The Red Hot Fix (31 page)

They walked into the King County jail’s third-floor interrogation room to find Connie White, a.k.a Trixie, seated and secured with chains. The road burns on the side of her face were healing. Mort was disappointed there’d be no scar. He hoped a jury would be able to see past her considerable beauty to the ugliness pulsing inside.

“What’s he doing here?” Her voice cracked like she hadn’t used it in a while.

Mort grabbed a metal chair from the far side of the room and sat within two feet of Trixie’s floor lock. Her skin was already taking on the sallow tones of someone deprived of natural light. “Officer DeVilla stays.”

Her eyes shifted mood. First defiant, then softening to playful. Sexy. Finally, annoyed.

She turned to Jimmy. “Where’s that damned dog of yours? I thought you never went anywhere without your little friend.”

Jimmy pulled his own chair next to Mort’s.

Trixie did her best to look relaxed in her orange jumpsuit and chains. “I guarantee I’d lick your balls better than that shepherd does.”

“You’ve got ten seconds to get to your point, Trixie.” Mort struggled to dial back his
anger. “I’ve got to get home. Relax. Have a few drinks. Maybe watch a little television before crawling into my warm bed.”

Jimmy joined in. “I was hoping we’d grab a steak, Mort. Weather’s supposed to be terrific tonight. We could go to the Square and grab a table on Delmonico’s patio. I’ll ask Micki to join us. Oh, wait. She’s got that appointment at the beauty parlor. You know how she is about getting her hair all fluffed and buffed.”

Mort grinned. “Nothing better than the sight of a pretty woman all dolled up on a spring night.”

“Stop it, boys.” Trixie gave them a weary smile. “You think I’m going to get weepy from tales of the good life outside? That the plan? Make me go all little girl with what I’m missing? Then what? Offer me a burger and a jar of moisturizer if I sign a paper saying I killed everybody on your list of cold cases?” She shook her head in disappointment. “Surely you got something better up your sleeve.” She riveted her eyes on Mort. “I know I do.”

Mort leaned forward, his voice cold and direct. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m here because the DA stupidly thinks you’re ready to give yourself up. You’ve got a play to make? Do it and let me get gone.”

Trixie’s eyes twinkled. “Now there it is, Mort. The appreciative and worthy adversary I’d hoped you’d be.”

“All I did was haul you in,” Mort snapped. “Don’t make this about me.”

Trixie’s laugh was gravel in a rusty pipe. “At least some things in life never change. Introduce me to a man and I’ll meet yet another dick-for-brains who thinks the world revolves around him.” Her face contorted into sneering rage. “You think
this—
” She rattled her chains until Mort thought she’d tear an arm off. “—has anything to do with
you
? You think my Seattle gambit has in any way been influenced by Mort Grant, fumbling chief of detectives? That I chose the men, or the hotels, or even the damned city to play this out with
you
in mind?” Her pasty complexion turned fire red and sweat beaded on her brow. “You fucking piece of camel dung. You think I planned this for
you
?”

She caught herself. Struggled to contain her anger by swallowing ragged inhales of air. Mort gave her time, glanced up at the cameras in each corner of the small room and hoped they were capturing every word. The DA would have her confession after all.

Minutes passed. Trixie took one last long inhale, opened her eyes, and smiled at the two men across from her and resumed her conversation in a steady tone. “Forgive me. I’m unaccustomed to being restrained. My anger is about the situation in which I find myself, not the pleasure of your company.” She instinctively tried to cross her legs but was prevented by her shackles. She grimaced, stomped her left foot, and took another moment to steady herself. “The reasons for my Seattle activities are my own, Mort. I’ll not be discussing them with you. I’ve
asked you down here for another matter entirely.”

“Make it quick.”

Trixie glanced at Jimmy, obviously hoping he’d excuse himself. When Jimmy stayed put, she sighed and continued.

“I like you, Mort. Truly, I do. I needed a way to know what the police knew. That’s one of several reasons I became involved with CLIP. Those pathetic losers grab whatever piece of news they can get about the state of prostitution in your fair city and make it their life’s focus. Each meeting gave some kind of speculation about the latest gossip on Trixie. None of it was reliable, though. I was ready to take up residence on a stool in a local cop bar when you waltzed into our little gathering with your rumpled suit and aw-shucks attitude.” The come-on in her eyes made Mort’s stomach hurt. “I was hoping for some spice with you. Now,
that
would have added an all-new wrinkle to the festivities. But you had other ideas. You were gaga over Charlotte Conklin the moment you laid eyes on her. While I regret missing the romp, I have to admit I got a kick out of watching you swoon over sweet Charlotte. And who better to stay close to than the man in charge of investigating the whole kit and caboodle?” She shifted her attention to Jimmy. “Here’s hoping I get that lucky next time I’m in Vegas, huh?”

“You wanted to talk to me.” Mort wanted out of that room. “Why?”

Trixie smoothed a long-fingered hand over the rough fabric of her jumpsuit. “I’m not a woman who gives second chances, Mort, but as I said, I like you. I’m offering you a unique opportunity.” Her gaze was that of a disappointed schoolmarm chastising an errant pupil. “I’ve asked you here to hear your apology. Offer it now, sincerely and contritely, and all will be forgiven.”

Mort had come to the jail expecting some sort of manipulation from Trixie, but this caught him off guard. He turned to Jimmy and his friend’s wide-eyed stare telegraphed his own surprise.

“What the hell am I supposed to apologize for? You put your hands on my son, you fucking nut job. The only thing I’m sorry for is that I didn’t tear your head right off your shoulders.”

Trixie’s hands remained crossed serenely in her lap. “Any danger Robbie was in was your own doing, Mort. You know that.”

Mort kicked his chair back and towered over the petite woman locked in chains. Jimmy sprang to his feet and pulled him away.

“Easy there, partner.” Jimmy inched him back. “Big Brother’s watching. Besides, this whack case is headed to six-by-eight concrete till Jesus comes back. Let it be.”

Trixie seemed unaffected by Mort’s outburst. “You served a purpose. And I liked you. Still do, despite your poor manners. But you brought Robbie’s adventure on all by yourself when
you announced I was responsible for killing that Donald Trump wannabe. You disappointed me. I had to teach you a lesson in respect. Ask any hunter. They’ll tell you the key to success is respecting your prey. You insulted me. Your own behavior put your son in play.”

“So you want me to apologize for my stupidity?” Mort knew her game now. Perform for the cameras. Lay the groundwork for an insanity defense.

“That would be nice. Add to it the disrespect for not being up to the challenge of having me as an adversary.” Her tone switched to indulgent mother. “And I’m a lady like any other. Vain when I know I shouldn’t be. You tackled me and badly scratched my face. I’m sure you didn’t mean it, but you hurt me nonetheless. I’m owed a statement of sincere regret for that. Offer it to me now and we’ll move past your regrettable failings.”

Mort shook his head and patted Jimmy on his shoulder. “Well, the last hour wasn’t a total loss. Least I have a good story to tell over the next Guinness I get Larry to buy me. C’mon, partner. That steak’s sounding good.”

Jimmy called for the guard.

“Apologize now, Mort.” Trixie’s voice had taken on an irritated edge.

Mort ignored her as he stepped to the door. “Call Micki. Tell her dinner’s on me.”

“I won’t offer this chance again, Detective,” Trixie screeched. “Ask my forgiveness now or deal with the consequences.”

“Let’s see what Larry’s up to. Make it a real party.” The guards opened the door while Trixie screamed for attention.

“She’s all yours, gentlemen.” Mort could hear her shouted vows of revenge all the way to the elevator.

Lydia held Gary Dunfield’s face in her mind as she oiled the barrel of the Beretta Px4. The evening had become a familiar meditation as she assembled and cleaned her gear. Four boxes of ammunition and two automatic magazines sat beside a backup Beretta 92. She doubted she’d need the laser sight, but she’d take it in case Dunfield’s lizard instincts kicked in and he made a run for it.

Lydia didn’t plan to give him time for that.

She glanced at the clock. Eight fifty-three. The sun had long set. Endless black haunted her at every window. She packed the guns into the canvas bag and carried it to the bedroom. She should go to bed. She had a busy day tomorrow.

But she wasn’t tired. Her body buzzed an electric vibration energizing every cell. When she inhaled, odors were distinct and identifiable. The kitchen was two rooms away, yet the hum of the refrigerator was a Chevy hemi daring her to race. She closed her eyes and focused on her ankles, then shifted her attention to her forehead. Sure enough, she could detect the slight temperature difference in the air. When she opened her eyes, the colors in the dim room glowed as though lit from within.

She was ready. It had been too long since she’d felt this invincible.

Lydia went back to the living room and poured herself a glass of merlot. She sat at the dining room table and clicked on the stereo. Diana Krall’s sultry voice filled the room. Lydia reached for her phone.

No messages. No texts.

Leaving her contact information on Oliver’s website was an impulse she regretted. Oliver deserved a woman as open and forthright as he was. Any honest involvement between the two of them was impossible. If he knew she’d spent six years as The Fixer, the least she could expect was abandonment. He could just as likely make one call and assure the rest of her days were spent in a very small prison cell.

And there was no way he, or anyone, could know what she was planning for tomorrow.

But he hadn’t called her. He’d made his decision. Lydia closed her eyes and let another sip of wine carry warmth to the pain in her core.

“There’s a Detective Morton Grant here to see you.” The woman behind the reception desk listened for a moment. She hung up and dazzled Mort with the megawatt smile available only to twenty-somethings whose greatest disappointment in life was that delayed flight to Cancun last spring break. “He’ll be right out.” Mort thanked her and turned his scrutiny to the reception area of Rainy Day world headquarters.

“Detective Grant?”

Mort recognized the fair-haired man. Mid-thirties, just at six feet. He shook Pierce Stinson’s hand and felt a grip firmer than his slight build would have telegraphed. Stinson led the way back to his office. After the ritual asking-and-declining of beverages, Mort offered his condolences for Vogel’s death.

“Thank you.” Stinson looked like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks. “It’s been a difficult time for all of us. Mother especially.” He took his place behind his desk. “She told me you were very kind when you spoke to her. I appreciate that.”

Mort knew the searing, soul-deep stab inflicted by losing a spouse unexpectedly. “How’s she holding up?”

Stinson took several seconds to answer. When he did, his voice was choked. “My mother is stronger than I ever comprehended.”

Mort softened his approach. “This has to be rough on you. Your mother tells me Reinhart was the only father you ever knew.”

“My mother told you that?” Stinson bristled.

Mort was intrigued by the man’s reaction to an innocent remark. “Did I get it wrong?”

Stinson regained his composure. Still, his smile was forced and thin. “No, no, Detective. You’re absolutely right. Bird …” His smile disappeared. “Forgive me, ‘Bird’ was my pet name for Reinhart. Bird was, indeed, my father. At least in my eyes. I’m just a bit surprised my mother recognized it.”

“Was there a problem with that?”

Stinson took his time answering. “My mother’s not given to sentimentality. My relationship with Bird was something she never fully understood, or so I thought.” He looked down at his hands. “Apparently, I was wrong. It’s nice to know she appreciates what Bird means …” Again his voice choked. “What Bird
meant
to me.”

“And now you’re running Rainy Day.”

Another lag before answering. Mort remembered the dulling sluggishness of grief.

“He’s left large shoes,” Stinson said.

“I’m sure you make him proud.” Mort shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with pressing someone so obviously drowning in sorrow. “What can you tell me to help me better understand your stepfather?”

Stinson’s jaw churned. He pushed himself clear of his desk, crossed to a wall of shelves, and repositioned some trinkets on display. “You’re asking how Bird could find himself with a hooker who turned out to be a serial killer.” He kept his back to Mort as he moved to a credenza and shifted the placement of a stylized bronze statue. “You have that woman in custody. Trixie. Perhaps that’s a question best answered by her.”

Mort ran a hand across his chin and gave his best Columbo performance. “Trixie isn’t talking, I’m afraid. You know how it is once people lawyer up.”

Mort watched him shuffle back to his desk, aware that loss crippled faster than any bullet or virus. “I have to make sure our case against her is airtight,” he continued. “Don’t want some slick attorney pulling on a loose end and unraveling our good work. Did Reinhart have any friends? Anybody who might know how he came to have Trixie in his penthouse?”

Mort was about to repeat his questions when Pierce Stinson finally answered. “Bird built an empire. With a small investment from my mother, he built a series of businesses worth in excess of four hundred million dollars.” He gave a sarcastic laugh. “And it didn’t take him three generations to do it. You don’t accomplish that by taking time to attend to a social life. He had business contacts and he had family. My mother and me. We’re it.”