by Woods, T E
She turned, surveyed her home, and recalled how she selected each piece of furniture, art work, and rug. Remembering the care she took in building her sanctuary. Impregnable. Perfect.
Private Number’s invasion stripped away that delusion.
She pulled out a chair, sat in Mort’s spot, tugged the paper out of its soggy plastic wrapper, and tried to find solace in mundane routine. The headline announced the pending departure of troops from nearby Fort Lewis. A photograph of a soldier in dessert fatigues hugging her five-year-old daughter while her husband stood beside her and wept into the shoulder of their year-old son accompanied it. She read the story, turned the page, and felt the breath rush out of her.
A picture of Walter Buchner smiled from the bottom of the paper beneath a sidebar caption that read “Recent Murder Victim Part of Study”. Lydia’s eyes darted to the main article.
University Chairman Honored
She quickly read that Robert Passow, head of the Audiology Department had been recognized at an international symposium for development of breakthrough technology in voice synthesizing. Her heart raced as she read the description of a device that could take varieties of input and produce recognizable, conversational speech. Any accent. Any age. Either gender. Passow spoke of the hope the device offered. In accepting his award, he thanked the people who contributed to the project’s development, listing several researchers and engineers.
“And a special thanks goes out to Meredith Thornton, our university’s president,” the article quoted. “She’s known now as a leader of academic institutions, but before she climbed the administrative hill, Dr. Thornton was a pioneer in voice synthesis. Her ground-breaking work formed the foundation of this achievement and we owe her an eternal debt of gratitude.”
Lydia knew that name. A memory of Cameron Williams describing Bastian’s history of dating powerful women. How he’d broken things off with the university president to be with her. Lydia’s eyes swept to the sidebar. She read about Wally’s participation in the development and testing of the breakthrough synthesizer. A quotation from Robert Passow alluded to Wally’s genius and the loss his murder had created. Lydia read the next paragraph twice.
“His death is a tragedy,” said University President Meredith Thornton. “To our school, our community, but more importantly to science. I learned of Mr. Buchner’s potential during his undergraduate years. I recruited him myself to join our graduate research staff and I count his death as a personal loss.”
Lydia set the paper aside and returned to the view outside her window. Rain sheets pelted the churning waves. The eagle was gone. The Fixer had her target.
Chapter Forty-Six
Mort threw down the morning paper, swore out loud, and shoved his screaming thoughts into a holding cell in his brain. Then he picked up his ringing cell phone.
“Guess who’s dead?” Jim DeVilla asked. “I’m getting a little tired of this body count.”
Mort’s hand tightened around the phone as Jimmy told him.
“Gunshot?” Mort’s stomach threatened to return his huevos rancheros to the plate sitting in front of him.
“Yeah.”
Mort swallowed hard and pushed himself away from the table. “The casings are going to match up with the ones we found at Buchner’s.”
“Looks like it to the naked eye.” Jim barked an order to some investigator on his end. “What makes you so sure?”
Mort brought his friend up to speed on what he’d read in the morning paper.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jimmy let out a low whistle. “Okay, Buddy. I’m on it. We’re having quite the party down here. You coming?”
Mort stood in front of his refrigerator and took in the gallery of family photographs magneted to the door. His eye lingered on one of his favorites. Edie and Allie on Christmas morning. His bed-headed wife laughing as their seven-year-old daughter tried to get new ice skates on over footed pajamas. He put a finger to each of their faces and cursed the cold of the enamel door. One more touch would be enough for him.
Just one more chance to make things right.
“Give me twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll bring coffee.”
Mort walked the familiar five minutes from Bradley Wells’ front door to his library past a half-dozen uniformed police. He handed Jimmy a Styrofoam cup before turning to the body behind the big desk.
Bradley Wells, Prince of the City, sat in his leather chair with half his face missing. Gun powder residue darkened what skin remained on his skull. Bits of flesh and bone mottled his silver mane. Mort took a sip of coffee.
“Shoots our theory all to hell, doesn’t it?” Jimmy asked.
“You pick her up?” he asked.
Jimmy nodded. “Sent a couple of unmarked cars. Told her it was routine questioning. No need to make a scene. She didn’t seem to feel the same. Raised quite a ruckus. Swore she’d have all of our shields before close of business. So far we’ve been able to keep it out of the media.”
“She’s not one to get her hands dirty.” Mort nodded to the corpse. “Somebody’s on her team.”
“Way ahead of you, Buddy. Security cameras picked up a visitor.”
“Man or woman?” Mort hoped he’d hear the right answer.
“Walks like a man, dressed dark, wearing a cap. Micki’s got the tape now. If there’s any way to pull an i.d. of it, she’ll find it.”
“We’re going to need it.” Mort shook his head. “We can’t have any holes in this one.”
“My crew’s at her office now. They found one of those remote gizmos for the synthesizer. And a gun I’m sure ballistics will tell us is a match.”
“What says the D.A.?”
“She says we better be sure. Evidently everyone from the mayor to the governor is on this woman’s Christmas card list. Says she’s got our backs but if we’re wrong she’ll personally hand us our balls before she ships us off to be crossing guards in Moses Lake.”
Mort took one last look at the Sovereign of Seattle. “Then let’s not be wrong.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lydia parked her car three blocks away and walked with her head down to the official residence of the university president. The cold rain provided the cover of empty streets and a hooded parka. The Smith and Wesson in her pocket held the promise of one last blow for justice.
It was nearly noon. Fantasies of a final confrontation with Meredith played in her mind during the ninety minute drive north from Olympia. Private Number was identified. Lydia imagined both ends of a conversation culminating with Meredith understanding the power she’d stolen had been returned. The manipulation was over. But as the Space Needle entered her view, Lydia decided against it. She’d keep it clean. One perfectly-placed silenced bullet and she’d be free.
She walked past the stone path leading to the mansion situated high on a manicured lawn, circled the side of the house, and looked for security guards or staff. One car sat parked in front of a four stall garage. Lydia kept walking. The back yard was hidden behind a six foot brick privacy wall that abutted a dense row of arbor vitae. She looked up and down the street, saw no one, and stepped into the cover the small copse of towering trees provided.
The brick wall was rough enough to gain hold. She pulled herself up and surveyed the residence’s backyard. A white gazebo sat off to her right, adjacent to a formal rose garden. A well-trimmed lawn led straight ahead to a flagstone deck running the width of the house. Lydia steadied herself on the wall just high enough to see over. Fifteen minutes passed with no observed movement. She hoisted herself over and crossed to the lattice arbor surrounding the back door. She reached a gloved hand for the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked. Lydia pushed the back door open and stepped into the mud room.
She stood flat against the wall and listened. Hearing nothing, she climbed two stairs into the kitchen. Recessed lights over a massive marble island chased the grey day out of the room. Lydia saw no signs of a recently eaten lunch. No coffee pot filled with com
fort for a busy household staff. She moved to the living room.
Three distinct conversation areas sprawled across the enormous space. Empty sofas and chairs sat on Persian rugs. A wall of windows showcased the drizzled front lawn. Lydia crossed the entrance hall to the ornately carved staircase. She took a step and looked up.
Mort Grant sat on the mid-flight landing. Elbows on bent knees. Head down.
“She’s not here, Liddy.”
Lydia froze. Her heart pounded a panicked staccato to accompany the frenzied dance of a dozen thoughts.
Mort looked up and she calmed a little.
“Where is she?” She saw the disappointment in his face but could offer no apology.
He drew a long breath. “We got her. Picked her up this morning for questioning in the murder of Bradley Wells.
She swallowed hard. The heaviness in her chest threatened to pull her down.
“I want you to go, Liddy.” Mort sounded tired. “Leave now. Don’t go back to Olympia. Just turn around and disappear.”
Lydia took a step toward him but his upraised hand stopped her.
“I don’t understand.” She coughed the catch in her throat clear.
A layer of tears glistened in Mort’s eyes. “I’m familiar with The Fixer’s body of work. I imagine it’s been lucrative. I’m sure you’ve got access to various identities.” He rubbed his hand through his graying hair.
Lydia’s knees buckled. She leaned against the carved railing. “How long have you known?”
Mort looked at her for several long seconds. “I think some part of me knew a while ago. I kept pushing coincidences out of my head. Hell, I don’t know when.” His jaw muscles twitched. “But I know now. My guess is she’s blackmailing you, right?”
Lydia felt the sting of tears and blinked them away.
“Please answer me, Liddy.” Mort was calm. “You came here to kill her. What did she want you to do?”
Her ears were ringing. Her bones ached. She wanted to be back home, sharing coffee with him and watching the morning roll in. “She wanted me to kill Cameron Williams. Then wait for further instructions.”
Mort hung his head. His voice barely a whisper. “You killed Cameron?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.”
Mort snapped his head up. His voice stern enough to press her back to the wall. “Don’t play games with me, Lydia. I asked you if you killed Cameron.”
Lydia could hear her pulse pounding. For the first time in a long time she could tell the complete and unvarnished truth. She knew he’d listen. She stared silently at him, ashamed at her cowardice.
His voice softened. A loving father teaching his daughter a life lesson. “You got used, Liddy. Or I should say The Fixer got used. You and Wally both. Poor Wally thought he was helping his mentor by hiring you. Who the hell knows what she told that kid.” Mort rested his cheek against his palm. “Hell, when I saw what Bastian did to that gorilla I wanted to kill him myself. But why would she want Cameron dead?”
Lydia choked out the word. “Jealousy. Cameron told me Meredith and Bastian were a couple before she met him.”
“So the two spurned lovers concocted the scheme together. Wells had the money and the goons. Meredith had the patsy and the synthesizer.” Mort hung his hands between his knees. “And you had the chops.”
“She had help,” Lydia said. “They got into my house.”
Mort nodded. “We’ve got one on tape. We’ll get him. If there are others we’ll get them, too. You don’t need to worry.”
Lydia’s shame pushed her further back. She wanted to disappear. Run far from the heaviness of Mort’s disappointment. But the pleading look in his eyes riveted her to where she stood.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for the pain I’m causing you.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. Leave right now and you’ll be, too. Go live your life somewhere safe. Away from all this.”
Lydia wiped the tears off her face with both hands. “Why? After all you know, why would you let me walk away?”
Mort’s stare was heartrending. “When this story breaks The Fixer will become a folk hero to every person ever denied justice. I’m sure more than a few cops will be singing your praises, too. But I’m not letting The Fixer go.” Mort’s eyes lased into hers. “I’m giving Peggy Denise Simmons a break. What’s done is done. I know you thought you were doing something good for the world.” He coughed his throat clear. “I promised I’d have your back, and I will. Now go.”
“Meredith knows who I am. She has recordings and photos.”
“She’d have to admit to hiring you. I’m betting she won’t do that. If she does, well, I’m sure you can make yourself invisible.” Mort stood and walked three steps down. “The important thing is you’ll be safe.”
Lydia’s mind raced through her options. Could she start over? Free from The Fixer? She reached inside her parka, pulled out an envelope, and held it Mort’s way.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Lydia was numb. Her voice an echo to her own ears. She felt far away, suspended above the scene, watching it play out. “It’s an address. Go there and find Cameron Williams.”
“You hid her body?” Mort reached for the envelope. “That’s not like The Fixer.”
She shook her head. Mort shrank in her field of vision, as though she was looking at him from the end of a long hallway. “She’s not dead. She’s waiting for you.”
She barely could see the confused look on Mort’s face. “I don’t get it,” he said.
“She knows I killed Bastian.” Lydia allowed herself a little smile. “You’d be surprised how easy it was to convince her to let me draw a few vials of her blood and spray it around the room after I told her I’d been sent to kill her, too. She’s safe. She knows to stay put until you come get her.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m not a murderer,” she whispered.
Mort held the envelope. The sadness on his face tormented Lydia. She could still feel something like love.
His voice was hoarse with regret. “I’ll bring her home. Now go. You’ll have nothing to fear from Cameron. I’ll make sure of it. Just go.”
Lydia shook her head. “I’m not Allie, Mort. You’re not responsible for saving me. And you couldn’t live with yourself if you let me walk away from this. You know what you need to do. I won’t go to jail.” She pulled her revolver from her pocket.
“You gonna shoot me, Liddy?”
The hand that escorted so many to their deaths trembled with the weight of the Smith and Wesson. “Do what you need to do. Please.”
The sound of footsteps interrupted their focus and they both looked toward the kitchen. Lydia took two steps into the living room and saw a man walking toward them. She turned her gun toward Mort.
“Is this an arrest?” Her shame was replaced by despair. “You pretended to care long enough to distract me until your team showed up?”
Mort descended the staircase and stood five feet from her. “You hear any sirens, Liddy?” He looked toward the intruder.
“Hello, Carl.” Mort watched the Executive Provost pull a revolver from the jacket of his pocket.
Lydia turned her own gun toward the red-haired man.
“Well what have we here?” Carl Snelling clucked his satisfaction. “This is all a bit too easy now, isn’t it? God knows I’m in for a bit of luck after the day I’m having.”
“Put down your weapon,” Lydia commanded.
Carl held Lydia’s gaze and stepped closer. He leveled his gun toward the side of Mort’s head. “You first, Fixer. Drop your gun now or the good officer dies. And don’t expect any drama of my counting to three. Drop it now or wish you had.”
Her mind raced. This stranger knew who she was. She wanted to shoot. But the risk of his finger reflexively pulling his own trigger could kill Mort.
“Fine.” He turned his eyes toward Mort.
“Stop!” Lydia threw her gun to the floo
r.
The redheaded man chuckled and kicked Lydia’s gun across the floor. “That’s a good little girl.” He waved them both to the sofa. “Now sit.”
Mort and Lydia traversed the large room and took a seat across from the expansive windows. Carl Snelling sat in a chair opposite them.
“You okay?” Mort whispered to Lydia. His eyes were filled with concern and she wondered how a man came to be so rock-steady. She nodded and turned her attention back to the man with the gun.
“You’re Private Number?” she asked.
The man looked puzzled. Then a rush of recognition washed over his face. “Is that what you call me? How charming. One would suppose it’s necessary to have some way to identify one’s controller, wouldn’t one? The screen announcing my calls would suffice, I’d imagine. Allow me to introduce myself, My Dear. I’m Carl Snelling. Of course, I already know you.” He turned his attention to Mort. “And you, Detective Grant. I imagine you’re sifting through every conversation we’ve ever had. Wondering what you missed and all that. Am I right?”
Mort’s voice was cold but composed. “I’m not missing a thing, Snelling. You’re Meredith Thornton’s lackey. You do her bidding at the university and you dance the tune she called when it came to killing Bastian and Buchner. Cameron Williams, too.”
Snelling dropped the façade of congeniality. His eyes narrowed and Lydia watched his face turn to ice. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Detective. Meredith is as flummoxed by the deaths as the rest of the university. I tried to tell you I was the one you should be speaking with. True to form, Meredith knows nothing.” He settled back into the chair and crossed one leg over the other. “As relates to who is lackey to whom, I’m afraid you have the arrow pointing in the wrong direction. A common mistake for the poorly educated.”
Mort sat mute, focused on the gunman. Lydia watched both men. Despite the fact Snelling was armed, Mort challenged him for Alpha position.
“You don’t believe me?” Snelling raised an eyebrow.
Mort stayed silent. He held Snelling’s gaze and Lydia wondered if he was breathing.
