Lydia joined her in a smile. “Well, maybe not this morning. Let’s just say you clean up real nice.”
Savannah held Lydia’s gaze. “Why don’t you, Dr. Corriger?”
“Why don’t I what?”
“Clean up real nice?” Savannah brought her legs up under her and cocked her head. “No offense, but you dress like a drudge. No make-up. Shapeless clothes. Hair pulled back in a scrunchee. I see the kind of bone structure you have. Those big beautiful eyes. You could be drop-dead gorgeous in no time.”
Lydia felt her gut clench. She took another deep breath. “I’ll assume you meant that as a compliment. But we’re here to talk about you. Tell me how you use your own beauty.”
Savannah’s smile disappeared. “People hire me. Not for sex, though that’s usually a part of it. I’m not that kind of prostitute.” She huffed in self-loathing. “At least not anymore.”
“What kind of prostitute are you?” Lydia was happy to have the focus back on her patient.
“You really aren’t like other shrinks, are you?” The smile, though weary, was back. “I was expecting some sort of comforting words.”
“When I offer comforting words you’ll know they’re sincere.” Lydia leaned back. “What kind of prostitute are you?”
Savannah took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling loud and long. “Just for the sake of argument, pretend that you’re the chairman of a major bank. And this bank is about to launch a program of investments that are, let’s say, questionable at best. Maybe even unethical or illegal.”
“Okay. I’m with you so far. Are you telling me you’re a stockbroker?”
“No. I’m more specialized than that.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Pretend you have a member of your board who’s opposed to these investments. Despite the fact that billions of dollars will be made, this board member thinks it’s wrong and can’t be convinced otherwise. You might hire me to make sure that person isn’t available when it comes time to vote.”
“But if I’m the chairman, why wouldn’t I just replace that board member?”
“Maybe letting him go would raise the kind of questions you don’t want splashed across the front page of The Wall Street Journal.” Savannah stared into middle space. “People have their reasons for using me.”
“Okay, let’s stick with your scenario,” Lydia said. “How might you keep the person from voting?”
Savannah shrugged her shoulders. “It’s incredibly easy for a beautiful woman to distract a man.” She turned to face Lydia. “Something tells me you know that.”
Lydia held her gaze. “This is about you, remember? So you distract this fellow. What stops him from crying ‘foul’ when he learns he’s been duped? Going public with his dissent and how he was manipulated?”
Savannah sat numb and silent for several long moments. “Let’s just say he wouldn’t want the details of the distraction to be known.” She shredded a tissue into her lap. “The people who hire me always have full documentation of my work.”
“Blackmail?”
“At its most benign, yes, that could happen.”
“And at its most malignant?” Lydia was certain she didn’t want to hear the answer.
Savannah stared straight ahead. “People die.”
Lydia heard her heartbeat pounding in her ears. “Dead, Savannah? By your hands?”
Savannah blinked and said nothing.
Lydia’s mind raced. Her training hadn’t prepared her for this. “How many, Savannah?”
“Hires or deaths?” Savannah returned her stare into nothingness.
“Deaths, Savannah. How many deaths are you responsible for?” Lydia felt her breath become rapid and shallow.
Tears spilled freely from Savannah’s eyes. “Too many, Dr. Corriger. Too many.”
Lydia blew out a breath and looked out the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. A heavy fog obstructed any view. “When was the most recent?”
Savannah sat quietly. Lydia wondered if she was contemplating how much more to reveal.
“Did you read about that guy at the university? The animal researcher?” she asked. “The one who died right before Christmas?”
Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Are you talking about Fred Bastian?” Her breathing relaxed. “Savannah, he died of a heart attack. It was all over the papers.”
“There’s lots of ways to cause a heart attack.” Savannah reached for her jacket. “But whatever the cause, you’re just as dead, aren’t you? Besides, there are worse things than killing people. Far worse.”
Lydia watched her patient stand and cross the room. “Savannah, you didn’t kill Fred Bastian. Please sit down.”
Savannah glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. “Not today. I’m exhausted.” She stopped and turned before walking through the door. “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Corriger. I feel better.” She bit her lower lip to stop its quiver. “And I didn’t think that was possible. You’ve come to my rescue yet again.”
Lydia tilted her head. “You’ll come back? And you’ll call me if you feel like hurting yourself? Or anyone else?”
Savannah gave a tentative nod. “I promise. On both counts.” She looked down at the door knob before looking back. “I really would like to see how this turns out.”
Lydia bent over, hands on her knees, breathing rapidly. She’d been unable to shake thoughts of her morning meeting with Savannah despite throwing herself into a rugged workout regimen. She tried to make sense of the contradictions but couldn’t. Was Bastian’s death a surrogate for some guilt Savannah was experiencing? Or was it all a game? Lydia recalled her first meeting with the beautiful stranger. Savannah promised lies and conundrums. She challenged Lydia to make sense of the nonsensical.
Lydia grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat off her neck. There was something about Savannah that nagged in the back of her mind. She’d overlooked something major. She glanced at the clock on her basement’s wall. Nearly midnight. Her sixty minute workout was over ten minutes ago. Lydia crossed over to the heavy bag hanging from a rafter and gave it a strong side kick. One more hour. She needed to clear her head of the taunting tune of inadequacy that was stuck on repeat since Savannah’s session. She needed to stay away from the pink box in her bathroom.
Chapter Sixteen
The Fixer checked the papers the first Thursday in January and saw the personal advertisement requesting her service. But Bastion was only two weeks ago and she had no intention of responding. Her eyes dropped to the box just below the ad.
Thank You, Miss Carr
Rage sprang her to attention. She ran downstairs and placed a call.
“Fuck this shit, Wally.” She snarled into the headset when she was greeted by the same digitally disguised voice that had initiated the fix on Fred Bastian. “Lay off the toys, damn it.”
She listened to mechanical clicks and a feedback squeal before Walter Buchner’s nasal voice greeted her.
“I’m so sorry, Ms Carr. But I have to tell you.” He sounded scared. She hoped to ratchet it up to terrified.
“A man is dead because you bought him that way and you reach out for a Hallmark moment?” The Fixer looked at the timer on the computer that bounced her call around cell towers in nine states. She had seventy-two seconds before the connection would automatically end. “This call is my one courtesy, Wally. This is over. You clear on that?”
“Meet me at the warehouse Sunday noon.” Walter’s voice was a blend of tears and terror. “You killed the wrong person.”
He hung up.
The Fixer yanked off her headset, threw it across the cinderblock room, and instantly regretted it. She hated
