Fixed in Blood (13 page)

Mort’s neck muscles tightened when he turned down the hall at 6:45
A.M.
and found Schuster leaning against the wall outside his office. From the look on the Vice Squad chief’s face, he wasn’t there to deliver happy news. Mort nodded good morning, balanced his coffee cup and briefcase, and unlocked his office door.

“I only got the one cup.” Mort clicked on the lights, tossed his case next to his chair, and switched on his computer. “You want me to see if Daphne can scare you up something drinkable?”

Schuster took the seat across from Mort’s desk. “I’ve been up since four. I’ve filled my caffeine quota for the day. Check your departmental mail.”

Mort logged on and clicked the icon to his email account. His password was still his and Edie’s initials followed by the date of their wedding. The guys in IT had long since given up trying to force him to comply with departmental policy to change it every ninety days. He scrolled past messages from the chief, the budget office, two reporters, and the head of the training academy to find the one from Schuster.

“There’s an attachment.”

“Open it,” Schuster said. “Sit down first.”

A knock on Mort’s open office door pulled his attention.

“This a private party or can any public servant join in?” Jimmy DeVilla didn’t wait for an answer. Bruiser trotted into the office behind him. Jim tossed a waxed pastry bag on Mort’s desk and turned to Schuster. “Lucky for you it’s buy-one-get-one Friday down at Jeanine’s. I got glazed and jelly. You’re welcome to one.”

Mort was glad to see Jimmy being cordial to the vice cop, but wondered if his civility would hold once Micki was in the room.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Schuster said. “Your whole team might want to see this, Mort.”

“See what?” Jim asked. “And speaking of team, where’s Detective Petty this drizzly June morning?”

Bruiser’s wagging tail gave Jimmy his answer. Micki walked in and Mort took a moment to enjoy the show. Three males, two human and one canine, turned toward her in unison. Micki was oblivious, as she always was, to the way she brightened a room. She wore her hair pulled into a ponytail high on her head and had a way of making her simple navy blazer and gray trousers demand more attention than a wedding gown. Her eyes were alert and her movements sharp. She raised her coffee mug in greeting to Mort, then scratched behind Bruiser’s ears and shook the paw he offered. Schuster and Jim seemed satisfied with their lower ranking on her totem pole.

“It’s not even seven o’clock,” she said. “Did I miss a memo?”

“Vice was here when I dropped by,” Jimmy said. “Something about something we should all see.”

Micki turned toward Schuster. “You find out who’s behind Crystal’s snuff film?”

“You find out anything on the film crews?”

“We’re making progress,” she said. “Six crews were in town, but two left before Crystal was killed. Of the four remaining, we’re looking at two major studios and two indies. I’ve been in contact with each. One indie had its entire production staff up in Vancouver shooting exteriors. I verified that with the locals, so we can eliminate them. The other is ‘indie’ with a capital ‘I.’ Couple of college kids filming a short backed by their parents’ credit cards, starring friends and relatives. They have one handheld camera. Couldn’t wait to show me their dailies. No way these guys are capable of shooting the kind of quality we saw in Crystal’s film. I’m crossing them off my list.”

“Which leaves us with the two majors,” Schuster said.

“I’m following,” Micki said. “Their camera crews are larger. Even the assistants to the assistants would be capable of shots like what we saw in the snuff. And needless to say, the equipment is state of the art.”

“Stay on it, Mick.” An idea occurred to Mort. “Question the camera people. Get a sense for how nervous they are that you’ve come calling. Check with the equipment folks, too. Like you said, the stuff’s state of the art. All that expensive gear has to have some security tied to it. See who might have checked out what.”

“Will do.” Miki opened the pastry bag, pulled out a sugar-dusted jelly, and turned her smile to Jimmy. “Jeanine’s? Thanks.”

“Let’s get back to what I sent you.” Schuster was all business. “I’ve watched it at least four times. Let’s see what the three of you think.”

Mort signaled for Micki and Jimmy to join him at his computer. He looked up at Schuster the moment he saw the white arrow indicating the attachment Schuster sent him was a video.

“Francie Michael?” he asked.

The vice cop nodded. “Same site where we found Crystal’s. Whoever’s doing this is fast with distribution.”

Mort swallowed the bitterness in his throat and clicked the video open. A slow pan of a windowless empty office came to a stop on a young woman bound and tied to a folding chair. Mort recognized the room immediately and focused on Francie. He’d only seen her once, but there was no doubt the brown-haired girl struggling against the bindings that held her was the same nineteen-year-old whose body had been discovered by the Realtor trying to rent a downtown office space. The camera zoomed in on her face. Francie’s terrified eyes were smudged with cried-off rivers of mascara. A yellow rag served as a tightly pulled gag separating her lips. There was no sound, but Mort could read her frantic facial grimaces and flaring nostrils.

“She wasn’t drugged.” Mort paused the film. “This one’s different from Crystal.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jimmy whispered. “This guy wants the whole panicked horror show caught on tape.”

“That’s the point of these films,” Schuster said. “It’s not just the killing that brings in the market. These customers want the fear. They want to look into the face of someone who knows they’re about to die. Whoever’s offering this is a good businessman. He listens to the comments of his clientele. The comment section of Crystal’s film—”

“There’s reviews?” Micki interrupted.

“Oh, yeah. The sites are firewalled and difficult as hell to get to,” Schuster explained. “But once you’re in, it’s just like Amazon. Viewers give star ratings, offer suggestions to potential customers. For Crystal’s film the reviewers gave thumbs-up for production value but complained she’d been drugged. Looks like whoever shot this responded by giving clients the wide-awake version with Francie. And it reflects in the price. Francie’s film costs thirty percent more to download than Crystal’s.”

“Capitalism at its finest,” Jimmy said.

Mort resumed the video while Micki and Jim watched over his shoulder. No one was eating doughnuts anymore.

“There he is!” Jimmy pointed to the screen. “It’s got to be the same guy, right?”

Mort wasn’t sure. The camera followed the same pattern as Crystal’s film. Same shots of a man’s shoulder. This time in a brown leather jacket. Still no shot of the man’s face or hair. Mort found himself riveted to the screen, with the same thoughts he had when he saw Crystal’s film.
Give me anything. One small slip. Something to go on. Somewhere to start.
But the camera held steady. The viewer saw a leather-clad arm reach out, but not one shot of a hand. When the belt was draped around Francie’s neck, it came from above and the camera stayed focused on the panic in her eyes. Mort saw the buckle of the belt. Silver. Expensive looking. It bit into Francie’s neck flesh in the exact spot corresponding with bruises on her corpse.

The close-up held Francie’s face as the belt was tightened by someone off-camera. Her mouth widened as she gasped for air in the still-silent film. Her brown eyes began to bulge. The camera zoomed in on tiny red lines beginning to burst around her iris.

And then the belt was released. Francie’s head fell forward. Her shoulders heaved in what must have been ecstatic relief. Her head was yanked back and the camera caught Francie’s pleading face. Mort was sickened. He wondered if she was straining against the gag, begging with a choked-off tongue to be released. Promising she’d not tell anyone if they’d just let her go.

The camera came back for a mid-shot. The belt was yanked tight again. In one instant the morbid dread leapt back onto Francie’s face. Her body shook with desperate spasms of a futile fight for survival.

Now. Give me something now.

Mort saw a side shot of the murderer. Jeans. Dark wash. Cut tight next to a muscular leg.

A label. A rivet. I’ll take anything.

The camera zoomed in on Francie’s eyes and Mort knew this was the end. The blood vessels in the whites of her eyes were now fully engorged. Francie blinked away tears in rapid staccato. Her head jerked from one side to the other.

And then she became still. The camera traced a bead of sweat from her hairline to her eyelash. Mort recalled the attempt at artistry in Crystal’s film and was certain the same person who shot that controlled the camera here. A final zoom to her eyes showed one last flicker of being. Mort found himself wishing for an end to Francie’s torture.

And then it came. The moment he saw the life leave. Francie’s lifeless head lolled to the left.

Mort, Jimmy, and Micki leaned back in startled unison as the same blaring heavy metal rock piece that punctuated Crystal’s film blared from the speakers.

“There.” Mort paused the film.

“I see it, too,” Jimmy said.

“A white guy’s hand.” Micki tapped a finger on the screen. “Just like in Crystal’s.”

“I’m coming for you,” Mort whispered. “I’m coming.”

“Why aren’t these monkeys in school?” Mort kissed Claire on the cheek and entered his son’s home. His two granddaughters were still in their pajamas, running down the stairs to greet him.

“It’s a teacher conference day, Papa.” Hadley was the first to jump in his arms. Mort held her close and inhaled the scent of bubblegum shampoo.

“Yeah.” Hayden grabbed hold of his right hand and climbed up his leg as skillfully as any mountaineer to join her sister in Mort’s arms. “We’re 10-10 till Monday.”

“Off duty, huh?” Mort balanced a girl on each hip. He nodded to his son as he came down the hall. “Well, you look like hell. You sick?”

“Papa cursed!” the girls squealed in unison. “Twenty-five cents in the jar!”

Mort lowered the twin blond moppets to the floor, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a handful of change. “This ought to cover it. What d’ya say you feed the jar for me?” He watched them scamper upstairs before turning his attention back to Robbie. “What’s with the stubble? And those bags under your eyes are big enough to carry lunch.”

Claire glided next to her husband and rested a hand on his arm. “He has slept not at all in three nights’ time.” Her French accent brought a gracious lilt to her dismal announcement. “And before that he tosses and kicks. That is correct,
non
?”

Robbie kissed the top of her chestnut hair. “I’m okay.”

Claire turned to her father-in-law and Mort saw the worry in her gentle brown eyes. “Do not listen to him. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t play with his little girls.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss her husband’s cheek. “He doesn’t play with his big girl, either.”

In that moment Mort recalled a mild spring day nearly ten years earlier. He’d stood with Edie on the porch of the house where they’d raised their kids and watched Robbie escort the woman he met while on assignment in France up the walk. Robbie had been so gentle with her. He could almost feel Edie’s breath on his neck as he recalled his wife leaning in to whisper, “Be nice, Mort. Robbie’s going to marry that girl.” Mort had been stunned by the surety of her announcement. “And if he listens to her,” he recalled her saying, “he’s going to have a very happy life.”

You were right about her, Baby Girl. But our boy doesn’t look too happy right now.

Robbie had called him not long after Schuster showed the team the new snuff film—this one starring Francie Michael. Robbie had asked his dad to swing by as soon as possible.

“I’ll get you some coffee.” Claire headed down the hall. “Or perhaps a latte?”

“Coffee’s fine,” Mort answered. “Thanks.”

Robbie pointed his oversized mug toward the dining room. The two Grant men sat at the round oak table Edie’s mother had delivered the day Mort and Edie moved into their first home. It had been her mother’s. When Mort moved to the houseboat, he’d passed it along to Robbie and Claire. Mort ran a hand across the smooth surface and thought of that jigsaw puzzle Allie assembled when she was seven years old. A thousand-piece photo of the Paris skyline. The family ate in the kitchen for a month before his daughter agreed to take it down.

“This came today.” Robbie shoved a blue velvet box the size of a dinner plate toward him. “Special courier. No wrapping. No postmark.”

Mort removed the top to find two necklaces resting in a nest of folded silver satin. They were identical. Platinum chains, delicate in design yet sturdy in substance. Suspended from each was a shimmering round-cut diamond, each about the size of a garden pea. At the clasp was a small platinum oval. One engraved
Hadley,
the other
Hayden
.

Claire entered the dining room and handed Mort a mug. She pointed to the jewelry throwing rainbows of morning light across the polished tabletop. “I do not want these in my home. I do not want my girls to see them or touch them or ask about where they came from.” She turned and left the room without waiting for a response.

Robbie’s voice trembled with frustration. He ran a hand through his thick sandy hair. “She’s my sister. She spent hours teaching me word games to memorize enough parts of a dissected frog to get me through freshman biology. She took me shopping before my first date to pick out a shirt that made me look less like the geek I was. I love her.” He shook his head. “But she’s with Vadim Tokarev. My beat is local crime, but I know the international stuff. The man’s an animal. Worse. He’s built his syndicate on enough dead bodies to make Al Capone and the entire Mafia combined look like a UNICEF program. And she’s no better.”

Mort wished he could argue against his son’s assessment. He’d spent months trying to tell himself Allie was nothing more than a misguided adventure seeker. But she’d kidnapped the wife and son of an innocent man to force him to set up that damned trust fund for the girls. And she’d manipulated her father and brother into a corner: accept this money or it goes to genocidal fundamentalists raining terror across Africa.

“She’s coming after my girls, Dad. And she’s never going to stop.”

Hurried footsteps halted any reply Mort might have made. In an instant his granddaughters dashed into the dining room.

“You can swear four more times and have twelve cents left over, Papa.” Hadley beamed with pride at her math skills. “I put it all in the jar.”

“I did a 10-59.” Hayden referred to a security check as she hopped on her father’s lap. “Your cuss money’s safe.”

“Hey, what’s this?” Hadley reached for the velvet box. “Is it mine?”

Mort snatched it out of the way, stood, and held it high. “No.” He looked Robbie in the eye. “I’ll deal with it.”

“But what is it, Papa?” Hadley asked. “It looks like diamonds.”

“You think everything looks like diamonds,” Hayden said.

“Let me see it.” Hadley reached her delicate arms up to her grandfather.

“It’s trash.” Claire stood in the arch separating the dining room from the kitchen. “And Papa is going to take it to the dump. Now you girls go upstairs and take a bath. There is no school, but there is no excuse to look like hobos.”

“Daddy looks like a hobo,” Hayden teased. “Go take a bath, Daddy.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” Hadley chimed. “Better go upstairs and make yourself pretty.”

“Girls!” Claire’s snap brought both girls to attention as she pointed toward the staircase. “Now.”

Two little blond heads dipped in submission. Hadley risked one last look over her shoulder as she trotted up the stairs. “Doesn’t look like trash to me.”

Claire waited for the sound of a tub being filled. She stepped to stand behind her seated husband, put her hands on his shoulders, and leveled a determined stare at Mort.

“You will take care of this,
oui
?”

Mort nodded. If Edie’d had a French accent, she would have sounded just like Claire.