brunt of the impact. Mrs. Travis was killed instantly.
Jim had included newspaper reports covering the case. The drunk driver turned out to be the police chief’s nephew. He pleaded no-contest to a charge of operating under the influence and was offered the opportunity to expunge his record if he attended alcohol education classes.
Three social workers’ reports completed the file. They described a distant and grieving girl who isolated herself from her next foster mother. Reports from Southview High School indicate she remained an excellent student, graduated at the top of her class and secured a full scholarship to the Ivy League. She aged out of the foster system and marked the occasion with a visit to the courthouse. Peggy Denise Simmons became Lydia Justine Corriger.
Mort had no idea where Lydia or Corriger came from, but he felt certain he knew where the middle name was born.
Finally, she had her justice.
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to make sense of the past few days. His mind flashed to an image of Savannah Samuels lying in the ICU. What had she done that drove her to hang herself on Lydia’s office porch? Jerry Childress linked Savannah to the neuroscience department. That put her at most one degree away from Fred Bastian. Mort recalled Childress telling him Savannah had been terribly upset when Buchner was murdered.
Had Lydia lied to him when she said Savannah never told her she killed Buchner? His gut and his brain screamed for attention. Mort’s frustrated growl caused two secretaries and a uniformed rookie to quicken their pace as they passed his office. He shoved his chair aside and grabbed his parka. He was missing something obvious and he knew it. Maybe time at a crime scene would give him new perspective.
Two hours later he watched the last of Jim De Villa’s forensic team walk out of Bastian’s back door.
“My spidey sense tells me all those prints we lifted are going to check out as belonging here.” Jimmy stood in the middle of the room with his latex-gloved hands on his hips. “Whoever did Bastian didn’t leave a trace.”
“There’s always something, Jimmy.” Mort walked over to take his fifth look at the fireplace mantle. “We’ll keep looking.” He turned and gave the room a broad surveillance. He crossed to the large windows and nodded to Bruiser sitting in quiet vigilance on Bastian’s back deck. Mort glanced to a corner of the room. A foil-wrapped pot held the dying branches of a large plant. Poinsettia leaves, curled and bleached of color littered the top of the table. He bent to read the card displayed in a plastic trident stuck in the pot’s dry dirt.
“’Merry thoughts of you, Meredith’.” Mort called over his shoulder to Jimmy. “Do we know who this Meredith is?”
“I imagine it’s me, Officer,” a woman’s voice answered.
Mort turned and saw Jimmy holding Bastian’s back door open to three people.
Mort shot his friend a look. Jimmy shrugged.
“We’re done here, Mort. There’s no harm.” Jimmy held the door wide and the three newcomers stepped inside.
“I’m Mort Grant, Seattle PD.” He pulled his parka aside to reveal his badge and nodded toward his friend. “That’s Jim DeVilla, Chief Forensic Officer. And you are?”
A tall silver-haired man stepped toward Mort with his hand extended. “I’m Brad Wells, Detective.” Mort placed him as soon as he said his name. Bradley Wells, the Patron Saint of Seattle. The genius with the bright and shiny future and the dark and dirty past. He shook the billionaire’s hand and wondered just how convoluted Bastian’s murder was going to get.
“May I introduce you?” Wells waved his female companion closer. She held her chin proud and high. Her smile a study of condescension. Mort bet she was a knockout in her youth. Ash blonde hair gathered into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. Pale skin showing the slight sag of age at her jaw line. Grey eyes sparkling beneath heavy lids. Mort put her at nearly six feet. He looked down and subtracted three inches for the suede heels she wore.
The other man quickened his step to reach Mort first. Mort estimated late-thirties, early-forties. Thin. Nondescript except for unruly red hair. He stuck his hand out.
“Carl Snelling, Detective. Executive Provost for the university.”
The bureaucrat’s wrist buckled the moment Mort tightened his own calloused grip against the provost’s fleshy hand.
“And this is President Thornton.” Snelling nodded toward the woman standing next to him.
She wore a wool coat wrapped around her small waist by a wide belt. Edie would have called the color winter white. Her pearl earrings matched the necklace encircling her creped throat.
“President Thornton and I were on our way to a foundation luncheon.” Wells shared his smile with Mort and Jimmy. “She was just telling me your people re-classified Bastian’s death as a murder. We saw the police cruisers and Meredith suggested we stop to see if there’s anything new to be learned.”
The tumblers in Mort’s mind turned and reminded him who this woman was. Meredith Thornton, University President. He produced his best civil servant smile.
“We’re in the very early stages of our investigation. All leads are being followed. We’ll keep the public informed as necessary.”
The Lady in White nodded. She held her smile as her eyes bored into Mort. “I am more than the public and Professor Bastian was more than a colleague, Detective Grant. I’d appreciate it if you’d save your canned responses for the media.” She nodded to the dead and dried poinsettia. “I sent him those to wish him a happy holiday. It pleases me he knew I was thinking of him just before he…”. Her voice caught and she glanced away. “Just before he died.” She returned her gaze to Mort. “Fred Bastian was one of ours, Detective. You have the full resources and cooperation of every university employee in your efforts to unravel this tragedy.”
Carl Snelling chimed in. “I’d be happy to make myself available should…” His efforts were cut short by Thornton’s wave. She reached a manicured hand deep into her coat pocket and extracted a small leather folder. “Here’s my direct number. Call me with any new developments. I don’t care how small you think they may be. The university needs to be prepared.” She took a slow look around and Mort wondered what memories were preying on her. She turned and stepped toward the same door she’d entered.
“We’re late, Brad. Come along, Carl.” Meredith Thornton stopped and looked at Jimmy, who shook himself to attention and opened the door for her. She turned and gave them each a goodbye nod. Snelling trailed behind her, eyeing the watchful German Shepherd holding guard on the deck.
Wells stepped to Mort, then Jimmy to shake their hands. He handed each his own card. “Call if I can help.” He smiled apologetically. “This business has her upset. I’m sure she didn’t mean to come off so abruptly.” Bradley Wells nodded toward Bruiser. “Magnificent animal. Seems to be beautifully trained.”
“His bite is worse than his bark.” Jimmy’s voice was sharper than Mort thought it needed to be.
Wells stepped though the door and Jimmy closed it behind him.
“Wait til I tell Micki,” he said. “Think she’d let me buy her a drink to share the details?”
“Only if you could guarantee Wells would be joining you. And you might want to be a hair more diplomatic with the Man with the Golden Touch.” Mort zipped his parka and took one last look around.
“He rubbed me the wrong way.” Jimmy pulled his gloves out of his pocket.
“Guy like Wells buys and sells folks like us every day of the week, Jimmy. Don’t take it personally.” Mort shook his head. “But the lady president. Remember how Edie used to say some people gave her pause?”
Jimmy smiled. “She had a way with a phrase, that Edie.”
“She did indeed.” Mort missed Edie’s way with lots of things. “Let’s just say Meredith Thornton gave me pause.”
“How’s that?”
“All that stuff about Bastian being one of theirs. How glad she was that he knew she was thinking of him.” Mort headed for the door. “Doesn’t it seem curious that she didn’t ask how her friend was murdered?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lydia had to accept Mort’s invitation. Savannah’s suicide devastated her and the pressure to kill Cameron
