life and run off with Childress, remember? Nothing like the reflection in the eyes of someone you love to make you see yourself clearly.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw. “What I saw in Edie’s eyes after Allie was gone, man, it damned near killed me. I think Savannah didn’t like what she saw and couldn’t find her way out. Top it off with finding out she’d infected Childress with HIV. I think that pushed her over the edge.”
Jimmy responded with a slow nod. “That’s why I stick with my fantasy of the unattainable Micki. Sometimes real love just sucks, doesn’t it?”
Mort skipped the obvious reply and got to the biggest loose end. “No body for Cameron Williams.”
Jim tilted his head toward the room. “All this blood? Dogs leading straight to the Sound? Wells’ connection to guys who know some guys? Plus this chain of circumstances? I think we got no problem.”
Bruiser stretched out at his master’s feet. The silent rumination of the facts lingered several minutes.
“We ready?” Mort asked.
Jimmy flipped his notebook closed. “I’ll head over to the prosecuting attorney now. You coming?”
Mort checked his watch. “You mind taking this alone, Partner? I have some calls to make.”
Mort poured the foamy milk into the espresso, sat down at his kitchen table, and punched number two on his speed dial. Claire answered on the second ring.
“How are my girls?” he asked.
“Bien, Beau Pere.” Claire’s voice danced in his ear. “They are with their father down for ice cream. They will be so sorry to have missed you.”
“’Their father’, huh?” God, he missed the sassy play between husbands and wives. “When are they due back?”
“You have news?” she asked. “Robert has spoken of little else but this case you’re sharing. This is why I demand he takes his little girls for ice cream.”
Mort loved the way she called Robbie Ro-bear. “And why didn’t he take you?”
Claire laughed. “I have to watch my figure. Et voila, I can speak with my father-in-law at my leisure, no? So tell me, who is this new woman in your life? Robert tells me she has been helping on this case, oui?”
“She tries,” he said. “Let me take that back. She helps plenty. I don’t think I would have made some key connections if Lydia hadn’t been looking out for a patient of hers.”
“Ooh, La Docteur Lydia.” Mort heard the tease in Claire’s voice and knew he’d have to explain away any romantic notion his daughter-in-law might hope for. “Is she lovely? Does she have a last name?”
Mort chuckled. “I think she could be beautiful if she tried, but she’s more of a home-spun type. Just right for a psychologist, I guess. And it’s Corriger, Lydia Corriger.”
“Ah ha!” Claire trilled. “Another Grant man with exquisite taste. Elle est Francais, n’est ce pas?”
Mort used what little French he’d been able to pick up since Claire entered their lives. “No, I don’t think so. What makes you think she’s French?”
“Her name,” she said. “But it is perfect for a psychologist, no?”
“I’m not following.” Mort wondered if he’d ever understand women.
“Corriger, n’est ce pas? It is French. It means “To Fix”.
Chapter Forty-Five
Lydia kicked off her wet shoes and brought the morning paper into the dining room. Exhaustion, the kind that sleep could never relieve, pulled on every muscle. She stood beside the table and stared out the window thinking of the time Mort drank coffee and admired the same view.
Low grey clouds loomed over Dana Passage; the water the color of wet concrete. Two massive cedar trees at the edge of the cliff swayed in the same direction as white-capped waves. Roiling mist obscured the mountains in the distance.
The eagle was back. Lydia allowed herself the indulgence of claiming it as her own. She watched it surf the wind of the incoming storm, banking and coasting before it found the spot to float suspended over the passage. Immobile. Perfect.
She turned, surveyed her home, and recalled how she selected each piece of furniture, art work, and rug. Remembering the care she took in building her sanctuary. Impregnable. Perfect.
Private Number’s invasion stripped away that delusion.
She pulled out a chair, sat in Mort’s spot, tugged the paper out of its soggy plastic wrapper, and tried to find solace in mundane routine. The headline announced the pending departure of troops from nearby Fort Lewis. A photograph of a soldier in dessert fatigues hugging her five-year-old daughter while her husband stood beside her and wept into the shoulder of their year-old son accompanied it. She read the story, turned the page, and felt the breath rush out of her.
A picture of Walter Buchner smiled from the bottom of the paper beneath a sidebar caption that read “Recent Murder Victim Part of Study”. Lydia’s eyes darted to the main article.
University Chairman Honored
She quickly read that Robert Passow, head of the Audiology Department had been recognized at an international symposium for development of breakthrough technology in voice synthesizing. Her heart raced as she read the description of a device that could take varieties of input and produce recognizable, conversational speech. Any accent. Any age. Either gender. Passow spoke of the hope the device offered. In accepting his award, he thanked the people who contributed to the project’s development, listing several researchers and engineers.
“And a special thanks goes out to Meredith Thornton, our university’s president,” the article quoted. “She’s known now as a leader of academic institutions, but before she climbed the administrative hill, Dr. Thornton was a pioneer in voice synthesis. Her ground-breaking work formed the foundation of this achievement and we owe her an eternal debt of gratitude.”
Lydia knew that name. A memory of Cameron Williams describing Bastian’s history of dating powerful women. How he’d broken things off with the university president to be with her. Lydia’s eyes swept to the sidebar. She read about Wally’s participation in the development and testing of the breakthrough synthesizer. A quotation from Robert Passow alluded to Wally’s genius and the loss his murder had created. Lydia read the next paragraph twice.
“His death is a tragedy,” said University President Meredith Thornton. “To our school, our community, but more importantly to science. I learned of Mr. Buchner’s potential during his undergraduate years. I recruited him myself to join our graduate research staff and I count his death as a personal loss.”
Lydia set the paper aside and returned to the view outside her window. Rain sheets pelted the churning waves. The eagle was gone. The Fixer had her target.
Chapter Forty-Six
Mort threw down the morning paper, swore out loud, and shoved his screaming thoughts into a holding cell in his brain. Then he picked up his ringing cell phone.
“Guess who’s dead?” Jim DeVilla asked. “I’m getting a little tired of this body count.”
Mort’s hand tightened around the phone as Jimmy told him.
“Gunshot?” Mort’s stomach threatened to return his huevos rancheros to the plate sitting in front of him.
“Yeah.”
Mort swallowed hard and pushed himself away from the table. “The casings are going to match up with the ones we found at Buchner’s.”
“Looks like it to the naked eye.” Jim barked an order to some investigator on his end. “What makes you so sure?”
Mort brought his friend up to speed on what he’d read in the morning paper.
