The Red Hot Fix Page 5

  Reinhart yelled across the court, “LionEl!” The highest-scoring point guard in the NBA glanced over, dribbled behind his back, took a fading shot, and pumped his fist at the swish. He called out trash to teammates and strolled to the sideline. LionEl stopped three feet in front of Reinhart and gave him a droopy-eyed stare.

  “What you want, boss man?”

  What Reinhart wanted was to punch the smirk off the giant’s face, but he wouldn’t do that any more than he would smash a computer or dent a company car. He respected his business equipment.

  “What’s your plan for Portland?”

  LionEl’s smirk broadened into a lothario’s grin. He wiped a hand across his chin. “My plan is always the same, boss man. Give the folks a show. Make ’em happy they plopped down seventy bucks to come see LionEl. I’m good for at least twenty-five against Portland.”

  Reinhart turned to his coach. “You happy with that?”

  Wilkerson nodded. “LionEl’s our guy. He’ll get us to postseason.”

  Reinhart pointed to the floor. LionEl turned, called for his teammates to throw him a ball, and returned to his solo practice in the back court.

  “Gardener!” Reinhart yelled. The rookie stopped mid-dribble and jogged over. He nodded first to Reinhart and then to Wilkerson. “Yes, sir?”

  “What’s your plan for Portland?” Reinhart asked.

  Gardener glanced at his coach. “My goal is for my team to win. Do what needs to be done to make them sorry they even thought they could play in our house.” He rested his hands on his hips and beamed. “Fill their long trip home with sadness and regret.”

  Reinhart slapped his shoulder and sent him back to his team. When Gardener was out of earshot, he turned to Wilkerson.

  “Which of those smells more like a leader to you, Coach?”

  Two hours later Reinhart walked into Rainy Day and smiled at the middle-aged man trying to unfold a collapsible kayak. “Can I help you there, friend?”

  The overweight man in the khaki shorts looked up at him. Reinhart saw the recognition in his eyes.

  “Well, as I live and breathe.” The man struggled to pull himself straight, wiped a sweaty palm dry, and offered Reinhart his hand. “Josh Thurmond. Nice to meet you.”

  Reinhart gave the man a hearty smile. He preferred the retail outlet to his online operation. While the Internet gave him access to millions of customers, he couldn’t see them. Couldn’t watch their body language as they raved about the outdoor gear that had built his empire or get a sense of what might be the next thing on which they’d be interested in dropping as much of their discretionary income as Reinhart could get.

  “You like the boat?” Reinhart glanced over each shoulder and dropped his volume. “I got an in with the owner. Might be able to cut a great deal for you.”

  The customer laughed. “Wife says I gotta get active.” He patted his stomach. “Lose the love handles and the suitcase they’re attached to. But keep your boat. I’m more a roundball man.” His face grew serious. “Wings are playing for shit. No offense intended to the man who signs the paychecks. Is our team gonna have any postseason action?”

  Reinhart bristled at the criticism but forced his smile wider. “We’ll get in. Then it’s a whole new deal.”

  Thurmond nodded. “LionEl needs to work the boards more. Throw some elbows. Know what I mean? Three points for show, but under the rim’s for dough. And he needs to stop being such a showboat. His team walks away from him when he’s hogging the ball.”

  Reinhart clapped a hand on the man’s shoulders. “Maybe I should bring you on as coach, there, Josh. Whaddya say? You think you can light a fire under LionEl that Wilkerson can’t?”

  “Money you’re paying him, Reinhart—you don’t mind I call you Reinhart, do ya?” Vogel shook his head. “Money you’re paying that coach, he ought to throw LionEl on his back and carry him to the basket himself.”

  Reinhart shared a laugh and told Thurmond to take his time looking around. He walked away knowing he’d given the man a story he’d sing for years. Hey, I ever tell you about the time I ran into Vogel himself down at Rainy Day? Nice as could be, he was. I gave him a few coaching tips. He took me serious, too.

  Reinhart crossed through the store, greeted clerks and customers, climbed the rear stairs two at a time, and opened the hand-milled cedar doors to Rainy Day’s worldwide headquarters.

  “Good morning, Mr. Vogel.” A tight-bodied brunette smiled up from a reception desk carved from a single mammoth plank of Douglas fir. “I don’t think Pierce is expecting you. Shall I call him?”

  Reinhart winked at the twenty-two-year-old in spandex biking shorts and admired his stepson’s hiring criteria. “No thanks, Michelle. I’ll surprise him.” He headed off before she could object and greeted each staff person by name as he made his way down the polished concrete hallway to the president of Rainy Day’s office.

  “Bird!” Ingrid’s son came across to greet his stepfather. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Reinhart sat on the denim sofa and reflected how Pierce was so unlike his mother. He shared her fair coloring, but that was the extent of their similarities. Pierce was wiry. Square-jawed. In his quiet intelligence, so different from his headstrong mother. Reinhart accepted the decaf he offered and thought, as he did many times, he’d probably have liked Pierce’s father. But Ingrid had told no one who the mystery man was. Not her parents, who had insisted she abort when she turned up pregnant at the age of seventeen; not Reinhart when he began courting her seven years later; and, in what he viewed as a particularly narcissistic cruelty, not even Pierce. Ingrid insisted on being all things to her boy. Reinhart wondered what his wife thought of the close relationship her husband and son had forged over the years.

  “I walked in and some poor schmuck was trying to figure out a kayak. Not a clerk around. I talked to him for a couple of minutes and still no one came up.” He rubbed a hand over his bald pate. “I’m not exactly unnoticeable.”

  Pierce pulled a phone from his pocket and punched in two digits. “Anne, find out who’s staffing watercrafts, will you?” He closed the phone.

  Reinhart nodded. He liked what Pierce had become. The skinny little boy too shy to speak when Reinhart first met him was now the thirty-two-year-old man he trusted to run and grow Rainy Day.

  “You’re dead set on this, aren’t you?”

  Pierce gave a slow grin. “I assume you mean the Michigan Avenue store. A little late for doubts, wouldn’t you say? Construction’s going full bore. Grand opening’s set for October. We’re training local staff in four months.”

  Reinhart shrugged. “Maybe I’m growing a yellow streak, but this old man wonders if we’re expanding too fast.”

  “Fifty-eight’s middle age. And the only thing yellow on you is that god-awful sports coat you insist on wearing when you want to get Mom’s goat.” Pierce tossed a catalogue over. “Mock-up of our first Chicago piece. Whaddya think?”

  Reinhart thumbed through the four-color booklet. “Looks expensive. Aren’t Chicagoans more interested in the price of pork bellies and shoving thick-crust pizzas down their gullets than top-of-the-line outdoor gear?”

  “They’ve got more lakes and trails in a two-hundred-mile radius of Chicago than we have in the entire state of Washington,” Pierce said. “You’ve seen the market analysis. Average disposable income is nearly seven percent higher than Seattle. Nearly thirty percent of our online sales last year came from Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Illinois. They’re ready for us.”

  Reinhart tossed the catalogue aside. “You’ve done your homework.” He stood and stretched. “Listen, I need you to swing by the house tonight. Maybe have dinner with your mother.”

  Pierce cocked his head. “Something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Reinhart said. “I’ve not been home much and I can tell your mother’s getting ready to blow one of her gaskets. Besides, you know there’s no one she’d rather see than her sonny boy.”

  “What’s keeping you away?”<
br />
  Reinhart leaned forward. “I’m not so sure you want to know the answer to that question. Can I rely on you to keep your mother pacified tonight?”

  Pierce dropped his eyes. “I’ll give her a call.”

  Reinhart nodded his approval. “That’s my boy.” He headed out but stopped before opening the door. “And you tell the monkey managing kayaks if I come in again and find a customer all by himself, his ass is grass and I’m a two-hundred-ten-pound lawnmower.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mort watched his son trudge down the stairs and shuffle into the kitchen wearing baggy plaid sleep shorts and a navy T-shirt that had seen better days. Robbie ran a hand through sandy hair, pulled out a chair, and flopped down.

  Mort foamed a pot of milk. “I’ll bet this fancy coffeepot was Claire’s idea.”

  Robbie grunted. “I told her you were a coffee-black kind of guy.”

  Mort shoved a mug down the wooden table where his son had eaten his first seventeen years’ worth of breakfasts. “Half a drop of vanilla in the milk just before you steam it. Liddy taught me.”

  “She’s that shrink you worked with on the Fixer case. You still in touch with her?” Robbie took a sip. “She was shot up pretty bad. She okay?”

  “Fine, I guess.” Mort regretted mentioning her. “You wanna meet Micki and Jimmy for lunch? I can text them you’re coming in.”

  Robbie swallowed hard and set his latte aside. “You can text them? You’re working the cappuccino maker and you’re texting? Who are you?”

  Mort raised an eyebrow. “I keep up. How’d you sleep?”

  “Like a rock. God, I hate flying. Even little hops like Denver to Seattle.”

  Mort leaned back in his chair. “Book tour got you traveling?”

  Robbie rubbed the back of his neck. “How’s forty-three cities in fifty days sound? All with one carry-on. I asked Claire to burn that sports coat as soon as I landed.”

  “I saw you on the Today show. You sounded smarter than I would have guessed when I pulled you and your skateboard out of that mud pit.”

  “Jeez, Dad. Give it up,” Robbie said. “I was eleven years old and Katy Keller was watching.” He laughed out loud. “God, she was the cutest little towhead. Remember?”

  “I do, indeed. She’s still got that white hair. She was in last month for her fifth DUI.”

  “Are you kidding?” Robbie shook his head. “Man, how’s a thing like that happen? She was head cheerleader.”

  Mort stared into his coffee and thought of Allie. He glanced up and saw his son focused on his own thoughts. Two Grant men sitting at the kitchen table, both knowing too well that glorious beginnings can turn into a steaming pile of horseshit before you ever see it coming.

  Mort cleared his throat. “So, The Fixer’s going to make you rich, huh?”

  Robbie sipped his coffee. “Book’s selling well. Like I said, Hollywood’s come callin’. People’s appetite for grisly crime seems to be working for me.”

  Mort was proud of his son’s book despite its aftermath. The Fixer had become a folk hero, with thousands singing her praises for having the courage to act when the system didn’t. People disgusted with everyday injustices cheered her crimes and fashioned her disappearance into a modern-day D. B. Cooper myth. But Mort knew the dangers of vigilantism. And he knew The Fixer didn’t elude capture, as the legend told. She was hiding out on Whidbey Island and he was the conspirator letting it happen. He washed away his self-disgust with a gulp of coffee.

  “The plan is to follow this book with one about our serial killer?”

  Robbie nodded. “It’s a great story. Hooker roaming the seedy hotels of Seattle, killing off the lifeline that keeps prostitution running. My agent smells another bestseller. Let me ask you something.” He traced a knot in the table with his finger. “Could I be writing a sequel?”

  Mort studied his son. “Could The Fixer be behind these killings? That what you’re asking?”

  “The last hit we can tie to her was that Bastian creep. Right here in Seattle. We haven’t heard from her since. Each of her killings was the result of justice denied. Maybe the motivation’s the same here. Lives have been ruined by prostitution, yet it still gets a wink and a nod. Starlets win Oscars for playing the innocent waif turned hooker by forces beyond her control. Sounds like the kind of case The Fixer would take. Add that to the fact that it’s been so long since the first—”

  “Four months,” Mort interrupted. “Let’s not make this worse than it is.”

  “Okay. It’s been four months since Trixie’s first murder and there’s been no arrest. And I know how good you guys are.” Robbie shrugged. “I’m just asking, is it worth a look?”

  Mort stared at the wall. “It doesn’t fit The Fixer’s M.O. She never had hits so close together. Not in time. Not in proximity. We know how people hired her. There’s been no activity like that.”

  “Maybe she changed her contact method.”

  Mort didn’t want his son spending time on this road. “The victims have nothing in common. It’s unlikely seven different people would solicit hits on seven different men who coincidentally all live in the Seattle area. Besides, you’re missing the biggest indicator that this isn’t The Fixer’s doing.”

  “Yeah?” Robbie’s defenses were up. “Tell me.”

  “The Fixer worked clean. No clues. Each hit designed to look like there was a natural explanation for the dead body.” Mort took his mug to the sink. “She never wanted police involvement. Trixie’s murders are big and bold. Splashy. Posing corpses and sending them off with a kiss to the forehead is definitely not The Fixer’s style.” He turned around. “You got a hammer and everything’s looking like a nail.”

  Robbie brought his own mug over. “I guess I forgot you’re the expert on all things Fixer.”

  Mort regretted the passion of his argument. The last thing he needed was his son wondering why his father was defending an assassin. He draped an arm around Robbie’s shoulder. “You bet I am. I ever tell you about this book I read on the topic? Hell of a read. I give it five stars.”

  Robbie bowed his head and chuckled. “So what’s our next step?”

  “Come down to the station. We’ll get with Jimmy and Micki. It’ll take all of fifteen minutes to fill you in. We have physical evidence but can’t get a hit. When nothing turned up in the data banks, we worked the assumption our Trixie was new to the game. Micki got with Frankie Wayne, scumbag who’s always trolling the bus stops looking for newly arrived runaways. She got nothing.”

  “And if there was something to find, Micki would,” Robbie said.

  “Damned straight. Jimmy worked the other end. He had a hunch Trixie may have come from the high-price club.”

  “The what?” Robbie asked.

  “Top-drawer hookers. Five-thousand-dollar-a-night talent geared to satisfy the lonely high rollers in town on business.”

  Robbie nodded. “We’ve got those in Denver, too. Cops there call them mountain hikers.”

  “Well, here they’re run by a woman named Esme McMahon.” Mort hated this about his beloved city. “She operates out of a high-end bridal boutique housed on the top floor of a building in the financial district. She’s very discreet and very well protected.”

  “You mean by someone in your department or city hall?” Robbie grabbed the notebook and pen Edie always kept by the phone.

  “Easy there, buddy.” Mort knew his son smelled a good story. “Leave Esme to Vice. We’ve got murders to solve. Anyway, Esme had a long chat with Jimmy.”

  “I’ll bet,” Robbie said. “A serial killer on the loose has got to be bad for business.”

  “Bingo. She couldn’t have been more cooperative. We came up blank on that one, too. Esme’s girls are first-year law associates and bored suburban housewives looking for a little excitement. She convinced Jimmy there was no way anybody in her stable would be caught dead in the fleabags Trixie uses.”

  “So you’re no closer to finding out why Trixie is absent from
the computers.”

  “Welcome to my nightmare.” Mort sighed. “In the meantime I’m trying to learn what I can about what type of woman might do something like this.”

  “You bringing your shrink friend back in?”

  Mort turned his back and wiped the kitchen table. He didn’t want to look at his son as he lied. “Liddy’s involvement with The Fixer was minimal at best, Robbie. She was basically barking up the wrong tree with worries about a patient. No, I’m reaching out to ladies in the game.”

  Robbie laughed. “My pop. Hanging with hookers. I wonder what Mom would have to say.”

  Hearing Robbie talk about his mother in the kitchen where she had baked his birthday cakes and refereed dinnertime fights with his sister brought a warm comfort. “You know Mom, she’d be begging to come along.” He tossed the rag in the sink. “I’m working with a woman who started a group for people who’ve lost kids to the life.”

  Robbie nodded. “I’d love to join you for some of those interviews. Bring the human element of the crime into sharper focus.”

  “If they don’t mind, I don’t mind,” Mort said. “But nothing goes public until we’ve got Trixie. Clear?”

  “Dad, this isn’t my first spelling bee.” Robbie stretched and yawned. “But Trixie can wait. Tonight we bond like men.”

  Mort saw the tease in his son’s eyes. “Is this something I’m going to regret?”

  “Not in the least. We’re courtside. Seattle versus Portland.”

  Mort stepped back. “Are you kidding me? How’d you swing the hottest ticket in town?”

  Robbie beamed. “Didn’t I tell you, Dad? I’m a New York Times bestselling author.”

  Robbie handed a twenty to the man behind the counter. Mort reached for the two hot dogs and soft drinks and headed to the condiment stand.