He kept his eyes on her, reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt, pulled out her business card, and pushed it her way. “Guess where I found this.”
Ancient fears screamed inside her brain, urging her to run.
“How do you know Cameron Williams?” Mort’s question left no room for game-playing.
“Cameron Williams?” Lydia needed to buy time. Force Mort to expose what he knew.
“Cut the crap, Lydia.” Mort nodded to the business card. “I found that in her desk drawer. Care to tell me how it got there?”
Her jaw muscles tensed as she silently cursed herself. She was off her game. She’d never before overlooked a detail that could lead anyone back to her. “You mean the caterer?” She smiled and opted to tell him the same lie she’d told Cameron. “I’m having a dinner party. I met with her last week.”
Mort’s eyes narrowed. “No caterers in Olympia? You gotta go seventy miles north for weenies on a toothpick?”
A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. “She came highly recommended.”
“When’s the last time you threw a party, Liddy?” Mort’s voice was firm. “Give me dates and the names of six people who attended.”
Lydia struggled to keep her breathing steady. Her heart pounded. She blinked twice before answering.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but my social life is no concern of yours.”
Mort broke his gaze and blew out a long breath. Lydia tucked her hands under her legs and swallowed hard. She steeled herself and reviewed the weapon placement around the house.
Mort pushed his chair away and stood. Lydia shifted her feet, ready to spring to her own defense.
He crossed to the window and focused on the view. “I thought we had this all worked out. Or maybe I should say I thought I had this all worked out. But now this. What am I to make of Cameron Williams, Liddy?”
Terror grabbed her throat with one hand and covered her mouth with the other. Her mind flashed back twenty years. In an instant she was the terrified abandoned child wanting only to live to the next morning. She sat in silent paralysis and forced her breathing to slow. She felt her heartbeat settling into a more normal rhythm. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
Mort’s voice softened. “I thought I made it clear that you were not to go anywhere near this case until we discovered who hired Savannah to kill Bastian. How am I supposed to keep you safe if you insist on sticking your nose where it might get blown off?” He shook his head. “I thought you were going to trust me.”
Lydia’s jaws clenched. She’d trusted before and paid more than anyone should be expected to. She couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.
But a piece of her longed to reach out to this man. A long-banished voice drifted to her; urged her to take a risk.
“What do you want to know?” she whispered.
Mort pulled out his notepad. “What really took you to her? No more bull about some dinner party.”
Lydia blinked her mind clear and allowed a lie to unfurl. “It was Savannah. She spoke often of Cameron. I had the feeling they were friends. I thought if I got to know her she’d tell me the truth about Savannah’s life.” She shrugged. “My behavior was unprofessional, I know. But I needed to learn more if I was to understand her involvement with Buchner’s death.”
“So you made up the dinner party ruse as a way to meet her?”
“Yes. She seems quite nice.” Lydia smiled. “Maybe I’ll have her cater your next birthday.”
“Lydia, Cameron was Fred Bastian’s fiance. Did you know that?” His face was stern. His voice was gentle. “And now she’s dead.”
Lydia’s eyes flew open. “You found her?”
Chapter Forty-One
Mort and Jim were escorted into the study of Bradley Wells’ Lake Washington mansion a little before two o’clock. Bruiser followed at Jim’s heels. Mort was sure the walk from the front door to this elegant room with floor- to-ceiling windows took a full five minutes. He tossed Jim a weary smile when he saw the silver-haired mogul sitting behind a granite-topped desk the size of a double bed. Wells obviously wanted to demonstrate his power to the two detectives.
“I’ll join you if you don’t mind.” A female voice pulled Mort and Jim’s attention to a sitting area behind them. Meredith Thornton sat on a green brocade sofa flanking a large stone fireplace.
He returned his attention to Wells. “We’re here to have a frank talk about what may be an unsettling topic. It’s up to you if you want her here.”
Before Wells could answer Meredith stood and walked toward them. “We imagine you’re here to discuss Professor Bastian’s murder. I’m here to see the conversation takes no turns toward Dr. Bastian’s research.”
Mort looked at Wells who nodded his agreement. He glanced toward Jimmy and dove in. “When’s the last time you saw Professor Bastian’s fiance, Mr. Wells?”
He watched Wells rankle at hearing the woman he planned to marry described as Bastian’s betrothed. Mort saw his rage seething just below the surface of his ski-slope tan and guessed Wells was unaccustomed to having his plans aborted.
“If you’re referring to Cameron Williams, I haven’t spoken to her in months.” Wells pushed up the sleeves of his black cashmere sweater and leaned back in his leather chair. “I don’t anticipate I’ll ever speak to her again.”
“Is that so?” Jimmy asked. “What makes you so sure?”
Before Wells could answer Meredith Thornton clicked her heels over the hardwood floor and circled behind him. She placed a manicured hand on the billionaire’s shoulder and addressed Mort like Queen Victoria speaking to a chimney sweep.
“What is the point of your question, Detective? Mr. Wells and I are busy people.” Her eyes could have been beautiful if they weren’t so cold. “We have no time to discuss Fred Bastian’s caterer.”
“You’ll excuse me, Meredith,” Mort said. “But we asked Bradley here the question, not you.”
Meredith stepped back as though she’d been slapped. Mort figured she was as unaccustomed as Wells to a power-down position. Before she could respond Wells reached up to pat her hand.
“It’s all right, Meredith,” Wells said. “I’ll answer their questions.” He waved his hand to two suede club chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat, Officers. And let me know if I can get that splendid animal of yours a bowl of water.”
“His name’s Bruiser.” Jimmy leveled his best don’t-fuck-with-me gaze at his host. “And he’s fine right here.”
Wells met Jimmy’s gaze in kind. “You get five minutes.”
Mort settled in. “I’ll repeat my partner’s question. What makes you so sure you’ll not see Cameron Williams again?”
Wells’ face shifted into smug pretension. “I’m a decisive man, Detective Grant. One doesn’t build what I have with second guesses. Cameron was a whimsy on my part. It ran its course. Now it’s over.”
“That ten carat ring you put on her finger didn’t look like whimsy.” Jimmy leaned forward, his eyes focused on Wells. “You two were on the cover of all the gossip magazines when you got engaged. I remember thinking at the time, ‘What’s that good looking gal doing with some old guy?’”
Mort watched Wells’ fists clench against his Italian wool slacks. He saw his blood pulsing in his neck and knew that despite the billionaire trappings, Wells wasn’t far removed from his gangster roots.
Wells kept his eyes on Mort and answered Jimmy’s question. “I give diamond rings to the women who clean my toilets. What’s your point?”
“My point is we have reason to believe Cameron Williams is dead.” Mort watched Wells take in the news. A short, sharp intake of breath. Three rapid blinks of his steely eyes. Nothing more.
“What do you mean, ‘reason to believe’?” His tone revealed nothing.
“Her baker came for his shift last night.” Mort looked to Jimmy. “Around 8:30, right?” He returned to Wells. “He finds the place trashed. There’s blood. He calls us. We can account for everyone who works there except
