“You up there alone?” Jimmy asked.
“You mean is Micki with me? When are you going to stop tripping over your own dick and realize she already loves a guy your age? She calls him ‘Daddy’.”
“Every man needs a hobby, Mort. Mine’s worshiping at the feet of the delectable Micki Petty.”
“Yeah? You’d have better luck with fly fishing, Buddy.” Mort shifted the receiver to his left hand. “Listen, I got a little project for one of your people. That a problem?”
“This on Buchner or Bastian?”
“Neither,” Mort said. “It’s a problem or not?”
“What do you need?” Jimmy asked.
Mort brought his friend up to speed. He could hear Jimmy scribbling notes on the other end of the line.
“So you need copies of the classifieds from these dates? Hell, that’s so easy Daphne could do it,” Jimmy said. “You got something in mind?”
Mort wondered how to answer. His gut was telling him there was more to this than his son’s story.
“I’m doing Robbie a favor, is all,” he said.
“I’ll put one of the rookies on it. I’ll use the same one who pulled the stuff for your book report.” Jim grunted out a laugh. “That ought to keep her wondering why she wanted to join the exciting world of forensic investigation.”
“What are you talking about? What book report?” Mort asked.
“You asked me to run Toni Morrison. You getting Alzheimer’s early, Mort?”
“Oh, for the love of God, Jimmy.” Mort closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I asked you to Google her, not run her. She’s a freaking Nobel Prize winner.”
“Relax. Slip of the tongue.” Jim chuckled and Mort wished he was in the room. Close enough to smack. “I meant Google. Got the stuff right here.” Mort heard papers shuffling. “What do you want to know? Hey, you know she hangs with Oprah? You’re swimming in the deep end of the estrogen pool now, my friend. Let’s see. First novel published in 1970. Won the Pulitzer in ’88. The Nobel in ’93, but you already knew that.”
“What about where she was born?” Mort interrupted. “Where she grew up? You get that?”
“Let me see.” More paper shuffling. “Here it is. Born Chloe Anthony Wofford. Says here she was raised in Lorain, Ohio.”
“Your folks got time for a fishing expedition, Jimmy?”
“Haven’t you heard? Seattle’s murder rate is in a decline.”
“Great. Can you run a Lydia Corriger in Lorain, Ohio?” Mort spelled the names. “Let me know what you find.”
“You mean Google or ‘run’?” Mort didn’t miss the snicker in Jimmy’s voice.
“I mean ‘run’, Jimmy. Go deep.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lydia poised her small scissors over the bonsai plant and contemplated her next slice. This one was her favorite. Something about the bend in the uppermost branch captivated her spirit and held her heart. She’d been grooming it nearly three years. Cut by cut, snip by snip. The tiny tree had revealed its elegant perfection. For twenty minutes she gave her mind over to the process. Trying to focus on nothing more than shape and color.
But the pleasure of mindful discipline proved ineffective. Searing visions of Savannah laying in the ICU charred her memory. Innocent little Greta grown into wounded lovely Savannah. Floating between life and death because the one person she dared hope would save her couldn’t.
Her failure with Savannah wasn’t the only intrusion. She set her scissors down and recalled her meeting with Mort. He brought her favorite sandwich. Lydia smiled when she remembered his description of his one true love. She liked the way he made fun of himself about the Morrison book. Said he was too dumb to read it. She knew anyone who underestimated Mort Grant’s intelligence did so at their peril. Lydia promised herself she’d not make that mistake.
He said it was nice having lunch with her. A whimsy drifted through her mind that he was right. Lydia grabbed the scissors, resumed her pruning, and banished the pleasant notion.
Memories of how it all started barged into her consciousness. She shook her head and recalled herself as a hopeful new psychologist. Bound to rid the world of the evils she’d experienced. Determined to fix things. But as good a therapist as she was, it wasn’t enough. Power rolled over the innocent. Justice was absent.
Lydia looked at her reflection in the darkened window and saw the face of failure. She couldn’t stop evil. She couldn’t save Savannah. All her efforts had been meaningless. It was time to stop. Let the wickedness of humanity find another champion. She was tired.
Lydia put her pruning gear away and made the rounds of her house, checking each door and window to make sure the locks were tight. Along the way she clicked off lights until only the lamp on her bedside table was lit. She tossed several pillows to the floor, folded the heavy damask duvet to the foot of the bed, pulled back the blanket, and stumbled back in surprise.
A pink envelope contrasted against the white sheet.
Bile rose in the back of her throat. The icy grip of terror held her as she reached for the offending missive. She slipped a finger under the sealed flap and withdrew a Valentine card. Roses and cupids encircled a glittered heart. Lydia opened the card and dozens of photos of Cameron Williams tumbled across the bed. None larger than her thumb. Malevolent confetti celebrating a morbid expectation. She brushed them clear and read the typed message inside the card.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Fixer.
Lydia spun around, knowing she’d find nothing. She pulled the drawer of her nightstand open. The nine millimeter Lugar semiautomatic was exactly where it should be. She picked it up and checked the magazine. Loaded. She turned the pistol over and anger replaced fatigue.
A small sticker decorated the grip. A tiny pink heart bearing the inscription “Thinking of you”.
The bedside phone rang. Lydia glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven o’clock. She grabbed the phone, held it to her ear, and waited for Private Number to start a Streisand-voiced taunt.
“Dr. Corriger?” a female voice asked.
Lydia said nothing.
“Hello, is anyone there? This is Dr. Nancy Tessler calling for Dr. Lydia Corriger. Do I have a connection?”
Lydia blinked her mind clear. “Yes, Dr. Tessler. I’m here. Is this about Savannah?”
The ICU attending’s voice softened. “Yes.” Her pause told Lydia all she needed to know. “I’m sorry to inform you Savannah died about fifteen minutes ago. She never regained consciousness. If it’s any consolation, her fiance was by her side.”
Lydia hung up the phone, reached for the Lugar, and crawled under the sheets.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mort swore into the receiver and immediately apologized. It wasn’t Micki’s fault.
“No connection between Bastian and Buchner at all?” He was counting on a lead. “But they’re both at the university.”
“Yeah,” Micki said. “Along with 43,000 students, nine thousand faculty, and another ten thousand employees.”
“I’m not buying it. The gear at Buchner’s house proved a hit was out on Bastian. Bastian ends up dead and Wally follows a little later. There’s got to be something.”
Micki sighed over the phone. “You’ve worked with me four years now, Mort. Name one time I missed anything.”
Mort apologized a second time. “You’re the best there is, Mack. I know that. It’s just too much of a
