Cameron. No one’s seen her since yesterday afternoon. This morning the lab tells us the mess in the bakery matches Cameron’s blood type.”
Meredith Thornton’s smile was polite but distant. “You’ll forgive us, Detectives, if we don’t understand why you’re bringing this to us.”
“We didn’t bring it to you.” Mort held Wells’ gaze. “We brought it to him.”
“No body?” Wells asked.
“We’ll find her, Bradley.” Mort smiled. “You have personal experience with how fast the Seattle PD catches bad guys.”
Wells’ jaw muscles churned. His rocking was barely noticeable. He didn’t blink.
Neither did Mort.
Wells broke his stare and turned to look up at Meredith. He smiled and patted her hand again before opening his desk drawer. Mort saw Jimmy’s right hand slide to the holster on his belt.
Wells pulled out a card and tossed it across the granite slab. “My private number, Detective. Call me when you’ve got something more than ‘a reason to believe’. I’ll send flowers.” Wells looked up to the perfectly dressed woman behind him. “Meredith, could I ask you to see the officers and their animal out, please?”
He reached for the phone before she could answer.
Mort and Jimmy got up. Bruiser stood immediately and watched his master’s face for instruction. Jim nodded his assurance to the dog and grabbed the card from Wells’ desk. Mort knew he planned to offer it to Micki as a souvenir. Meredith circled around the desk and led them out of the study.
Another five minutes got them to the front door. Meredith Thornton smiled. Warmly this time.
“Detective, I’m being harangued on a daily basis by a determined Executive Provost.” She played with a long gold chain that hung from her neck. “You’re holding a valuable piece of research equipment. Walter Buchner wasn’t authorized to take the synthesizer from the lab. It’s a one-of-a-kind prototype.” Meredith touched a gentle hand to Mort’s arm. “I’d count it as a personal favor if you could release it back to Audiology first thing Monday morning.”
Mort reached for the door knob. “I’ll think about it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Lydia grabbed a towel from the stationary bike and wiped the sweat off her face and neck. Her hour-long workout stretched into two as she struggled to stop the carousel of mental anguish.
Savannah was dead. Lydia climbed on the bike and pedaled fast. Savannah was dead. She leaned forward, aerodynamic to the misery flooding toward her. Savannah was dead. She increased her speed. Legs burning. Lungs bursting. Palms slick with sweat on the grips. Savannah was dead. Faster still. Gasping. Feet slipping off abused pedals. Chest collapsing onto the handlebars. One wail of pain into the empty room, and still Savannah was dead.
She heaved in life-affirming air and wished she could halt the instinct. The Fixer was out of business. Mort and his son had uncovered too much. She was useless. Drained. Worthless.
Her mind skipped to Mort and a hand went to the wooden whistle hanging from her neck. The whisper of hope struggling to be heard against a cacophony of self-loathing suffocated. Buried by the memory of Cameron staring at her that last day. Innocent eyes confused and frightened as Lydia aimed her gun.
Lydia whispered to the void, “I’m done”.
She tossed the sweaty towel into the hamper, climbed the basement stairs, rounded the corner into her kitchen, and stopped mid-step.
Two dozen red roses in a crystal vase stood on the counter next to her sink.
Lydia stood stock-still, listening for movement. Hearing none, she crossed to the counter and pulled the small card tucked into the thorny stems.
Well done, Fixer.
She swallowed hard. A throat spasm threatened. She ran to the sink and vomited. She didn’t bother to check the house. They could enter at will. They controlled her.
She rinsed her mouth clear, scrubbed the sink clean, and watched the swirling eddy rush down the pipe. She tore the florist card into tiny pieces and forced them down the drain.
Lydia walked back to the roses. She put her nose next to a perfect bud, breathed in the heavenly scent, and plunged her thumb into a thorn. She recoiled in pain, pulled her hand free, and counted the drops of blood that splashed onto the granite.
Chapter Forty-Three
Meredith expected to see Carl in her office. She called him from the car on her way back from the trustee dinner for major donors. What she hadn’t expected was to walk in and see Bradley Wells sitting across from her desk. She viewed it as a stroke of efficient luck.
“Brad. I’m glad you’re here.” She draped her velvet coat over the credenza and used both hands to re-settle her hair. “Did you enjoy this evening?”
“Not really.” He threw Carl a pointed look. “Your conversation with Kellen seemed to have you captivated so I left without saying goodbye. I called Carl immediately. He said you were coming back and I made the decision to invade your meeting.”
Meredith glanced toward the cabinet on the far wall. Carl rose from his seat, opened the cabinet, and poured two shots of Smirnoff’s over ice. He brought the drink to Meredith and asked Wells if he wanted anything. Wells asked for scotch, neat.
“Carson Kellen is a good friend to the university. His family endowed two chairs in medicine and he and his wife contributed the first large gift to the pediatric library. I’m hoping his generosity will extend to a new genetics lab.” Meredith focused her attention on the chill the vodka traced down her throat. “He’s angling for a seat as trustee, you know.” She offered Wells a slow smile. “But I have another nominee in mind.”
Wells took the tumbler of scotch Carl offered him and stared into his glass. “I’m aware of that, Meredith. After what I heard this evening, however, my enthusiasm is waning. In fact, I’m beginning to question my association with the school at all.”
Meredith leaned against her desk. She set her own glass down. “What did you hear, Brad?”
Wells glanced at Carl and took a sip of scotch.
“You know my philanthropic philosophy. We had a long discussion about it when you first approached me.” He shot Carl another hard glance and Meredith asked if Wells wanted to speak privately.
“No,” Wells said. “It’s best you both hear what I have to say. You remember me telling you I don’t give to charities? That I invest in success?”
Meredith nodded. “I do. And we’ve used your investments well. You’ve been instrumental to our progress in so many ways.”
“There are rumblings, Meredith.” Wells turned in his chair to face her. “I’ve been a businessman long enough to know that major collapses generally start with the same low and persistent murmurs I heard this evening.”
Meredith furrowed her brow. “Rumblings? Murmurs? Of what sort and from whom?”
“The trustees. The donors.” Wells stood. “The university is in the headlines daily after the murders of Bastian and that researcher. That’s not the kind of publicity that bodes success.”
Meredith shook her head. “This is a large university in a major city, Brad. It’s an unfortunate artifact of society, but crime does exist. I’m sure the police will find the culprits soon and this will all be behind us.”
“And now Cameron’s dead.” Wells turned and walked three steps toward the door. “I heard this evening your interim neuroscience chair had a fiance who recently suicided. That’s a lot of bodies, Meredith. I don’t care how big a school or city. These kinds of stories distract focus.”
“What am I supposed to do about that?” Meredith instantly regretted the shrill in her voice. “I’m not Batman.
