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  Lydia heard the front door open. Footsteps went straight to Esther’s desk.

  “I’m Detective Petty and this is Mort Grant, Seattle PD.” Lydia remembered how no-nonsense Micki could sound. “We’re here to see Charlie Fellow.”

  Lydia heard the rough but comforting Brooklyn accent. “Don’t I know it? I’m the one who talked to you…what…all of twenty minutes ago? You got damn lucky is what you got. Charlie’s here today. Supposed to be playin’ golf but canceled. Twisted his ankle or something. Says I’m to bring you right back.” Lydia heard a chair scrape across the floor. “You’re showing a lot of class coming in plain clothes. This about some customer? We get all types in here. I keep telling these guys we need more security. Nobody listens to me, though.”

  As three sets of footsteps receded down the hall, Lydia risked a glance behind the paper. She saw Esther knock on a far door as she opened it. Mort nodded his thanks before stepping inside.

  Lydia exhaled.

  She lowered the paper, scrambled to fold it, and stood. She looked toward Esther as the wiry woman made her way back, intending to make her apologies and leave. Before she could speak, another office door opened and Greg Dystra spilled into the hall, all smiles and welcome.

  “Hey, Doc.” He buttoned his sports coat as he approached. “I’m glad to see you. Come on back to my office and we’ll catch up.”

  Lydia glanced past him, her eyes on the far end of the hall. “Actually, Greg, I’m dying for some coffee. Let’s go grab a cup.”

  Greg looked at the clock. “Right now? So close to lunch? I had us scheduled to chat here for a bit.”

  Lydia nodded toward Esther, tossed the newspaper onto her desk, linked her arm through Greg’s, and headed toward the door. “Come on, Greg. Live dangerously.”

  Chapter 21

  Mort and Micki thanked Esther as she closed the door to Charlie Fellow’s office, then turned to see a short man, heavier than he looked in his commercials, struggle to stand behind a large desk.

  “Make yourself at home.” He waved a hand to the comfortable grouping of two chairs and a small sofa facing him. “I’m nursing a bum leg or I’d come greet you myself.” Micki handed him her card, as did Mort. He made a show of patting the pockets of his jacket and trousers. “I’m afraid I don’t have a card of my own to give you. But, hell. Everybody knows me. I’m Charlie Fellow. Got my mug on enough billboards and buses that I couldn’t fool you into thinking I was anybody else even if I wanted to. Now, what can I do you for?” He sat in a tall leather chair and leaned back. “I already sponsor two Police Guild Little League teams, but hell. I’m always willing to do more if I can. Wife and kids would have my hide if I didn’t. What is it this time?”

  “What happened to your leg, Mr. Fellow?” Micki asked.

  “Call me Charlie.” He let his smile linger and Mort knew she was wondering the same thing he was. Why was he hesitating with his answer?

  “I guess you might call it a war injury,” he finally said. “I fought the greens and the greens won.” He chuckled and turned to Mort. “You golf?”

  “Only when I have to.”

  Charlie pointed a finger across the desk. “Smart man. Easy enough game. But it becomes an obsession.” He turned back to Micki. “I swung too deep. Threw a divot the size of a pie plate. My cleat must have caught. My foot went one way and my leg went the other. Put me on the injured reserve list after just two holes.” He smiled wide, exposing perfect teeth. “I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

  “How do you know Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael?” Mort asked.

  Charlie’s smile lost some of its radiance. “Who’s that now? Sounds like girls’ names. You thinking of starting a girls’ team?” He raised an eyebrow toward Micki. “I don’t mean any offense, but I’ve never been one to think little girls should run around trying to be little boys. Know what I mean? May make me politically incorrect, but if you two wanted to start a girls’ garden club or maybe an inner city art class…something like that, I might be able to kick a few bucks your way. But like I said, I got my two Little League teams, and I’m happy to keep them all-boys.”

  Micki turned to Mort with a “Can I please?” look in her eye. He nodded.

  “We have a community affairs department handling our outreach programs. We of course thank you for your support.” Micki used her best professional tone. “But we’re homicide detectives, Charlie. Two women were found dead within ten days of each other. Murdered. We have reason to believe there’s a tie-in with Rite Now Finance. Now I’ll repeat Chief of Detectives Grant’s earlier question. How do you know Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael?”

  The smile disappeared from Charlie Fellow’s face. Mort watched his eyes morph from open congeniality to steely determination and imagined he was finally meeting the man who had built the largest payday loan empire in the state.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of these deaths,” he said.

  “The first one’s been headlines in the papers for nearly two weeks.” Micki remained calm and steady. “Lead story on TV news, too.”

  Charlie’s lips tightened. “I’m a busy man. I don’t read much beyond the sports and financial sections. And I seldom watch television.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen all those ads you have on late night.” Micki’s eyes twinkled as she made Fellow’s signature fist-swing. “How you’re here to help us fellow to fellow?”

  Fellow kept his eyes on Micki. Perhaps a reaction from someone not used to hearing anyone speak to him in anything other than reverential tones. A few seconds later Fellow’s smile returned. But he shifted his attention to Mort.

  “I’m sorry to hear about these young girls. Even sorrier to hear you’ve not yet captured the murderers. You haven’t said how you think this company might be involved.”

  “What makes you say they were young girls, Charlie?” Micki asked.

  Fellow blinked several times and directed his answer to Mort. “I was just told.”

  “No, Charlie,” Micki answered. “I said two women were murdered. You’re the one who changed it to young girls.”

  Fellow continued to ignore her as he answered to Mort. “I guess I made an assumption. Isn’t it always the young girls who get murdered? I’m a busy man, Detective. Please tell me what you think links these women to Rite Now. Are they employees?”

  “Is your business so large you wouldn’t notice two employees not showing up?” Mort asked.

  “I’ll check with Bill Blankman, if you’d like. He’s Rite Now’s vice president of human resources. I doubt he’d leave me out of the loop if two of our employees were killed.”

  Mort jotted the name down in his pad. “Both women killed had accounts at Rite Now.”

  Charlie Fellow’s breathing caught and a heartbeat later relaxed. His smile came back. “That’s it? That’s your link?”

  “We’d appreciate it if you’d call up their accounts. Let us take a look through them. Perhaps we can find something that could help our investigation.”

  Charlie leaned back in his leather chair. “I have a finance guy who oversees all the accounts. Tell you what, get a warrant and I’ll introduce you.”

  “We’re right here, Charlie,” Mort said. “You could save us a lot of time and let us have a look now.”

  Charlie kept smiling. “I’ll save you even more time. This link you talk about?” He shot Micki a disdainful glare. “This ‘been in all the papers’ thing?” Fellow turned back to Mort. “Read something other than the funnies and the police blotter. This economy’s in the toilet for a whole lot of folks. When there’s not enough money at the end of the week to buy groceries or somebody’s kid knocked out a tooth or, hell, maybe somebody’s just sick to the bone of wearing shoes with worn soles, they come to me. And I help.” He pumped his fist. “Fellow to fellow.”

  Charlie Fellow leaned forward and pointed a finger at Mort. “What you have here isn’t a link. It’s a coincidence. I’ve got shops up and down western Washing
ton. Go out there. Anywhere from Bellingham to Vancouver. Grab two people off the street. How about two college kids with student loans they can’t stretch to cover expenses? Maybe two military personnel who’d like to furnish that shithole apartment with something other than milk crates and cinder blocks. Oh, don’t even think about pulling two people from the fast-food joints. That would be too easy. But grab any two people you want from the Canadian border to the Columbia River. Ask ’em if they do business with Rite Now.” Charlie Fellow’s face was a twisted mask of bravado and anger. “Odds are you hit a bingo.”

  Mort felt a rumbling disgust deep in his gut. “And you lure them in with paper-moon promises and hook them forever with interest rates high enough to keep you repairing divots at a country club they’ll never see the inside of.”

  Fellow massaged his hands as if trying to keep them from forming fists.

  “Like I said,” he finally responded, “I’ve got a finance guy. But we’ll need that warrant.” He opened his top drawer and tossed two business cards across his desk. “That’s my lawyer. You want to talk to me again, call him first.” His eyes held Mort’s in daring punctuation, but his voice softened as he turned again to Micki. “And if you’re ever ready to stop playing games better left to boys, give me a call.”

  Chapter 22

  Lydia poured herself a glass of merlot and grabbed the remote. She activated her sound system and set Pandora to Lyle Lovett. As the Texan crooned about wishing he had a boat to sail away with his pony, she settled onto her sofa and replayed the day’s events. She’d driven up to Seattle to see if there was any connection between Delbe’s debts, which according to her mother were to Rite Now Finance, and her sudden disappearance. But after she’d seen Mort and Micki, it took her every bit of focus to keep the conversation with Greg Dystra on track. Throughout their meeting a single drone pulsed through her mind: Mort and Micki are homicide cops. Somebody is dead.

  The moment she’d arrived home, she’d headed downstairs to her study. She’d checked all Thurston County hospitals and jails the day Delbe disappeared, but after seeing Mort and Micki, she expanded the search to Pierce and King Counties as well. Nothing. She searched on Seattle homicides and learned there had been two in recent weeks. Both young women. Neither of them Delbe Jensen.

  Mort’s presence at Rite Now could have been a coincidence, but her instincts screamed against it. His involvement cemented her belief Rite Now was involved with Delbe’s disappearance. She reclined into the cushions of her sofa, physically and emotionally exhausted. She needed to recharge in order to help Delbe. She focused on the music. Lyle was singing a cover of an old Tammy Wynette tune. She closed her eyes. The song, once scorned as an anthem for weak women, became a hymn in the hands of Lyle Lovett. A prayer. Acknowledging a man was nothing without his love as he pleaded with his own to stand by him. Her muscles unwound and her breathing eased.

  A flash of headlights yanked her from her respite. In an instant she turned off the sound system and killed all interior lighting. She sat in darkness and listened. One car. Moving slowly. Her hand found the drawer of the side table. She pulled out the Glock, clicked off the safety, and inched toward the front door. She watched from the corner of the entry as a green Subaru swung parallel to her front deck. Her breath caught as the driver emerged, walked straight up to her door, and knocked.

  “I know you’re in there, Lydia.”

  The door was solid. She pushed herself back against the wall.

  “I can stay here knocking all night.”

  She knew he would. Lydia reactivated the safety, slid the Glock into the pocket of her robe, and opened the front door.

  “Hello, Mort.”

  His eyes held hers for several heartbeats before he pointed inside. She stepped to the right and felt the odd mixture of feelings she’d always experienced when Mort Grant was in her home.

  “You want some coffee?” she asked. “Maybe a beer?”

  He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the rooms. His eyes came back to hers. “Guinness if you’ve got it. Then you can tell me what you were doing yet again in the middle of one of my homicide investigations.”

  —

  While Mort sipped his beer and she finished her wine, Lydia explained her suspicions Delbe Jensen’s disappearance was linked to Rite Now Finance. As she spoke, she felt the tension of their estrangement combine with a small sense of comfort at having him near. Mort asked only a few clarifying questions as she told him what she’d learned from Greg Dystra.

  “Those leeches charge an interest rate that keeps people bleeding forever.” Mort set his beer on the side table. “Did Dystra seem leery about your questions?”

  “No. I told him I had a cousin with spending habits I was worried about. That I was curious about her options. He explained how their operation works. Everything sounded legit. I might have assumed I was barking up the wrong tree if it wasn’t for you and Micki walking in. I checked as soon as I got home. Both of your dead women are the same age range as Delbe. You were meeting with Charlie Fellow. You think there’s a link, too.”

  Mort took a long pull from his beer.

  “I’ve told you everything I know, Mort. Can you return the favor?”

  He watched her for several moments and she didn’t shrink from his gaze. There was no need. She had no secret he didn’t already know.

  “Charlie Fellow is quite the guy.” Mort leaned back against the sofa. “Natural-born salesman. Slick. Talky. Seems eager to cooperate but doesn’t give you a thing.” He summarized what he and Micki had been able to learn. “So, as you can see,” he said in wrap-up, “we didn’t accomplish much.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Sometimes it’s what people aren’t saying that tells us the most.”

  “That the shrink talking?”

  Lydia shrugged. “People don’t talk about what they’re defending against. Trust that gut of yours.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning despite Charlie’s shoeshine-and-a-smile presentation, you still think there’s a link between Rite Now and these murders. Trust that.”

  He said nothing. Lydia understood the debate raging inside him. His anger toward her was epic. He blamed her for the loss of his daughter. Lydia held his gaze and hoped he’d remember their history together and the trust he knew she’d earned.

  Mort got up, grabbed his empty bottle, and headed toward the kitchen. Lydia sat still, waiting to gauge his position by what he did next. She heard the refrigerator door open.

  “You want something?” he called out.

  A breeze of relief drifted across her. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Mort returned holding a fresh Guinness. He opened it, settled back on the sofa, and told Lydia everything about the murders of Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael. Lydia interrupted only to ask more about Crystal’s daughter Nyla and Francie’s mother and boyfriend. Mort detailed Schuster’s discovery of the snuff film starring Crystal Tillwater, and Lydia felt the primal drums of justice rumbling in her gut.

  “Anything on the man in the film?” she asked.

  “Steer clear of whatever you’re thinking, Lydia. We’ll handle this.”

  “Was Francie’s murder filmed?”

  “If it was, we’ll handle that, too.” He leaned forward with a stern stare. “Don’t make me regret what I’ve just told you.”

  Lydia felt no need to reassure him. She shifted focus instead. “I might be able to help find the ‘Jennifer’ Nyla said was babysitting her. You said she made the call from a prepaid burner?”

  “Yeah. Part of a shipment dumped on several regional convenience and discount stores. Without a specific serial or phone number, we’re out of luck.” He looked at her with guarded curiosity. “You think whatever it is you got going down there in your bat cave can come up with something we can’t?”

  Lydia wondered if that was the real reason for his visit. As a law enforcement officer he was bound by rules that held no meaning for The Fixer. Was he so stymied by
his case he was willing to set aside his anger and avail himself of her resources? She hesitated, not wanting to be used ever again by any man. But any using would be reciprocal. If Delbe’s case was connected to Mort’s two murdered women, she’d have a better chance of finding her with Mort on her side.

  “Get me specifics on delivery dates and stores,” she said. “Same thing with the tattoos you found on Crystal and Francie. Send me a photo.”

  He paused as though considering the cost of a potential alliance. “You’ll have it first thing in the morning.”

  “Good. You haven’t answered my question,” Lydia said. “Do you still think there’s a link between Rite Now and these murders?”

  Mort stared at his beer. “When we trace that film, we find the killers. But I’m sensing something bigger here. Like you, I’ve never been one for coincidences.” He rolled his Guinness between his hands, as if he was trying to warm it. Lydia sensed a shift in his mood.

  “Listen, Lydia. About that last time. When you came to my houseboat.”

  Her spine stiffened. She’d have to face another of his angry tirades. Was he going to set rigid boundaries? Would he use her to help with his case but warn her not to read anything more into it?

  “Mort, there’s no need—”

  “There is,” he interrupted. “I was wrong.” He looked her in the eyes. “I was angry. Hurt. A whole lot of things, I guess. Helpless, mostly. Helpless to keep my daughter from running off and ruining not only her life but the lives of everyone she touches.”