The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  For a few dollars more, Dunfield’s customers gained access to photos of nude children. Some looked to be reprints of alleged “art” photos. Most looked like innocent family shots of kids in a bathtub or running around a yard sprinkler. The grainy nature of some suggested they were taken with a long-range lens. Lydia was sickened at what she saw. Still, a part of her was relieved she still hadn’t come across any pictures of Maizie.

  Maybe he’s keeping them all to himself, for his own stimulation. Lydia’s jaw tightened. Disgust and shame from her own childhood torture boiled as she realized what that could mean as Maizie got a bit older.

  She hacked into the third level. Her fists clenched at what a year’s subscription service of $49.99 a month would deliver. Lydia saw her sweet library buddy. The scenes ranged from innocent to anatomically graphic. The one common thread throughout the scores of photos was the sheer terror in Maizie’s eyes.

  A window attached to Level 3 teased an offering so spectacular the subscriber would need to pay fifty dollars just to see the advertisement. Lydia entered two commands and bypassed the PayPal submission. Her blood turned to ice when the enticement danced across the screen. Her temples throbbed a homicidal rhythm as Dunfield urged an early response due to his expected deluge of interest.

  Lydia was certain he was correct.

  She was equally certain she’d get there first.

  She logged out of Dunfield’s site, shut down her computer, and double-checked the locks on her communication center.

  She stepped to an adjacent door and keyed another code to gain entry to a small reading room with bookshelf-lined walls. One overstuffed chair sat next to a small table holding a lamp and notepad. Lydia pulled out a volume of To Kill a Mockingbird from a lower shelf, pressed the dark red button concealed behind it, and stood back as the shelf swung on hidden hinges, exposing her armory. She bypassed assault rifles, sawed-off shotguns, and infrared scopes to choose two handguns and several cans of Mace. She pulled open a drawer and ran her eyes over the selection of knives arrayed against black foam fittings. A triple-sided gutting knife she’d picked up on an assignment in Hong Kong grabbed her attention. She tossed the knife, guns, and Mace into a small canvas bag. She tossed in two boxes of ammunition and zipped it closed before taking a final look at the clock. Twelve fifteen.

  Plenty of time to get back to Whidbey in time for cookies and cocoa with Maizie.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mort stood over the body and contemplated the great equalizer of death. Yesterday Mort’s pay grade wouldn’t have gotten him any closer to Reinhart Vogel than he’d been to the big man’s wife a half hour earlier. Separated by an arena, twenty thousand people, and a dozen security guards. Now Vogel was lying dead at Mort’s feet. His battered bald head less than an inch from the tip of Mort’s resoled wingtip. Cold eyes staring into nothing. Yielding no clues to whose face was the last he’d seen.

  Yes, sir, Mort thought. Yesterday you would have passed me on the street without a second glance. And I’m the guy who’s gonna figure out who killed you.

  A uniformed patrolman stepped in front of Mort to unroll the body bag. “Trixie’s moving uptown, eh, Chief?”

  “And she’s getting antsy.” This from the officer who took the maid’s statement. Thin hair and thick waistline. “Just one day since her last kill.”

  Mort and Jimmy exchanged looks.

  “I’ll take the gist of the maid’s statement,” Mort said. “Save your opinions.”

  Thick and Thin looked around to see if anyone else had caught the putdown. He flipped his pad open and read off the facts. “Says she’s been on the payroll just over a year. Comes three times a week to tidy up and do laundry. She figured since the lady moved out and with the Wings playing at home, the joint would be vacant. Figures it’s a good time to do her thing.”

  Mort scanned the living room. Six officers. A dead man sprawled on the floor. Still enough room for a neighborhood beer party. “Tell me more about the lady who moved out.”

  “One of Vogel’s chippies is my guess. I mean, look at this place. Everybody knows Vogel and the missus got a palace on Mercer. That’s a half-hour ferry ride at most. What’s a guy with a mansion that close need with a pad downtown? If this ain’t a love nest, I’ll eat my hat.”

  Mort looked at the officer’s strained belt and had no doubt that given sufficient ranch dip, the man could follow through on his wager. “We have a name on the newly departed woman?”

  “Maid didn’t know. Just that she could tell it was the same woman from the laundry and the food in the fridge. All organic crap. Maid gets word she needs to come by and pick up a new key. Comes up, boom. No ladies’ clothes. No tofu shit in the fridge.”

  Mort bit his lower lip. “So the maid comes up …”

  “Security desk says she signed in at 9:32. She came straight to the penthouse.” He read from his notes. “She headed to the kitchen and put her cleaning supplies on the counter. Came in here to put on some music to entertain her while she cleans. Rounds the sofa, finds him laying here all bloody and dead, and runs out of here screaming something in Spanish so loud it brought everybody running. They take one look and punch 911.”

  Mort watched the coroner’s crew zip Vogel into his bag and heft the corpse onto the gurney. His attention stayed with them as they rolled the self-made mogul away. Then he nodded to Thick and Thin. “I want your full report on my desk by sunup. Facts only.”

  The officer mumbled his assurances and left. Two members of Micki’s forensic team finished dusting the living room, and she sent them to join the squad in the kitchen. “I want everything,” she reminded them. “If there’s a mouse in this place, I want a sample of its hair and droppings.”

  Micki showed Mort a pair of cuff links tagged and bagged for evidence. “Wings logo accented in diamonds.” She tossed them onto the evidence trolley. “Probably getting ready for the game when he was hit.”

  “Not that he missed anything,” Jimmy grumbled.

  Micki, Jimmy, and Mort stood alone in the luxurious room.

  “Who’s gonna say it first?” Jimmy finally asked.

  “This isn’t Trixie.” Micki stood with her hands on her hips.

  “Press is going to be all over this.” Mort rubbed a hand through his hair. “The chief’s gonna go ballistic.”

  “She’s right, Mort. Sure, he’s tied up.” Jimmy ticked off on his fingers. “But A: Reinhart’s head is smashed like a melon. Trixie strangles her vics. B: Look at this crib, Mort. This is as far from Trixie’s by-the-hour motels as I am from the king of Spain. And let’s not even pretend a guy like Vogel is going after some dockside prostitute. If Vogel wants hired help, he’s calling Esme. And finally, C: Trixie leaves a bright red smooch on the vic’s forehead. Same spot every time. Like she’s sending a message. Vogel’s head was clean. What’s different in this case is precisely what we’ve kept from the press.”

  “And I’m supposed to find comfort in that?” Mort had lived with Trixie’s handiwork for nearly four months. He knew her M.O. like he knew his name. This wasn’t Trixie.

  But it was a lucky break.

  “Listen.” Mort glanced to assure himself the forensic team was out of earshot. “This stays with us. I want everyone else—the press, the uniforms, the public—to assume Trixie struck again.”

  Jimmy took a step back. “You gone crazy, Mort? Chief thinks we let Trixie get another one—especially one the size of Reinhart Vogel—and he’ll eat our oysters for breakfast. We’ve got to tell him this is a mimic.”

  Mort put one hand on Micki’s shoulder and the other on Jimmy’s. “I’ll square it with the chief. Let him decide whether or not to clue in the mayor. But this stays with us.”

  “So we let Trixie get good and mad someone’s stealing her spotlight?” Micki asked.

  Mort nodded. “She’s been successful because she’s been calculating. Let’s see what happens when emotions cloud her judgment. She may slip enough for us to catch her.” He turned to Ji
mmy. “And you said it yourself, buddy. Look at this place. This penthouse is on top of the world. Even the maid has to sign in, and she’s got a key. Whoever did this was invited in by Vogel himself.”

  Mort watched the dawn of awareness brighten Jimmy’s eyes.

  “And if they think we’re buying Trixie’s to blame here …” Jimmy smiled.

  “Then they might let their guard down long enough for us to nab them, too.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “You’re working two murder fronts?” Robbie shoveled in the last bite of hash browns. “Damn, your life is one party after another, isn’t it, Dad?”

  “More like a music hall and I’m doing all the tap-dancing.” Mort carried his dish to the sink and rinsed off the remainder of his breakfast. His eyes burned after ninety minutes of restless sleep. “The chief’s meeting with the mayor this morning. Says he’ll make the decision in the moment whether or not to tell her we’re looking at two different killers.” He wiped his hands on Edie’s favorite red plaid dish towel and cursed the frayed corners. He reached for his badge and keys. “The press will be so far up the mayor’s butt she’ll think she gargled with hair spray. What’s your plan?”

  “I’m meeting that Nancy woman at ten. She’s taking me around to some of the families from CLIP.” Robbie leaned his chair back on two legs and chugged his orange juice. “It’ll make great background for the book.”

  “I get the feeling Nancy’s more interested in telling her own story than sharing you with CLIP members.”

  “I know the type. We hookin’ up later?”

  “I’m with Jimmy and Micki at seven,” Mort said. “See what they’ve been able to get from the coroner and the lab. You okay flying solo?”

  “You bet. If I find some time after the CLIP interviews, I may head back to Esme’s bridal shop.”

  “Just don’t go playing cowboy. Leave the detective work to the guys with the shields.”

  “Vogel died from blunt-force trauma.” Jimmy tossed the coroner’s initial findings on Mort’s desk as he and Bruiser entered his office at 6:55.

  Mort reached for the report.

  Micki came in behind Jimmy with her own copy. “Doc says the blood pools and tissue necrosis on Vogel’s wrists and ankles indicate he’d been dead over an hour before he was trussed up.”

  Mort’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “So whoever killed Vogel stayed with him a while, probably trying to figure his next move.”

  “Then it dawns on him,” Jimmy said. “Grab some rope, tie a few granny knots, and it’s a Trixie murder. Wiseass probably figures we’re so dumb we’ll just roll Reinhart into the heap and close this case when we catch her. If Trixie denies doing Reinhart, no one will pay attention.”

  Micki reached down to scratch Bruiser’s head. “Tox screen won’t be back for a while. But I doubt we’ll find Rohypnol in Vogel’s bloodstream.”

  Mort scanned the report. “So we’ve built a solid case that Trixie didn’t kill Vogel. We got anything that might point us in the direction of who did?”

  “Nada,” Jimmy answered. “I’m heading back to Vogel’s penthouse to oversee interviews with staff and neighbors.”

  Mort nodded. “I’m on the widow.” As Jimmy and Bruiser left, he turned to Micki. “Push the coroner on that tox screen. Even if it’s just a rule-out.”

  Micki agreed but didn’t move.

  “Something on your mind, Detective Petty?”

  Micki closed the door. She pointed to the coatrack mounted on Mort’s wall. “That scarf. I noticed it yesterday. It’s new?”

  Mort turned to see Charlotte’s brightly colored loop hanging from the peg next to his jacket. He liked the memory of her draping it around his neck. “The person who made it would be pleased you called it a scarf.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  Mort’s defensive reflex kicked in. “Why do you ask?”

  Micki crossed over and ran the threads through her hands. “I’ve been researching fibers from Trixie’s case for nine months. When I first saw this, I pegged it for a Loywood Mills manufacture. Same bright color, same weight, same mohair and silk blend.” She tugged on one of a dozen loose ends and freed a length of yarn. “I pulled one out and ran it through the lab.”

  His stomach lurched. “Without my permission?”

  Micki leveled her stare to meet his. “It’s the same yarn used by Trixie.”

  Mort’s breath stopped. Bile rose in the back of his throat and a clammy sweat covered his neck. He steadied a hand on his desk. “You said a couple of shops in King County carry their stuff.”

  “Two shops. But we’re not talking coincidence. This isn’t the same type of yarn Trixie used. I compared what I pulled from your scarf to fibers taken at the scenes. It’s from the same skein used to knit the rope that strangled Tony Wagner, Trixie’s seventh victim.”

  “You’re sure?” Mort’s voice was low.

  Micki nodded again. “Electron microscopes don’t lie. Who gave it to you?”

  Mort pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to block the screaming tracers launching from the base of his skull. He glanced at Micki’s briefcase. “You got an evidence bag in there?”

  Micki’s face was the picture of regret. “I do.”

  Mort looked over to the first gift Charlotte had given him. “Tag it.” He blew out a long breath and reached for his keys. “Follow me, Mick. We’ve got a stop to make before you visit the coroner.”

  Charlotte looked up and smiled when Mort and Micki walked into CLIP headquarters. She sat at a table with five women while at least fifteen other people scurried in and out of the large sunny space. Mort was surprised at the level of activity. It was just past eight a.m. He forced a weary smile and was pleased Micki followed his act by doing the same.

  “Charlotte Conklin, meet Micki Petty.”

  Charlotte rose and offered a gracious greeting.

  “We’re dead tired.” Mort let his shoulders sag. “I suppose you’ve heard about Reinhart Vogel.”

  “It’s all over the morning news,” Charlotte said.

  “We were at the game when we caught the case.” Micki’s voice was the epitome of fatigue. “Been up all night. I told Mort if he didn’t get me some caffeine he’d have another dead body to deal with.”

  “There’s no way we’re going back to the station,” Mort said. “Press is everywhere. And the last place I want to be is some restaurant filled with good citizens clicking their tongues about Seattle’s not-so-finest. I was hoping we could hit you up for some of your wonderful coffee and maybe a quiet place to sit for a few minutes.”

  Charlotte looked around her bustling office and Mort sensed her hesitation. “We’re finishing up a grant-writing project. Give me a minute.” She called a young man over from the opposite side of the room and spoke quiet instructions to him.

  “There now,” she told them. “Brian will take over for a bit.” She placed a gentle hand on Micki’s arm and led her away, urging Mort to follow. “Let’s see what we can do to refuel you two.”

  Mort and Micki settled into plastic chairs clustered around a glass-top table in a break room. Charlotte busied herself pouring coffee into foam cups and piling cookies onto a paper plate.

  “How do you take it?” she asked.

  “Black’s fine,” Mort and Micki answered in unison.

  “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you,” Charlotte said. “Take as much time as you need.”

  Mort let his smile grow wide. “Join us, please.” He pulled the vacant chair next to him in invitation and nodded toward the coffee urn. “Pour yourself a cup. I could use some friendly company.”

  Charlotte paused and glanced toward the door. Mort saw Micki shift her feet under the table, ready to move if Charlotte made a run.

  “I could take a few minutes.” Charlotte nodded. “Brian knows what to do.” She poured herself a half cup of coffee and took the seat beside Mort.

  “It would be nice if murderers took numbers like a
t the bakery, wouldn’t it?” She reached for a cookie. “I suppose they want you to prioritize Reinhart Vogel’s death. He’s the big important man, after all. Does his case put Trixie on the back burner?”

  Mort looked down into his cup and saw his reflection ripple across the dark liquid. He’d played games with suspects hundreds of times and never felt one minute of discomfort. But he hated playing with Charlotte. “Nothing’s on the back burner. Trixie did Reinhart.”

  Charlotte stopped mid-sip. She looked at Mort, then Micki, then back to Mort. “You’re not serious.”

  Before either of them could answer, Nancy Mader entered the break room, waving a file folder in each hand. She stopped short when she saw Mort and Micki.

  “Charlotte, I need you to look at these budgets.” Nancy handed her the files and turned toward Mort. “Been watching the news. You don’t have any trouble with job security, do you? Your boy going to write a book about this Vogel character, too?” She poured herself a cup of coffee and joined them. “He’s coming here this morning. Your boy, I mean. Picking me up at ten. Wants to know all about me and my family. I told him I’d introduce him to other CLIP folks, too. Don’t worry, Charlotte. That budget’s my last piece for the grant.” She turned back to Mort. “So what brings you by?”

  “Trixie got a big one last night,” Micki said.

  “Nancy, they’ve come looking for a little rest in their busy morning.” Charlotte blotted a napkin against her lips. “And I think we could do them an enormous favor by giving them some peace.”

  Nancy ignored Charlotte’s hint. “You mean Vogel?” She tapped her paper cup against the table glass.

  Mort threw a beseeching look to Charlotte. She nodded, gathered the file folders, and stood.

  “Nancy, I have a few questions about these numbers.” Charlotte pulled on the back of Nancy’s chair. “Let’s go to my office. I have some spreadsheets I think will help.”

  Charlotte herded Nancy toward the door. She looked back over her shoulder and Mort gave a wave while he mouthed, “Thank you.” She closed the break room door behind her.