The Fixer

by Woods, T E

  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 fiancé 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 fiancé 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 fiancé’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.”

  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.”

  She didn’t know what to think about that. All she knew was her patient was dead.

  “Talk to me, Liddy. Tell me about Savannah.”

  Lydia looked down at her hands and contemplated the gravity of revealing a patient’s confidence. Especially Savannah’s.

  “You seem to know a lot about my past, Mort. Did you learn about my time in juvenile hall?”

  He set his notepad aside. His voice soft again. “I did. Your record says you took a baseball bat to your foster father.”

  “He was raping a six-year-old at the time.” Lydia kept her eyes focused on her lap.

  “Yeah. I got that. The judge didn’t believe you.”

  She looked up at him. “Do you?”

  He met her gaze. “Yes.”

  Lydia let her eyes drift across his face and allowed herself a brief fantasy of what life might have been like if she had a father who believed what she said just because she said it. She dropped her gaze back to her lap.

  “Savannah was that little girl,” she said. “She tracked me down after all these years because she believed I was the only one who could save her.”

  Mort blew out a low sigh. “My God. I can’t imagine what that was like for you. The pressure you must have felt.”

  Lydia felt a surge of regret at her need to continue to lie. She told herself if she kept close to the truth her betrayal might be palatable.

  “Savannah never actually said she killed anyone. But she told me she did awful things.” Lydia looked down at her hands, ashamed of her disloyalty. “Things where people got hurt, she said. She even said people died.”

  “She give you any specifics?” Mort flipped his notepad open.

  Lydia shook her head. “I didn’t believe her at first. I thought it was a dramatic ploy some patients use to hook their shrinks. But as our sessions went on, Savannah changed.”

  “How?” Mort asked.

  “Savannah was breathtakingly gorgeous. Beautifully groomed. Sophisticated in a way we don’t see in Olympia. She insisted there was something wrong with her that she wanted me to fix.”

  Mort’s head jerked up. “She said that? She used the word ‘fix’?”

  A flutter of fear caught at her throat. “Yes. Is that important?”

  “Could be. Go on.” Mort scribbled a line on his pad.

  “As time went on she became less fastidious about her appearance. Subtle things at first, but toward the end she was quite disheveled. She became focused on the deaths at the university.”

  “When did that start?”

  “Fred Bastian was the first one she mentioned. Said she was responsible for his death. I tried to assure her it was a heart attack. That’s how the papers labeled it. But she was beyond comfort.” Lydia’s breathing grew shallow and hurried. “Then when Walter Buchner died she became a complete mess. I worried that she might be experiencing a psychotic break. She kept talking about all the people who were dead because of her.” Lydia bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “But nothing specific. No names.”

  “And you came to believe she killed Buchner.” Mort tapped his pen against his notepad.

  Lydia could answer that question honestly. “I don’t know what I believed at the time, but she was adamant she was responsible.” She offered a small smile. “That’s when I came
to see you.”

  “And offered to play Junior Detective.” Mort took another sip of coffee and grimaced. “This is cold. I’ll get us more.”

  Lydia watched him return from the bar with the coffee pot. A fantasy of a loving father sharing coffee with his daughter on a winter’s afternoon danced through her mind.

  “Listen up, Liddy.” Mort set the coffee pot down and took his seat. “Maybe you won’t be so eager to play Lois Lane after I bring you up to speed.”

  Lydia listened as Mort told her the facts as he knew them. She feigned surprise when he told her about the voice synthesizer they found at Buchner’s apartment. Her distress was genuine when he explained what the police were able to pull off the device’s memory.

  “So Fred Bastian was murdered?” she asked. “How?”

  “Drug injected into his neck. Tough to trace, but we found it.” Mort gave Lydia a broad smile. “We really are good at what we do.”

  Lydia’s stomach tightened. “And you’re confident Savannah killed him?”

  Mort nodded. “Remember when I asked you if Savannah used the word ‘fix’ when she came to you?”

  Lydia held her face in a bewildered pose. “Several times at each visit. I think I noted her obsessive use of the word in my chart.”

  Mort related what he and his son had discovered about The Fixer. She struggled to control her mounting panic in response to his accurate, though incomplete, description of her assignments through the years. Her contact and payment methods had been exposed. They knew about her disguises. Dampness gathered at the roots of her hair as he described Martin’s cooperation with the police.

  She was out of business. For that she was glad.

  The question was, could she survive?

  “This Fixer? You’re thinking it’s Savannah?”

  “Maybe.” Mort pushed his mug aside. “I got two detectives running a background on her right now.”

  Lydia leaned back in disbelief. Could it be this simple? Would Savannah’s suicide offer her a way out? She turned to Mort and allowed herself another fantasy. Maybe they’d have coffee again. She dug her fingernails deep into her palms and forced the pleasant thought out of her mind. She still had to find Private Number.

  “What’s our next move?” she asked.

  Mort shook his head and sighed. “I want you out of this. You’re forgetting something.”

  She swallowed hard. “What’s that?”

  “Savannah may be The Fixer.” He leaned forward and tapped his index finger on her wrist. “But I’m not buying for one minute that Wally was the brains behind this whole thing. It wasn’t those professors in Neuroscience, either. They’d never go so far as to have him murdered. My money says Buchner was used as a stooge. Until we find out by whom I don’t want you anywhere near Seattle. Remember, whoever hired Savannah knows you were her shrink.”

  Lydia focused on Mort’s finger and wondered when the last time another human being touched her. Many put their hands on The Fixer; that was part of the job. But Mort’s touch was different. A worried father driving home an important point to a daughter he adored.

  She shook her head clear. “I hope you’ll keep me posted.”

  Mort’s smile was warm and wide. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. Oh, I almost forgot.” He fumbled in his pants pocket and pulled out a long strip of leather with a wooden whistle attached. “I made this for you.”

  Lydia hesitated before reaching out for the gift. She felt her throat closing. She turned the small trinket over in her hands, examining the first gift she’d received in years.

  “You made this?” The tightness in her voice was genuine. “For me?”

  Mort leaned forward and pointed to the slot of the whistle. “See that little ball in there? It makes the whistle loud. You blow this baby and people will come running.”

  “How’d you get it in there?” Lydia looked closely for a glued seam.

  Mort shrugged. “Used to be all one piece. I just freed it. Bit by bit, whittling away until it broke free. Now it dances on its own.” His pride brought a smile to her face. “Go ahead. Try it.”

  She touched the whistle to her lips and tasted the sweetness in the grain. She gave a furtive glance around the bar. He winked and nodded his encouragement. Lydia drew in a deep breath and blew.

  It was louder than she expected. She dropped it from her mouth and Mort laughed as every head in the restaurant turned their way.

  “You find yourself in trouble, Liddy, you blow that.” Mort’s voice was soft. “If there’s a way for me to get to you I will.”

  Lydia felt the sting of tears rising. She stumbled for words, but none came.

  “You know, I made one of these for my daughter years ago. Her name’s Allie.” Mort laid his hands on the table and kept his eyes down. “She’s about your age.”

  Lydia watched Mort drift back to another time.

  “Allie was a beautiful baby.” Mort smiled, lost in memory. “Smart, too.” He glanced up at Lydia. “Started taking piano at four and by the time she was seven she was playing Gershwin like she was born in a concert hall. She turned twenty-one two days after she graduated from college.”

  Mort stared into middle space. “She was our shining jewel. But she was restless. No job could hold her interest. No man could, either. She was always looking for the next big thrill. It was like watching a Formula One racecar speeding straight for a cliff.”

  He fidgeted in his seat and Lydia sensed a shame come over him. “A couple of years ago a buddy of mine from the department, Dave Frinell’s his name, heads the drug unit. He’s at our place having dinner with me and Edie when he gets a call that a house they’d been watching just received a major shipment. Heroin and cocaine both. Snitch looking for a get-out-of-jail-free card tells the cops the head of the west coast drug cartel will be there to oversee distribution. Needless to say Dave’s on his way out the door and I ask if I can tag along.” Mort gave a sad grimace to no one in particular. “I guess homicide’s not enough for me. Gotta be the big guy on the drug bust, too.

  “Anyway, we leave Edie with the lasagna and head out.” Mort’s eyes glazed over. “We got there just behind the narcotics team. Everyone in the house was cuffed. All we had to do was go in and make sure the drugs were tagged and send the bad guys downtown for processing. But I needed to meet the head guy. I wanted a good story to tell Edie.”

  Mort rubbed the base of this palm over his eyes. “You should have seen this dump, Liddy. Strung out junkies lying on couches smellier than a cat’s litter box. Tough guy assholes in handcuffs, making like they’re Al Pacino in ‘Scarface’. But then I see The Man.” Mort shook his head. “Looked like a San Francisco politician. Suit probably cost more than I make in a month. Standing in the middle of the room saying nothing except how he wants his lawyer. I shake my head and walk past him.”

  Mort’s gaze returned to nowhere. “Maybe three steps behind Mr. High and Mighty Drug Czar is my Allie. Looking like a million dollars in some fancy dress I don’t know where the hell she got. She doesn’t see me at first and she’s got this scared look on her face. I’m standing there, stunned, and she finally turns.” Tears glazed Mort’s eyes. “For a second she looks glad to see me. Like she knows I’m there to help. But then her look changes. Maybe something she sees on my face, I don’t know. But she gets this look of shame. I can see it like it was yesterday.”

  Mort cleared his throat. “So I play the by-the-book tough cop. Hope to scare some sense into her. Don’t even acknowledge I know her. Let the uniforms process her like she was any other drug whore.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But she was my daughter.”

  Mort shifted his weight in the booth. “I get home and tell Edie what’s happened and she loses it. Demands I go to the station and get her daughter. I hold firm. Tell Edie a night in jail may be just what Allie needs to realize you don’t go to drug dens looking for kicks.” He nodded his head three slow times. “Biggest fight my wife and I ever had. But I stood my ground
. Yes sir, I won that battle.”

  Lydia knew when someone needed to tell their story. She sat silently beside him.

  “Next day I take my time getting to the precinct. Figure I’d let Allie get a taste of the jail’s cold toast and milk before I sign her out.” Mort looked Lydia in the eyes. “But when I got there, she was gone. Drug King’s lawyer bailed them both out an hour earlier.” Mort seemed unaware of where he was. “I haven’t seen her since. My Edie died without seeing her daughter again.”

  Lydia let him be still in the memory. A few minutes of silence passed before she spoke.

  “Why are you telling me this, Mort?”

  He reached for a paper napkin and blew his nose. He gave a tentative smile. “Two reasons, I guess. First of all, to even the score.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “What score?”

  “Your file, Liddy. That should have been your story to tell, but I went digging and now I know something about you that you probably wish I didn’t.” Regret poured from his eyes. “You oughta know the same about me. We’re even.”

  Lydia wondered if they were. “What’s the second reason?”

  Mort reached out to touch the leather strap of the whistle Lydia held in her hand. “I let my daughter down when she needed me most. No one’s ever had your back. You blow that whistle, Liddy, and don’t ever doubt I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Lydia sat at her kitchen table holding Mort’s whistle and tried to make sense of the day. Mort believed Savannah was The Fixer. After so many solitary years of self-protection, could she walk away? Was the normal life she fantasized about a possibility for her? Could that life include a friend like Mort? She looked out into the black night and brought her hand to her reflection in the window. She saw the fatigue in her face and the whisper of hope in her eyes.

  “What about it, Liddy?” She tried out Mort’s nickname and found it comforting. “Should we join a book club?” A short giggle escaped into the empty kitchen.

  She’d just turned on the flame beneath the tea kettle when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Lydia smiled as she reached for it, hoping it was Mort calling to say goodnight. She glanced at the screen and was jolted back to the reality she knew was hers alone.