by T. E. Woods
Mort kept his eyes on Meredith. “You said he was a personal friend.”
The president nodded and brought her hand to her throat. Mort sensed their relationship may have been more intimate.
“What can you tell me about Ortoo?” Mort asked.
Meredith glanced away and shook her head. “I don’t know that term.”
Mort’s attention stayed focused. “It’s not a term, Meredith. It’s a name. Tell me what you know about Ortoo.”
Snelling left the desk to stand behind the sofa. “She’s already answered you.”
Mort ignored him. He stayed fixed on Meredith. “You’ve never heard the name Ortoo?”
When she shook her head he glanced up at Snelling. “How about you?”
“Where’s this going, Detective?” Snelling’s voice had an aggressive edge his position didn’t warrant. Mort returned to Meredith.
“We’re in possession of a video of Bastian butchering a primate named Ortoo. A silverback gorilla. We have reason to believe the murder of Ortoo led directly to someone putting out a contract on Bastian. Possibly in retaliation.”
Meredith folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them for several long moments before speaking. “I want to see that tape, Detective.”
He was impressed with her control. “Then you are aware of Ortoo?”
She snapped her head up and Mort took a fast inhale at the fury in her eyes. “You come here and tell me a valued member of my faculty was experimenting with a gorilla. That’s both illegal and unethical. Then you tell me that faculty member, my friend, butchered said gorilla and it led to someone hiring an assassin.” Meredith stood and walked behind her desk. Snelling walked over to his president and reached a hand to her shoulder. She brushed it away with an angry wave.
“Forgive me if I find this situation outlandish,” Meredith snapped. “I need to see that tape. If someone’s fabricated something for YouTube and it’s out there tarnishing the reputation of this university or its faculty, I demand to see it.”
Mort pulled himself out of the chair and reached for his jacket. “You don’t get to demand anything, Meredith. This is my murder investigation. What I can tell you is that the tape wasn’t fabricated. The best computer forensic expert in the business assures us it’s legit. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what you know about Bastian murdering Ortoo.”
Meredith locked her stare on Mort and tapped perfectly manicured nails against the back of her office chair. “You make serious allegations against my faculty. I’m going to stop this conversation now and consult with university attorneys before we speak again. I’m sure you understand.” She turned to Snelling. “Carl, you’ll escort the good detective out?”
Her request left no room for refusal. Mort said his farewell to a silent president and followed Snelling out to the reception area. He pulled on his parka, called out a goodbye to Angela, and was heading for the door when he felt Snelling pull on his arm. He stopped, looked down at the hand that griped his sleeve, and fixed a quizzical gaze at the skinny man with red hair.
“A moment? Please?” Snelling dropped his hand.
“One minute, how’s that?” Mort had had enough of the ivory tower for one day.
“You were rough on her.” Snelling put his hands in his pockets. “There was no need.” Snelling looked toward Angela and lowered his voice. “Next time come talk with me? I’ve seen three university presidents come and go. I know far more about how this place really runs than Meredith ever will.”
Mort shook his head at the frightened sycophant and left. He passed Bodie on his way out and recalled the young man’s assurance of help. Mort wondered if any purple-coated ambassador could tell him why the university president still hadn’t asked how Bastian was killed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lydia parked her car three blocks east of Cameron William’s catering shop, grateful for the rain. She pulled the hood of her jacket up and kept her eyes down as she walked, hoping any passer-by or security camera would register her as an amorphous blur.
She stood across the street and watched Cameron’s building. It was nearly six o’clock. When she called the caterer that morning to suggest a meeting to finalize the plans for her dinner party, Lydia asked for an evening appointment. She needed Cameron alone.
Lydia crossed the street. A bell mounted above the shop’s door jamb announced her entry. Pleasant aromas of savory and sweet contrasted with the dimly lit interior. She reached her right hand into her jacket pocket and slid the safety of her Luger off.
“Hello,” she called out. “Cameron?”
No answer. Lydia turned and locked the shop’s front door. She flipped the hanging sign to read “Closed”.
“Anybody home?” Lydia stepped behind the counter and pushed open the aluminum door leading to the kitchen.
Empty.
She walked down the narrow hallway leading to the back of the building. A door fifteen feet away stood open. Soft golden light spilled onto the worn hardwood floors. She glanced over her shoulder before continuing. She saw Cameron. Alone in her office. Sitting at her desk, staring into nothingness.
“Cameron?” Lydia’s voice was barely a whisper as she stepped inside.
Cameron turned to her visitor and blinked twice before speaking. “Dr. Corriger.” She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. Her voice was that of an automaton. Numb. Detached. “Now’s not a good time.”
Lydia closed Cameron’s office door and quietly engaged the lock. She kept her eyes on the disoriented blonde seated in front of her.
“Is something wrong?”
Tears welled in Cameron’s blue eyes. She didn’t answer for several moments. Lydia didn’t move, hoping her steady presence would calm her.
“It’s Fred,” Cameron finally said. She looked up at Lydia. “My fiance.”
“I remember.” Lydia said. “Are you having a bad go of it today?”
Cameron let out a short and hollow laugh. “A bad go of it? You could say that.” She turned to reach for another tissue. “You see, my poor Fred didn’t have a heart attack after all.”
Lydia’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”
Cameron blew her nose and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I had a visit from several policemen today. Not long after you called.” She looked at Lydia and new tears rained down. “Dr. Corriger, they told me Fred was killed. Murdered.” Her shoulders heaved with her sobs. “Who would do such a thing?”
Lydia took a deep breath and trudged to a small sofa opposite Cameron’s desk. She was so weary. Tired to her bones and sick of it all. She closed her eyes and recalled the standards she’d once set for her work. Justice only. Never murder.
And yet, here she was. She tried to justify what she was about to do with a reminder that her survival depended upon completing this assignment.
“Who, Dr. Corriger?” Cameron pleaded with her. “Who would kill Fred?”
Lydia pulled the Luger out of her pocket and pointed it at the crying caterer. “I did, Cameron. I killed Fred Bastian.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mort closed his office door, reached for the phone and punched in Robbie’s number. Claire answered on the third ring.
“Bon soir, Beau Pere.” Mort loved it when she spoke French. “How’s my current husband’s father?”
“My boy giving you trouble?” He smiled at the easy relationship Robbie and Claire had. Playful and sexy. True equals. “Say the word and I’m on the next plane to knock some sense into him.”
“I handle him just fine.” Her laugh was deep and warm. “Shall I get him?”
“If he’s handy. Listen, kiss those girls for me, will you? They like the dollhouses?”
“Mais oui. You make magic for my girls,” she said. “Here’s your son.”
Mort heard Robbie take the phone. “Hang on, Dad. I’m going into my study.”
A few seconds later Robbie spoke. “What’s up?”
Mort had a sudden ache to see his so
n’s face. He wished both his kids could stay perpetually young. Maybe ten or twelve years old. Where he could always keep them close and safe. “I ran those last six Fixer ads. Got a judge to order the information on who placed ‘em.”
Robbie’s curious tone was replaced with excitement. “Pays to have a dad with connections. What did you learn?”
Mort heard his son’s keyboard clicking. “Pretty much what you’d think. Each payment was untraceable. Wired money orders, cashier’s checks, that sort of thing. They come from all over the world.”
Robbie let out a grunt. “Were you able to tie an ad to any particular homicide?”
Mort hesitated. “My hunch is our girl kills her targets in a way that doesn’t bring in the police.”
“Like Halloway’s death looking like a sex game mishap?” Robbie said. “Or those others you found out about when you searched for no-show females.”
“It would be bad for business if The Fixer got messy. Better every hit have a logical explanation. Keep the inquiries to a minimum.”
Robbie’s excitement came back. “I know that tone, Dad. You’ve got one of your hunches working, don’t you?”
“Could be.” Mort leaned onto his desk. “There was an ad a few months back. Payment to the newspapers was wired from three different Western Union offices.”
“Buyer was being careful.” Robbie sounded confused. “No mystery in that.”
“Each Western Union was in Seattle,” Mort said. “In December a guy up here dies of a heart attack. Big shot researcher at the university. Nothing made of it at the time.”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming.” Robbie’s keyboard was clicking fast and loud.
“A month later we catch a call on a second guy. Dead in his living room. Another researcher at the university, except this one’s not a hot shot. We run forensics on some hi-tech gizmo we find at the scene and lo and behold we learn that our first guy had a hit put out on him. Our second guy’s caught on tape negotiating with someone he calls ‘Ms Carr’ to kill the hot shot researcher. To make it even more interesting, when I’m checking those first Thursday ads, one comes up a month after Hot Shot Researcher dies.”
“Asking for someone to translate a family cookbook?” Robbie asked.
“Yeah, but that’s not the one that catches my eye. There’s an ad below it that says ‘Thank you Ms Carr’.”
“Same name as the person who accepted the hit,” Robbie said.
“Bingo. I checked and sure enough, the money to pay for that ad was wired from Seattle. Next thing you now, our guy winds up dead.”
“Probably pissed The Fixer off for making follow-up contact.”
“That’s my guess. I’m thinking The Fixer’s good for two murders I’m working on.”
“Dad, if you’re teasing me, stop. If you’re not, I’m buying a new suit for the Pulitzer ceremony.”
“Don’t go shopping yet, Robbie. But the fates might be smiling on both of us. Did I mention digitized voices are involved?”
“Hot damn,” Robbie said. “Martin said The Fixer used digitized communication with him. He got nailed when a local cop got a digitized tip. You want me to come out there, Dad?”
“Not yet.” Mort explained his investigation into Bastian and Buchner’s murders and his belief that Savannah was The Fixer. He told his son about Lydia and her naive attempt to participate in the investigation. He looped several of his hunches back to information Robbie had gathered in his own research.
“And this Savannah,” Robbie asked. “She as good-looking as Martin and the others say she is?”
“A real stunner. Someone you’d remember after just one look. And here’s the kicker. Savannah Samuels winds up hanging herself after intimating that her line of work resulted in lots of people getting hurt. Got Liddy so spooked she came to me trying to figure it all out.”
“It makes sense, Dad. I can’t believe you’ve solved this whole thing.”
“Not just me.” Mort switched the phone to his other hand. “You’re the one who got me all the information on this Fixer. Without you and Liddy I’d be standing in front of an empty white board, trying to explain to the district attorney why I had bupkiss. We got this far together. You’ll meet her next time you’re out.”
Robbie laughed. “If you’re looking for a shared byline, you can stop right there Old Man.”
“No, this is your story. You earned it. A few loose ends and it ought to make one hell of a tale. Then you can go shopping for your Pulitzer suit.”
“What do you mean, loose ends?” Robbie asked. “Sounds like it’s tied nice and neat.”
“Think like a cop, Robbie.” Mort didn’t want to spoil his son’s enthusiasm but knew the case wasn’t done yet. “We still have to find who hired The Fixer in the first place.”
“And Savannah can’t tell us.” Robbie enthusiasm sounded tempered by impatience. “I’ll stay put for now. You keep me posted?”
“You know I will.” Mort sent his love to Robbie’s women and hung up. He glanced at the clock. Almost ten — thirty. He reached for his car keys a heartbeat before his phone rang.
“Where are you?” Jim De Villa asked as soon as Mort answered.
“I’m at the station. Just heading out.” Mort hoped Jimmy wasn’t about to ask him to grab a beer at Smitty’s. He was too tired to listen to his friend moon over Micki.
“Name Cameron Williams ring a bell?” Jimmy asked.
“Bastian’s fiance?” Mort kneed his chair away from the desk and sat down. “Visited her this morning. Told her Bastian’s death had been re-classified a homicide. She didn’t take it very well. She’s on my list to interview tomorrow.”
“You went to her shop?”
“Yeah. On Queen Anne.” Mort’s internal radar beeped. “What’s this about, Jimmy?”
“You want to get back down here. And I don’t mean tomorrow.”
“You’re with her now? What the hell’s going on?” Mort grabbed his parka.
“Call came in less than an hour ago. Her baker works nights. Guy comes in to start his shift, finds the kitchen trashed, calls 911.”
“Is Williams all right?” Mort asked. “She was a wreck when I left her.”
“She’s not here. We tried calling her home. No answer. Her baker tried her cell. I got a bad feeling when it rang right here. Behind the refrigerator.”
Mort realized the Chief of Forensics wouldn’t be called to a routine break-in.
“What aren’t you not telling me, Jimmy?”
He heard De Villa take a deep breath. “There’s blood, Mort. Lots of it. You better get down here.”
Bruiser was sitting at attention just inside the bakery’s front door. Mort ruffled the dog’s neck and called out to Jimmy. His friend waved him in. He was careful not to step in any blood before Jimmy’s team had a chance to photograph the smears and take samples. Mort sidestepped technicians and overturned kitchen mixers, blenders, and stools. Baking pans and cooking utensils littered the polished concrete floor of the industrial kitchen. Mort watched a member of Jimmy’s team process a bloody palm print on the stainless steel counter.
“Somebody put up a fight,” Mort said as his eyes scanned the room. “Anybody reach Williams yet?”
“We reached two of the gals she works with.” Jimmy pulled a notepad from his blazer pocket. “According to them Cameron closed up shop for the day not long after you left. They said they had one lunch to cater on campus. Cameron told them to take care of it and leave her alone. She was still crying in her office when they got back to unload and clean-up. They left up around 3:30. They assumed she was alone.” Jimmy nodded to the uniformed officer across the room. “I sent Ironson over to Cameron’s house. All she found was her dog, eager as hell to get out and do his business. Cameron’s baker says she’s crazy about that pooch. Wouldn’t dream of letting him miss a walk.”
“Any idea how old this blood is?” Mort swallowed the bitter metallic that gathered at the back of his throat.
“Only the
shallowest smears are dried.” Jimmy dipped a gloved index finger into a small dollop of blood on the floor. “This is recent. Couldn’t have happened more than a couple of hours ago.”
“So Williams is alive and alone at 3:30. By 8:30 the joint’s trashed and she’s missing.” Mort scanned the ceiling. “Any security cameras?”
“That would be too easy.” Jimmy nodded down the hall. “You think this is bad? Walk this way.”
Mort followed his friend, dodging technicians and drops of blood splattered down the length of the narrow corridor. They turned into a room and gave their eyes time to adjust to the glare of the photographer’s floodlights.
“The baker says this is Cameron’s office.” Jimmy inched past his busy staffer to stand beside a desk cluttered with blood-blotched papers. “My guess is this is where the intruder got her.”
Mort grabbed the vinyl gloves Jimmy offered, snapped them on and lifted pages off the floor. “What are you thinking, Jim? Was she hit with something? Maybe stabbed?”
“Look here.” Jimmy stepped over a broken picture frame and crossed behind the desk. He tapped his pen next to a hole in the plaster. “We pulled a slug from the wall.”
Mort breathed deep and caught a faint scent of gunpowder. “She was shot? Then what? Stumbles into the kitchen for a fight?”
“Maybe,” Jimmy said. “Maybe she startles the bad guy in the kitchen, he shoots but just grazes her. They fight, she breaks away and runs into the office, he follows and finishes her off.”
Mort looked around. “Then where is she?”
“We got alerts out to all the hospitals,” Jim said. “Nothing. Want to hear something interesting?”
Mort opened Carmen’s top desk drawer and started sifting through. “I’ll take anything.”
“Guess who Cameron was all set to marry before she ups and falls in love with Bastian The Ape Butcher?” Jimmy pointed a thumb over his left shoulder. “Leisha out there tells me it was all the scandal in certain circles. None other than Bradley Wells. Leisha’s husband works at Wells’ headquarters. Said Mr. Got Money was out of his head about it. Took it out on his staff for months, she says.”
