“I have to go, Dr. Corriger.” She shoved her hands into her jacket pocket and took three wide steps. “I’ve done too much. I’ve hurt too many people. I don’t deserve saving.”
“Will you come back?” Lydia struggled with her own sense of helplessness. “Please, Savannah. Promise me you’ll come back.”
Lydia stood motionless as her patient ran out into the cold without answering her.
Chapter Eighteen
Mort watched the snow falling outside his office window and wondered what the hell was going on with the weather. He’d lived in the Pacific Northwest his entire life. Fifty-eight winters. He’d seen snow maybe ten times. Enough to snarl traffic for an hour or two, then it was gone. In these parts snow stayed on the mountains where it belonged.
Not this winter. Nine inches of snow crippled western Washington a few days before Christmas and most of it was still on the ground. Minor storms followed, adding another foot. Now, late into January, it was snowing again. Mort mumbled a curse, turned back to his desk, and reached for the case file.
He’d picked up the murder eight days ago. Walter Buchner. Lab assistant at the university. Gunshot to the face. Stabbed in the chest post-mortem. Twenty-nine years old. The same age as Meaghan Hane, the cellist Angelo Satanell, Jr shoved behind the dumpster after she overdosed on his heroin. The same age as Allie. Mort pushed the coincidence out of his mind and set his attention on the ticking clock. Eight days of interviews had gotten him nowhere. Mort looked out at the snow again. The trilling of his desk phone startled him back to reality.
“Got time to meet a lady?” It was Daphne from main reception. “Says she doesn’t have an appointment. Says it’s about a murder you’re working on.”
Mort reached for a pen. “She got a name? Herself or the victim. Either will do.” Mort heard Daphne repeat his questions and shook his head. Daphne was easy on the eyes but would never be confused with someone able to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without a recipe. Speculation as to how she got her job kept the squad room guessing for nearly a year. How she keeps it was still a matter of conjecture.
“Says her name is Lydia Corriger.” Daphne’s voice was like a six-year old on helium. “Says she’s a doctor from down in Olympia. Says it’s about Walter Buchner. You want me to send her up?”
Mort looked at the whiteboard dedicated to the Buchner homicide mounted on the wall behind him. By this point it should have listed an arrest, but a dozen interviews turned up zero. Buchner’s landlady only seemed interested in who was going to pay for the days the crime scene was locked down. His parents had flown back from a month-long trip to Australia and were too stunned to be of any help. Buchner’s co-workers offered no more than he was a nice guy who loved dogs, kept to himself and was focused on his job. Eight days of nothing.
“Show her to an interview room, okay, Daphne? I’ll be right down. Get her some coffee, would you?”
“I’ll put her in room six, Mort.” Daphne shifted to a whisper. “But I’m not allowed to get coffee anymore. Remember?”
Mort recalled the incident with the assistant chief. He remembered being impressed that the EMTs got to him so quickly.
“That’s okay, Daphne. Put her in six and I’ll bring the refreshments.”
Mort offered his hand as he entered the windowless room. “Mort Grant, Homicide. Can I get you something? We have bad coffee or tap water.”
“I’m fine, Detective.” She handed him her card. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Mort read the card before turning his attention to the woman. He pegged her as five-seven, one-twenty. Mid-thirties. No make-up. Mousy hair pulled up in a clip. Trying hard to look plain. Typical granola-eating, tree- hugging bookish type from Olympia.
He pulled out a chair for his guest and circled to take an opposite seat. “A psychologist, huh? Chief call for an intervention?” He smiled and tossed his notebook on the green formica table separating them. “Daphne said you had some information on the Buchner murder.”
She shook her head. “She must have misunderstood. I’d like to talk about the case, if you don’t mind.”
Mort pulled his pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Daphne’s prone to misunderstandings, Dr. Corriger. What’s your interest?” He clicked his pen and poised it over his notebook, never taking his eyes off his unexpected visitor in the dated red plaid overcoat.
“I’m wondering if you have any leads. What you’re thinking,” she said.
“Do you have information you feel might be helpful?”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d share with me, Detective.”
He clicked his pen closed and laid it on the table. “You ever been in a police station, Dr. Corriger?”
Lydia shook her head.
“Ever participate in a murder investigation?”
She shook her head again.
“You watch television? Cop shows? Read true crime books? Anything like that?”
Lydia pulled herself taller in the seat and her brown eyes turn stern. “What’s your point, Detective?”
“My point, Dr. Corriger, is that I’m the one who asks the questions.” He leaned across the table. “Now, what brings you up from Olympia? What’s your connection to Buchner?”
Lydia fixed her gaze on Mort. He saw gold flecks dancing in her eyes. “I have no connection. You might say I have an interest.”
“Describe that interest.”
Lydia tucked a loose strand of hair into compliance. Mort noted the simple gold stud in her left ear. “I’m writing a book. One of those true crime things you alluded to. The mind of a killer. The psychology of the investigators. Stuff like that. I’ve wanted to write one for years. Then this murder happens. Virtually in my backyard.” She smiled and folded her hands on the table. Mort noted the lack of rings or bracelets. A reliable watch on a good leather band. “I thought this is as good a place to start as any.”
He tapped his fingers on the table and studied her. “What’s your specialty, Lydia?” Her flinch was nearly imperceptible.
“My specialty? Oh, you mean my practice?”
He nodded. “What type of patients do you see?”
Lydia breathed deeply before answering. “General psychology. Depression, anxieties. Addictions. Pretty routine.”
“That’s why you want to write a book? Break your routine a little bit? Or maybe you have a patient I might be interested in.” Mort watched the soft spot of her throat, counting her pulse.
Lydia reached for her coat. “I told you. I’m writing a book. You’re not going to help me, are you?”
Mort shook his head. “Hey, it’s nothing personal, okay? It’s an on-going murder investigation. Need-to-know basis and all that.” He pushed clear of the desk and stood. “You understand.”
She gathered her purse and gloves. “I understand perfectly, Detective. Thank you for your time.”
Mort nodded and watched her walk away. He picked up his things and took the elevator back to his office. He tossed his notebook on his desk, pulled Lydia’s card from his pocket, walked straight to the whiteboard, and grabbed a red marker. Under the column marked “NEXT” he wrote: “Lydia Corriger…lying?”
Chapter Nineteen
The Fixer pulled her ringing cell phone from her pocket and checked the screen. Private Number. She slid the phone open and answered. Bile rose in the back of her throat when she heard Barbara Streisand’s greeting.
“Well, hello, gorgeous. Pull up a seat and let’s have a chat.”
She fought to keep her voice calm. “How’d you get this number?”
“Relax.” The British male voice now. She’d come to hate that one the most. “We know all about you.”
