Cameron let out a short and hollow laugh. “A bad go of it? You could say that.” She turned to reach for another tissue. “You see, my poor Fred didn’t have a heart attack after all.”
Lydia’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”
Cameron blew her nose and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I had a visit from several policemen today. Not long after you called.” She looked at Lydia and new tears rained down. “Dr. Corriger, they told me Fred was killed. Murdered.” Her shoulders heaved with her sobs. “Who would do such a thing?”
Lydia took a deep breath and trudged to a small sofa opposite Cameron’s desk. She was so weary. Tired to her bones and sick of it all. She closed her eyes and recalled the standards she’d once set for her work. Justice only. Never murder.
And yet, here she was. She tried to justify what she was about to do with a reminder that her survival depended upon completing this assignment.
“Who, Dr. Corriger?” Cameron pleaded with her. “Who would kill Fred?”
Lydia pulled the Luger out of her pocket and pointed it at the crying caterer. “I did, Cameron. I killed Fred Bastian.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mort closed his office door, reached for the phone and punched in Robbie’s number. Claire answered on the third ring.
“Bon soir, Beau Pere.” Mort loved it when she spoke French. “How’s my current husband’s father?”
“My boy giving you trouble?” He smiled at the easy relationship Robbie and Claire had. Playful and sexy. True equals. “Say the word and I’m on the next plane to knock some sense into him.”
“I handle him just fine.” Her laugh was deep and warm. “Shall I get him?”
“If he’s handy. Listen, kiss those girls for me, will you? They like the dollhouses?”
“Mais oui. You make magic for my girls,” she said. “Here’s your son.”
Mort heard Robbie take the phone. “Hang on, Dad. I’m going into my study.”
A few seconds later Robbie spoke. “What’s up?”
Mort had a sudden ache to see his son’s face. He wished both his kids could stay perpetually young. Maybe ten or twelve years old. Where he could always keep them close and safe. “I ran those last six Fixer ads. Got a judge to order the information on who placed ‘em.”
Robbie’s curious tone was replaced with excitement. “Pays to have a dad with connections. What did you learn?”
Mort heard his son’s keyboard clicking. “Pretty much what you’d think. Each payment was untraceable. Wired money orders, cashier’s checks, that sort of thing. They come from all over the world.”
Robbie let out a grunt. “Were you able to tie an ad to any particular homicide?”
Mort hesitated. “My hunch is our girl kills her targets in a way that doesn’t bring in the police.”
“Like Halloway’s death looking like a sex game mishap?” Robbie said. “Or those others you found out about when you searched for no-show females.”
“It would be bad for business if The Fixer got messy. Better every hit have a logical explanation. Keep the inquiries to a minimum.”
Robbie’s excitement came back. “I know that tone, Dad. You’ve got one of your hunches working, don’t you?”
“Could be.” Mort leaned onto his desk. “There was an ad a few months back. Payment to the newspapers was wired from three different Western Union offices.”
“Buyer was being careful.” Robbie sounded confused. “No mystery in that.”
“Each Western Union was in Seattle,” Mort said. “In December a guy up here dies of a heart attack. Big shot researcher at the university. Nothing made of it at the time.”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming.” Robbie’s keyboard was clicking fast and loud.
“A month later we catch a call on a second guy. Dead in his living room. Another researcher at the university, except this one’s not a hot shot. We run forensics on some hi-tech gizmo we find at the scene and lo and behold we learn that our first guy had a hit put out on him. Our second guy’s caught on tape negotiating with someone he calls ‘Ms Carr’ to kill the hot shot researcher. To make it even more interesting, when I’m checking those first Thursday ads, one comes up a month after Hot Shot Researcher dies.”
“Asking for someone to translate a family cookbook?” Robbie asked.
“Yeah, but that’s not the one that catches my eye. There’s an ad below it that says ‘Thank you Ms Carr’.”
“Same name as the person who accepted the hit,” Robbie said.
“Bingo. I checked and sure enough, the money to pay for that ad was wired from Seattle. Next thing you now, our guy winds up dead.”
“Probably pissed The Fixer off for making follow-up contact.”
“That’s my guess. I’m thinking The Fixer’s good for two murders I’m working on.”
“Dad, if you’re teasing me, stop. If you’re not, I’m buying a new suit for the Pulitzer ceremony.”
“Don’t go shopping yet, Robbie. But the fates might be smiling on both of us. Did I mention digitized voices are involved?”
“Hot damn,” Robbie said. “Martin said The Fixer used digitized communication with him. He got nailed when a local cop got a digitized tip. You want me to come out there, Dad?”
“Not yet.” Mort explained his investigation into Bastian and Buchner’s murders and his belief that Savannah was The Fixer. He told his son about Lydia and her naive attempt to participate in the investigation. He looped several of his hunches back to information Robbie had gathered in his own research.
“And this Savannah,” Robbie asked. “She as good-looking as Martin and the others say she is?”
“A real stunner. Someone you’d remember after just one look. And here’s the kicker. Savannah Samuels winds up hanging herself after intimating that her line of work resulted in lots of people getting hurt. Got Liddy so spooked she came to me trying to figure it all out.”
“It makes sense, Dad. I can’t believe you’ve solved this whole thing.”
“Not just me.” Mort switched the phone to his other hand. “You’re the one who got me all the information on this Fixer. Without you and Liddy I’d be standing in front of an empty white board, trying to explain to the district attorney why I had bupkiss. We got this far together. You’ll meet her next time you’re out.”
Robbie laughed. “If you’re looking for a shared byline, you can stop right there Old Man.”
“No, this is your story. You earned it. A few loose ends and it ought to make one hell of a tale. Then you can go shopping for your Pulitzer suit.”
“What do you mean, loose ends?” Robbie asked. “Sounds like it’s tied nice and neat.”
“Think like a cop, Robbie.” Mort didn’t want to spoil his son’s enthusiasm but knew the case wasn’t done yet. “We still have to find who hired The Fixer in the first place.”
“And Savannah can’t tell us.” Robbie enthusiasm sounded tempered by impatience. “I’ll stay put for now. You keep me posted?”
“You know I will.” Mort sent his love to Robbie’s women and hung up. He glanced at the clock. Almost ten — thirty. He reached for his car keys a heartbeat before his phone rang.
“Where are you?” Jim De Villa asked as soon as Mort answered.
“I’m at the station. Just heading out.” Mort hoped Jimmy wasn’t about to ask him to grab a beer at Smitty’s. He was too tired to listen to his friend moon over Micki.
“Name Cameron Williams ring a bell?” Jimmy asked.
“Bastian’s fiance?” Mort kneed his chair away from the desk and sat down. “Visited her this morning. Told her Bastian’s death had been re-classified a homicide. She didn’t take it very well. She’s on my list to interview tomorrow.”
“You went to her shop?”
“Yeah. On Queen Anne.” Mort’s internal radar beeped. “What’s this about, Jimmy?”
“You want to get back down here. And I don’t mean tomorrow.”
