‘cy’.” Mort began writing. “Got it. ‘Clemency’. Old Will wants us looking for synonyms.” Mort pushed his reading glasses up on his nose. “That cold dish served is revenge, huh? So the synonym starting with an r and an e would be…” He filled in the spaces, leaned back, and took a long drink of beer. “Retribution.”
Larry set his paper aside. “You want me to beg or guess?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That deluge you wanted to get out of.”
“I’m that obvious?” Mort signaled Mauser to bring another round. “Call it a rough day. Remember that Satan character?”
“I do. Your impatience getting you again?”
Mort frowned. “That asshole’s off this city’s worry list.” Both men thanked the waitress as she replaced their empty glasses with fresh-filled mugs. “And in reward, the guy who made it possible will probably get ten years in prison.” He nodded to the puzzle. “Where’s the clemency or mercy in that?”
Larry asked for background and Mort filled him in on the details of Satan’s demise at the hands of a grieving father. “Tragic.” The big man shook his head. “I have no envy for your profession, Morton.”
Mort stared into his glass. “I play a vital part in the justice system. That’s what the recruiting posters say anyway.” He took a long drink. “Where’s the justice for Meaghan?” He took another. “Give me ten minutes with the guy who took Allie and I’m not sure what I’d do.”
“You wouldn’t kill him.” Larry’s voice was calm and steady. “Justice is meted out through law, Mort. You’ve dedicated your career to overcoming wanton revenge. No matter how understandable.”
Mort leveled a sad gaze at the good professor. “Let’s talk about your career, Dr. Religious Studies. Don’t your books talk about an-eye-for-an-eye and all that?”
Larry exhaled long and slow. “That’s Bronze Age man’s code. Devastating for developed civilizations. I’m certain the transcendent power of the universe hopes we’ve evolved.”
Mort took another drink and knew he’d need a cab home. “Have we, Larry? Some dick-wad with a rich daddy kills somebody’s daughter and we’re supposed to stand on his side? Against a father who buried his little girl?”
“Justice is different from revenge, Mort. In the words of Gandhi, ‘An eye for an eye leaves everyone blind’.”
Mort looked at his friend. “Maybe there are worse things than blindness.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lydia knew that seven o’clock in the evening wasn’t the time for a double espresso but she brewed herself one anyway. An afternoon filled with appointments had given her the distraction she needed from worrying about Savannah, but also forced her to postpone the research she wanted to do on Cameron William’s jilted fiance. If there was any hope of helping Savannah and freeing her own life from Private Number’s control she needed to find the person who ordered the hits on Bastian and Cameron. Since Mort Grant wasn’t sharing details on Buchner’s murder, the ex-fiance was her only lead. By eight thirty she had lots of information, but little idea what to do with it.
Cameron said she met Bradley Wells the same way she’d met Fred Bastian. She catered an event for Wells’ mother’s eightieth birthday. Like Fred, Wells became infatuated with the lovely and talented chef. Cameron described his pursuit as relentless. She said she was hesitant at first. Not only because of their twenty-five-year age difference, but because she didn’t want anyone to think she’d slept her way to the top.
And Bradley Wells was the top. Lydia knew, like most everyone else in the United States, that he was a self-made billionaire with holdings in timber, real estate, and entertainment. One who used his infinite fortune to champion numerous progressive causes and candidates. She’d also read speculation over the years about a dark side to Wells’ climb to unimaginable wealth. Rumors of ties to organized crime. But he appeared impervious to innuendo and emerged unscathed from a senate investigation twelve years ago.
Lydia assessed the full-color photograph of Wells that beamed from his company’s website. Tanned and silvered haired, looking relaxed and confident in a white t-shirt under a navy blazer. Deep blue eyes. Runner’s body. He could easily pass for a man two decades younger than his actual fifty-five years. She could see why Cameron eventually succumbed to his courting.
Lydia wondered how Cameron dealt with the darker side her former fiance. His Wikipedia biography said Bradley Wells was born in Tacoma. His mother tended bar during his childhood while his father served stints in various county lock-ups. At thirteen, Bradley took a job cleaning lockers at Tacoma Golf and Racket Club. He’d caught the eye of Santo Carrerra, owner of a chain of grocery stores and three “Gentlemen Clubs” on South Tacoma Way. Soon Bradley was Carrerra’s shadow. He was arrested at fifteen for dealing cocaine and ecstasy out of a Section Eight apartment complex Carrerra owned. He did six months in juvenile detention and was re-arrested a year later when police found forty thousand dollars worth of stolen cigarettes in the back of a van he was driving. Bradley remained in juvenile custody until his eighteenth birthday.
Wells’ official biography described “an epiphany” he experienced while a “student at a state run boarding school”. He wrote that he realized the path he was on led nowhere and decided to better himself, his family, and his community. The biography said that when Wells “graduated” he cut all ties to his “old friends” and enlisted in the Marines. Military records document him serving with commendation. He used the GI Bill at the University of Washington and graduated with a business degree. His first job was at a lumber brokerage firm. Twenty-five years later he owned 63 % of the privately held timber land in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho. Wells Enterprises owned commercial high rises, shopping malls, and restaurants around the world and had recently purchased controlling interest in the largest motion picture studio in Hollywood.
Lydia scanned through dozens of photographs of Cameron and Bradley taken at exotic locations. More of the couple at the dedication of food banks and free clinics, many with major political figures standing next to them. Lydia looked at the picture of Cameron dancing with the President of the United States while Bradley waltzed with the First Lady and wondered what the billionaire thought when his fiance came home and announced she was in love with a college professor.
She turned from her computer and re-read a sheet she’d printed earlier. Bradley would have been eighteen at the time the particular news item was filed. Just out of juvenile hall. His father was arrested for using a tire iron to put Bradley’s mother in intensive care. The story reported Bradley’s father was released after two days, his bail paid in cash. He was found dead on Pier 37 the next day. His throat sliced. A Coho salmon shoved in the gaping maw.
His killer was never found.
Lydia knew she couldn’t risk approaching Wells, even disguised. Whoever was behind the synthesized voice knew who she was. If Wells was the link to Private Number, she couldn’t afford to let him know she was closing in. She glanced at the clock and reached for the phone.
Her call was answered immediately. “ICU, Nurse Streckert.”
“This is Dr. Lydia Corriger. I’m checking on a patient, Savannah Samuels. Is she awake?”
“I can’t give you any information without a release, Doctor.” Lydia was impressed with Streckert’s adherence to protocol. “I can put you through to her bay, however.”
Childress answered on the third ring. He sounded exhausted.
“There’s been no change. I thought I saw her eyes flutter this afternoon. But the doctors say it’s just a reflex.” Lydia heard his voice catch. “I just want her to come back to me.”
“How are you holding up, Dr. Childress?”
“You’re kind to ask. You know, you’re the only one who’s stopped by or called to check on her. I appreciate that.”
Lydia assumed Savannah hadn’t told him about their childhood connection. “Do you mind if I ask you a rather personal question, Dr. Childress?”
He assured her he didn’t. Lydia hoped his fatigue and grief would keep him vulnerable enough to give her the information she needed.
“I assume you know Cameron Williams.”
Childress sounded confused. As though his mind was shifting gears. “You mean Bastian’s caterer?”
