“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jimmy let out a low whistle. “Okay, Buddy. I’m on it. We’re having quite the party down here. You coming?”
Mort stood in front of his refrigerator and took in the gallery of family photographs magneted to the door. His eye lingered on one of his favorites. Edie and Allie on Christmas morning. His bed-headed wife laughing as their seven-year-old daughter tried to get new ice skates on over footed pajamas. He put a finger to each of their faces and cursed the cold of the enamel door. One more touch would be enough for him.
Just one more chance to make things right.
“Give me twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll bring coffee.”
Mort walked the familiar five minutes from Bradley Wells’ front door to his library past a half-dozen uniformed police. He handed Jimmy a Styrofoam cup before turning to the body behind the big desk.
Bradley Wells, Prince of the City, sat in his leather chair with half his face missing. Gun powder residue darkened what skin remained on his skull. Bits of flesh and bone mottled his silver mane. Mort took a sip of coffee.
“Shoots our theory all to hell, doesn’t it?” Jimmy asked.
“You pick her up?” he asked.
Jimmy nodded. “Sent a couple of unmarked cars. Told her it was routine questioning. No need to make a scene. She didn’t seem to feel the same. Raised quite a ruckus. Swore she’d have all of our shields before close of business. So far we’ve been able to keep it out of the media.”
“She’s not one to get her hands dirty.” Mort nodded to the corpse. “Somebody’s on her team.”
“Way ahead of you, Buddy. Security cameras picked up a visitor.”
“Man or woman?” Mort hoped he’d hear the right answer.
“Walks like a man, dressed dark, wearing a cap. Micki’s got the tape now. If there’s any way to pull an i.d. of it, she’ll find it.”
“We’re going to need it.” Mort shook his head. “We can’t have any holes in this one.”
“My crew’s at her office now. They found one of those remote gizmos for the synthesizer. And a gun I’m sure ballistics will tell us is a match.”
“What says the D.A.?”
“She says we better be sure. Evidently everyone from the mayor to the governor is on this woman’s Christmas card list. Says she’s got our backs but if we’re wrong she’ll personally hand us our balls before she ships us off to be crossing guards in Moses Lake.”
Mort took one last look at the Sovereign of Seattle. “Then let’s not be wrong.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lydia parked her car three blocks away and walked with her head down to the official residence of the university president. The cold rain provided the cover of empty streets and a hooded parka. The Smith and Wesson in her pocket held the promise of one last blow for justice.
It was nearly noon. Fantasies of a final confrontation with Meredith played in her mind during the ninety minute drive north from Olympia. Private Number was identified. Lydia imagined both ends of a conversation culminating with Meredith understanding the power she’d stolen had been returned. The manipulation was over. But as the Space Needle entered her view, Lydia decided against it. She’d keep it clean. One perfectly-placed silenced bullet and she’d be free.
She walked past the stone path leading to the mansion situated high on a manicured lawn, circled the side of the house, and looked for security guards or staff. One car sat parked in front of a four stall garage. Lydia kept walking. The back yard was hidden behind a six foot brick privacy wall that abutted a dense row of arbor vitae. She looked up and down the street, saw no one, and stepped into the cover the small copse of towering trees provided.
The brick wall was rough enough to gain hold. She pulled herself up and surveyed the residence’s backyard. A white gazebo sat off to her right, adjacent to a formal rose garden. A well-trimmed lawn led straight ahead to a flagstone deck running the width of the house. Lydia steadied herself on the wall just high enough to see over. Fifteen minutes passed with no observed movement. She hoisted herself over and crossed to the lattice arbor surrounding the back door. She reached a gloved hand for the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked. Lydia pushed the back door open and stepped into the mud room.
She stood flat against the wall and listened. Hearing nothing, she climbed two stairs into the kitchen. Recessed lights over a massive marble island chased the grey day out of the room. Lydia saw no signs of a recently eaten lunch. No coffee pot filled with comfort for a busy household staff. She moved to the living room.
Three distinct conversation areas sprawled across the enormous space. Empty sofas and chairs sat on Persian rugs. A wall of windows showcased the drizzled front lawn. Lydia crossed the entrance hall to the ornately carved staircase. She took a step and looked up.
Mort Grant sat on the mid-flight landing. Elbows on bent knees. Head down.
“She’s not here, Liddy.”
Lydia froze. Her heart pounded a panicked staccato to accompany the frenzied dance of a dozen thoughts.
Mort looked up and she calmed a little.
“Where is she?” She saw the disappointment in his face but could offer no apology.
He drew a long breath. “We got her. Picked her up this morning for questioning in the murder of Bradley Wells.
She swallowed hard. The heaviness in her chest threatened to pull her down.
“I want you to go, Liddy.” Mort sounded tired. “Leave now. Don’t go back to Olympia. Just turn around and disappear.”
Lydia took a step toward him but his upraised hand stopped her.
“I don’t understand.” She coughed the catch in her throat clear.
A layer of tears glistened in Mort’s eyes. “I’m familiar with The Fixer’s body of work. I imagine it’s been lucrative. I’m sure you’ve got access to various identities.” He rubbed his hand through his graying hair.
Lydia’s knees buckled. She leaned against the carved railing. “How long have you known?”
Mort looked at her for several long seconds. “I think some part of me knew a while ago. I kept pushing coincidences out of my head. Hell, I don’t know when.” His jaw muscles twitched. “But I know now. My guess is she’s blackmailing you, right?”
Lydia felt the sting of tears and blinked them away.
“Please answer me, Liddy.” Mort was calm. “You came here to kill her. What did she want you to do?”
Her ears were ringing. Her bones ached. She wanted to be back home, sharing coffee with him and watching the morning roll in. “She wanted me to kill Cameron Williams. Then wait for further instructions.”
Mort hung his head. His voice barely a whisper. “You killed Cameron?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.”
Mort snapped his head up. His voice stern enough to press her back to the wall. “Don’t play games with me, Lydia. I asked you if you killed Cameron.”
Lydia could hear her pulse pounding. For the first time in a long time she could tell the complete and unvarnished truth. She knew he’d listen. She stared silently at him, ashamed at her cowardice.
His voice softened. A loving father teaching his daughter a life lesson. “You got used, Liddy. Or I should say The Fixer got used. You and Wally both. Poor Wally thought he was helping his mentor by hiring you. Who the hell knows what she told that kid.” Mort rested his cheek against his palm. “Hell, when I saw what Bastian did to that gorilla I wanted to kill him myself. But why would she want Cameron dead?”
Lydia choked out the word. “Jealousy. Cameron told me Meredith and Bastian were a couple before she met him.”
“So the two spurned lovers concocted the scheme together. Wells had the money and the goons. Meredith had the patsy and the synthesizer.” Mort hung his hands between his knees. “And you had the chops.”
