The Unforgivable Fix (10 page)

Oliver Bane shrugged his shoulders and offered an apologetic smile. “I don't know if this makes me the mountain or Mohammed.” He took one step toward her. “But I had to see you. Please tell me this is okay.”

Lydia felt his rumpled warmth radiate across the eight feet separating them. His kindness, which she knew to be genuine and deep, immediately tugged on the protective cloak she kept wrapped tightly around her essential core.

“I got your message,” she said. “I've been meaning to call.”

Oliver's brown eyes signaled his sadness. “Let's not waste time with polite lies, okay? I know you, Lydia. If you were going to call you would have. I don't mean to disrespect any boundaries you've set between you and me. I just need to know, directly from you, what they are.”

Lydia stood on weakening legs as two forces waged a battle in her mind. One internal voice screamed in warning,
Send him away. You're safest when you're alone. You've been fooled before. Don't let him in. It's not worth the risk.
Another voice, this one filled with a quiet, gentle strength, pulled her in a different direction.
You're not a helpless child anymore. This is Oliver. He cares. He's worth the risk.

She took a shaky breath and walked toward him. He opened his arms and she surrendered to the security of his embrace. Lydia leaned her head against his chest and allowed his soft murmurings and gentle kisses against her hair to calm her. She inhaled the aroma of autumn clinging to his jacket. When Oliver pulled a half step back and lifted her chin toward him, his coffee-flavored kiss held the promise of Christmas morning.

“I've missed you,” he sighed. “I don't have the words to tell you how much.”

She kissed him again and allowed herself a moment to pretend it could always be this way. The world would not be granted access to the sacred circle of their arms.

He stepped back and held her face in his hands. “I want to know everything. Where you've been, what you've done.” Oliver ran a gentle hand across the back of her head. “Are you all healed? My God, Lydia. I was so terrified.”

She nodded. “It took lots of rehab, but I'm fine.”

He pulled her back in to his chest and laughed. “I don't want to let go of you. Do you want to have dinner? Can I take you home? Will you finally show me where you live?” He squeezed her playfully. “What do you want for Christmas, Lydia Corriger? Will you be my date for Thanksgiving dinner and save me from yet another round of parental questioning as to when I'm going to settle down with a nice girl?”

A nice girl. He needs a nice girl. His parents are waiting for her. Someone they can call their daughter. Someone they'll hang a stocking for and make a fuss about at birthday time. They don't need you. Don't bring an assassin to their door.

She stiffened in his arms. He stepped back.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

She let her eyes linger. She wanted the sight of him to be forever locked in her mind. This gentle man with the keenly honed intellect. His hair, perpetually battling attempts at control. His features, weathered from years of skiing and hiking. His eyes that danced with gold when he was happy.

How long would he be happy with you? How many times will you see those eyes clouded by disappointment or regret?He deserves more. He deserves his nice girl.

“Lydia, what's going on? Talk to me.”

She lowered her gaze and said nothing.

“Listen, if I've come on too strong, tell me. I know I can be a bull in a china shop sometimes. But I take direction well.” His voice didn't sound as playful as his words.

Lydia turned and looked toward her office.

“Do you want me to leave, Lydia? Was this a mistake?”

You don't want me, Oliver. You don't need a woman like me. Go find someone to make your parents proud.

She bowed her head. She kept her eyes focused on her shoes as the two of them stood there in awkward silence. She steeled herself as she heard his footsteps walking away. She didn't raise her gaze until she heard him close the door behind him.

“If this is a joke, you've caught me at a bad time. Besides, you've blown the punchline.” Lydia shifted her glance between her two visitors.

“I'm open to alternatives.” Mort's desperation lined his face. “But Allie needs a place where no one knows her.”

Lydia understood the unspoken part of his request. Mort's daughter also needed protection and The Fixer's home was a fortress run by a woman who knew how to use every weapon in her considerable arsenal.

“How long?” Lydia asked him.

Allie looked around Lydia's kitchen. “You have a lovely home. Everything seems so new and fresh.”

Lydia ignored her. From the moment she'd opened her door, Lydia's internal radar had been loudly warning her to keep her distance from Mort's long-lost daughter.

“I don't know. Like I said, she's running from what is likely to turn out to be a very bloody drug war.” Mort laid his hand over his daughter's. “This Duncan character is taking on the head of the Russian drug cartel—”

“And your daughter's afraid she's the Russian's target,” Lydia interrupted. She turned to Allie. “Because your boyfriend cut off the hands of Tokarev's lover in retaliation for the murder of his friends.” Lydia turned back to Mort. “Who just happened to be employees of the largest drug cartel in the Western hemisphere. Nice folks your daughter hangs with.”

Allie's face clouded over. “Let's go, Daddy. I'm not comfortable staying someplace I'm not wanted.”

Lydia leveled a stare at her. “I'm not worried about your comfort.” If The Fixer was going to cross paths with such a violent enterprise, it would be for the assassination of the man responsible for the destruction of millions of lives, not the care and succoring of his whore.

Allie reached for her purse. Lydia recognized the Hermès Birkin; she knew the handbag cost more than Mort's Honda sitting outside.

Mort kept his daughter in her chair with a hand on her shoulder. He turned to Lydia with a softer tone. “Liddy, please. This is a mess. It's my mess, I know. But she's my daughter.”

“And for her you're going to put yourself in between two very nasty kingpins?” Lydia shook her head. “And do what? Negotiate turf? Take out both Patrick Duncan and Vadim Tokarev? You're Seattle Homicide, Mort. Leave this for the DEA.” She tilted her chin toward Allie. “Get her to cooperate with the feds. Let them hole her up in some safe house.”

“Allie plans to offer any information she has to whatever agency needs her.” Mort sounded like a guy trying to convince himself. “But she can't cooperate if she's dead. Give us time to put this Tokarev character away. Then she'll be out of your hair and working with international authorities to bring an end to Patrick Duncan's empire.”

“You're a city cop, Mort. You have no authority to go after the Russian. No matter how much you love your kid.”

“Tokarev killed Patrick's men,” Allie offered. “That's why he did what he did to that woman. Now Tokarev will come after me. Justice is very important to these guys. If Daddy can arrest the Russian for these guys' murders, I'll be safe.”

Lydia hung her head. The drug idiots confused revenge with justice. And Allie didn't strike her as the type who would delude herself by thinking Patrick Duncan would look the other way once she ratted him out. Mort's daughter had something else in mind.

“The authorities know about the killings in England and Atlanta,” Mort said. “Things are getting hot. Allie's in a unique position to provide very important inside information. She can save us time and maybe even lives with what she knows.”

Lydia's eyebrows shot up. “Us? Your daughter decides to break up with her drug lord lover and you're working with Interpol now?”

Mort's jaw tightened. “I've agreed to act as liaison between her and the international agencies.”

“The murder action is so slow in Seattle?” Lydia wanted no part of this. “Keep her with you. You've got that fancy new houseboat.”

Mort's irritation showed itself. “You know my place is Duncan's first stop. Nobody knows you and I are still in touch, so nobody's going to look for her here.” He leaned forward. “We have an opportunity to make a significant dent in the drug trade with Allie's information. Please, Liddy. Keep my girl safe and let us do what we need to do.”

Lydia looked around her kitchen. Allie was right. Her home
was
fresh and new. She'd purged herself of everything associated with the last time her sanctuary was invaded, and swore she'd never allow her haven to be compromised again. But the same radar warning her Allie was up to something Mort's fatherly love kept him from seeing was urging her that the best way to figure it out was to keep her close.

“There will be rules,” Lydia said to Allie.

“I'm thirty-one years old,” Allie protested. “I don't need anyone to—”

Mort interrupted. “She'll follow them to the letter, Liddy. I guarantee it.” His eyes telegraphed gratitude mixed with relief.

Lydia held his gaze. She looked at Allie and saw Mort's jawline and posture. She'd seen photos of Mort's son Robbie. Allie shared his coloring. That must have been Edie's genetic contribution. What, she wondered, was the source of Allie's wildness?

“Her bedroom's down the hall. The one with the blue walls,” Lydia said. “There's a bathroom attached.”

O
LYMPIA

“Did you always want to be a psychologist?” Allie asked. “Are you analyzing me now?”

Lydia poured herself another cup of coffee. It had been a tiresome night trying to keep Mort's daughter contained, and the first hour of this day threatened the same. “Listen, Allie. I'm not really much of a talker.”

“I noticed that.” Allie tugged at the oversized T-shirt she'd been given to sleep in. “Not much of a dresser, either. It's lucky we're the same size.” She looked at Lydia over the rim of her own mug. “Same age, too, would be my guess. What do you think that's about?”

“What do you mean?”

Allie tilted her head and smiled. “My dad's fifty-eight. Fit as a fiddle and all that, but still, he's old as dirt.”

Lydia heard the disrespect despite Allie's playful tone. “Your father is an acquaintance. If you're wondering if we're romantically involved, we're not.”

“C'mon. It doesn't get your shrink juices flowing wondering what a guy like my dad has in common with someone half his age?”

Lydia realized this was a mistake. Allie may be impetuous, but that didn't mean she was stupid. Lydia didn't want anyone wondering what the connection was between her and Mort. “For the record, I'm thirty-six. Your dad needed an out-of-the-way place to park you. If someone is looking for you, don't you think a close friend of your father's would be on the top of his or her list?”

“But why
you
?”

Lydia needed a plausible story that would put a halt to Allie's questions. “Your dad helped me out about a year ago. A case I was working on.”

“Yeah, that Fixer thing.” Allie tucked a long leg up under her. “Robbie told me all about it. Which reminds me, I need to go to a bookstore today. I read his book when it came out, but I want a copy he can sign for me. We can hit one after I buy some suitable clothes.”

Lydia ignored the order. “What was it like speaking with your brother? It's been, what? Five years?”

“Four. It was awkward at first, but I had him laughing through his tears within five minutes. He and Claire are packing up in Denver. They'll all be out here in a few weeks.” Allie wagged a teasing finger. “And don't think you can change the subject. Why did my dad trust
you
with hiding his precious baby girl?”

Lydia shoved her chair away from the table. “You don't make much of a first impression. Anybody ever tell you that?”

Allie reared back in surprise. “No. Actually, it's quite the opposite. What's your problem?”

“Let's recap. You get yourself arrested five years ago—”

“Four,” Allie interrupted. “And is that any of your business?”

Lydia disregarded her challenge. “You disappear, along with a known drug kingpin…How'd you even meet a guy like that, by the way?”

Allie shrugged. “It was a flash rave. An empty warehouse down on the docks. You'd be surprised the people who show up. Go on. You were telling me what your problem with me is.”

Lydia shook her head and continued. “No one in your family hears a word from you. Your mother dies and you do nothing to offer comfort to your brother or father. The next time anyone hears anything is when you pop up out of the blue, running from the Russian mob.”

“I never said Takarov was in the Russian mob.”

“Your father could have marched you right into the nearest DEA office and let them deal with you. Instead he's found you sanctuary until he knows there's no longer a threat to your life. Once that's done, he's going to call in every chit he's got to make sure you're not prosecuted for whatever involvement you may have with all these drug people.”

“There's no law against dating someone.” Allie's tone was more aggressive than defensive.

Lydia balked. “We're all supposed to pretend you live with a man like that for four years and have no knowledge of his activities? No involvement?”

“I left to keep myself alive.”

“You live that kind of life, it shouldn't come as any surprise that people may want to harm you. And here you sit in my kitchen—wearing my clothes and drinking my coffee—and make snide innuendos about your father's relationship with me. You blow off what I'm sure was an incredibly difficult conversation for your brother, and you tell me where you expect me to chauffeur you today.
That
is my problem. Now please, back off, be quiet, and let me finish my coffee.”

Allie sat up straight in her chair and glared into her own mug. Lydia watched her for several silent seconds before reaching for the morning newspaper. She was nearly through the front section before Allie spoke.

“Do you want me to be grateful?” she asked. “Is that what you're looking for?”

Lydia sighed and lowered her paper. “I'd settle for respectful. Look, I don't know your dad that well.” She hoped Allie was too caught up in her own defenses to notice her lie. “But it seems to me he deserves some respect. And, yeah, now that you mention it, a little gratitude for all he's doing would be nice.”

Allie's hands tightened around her mug. “Because that's how it's done?”

Lydia was confused. “How what's done?”

Allie's voice was tight. “The bad little girl comes home and she should be thankful for any crumb the big, wise man has to offer? I should…what? Bow down and grovel in appreciation? Follow what the perfect Mort Grant says no matter what? Why? Because he's my father? Because he's a cop? Or because he's a man?”

“Tell me how you see it.” Lydia's instincts told her Allie had something important she wanted to say. Something Lydia needed to hear in order to understand what she was up to.

Allie looked away. “Don't you ever get sick of it?” She turned back to Lydia. “Look at you. You say you don't know my father very well. Yet he shows up unannounced, drops me on your doorstep, and you hop to it like every good woman does when a man barks an order.” Allie ran a hand through her hair. “Doesn't it ever just stick in your throat…closing off your air no matter what you do to cough it clear, until one day it just chokes you?”

“I'm more interested in what you think.” Lydia had shifted into psychologist mode.

Allie was quiet for a while. “I noticed the way the world is rigged sometime around middle school. Don't tell me you didn't see it. Every girl paying attention does. It didn't make any sense to me as a kid…maybe seemed silly to me as a teenager…but the older I got, the more I hated it.”

She shook her head. “Let me tell you about my mother. She moved like a swan. Generations of genetic code sifted down through hundreds of years to give her every endowment she needed to be a world-class dancer. Long neck, straight back, lean muscular legs, arms as thin as a whisper and as strong as a scream. She had boxes of trophies and ribbons she'd earned when she was a kid. In high school, her dance teacher finagled an audition with an instructor from Juilliard who happened to be in town. He offered her a full ride on the spot.” Allie's eyes had a faraway look. “Her father told her she couldn't go. Just like
that.
” Allie snapped her fingers. “My mother's lifelong dreams ended. She enrolled at the hometown university and met my father her first week there. She could have still had a bit of a career. Seattle's got a ballet and a few smaller dance troupes. But my dad wanted to be a cop.” Allie's lovely face was clouded with resentment. “And that means long hours away from wife and kiddies.” She snapped her fingers again. “So just like that, my mother settled for a storefront studio where she taught chubby suburban grade-schoolers the basic positions until they got bored and signed up for soccer.”

“Your mother had a choice in her decisions,” Lydia said.

“Did she?” Allie's voice was cold. “Would she have even considered going against her father's wishes and heading off to New York? Would she have imagined telling my dad ‘Listen, buddy, you've got responsibilities here at home?' Like hell, she would. She took care of her father and her husband just like the house slaves took care of the white folks back on the plantation.” Allie huffed a mirthless chuckle. “Try to remember the first time you heard about how fragile male egos are. Bet you can't. You were too damned young to recall. It's all fucking bullshit. When's the last time a man hesitated in what he said or did to a woman because he was worried about her psyche? Yet we fake orgasms and tell some balding, overweight asshole what a stud he is. We snicker when men are made fun of in stupid TV commercials and pretend that balances the scale for rape or the occasional punch in the chops when we get too uppity.”

Allie's rant triggered memories Lydia struggled daily to ignore. How could she judge Mort's daughter when she'd built a life of isolation in order to protect herself from the very insults Allie listed?

“Robbie's book?
The Fixer
?” Allie pointed a determined finger as she continued. “Now
there's
a woman who gets it. She took nothing from no one. Made her own way. We're supposed to all be aghast at her crimes, but I told Robbie last night part of the reason his book's been so big is because there's not a woman in the world who doesn't wish she had the courage to do what The Fixer did. I hope she's sitting somewhere having a rum cocktail waiting for the movie to come out.”

Lydia focused on slowing her heart and steadying her breath while warnings screamed through her mind.
This isn't going to work. This is dangerous. I can't have her here.

“So, Lydia, don't tell me how to act around my father.” Allie's voice was calmer. She tugged again on her T-shirt. “I apologize for my comments about your clothes. And I do appreciate what you're doing for me.” Her blue eyes were steely. “But don't tell me how to behave around men. This is my one and only life. I'm living it my way. And men are sometimes the tools I use.”

Lydia's coffee was cold. She took her cup to the sink, dumped it down the drain, and steadied herself against the counter. “One of us should get in the shower. I'll set out some clothes for you. Jeans and a sweater okay?”

Allie brought her own mug to the sink. She put a gentle hand on Lydia's shoulder. “That would be perfect.” She hesitated. “I do have one request.” A small smile lit her eyes. “And I realize you have every right to refuse, but I hope you won't, despite my earlier rudeness.”

“What's that?”

“After we're dressed, do you think we could drive to Seattle?” Allie's voice wobbled. “I'd really like to see my mother's grave.”