“She had help,” Lydia said. “They got into my house.”
Mort nodded. “We’ve got one on tape. We’ll get him. If there are others we’ll get them, too. You don’t need to worry.”
Lydia’s shame pushed her further back. She wanted to disappear. Run far from the heaviness of Mort’s disappointment. But the pleading look in his eyes riveted her to where she stood.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for the pain I’m causing you.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. Leave right now and you’ll be, too. Go live your life somewhere safe. Away from all this.”
Lydia wiped the tears off her face with both hands. “Why? After all you know, why would you let me walk away?”
Mort’s stare was heartrending. “When this story breaks The Fixer will become a folk hero to every person ever denied justice. I’m sure more than a few cops will be singing your praises, too. But I’m not letting The Fixer go.” Mort’s eyes lased into hers. “I’m giving Peggy Denise Simmons a break. What’s done is done. I know you thought you were doing something good for the world.” He coughed his throat clear. “I promised I’d have your back, and I will. Now go.”
“Meredith knows who I am. She has recordings and photos.”
“She’d have to admit to hiring you. I’m betting she won’t do that. If she does, well, I’m sure you can make yourself invisible.” Mort stood and walked three steps down. “The important thing is you’ll be safe.”
Lydia’s mind raced through her options. Could she start over? Free from The Fixer? She reached inside her parka, pulled out an envelope, and held it Mort’s way.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Lydia was numb. Her voice an echo to her own ears. She felt far away, suspended above the scene, watching it play out. “It’s an address. Go there and find Cameron Williams.”
“You hid her body?” Mort reached for the envelope. “That’s not like The Fixer.”
She shook her head. Mort shrank in her field of vision, as though she was looking at him from the end of a long hallway. “She’s not dead. She’s waiting for you.”
She barely could see the confused look on Mort’s face. “I don’t get it,” he said.
“She knows I killed Bastian.” Lydia allowed herself a little smile. “You’d be surprised how easy it was to convince her to let me draw a few vials of her blood and spray it around the room after I told her I’d been sent to kill her, too. She’s safe. She knows to stay put until you come get her.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m not a murderer,” she whispered.
Mort held the envelope. The sadness on his face tormented Lydia. She could still feel something like love.
His voice was hoarse with regret. “I’ll bring her home. Now go. You’ll have nothing to fear from Cameron. I’ll make sure of it. Just go.”
Lydia shook her head. “I’m not Allie, Mort. You’re not responsible for saving me. And you couldn’t live with yourself if you let me walk away from this. You know what you need to do. I won’t go to jail.” She pulled her revolver from her pocket.
“You gonna shoot me, Liddy?”
The hand that escorted so many to their deaths trembled with the weight of the Smith and Wesson. “Do what you need to do. Please.”
The sound of footsteps interrupted their focus and they both looked toward the kitchen. Lydia took two steps into the living room and saw a man walking toward them. She turned her gun toward Mort.
“Is this an arrest?” Her shame was replaced by despair. “You pretended to care long enough to distract me until your team showed up?”
Mort descended the staircase and stood five feet from her. “You hear any sirens, Liddy?” He looked toward the intruder.
“Hello, Carl.” Mort watched the Executive Provost pull a revolver from the jacket of his pocket.
Lydia turned her own gun toward the red-haired man.
“Well what have we here?” Carl Snelling clucked his satisfaction. “This is all a bit too easy now, isn’t it? God knows I’m in for a bit of luck after the day I’m having.”
“Put down your weapon,” Lydia commanded.
Carl held Lydia’s gaze and stepped closer. He leveled his gun toward the side of Mort’s head. “You first, Fixer. Drop your gun now or the good officer dies. And don’t expect any drama of my counting to three. Drop it now or wish you had.”
Her mind raced. This stranger knew who she was. She wanted to shoot. But the risk of his finger reflexively pulling his own trigger could kill Mort.
“Fine.” He turned his eyes toward Mort.
“Stop!” Lydia threw her gun to the floor.
The red-headed man chuckled and kicked Lydia’s gun across the floor. “That’s a good little girl.” He waved them both to the sofa. “Now sit.”
Mort and Lydia traversed the large room and took a seat across from the expansive windows. Carl Snelling sat in a chair opposite them.
“You okay?” Mort whispered to Lydia. His eyes were filled with concern and she wondered how a man came to be so rock-steady. She nodded and turned her attention back to the man with the gun.
“You’re Private Number?” she asked.
The man looked puzzled. Then a rush of recognition washed over his face. “Is that what you call me? How charming. One would suppose it’s necessary to have some way to identify one’s controller, wouldn’t one? The screen announcing my calls would suffice, I’d imagine. Allow me to introduce myself, My Dear. I’m Carl Snelling. Of course, I already know you.” He turned his attention to Mort. “And you, Detective Grant. I imagine you’re sifting through every conversation we’ve ever had. Wondering what you missed and all that. Am I right?”
Mort’s voice was cold but composed. “I’m not missing a thing, Snelling. You’re Meredith Thornton’s lackey. You do her bidding at the university and you dance the tune she called when it came to killing Bastian and Buchner. Cameron Williams, too.”
Snelling dropped the facade of congeniality. His eyes narrowed and Lydia watched his face turn to ice. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Detective. Meredith is as flummoxed by the deaths as the rest of the university. I tried to tell you I was the one you should be speaking with. True to form, Meredith knows nothing.” He settled back into the chair and crossed one leg over the other. “As relates to who is lackey to whom, I’m afraid you have the arrow pointing in the wrong direction. A common mistake for the poorly educated.”
Mort sat mute, focused on the gunman. Lydia watched both men. Despite the fact Snelling was armed, Mort challenged him for Alpha position.
“You don’t believe me?” Snelling raised an eyebrow.
Mort stayed silent. He held Snelling’s gaze and Lydia wondered if he was breathing.
Snelling glanced toward Lydia. “You think this is about monkeys being beheaded, don’t you?” His grin held no mirth. “My poor, deluded Fixer. As it always is, this is about money.”
“What do you mean?” Lydia needed to keep him talking. She needed time to think of a way to get Mort out of this. A way that guaranteed Snelling didn’t leave the house alive.
“Bradley Wells approached me several months ago. He wanted to develop four hundred acres of university property along the Lake Washington shoreline. He offered me five hundred thousand dollars to convince Meredith to direct the board of trustees to sell it to him. I was offended, of course.” He gave another of his frigid smiles. “But when he upped his offer to seven hundred fifty thousand I reassessed my position. Meredith has always relied on me to keep the university running as she goes about raising funds and seducing the legislature. I knew I could make her see things our way. And let’s be frank. Three-quarters of a million dollars would go far toward feathering my retirement nest. A civil servant’s lot is a thankless one.”
“But Thornton wouldn’t play ball?” Mort asked.
“Ah, you see? You’re wrong again, Detective. As always, I was able to bring Meredith around. I phonied some numbers to make her think the university was on the brink of financial ruin. Wells played his part as the disappointed benefactor. She became convinced selling the property to Wells was the right move for the university.”
