Lydia shrugged. “Like I told you, I’m good.”
He was glad she was still smiling. “Good enough to tell if he’s capable of murder?”
Mort watched the smile slide off her face. She crumpled the potato chip wrapper and laid it on the table.
“You think Childress killed Buchner?” The vein in her neck throbbed with her rising pulse. Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Him?”
Mort leaned forward. “Take it easy, Kid. I’m just asking.” Mort was surprised at her flash-triggered fear. “You wanna ride shotgun with me, you’re going to have to be brave.”
Lydia’s face turned stony. “There’s nothing wrong with my courage, Detective.”
She reminded Mort she had a patient at one o’clock. He knew she’d retreated far enough that any more questioning would be futile. He tried another tack to lower her defenses.
“You don’t mind my saying, you seem awfully upset about Savannah’s suicide attempt. I’d have thought you shrinks had thicker hides than that, given the folks you work with.”
Mort watched her sway nearly imperceptibly in her chair. She stared into the distance and he wondered if she was lost in grief or fatigue.
“Sometimes hides are thinner than we hope,” she whispered.
He shifted in his seat, pushing off a near-instinctive desire to tell her everything would be all right. Instead, he stood, gathered the lunch rubbish into the paper bag and tossed it into the garbage can before pulling on his jacket. Lydia rose and walked him toward the office door.
“We’ll work together on the Buchner case, then?” she asked.
Mort shook his head and smiled. “You’re a tough one, Lydia. Tell you what. Next time you buy lunch and we’ll talk more about who killed old Wally.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “In the meantime, there’s anything I should know, you’ll call me, right?”
Lydia nodded. “Thank you for lunch, Mort.”
He hesitated before leaving. “And take care of yourself, will you? You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.”
He left her office, sloshed through the melting snow, and settled into his car. He stared back at Lydia’s office and wished she’d relax long enough to tell him what had her so frightened. He pulled out his cell and punched number three on speed dial.
“Hey, Mort,” Jim De Villa answered.
“You get down to the coroner? Speak to Dr. Conner?” Mort kept his eyes on Lydia’s building. He hoped the rest of her day was easier than the morning had been.
“I did. He promised to run a complete tox screen on Bastian’s blood. Says he’s got several vials on hand.”
“Good,” Mort said. “Let me know as soon as he calls, will you?”
“Anything else you need?”
“No.” Something tugged at the back of Mort’s mind. “Well, maybe. Can you run a background on Toni Morrison for me?”
“Wait a minute.” Mort heard his friend rustle some paper. “How you spelling it?”
“Toni Morrison, you Neandrathal. The writer.”
“Holy Mother of God.” Jimmy sounded skeptical. “You’re not liking her for Bastian or Buchner, are you?”
“Just Google her, will you, Jimmy? I’d do it myself except I’m going to be on the road for the next hour. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“I’ll be here,” Jimmy said. “Anything you need me to work with Micki on?”
Mort clicked his phone closed and started the car.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mort got back to the station around 2:30. Daphne let him know Jimmy was looking for him.
“Oh, and your son called. Said he tried your cell but you didn’t pick up.”
“I was driving.” Mort took the stack of letters and memos Daphne handed him.
“He didn’t leave his name.” Daphne looked worried.
Mort smiled and wondered how she found her way to work every morning.
Back in his office he tossed the pile of mail on his desk and hung up his coat. He settled into his chair and dialed Robbie’s cell.
“Hey, Robbie.” Mort glanced at the clock. “Where is my wandering son today?”
“I’m still in Miami, Dad. Listen, Martin told me how he contacted The Fixer. His lawyer was squawking all the way, begging him to shut up, but I guess he figures he’s already sunk.”
Mort reached for paper and pen. “I think these guys enjoy the attention they get by spilling their guts. Even if it makes them look dumber. And what the hell are you still doing in Miami? Claire’s going to skin me alive for keeping you gone.”
Robbie chuckled. “You worry too much, Dad. Claire knows what this story means for my career. She’s cool.”
“Well, don’t cool yourself out of your marriage, son. You get more like me the older you get. We both married out of our league. Don’t blow it. What did you find out?”
“Like I said, Martin first heard about The Fixer through the grapevine. Said it sounded worth a try.”
“How’d he reach her?” Mort asked.
“It’s pretty slick. Martin said you put an ad in the classifieds of three different papers. The New York Times, Rolling Stone, and USA Today. First Thursday of the month. You say you’re looking for someone to help translate an old family cookbook and you leave your contact information. Said it took four days.”
Mort was scribbling his notes. “Then what happened?”
“He got a call. The voice was disguised. Digitized.”
Mort tapped his pen against his desk. “Lot of that going around these days.”
“Huh?” Robbie asked.
“Nothing. Another case I’m working. Then what?”
“Martin arranged a meet. Hot tub of some hotel near Miami International. He wasn’t expecting a woman.” Robbie sighed. “You know the rest.”
Mort sat still for a moment. “You checked out these papers?”
“The minute I left Martin.” Robbie sounded like he did when he was nine years old and Mort brought home that second-hand bicycle. “Dad, there’s dozens of those ads. But none before six years ago.”
Mort jotted down the timeline. “Must be when she set up shop. Any around the time Halloway wound up dead in Costa Rica?”
“You bet. An ad was placed one month before Halloway died. Martin’s ad was seven months before that.”
Mort looked at his notepad, filled with dates and leads. “Well, I’d say brick by brick you’re building a strong case that Halloway was murdered by this Fixer woman. Any idea who hired her?”
“Dad, after Halloway’s scheme was exposed, I’d bet there’s at least fifty people who’d hire someone to take him out.”
“You’re probably right.” Mort remembered Jimmy saying whoever hit Bastian was a saint. “Keep writing. In the meantime, save your Old Man some trouble, huh?”
“Name it, Dad.”
“Give me the dates of the last six ads. I’ll take a look and see what I come up with.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Got a pencil?” Robbie asked.
“Ready when you are.” Mort started writing. When he was finished he asked his son for an update on the girls. He hung up smiling about Hayden and Hadley’s latest shenanigans. Mort kept his hand on the phone while he whispered a quiet prayer for his own daughter. He took a deep breath, shook his concerns to a back corner of his brain, and called Jim De Villa.
