Lydia caught the judgment in his voice. “I was led to believe she was far more than his caterer.”
He sighed. “That whole business of Bastian proposing? Running off to Paris at the end of the semester?” His voice hardened. “I’m afraid I know all about it. I was Bastian’s right hand man, remember? Cameron meant nothing to Bastian. Oh, he acted as though he was in love, but trust me. She was a means to an end. Like everything and everyone who crossed Bastian’s path.”
Lydia thought of the devastated young woman she’d met that morning, lost in her grief. “I’m not following you.”
“Do you remember me telling you Bastian had one goal only? The enhancement of his reputation? Well, in academic circles reputations are built on how much money you bring to the university. Endowed chairs. Buildings. Research funds. It’s all about the money, Dr. Corriger. And Bastian thought he’d stumbled onto his own personal mint. Do you know who Cameron was engaged to marry before Bastian set his sights on her?”
“No, I don’t.” Lydia hoped her lie sounded convincing.
“Bradley Wells. The man God calls when He’s short on cash.”
“Tell me more.”
“Bastian learned about Cameron’s connection when his usual caterer cancelled a few days before a party. Dropped Wells’ name to assure him she’d secured a reputable replacement. Bastian came to me as soon as he got off the phone. He was as excited as a toddler with a new toy. He originally hoped Cameron would simply introduce him to her wealthy fiance and that he’d be able to charm him out of a few hundred million for his research.” Childress’ voice was cold steel. “But once he met her Bastian changed his plan on the spot.”
“How so?”
“He seduced her. Bastian could be anything he needed to be at any given moment. His plan was to lure her away from Wells. Secure the ability to publicly humiliate one of the richest men in the world.”
“What would he gain by that? Wells had the money, not Cameron.” Lydia needed to keep him talking.
“Bastian had no plans of marrying the poor girl. Not for one minute. You can imagine Wells’ reaction. He confronted Fred the day after Cameron broke it off with him. Threatened to ruin him if he continued his romance with her. Fred suggested they work something out. He offered to end things with Cameron if Wells agreed to become his personal patron.”
“You can’t be serious.” She knew he wanted to tell more.
“Fred Bastian was always serious when it came to his reputation. Having access to the personal vault of Bradley Wells would propel him into a scholastic stratosphere unheard of since the Renaissance. He’d never have to beg for federal grants again. He’d be an academic god.”
“What did Wells say?”
“He was furious. Bastian let me listen to a few conversations on speaker phone. Wells said he’d see him in hell first.” Childress let out a small chuckle. “Turns out he did. Funny how things work out.”
“Yes, it is,” Lydia said. “If Wells rejected him, why did Bastian continue his charade with Cameron?”
“Cameron told Bastian about some land deal Wells was trying to put together with the university. Bastian didn’t share the details with me, but I know he thought there might be enough dirt there that Wells might be willing to cut a deal. Bastian told me he was going to see how the whole thing played out. Until that time, he continued using Cameron, hoping to get more information. All the while leading her to believe they had a future together.”
“I’m beginning to understand your hatred for the man.” Lydia sensed Childress had no more to add. “I won’t keep you. Do give my regards to Savannah when she wakes up, will you? Tell her I’ll be by to see her soon.”
Her hand hadn’t left the receiver when her phone rang. An icy mixture of anger and fear stabbed behind her heart. She breathed deep and willed herself calm when the caller ID revealed that the Seattle Police Department was calling. She answered with a pleasant voice.
“Lydia, it’s Mort Grant calling.” His voice was warm but professional. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Not at all, Detective.” Lydia was surprised that she enjoyed hearing his voice. “Have you thought about my offer?”
“I’ve given you a lot of thought since our last meeting. I need to be down in Olympia tomorrow. Could we have lunch?”
She felt a spark of promise. “I have patients all day, but I could open an hour at noon, if that works.”
“I’ll make it work, Lydia. I’ll be at your office then.” He wished her a good evening and ended the call.
She needed a plan. Mort provided access to resources she’d need to unmask Private Number’s true identity. But she couldn’t allow his investigation into Buchner’s murder to lead him to Bastian. She had a sense of Mort’s skills as a detective. If he came to view Bastian’s death as anything other than the heart attack it was assumed to be, she ran the risk of spending the rest of her life in prison.
Lydia’s panic climbed. She was losing her edge. Savannah’s suicide attempt drained her. Her inability to help the woman she’d once sacrificed so much to save stripped away the confidence and sense of power she may have tricked herself into believing she possessed. She had to reinvigorate herself. The thought of exercising raced across her mind, but her legs were jelly. She’d not make it downstairs to her gym. She looked at her bonsai and knew she her hands were too unsteady for that intricate work. Her left eye began to twitch.
She didn’t try to fight what she knew would calm her. Lydia closed her eyes and the image of a double-edged razor exploded into her consciousness. A flicker of hope stuttered within her.
Lydia headed toward her bathroom.
Chapter Thirty
“It’s nearly midnight, Dad.” Robbie sounded half asleep. “This about Allie?”
Mort could hear Claire’s dusky French accent in the background, asking her husband what was wrong.
“Oh, for crying out loud. I’m sorry, Robbie.” Mort tossed his pen in disgust. “I didn’t even think. Go back to bed. It’s nothing to do with Allie. It’s about that shooter your guy tried to hire. Listen, tell Claire I’m sorry. Call me when you get a chance.”
Robbie coughed the sleep out of his throat. “You home? Let me get downstairs.” Robbie hung up. Mort had time to pour himself a glass of milk before the phone rang.
“Robbie?” he answered. “You sure you want to do this now?”
“I’m fine, Dad.” His son sounded wide awake. “Claire and the girls are all tucked in. What do you have for me?”
Mort opened the file he brought home. “I checked into Martin’s story about the good-looking shooter who turned him in. I got nothing from Miami. Nothing anywhere in South Florida. Nobody down there has any case involving a gorgeous contract gun.”
“So it was just a coincidence, then?” Robbie’s disappointment came through loud and clear. “Halloway’s hooker had nothing in common with Martin’s assassin. Man, I thought I was on to something.”
“Hold on a minute.” Mort smiled. “I’m not calling you empty handed.”
“I knew it.” Robbie let out a war whoop. “Let me have it.”
“I widened my search. Beyond Florida. Beyond hookers and shooters. I put the word out for unaccounted-for female witnesses to deaths. Like your mystery woman in Halloway’s case. I mean, where the hell is she? I looked for cases where someone dies and folks swear they saw the deceased with some woman right before they ended up dead, but…”
“Nobody can find the missing female.” Robbie interrupted. “That’s brilliant, Dad.”
“I got several hits, no pun intended. Three of them might interest you.” Mort referred to the notes in his file. “Dahlia Fianelli? Name ring a bell?”
“You bet,” Robbie said. “California. About two years ago. Arrested for human smuggling. Her attorney got her out on bail and she went right back into business. But a shipment goes bad and ninety-one Chinese, mostly women, die in a closed container truck left in some desert canyon. Man, I salivated over that story. That was some top- notch crime reporting. Didn’t the police track her down in Sicily?”
“You got it. Said she was visiting family but decided to extend her stay when she realized Sicilian extradition laws forbid sending anyone back if capital punishment is an option. California authorities’ hands were tied.”
