“He was raping a six-year-old at the time.” Lydia kept her eyes focused on her lap.
“Yeah. I got that. The judge didn’t believe you.”
She looked up at him. “Do you?”
He met her gaze. “Yes.”
Lydia let her eyes drift across his face and allowed herself a brief fantasy of what life might have been like if she had a father who believed what she said just because she said it. She dropped her gaze back to her lap.
“Savannah was that little girl,” she said. “She tracked me down after all these years because she believed I was the only one who could save her.”
Mort blew out a low sigh. “My God. I can’t imagine what that was like for you. The pressure you must have felt.”
Lydia felt a surge of regret at her need to continue to lie. She told herself if she kept close to the truth her betrayal might be palatable.
“Savannah never actually said she killed anyone. But she told me she did awful things.” Lydia looked down at her hands, ashamed of her disloyalty. “Things where people got hurt, she said. She even said people died.”
“She give you any specifics?” Mort flipped his notepad open.
Lydia shook her head. “I didn’t believe her at first. I thought it was a dramatic ploy some patients use to hook their shrinks. But as our sessions went on, Savannah changed.”
“How?” Mort asked.
“Savannah was breathtakingly gorgeous. Beautifully groomed. Sophisticated in a way we don’t see in Olympia. She insisted there was something wrong with her that she wanted me to fix.”
Mort’s head jerked up. “She said that? She used the word ‘fix’?”
A flutter of fear caught at her throat. “Yes. Is that important?”
“Could be. Go on.” Mort scribbled a line on his pad.
“As time went on she became less fastidious about her appearance. Subtle things at first, but toward the end she was quite disheveled. She became focused on the deaths at the university.”
“When did that start?”
“Fred Bastian was the first one she mentioned. Said she was responsible for his death. I tried to assure her it was a heart attack. That’s how the papers labeled it. But she was beyond comfort.” Lydia’s breathing grew shallow and hurried. “Then when Walter Buchner died she became a complete mess. I worried that she might be experiencing a psychotic break. She kept talking about all the people who were dead because of her.” Lydia bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “But nothing specific. No names.”
“And you came to believe she killed Buchner.” Mort tapped his pen against his notepad.
Lydia could answer that question honestly. “I don’t know what I believed at the time, but she was adamant she was responsible.” She offered a small smile. “That’s when I came to see you.”
“And offered to play Junior Detective.” Mort took another sip of coffee and grimaced. “This is cold. I’ll get us more.”
Lydia watched him return from the bar with the coffee pot. A fantasy of a loving father sharing coffee with his daughter on a winter’s afternoon danced through her mind.
“Listen up, Liddy.” Mort set the coffee pot down and took his seat. “Maybe you won’t be so eager to play Lois Lane after I bring you up to speed.”
Lydia listened as Mort told her the facts as he knew them. She feigned surprise when he told her about the voice synthesizer they found at Buchner’s apartment. Her distress was genuine when he explained what the police were able to pull off the device’s memory.
“So Fred Bastian was murdered?” she asked. “How?”
“Drug injected into his neck. Tough to trace, but we found it.” Mort gave Lydia a broad smile. “We really are good at what we do.”
Lydia’s stomach tightened. “And you’re confident Savannah killed him?”
Mort nodded. “Remember when I asked you if Savannah used the word ‘fix’ when she came to you?”
Lydia held her face in a bewildered pose. “Several times at each visit. I think I noted her obsessive use of the word in my chart.”
Mort related what he and his son had discovered about The Fixer. She struggled to control her mounting panic in response to his accurate, though incomplete, description of her assignments through the years. Her contact and payment methods had been exposed. They knew about her disguises. Dampness gathered at the roots of her hair as he described Martin’s cooperation with the police.
She was out of business. For that she was glad.
The question was, could she survive?
“This Fixer? You’re thinking it’s Savannah?”
“Maybe.” Mort pushed his mug aside. “I got two detectives running a background on her right now.”
Lydia leaned back in disbelief. Could it be this simple? Would Savannah’s suicide offer her a way out? She turned to Mort and allowed herself another fantasy. Maybe they’d have coffee again. She dug her fingernails deep into her palms and forced the pleasant thought out of her mind. She still had to find Private Number.
“What’s our next move?” she asked.
Mort shook his head and sighed. “I want you out of this. You’re forgetting something.”
She swallowed hard. “What’s that?”
“Savannah may be The Fixer.” He leaned forward and tapped his index finger on her wrist. “But I’m not buying for one minute that Wally was the brains behind this whole thing. It wasn’t those professors in Neuroscience, either. They’d never go so far as to have him murdered. My money says Buchner was used as a stooge. Until we find out by whom I don’t want you anywhere near Seattle. Remember, whoever hired Savannah knows you were her shrink.”
Lydia focused on Mort’s finger and wondered when the last time another human being touched her. Many put their hands on The Fixer; that was part of the job. But Mort’s touch was different. A worried father driving home an important point to a daughter he adored.
She shook her head clear. “I hope you’ll keep me posted.”
Mort’s smile was warm and wide. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. Oh, I almost forgot.” He fumbled in his pants pocket and pulled out a long strip of leather with a wooden whistle attached. “I made this for you.”
Lydia hesitated before reaching out for the gift. She felt her throat closing. She turned the small trinket over in her hands, examining the first gift she’d received in years.
“You made this?” The tightness in her voice was genuine. “For me?”
Mort leaned forward and pointed to the slot of the whistle. “See that little ball in there? It makes the whistle loud. You blow this baby and people will come running.”
“How’d you get it in there?” Lydia looked closely for a glued seam.
Mort shrugged. “Used to be all one piece. I just freed it. Bit by bit, whittling away until it broke free. Now it dances on its own.” His pride brought a smile to her face. “Go ahead. Try it.”
She touched the whistle to her lips and tasted the sweetness in the grain. She gave a furtive glance around the bar. He winked and nodded his encouragement. Lydia drew in a deep breath and blew.
It was louder than she expected. She dropped it from her mouth and Mort laughed as every head in the restaurant turned their way.
“You find yourself in trouble, Liddy, you blow that.” Mort’s voice was soft. “If there’s a way for me to get to you I will.”
Lydia felt the sting of tears rising. She stumbled for words, but none came.
“You know, I made one of these for my daughter years ago. Her name’s Allie.” Mort laid his hands on the table and kept his eyes down. “She’s about your age.”
Lydia watched Mort drift back to another time.
“Allie was a beautiful baby.” Mort smiled, lost in memory. “Smart, too.” He glanced up at Lydia. “Started taking piano at four and by the time she was seven she was playing Gershwin like she was born in a concert hall. She turned twenty-one two days after she graduated from college.”
Mort stared into middle space. “She was our shining jewel. But she was restless. No job could hold her interest. No man could, either. She was always looking for the next big thrill. It was like watching a Formula One
