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  “I was hoping for a moment with you, darling.” She made her request light, despite her anger. “I don’t think I understand what is happening in Seattle.”

  Vadim Tokarev turned toward her, an indulgent look on his fleshy face.

  “What is understand? We make more money.”

  Years of living with brutal men had taught her to maintain a calm exterior as she seethed in her core. We? This was supposed to be her operation. She’d broached the idea not long after she realized he wasn’t going to kill her. She’d asked for her own small business. She’d vowed never to interfere with his drug operations. She’d explained why Seattle made sense. She knew the area. The people. The police. Allie told him her plans for an operation where the women would be treated with respect, who would use the power of their own bodies to pull themselves up into a better life. He burst out laughing, unable to find the English to voice his opinion. Unfortunately, her growing grasp of Russian allowed her to translate as he gasped out the word he was looking for. Quaint. She sidestepped the condescension and held firm. She required little, she told him. All she needed was a contact and his support. He refused.

  But she was the woman who had turned her own death sentence into carte blanche access to Tokarev’s bedroom and bank account. She held her ground. She explained she needed this to occupy her while he was busy with his own enterprise. She promised to always be available to him. “Let me show you I can do this,” she’d said. She vowed to pay him the same amount his other lieutenants did. Still he refused.

  Instead of backing down, Allie had upped the ante with two additional requests. She wanted full control over the operation and all profits to go to her. She’d watched the storm clouds gather over his face. Her ploy was risky. “I know you, Vadim,” she’d cooed. “You have the strength of a stallion and the appetites of a czar. There will come a time you will tire of me.” She bowed her head. “No man will satisfy me after you. I am ruined. You know that.” Allie knew how easy it was to lie to men who wanted to believe. “I will leave the moment you ask me. I will take the money I’ve earned and not a penny more. I will live out my life warmed only by my memories and spare you the pain of killing me.”

  He’d taken a few days to think about it. In the end he shrugged. “Women’s lib.” She taught him another English word: gumption. He liked it. She rewarded him with a memorable night of lovemaking. Tokarev had even found humor in the idea of the daughter of the head homicide cop running a prostitution ring in Daddy’s backyard.

  She’d kept her promise. The Seattle operation turned an immediate and impressive profit and she made a point of accompanying her monthly payoffs to Tokarev with an expensive gift. He seemed to appreciate her abilities. His gifts to her grew more lavish and were always given in the presence of his lieutenants, accompanied by his clucking reference to her gumption.

  “You didn’t tell me about your involvement, darling.” Allie kept her tone light. “I would have appreciated an opportunity to discuss things with you.”

  Tokarev turned and took a step toward her. Allie remained seated to avoid any indication of aggression.

  “Is just business. We make lot of money for your accounts. Be happy.”

  She paced her words to manage her rising anger. “The arrangement was for me to have total control. I may have moved into films at some point, but only after the women appeared interested. And I certainly wouldn’t make films of this sort.”

  He came closer. “I see opportunity. I take it.”

  “But two women are dead, darling. I cannot make money off a dead employee.”

  He shook his head. “Is why women are no good in business. We do this. Expense lower, profits higher. Like the Americans say, Business 101. We get much money from filming. Much more than one night of woman whoring.”

  “But they’re dead!” Allie heard her voice rise and immediately regretted it.

  “Now we have aftermarket. I put films on Internet. Expense end. Profit never end. Is good.”

  Her insides pulsed with mounting rage. Her Seattle manager had betrayed her. She’d sent Staz to make sure he understood she was unhappy…that she was in charge. But now she could see her man in Seattle understood quite well whose operation this really was: Vadim Tokarev’s.

  “This isn’t the way I planned it!” She stood before she could stop herself. “This is my business! I’ll run it my way! Stay out of my concerns as I stay out of yours!”

  He was on her in less than a heartbeat. With one hand on her throat and the other throwing a hard jab into her stomach, he hurled her back onto the sofa. She struggled to breathe. His face was less than an inch from hers, spitting as his words tumbled out in a jumble of Russian and English. His hand tightened around her neck and she caught only random words. Whore…kill…mine…never. She pushed as hard as her arms allowed, but she was no match for his street-honed strength. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her down to her knees. He released his hold on her neck, but twisted her head back by spinning the hand in her hair down toward her scalp. With his free hand he unbuckled his belt, pulled down his zipper, and pushed aside enough fabric to let his erect penis emerge.

  Mine…kill…fuck…obey…never…

  She tried to focus on something other than the pain, but there was too much of it. He grabbed under her chin, thumb below one ear, finger below the other, and squeezed, forcing her jaw open long enough to shove his cock into her mouth. With one hand still twisted in her hair he started slamming her head back and forth.

  Suck…cunt…kill…listen…never…

  In less than a minute her mouth was flooded with warm saltiness. He released his hold and she fell back against the sofa, struggling…first to breathe, then to keep from choking.

  Tokarev took a step back. He tucked himself away, zipped his trousers, and rebuckled his belt. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. His pinkie ring caught the light and threw disco-beams of colored light across her slack body.

  “Seven o’clock.” Tokarev turned his back and walked away. “Dress to impress.”

  Chapter 31

  Mort drove his Subaru south, following the directions Lydia read off her cell. To someone who didn’t know her, she might seem relaxed. She was the master of compartmentalization. When Lydia had a job in front of her—a patient to save, a problem to solve, or, it sickened him to imagine, an assassination to complete—she was steady, self-assured, and poised. But when her mind was left to float, it slid to a dark and bleak territory. Ragged with memories no one should hold. A lonely, desolate terrain riddle with scars and bottomless chasms of self-hatred.

  He wished her a lifetime of overburdened schedules.

  “How was that for you?” he asked.

  “How was what? You’re going to turn left in half a mile.”

  “Sitting with Micki and Jimmy? Meeting Schuster. Weathering the small talk.”

  Lydia looked out the window as they rolled past a series of fast-food joints, secondhand junk stores, and low-income apartments. A pawnshop’s neon sign teased a flicker of festivity out of the damp gray morning. Clusters of people, mostly women with umbrellas and teenagers in hoodies, huddled around bus stops. A few stood with heads bare, resigned to whatever happened next.

  “Are you asking what it’s like for me to be out amid humans? I see ten patients a day, remember.” She spoke to the window. “What do you imagine of my life, Mort?”

  He clicked on his signal, made the left as she directed, and pondered her constant state of defense. “I imagine you’re lonely. I’ve been to your house. It’s like something out of…I don’t know…a magazine…an art gallery…maybe even a movie. You’ve feathered a knockout nest, Liddy. And except for me, who else has been there in the past five years?”

  “I have lots of visitors. Your daughter for one. Then came those three Russian gentlemen to kill both her and me. Before that there was Private Number’s hired gun. He dropped by unannounced. Left me roses.”

  “You know what I mean. Paul Bauer has
never been to your place, has he?” Mort checked his rearview mirror. “What’s my next turn?”

  She glanced down at her cell. “Take a right on Pickett. About six blocks.”

  “Got it. So, Paul Bauer. You’ve never cooked him a pot of spaghetti, have you? Same goes for that Oliver guy. The one from the coffee shop. I’d lay odds he’s never brushed his teeth in your sink.”

  Lydia didn’t respond. Mort glanced over to see her focused on the road ahead.

  “Pickett’s coming up,” she said.

  He made the turn. “What’s the address?”

  She leaned forward, checking the street of rundown houses with pressboard siding and duplexes with sagging roofs. “Number 26145. It’ll be on your side.”

  He slowed and pulled over when he saw the number. Years ago the house Jennifer Lightfoot shared with her father Tom might have been beige. Now pea-green shadows of moss tinted the bottom third of the one-story structure. Weathered gray planking poked through flaking paint. A large window dominated the front façade, flanked on one side by a battered shutter that was probably once a deep shade of red. The house sat behind a chain-link fence protecting a quilt of mud and weeds masquerading as a front yard.

  Mort turned off the ignition and checked the dashboard clock. Eleven fifteen. “Think she’s in there?”

  “She’s not been to school in months. Her friend Shaina’s in class, so it’s unlikely Jennifer would be at her house. The only way to know is to go knock on the door. We’ll need a story. Follow my lead.”

  Mort reached in the back for his Seattle Seahawk’s cap as Lydia raised the hood on her raincoat. He waited for a break in traffic, then opened the door. The two of them went across the street, through the chain-link gate, and up the cracked walkway to the front door. Mort’s knock was harder than it needed to be, but he wasn’t sure how long the rusty awning covering the entry stoop would keep them dry.

  “Who is it?” a male voice from inside called out. “You’re selling something you’re wasting your time.”

  “We’d like to speak to you, Mr. Lightfoot,” Lydia yelled through the windowless plywood door. “We’re not selling anything. We’ve come with an offer.”

  A few moments later the male voice spoke again. This time directly from behind the front door. “What kind of offer?”

  Mort looked down at Lydia. She’d lowered her hood and had a pleasant smile. He realized she was posing for whoever might be watching, pulled off his ball cap, and put on a similar “We’re here to help” look.

  “I’m Tammy Roos. I’m from the Department of Education. I’m here to talk to Jennifer about the opportunity to earn her high school diploma at home. Are you Tom Lightfoot? It would be an honor to meet you, sir. It’s your service to our country that qualifies Jennifer for this benefit.”

  The lie tripped off her tongue. Mort didn’t want to know how many times she’d talked her way past guards or security forces to reach The Fixer’s targets.

  It took a while for the man inside to answer. “You got some identification?”

  “Of course, sir.” Lydia reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She opened it to expose her driver’s license and turned to Mort. “Pull out your badge,” she whispered.

  Mort was confused. “My police badge?” He kept his voice as low as hers. “What happened to needing a story?”

  “Tom Lightfoot’s blind, remember? Explosion in Kuwait. Just hold it up.”

  Mort reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his identification. They turned in unison toward the picture window.

  Their ruse was rewarded by the sound of a lock sliding. Tom Lightfoot was tall, at least six-three. Sleek black hair. Square jaw. He wore a patch where his right eye should have been and the right sleeve of his blue flannel shirt hung slack and empty. He was broad across the chest, but his right shoulder was slouched and rounded.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Lightfoot.” Lydia extended her hand. Tom Lightfoot looked down in wary appraisal, as though it had been a long time since anyone had reached out to him. Then he shook her hand and stepped aside, keeping an unfocused eye on Mort as the two of them entered.

  “You from the VA?” Lightfoot asked as he fumbled with the remote to turn off the oversized television set leaning against one wall of the cluttered living room. “I don’t remember applying for any benefits for Jennifer.”

  “Is she here?” Lydia asked. “We’d love to explain the program to both of you.”

  Lightfoot turned his upper body to look at Mort. “Who’s he?”

  Mort didn’t know the plan. Lydia stepped in before he needed to reply.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Lightfoot. Would you prefer I call you Lance Corporal? I’d love it if you called me Tammy.” Lydia’s voice was filled with genuine respect.

  Tom Lightfoot swallowed hard. It took him a moment to respond. “That was a long, costly time ago, Tammy. Tom will do.”

  “Of course,” Lydia said. “Tom, this is my assistant, Dick Winters. He’s learning the details of this program. Like I said, we’re from the Washington State Department of Education. The program I have to offer your daughter is relatively new, and I thought, with your Jennifer such a perfect candidate, this would be an easy case for him to learn the ins and outs. Can you ask Jennifer to join us?”

  Mort was uncomfortable lying to a man who’d sacrificed so much on a desert so far away. He stood with his hand extended in greeting as Lightfoot sized him up. Finally, the wounded soldier shook Mort’s right hand with his left.

  “So you’re Dick, huh? I guess all we need is a Harry and we got ourselves a trio.”

  Mort nodded. “I guess we do, sir. Nice to meet you. And thank you for your service.”

  Lightfoot let go of Mort’s hand. “If you’re new to this, Dick, let me give you a little pointer. Save the whole ‘Thank you for your service’ bullshit for the desk jockeys who wear their camos on airplanes so they can get upgraded to more legroom. Any soldier who saw fire doesn’t want to hear it. You see a real soldier? Look ’em straight in the eye and offer ’em a drink. That’ll do it.”

  Mort nodded and focused on Lightfoot’s remaining, damaged eye. “It’s a little early, and I’m not carrying. But if you hop in my car, sir, I’ll take you to your favorite joint and buy until you say when.”

  The tall Marine stood steady, returning Mort’s gaze. Finally he gave one loud snort. “You can eighty-six the ‘sir.’ I’m a jarhead grunt who didn’t have the sense to watch where he was walking. Like I said, Tom will do.”

  Mort nodded. “The offer stands, Tom.”

  “What’s this about my girl?”

  “We know Jennifer petitioned to drop out of school some time ago,” Lydia said. “Of course she was too young.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Lightfoot said. “She needs to stay in school. I told her as much. But she got it in her head she needed to work. I suppose you know her ma’s dead.”

  “We do.” Lydia softened her voice. “And we’re sorry for your loss. Did Jennifer have a particular job in mind?”

  Lightfoot shook his head. “It was a crazy time. Mary…that’s my wife…was so sick so fast. The bills were flying in here faster than bees looking for beer. I get disability from the service. But it was Mary’s pay kept us floating. She was a bookkeeper. Good at it, too. But she got so sick with the cancer and all. She quit working. My money went as far as it could. Credit bought us a little time. Then Mary died. Jennifer’s not stupid. She knew I was coming up short each month. And some bills you can forget about ducking. She wanted to help. But I never wanted her to drop out of school.”

  “Did she get a job?” Lydia asked.

  “She picks up a buck now and then. Kid stuff, you know. Babysitting, dog walking. Sometimes people pay her to run errands. She’s always wanting to give me what she earns. I tell her to go to the mall with her friends. Buy a record or something.” He looked to Mort. “Hell, do they even sell records anymore?”

  “Jennifer stopped
going to school.” Lydia pressed on. “We’d like to help. She can work around her own schedule. Still keep those little jobs. By the way, where does she babysit? Does she get her referrals out of a service?”

  Good, Mort thought. Find out who sent her in that limo to Crystal’s house.

  Lighthouse shook his head. “Local folks, mostly. There’s a lot of kids in this neighborhood. Lots of working mothers needing help.”

  “Of course,” Lydia said. “I wish I had someone like Jennifer. My poor dog is stuck at home all day.”

  Nice move. Don’t press him too hard. Keep him talking.

  “Is she on a job now?” Lydia asked.

  Lightfoot hesitated. “Leave a brochure or a pamphlet or whatever it is you got. I’ll see she gets it.”

  Lydia patted her purse. “It’s all high tech, Tom. Just like there are no records to buy at the mall, there’s no paperwork for us to leave. I have all the forms right here on my smartphone. I can sit with Jennifer and we can fill them out together. One push of the Send button and all red tape is sidestepped. When will she be home?”

  Back off, Liddy. You’re going to spook him.

  Lightfoot turned his head to focus his good eye first on Lydia, then on Mort. “How about you leave a card and I’ll have her call when she gets home.”

  “We have a few more stops in the area,” Lydia said. “It would be no trouble to swing back by.”

  Mort put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s have Jennifer call us, Tammy. We’re running short of time. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late for our next appointment.”

  Lightfoot held his stare steady on the two of them.

  “You’re right, Dick,” Lydia said. “It was lovely to meet you, Tom. I look forward to talking with Jennifer soon.”

  Mort and Lydia turned toward the door.

  “What about that card?” Any previous attempt at cordiality had disappeared from Lightfoot’s voice.

  Mort made a show of patting his pockets. “I’m afraid I left them in my other jacket.”