The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  Mort and Micki exhaled in tandem. Mort nodded his authorization and Micki pulled an evidence bag from her briefcase. She snapped on latex gloves, picked up Charlotte’s empty coffee cup, and slid it into the plastic bag she’d marked with Charlotte’s initials, the day’s date, and the address of CLIP’s office. She put the napkin Charlotte had used in a second bag.

  Mort couldn’t watch. He walked over to the window and focused on the rain while Micki finished her job.

  Stupid, stupid man.

  Hasn’t he gotten my style by now? Can’t he read my joke? C’mon … sending them off with a bright red kiss? What’s not to love about that?

  And he thinks I killed Vogel? If he wasn’t so pathetic, I’d be offended.

  Stupid, stupid man. We should have been deep into the chase by this point.

  Mama always told me we have to make our own excitement. Warned me about wasting my talents. “Save it for those who can pay, baby.” That’s what Mama always said.

  So the stupid cop thinks I killed Vogel. Watch me, Mama. Watch me smarten him up.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Lydia regretted arranging the meeting once she saw Oliver, but there was no turning back when he looked up and waved her over. He stood as she approached.

  “Hi.” His hands stuttered for a moment. “What am I supposed to do here? Hug? Shake? God, I sound like a dog waiting for instructions,” he groaned.

  She reached out and held his right hand softly. “Thanks for coming.”

  Oliver glanced down the path encircling Capitol Lake. One lone jogger approached. Oliver pulled his jacket close against the midmorning chill. “I know this great coffee shop downtown.” He looked up at the roiling clouds. “Guaranteed to keep the rain off.”

  Lydia sat on the wooden bench. “I didn’t want to intrude on your work.”

  “Meaning you didn’t want Callie to see me talking to you, is that it?” Oliver sat next to her.

  Lydia recalled how much she appreciated his no-nonsense style. “I don’t want to make any trouble for you.”

  He stared over her shoulder, apparently intrigued with a flock of geese splashing in the lake. Lydia nodded as the jogger passed them and waved a breathless greeting.

  “So?” Oliver refocused his brown eyes on her. “What’s up?”

  “I need some help.” Lydia realized how selfish that sounded. “That is, if you’re willing. I find myself requiring your particular expertise.”

  Oliver toed small white pebbles under the bench. “You have a burning question about coffee?”

  She was glad he wasn’t looking at her. “No. More from your previous life.”

  Oliver’s eyebrows rose. “You need legal advice.” He bit his bottom lip. “You disappear for over a year, leave me fearing the worst, and now you want free counsel.” He stood and looked down at her. “You know, Lydia, when you called and asked to meet, half of me wanted to slam the phone down and tell you to go to hell.”

  Lydia held his gaze. “And I would have deserved it. So why didn’t you?”

  “Because the other half foolishly thought you really wanted to talk. To explain. Maybe even …” He shuffled his boot over the gravel. “Maybe even who knows? But this? This is bullshit. You want legal advice, call a lawyer. I roast coffee for a living these days.”

  “But you’re a former state’s attorney.” Lydia stood to meet him eye to eye. “That’s the help I need.”

  He reached a hand to her arm. “You in trouble?”

  Lydia looked down and he immediately dropped his hold. “Not me,” she said. “A kid. A little girl.”

  “Whose little girl?” Oliver looked like he was bracing for an announcement.

  “She’s a friend of mine. Lives in Langley. She’s seven years old and I think she’s about to be sold into prostitution.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened as he took a step back. He looked up in silence for a long moment. Then he sat back down on the bench. “You always know how to get my attention. Whidbey Island? That Langley?”

  Lydia nodded. “That’s where I’ve been. After the hospital, I was in rehab for nearly a year. After that I needed some time to think. To figure out what comes next.”

  “Well, that answers my question about where you’ve been.” Oliver’s face was grim. “You up there alone?”

  She nodded again. “I’m renting a small house. Overlooking the water. It’s lovely.”

  He held her gaze. “I’ve always loved Whidbey. You better sit down and tell me what’s going on.”

  The feeling in Lydia’s gut mixed hope with discomfort. “Her name’s Maizie.” She told Oliver how they met and what she knew about the little girl’s situation. She told him about Maizie’s account of Gary Dunfield beating her mother and how the child took the blows once Hannah left. How her father posed her for photos and had begun showing her pornography.

  Oliver listened in silence but interrupted when Lydia described Maizie being beaten and chained to a car in her father’s back lot overnight. “Hold on, Lydia. I don’t mean to be the voice of Scrooge here, but it sounds pretty damned unbelievable. I mean, where are the authorities? What if this sweet little girl is spinning a farfetched yarn for the nice lady who brings her cocoa and cookies?”

  Of course his law school training and years of experience would force him to consider all the possibilities. Evenly, she described Gary Dunfield’s reputation on the island, his hatred for authority, and his ersatz homeschooling of Maizie. His association with paramilitary organizations.

  “Okay, so he’s a kook,” Oliver said. “Maybe even a lunatic. Could be he’s bringing up a daughter who’s just as whacked out as he is. Come on, Lydia. You have to admit this girl’s story is out there. Maybe your heart’s a little too soft for a tall tale of woe from a girl looking to dodge truant officers.”

  Oliver didn’t have a clue to the state of her heart. If he did, “soft” would be the last word he’d use to describe it. “I have proof.”

  “What kind of proof?” he demanded.

  Lydia told him about Gary Dunfield’s website. She described the efforts Dunfield had taken to bury it deep in cyberspace and her discovery of his disgusting trove of photographs of minors, including his own daughter. She left out the fact her investigative skills had been honed by years of tracking The Fixer’s targets. “And he’s offering his daughter for sex to the highest bidder.”

  “If this is true, you’ve got to call the police. Now. Or at the very least Children’s Protective Services.”

  Lydia clenched her fists against her legs. “Don’t imagine I haven’t thought of that. I’m a psychologist, remember? It’s my duty to report minors in danger.”

  “Then do it, for God’s sake. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  She took a deep breath and steadied her nerves. “Let me tell you about Rachel Gildenstern. I used to treat her mother, Miriam. She was in a marriage the likes of which I’ve seldom seen, and I’ve seen some bad ones. Her husband, Tobin, kept her a virtual slave. He ran the house and Miriam and Rachel did his bidding or paid the consequences. He fashioned himself into a bit of a high-rolling stockbroker. He would never leave Miriam and Rachel home alone, so he spent his time day trading. Even had a few clients. One idiot trusted him with a hundred thousand dollars of his grandmother’s nest egg. Needless to say Tobin whittled that hundred grand into pocket change in less than five months. This guy wasn’t too happy. Threatened to hand Tobin over to the SEC.”

  “What’s this got to do with Maizie?”

  “Turns out this investor was a pervert. He liked his girls young, and Rachel had just turned thirteen. Tobin offers up his daughter in exchange for letting bygones be bygones. Coaches his client on how to buy his daughter little gifts. Urges Rachel to start calling this middle-aged jerk her boyfriend. Had this guy start sending Rachel magazines. Teen magazines at first, but ramping them up in sexual content as Tobin instructed.”

  “My God. The bastard was grooming his own daughter. Where was the mother?�
��

  “She was terrified. She didn’t tell me about it for our first few sessions. Once she did, I told her I had to alert the authorities. She was glad. Something needed to be done and she was too afraid to do anything.” Lydia leveled a stare at Oliver. “Miriam wanted to save her daughter.”

  Oliver’s tone softened. “What did you do?”

  “I called CPS. Got a social worker who informed me the family was well known to them. Seems teachers had called in with concerns over the years.” Lydia was sick to the bones of bureaucratic helplessness. “They told me to call them back after Rachel had actually been raped. Until then they could do nothing.”

  Oliver nodded. “They’re swamped with kids being beaten or starved. The system’s overwhelmed. Crimes that might happen have lower priority.”

  “And that’s in Olympia,” Lydia added. “Langley’s got a two-man police department and the whole island is terrified of Dunfield.”

  Lydia and Oliver sat in silence as two young mothers in neon yoga gear passed with three toddlers waddling behind them. When the parade was nearly to the opposite side of the lake, Oliver spoke.

  “You’re not going to like this. But the system is all you have, Lydia.”

  Lydia’s stomach tightened. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Whidbey’s out of the jurisdiction of any major city. Call that little two-person cop shop.” Oliver shook his head. “Convince them to contact the feds. Show them the website you found. Child pornography is a federal crime. Light a fire under them and have them call in the big guns.”

  A red-hot memory of her own childhood experience with helpless law enforcement seared through her consciousness. “Maizie’s not going through that.”

  Oliver placed a warm hand on hers and searched her face. “This world can be a gruesome place, Lydia. You can’t save everyone.”

  She stood and walked away. Lydia heard him call after her but tuned him out. She knew he was right: she couldn’t save everyone.

  But she would save this one.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Mort parked in front of Reinhart and Ingrid Vogel’s Mercer Island mansion and marked the time: 9:12. That old Army jingle ran through his aching head. We do more before breakfast than most people do all day. Those marketing boys didn’t know squat about a tired detective juggling a serial killer and a high-profile murder case. He got out of the car, flashed his badge to two slabs of beef standing guard at the front door, and wondered if the Vogels always kept this kind of security around.

  A husky housekeeper, eyes red and handkerchief to her lips, greeted him in the entryway. “Missus is waiting. Follow me.”

  She led him through a home the polar opposite of Vogel’s penthouse. Mort noted the gilded mirrors reflecting the high shine of the hallway’s rosewood floor. This was a feminine place. A few feet short of the hall’s end, his escort stopped. She wiped her eyes with the crumpled handkerchief and laid a solid hand on Mort’s forearm.

  “Mister was good man.” Her voice was choked with emotion. “You find who did this fast, ja?” She jerked her large head toward the room. “Missus act strong, but alone she cry and cry.”

  Mort pulled a business card from his wallet. “Call me if you have anything I should know.” His voice was as tender as the morning’s events allowed. “You cared deeply for Mr. Vogel. I’m sure he knew that.”

  The housekeeper waved him into the room before she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and shuffled back down the hall, weeping softly.

  “Come in, Officer.”

  Mort turned to the voice of Ingrid Stinson-Vogel. Even if he hadn’t caught sight of her at last night’s game, he’d know her from the dozens of times her photograph had been in the sports section.

  “Detective Mort Grant.” He crossed the room and handed her his card. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The chair Ingrid sat in seemed higher than most. He pushed any judgment aside. One look at the pale woman dressed in black slacks and sweater, makeup tracked by dried tears and blond hair pulled carelessly into a delicate silver clasp, inspired nothing but pity.

  “Mrs. Vogel, I need to ask you some questions.”

  She stared absently for several long moments. A faint smile crossed her face.

  “I seldom hear that. Thank you, Officer.” Her voice was thin and low.

  “What’s that?” Mort watched her weave a black silk handkerchief through long fingers.

  “ ‘Mrs. Vogel.’ No one ever calls me that.” She motioned for him to sit. “I manage my family’s holdings. There I’m addressed by my maiden name. We’re more informal at the Wings. People call me ‘boss lady’ or whatever jocks trying to sound hip are into this week.” She returned her stare into nothingness. “ ‘Mrs. Vogel’ tells the world I’m connected to him in a way no one else is.”

  “Mrs. Vogel, my questions may seem cruel. I ask you to trust my intent is to learn nothing more than I need to find the person who killed your husband.”

  She looked down into her lap, twisted her handkerchief, and let one solitary sob escape. She took nearly three minutes to compose herself before she responded. Mort was in no hurry. When she finally spoke, Ingrid’s voice was stronger.

  “You want to ask me what a man like Reinhart was doing with a prostitute.” Ingrid leveled her gaze at Mort. “My husband was a man of large appetites.” Her control cracked. She inhaled, held her breath for a few seconds, and brought it under control. “It’s what made him such a success. And it’s also one of the things I loved most about him. Unfortunately, his greatest strength also proved to be his undoing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning when my husband wanted something, he didn’t hesitate.” She met his gaze steadily. “Reinhart was able to purchase anything he needed, Detective. My guess is he wanted sex. I’m sure he picked up a phone and the woman appeared.”

  Mort watched Ingrid set her jaw and square her shoulders against a grief that could crush the life out of her if she let herself acknowledge its full weight.

  “Did your husband frequently use prostitutes, Mrs. Vogel?”

  She snapped her head up and clenched the black silk with both hands. “Would you tell your wife the details of such a perversion?” She struggled to recalibrate her voice to a gentler tone. “Forgive me, please. This is all so tawdry. To answer your question, I have no way of knowing if this was Reinhart’s first or fiftieth foray into that particular industry.”

  Mort nodded. “I understand. Who was your husband’s closest friend? Someone who might know about, well, about what you’re calling his perversion.”

  “People like us aren’t allowed the luxury of friends, Detective. We have associates. We have colleagues.” She let loose a short laugh laced with fatigue. “God knows we have staff and employees. There are no close friends, Detective Grant. What we have is family.” Ingrid raised her eyes and Mort saw the iron resolve it took to run an empire as large as hers, and to be married to a man like Reinhart Vogel. “And mine just got smaller.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mort pulled his car to the curb three blocks after he left Ingrid Stinson-Vogel’s mansion. He had promised to keep her informed of the investigation but knew she’d be getting her information directly from the chief. Or the mayor. Probably both. People who made the kind of political contributions the Vogels did didn’t deal with functionaries.

  He slipped his cell out of his pocket and scrolled his contacts. A vibration announced Micki Petty was calling.

  Mort glanced at his watch. Nine fifty-three. He appreciated many things about Micki, but her respect for urgency always topped the list. He braced himself. “Tell me.”

  He sensed reluctance on the other end of the phone.

  “These CLIP folks friends of yours, Mort?”

  His throat tightened and his breathing slowed. Blood pounded against his eardrums. “Tell me.”

  “We got clear fingerprints. DNA will take a few days. Lab knows this one’s a priority.” Micki sounded sad to relay
her next sentence. “Mort, the fingerprints match. So does the lipstick on the cup: Avignon Studio’s Red Hot Number Seven. We’ve got Trixie.”

  One hand tightened around the phone while the other strangled the steering wheel. Mort leaned back and let the headrest cradle his aching skull. Mist gathered on his windshield, and the image of that spice rack he’d made his mother in eighth-grade shop drifted through his mind. That first project had sparked a lifelong love affair with woodworking. The smell of newly sawn lumber. Razoring thin planes to reveal the object waiting beneath. Staining and wiping until the grain sang.

  He should have been a carpenter.

  “You there, Mort?” Micki’s voice pulled him back. “DA grabbed the first judge he ran into. I’m holding the arrest warrant. How do you want to play this?”

  He reached forward, clicked the windshield wipers on, and his world snapped into focus. “Get Jimmy. I’ll call you when I’m on the ferry. You can fill me in then.” His voice regained its volume. “And Mick … no one moves until I get there.”

  Mort walked into CLIP headquarters at 11:48. The offices seemed even busier than they’d been earlier. He remembered Charlotte had told him they were working against a grant deadline. Over twenty people were answering phones, grabbing files, or working at computers.

  But at that moment he wanted to see Charlotte more than any other person on the planet.

  Mort knew what waited outside. Armed officers were positioned at each of CLIP’s three entrances: front, side, and alley. Sharpshooters on rooftops opposite the building were locked, loaded, and poised to take Trixie if she somehow eluded the cops on the doors. Eight squad cars idled in the streets surrounding CLIP. Each person involved knew their role and waited for Mort’s signal. They’d reviewed the arrest plan in the departmental conference room. Face-to-face. No scanners or radios for the press to monitor.

  Mort hoped the arrest would be uneventful. A locking of the eyes. An announcement of arrest. Cuffs on wrists. Miranda rights read. Load her into a car and get her out of his sight.