The Unforgivable Fix (14 page)

She clicked the lock behind her and tugged on the knob in the family-style restroom to double-check its hold. She lowered the wall-mounted baby changer and set her purse and jacket on it. She stepped to the mirror, fluffed her hair, and leaned in for a closer scrutiny of her face.
God, I hope it's the lighting in here that's making me look like this.
She ran her hand over her cheeks.
I need a facial. A good one.
She went back to her purse, pulled out her phone, and selected B from her contact list. He answered before the second ring.

“My men haven't returned.” His voice was a mixture of fear and agitation.

“You should have sent better men.”

“Do you have any idea what happened?”

“I would assume they died.”

He was silent for several seconds.

“You knew your request would cost you,” she said.

“I've paid. I hadn't anticipated it would also cost me two soldiers.” He was quiet again. “So the mission was a failure? Shall I send more?”

He'd be eager to please her until she gave him what he wanted. “There's no need to put more of your people in harm's way. They know we're here. And we know where they are.”

“Then it's time for you to give me what I've paid for.” His tone was pure hunger.

She reflected on how powerful the driving force of vengeance was in men. Was revenge some sort of dipstick that measured the depth of their testosterone levels? Couldn't they see that in the history of the world not one thing had ever or would ever be changed as a result of their headlong rush into eye-for-an-eye justice?

“Memorize this. Write nothing down.” She gave him an address. “The date and time will soon be arranged.”

She could hear his chest heaving; the sound of a furious bull preparing for a final charge on a wounded matador. “You have a servant in me forever.”

He had the sense to be appreciative.
Let's see if it holds when I tell you the one remaining stipulation.

“You will not be alone,” she said.

“I require no assistance.” His bravado was on full display. “This is mine to finish.”

“Not assistance.” She leaned against the tiled wall and kept her eyes on the locked door. “Partnership. I'll leave it to the two of you to decide how to divide the chores.”

Any gratitude he expressed earlier was erased in one electric howl. “He's mine! You knew this. Two of my soldiers are dead as my payment.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear and let him vent for nearly two minutes. A pull on the door's knob reminded her that while the bathroom she occupied was private, the building which housed it was not. She pressed her cell against her breast, called out “Just a minute” to whoever was outside, and used her nonnegotiating tone when she spoke again into her phone.

“This is not up for discussion. If you do not agree I will simply move the time and place and your partner will have sole access to him. It's your decision. Make it now.”

She listened to his heavy breathing and counted to five.

“Tell me now. In or out.”

“I'm in,” he spat. His disgust was audible across the miles.

“Good.” She stepped to the mirror again. “Would you like me to repeat the address?”

“No need.”

“And you recall what to do with this phone?”

“I do.” His anger was subsiding. “And I will have phone C with me when you call me with the date.”

She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Enjoy your mission.”

“May I know the name of my partner?”

“You'll recognize him.” She smiled into the mirror in anticipation of her answer. “Swarthy fellow, about five foot ten. Always wears black silk suits. And then there's that four-carat diamond on his left pinky.”

There was silence on the phone.

“Tokarev?”

“Yes, dear. The Russians are coming.”

O
LYMPIA

“I am so fucking tired of people telling me there's nothing I can do.” Will Sorens paced across Lydia's office. “It's like the courts are plotting against Emma. They're keeping my little girl in the house of her rapist and it's killing her.”

Lydia understood his frustration. Kenton Walder had initially agreed Emma could be at Will's house following her discharge from the hospital. But something had changed. Will speculated Dee had “thrown one of her titanic fits—it's how she gets everything she wants,” and convinced Walder to renege on his promise. The fifty-fifty custody arrangment was back in play. Will had tried to gain full custody of his daughter until the investigation was completed, but Kenton Walder's high-priced legal team easily overwhelmed the only attorney Will could afford.

“Please sit down.” Lydia nodded toward the sofa and waited until he was settled. “I know you're at your wit's end, but fuming isn't going to help anything.”

“What can, Dr. Corriger?” His eyes begged for a direction.

“The first thing is to remain calm. Emma's with you now, and she's still going to be with you half of the time, correct?”

Will nodded. “Emma came straight to my house from the hospital when she was discharged two days ago. She whimpers like a wounded puppy when she even thinks about going back to them. I try to be strong for her…remind her that Walder hasn't come near her since the police have been involved…but still.” He hung his head.

“What about Emma's cutting? Has that stopped?”

Will stood again and resumed his pacing. He stopped and ran a hand through his dark hair. “My daughter takes a razor and deliberately cuts herself. Why?”

Lydia pointed to the sofa and Will sat down again. “There are many reasons people cut. I don't know Emma. I can't speak for her. You've described her cuts earlier as scratches. Has that changed?”

“No. And thank God there's been no more lately. I make sure there are no razors or anything sharp when she's at my house. But I can't control what happens at her mother's. What's going to happen there? What if she slips and she hits a vein or something?”

“Then you'll deal with that.” Lydia glanced at the clock. Will's session was nearing its end. “But for now, can you take comfort in knowing your daughter is with you, safe and sound? And that, by her own report, Walder's staying away from her?” She leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye. “The authorities need time to look into this. Dr. Edwards made his findings perfectly clear in his report. The judge will see that.” Lydia hoped she was right.

Will didn't look like he believed her. “You have kids, Dr. Corriger?”

“I'm focusing on your kid right now, Will. And on you. Here's your homework. First and foremost, I want you to not go off impulsively. Remember that a lot of eyes are on Emma now. You're doing everything you can for her.”

He still looked skeptical.

“Focus on you,” Lydia continued firmly. “If you fall apart, this whole thing falls apart. Promise me you will do something every day to take care of yourself. Will you do that?”

“You're asking me to think of myself while my daughter's in the middle of all this.”

“I'm asking you to stay strong.”

He looked down at his hands. “I'll try.”

“There's no trying, Will.” Lydia stood and tossed her notebook on her chair. “This is a must. You got it?”

Will followed her to the door. He paused just before leaving. “Tell me one thing. Tell me my little girl is going to be all right.”

A shot of pain coursed up Lydia's spine and took residence inside her skull. “Everybody's doing their best.”

“So where was Allie when you were talking to these people?” Lydia sat across from Mort. Dinner was over, dishes were done, and Allie was in her room exercising.

“I met them in the food court of South Center Mall.” Mort looked tired. “Allie didn't want them to see her. She sat across the way. I had my eyes on her the whole time. She was fine. Poor kid. It's got to be tough on her, cooped up here all day.”

“She's thirty-one years old, Mort. She's spent a good number of years creating this particular mess.”

“You don't like her much, do you?”

“Liking has nothing to do with it.” She didn't want to hurt him. “I guess I'm just a little tired of jumping through Allie's hoops when it's she who brought this whole crap storm into my house.”

“You want us to go?”

“No.” Lydia was certain Mort was as frustrated as she was. “I get that she needs to make sure Patrick Duncan is under lock and key before she goes to the feds. And I certainly understand her fear of the Russian.”

“Allie wants it to be just me talking to the DEA folks until she knows Tokarev and Duncan are no longer a threat to her.”

“So what did you learn?”

“I met with two agents. Jerry Gehrking and Rachel Sampson. Stand-up cops. Jerry's done undercover. Rachel came to the DEA straight out of law school. Both of them know Duncan and Tokarev by reputation, of course. They both doubt the Russian had anything to do with the raids Allie described on Duncan's operations. He's got enough on his plate trying to build a stronghold back in the motherland. Gehrking tells me Duncan's claim to fame is he's been able to forge a sort of workable peace with Felix Nuñez and Carlos Durazo. They both think it's more likely one of them is making a move.”

Lydia searched her memory banks. “Nuñez runs things now in Mexico. Durazo in Colombia.”

“Right. DEA thinks it likely one of them—hell, maybe both of them—might be thinking it's time to eliminate one leg of their three-legged stool.”

“So they don't see the Russian as a threat.”

“They didn't till I told them what Allie told us.” Mort shook his head. “Now that they know Patrick Duncan butchered Tokarev's favorite lady, they see it the way Allie does. He'll come looking for revenge.”

“What does the DEA want you to do with Allie?”

“What do you think? They want me to bring her in. Use her as bait. They're thinking she could be the ticket to draw both Duncan
and
Tokarev into the open long enough for them to nab two of the biggest players on the global drug scene. I could see them salivating over the career jumps they'd make by hauling in two fish the size of these guys. I told them Allie was in a safe place in Canada. They acted like they bought it.”

Lydia scowled. “You and I both know they put an eye on your old house, your new house, your precinct, Robbie's place in Denver, his new place in Seattle, and all your friends the moment they got back to the office.”

Mort nodded. “My hunch is they'll get to Jimmy or Micki first. But we should be fine here. Micki and Jimmy haven't heard your name for months.”

Lydia's mind jumped to Oliver. He'd seen them having coffee downtown less than ten days ago. “So what's next?”

“We try to pinpoint where Patrick Duncan is. Allie last saw him in Barbados. That's a start. I'm sure Duncan has ways to travel inconspicuously, but these guys are good. They'll find him.”

“And the Russian?” Lydia asked.

Mort looked down the hall to the room where his daughter was. “That's the wild card, isn't it?”

Lydia said goodbye to her last patient of the morning, a thirty-four-year-old stay-at-home mother of two young children, devastated by her husband's recent announcement that he was leaving her for the divorcée across the street. She'd been referred to Lydia by her cousin, who had sought coaching from Lydia when her own marriage ended three years earlier. While Lydia was disturbed by her new patient's plight, she was happy to hear the woman's cousin was thriving. Lydia hoped the young mother who could barely stop crying long enough to get through the intake session had the same fate waiting for her.

She glanced at her calendar, saw she had two hours until her next patient, and decided to take herself out to lunch. She needed something light after the heavy meals Mort and Allie had been cooking.

Her reception area should have been empty. Instead, a man stood in the middle of the room, twisting his worn Seahawks cap in front of the belly protruding over grimy work jeans.

“May I help you?” Lydia asked.

The man glanced behind her. Lydia put his age between fifty-five and sixty, and his height about the same as her own five seven. A buzz cut of grey stubble circled an otherwise bald head. His leathery skin suggested he was someone who earned his living outdoors.

“You the receptionist?” he asked.

Lydia stepped forward with an extended hand. “I'm Dr. Corriger. Did we have an appointment?”

“I didn't know they had lady doctors here.” His voice signaled discomfort as he accepted her handshake. “Maybe things would be better if she'd seen one of you.”

Lydia smiled and wondered to what “one of you” club he was referring. “Well, right now I'm the only one here. Can I help you?”

The man looked toward the front door.

“Would you be more comfortable in my office?” she asked. “It's quite private.”

The man tugged on his ear and looked again to the door. “Yeah, maybe.”

Lydia led the way. She tossed her purse and jacket on her desk and pointed him toward the sofa.

“All things being, I think I'll stand.” He tugged on his belt. “Work pants. My wife never let me sit on anything nice while I had 'em on.”

“Of course.” Lydia leaned against her desk. “Why don't we start with your name?”

“I'm Hank Trow. Brianna's dad. I came to have a few words with Dr. Edwards. I didn't know he had a lady doctor working for him.”

Brianna Trow. Lydia knew the name. She was Zach's patient. Depression presenting itself as severe stomach pain and gastic distress. She'd listened to their taped sessions. Brianna seemed to be responding well.

“Dr. Edwards isn't here today, Mr. Trow. Would you like me to give him a message?”

Hank Trow was quiet as he twisted his cap. “You know my daughter?” His eyes telegraphed something. Whether it was a need to talk or a need to learn something, Lydia didn't know.

“Mr. Trow, this is a psychologist's office.” She hoped she didn't sound dismissive. “I don't know if you've ever seen a therapist before, but—”

“Never went in for that stuff,” he said, interrupting her. “Different generation, I guess. I was taught you had feelings and that was that. Some were good and you enjoyed 'em while they lasted. Some were bad and you remembered they'd disappear just like the good ones did.”

“That's an important thing to remember, Mr. Trow.”

“May's well call me Hank.”

She nodded. “Sometimes feelings don't go away as fast as we'd like them to, Hank. Sometimes they get in our way. That's when folks come to see people like me.”

Hank shook his head. “Brianna's got stomach trouble. Has had all her life. Her mom had it, too. It was the cancer that took her, but Goldie had that awful gut from the day I met her. Even threw up on our wedding day. Brianna comes by it honest.” He looked Lydia straight in the eye. “I took care of my daughter. I got good insurance. I'm retired coast guard. Now I'm a machinist down at the dock. I got union benefits. Goldie, that's Brianna's mom, died right after Brianna started high school. She started getting them stomach pains not long after her mom passed. I made sure she got to the doctor. They loaded her up with medicine, but nothing worked.”

Lydia let him speak. There was no legal reason she couldn't listen.

“It's tough for her to hold a job on account of her health,” Hank continued. “Sure, she's sad a lot. I'd be sad, too, if I was sick all the time. Anyway, my girl never could hold on to a job long enough to get past probation, so she didn't have the insurance like she did when she lived with me. So she's gotta go to the county.” He straightened his spine and leveled a proud stare. “I help her with rent and I get her the stuff she needs that the food stamps don't cover. But them doctor bills, there's no way I can cover those. I figure there's no shame in her getting help from the government. I pay plenty of taxes.”

“Sounds like you're a supportive father, Hank.”

“That's what dads do.” He looked down for a moment. “But them doctors stopped fixin' and started duckin' once they found out Brianna wasn't payin' top dollar. Started tellin' her there was nothing physical wrong with her. That it was all in her head. That's when they shipped her off to the shrink.” He paused. “No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Lydia had reviewed Brianna's file before she assigned the case to Zach. Brianna's gastric symptoms had been checked out with every diagnostic test available. Her health had in no way suffered because she was on medical assistance. Lydia knew how common it was for depression to manifest itself as physical pain. “I imagine you're quite frustrated.”

Hank slapped his hat against his thigh. “I'm not frustrated, lady. I'm mad. I need some answers about my daughter. Now, when's this Dr. Edwards expected to be back? He tell you? You keep his calendar?”

“Hank, I'm bound by certain laws.” Lydia kept her voice gentle. “I can't tell you if Brianna is or isn't a patient here. What I can do is take your phone number and let Dr. Edwards know you came by. He can call you and listen to whatever it is you want to tell him, just like I can. But if he's seeing your daughter, he won't be able to tell you anything about her.”

“He your boss?” His voice rose for the first time. “That why you're protecting him?”

“Actually, you could say I'm
his
boss, at least for the work he does here. Dr. Edwards is under my supervision. And I'm not protecting him. I'm simply letting you know what the law says.”

His breathing was shallow and rapid.

“Would you like to leave your number? I'll ask Dr. Edwards to call you as soon as I see him.”

Hank ran a hand over his bald head. His shoulders sagged. Lydia watched his anger morph into frustration.

“You can listen, that right?” he asked.

Lydia nodded. “And I can educate, if that makes any sense. If you're telling me your daughter is sad, as you have, and that she has stomach troubles…again, your words, not mine. I certainly can explain how someone who is depressed can have those symptoms. And I can explain how treating the sadness can make the stomach pain go away.”

Hank bit his lower lip and shook his head. “You ever meet my daughter?”

Lydia could see the love he had for his daughter. She hoped he'd understand she wasn't playing games. “I can't answer any question like that, Hank.”

“But you can educate me, I got that right?”

“In the most general of terms, yes. I can do that.”

“Then tell me, in them general terms, how can my daughter—” His voice caught in his throat. “How can the girl I've taken care of all her life come to see you people for stomach problems and end up cutting me out of her life…telling me she doesn't want to see me anymore on account of…” He stopped again to compose himself. “On account of…” His broad shoulders began to shake. He looked away and wiped his eyes with his hat.

Lydia stepped toward him. “On account of what, Hank?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Why doesn't your daughter want to see you anymore?”

He turned tear-filled eyes to her. “On account of her saying that I had sexual intercourse with her. With my own daughter.” He took a step back, staggered to the sofa, and collapsed into body-racking sobs. “My little girl says I had sex with her.”

“Wow.” Zach had agreed to come to the office when Lydia called. “I had the feeling there was something she wanted to tell me, but I have to say I didn't see this one coming.” He slumped back against the chair and shook his head. “I guess it's things like this that make our job so exciting, huh?”

Lydia wrote off his flippant tone to nervousness. It had to be rough to be blindsided by a supervisor, but she had to let him know about Hank Trow's description of his daughter's accusations.

“What has Brianna said about her father?” she asked.

Zach shrugged. “You've heard the tapes. She speaks kindly of her family whenever she mentions them. Her mom died more than ten years ago. She and her father are close.” He stopped himself. “I'm sorry. I keep doing this. Brianna
says
her mother died a long time ago and she
describes
her relationship with her father as close.”

“Don't worry about clinical precision right now, Zach. I've heard the tapes. I don't recall lengthy discussions about her dad.”

“There was no reason for me to think that needed to be a focus. She came in complaining of stomachaches and had all the classic symptoms of major depression. I zeroed in on that. You heard it on the recordings.”

“No need for defensiveness. You're doing a great job with her.”

He looked like a puppy who'd just been caught chewing a slipper. “I'm sorry, Dr. Corriger. I feel like I've let her down…like I've let you down, too. There should have been some sort of sign. Something I missed that a more seasoned therapist would have picked up on.”

“We only can operate on what our patients tell us, Zach. If they keep secrets, if they're hiding something, there's no way we can address what we don't know about.”

“But she seemed to be getting so much better.”

“The tapes sound great,” Lydia told him. “You're doing a fine job helping her manage her disorder. Could it be that her depression kept her from confronting her father? Finally being able to stand up for herself and setting boundaries with her abuser could be a sign she's gaining confidence.”

Zach didn't look convinced. “So now what do I do?”

“You talk to her about it.”

“What about confidentiality?”

“You have no relationship with Hank Trow. Tell her exactly what I told you. That her father came to me and wanted to talk to you about her accusations of sexual molestation.”

“But wouldn't that be hearsay? Nobody's told me anything about that.”

Lydia could understand his confusion. She'd been hammering him about precision of speech and the need to be careful about how he spoke to his patients. She was glad to see he was taking her counsel seriously. “Tell her exactly what happened. Tell her I told you. Or, if you'd prefer, I'd be happy to sit in on a session with you. I can tell her myself what her father told me.”

“No.” Zach stood. “I mean, I'll handle it. Brianna's my patient, Dr. Corriger. If she's having some sort of breakthrough I want to be the one who helps her through it.”

Lydia took a long look at him. His secondhand clothes and obvious need to please were accompanied by a first-class mind. He'd learn from this.

“I look forward to hearing how it goes, Zach.” She rose and walked him to the door. “Don't forget to record the session.”

At last a sincere smile broke through his tension. “Count on it, Dr. Corriger.”