

  “I’m fine.” She liked the way he was with her. Relaxed. Not afraid to show his weariness. “What are we talking about?”

  “You.” He leaned back against the leather upholstery. “I didn’t want to do it over the phone.” He rubbed his hand over his face and Lydia’s pulse quickened. “When you came to my office, wanting to get involved with the Buchner investigation, my radar went off.” He looked her hard in the eye. “I knew you were lying. I just didn’t know why.”

  Lydia glanced around the room and located the three nearest exits. “I told you. My reasons for wanting to be involved are my own. I hope you can respect that.”

  He held her gaze. “It’s time to stop the bullshit, Lydia.” His voice was a notch above whisper. “You’re not Nancy Drew. You’re not Lois Lane.” He shook his head. “And Lord knows I’m not Superman. But right now I’m all you got.”

  The arrival of their coffee allowed her a moment’s distraction. Mort waited for the server to leave before asking his next question.

  “You think Savannah killed Buchner, don’t you?”

  Lydia checked his face for deception and saw none. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s more bullshit.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I’m a cop, Lydia. I’m investigating a murder. The time for secrets is long gone. Tell me what you know about Savannah’s role in all this.”

  She kept her eyes away from his, ran a hand over the heavy linen tablecloth, and calculated her next move.

  “Lydia, this thing with Buchner is bigger than you know and I’m afraid if you go it alone you’re going to end up hurt. Maybe worse.” Mort crossed his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “Here’s how it looks on my end. Tell me where I’m wrong.” Mort shifted in his seat. “Buchner’s murdered. You come to me out of the blue wanting to help. Next thing I learn is Buchner’s been mapquesting directions to your house and office.”

  Lydia took in a sharp breath.

  “You didn’t know that, did you? So much for those keen observational powers of yours.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So I ask myself, ‘What’s going on here?’ and I run a little background on you.”

  Lydia shot a look to the nearest door and calculated the distance.

  “All I come up with is a law-abiding citizen. And yet I’m still stuck with the link between you and Buchner.” Mort leaned back against the booth. “Which leads me to the next thing you don’t know. Buchner’s murder is tied to another one. Did Savannah ever mention the name Fred Bastian to you?”

  She snapped her head up. He’d made the connection. She forced her hands and her eyes back to her lap.

  “I see she has.” He drew in a long breath and took his time exhaling. “Imagine my surprise, when I find myself questioning Childress about the Bastian murder, you walk right into the interview. I learn Bastian’s right hand man has a fiance and you’re her shrink. I mix that information with some other stuff I’ve got and I come up with only one answer.”

  “What’s that?” she whispered.

  Mort’s eyes softened. She wondered if he could sense her fear.

  “We know about Savannah’s involvement with the politics over at Neuroscience. Her fiance told us and we’ve verified his story with the professors who hired her.” He shook his head. “Interesting line of work she’s in.”

  Lydia didn’t respond.

  “Buchner was in possession of a recording of someone putting out a hit on Bastian,” he said.

  Lydia forced herself to keep her eyes down despite her rising panic. Mort had Private Number’s synthesized voice from that night in the warehouse. What else did he know?

  “Let’s say this someone’s hired gun was seeing a shrink down in Olympia,” Mort continued. “Said someone finds out, starts wondering what gets disclosed during all those confidential sessions, and decides to check you out.”

  “Sounds like quite a story, Mort.” She did her best to keep her face passive.

  She could feel Mort’s gaze. “The way I see it, Savannah kills Bastian. It might have ended there, but like the song says, she fooled around and fell in love. She wants to stay in Seattle and build a life with Childress, who, I’m sure, doesn’t have the faintest notion about his fiance’s murdering ways. But there’s a bump in her road. Buchner could put an end to her happily-ever-after fantasy with one phone call to us about what’s on his recorder. So she decides to close the loop and shoots his face off.” Mort leaned forward. “I think Savannah let enough drop in your sessions that you started to wonder if your patient was a killer. And that’s when you decided to come see me and find out what was what.”

  Lydia sat still as stone. “I don’t know what it is you want me to say.”

  He waited a few moments before he scooted closer. His voice was soft, apologetic. “Maybe it’s time for me to put my cards on the table. Lydia, I know who you are. I know it all.�
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  Her bowels rumbled and she felt the bile rise in the back of her throat. Her breath left her as she frantically scanned the bar. No uniformed officers. No obvious back-up.

  “What do you mean? Of course you know who I am.” She hoped her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

  Mort kept his eyes on his coffee. “You were born Peggy Denise Simmons. Your mother abandoned you when you were nearly dead from her neglect and abuse. I’ve read your entire file. I know what you went through.” Mort looked up and Lydia saw compassion in his eyes. “I understand why you’re guarded, but I’m asking you to trust me.”

  The cold winter rain of shame washed over her. She started to shiver. Mort reached behind her and pulled her parka up over her shoulders.

  “You deserved better than you got,” he whispered. “But that was then and this is now. Let’s work together, Liddy. I’m afraid if you keep going it alone you’re going to find yourself in a heap of hurt.” He smiled. “I don’t want that.”

  Lydia blinked her tears out of her eyes.

  “Now how about you put your stealth shield down and let’s talk?”

  She ran a hand through her hair and stared at the gentle man sitting next to her. A surge of warmth relaxed her core. She bit her lower lip and gave him a slow nod.

  “That’s better.” Mort leaned back and took a sip from his mug as though the last few minutes hadn’t happened. As though the ignominy of her childhood had no impact on his view of her. “As soon as she’s able, I have to talk to Savannah. She’ll never know we’ve had this conversation.”

  Lydia blinked and tried to find mental footing. “You don’t know? Mort, Savannah’s dead. Never regained consciousness.”

  Mort reared back. “No one called me. Of course, why would they?” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. “I’ll check back with Childress.” He put his hand on her arm. “Liddy, I’m so sorry. I’m sure you helped her all you could.”