Fixed in Blood Read online

  “Ouch.” Robbie set the box on Mort’s desk. “It’s The Fixer, actually. And you haven’t read it.”

  Lydia shrugged. “Sorry. You said you’re working on something else?”

  “Still doing the true-crime thing. I’m drafting a manuscript on Dad’s Trixie case. He ever tell you about that one?”

  Mort swallowed hard. His hand went to his cheek on reflex. To the scar left by Trixie’s cut. Lydia had saved his life when serial killer Trixie had him duct-taped to a chair in his own kitchen, slicing him like yesterday’s tomato with Edie’s filleting knife. It was Lydia, the same woman he’d been sharp with minutes ago, who’d burst through the door and killed her seconds before the knife would have found its way to his jugular.

  But no one could ever know that.

  “What’s in the box, Robbie?” Mort asked. “And why do you have it cluttering my desk?”

  Robbie’s mood darkened. He lifted the lid off the box. “Special overnight delivery from London. From your daughter.” Robbie pulled out two glass apothecary jars, each wrapped with a red ribbon. “Claire’s furious. She wanted them out of the house before the girls saw them.” He turned to Lydia. “You tried to help my sister. I appreciate that. I apologize if she did anything to hurt you.”

  Mort was ashamed. His son was showing Lydia more compassion and gratitude than he did for all her time with Allie.

  “My sister has turned into someone my wife and I want nothing to do with. We need to keep her away from our twins.”

  “She’s in London?” Lydia asked.

  “As far as we know.” Robbie turned toward his father. “Dad, this can’t go on. I won’t let her destroy my family.”

  Mort lifted one of the jars. “What are these?” He turned it this way and that, looking at the discs of silver and copper. “Looks like coins.” He set the jar down.

  “If she thinks she can start some whimsical piggy bank thing with the girls,” Robbie said, “she’s got another think coming. Or worse, if she wants the girls to think this is spending money on some European holiday, I’ll…”

  Mort didn’t want his son even thinking how he’d end that sentence.

  Lydia pointed to the jars. “May I?”

  “Go ahead,” Robbie said. “Take ’em home if you’d like.”

  Lydia opened the jar and pulled out a few coins.

  “Listen, Robbie,” Mort said. “If you want me to talk to Claire, I will. In the meantime, let me see what I can do about diverting these packages before they get to your house. We can’t stop Allie from sending things, but maybe I can pull some strings down at—”

  “Mort, look at these.” Lydia interrupted. She held up three coins, one after another. “Look.”

  He flipped the coins in his hands. One side had a bold-faced number. Around the edges were markings he couldn’t identify. He turned them over and stopped.

  A double-headed eagle was on the back of each coin.

  “What are these?” Mort turned to Robbie. “Was there a card or an explanation?”

  Robbie shook his head. “No, just packed like this. I assumed, since there are two, she meant for Hayden and Hadley to each have one. What are you two seeing?”

  Mort hesitated. “It’s an odd coincidence. This murder case Lydia’s helping on. The victims each have a tattoo of a double-headed eagle.”

  “Oh, great,” Robbie groaned. “Now you’re telling me my sister is killing people in Seattle.”

  “No.” Mort hoped murder was a line his daughter would never cross. “This is local stuff. Allie’s halfway around the world.”

  “Yeah? That doesn’t stop her from wrecking my home life.”

  Lydia leafed through the box. She pulled out the packing, smoothing the crumpled newspapers across Mort’s desk. She reached for the lid of the box and examined the label.

  “This package came today? Exactly like this, Robbie?” she asked.

  “Special delivery. Less than an hour ago. I brought it right down to hand off to Dad.”

  “And you’ve not touched the packing?” Lydia asked.

  Robbie shook his head. “Other than to take a look inside. Why?”

  “Mort, look at this.” Lydia pointed to the lid. “This package originated in London. The time stamp reads a little after midnight this morning.”

  “We know Allie’s been in England. Her attorney paid us a visit. She seems to spare no expense in getting what she wants delivered where and when she wants it.”

  “Look at the paper she used for packing.”

  Mort read the torn sheets of newspaper Lydia had smoothed out. He saw the familiar typeface. He ran his hand down one page and then another. “What the hell?” He knew the photograph. The one that ran the day after Crystal Tillwater’s body was discovered. A newspaper photographer had captured his look of frustrated anger at the ravine and plastered it above the fold on page one. Another newspaper sheet showed a picture of Micki and Jimmy standing behind him at a press briefing on the status of the investigation. Still another carried a story linking the deaths of Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael. Photos of each girl topped the column.

  “What is it?” Robbie asked.

  “I don’t know how she got them, but every one of these newspaper sheets carries a story about the murder case your father is working.” Lydia looked up at Robbie. “Your sister sent you a bunch of Russian coins. Each with a double-headed eagle. She’s wrapped them in your father’s murder case.” She turned to Mort. “Allie’s helping you. She’s pointing you in the direction of the killer.”

  “Tokarev?” Mort asked. “Is she telling us he’s behind these snuff films?”

  “He has the infrastructure in place to facilitate the instant distribution we’ve seen,” Lydia said. “And the kind of resources to make it happen.”

  “You’re telling me my sister’s latest lover, in addition to every other murderous enterprise he’s involved in, is making snuff films?” The color drained from Robbie’s face as he stumbled to sit in the nearest chair. “My God. What is she thinking?”

  Mort had no answer. He was stunned himself. Was Allie giving him a clue? Was she reaching out to him to do her part to find justice for these murdered girls?

  “Do you think Tokarev is here? In Seattle?” Mort asked.

  “No.” Lydia sounded very certain. “He wouldn’t get his own hands this bloody. But his reach is wide. Wide enough to use a network of payday loan stores to move and probably launder his money. If Charlie Fellow hooks some of his more vulnerable customers into prostitution in order to pay off their debts, and Tokarev has a market for people with an appetite for viewing a murder, it would be a venture lucrative enough to capture both men’s attention.”

  Mort nodded. His internal cop compass told him they were getting close. He listened for that silent click he always felt when the pieces of an investigation fell into place. It wasn’t there. In its stead was a nagging awareness that while Allie’s clues were of great value, they weren’t complete. He went to the whiteboard. He looked at the two main columns listed. One headed with Crystal Tillwater’s name, the other with Francie Michael’s. He went over every name listed: Greg Dystra, Charlie Fellow, Dalton “Dax” Kingsley, Kristof “Chris” Novak, Esther Hardgrove, Tom Lightfoot, Jennifer Lightfoot, Anthony Feldoni, Eddie Yavornitzky, Ben Verte.

  He examined the places and organizations listed as well: Frabolini’s Italian Market, Rite Now Finance, the Shoe Stop, Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Quinoc Indian Reservation, Nothing but Money.

  Mort looked at the random words jotted as well: Social Services, Nyla, 98119, movie, tattoo, burner, snuff, cameras.

  He grabbed a marker and added another name: Vadim Tokarev.

  First his eyes, then his finger traced the arrows they’d drawn, erased, and redrawn in the team’s attempt to connect these two murders.

  He realized one name wasn’t up there. Delbe Jensen’s. Jennifer and her burner were the link between Crystal Tillwater and Delbe Jensen. He added her name to the board,
stepped back, and looked at it all over again.

  His internal compass was ticking. He was getting close. Loose ends, it nagged. Tie them up.

  Mort kept his eyes on the whiteboard and called over his shoulder. “You’ve got your notes about your time with Delbe, right?”

  Lydia pulled an electronic tablet out of her bag. “What do you need?”

  He wasn’t sure. “Let’s start with her parents’ names.”

  “Roz and Bud. I don’t need notes for that.”

  “You guys mind if I take notes myself?” Robbie asked. “Something’s cracking here. Something that might make a great book.”

  Mort looked at Lydia.

  “My focus is Delbe,” she said. “It’s up to you how much he knows about the rest.”

  Mort turned to his son. “Same deal holds. Nothing sees print until the case is closed.”

  “Got it.” Robbie grabbed a pad and pen and sat at his father’s desk.

  Mort turned his attention back to the board. “You said she borrowed money for her trip to California. I got that right?”

  “You do.” Lydia slid her finger across the screen and read off her tablet. “She borrowed from Rite Now. She works at a pancake house. Gives her mother the cash and Roz writes the checks. Charlie’s records show her account is current and that jibes with Roz’s story.”

  “You told me Delbe worked odd jobs, too. You got a list of those?”

  Lydia slid to another screen and read off the list of fast-food and retail shops Delbe told her she’d worked prior to leaving for California. She got to one name and the irritation in her voice disappeared. She looked up from her screen. “When Delbe was telling me the story about her huge debt, she said something like ‘I guess I never should have taken that job.’ It didn’t mean anything at the time.”

  Mort’s internal compass clicked closer to true north. He used his desk phone to call Micki. When she answered, he put her on speaker.

  “We’re having no luck on this end.” Micki’s voice filled Mort’s office. “Any sign of Jennifer there?”

  “None yet.” Mort heard the concern in his best detective’s voice. “I have a question about your interview with Francie Michael’s mother.”

  “Gigi?” Micki asked. “What do you need?”

  “You got your notes with you?” Mort knew the question was unnecessary. Micki Petty’s notebooks were gold in any investigation she was working and she treated them as such, never letting them out of her possession until a prosecuting attorney called for them. “Read off the list of jobs Gigi said Francie and her boyfriend…Chippy, right? Give me the names of every place Francie and Chippy worked.”

  Mort’s speaker was sensitive enough to pick up Micki’s page flipping. “Here it is.” She read off a short list. One place in particular made the three heads in Mort’s office snap up in unison.

  “Get back here, Mick,” Mort said. “We’re closing in.”

  He hung up and turned to Lydia. “Tom Lightfoot’s wife, Mary.”

  Lydia nodded. “He said she was a bookkeeper. Over twenty years. Left when she got sick. We’re going to find it’s the same place. Lightfoot talked about debt you could escape.”

  Mort faced the whiteboard one last time. One name stared out at him as though lit in glowing neon. It had a companion: 98119.

  Mort made two phone calls in rapid succession. The first was to the prosecuting attorney. He told her what he had, what he needed, and she told him he was lucky. It was a busy day at the courthouse and all judges were still working. She’d have the arrest warrant ready in fifteen minutes. Then he called Jimmy and told him where to meet him.

  “Lydia and I will head over now. Grab a couple squad cars, but no lights or sirens. I don’t want to spook him. Nobody moves till I give the signal. I don’t know what we’ll find, but we better be ready.” Lydia was already standing at the door. He grabbed his jacket and keys, telling Robbie to leave the package and head home.

  “I’ll call you when this is done.” Mort laid a tender hand on his son’s shoulder. “Remember this, Robbie. The next time you judge your sister for what you imagine she’s become. Your sister just solved this case.”

  Chapter 41

  Mort drove as quickly as he could through the late afternoon traffic. Lydia leaned forward, as though her body had the ability to make the car move faster. Tension narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her brow.

  “We’re almost there, Liddy.”

  Her silence offered no hint of her thoughts. She’d been right about what she said earlier. Mort’s work was nearly done in this game of catch-the-bad-guy. The good guys had come out on top.

  But nobody wins. The dead are still dead.

  He drove down Thirteenth Avenue. Through the neighborhood he’d always enjoyed. Past the ethnic bakery where Allie would beg for one more sugar-dusted cookie. He’d always admired the close-knit sense of community in this enclave of Russian immigrants. The muscles in his neck stiffened at the thought of Vadim Tokarev using this patch of urban landscape as a basis for his deadly operations. He sent a silent thank-you to his daughter for leading him here and vowed to find a way to free her from the drug lord’s talons.

  “I see squad cars,” Lydia said. “Two of them.”

  “Jimmy will meet us out front. We’ll go in together.” Mort pulled into a loading zone across from Saint Nicholas Orthodox Church. Lydia jumped out of the car and hurried to Jimmy and Bruiser. Mort took less than sixty seconds to bring Jim up to date.

  “Tokarev?” Jim let out a low whistle. “No shit? Well, thank you, Miss Allie, for pointing us in the right direction. A little earlier would have been nice, but we’ll take it.” He slapped his hand against his thigh and Bruiser rose to attention. “What’s the plan?”

  “We go in strong. Wave the warrants. Press him hard.” Mort looked down at his favorite German shepherd. “Be ready, buddy.”

  Mort and Jimmy exchanged looks.

  “Squad cars wired in?” Mort asked.

  “The building’s surrounded. They’ll come the instant we whistle.”

  Mort and Jimmy went in first, with Lydia and Bruiser a half step behind. A few customers looked up as the four of them headed down the center aisle. A familiar big-bosomed woman trotted up to them, cooing over Bruiser. Mort recognized her from his earlier visit.

  “Where’s Chris?” he asked.

  “Oh, he’s busy.” The woman fumbled in her pocket and brought out a piece of cheese. “Can I give it to the handsome doggie?”

  “Is he in his office?”

  The woman seemed put off by Mort’s directness. The Shoe Stop was, after all, a friendly neighborhood shop. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And we’re not supposed to have dogs in here.”

  The four of them continued forward, leaving her to scurry to the front register. Mort picked up the pace. He didn’t want her warning her boss the cops were back. They passed through the curtain separating the sales floor from the back room. Mort pointed toward the stairs leading to the office of Chris Novak, who managed the string of Shoe Stop stores founded by his uncle Piotr Novikov all those years ago.

  They found him seated at his desk. His office was still the cluttered space Mort remembered, but something about Novak was different. Despite his girth, he didn’t seem as large. Something had deflated the man. Novak looked up. He didn’t seem surprised.

  “I told you, no dogs.” Novak’s voice held none of its earlier bravado. “Health code violation or some shit.”

  “Kristof Novak, you’re under arrest for felony murder in the deaths of Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael.” Mort stepped toward him, apprising him of his Miranda rights as he pulled out his handcuffs. He reached Novak’s chair and asked him to stand. His response was a resigned shrug.

  “Got a bum foot. Kills me to stand.” Novak looked up to Mort. He glanced around his office as though he was taking his last look at life as he knew it. “I’m not gonna give you any trouble. Wh
at d’ya say you let me sit for a spell? I don’t need my lawyer. Asshole can’t help me now anyway. Whad’ya wanna know?”

  “Where’s Delbe Jensen?” Lydia asked.

  Jimmy stepped closer to Lydia. “Sounds like a good place to start,” he said. “Where’s Delbe?”

  Novak looked at his watch, then back to Mort with the eyes of a man who knew he was already dead. Just waiting for the paperwork. “If my timing’s right, you’re gonna need another one of those warrants.”

  Lydia lunged. Jimmy caught her by one arm and held on.

  Mort kicked the wheels beneath Novak’s chair, sending him careening into the back wall of windows overlooking the sales floor. Every head in the store looked up when Novak hit.

  “Where is she?” Mort roared.

  “I don’t know.” Novak straightened himself in the chair. “My job was to provide the set and the girl. He wanted nautical.” He looked at his watch again. “He picked her up two hours ago.”

  “Eddie Yaz?” Mort bellowed.

  “The both of ’em.” Novak offered no resistance. His answers were as void of expression as his face. “Yaz works the camera. It’s Feldoni who’s the star. I set him up with a twenty-four-foot cruiser. Big engine, long range. That’s what I do. I give the customer what they want. Said he would pilot the boat himself. Just leave the keys.”

  “Where!” Mort’s demand was punctuated by Bruiser’s rumbling growl. Novak reacted more to the dog than to the police officer standing over him.

  “He gonna attack?” Novak asked.

  “Only on my command,” Jimmy answered. “And that’s coming in one second if you don’t give us the pier.”

  “Stinson Cove Marina. Slip 16. On the end.” Novak kept his eyes on Bruiser and described the boat. “It’s called Wet Pleasures.”

  Jimmy held Lydia by one arm, repeated the specifics into his radio, and sent two squad cars to the marina. “Take an ambulance with you,” he relayed to the dispatcher. “You’re looking for a girl named Delbe Jensen. She’s the victim. Pick up Edward Yavornitzky and Anthony Feldoni.”

  “No.” Chris Novak shook his head. “Not him. His kid. Vincent.”