by T. E. Woods
A few songs later the band announced another break and the dancers shuffled back to their tables. Mr. Newborn looked at his watch. Mrs. Newborn sighed, glanced around the bar, and picked up her jacket and purse. Lydia watched them inch to the door, hand in hand. They stepped aside to let a young man in a parka and knit cap enter. He spoke to the bartender, who shrugged his shoulders. The young man stepped deeper into the bar and called out.
“Mrs. Bane?” He raised his voice and called again. “I got a cab for Mrs. Bane.”
Lydia took one last sip of beer and headed toward the Cinderella carriage she’d arranged to take her home.
Chapter Six
Ingrid Stinson-Vogel crossed one leg over the other and smoothed a manicured hand over her raw silk skirt. “You saw the projected ticket sales?”
Allen Wilkerson, head coach for the Washington Wings, nodded. “I did. It’ll be nice playing to a full house.” Despite his lean frame, he struggled to fit his six-foot-seven-inch body into the club chair opposite Ingrid’s desk.
“The chance for a playoff berth is bringing people back.” Ingrid enjoyed watching the large men who filled her professional life struggle with her feminine furniture. “Will we get past Portland?”
“I don’t see it as a problem. They’re having a rough year.”
“Ours hasn’t been much better.” God, she hated the smugness of men. “We need to go deep in the playoffs, Allen. What are our chances against Los Angeles?”
“They’ll likely take the first game. Home court and all.” Wilkerson ran his hand through his thick hair. “But if LionEl’s on, we should split. Come home with the series tied.”
Ingrid shook her head. “Not good enough. I don’t want you or anyone else on this team thinking a first-game loss to the Lakers is acceptable. Have you seen the papers? Read the blogs?”
Allen shrugged. “Those opinions stink about as much as the assholes squirtin’ ’em out. I stay focused on the team.”
Ingrid stood and walked across thick oyster-gray carpet. Despite her five-foot-ten-inch height, she could wear four-inch heels and still look delicate. She closed her office door.
“Every sportswriter in the country is laughing at how we blew a nine-win start. We’re two-and-eight in our last ten games. Six straight losses. If we get past Portland, Vegas has us out in four straight.” She crossed the room and stood over him. “I’ve gotten you the best talent available. LionEl’s led the league in points and rebounds for the past three years. But he can’t rally the team. Does he understand Barry’s ready to take his place?”
“Barry’s a first-year rookie. Good but green. Why don’t you leave the coaching to me?”
Ingrid’s blue eyes flared. “I’ve been leaving it to you all season and we’ve been sitting on the bubble for weeks. I don’t care if you use a carrot, a stick, or a voodoo curse. Find a way to get LionEl playing up to the money I’m paying him.”
A knock on the door stalled Wilkerson’s response. Ingrid’s secretary poked in a timid head.
“What is it, Danielle?” Ingrid asked. “Coach and I are in the middle—”
Before she could finish, a six-foot-nine-inch black man with beaded cornrows plowed past the diminutive assistant. He wore a hand-tailored pinstripe suit, black silk shirt, and gold tie. A three-inch diamond “L” graced his left lapel.
“LionEl is here to see you,” the tall man announced. He was followed by two men the size of refrigerators whose looks said they’d prefer to yank your colon out through your throat than say good morning. “And he is not happy.”
Ingrid nodded to her flummoxed secretary. “It’s okay, Danielle. Mr. King is always welcome.” She turned a dazzling smile to the giant. “Coach and I were just talking about how making the playoffs is all up to you. You’re going to give the Lakers a show.”
“I don’t like what I read today.” The man Seattle sportswriters called “the Lion King” tossed a folded newspaper to the toes of Ingrid’s shoes. “Your husband says LionEl is getting old.”
She bent down, picked up the paper, and feigned surprise at the article she’d first read at five o’clock that morning. “I’m sure he was misquoted,” she lied. “Why don’t we let Danielle get your friends some refreshment while the three of us talk?”
“What other way might ‘I worry about the mileage on his knees’ work?” LionEl crossed massive arms over a brick-wall chest. “He speculates which will go first, LionEl’s back or LionEl’s ankles. Explain the misquote to me, boss lady.”
Wilkerson rose. “You’re upset, LionEl. We’d have a much more productive time if it was just us.”
LionEl’s face was a grim mask. He turned to his men and nodded toward the door. “Go let little Danielle spoil you.”
The entourage left the room. Ingrid asked LionEl to take a seat and she settled in behind her desk. Coach Wilkerson sat next to his multimillion-dollar point guard.
“Reinhart’s comments were, I’m sure, taken out of context.” Ingrid hoped she looked relaxed. “You know what he thinks of you. Remember that Kenyan tribal robe he got you last Christmas?” She gave her head a slow shake. “If you knew the trouble he had getting that through customs. I kept telling him to find another gift, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘LionEl is king of the lanes and he deserves royal robes,’ he said.” She watched his face soften. “You, more than anyone, should know how the press distorts and twists words.”
The tall man nodded. “Maybe.”
“And this isn’t where we need your attention now,” Wilkerson said. “This team is counting on you. You’re our Lion in Winter. How can we help you keep your head where it needs to be?”
Ingrid’s office door pushed open again. This time her husband strode in. She had a moment to reflect that with his square shoulders, perfectly shaved and powdered head, and impeccable Saville Row tailoring, he cut as impressive a figure as he had on their wedding day. Her heart fluttered a nearly forgotten dance and for a moment she wished she didn’t know him as well as she did.
“I saw the side show in the reception room.” Reinhart crossed to LionEl in three broad steps. “This team needs to beat Portland. You planning on showing up for work?”
LionEl pulled himself out of the chair and stared at the man who’d just insulted him. “I don’t like black-or-white questions. I’m more nuanced than that.”
Ingrid rose. “Reinhart, please.”
Reinhart held the big man’s glare. “Thirty-four points in the last three games. I did the math. Seems I’m paying you about twenty grand a point.” He turned to Wilkerson. “Teams have him figured out, Coach. They’re defending him like he’s second string on the University of Akron’s girls’ team. So, either you’re out of tricks …” He turned back to LionEl. “Or you’re a dog too old to learn. Maybe eleven years in the NBA is enough for you.”
Wilkerson stepped next to LionEl. “I appreciate your concern, Reinhart. But if it’s all the same to you, you’re paying me to call the plays. Our star’s best moves are ahead of him.”
Reinhart glared at his wife and coach before returning his attention to LionEl. “They may ask what kind of silk you prefer them to use when they wipe your ass, but I’m a businessman. To me you’re a commodity. You perform, I hold. You don’t, I dump.” Reinhart seemed unfazed by the athlete standing in front of him clenching his fists and jaw. “Right now I’m leaning toward a fire sale. How you perform against Los Angeles will dictate whether I pull the trigger. And the road to L.A. starts with a win against Portland.” He took a step closer. “I need twenty thousand screamers willing to pay $67.50 a ticket in that arena at least through the semis. So pull your head out of whatever gangster pose you’ve got it in and get it in the game.” He turned away, shook his head at his coach, and looked at his wife. “I’ll be late for the Cancer Ball tonight. Take your own car. I’ll get there sometime after ten.”
Reinhart left the room. Ingrid knew the time she would have cared what or who kept him from their evening plans was long past.
<
br /> Chapter Seven
Mort looked at his cell phone and saw his son was calling. “Hey, Robbie. How are the girls?”
“We’re fine, Dad. Hadley and Hayden have a calendar marking the days until your next visit. Dates still the same?”
“Far as I’m concerned. What’s new?”
Robbie updated his father on the latest goings-on in the Denver home he shared with Claire and their twins. Mort laughed at the story of his eight-year-old granddaughters climbing so high in a tree their victims couldn’t tell who was throwing those water balloons.
“You’re earning your money with those two,” Mort said. “How’s the book tour?”
“Sales are brisk.” Robbie sounded proud. “Believe it or not, my agent says there’s some Hollywood interest in The Fixer. Guess the true story of a sexy hit woman who kills the baddest of the bad, then disappears without a trace is too juicy for them not to bite.”
Mort’s gut reacted in anticipation of the havoc a Hollywood movie might bring. He forced an enthusiasm he didn’t feel.
“I should get your autograph now, huh? Who you gonna have play me?”
“Some strong silent type.” Robbie’s voice shifted to concern. “You sound beat.”
Mort growled, “Just back from a meeting with the chief. I’m sure he’s catching it from the mayor. Nobody’s happy.”
“Your case is one of the reasons I called, actually.”
Mort sat up. “You got a lead for me, Mr. Fancy Crime Writer? One good name gets you a case of your favorite whiskey.”
Robbie laughed. “It’s about another book. My agent says I need a follow-up while my name’s hot.”
“You leaving the paper?”
“I’m thinking ahead. No way a reporter’s salary covers college tuition for my girls. Let me help, Dad. Don’t forget it was me who brought The Fixer to your attention last year when you were working that college professor’s murder. How about we crack this Trixie case together?” Robbie paused and let the notion sink in. “I could be out there tomorrow. Claire’s taking the girls to France for her mother’s fifty-fifth. They’ll be gone a month.”
Mort liked the idea of having something other than empty rooms and a basement workshop to greet him at the end of a day. “They’ll miss school?”
“I think their teachers are happy for the reprieve.”
The memory of a red-faced chief spitting out warnings came to Mort. He knew Robbie had first-rate investigative instincts and could keep things confidential. A no-cost extra pair of eyes and legs couldn’t hurt the budget, either.
But he worried about Lydia. How vulnerable would she be if Robbie, who’d spent more than a year researching The Fixer, was just across the bay?
“Dad? You there?”
“I’m here, son.” Mort looked at the whiteboard listing the names of Trixie’s seven victims. Notes and scribbles adding up to nothing. He shifted his gaze to the framed photo of Robbie, Claire, and the girls and saw the same twinkle in Rob’s eyes that had delighted him in Edie’s, the same sandy hair Robbie shared with his sister.
“What the hell. Come on. We’ll see what we can see.”
Chapter Eight
Lydia dropped three volumes into the library’s book-return slot, greeted the man behind the checkout counter, and headed to the periodicals. She could afford to have whatever she wanted delivered directly to her door or e-reader, but she’d haunted libraries since she was a child. She felt safe surrounded by books and the people who loved them, and her thrice-weekly trips to the library on Second Street allowed her a semblance of human contact.
The girl was there again. Lydia had seen her enough times to know she preferred the overstuffed armchair in the far corner of the kids’ section. She appeared to be seven or eight years old. Old enough to enjoy the latest easy-reader mystery or dragon-laced fantasy, but too young to be there unattended. The girl stayed at the library for hours, yet Lydia had never seen a parent or teacher. The girl often wore the same clothes. Her habit of breaking from whatever she was reading to monitor the front door each time the tinkling bell sounded triggered a deep memory in Lydia.
This girl was hiding from someone.
The girl watched Lydia settle into a chair with the newspapers she’d selected, then went back to her book. Time passed in silence as Lydia read the latest accounts of Seattle’s serial killer. Mort was quoted several times in various articles and she sensed the frustration in his words. She knew it was only a matter of time before he put the pieces together and found the woman the press called Trixie.
He’d found her, after all.
When Lydia was finished, she gathered the papers to return them to the shelves. The girl tracked Lydia’s movement and seemed to shrink deep into the cushions as Lydia neared. Lydia gave the girl a wink and continued past on her way to select three books to take home.
“What’s the little girl’s story?” Lydia handed her library card to the man behind the counter. “She’s here a lot.”
“Even more than you,” the man replied. “I’m George, by the way. Will you be joining us permanently in Langley, Lydia?”
Adrenaline surged when the man mentioned her name. A heartbeat later Lydia realized she’d been handing him her card three times a week for nearly two months. She wasn’t accustomed to small-town familiarity.
“Still trying to decide that.” She forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, George.”
“Same here.” He processed her books and handed them to her. “She’s Maizie Dunfield. Sweet little thing. I knew her mother.” His tone hardened. “And, of course, I know her father.”
“You say that like everyone does.”
George raised a conspiratorial brow. “You stick around this island long enough, you will, too. Owns that dump he likes to call a salvage yard about four miles outside town.”
“The one with the rusting cars?” Lydia had wondered why such an eyesore was permitted to function on this picturesque island. “And those antigovernment billboards?”
“That’s the one,” George said. “Folks say he makes a fortune stripping those hulks and selling the parts over the Internet. The county’s been trying to shut him down for years, but he’s got money for lawyers and isn’t afraid to spend it. Why he doesn’t use some of that for his little girl is beyond me. Some days she’s here all day and I don’t see her eat a thing.”
“What about school?”
George shook his head. “Gary Dunfield doesn’t believe in public schools. Or anything associated with rules or law. He’s hooked up with those folks who like to meet in the woods, play with guns, and talk about how the government’s a puppet for some shadow group of Jews and Chinese controlling everything. Crazy stuff. A bunch of them got together and submitted papers to run their own school.” George glanced over to Maizie. “But he doesn’t give a care about her. I don’t mind her coming in. She reads everything I got. At least she’s learning something.”
“You said you knew her mother.”
George nodded to a wistful memory. “Hannah. Every bit as sweet as little Maizie. When she first came to the island, she’d come in here and read the fashion magazines.” He leaned in and whispered. “It wasn’t long before she was showing up with black eyes and bruises. Always with some story about how clumsy she’d been. I figured old Gary got out of hand. One day she came in with her arm in a cast and the look of a beaten dog too scared to bite. She was bringing back a couple of magazines I let her take home even though they’re not supposed to leave the premises. Said she wouldn’t be coming back. That her duty was to her husband and she couldn’t be wasting time here at the library.” He clucked his tongue. “Can you imagine anyone thinking time here was wasted?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, she left the island soon after that. Gary was fit to be tied. Stormed into town cussing Hannah’s name and swearing anybody who’d had a hand in helping her run away would see him in court. I, for one, didn’t think of her as having run away. More like she escaped.” He looked back over to
Maizie. “I can’t for the life of me figure out why Hannah’d leave her daughter with a man like that.” He shook his head. “I guess there’s no telling what a person will do if they’re scared enough.”
Lydia picked up her things and gave a long look to Maizie, sitting with her skinny legs tucked up underneath her, turning pages in a book nearly as large as she was. “No,” she said. “I guess there’s no telling.”
Chapter Nine
Reinhart Vogel rocked on his heels and watched the Wings stumble through halfhearted practice shots. “They’re playing like overpaid assholes afraid to break a sweat. No wonder we’re one game away from getting tossed. I don’t spend my money to watch the playoffs at home, Wilkerson.” He spread his arms wide to take in the state-of-the-art arena. “And the good folks of King County didn’t spend two hundred million hard-earned tax dollars to build a showcase for losers.”
Allen Wilkerson took a deep breath. “I don’t know why you come down here, Reinhart. It only gets your blood boiling. We’ll get past Portland.”
Reinhart sneered at his coach. “We got one guy working out there. What’s your plan for him?”
Wilkerson watched the players and zeroed in on the only one who’d managed to take off his warm-ups. Number 9. Barry Gardener. A standout at Gonzaga since his freshman year. Every team in the NBA knew he was a dynasty builder and started courting him early. Instead, he stayed, graduated, and was named first-team All-American his last two years. Reinhart had appealed to Gardener’s sense of loyalty. “You’re Washington born and raised, kid. Play for me and break all the records here at home.”
Gardener signed with the Wings, took his bonus, bought his parents a house in Renton, and saw less than three minutes playing time per game.
“The kid’s gonna be great.” Wilkerson watched Gardener dribble past three teammates for a hanging slam dunk. “But the NBA is a world away from college. I want to pace him. LionEl’s the money.” Wilkerson pointed to the player dancing the ball between his legs in the back half of the court. “He’s proven himself in end-of-season heat. We get enough of a lead against Portland, I’ll give Gardener time. But he’s not ready to lead. Do this my way and we’ll be fine.”
