Fixed in Blood Page 23

  Delbe wasn’t in Olympia. She was in Seattle.

  Lydia expanded the screen. She grabbed a pad off the nightstand and noted the cross streets of the immediate tower picking up Delbe’s cell transmission. The zip code was marked: 98119. Lydia took to the keyboard and entered additional instructions to list all phone numbers picked up by that tower. This time she was able to limit the window to five seconds. Only six cellphones had used that particular tower within that time frame. Their numbers popped up. One was familiar. She didn’t need to go any farther. She knew which number was the one Delbe used. She knew it by heart.

  Lydia unplugged her phone, powered off her remote, and packed it up. She returned it to the safe, grabbed her jacket and purse, and left the room. The same doorman tipped his hat as she exited the hotel. The rain had stopped. She’d make better time. The four blocks to the Seattle police station seemed too far away for the news she had.

  Chapter 37

  “We’ll need lilacs.” Allie walked through the empty ballroom. She liked the echo of her heels against the inlaid floors. Heavy velvet draperies softened her steps, turning what could have been a sharp clip-clop into a gentle steady rhythm. Patrick would have appreciated this room. Its understated elegance would have delighted him. She looked at her left hand and saw the garish prism weighing down her ring finger. She’d turned the offensive diamond around when she first met the hotel’s general manager, holding the vulgar chunk of ostentation in a closed fist. But the sophisticated ease of the Englishman handling her tour of his five-star boutique hotel relaxed her and the gaudy ornament twisted itself around, demanding to be seen. She caught her host’s eye and saw his judgment in that blink of an instant before his manners turned him once again into her pleasant companion. She tucked her left hand into the pocket of her Chanel skirt.

  “They’re in season now, ma’am. That’s a lovely choice.”

  Allie steadied her breath. “I chose them for their romance, not their price.” She regretted her defensiveness the moment it left her mouth. “Can you fashion a canopy of lilacs and roses? White roses. Let’s cover the entire space with a dropped ceiling of lilacs and roses.”

  The manager gave a tentative nod. “We can do whatever you’d like. But…”

  “I told you I’m not interested in what it will cost.”

  The manager bowed his head. “I was just going to suggest a complete canopy of lilacs and roses might overwhelm, ma’am. They are quite aromatic in spring.”

  Allie again felt the sting of his gentle rebuke. I’m losing my step. It’s been too long since I’ve arranged a soiree. She inhaled deeply and forced a small smile. “I’m speaking in concepts. Surely your florists are talented enough to implement my ideas in a gracious way.”

  “Of course.” The manager assumed the look of a properly chastised staffer. But Allie could read his impression. He knew whose woman she was. No one spoke Vadim Tokarev’s name, yet everyone knew his reach. He was a criminal of the highest order. In the privacy of their homes, every shopkeeper, caterer, jeweler, tailor, and banker bemoaned his presence. What is this world coming to that we must tolerate a butcher in our midst? They say he has teams of lawyers to keep the law from touching him. Still, he’s no more than a barbarian, really. She could almost see their lowly appraisal building, mounting in their guts, waiting for the moment they’d be alone with their own kind and could speak freely about the Philistine they’d been forced to endure that day.

  Yes, everyone knew him. Everyone feared him. And everyone was eager for his business.

  “Let’s talk menu.” Allie continued her stroll through the room. “Canapés during the cocktail hour. An assortment of at least six. On trays. Staff in full livery.” She turned to the manager. “I’ll let your kitchen make the selections. The best, of course.”

  “Of course, ma’am. And I’m assuming more caviar than we English may expect.”

  Because the hordes will be Russian. That’s what you’re thinking. Beasts with more money than class. “Yes. In fact, perhaps a caviar station in addition to trays is what we need.” Allie imagined the fine Englishman’s vision of barrel-chested Slavs and their satin-clad guttersnipes hovering in hungry groups around buckets of self-serve roe.

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  She decided to torture him. “Let’s put an ice sculpture there. A mermaid. With a tray of chopped egg on one breast and slices of rye on the other.”

  The far door opened before the manager had a chance to respond. A giant walked toward them. The manager looked as frightened as his good breeding allowed. He turned to Allie.

  “A friend of yours, ma’am?”

  A flush of heat flooded through her. Staz was supposed to be in Seattle. The idiot she had running things had just been shown a valuable lesson in the costs of disrespecting her leadership. It was a tricky time. The death of his daughter and the threat of further harm to his sons and wife might hold him in line, but you could never tell with men. Sometimes they didn’t know when to lie down. She needed Staz there to keep him in check.

  “Will you excuse me a moment?” Allie didn’t wait for an answer. She crossed the floor to meet the enormous man. She laid a hand on his massive shoulder and led him to a window far from the ears of the general manager.

  “Staz,” she kept her voice low. “Why are you in London?”

  The large man bowed his head.

  “Look at me,” Allie snapped. “You have disobeyed me.”

  He raised his oversized head as commanded. She recognized a deep sadness in his eyes. He dug into his pocket, pulled something out, and reached for her hand. She opened her palm. Staz laid a bullet against the pale cream of her skin.

  Allie stared at it for several long seconds.

  “This is from him?” she asked.

  He nodded. His eyes filled with grief.

  “Who is the target?” Her knees threatened to give way. Staz closed his enormous hand into a fist, pointed out one finger, and gave three gentle taps against her chest.

  Allie leaned against the glass. She tried to focus on the hustling shoppers and tradesmen three stories below. The day was sunny and warm, a rare day of springtime loveliness, and every Londoner and tourist was out to savor it.

  Tokarev had grown weary of her.

  “Because of Seattle? Because I wanted the filming to stop?”

  Staz shrugged his shoulders.

  Allie felt the anguish pulsing off the man standing in front of her. Staz had been assigned to guard her in those early days. He was the son of a Russian father who met his American mother while studying economics at the University of Massachusetts. His father returned to the homeland, bringing his pregnant new wife with him. Staz’s English was flawless, thanks to his mother’s insistence on a dual-language education. During those long days of isolation, when Tokarev was away and she was locked in her cold room, Allie learned that Staz’s parents were killed when the former Soviet Union fell and middling members of the party apparatus were easy targets for angry mobs. Staz had been an angry young man, just out of his teens when they died. He had been looking for action in the newly lucrative capitalism flooding the country when he crossed paths with Vadim Tokarev. Tokarev was smart enough to think in global terms and knew he could use the angry Staz’s intimidating size and bilingual skills. And Staz was smart enough to see Tokarev was a man on the rise. A man who would soon wield enough power to avenge his parents’ murder. He hitched his wagon to Tokarev’s star and served his master in any number of bloody ways. When Vadim landed his helicopter in Lydia Corriger’s backyard all those months ago, it was Staz he assigned to monitor her in his absence. Allie had been desperate to keep her sanity and soon learned, despite his silence, that Staz understood everything she said. In those long, tedious times between beatings and rapes, guard became confidant. Staz listened as Allie cried. He never touched her. She was Tokarev’s property. But he was able to convey with eyes and gestures that he’d come to hate his boss’s appearance at Allie’s locked chamber. Wh
en Tokarev would leave, Staz would enter the room, sit by her bed, and listen to her weep.

  She had asked him, back in her first days with Tokarev, to speak to her. Some days she would beg. I know you speak English, she’d plead. I’ll go mad if I don’t hear a word. Please. One day, after a particularly brutal visit from Tokarev, Staz had simply opened his mouth to reveal a stub where a tongue should have been. Allie remembered she’d touched his cheek. She started asking yes-no questions. Then he’d bring a pad and pen to communicate. They passed the time sharing personal stories. She owed him so much. His companionship had kept her sane. The language tapes he brought allowed her to stutter words of endearment to her rapist in his native tongue, keeping her alive for another day. Allie recalled Staz’s delight with her linguistic talent. He was still able to make sounds, and the first time she greeted him by running her hands through unwashed hair and twirling around on bruised legs that survived day upon day of assault, with a saucy “So, tell me, Staz. how do I look?” delivered in near-perfect Russian, Staz nearly doubled over in laughter.

  Their time together became the anchors of humanity during her captivity. She learned Staz had started as an errand boy and had quickly risen through Tokarev’s ranks. As he did, he’d taken on, among so many other assignments, the role of Tokarev’s personal assassin.

  And Tokarev had cut out his tongue, a symbolic reminder against ever speaking of his sins.

  Tokarev’s empire grew, and he’d realized the shortsightedness of his impetuous act. Staz’s English speaking ability was of no use to him now, but the assassin could still read and often accompanied Tokarev to meetings, verifying with a subtle flick of a finger whether any interpreter the Russian was using was passing his words along accurately. Tokarev’s trust grew. Perhaps that was why he appointed Staz to guard his hostage. When Tokarev softened his stance with Allie, she’d asked if Staz could be assigned to her. She never understood why her brutal lover agreed, but was pleased he had. Allie repaid the kindness Staz had shown her by placing him in Seattle, far from Tokarev’s cruelty. He’d proven himself to be as loyal to her as he’d always been to the Butcher of Moscow.

  And now he’d been assigned to kill her.

  “When?” she asked.

  Staz held up his fingers. One…two…three…four.

  “Four days?” she asked.

  Staz nodded.

  “After the party?”

  Staz nodded again.

  Her fear morphed into rage. Tokarev planned to use her. Everyone in his empire knew she was his woman. This extravagant engagement party was to show anyone who doubted just how much he loved her.

  Which would make her assassination all the more effective. She saw it play out. The party would be a lavish show of adoration. Then would come the revelation she had betrayed him. He’d use Seattle as an example. He’d make a show of killing the person he loved most in the world to cement fear into the hearts of his men. No one would dare cross the man who killed the woman who was to become his wife.

  She thought she’d have more time. Oh, Patrick. It was so lovely with you. Why didn’t you listen to me? We could have dealt with the Russian and ruled on. She closed her eyes. A memory of Patrick walking down a Barbados beach, holding her hand, flooded her. Her heart was heavy in her aching chest.

  She opened her eyes and inhaled deeply. She looked at the anguished man who’d been so kind to her. The man who was to become her killer.

  “Will you be kind?” she asked.

  Staz nodded.

  “Quick? No pain?”

  He nodded again.

  She laid a hand against his chest. “I thank you, dear friend.” She looked again out to the busy London street. Then up to the bright blue English sky.

  Allie turned back to Staz and smiled. She nodded her head over her shoulder. “You should go. I have a party to plan.”

  Chapter 38

  “I found the connection.” Lydia didn’t offer any greetings as she entered Mort’s office. She stood, breathing giant gulps of air after her dash from the hotel to the police station. Mort’s team was assembled. She glanced around the room. Micki Petty was seated at the small table to the side of Mort’s desk. Jim DeVilla sat on the sofa on the far wall, Bruiser at his feet.

  Mort was at the whiteboard. He nodded to his team. “I brought Mick and Jimmy up to speed on what we got today.”

  “Busy, busy.” Jim DeVilla leaned forward.

  Lydia nodded toward him. “You know about Delbe’s call?”

  “We do,” Micki said. “Mort said you might be able to trace it? How’s that work?”

  “What do you have, Liddy?”

  Lydia was grateful for Mort’s redirection. There was no easy way to explain why a seemingly innocent psychologist from small-town Olympia would have access to a communication surveillance system rivaling the NSA’s.

  “Delbe’s in Seattle.” Lydia wanted to be precise. “At least she was when she made the call. Somewhere in the 98119 zip code.”

  “West side,” Jimmy said. “Between Queen Anne and Magnolia. You think Fellow’s…what? Running a brothel? Holding her there? Setting up another film?”

  “Delbe was terrified,” Lydia explained. “She repeated the word ‘movie.’ Given the way Crystal and Francie died, and the fact they’re connected to Rite Now, as is Delbe, yes. We need to get to her now.”

  Micki read off the screen of her laptop. “I’m seeing two Rite Now locations in the area. One on Nickerson Street and another on Sixth Avenue.” She looked up at Mort. “You think he’d be stupid enough to hold her in one of his stores?”

  “I remember Greg telling me Charlie was away a lot. Moved from office to office.” Lydia stepped toward Mort. “Shouldn’t you be sending a squad car?”

  “Who’s Greg?” Jimmy asked.

  Lydia hesitated. For an instant she found humor in the disconnect between wanting to protect her former patient’s privacy and her total disregard for federal laws governing hacking secured computers. Micki stepped in and saved her the ethical lapse.

  “He’s Fellow’s money man.” Micki turned to Lydia. “He always works out of the main office, right? That’s not in 98119. But he got pretty spooked when we asked him to call up Delbe Jensen’s record. Remember? He left that meeting like he had someplace he needed to be.”

  “Let’s get Delbe,” Lydia said. “She can tell us everything.”

  Mort shook his head. “We need more than a zip code. What’s this connection you have?”

  “The phone Delbe used. It was the same burner Jennifer used to call Social Services.”

  Jimmy rose to his feet. Bruiser stood, eyes locked on his master, waiting for his next command. “That’s a solid physical linking Delbe Jensen to Crystal Tillwater. Any progress on Jennifer?”

  “We’ve got eyes everywhere,” Mort said. “Friends, school, home.”

  “Bring her dad down here,” Lydia suggested. “He thinks you work for Boss Man. Let him know you’re a cop. That we know what his daughter’s mixed up in. He may have felt the need to protect Jennifer from Boss Man, but he might feel different when he knows who you really are.”

  Mort looked unsure.

  “We’re not going to see anything more off that burner,” Lydia said. “That voice roaring in the background of Delbe’s call was either Boss Man or someone who works for him. That phone’s dead now.”

  Mort nodded. “Go get Jennifer’s dad, Jimmy. And don’t wait.” The urgency in Mort’s voice was clear. “Let him know the situation. We’re trying to stop a murder and his daughter is in danger. If he gives you any indication where Jennifer is, go.”

  Mort turned to Lydia. “Any way we can pinpoint the location of Delbe’s call more precisely? There’s a lot of addresses in that zip.”

  Lydia shook her head. Her equipment was as good as it gets, but she would have needed Delbe on the line a few seconds more to be that detailed. An all-too-familiar feeling burned her brain. Despite her attempts to accept destiny, helpless was a state she’
d promised herself long ago she’d never feel again.

  “What about warrants for the film crew?” Lydia asked. “Delbe sounded like this movie would be shot soon.”

  “Any word on Eddie Yaz?” Micki asked. “Or let’s get a look at Verte’s and Feldoni’s hands. One of them has those scars we saw. Maybe we don’t need Jennifer.”

  “The warrants are on their way.” Mort stepped toward Lydia.

  She pulled back. “Whoever took that phone from Delbe knows she was calling for help.” Lydia hated the constraint of by-the-book. “Jennifer and Delbe could both be dead by now.”

  Mort’s look demanded she hold her frustration. “The warrants are on their way.”

  Every cell in her body hummed with electric readiness. A primal whisper grew in volume deep in her soul. She ran a hand through her hair and tried to focus on the texture.

  Stay in the moment. Stay right here. Do this the right way.

  “Go get Fellow,” Lydia said. “He arranged this. He could stop this whole thing with one phone call.”

  “We don’t have enough, Liddy.” Mort’s voice was filled with concern.

  “What more do you need?”

  “We’ve got nothing.”

  The electric hum was now a crackling arc. “We have the burner connecting Jennifer to Delbe. Jennifer was delivered to babysit in the same limo that drove Crystal Tillwater to her death. Both Crystal and Francie had the same tattoo. Delbe told me she’d been marked. Isn’t that enough?”

  “We need something linking all this directly to Fellow.” Micki crossed to where Lydia stood. “Something more than all three women having a loan from Rite Now. Lawyers are smart, Lydia. They’ll argue the same thing Charlie Fellow did. Pick any ten people off the street and odds are at least three of them are his customers. We need something to tie him to the burner. Or to the limo. Or to the tattoo. Something solid.”