Dead End Fix

by T. E. Woods

  “I miss my mom and dad. My grandpa. Even Hayden.”

  Allie’s arms tightened around the little girl. They’d discussed this. Hadley had agreed. On their adventure it would be the two of them. Only the two of them. Allie had spared the young child the details. There was no reason Hadley needed to know she would never see her beloved parents and adored grandfather again. Those blood-related traitors who had turned their back on Allie, their own flesh and blood. She had saved Hadley from a lifetime of dull routine and obedience, just as she’d saved herself.

  “We’ll do things that will make you happy today.” She loosened her embrace. “Go take your bath.”

  Allie watched her niece shuffle off the terrace and through the vast suite. This may hurt now, little one. But you’ll understand. Those people can’t give you what I can. I’ll show you how to be your own person. You won’t ever need anyone.

  Only me.

  Chapter 8

  Olympia

  Lydia propped a note next to the coffeemaker. She could have waited, perhaps even cooked some breakfast. Lydia wagered Mort hadn’t eaten a full meal since Hadley had disappeared. She probably could have coaxed him into a plate of ham and eggs. Maybe even urged him to linger over a third cup of coffee before he headed back to Seattle and the frustration of trying to look hopeful for Robbie and his family.

  But I’m your only hope, aren’t I? She stood next to her sofa, watching Mort. His breathing was heavy and slow. Like a man who had finally given in to the exhaustion laying claim to every cell in his body. You sleep, Mort. I’ll fix this.

  Lydia was watching every account she knew belonged to Allie. She’d hacked into the security systems of hotels Allie had used in the past, but there was no sign of her or Hadley. Paris, London, and Barbados were places Allie had said were her favorites, and Lydia was monitoring the digital storage of front-desk cameras at every luxury hotel, whether Allie had a history of staying there or not. She had airports and train terminals around the world covered.

  There was no trace of Allie. No hint of a little girl with bouncing blond curls.

  —

  Oliver Bane glanced toward Lydia as he foamed a batch of milk for his customer’s latte. He did a double take when he recognized her.

  “My, my.” His voice rose against the whir of the machine. “Dr. Lydia Corriger. It’s been a while.” Oliver made quick work of finishing the drink. He handed it to the tall teenager wearing an oversized sweatshirt and navy knit cap waiting by the register.

  “On the house.” He called out to two women working behind the counter to take care of the remaining customers in line. His step slowed as he neared Lydia, like a man reconsidering the wisdom of his approach.

  “Hello, Oliver.” Lydia scanned his face for a hint as to what he might be thinking. She found none.

  Oliver lifted his right hand as though to offer it to her but dropped it midrise. He stuttered a step forward, but apparently reconsidered the notion of an embrace and stepped back. Finally he shook his head and folded his arms over his chest.

  “You here for coffee?” he asked. “Latte with honey?”

  His hair was still shaggy. The wire-rim eyeglasses she remembered were now tortoiseshell. They suited him as perfectly as the worn gray cardigan, soft cotton T-shirt, and denim jeans he wore. Oliver had never been one to follow fashion. He was, after all, the man who had stepped away from the state’s attorney’s office. A man the inside players had known was on track to be governor one day. But when he had become weary of the meaningless paperwork and special-interest pandering masquerading as justice, he had turned in his pinstripe suits, dropped out of the elbow-rubbing political circus, and opened what had become the most popular coffee shop in Olympia. Oliver Bane was his own man. He didn’t need to follow trends.

  And he shouldn’t have made the mistake of falling in love with Lydia Corriger.

  “Latte with honey is right. Thanks for remembering.”

  “I remember everything about you, Lydia.” His gray eyes held hers. “What brings you in? Last time you were looking for legal advice.” Oliver’s tone was guarded. He was forcing a distance Lydia knew he didn’t feel.

  She shook her head. “Can we sit? I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

  Oliver looked away, running a hand through his mop of hair.

  “I know this is probably the worst time for me to stop by.”

  “I’ve got a good staff. We can handle it.”

  “Again, this is quite important. I believe only you can help me.”

  That caught his attention. Oliver pointed to a spot in the front of the store. Only three tables in the large shop were occupied. This time of day brought to-go customers. She was pleased he chose a place offering as much privacy as his busy shop could muster.

  “How have you been?” he asked.

  “Fine. And you?”

  Oliver huffed a sigh. “So we’re doing this? Small talk?” He gave her the look she was certain had made him so effective in the courtroom. “That seems a bit inadequate, given our history.” His eyes shifted focus, concentrating on her face. His mask of anger disappeared, replaced with a genuine compassion. “What happened to you? It looks like you butted heads with a mountain goat.”

  Lydia lifted her hand to her forehead. The bruising and black eye had had time to heal. All that lingered from Staz’s assault was minor swelling and pale green traces of what had once been a deep purple bruise. But seen through the eyes of someone who cared for her as Oliver did, Lydia knew it would look bad.

  “I slipped. In my kitchen.”

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never known you to be clumsy.”

  She bit her tongue, omitting that the fall had been at the hands of a giant Russian assassin who had slammed her head against her marble counter. If Oliver knew someone had purposefully hurt her, he’d immediately do whatever he could to keep her safe. But Lydia’s world was marked with chaos and danger. She wouldn’t risk Oliver losing the predictable life he’d built.

  “There’s much you’ve never known about me, Oliver. Clumsy is the least.”

  She cared for him. But she held no illusions she could ever have a full and honest relationship with Oliver. Or anyone. Her hands were bloody. She didn’t deserve a man like Oliver Bane.

  And he certainly didn’t deserve the likes of her.

  “Perhaps it’s best if I get to the point.”

  “I think so. What is it you think I can give you?”

  “You recently had a liaison…of a romantic nature…with an extremely beautiful woman.”

  “You expect me to discuss my sex life with you, Lydia? What gives you the right? After…Given…When all you…Hell, how do you even know what I have or haven’t been doing?”

  “A woman about my height. Blond hair. Expensively dressed. She told you she was new in town. Feeling a bit lonely. You sat with her as she drank a coffee here in your shop. She flirted with you. You offered to give her a tour of Olympia.” Lydia pressed on despite the look of shock on Oliver’s face. “And ended up at your place.”

  “I’m not discussing this.” Oliver made a move to rise from his chair. Lydia reached into her pocket and laid a small, heavy object on the table.

  “Where did you get this?” Oliver picked up the medal. He turned it over and read the back. “This is mine.”

  “I know. You showed it to me once. The Washington Association of Sheriffs gave it to you back when you were state’s attorney. They honored your work busting up a statewide meth network, as I recall.”

  “What are you doing with it?”

  “You told me it was one of the few reminders of your days in politics that you cherished.”

  “A lot of hard work went into that case. It was probably our greatest accomplishment while I was in public office.” The wistfulness in his voice disappeared. “How did you come to have this?”

  “You were proud enough to show this medal to me. You showed it to her too.”

  “Are you stal
king me, Lydia?” He shook his head at the absurdity of the idea. Then awareness dawned on his face. “Oh my god. She’s not from out of town at all, is she? She’s a patient of yours. She told you about what happened between us. But why? Are you telling me she’s working out some crazy shrink thing with you? What’s it called? Transference? Did she find out about our history and try to one-up you in some way?”

  Lydia exhaled. She was concerned about how much to tell him in order to gain his cooperation. She had brought the medal Allie had stolen from Oliver to assure him she had, indeed, been in touch with the beautiful stranger who had seduced him. She needn’t have worried about concocting a plausible reason why. Sweet Oliver had handed her an explanation all on his own.

  “You know I can’t discuss professional matters.” Lydia used the cloak of confidentiality to keep her lies to a minimum.

  “She told me her name was Cassie.” Oliver leaned back against his chair. “But of course you’re going to tell me that’s not even her real name. She used me to get to you, didn’t she?”

  Lydia said nothing.

  “Are you in danger? Am I?”

  “This woman is missing, Oliver. I can tell you that much. I need to find her.”

  “Look in your files. Phone number, address, emergency contact. Don’t you collect that stuff?” Oliver shoved his chair away from the table. “I don’t want to be tangled in any kind of psychodrama. I like my life simple.”

  Which is why we could never be together. “I’ve exhausted every avenue available to me. I need to find her.”

  “Is she going to kill herself? Is she going to kill somebody else? Have you been to the police?”

  “This isn’t a matter for the police.” Lydia chose her words carefully. She’d told so many lies in her life. This man deserved as much truth as she could offer. “I was wondering if she might have given you any hints…any clues…as to where she might have headed. You said she told you she was from out of town. Do you remember where?”

  Oliver thought. “Not that I recall. Cassie is a beautiful woman. Smart, too. Holds herself in a way we don’t see in women from Olympia.”

  Women in Olympia aren’t typically sociopaths. “Did she mention where she likes to travel?”

  “She told me she was here on business. Said she worked for an investment firm looking to develop properties in small cities. We joked about building a housing development here made out of prerusted metal. A material suited to our wonderful rain.”

  Lydia felt a surge of heat at Oliver’s description of the playful conversation the two of them had shared.

  Am I jealous?

  “Did she say where the investment firm was located? Even a state would be helpful.”

  Oliver shook his head.

  “How about vacations? Did you two talk about anything like that?”

  He looked down at his medal as he thought. Then his eyes widened. “She had a beautiful tan. We joked about how rare it is to see that in Washington. She told me she goes to the islands whenever she gets a chance. Said the color of the water inspired her.”

  I’ve already checked Barbados.

  “I told her about the time I sailed in the American Virgin Islands,” Oliver continued. “Cassie—or whatever the hell her name was—knew the area. We talked about favorite beaches and sailing stretches. She told me the AVI were for tourists. Said if I really wanted to see something magical I should try the British Virgin Islands. Something about Spanish Town, as I recall. Does that help?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe. It’s something.”

  One of the two women behind the counter called his name. Oliver and Lydia turned to see nearly ten people standing in line.

  “I’ve got to go.” He stood and watched Lydia rise. “It’s always a mystery with you, isn’t it?”

  Lydia allowed herself a moment’s indulgence by looking at Oliver’s face. She lingered a bit on his soft lips. She pushed away the memory of his soft kisses.

  “I’m sorry this happened, Oliver.”

  He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m a big boy. I can handle myself. Maybe next time you come in we’ll share a cup and catch up.”

  Lydia simply smiled. She didn’t want to lie.

  Chapter 9

  Seattle

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Jackson.” Micki Petty pointed toward a green plastic chair on one side of a long Formica table. “This is a tragic time for you and your family, and we thank you for making the effort to come down. It can’t be easy to talk about this.”

  Jim DeVilla stood against the wall and nodded toward Vester Jackson. Micki was better with the kind words. He’d stand back and read the room.

  “And you’re Benji’s brother,” Micki said to the man entering the third-floor conference room at Seattle police headquarters. She pulled out a chair next to his father, but he walked wordlessly to the end of the table.

  “Please excuse my son,” Vester said. “His mother didn’t raise him to be rude. I’ll introduce him myself since he doesn’t seem to have found his voice this morning. My son’s name is Bayonne.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bayonne. Again, we’re sorry for your family’s loss.” He didn’t answer and Micki took a seat across from Vester Jackson.

  Jim kept his eyes on Bayonne.

  “Mr. Jackson,” Micki began.

  “Folks call me Vester.”

  “Vester,” Micki continued in a sympathetic tone. “I was there.” She looked toward Jim. “So was Detective DeVilla. We were both on the scene…just after Benji was killed. People there knew your son. They called him Banjo. That’s a darling nickname.”

  Vester nodded. “Come from when he was just a little thing. Always need to be on somebody’s knee, that one. Didn’t matter if he knew you or not. You sittin’ down, that boy climbin’ up on you.”

  Micki’s smile was sad. Jim remembered how she had caressed the dead boy, trying to comfort the preteen lying in a pool of blood.

  “They were devastated when they saw it was Benji who had been shot,” she said.

  Jim saw a wave of misery crash over the bereaved father. He knew Vester Jackson to be forty-three years old, but on this sad day he looked twenty years older. Vester was a big man, carrying at least 275 pounds on a six-foot-two frame. He looked burdened with a weight so permanent it might as well be skin. Jim had run a make on him in preparation for the morning meeting. Vester Jackson had no arrests, outstanding warrants, or civil fines pending. The only records on file were four instances of police summoned to the family’s south-side home. The first had been six years earlier. The 911 call had been in response to a woman asking for assistance in calming her angry teenaged son. According to records, no arrest had been made. Three similar calls had been phoned in, the most recent two years ago, resulting in the arrest of Bayonne Jackson. He’d taken a swing at his father. Busted up some furniture and shoved his fist through an interior door. Bayonne Jackson had been twenty years old at the time. His public defender had cut a deal that landed him in jail for ten days. He had served his time and since then had been well known to the Seattle PD, who called him by his street name, Three Pop. Three Pop had a long arrest history for drugs, car thefts, and various assaults. Informants had made Three Pop to be the second-in-command of a powerful gang known as the Pico Underground. As such, he had access to the best lawyering in town. Despite the department’s best efforts, Bayonne Jackson, aka Three Pop, hadn’t spent more than a night in any city jail for the past two years.

  “Banjo was a good boy,” Vester Jackson whispered. “I wasn’t there for him the way I wanted to be. I drive a truck for Smydon Fish. Gotta be down at the docks at sunup to load my route. Banjo was home alone most mornings. But he got hisself to school. He’s a good student. Never more than a C or two on his card. Mos’ly B’s.” A sad smile tugged at his lips. “ ’Cept for gym class. That boy’s a natural athlete. ’Specially basketball. Those classes he got straight A’s.”

  “He was a tall one, all right.�
�� Micki looked toward the young man at the end of the table. “Both your boys got some vertical. You ever play ball, Bayonne?”

  She got no response.

  “Bayonne was a fine ballplayer,” Vester told them. “He was in middle school and those high school coaches already comin’ by the games watchin’ what he got to show. But he lost interest, I guess.” Vester paused. “I suspect the coaches would come lookin’ for Banjo too. He was startin’ middle school next year. Already an inch over six feet. Good ball-handlin’ technique.” He paused again. “Guess we never gonna see what become of that now.”

  “You said he was alone most mornings,” Micki said. “May I ask where Banjo’s mother is?”

  Jim watched the grief on Vester’s face deepen. “Simone died. Been two years now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Micki said.

  “God’s will, I s’pose.” Vester wiped a large hand over his face. “Took sick, got sicker. Next thing I know my Simi was gone.”

  Bayonne squirmed in his chair. Jim saw the anger on his face as he forced his hands to lie flat on the table.

  “Tough on a ten-year-old to lose his mama like that,” Vester continued. “But he seem to be doin’ all right. Got hisself hooked up with a community center couple blocks from the house. After-school programs, hang with the kids, that kind of thing. He liked it there.” Vester looked toward his surviving son. “Yes, sir, never had one lick of trouble from Banjo. Everybody loved that boy. He never give me or Simi one day of disappointment.”

  Bayonne shoved his chair back. Jim shifted his weight, ready to respond if Bayonne felt jumpy. The man caught his eye. Jim gave his best “not here, not now” glare. Bayonne stared back a challenge, but Jim held his gaze. Finally Bayonne looked away.

  “Vester, I’ve got some rough questions to ask,” Micki said. “You up to this?”

  “Now’s as good as ever.”

  “Did Benji talk about any trouble recently? Maybe at school? Or at the community center? Did he give you any reason to believe someone might be angry with him?”