The Unforgivable Fix Page 9

  Nuñez shot Durazo a warning look, but it was too late. Patrick took two broad steps, grabbed Durazo up by the lapels, and dragged him across the living room toward the balcony.

  “Aquí ahora!” Nuñez shouted. Four large men stormed through the front door. They charged Patrick. Two men pulled Durazo free while the other two pinned Patrick’s arms behind his back. “Traigale aquí. No le dolia.”

  The men responded to Durazo’s orders and pulled Patrick into the living room. They held him until his curses and straining stopped, then looked to Durazo for instruction. Durazo nodded toward the door. The two men holding Patrick tossed him to the carpet and all four bodyguards exited.

  Durazo and Nuñez stood over Patrick, who struggled to stand. Durazo kicked his arms out from under him. “Stay down, amigo.”

  “You fucking bastards.” Patrick’s voice rumbled. “Do you think I will forget this?” He shifted his weight to his legs. This time Nuñez kicked him twice, square in the back.

  “Stay down, Patrick,” Durazo warned. “Stay down and pray we forget this. That we will forgive you and count your actions as driven by a broken heart. Make your list of the merchandise you need. Felix and I will see to it you’re covered.” Durazo placed his boot over Patrick’s hand. “And you will end this craziness with the Russian. You will not invite him to this side of the world with wild schemes of revenge. You will not destroy all we have because of your whore.”

  Patrick began his protest anew. Durazo stepped down, bringing his full weight to the heel of his boot. Patrick screamed as his wrist snapped. “Do you understand me?”

  “You fucking bastards,” Patrick cried. “I’ll bury you!”

  Nuñez and Durazo responded with a rain of kicks to Patrick’s back, gut, and legs. Within a minute, Patrick was gasping for breath, no longer a threat to either of them.

  Durazo stepped back, pulled a handkerchief from his jacket, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He bent over to speak to the man whose blood stained the white carpet. “Set this aside, Patrick. Get yourself a new woman. Take care of your business.” He stood and grabbed the bottle of tequila. “I thank you for your hospitality, mi amigo. I like you better when you mind your manners.”

  Nuñez delivered one last kick to Patrick’s stomach, turned, and left the penthouse without saying another word.

  Patrick writhed on the floor, trying in vain to find a position that didn’t send steel swords stabbing through his body. Nuñez and Durazo were careful with their beating. Despite their lofty status, they each had started in the streets. They knew what they were doing. No kicks to the face, no blow so hard as to rupture an organ. Patrick understood they meant to control him…beat him into compliance, rather than destroy him.

  He would survive to kill the Russian.

  And then he’d come for them.

  Chapter 20

  SEATTLE

  L. Jackson Clark hoisted a box to the top of a pile. “This the last of it?”

  Mort trotted his bicycle up the ramp leading from the street to the back of the moving van. He found a spot between two mattresses and wedged it in. “There. No need for the kick stand.” He turned to his friend. “Let’s get out of here. Sweating is bad for your image.”

  The two men jumped down from the truck. Mort went to the supervisor of the five-man team who’d arrived at his house three hours ago. He signed some papers and nodded when reminded the van would be at the marina at nine thirty the next morning.

  “They got strict rules down there.” Supervisor Carl handed Mort his copies. “No moving while the good folks go about waking up on their Saturday. And you better have your crew ready. This truck gets no closer to your houseboat than the parking lot. Union won’t let my guys set one foot on those floating dock thingies.”

  Mort knew Micki Petty, his best detective and close friend, had things well in hand. She’d arranged enough off-duty cops to form a human chain leading from the marina’s lot to his new home. She’d volunteered to oversee the placement of his possessions in the houseboat, and Jimmy De Villa, chief of forensics and all-around good buddy, promised to bring enough beer and pulled-pork sandwiches to keep everyone happy.

  “We’ll invite all your neighbors, Mort,” Jimmy had said. “Give ’em a taste of what they can expect now that a cop’s moved in. Bruiser’s already working on his sea legs.”

  Mort shook the movers’ hands, thanked them for their help, and stood with Larry as the van lumbered down the hill into Friday rush-hour traffic.

  “One final task.” Larry headed to his BMW. He pulled a canvas tote from the backseat and pointed to the now-barren front porch of the house that, as of one o’clock that afternoon, no longer belonged to Mort. The two of them settled on the steps. Larry produced two bottles of Guinness, each zipped into its own plastic ice-filled bag. “One last drink on the steps before you begin your maritime adventure.”

  Mort clinked the neck of his bottle against the one his friend held. “To many more, with a better view.”

  “How are you closing up?” Larry asked after his first sip.

  “New folks have a set of keys.” The icy bottle felt great in Mort’s hands. He’d worked up a sweat in the unseasonably warm autumn day. “They’ll replace the locks first thing. They gave me today to finish the move.”

  “Nice people for a nice house,” Larry said.

  Mort nodded. “Bob and Ryan. Both of them architects. I got a hunch if we drove by a year from now we wouldn’t recognize the joint. Shoulda seen them at the closing. Telling me all about the walls they were going to knock out. Where they were gonna put another bathroom. They’ve got two little ones. Boy and a girl, just like Edie and me. I like the idea of kids in this place again.”

  They drank their beer in silence. Mort waved to the guy who drove by in a yellow Jeep. He’d never learned his name but knew he lived two blocks up.

  “Tough, isn’t it?” Larry remarked.

  L. Jackson Clark was a brilliant religious studies scholar with an international reputation. Philosopher, thinker, Thursday evening crossword-puzzle wizard. There was no way Larry wouldn’t see through any bluff of nonchalance Mort might try to pull off. And after two decades of friendship, there was no need to pose in front of this man who had seen Mort through every one of his darkest moments.

  Except Lydia. No one knew about that.

  “Definitely on my short list of hardest things I’ve ever done,” Mort answered. “But it’s time. That sounds cliché, doesn’t it? ‘It’s time.’ Damn, this age and stage shit. Know what I mean?”

  Larry studied his beer bottle. “I do, indeed, my friend. I think back to my years of study and remember thinking at the time that they’d never end.” He took a drink and wiped his lips. “Now here I am…with all my accolades and awards. It all happened in a blink.” Larry gave Mort an incredulous look. “The other day I was filling out a form and realized I’ll be sixty years old in five short years. Sixty! How can that be? I don’t feel like I’ve changed one bit.”

  Mort took a swig from his bottle. “Till you look in the mirror and count those grey hairs. Life goes by on roller skates, buddy. It’s hard to imagine Edie and I lived here so long. Or that our marriage hit that silver-anniversary mark. Hell, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I only met her a few years ago.”

  “At least you had those years.” Larry’s voice was low. “Cherish them.”

  Mort nodded. He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. Particularly not in front of Larry.

  Larry finished his beer, stood, and stretched. “While my mind may still feel as nimble as a fawn, my body is aching like the aging buck it is. I think it’s time for me to head home and soak these weary bones.”

  Mort stood and shook his friend’s hand. “Thanks for today. Change doesn’t come easy to me. Having you here made it a hell of a lot easier.”

  Larry clapped Mort’s shoulder and headed to his car. He rolled down his window before turning on the ignition. “I’ve done my duty, sir. I’ll wait to see the
houseboat once Micki has it presentable.”

  Mort called out a promise of cognac on his new back deck and waved goodbye. He carried the two beer bottles back to the recycling bin, took a long look at the backyard, then flipped a one-fingered salute to the towering rhododendron bush in the far corner.

  The back screen door still squeaked. He cursed himself for not keeping a can of WD-40 free from the mover’s box, but realized Bob and Ryan probably already had plans to replace the entire entry. He stepped into the kitchen. Images of Edie lying dead on the floor flashed into his mind. They were met with the memory of his own bondage in the very same spot. He turned instinctively to the door connecting the kitchen to the garage. It was new. Lydia had burst through the old one to save him from an intruder’s lethal intent. He shook his head clear and called forth pleasant memories. There used to be a table right there where his kids ate breakfast and studied their multiplication tables. He stepped to the stove. Bob and Ryan would surely replace it in a total kitchen remodel, but for two decades Edie had fed her family from those four gas burners and the oven with the broken handle.

  Mort crossed through the dining room into the main living area. That scorched spot on the hardwood where the string of Christmas lights shorted out was still there. The walls were painted “Sierra Sky.” Mort lingered on the memory of teasing Edie that she could call it anything she wanted, but it still looked beige to him. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and debated going up. Could he face the most intimate part of the home he’d shared with his wife, now dead, and his children, now grown? He knew what was up there. The bathroom Robbie and Allie squabbled over. The hallway bookshelf he’d handcrafted in his basement workshop. The bedroom he shared with Edie. It had three windows and a view of the backyard. It was empty now, but it had once been their sanctuary where tight budgets, demanding police chiefs, angry teenagers, and even their own petty fights were never allowed to cross the threshold.

  Mort looked up the stairs and the laughter, tears, threats, and excuses of his children echoed through his mind. He put his hand on the oak banister that held firm despite Robbie’s preteen insistence that he slide down it daily and took the first step up.

  “Daddy?”

  A sweet, lilting voice danced to him. He swallowed hard against the memory and took the next step higher.

  “Daddy, it’s me.”

  Mort froze. He stared at his shoes, debating if he was going mad with nostalgia or psychosis.

  “I’ve missed you so much, Daddy. Please turn around.”

  His heart pounded. He squeezed the banister. He wanted to stay locked in this instant…suspended in the belief that the voice he heard was real. He slowly turned his head away from the dream and back to the living room.

  He blinked twice. She was there. A five-foot-seven clone of his Edie. Sandy hair curling to her shoulders. Blue eyes. Silken complexion with faint freckles dotted across her nose. Her mother’s dancer body. Long legs, tiny waist, perfect posture.

  He blinked again and whispered.

  “Allie.”

  Chapter 21

  OLYMPIA

  “So he says to me, ‘Let’s go out back to my car. I got a new band you should hear and my sound system is sick.’ ” Krystal Piekarski scoffed and her large breasts bounced beneath a too-tight shirt. “Like I ain’t heard that one before. Do you think these assholes really think they’re clever? Like women ain’t tired of these two-bit lines? I knew exactly what he wanted to do out there in his little Civic.”

  “So what happened?” Their hour was nearly over and Lydia hoped Krystal wasn’t about to launch into a scenario that would demand a long analysis of what decisions she could have made differently.

  “Ha!” Krystal reared back and drummed her hands against her knees. “I did what you told me. I took a big breath and imagined myself floating up. Looking down on me in that bar talking with that dickwad. It worked! I could see myself sitting there with this guy’s hand on my thigh.”

  “Then what did you do?” Lydia was impressed Krystal was using the skills they’d discussed.

  Krystal gave a coquettish look over a raised shoulder. “I took another big breath, don’t you know. Just like you said I should.”

  “And this time you saw yourself the next morning? Imagining how you’d feel if you slept with another stranger?”

  Krystal smirked. “He wasn’t interested in no sleeping. This asshole wanted me to suck his dick while he smoked a joint and listened to some loser hip-hop band. Let’s not make this more romantic than it wasn’t.”

  Lydia froze the breath in her chest to keep from laughing. She liked Krystal and her ability to see situations as they were. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. How’d things turn out?”

  “I told him I had no interest in what he was selling.” Krystal beamed with pride. “You could tell he was not used to hearing the word no. But a good-lookin’ dick is still a dick. So he tries a little more. Telling me how pretty I am and how he’s been noticin’ me all night. I gotta tell you, my knees started to swoon at that.” She straightened her blouse and pulled herself taller. “A lady likes to hear how nice she looks. But I was determined, Dr. Corriger. I was like one of those ninjas who dig their feet in and nothin’ makes ’em move.”

  “I’ll bet it felt good to realize you had that kind of power over what would happen next.”

  “Damned skippy.” Her face scrunched. “I gotta stop cussin.’ Of course when beer-for-brains sees flattery ain’t workin’ he switches to insults. Tells me I’m a tease. Tells me he was about to start thinking about buying me a piña colada, but now he sees me for the cunt I am. Like what did he think that was going to do? Make me all hot to run out to his ten-year-old rust bucket and scrape my knees on his flaky rubber floor mats?”

  “Were you in any danger?”

  “Hell, no! That’s my bar. I been goin’ there for years. I raised my hand and Tito—that’s the bouncer by the side door. He always keeps an eye on me.” Krystal fluffed her hair and pursed her lips in smug satisfaction. “Tito brings his three hundred pounds over to the table and asks if I have a problem. I say yes, this idiot is bothering me. Asswipe turns around all belligerent like. He takes one look at the towering Tito and slithers off.” Krystal beamed. “It felt great. It really did. I went home by myself, woke up this morning, and couldn’t wait to get here to tell you about it. I’m a changed woman.”

  Lydia raised her hands to slow her down. “I’m proud of you. You’re learning the skills, and more important, you’re implementing them. You did a great job. But it’s practice that makes perfect.” She glanced at her calendar. “We’re seeing each other on Tuesday. I want to hear at least two more instances where you were vulnerable to acting in ways you want to change and instead did something different. Can you do that for yourself?”

  Krystal stood. She’d already become accustomed to the pace of therapy and knew the session was closing. “I can do that.” She followed Lydia to the door. When Lydia opened it, Krystal made a move to hug her therapist. Lydia stepped back.

  “Good job, Krystal.” Lydia offered a firm handshake. “I look forward to hearing more.”

  —

  Zach Edwards finished his second tuna-salad sandwich. “This is great, Dr. Corriger.” He took a swig from the bottle of iced tea she’d offered along with the sandwiches and chips. “Much appreciated, but not necessary.”

  “I passed one of your patients leaving the other day. She seemed calm.”

  “When was that?” Zach reached for a notepad.

  “Wednesday. Around two o’clock.”

  “Ah! Cindy Caldwell, my kleptomaniac. We had a productive session. We were able to start identifying triggers that make her vulnerable to stealing. I gave her a relaxation tape. She’s promised to listen to it, but I’m not counting on anything.”

  Lydia noted his ability to identify the patient without referring to his calendar. She also liked his progress with Cindy. Too often, rookie therapists spend session after sessio
n letting the patient vent. Zach seemed to appreciate that he was there to help his patient make changes, not endlessly rehash her woes.

  “Have you listened to my sessions?” he asked.

  Lydia’s practice had already grown to the point that she didn’t have eight hours to spend listening to every word he’d exchanged with his patients. She’d done a spot check of his recorded sessions. While she had some tips for him, overall she thought he was doing a good job.

  “I like your pacing. You keep the sessions moving. You stay focused on their goals,” she replied. “Keep an eye on leading questions. You don’t do it often, but I’ve heard a couple of times when you made it clear how you wanted your patient to respond. Remember, your patient will always want to please you. They’ll want to be your favorite. Make sure your questions are designed to have them speak their truth, not yours.”

  Zach bristled. A gifted student is often unprepared to hear constructive criticism. She reached for the folder on her desk.

  “I noticed the same type of thing in your report.”

  Zach referred to his own copy of the assessment he’d done on Emma Sorens. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Lydia didn’t want to shake his confidence. “There are some things you need to change to keep it as professional as it needs to be,” she said neutrally.

  She saw Zach’s defenses rise. “Can you give me specifics?”

  “Sure. You write here…” She flipped to a section she had highlighted. “Kenton Walder lured his stepdaughter into the pool house with a promise of a surprise gift.”

  “That’s what happened.” Zach’s voice was firm and self-satisfied, as though aware he’d caught his supervisor in her own error. “That was the first time he forced her to have oral sex. Her mother was up at the main house. The bastard pulled her into a secluded spot where she couldn’t call for help.”

  Lydia understood his compassion for young Emma. However, he needed to learn to temper his beliefs in order to be effective. “Were you there?”