Authors: T. E. Woods
“The dress came from Nordstrom’s.” Micki Petty leaned against the wall of Mort’s office while Bruiser anchored her feet. “Sixth floor. Expensive. Shoes are Jimmy Choos.”
Jim DeVilla yanked his mug away from his lips and struggled to swallow. “Damn it, Micki. Give a guy a warning. I nearly choked on my coffee. ‘Jimmy Choos shoes.’ That’s a good one.” He broke a glazed doughnut in half and tossed a piece toward Bruiser, who caught it in midair.
“He’s a designer,” Micki explained. “You could spend a couple thousand dollars on a pair of his shoes.”
Jim finished his half of the doughnut and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “No, I couldn’t.” He nodded to the big dog at Micki’s feet. “What d’ya say, buddy? Wanna go into business? Bruiser Chews Shoes.”
Mort knew Jimmy well enough to know his friend’s jokes were his way of underlining a point.
“The Shoe Stop must be paying more than I thought,” Jimmy said. “Crystal’s shopping on Nordstom’s sixth and dropping a grand on high heels.”
“She wouldn’t be the first woman who spent more than she should dressing up,” Mort suggested.
Jimmy shook his head. “Her daughter said Mommy was going to work. Could be that outfit was more of a uniform.”
“Again, she wouldn’t be the first woman who did what she had to do to raise her kid,” Mort said.
“Doesn’t fit.” Micki flipped her notebook open. “Mrs. Silvatori at the deli said she was always trying to get Crystal to go out and find some nice young man to date, but Crystal wasn’t having it. According to people who knew her, when Crystal wasn’t working, she was with Nyla.”
“Well, she sure was dressed up for something last night,” Jimmy said. “And she didn’t have her little girl along.”
Micki ignored him. “Crystal’s bank account shows no deposits beyond the automatics from her work at the Shoe Stop. She’s living close to the bone. Every penny seems to be accounted for. If Crystal was hooking, there’d be extra cash. And Mrs. Silvatori said Crystal was always grateful for the closing-time leftovers and day-olds from the deli. Says she was certain that sometimes the only food Crystal had to eat was what she sent upstairs. Nothing fits with Crystal prostituting.”
“We heard back from Doc Conner yet?” Jimmy asked. “Tox screen’s gonna take time, but he’s had a chance to examine the body.”
“Looking for needle marks, you mean?” Mort asked.
Jimmy tilted his head in resignation. “Raising a kid alone is hard work. As long as we’re listing things Crystal wouldn’t be the first woman being, we have to add she wouldn’t be the first to try to ease the dark grind with a little chemical assistance.”
“That could explain where any cash from hooking disappeared,” Mort said. “She wouldn’t run those payments through her checking account.”
“A junkie hooker wouldn’t be dressed like Crystal was,” Micki protested. “It’s not jibing with the picture people who knew Crystal paint.”
“People come packaged a lot of different ways, Mick.” Mort hoped he’d never have to explain how his own pose of by-the-book lawman actually masked someone who conspired to keep a vigilante killer at large. “But you’re right about the way she was dressed. Jimmy, check it out with Esme.” Mort referred to the woman running a high-end call-girl service out of an expensive bridal boutique. “See if she’s had dealings with Crystal.”
Jim and Bruiser rose in unison. “Esme always looks at me like I’m tracking in a poverty cootie. I’ll impress her this time by dropping Jimmy Choo’s name.”
“Micki, good work with the interviews. Anybody smell like a suspect to you?”
Micki shook her head. “I’ll keep digging.”
Mort turned to Jimmy. “Anything yet on Jennifer, the mysterious babysitter?”
“I got the phone company working on it. Should have something later this afternoon.”
“We got anything else?” Mort asked.
“Tessa pulled Nyla’s birth certificate,” Micki said. “Her father’s listed as Dax Kingsley. I’m tracking him down.”
Mort’s cell rang. He glanced at the caller’s name on the screen. “I’ll take this. Let’s meet back here end of day.”
Micki, Jimmy, and Bruiser left his office as Mort answered his phone. “Hey, Robbie. What’s up?”
“Sorry to interrupt you at work, Dad.” Robbie sounded tense. “Can you come to my place right away?”
Mort’s fatherly instincts kicked in. “You all right? Claire? The girls?”
“We’re fine, Dad. Just get here quick.” Robbie’s voice quieted. “It’s Allie.”
Mort felt his blood pressure plummet. He instinctively widened his stance to keep his balance. “I’m on my way.”
Lydia handed her nine o’clock patient a cup of tea. “What’s up?”
Delbe Jensen accepted the warm mug with trembling hands. “It’s been a rough coupla weeks.”
Lydia nodded. This was Delbe’s fifth appointment. She had originally come to see Lydia with complaints about not being able to sleep. The two of them had worked through that issue quickly, but Delbe had wanted to stay in therapy. Though she was only twenty-four, Delbe had told Lydia she was sick of her life and wanted to change things.
“You got particulars?” Lydia asked her now.
Delbe’s amber eyes filled with tears. “How long are you expected to pay for past mistakes?”
It was a question Lydia lived with daily. But this hour was set aside for dealing with her patient’s issues. She ignored her own self-damning and resumed her role. “We all make mistakes. Some are more expensive than others. Which mistake are we talking about?”
Delbe shoved a hank of wild ginger hair behind her neck. “The high school dropout mistake.” She leaned her head back and let out a grunt. “God! I’m such a poster child for fucked-up losers. I hear my father in my head every day. ‘If you do this stupid thing, Miss Delbe, you’ll regret it as long as you live.’ But I knew better, right?” She barked a humorless laugh. “I was headin’ down to L.A. to sell my songs. What a joke. I’m stuck here wearing my feet out serving gray-hairs down at the Pancake House. Two bucks an hour and all the tips I can grab. Let me tell ya, people on fixed incomes think I deserve ten percent only if I lay the eggs myself. And they come in bunches. Order the $5.99 Golden Discount meal, then sit there swapping aches and pains for three hours. All the time I gotta keep their mugs filled. I work six
A.M.
to noon seven days a week. I live in the same fucking bedroom I grew up in. Every day the disappointment on my parents’ faces says howdy-do when I drag myself home. All’s the energy I got left is to get into a shower to scrub the smell of bacon off my skin. Then I collapse in front of the television where my father has it soldered to Fox News turned up so loud I swear neighbors can hear it two blocks down.” Delbe kicked the side of the coffee table separating her from Lydia. “God! I hate my life.”
“What would you rather be doing?”
“Anything the fuck else.” Delbe’s anger was rising.
“I need you to close your eyes for a minute. Can you do that, please?” Lydia shifted her tone into hypnotic mode. “Take a few deep, cleansing breaths.” Lydia paused to watch her patient follow her direction. “Very good. Now I want you to paint a picture in your mind. You’re lying on a blanket on a quiet Hawaiian beach.” Lydia continued to build the image. She brought in every sense, guiding Delbe through the smell of the salty air and hibiscus breeze, the sound of seagulls overhead, the gentle tropical air teasing across her skin. Lydia saw Delbe’s shoulders relax. Her breathing calmed. The muscles of her face eased and her freckled brow lost its furrow. Lydia saw her transform into a relaxed young woman instead of a tight, angry shrew. Once the image was complete, Lydia let Delbe stay in that imaginary spot for a few minutes before she directed her attention back to the room. Delbe opened her drowsy eyes and nodded.
“That was good, Dr. C. Maybe you can follow me around, huh? You’re better than a blunt, and thanks to Obamacare, nowhere near as expensive.”
“Are you doing that? Smoking a lot of dope?”
Delbe shrugged. “What else I got?”
“Do you have a circle of friends? Maybe get out with people your own age?”
Delbe’s smirk was nowhere near a smile. “People my own age treat me like I’m covered with oozing sores. People my age are graduating college. They’re traveling around Europe or moving into their first nice apartment. They drive cars that don’t leave oil slicks wherever they park. You wanna know who I hang with? Punks from work. Sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds working two shifts a week washing dishes because their folks make ’em buy their own gas. They think I’m cool ’cause they can slip me twenty bucks and I’ll buy ’em a half rack of Bud.” A wave of shame clouded her face. “I keep the change. Come the fall most of ’em will be off to some university, wondering what fraternity or sorority to join. It’ll be a whole new crew for me to buy beer for.”
“You could go back to school.”
The anger returned to Delbe’s eyes. “And disappoint my parents? Who’d be their fuckin’ retard daughter if I got my shit together? What would they have to talk about while sipping their martinis down at the club? Hell, the only thing they agree on is I’m trashing my life.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared in defiant impotence.
Lydia nodded slowly. “You’re building a nice safe world for yourself, aren’t you?”
Delbe’s face crunched in disbelief. “What’s so safe about sleeping in a twin bed and smelling my parents’ arthritis ointment and Marlboros every time I inhale?”
Lydia shrugged. “Looks to me like you got it pretty good. Your job may be physically painful, but you’re done at noon every day. You don’t have to pay rent or buy food. You’re living in a nice house, fully furnished. Didn’t you tell me there’s a pool out back? And like you said, your health care’s provided. Hell, you don’t even have to risk developing deep relationships. You’re the beer lady. Everybody loves you. You’re the hotshot grown-up who gets stoned with the high schoolers. And damn, girl. You even get to keep the change.”
Delbe pulled herself to the edge of her chair and leaned forward. “You think I got it so good?” she said, her voice low but filled with rage. “My life sound safe and cozy to you? How about I trade you? You be me for ten minutes and see how it feels.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe then you’ll…Wait…What? What did you just say?”
“I said okay. Let’s trade places. I’ll be you for ten minutes, just like you suggest, and you be me.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I can’t be the shrink any more than you can balance four plates of flapjacks.”
“Maybe not. Maybe so. Let’s see.” Lydia looked at her watch. “For the next ten minutes I’m Delbe Jensen and you’re Dr. Corriger. I’ve just described to you how terrible my life is living at home, working seven days a week, and getting stoned with the high school crowd.” Lydia sat forward and mimicked Delbe’s posture. She lowered her voice in imitation of Delbe’s seething anger. “So what the fuck, Doc? What am I supposed to do?”
Delbe sat still for a moment. “This is bullshit.”
Lydia stayed in character. “You calling my life bullshit, Doc? Damn straight. You get it. Don’t even get me started on my parents. I’m twenty-four years old and they still make me clean my room before dinner. Like I’m a fuckin’ six-year-old or something.”
Delbe shook her head. “I’m not doing this.”
Lydia opened her arms wide. “You telling me I shouldn’t do this, Doc? You saying I should just tell my parents I’m not followin’ their fucked-up rules?”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying.” Delbe’s words were rushed. “Just make the damned bed.”
“But I’m not a kid, Doc.” Lydia needed Delbe to keep playing. “They don’t know how tired I am from working so hard.”
“Then get another fucking job, for God’s sake.” Delbe threw herself back against the sofa. “What the hell do you want me to do?”
“You’re supposed to help me, Doc. You’re supposed to save me.” Lydia kept her voice desperate and urgent.
“But it’s your life, not mine!” Delbe cried. “Fix it yourself!”
Lydia softened her stance, sat back, and watched the anger drain from her patient. It was several minutes before Delbe spoke.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“I’ve been told. You were a pretty good shrink there.”
“That’s what you do all day? Tell people they gotta fix themselves?”
“Pretty much.” Lydia was pleased the tension had left the room. “Then we get busy coming up with a plan.”
“So what’s the plan for me?”
“That’s up to you. You tell me what you want and I’ll work my ass off figuring a way to make it happen. The only thing I won’t do is work harder than you. Deal?”
Delbe bit her lower lip. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Where would we start?”
“With the basics. You’ve got three pieces of homework between now and the next time we meet. First, I want to know what you want out of life…now…at age twenty-four. Be realistic, but tell me what your life would be like if you were living your best life ever. Write it down and bring it in next time. That’ll be the road map for our work here. Will you do that?”
Delbe nodded. “What’s the second assignment?”
“You’re a mess,” Lydia said. “You come in here in dirty clothes, hair uncombed, and shoes with mud…at least I’m hoping that’s mud…caked on them. You’re a lovely young woman. Next time I see you, I want you to look like you deserve a decent life. I want you clean, well fed, and well dressed. I want you to look like someone the world should treat well.”
Delbe looked down at her baggy, unwashed khakis and stained polo shirt. Lydia could see her struggle against a defensive comeback. “What’s the last thing?”
Lydia looked her square in the eye. “You’re twenty-four. I’m seeing you in two days. Between now and then I want you to act your age. No sneaking beers or pot to teenagers. No hanging out with the underage crowd. It’s not cool. It’s kind of creepy, actually. Got it?”
Delbe nodded in reluctant agreement. “Yeah, I got it. You’re not a typical shrink, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
Mort thanked Claire for the glass of iced tea but kept his eyes on the portly man seated across from him. He waited until his daughter-in-law left the room, dialed his voice to dangerous, and leaned across Robbie’s dining room table.
“You get one chance to get this right, Mr. Fillymont. You tell me where my daughter is right now or I make your life very miserable. Understand me?”
“Actually, it’s Fiddymont, Detective Grant.” The man’s British accent made him sound more relaxed than his surveying eyes and clipped words led Mort to believe. “Archibald Fiddymont. I’m charged with the delivery of news and documents. I will fulfill my assignment and leave. I have no desire to embroil myself with whatever is going on between you and your daughter.”
Mort pushed his chair back, but his son grabbed his right arm. Robbie’s eyes telegraphed his wish for his father’s good behavior. “Claire and the girls are in the next room.”
Mort sat back. “Where’s Allie? Tell me where my daughter is.”
Fiddymont shook his head and moistened his lips. “I have no idea, Detective. Can we please complete the task at hand? It is my strongest desire to be rid of this and on my way home at the earliest possible moment.”
The man was the first lead since Allie disappeared. As eager as Fiddymont seemed to be gone, Mort needed information.
“When did you last see her?”
Archibald Fiddymont took his time before responding. Mort assumed he was weighing the confines of attorney-client privilege. The barrister blotted a napkin across his lips before he spoke. “Yesterday.”
“How’d she look?” Robbie asked. “Was she alone? Did she seem hurt in any way?”
Fiddymont seemed confused by the question. “Hurt? I should say not. That was my fourth appointment with her over the course of five days. We met three times in my office and one time for dinner at a local pub. She was always alone, with the exception of her driver, of course. Always expensively dressed and exquisitely groomed.” He turned toward Mort. “She’s quite beautiful.”
Mort couldn’t even give an automatic, meaningless nod. There had been, of course, a time when he was genuinely proud of his only daughter. Her intelligence and talent had kept him beaming throughout her childhood. But Allie’s teenaged restlessness turned into daredevil recklessness as she grew. Mort knew very little of how Allie lived these days. But he knew it was outside the law.
“She lives in London?” Robbie asked. “Do you have an address?”
Again Fiddymont took his time answering. When he did, not even his aristocratic accent could mask the tension in his voice. “Ms. Grant took the time necessary to work with me ironing out the details of her wishes. Always face-to-face. Always at her initiation.” Fiddymont focused on Mort as he spoke. “I’d be hesitant to think she lives in London. She displayed no familiarity with the city beyond the airport, West End theaters, and Harrods.”
“What hotel was she using?” Mort asked.
Fiddymont shook his head. “I have no idea. As I said, we met three times at my office and shared a simple meal one evening. Strictly business. When dinner was over, her driver dropped me at my flat and they continued on, I know not where.”
“Was the driver local?” Mort asked.
Fiddymont shifted in his chair. He took a sip from his glass and set it aside, making room for the briefcase he pulled up from beside his chair. “I appreciate your desire for details. But I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss anything beyond the matter at hand.”
“What is the matter at hand, Mr. Fiddymont?”
The stout barrister’s hands shook as he clicked open his case and removed two thick stacks of paper. He handed the first to Robbie. “This has been quite the enterprise. While British and American laws share common roots, there are subtle differences I needed to maneuver. But I assure you your sister’s plan is ironclad, airtight, and infinitely complete.”
Robbie accepted the package offered. “My sister’s plan?”
A glisten of sweat shined on Fiddymont’s brow. “Your sister Allison has set up an educational trust for your twin daughters…her nieces. Hayden Edith and Hadley Francine Grant.”
Robbie’s brow furrowed. “My daughters are six years old. They’ll attend public school here in Seattle come September.”
“Quite so,” Fiddymont continued. “Your sister spoke with me at length about her love for you, her brother, and of course for her nieces. She understands her…” He struggled to find the words. “…her lifestyle precludes being as involved as she would like in their lives, and she wanted to make whatever contribution she could to their upbringing.”
Mort glanced toward the kitchen, happy to see his granddaughters nowhere in sight. He loved Allie, but there was no way in hell he’d allow her to influence the innocence of Robbie’s girls.
“I don’t understand,” Robbie said.
“Allow me to explain the basics of the trust. I’ll leave you to examine the particulars at your leisure. Do feel free to share them with your own barrister.” Fiddymont paled as though caught in a grievous error. “Forgive me. Have your
lawyer
review them should you feel the need. My contact information is on the cover sheet. It’s quite straightforward. Every year the trust will send one hundred thousand U.S. dollars to be used for educational expenses. You’ll find your sister has been quite liberal in what is to be considered educational expense: tuition, clothing, supplies, anything the girls might need. That sum arrives the first of every September until such time as the children matriculate to university. At that point the amount doubles and is sent directly to the by-then adult Hayden Edith and Hadley Francine Grant.”
“What the hell?” Robbie shoved the stack of papers back toward Fiddymont. “There’s no way I’m accepting this. My wife and I will take care of our daughters’ education. Give me my sister’s phone number and I’ll tell her myself. And there’s sure as hell no way she’s giving those kids a hundred grand a year for college spending money.”
Fiddymont turned to Mort, his eyes pleading for assistance.
“Don’t look at me, buddy. You have any idea where this money comes from?”
Fiddymont looked away. “My role is limited and specific. I’m to manage and disperse the funds. As you can see, that’s precisely what I’m doing.”
“It’s drug money.” Robbie’s angry outburst had Mort checking the kitchen once again for any signs of Claire and the girls. “My sister’s a drug whore, Mr. Fiddymont.”
The blood drained from the Brit’s face. “Those are rough words. And it’s none of my concern—”
“He was Russian, wasn’t he?” Mort interrupted. “Allie’s driver. I asked you if he was local and you got spooked.”
Fiddymont’s hand trembled in synchronized rhythm with his lower lip. “I’m here to inform you of your daughter’s arrangements, Detective. There’s no need to bring me into your affairs any further.”
Mort locked eyes with the man. “Do you know the name Vadim Tokarev?”
The British barrister struggled to speak. “I stay abreast of the news,” he whispered. “I hear the rumors, of course. London is awash these days with Russian billionaires.”
“Then you know the brutality of this particular Russian billionaire,” Mort said. “It is my understanding my daughter is currently serving in the role of his chief consort.”
Fiddymont’s voice was barely audible. “That is mine as well.”
“So you can appreciate why my son isn’t going to let one dime of Tokarev’s money anywhere near his girls. It’s dripping in blood.”
Fiddymont turned frantic eyes to Robbie. “There’s no other choice.” He shifted back to Mort. “You know your daughter. How clever she can be. If the two of you refuse the funds, I am compelled to inform you the terms of the trust dictate any and all future monies be immediately redirected to the bank accounts of an intermediary identified in the paperwork as Mr. Smith. Ms. Grant assures me Mr. Smith will then, through a series of financial transactions of which I am not privy, provide the money to the Righteous Red.”
Mort and Robbie leaned back in shocked unison.
“The organization waging warfare throughout Central Africa?” Robbie asked. “That Righteous Red? My God. They’ve killed hundreds of thousands of people. Slaughtered children. Burned entire villages.”
Fiddymont nodded. He turned to Mort. “As you said, Vadim Tokarev is a man well known to the world. Does it surprise you he has associates tied to such an organization?”
Mort struggled to breathe and wondered how the girl he and Edie raised could justify being involved with such a butcher. And she was bringing his filth into Robbie’s house. He swallowed the iron taste of bile and pointed to his own stack of papers.
“What’s mine say?” he asked.
Fiddymont rolled his shoulders and struggled to resume his role. “What you’ll find are the documents associated with the full payment of the mortgage on your recently purchased houseboat. The loan with the bank has been satisfied and your mooring fees have been paid ahead thirty years.” He hesitated. “Your daughter asked me to learn if you’d taken up fishing.”
Mort wasn’t interested in sharing the small details of his new life on the water. He laid his hand on the papers. “And if I call the bank and cancel?”
Fiddymont shook his head in defeat. “There’s no canceling, Detective. The deed is there. The transaction is completed.”
The three of them sat silently in Robbie’s dining room for several minutes.
“Get out of my house.” Robbie’s tone was angry resignation. “Tell my sister I am not thankful. I am not appreciative. Tell her she can do with the money what she wants, but I will not touch one cent if it is deposited into my accounts.”
The fear returned to Fiddymont’s voice. “Do not cross her, Mr. Grant. I beg you. I understand your hesitancy, to be certain. But trust me when I tell you, you do not want to deny Allison Grant her intentions.”
“What has she done to you?” Mort asked. “You fly from London to Seattle to present us with blood-soaked money. What’s to stop me from calling whatever agency regulates English barristers and report you are knowingly dealing with international criminals and are involved in schemes designed to divert monies to genocidal maniacs?”
Fiddymont’s entire body shook. His skin lost all color. His lips moved wordlessly until he was finally able to spit out his plea. “I’ve built my career on ethical and honest work. Your daughter sought me out for my expertise in establishing international trusts. She lied to me. Your daughter led me to believe the funding for these trusts were a result of her successful business enterprises. It was only when, after my own due diligence, I discovered that was a falsehood, she revealed her true intentions.” He turned back toward Robbie. “You must take the money. I must return to England and assure her the educational trust will be used.”
“Tell me what my daughter has done,” Mort said.
Fiddymont said nothing. Mort realized it wasn’t attorney-client privilege that held his tongue. It was fear.
“Tell me what my daughter had done,” Mort repeated. “I’ll give you five seconds before I make a call to Homeland Security and have you held until you’ve satisfied the American government there’s no reason your name should be placed on a no-fly list.”
Fiddymont had the eyes of a drowning man grasping for a lifeline just beyond his reach. “Your daughter insisted my wife and fourteen-year-old son accompany me to that pub dinner I mentioned earlier. As I said, her driver deposited me at my flat when dinner was over.” Tears spilled down his cheeks. “But only I was allowed to leave the car. I will leave here and fly back to London on the same private jet your daughter had bring me here. Someone will meet me at the airport. Your daughter assures me that only after I hand that someone your written acceptance of the terms of the trusts will she release my Gwen and Will. If I fail, she will kill them both.” He could no longer contain himself and spoke through choking sobs. “I believe her, Detective Grant. I believe her.”
Mort’s breath slowed. His daughter was holding hostages. For several long moments he couldn’t move. Finally, he reached across the table and laid a reassuring hand on his son.
Robbie’s arm was as cold as stone.