Fixed in Blood (21 page)

Lydia opened the door to Mort’s Subaru and turned to step out.

“I should come up,” Mort said.

She didn’t want him in her hotel room. She didn’t want him to see her break the law. “No. I’ll get what I can from Delbe’s call. You get those search warrants.”

Mort looked like an unsure father dropping his daughter off at a rock concert. “I can get Mick and Jimmy working on those.”

Lydia stepped out of the car. “Every second I spend down here on the street is a second we’re not finding Delbe. Now go.”

“How much time do you think you need?”

Lydia knew her equipment. “Not long.”

Mort looked at his dashboard clock. “Let’s plan on meeting in ninety minutes. That give you enough time?”

Lydia glanced at her watch. “Plenty. I’ll meet you at your office.”

“I’ll send a squad car to pick you up.” Horns blared behind them, demanding an end to their curbside conversation.

“I’m four blocks away. The walk will do me good.” She closed the door and crossed the sidewalk. The doorman tipped his hat to her as she walked past. Lydia took the elevator to the ninth floor and looked both ways before entering her room. Once inside, she double-bolted the door.

She threw her jacket and purse on the bed and pulled her cell out of her pocket. She checked the screen. No other calls. Her mind raced back to Delbe’s frantic, tear-filled terror. The background sound of a door bursting open accompanied by a man’s roar. The line going dead. Lydia had been able to make out only a few words between Delbe’s gasps, but one screamed in urgency.

Movie.

Delbe was able to choke out through her tears that she didn’t know where she was.

Movie.

If they were right, and Charlie Fellow was using his payday loan operation as a front for enticing debt-ridden customers into prostitution, Delbe was in trouble enough. But now Fellow was about to make her the star in his next snuff film.

Lydia went to the closet and punched in a four-digit code to open the in-room safe. She pulled out a gray hard-shelled case, ten inches long and five inches deep. Anyone who saw it might assume it held the special pieces of a wealthy woman traveling with her jewelry.

Lydia took the case to the table by the window. She sat and entered another set of digits, seven this time, into a keypad on the side of the case. That allowed her to open a sliding façade on the top, revealing a small screen. She placed her right palm over it. Four seconds later a green light glowed and the clasps on either side of the case snapped free.

Lydia opened the case and entered her fourteen-digit-and-symbol passcode into the small keyboard mounted in the bottom half of the case. The upper half was split into two LED screens, each with a sweeping line turning circles around nothing. She pressed a button and waited until five red lights blinked on in rapid succession to signal she had successfully made connection with the communication center housed in the locked lower level of her Olympia home. She pressed another button and the screen just above the keyboard asked if she wanted to orient on her existing location. Lydia touched the “yes” option and the left upper screen’s sweeping arm was replaced by a detailed street map of Seattle with a red arrow pinpointing the location of her hotel.

She pulled a cord from the base of the remote access, plugged its free end into her cellphone, and watched the screen in the base of the remote. Two heartbeats later a listing of her past calls appeared. She touched the line to highlight the most recent: Delbe’s call. Another heartbeat later the right upper screen’s sweeping arm was replaced with a map of its own. This one showed a street map of Olympia and its red arrow indicated the address of Lydia’s answering service.

Delbe had called the number Lydia gave to all her patients. In emergencies, the service contacted Lydia and relayed the call forward. No matter where the original call came from, it would be funneled through her service.

So far her equipment had done nothing more than any number of apps could do. Lydia had accessed free and common information and had broken no laws.

But so far, she had gained nothing. She needed more. She needed to know where Delbe’s call originated.

Lydia entered commands into the keyboard. The screen in the base of her remote asked her a series of questions. She answered them in turn, entered the secured communication program of her answering service, and instantly broke dozens of state and federal laws.

Had she wanted, she could have accessed any call coming to or originating from that system. Any call to any lawyer, physician, dentist, veterinarian, or politician who used her service was now available to her. Should she desire, she could isolate any call and trace it back to its source. Lydia had chosen her answering service for a number of reasons, one of them being their audio record of every incoming call. When she had opened her practice, she’d found that feature valuable. If a distraught patient abruptly hung up while the operator reached out to connect Lydia, she was able to listen to the electronic recording, know who had called, and evaluate the nature of their emergency.

Lydia examined the list of incoming calls on the screen. She scrolled down to the time her service had contacted her. Fourteen calls were made to the service in the two minutes prior to Lydia receiving the call. She isolated them, entered several more commands, and highlighted the first on the list. She opened a side compartment, pulled out a pair of headphones, and slipped the buds into her ears. Then she touched the number she’d highlighted.

“All Service Answering,” a young female voice announced. “How can I—”

Lydia clicked off. It had been a male operator who put Delbe’s call through to her. She highlighted the second number on the list. Again a female operator answered. Lydia clicked to the third.

“All Service Answering.” This time a male voice spoke. “How may I direct your call?”

“This is Cynthia Henson. I’m trying to reach my contractor. That bathroom shower head is leaking again and I—”

Lydia clicked off and went on to the fifth call on her list. Again, a female operator. A male operator picked up on the sixth call.

“All Service Answering. How may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak with my son-of-a-bitch lawyer. He’s got me paying—”

Lydia clicked off. She glanced at the clock. Every tick meant Delbe was enduring something that terrified her. Every tock meant Delbe was closer to whatever
movie
had her frantic with fear. She was glad to hear a male voice pick up the seventh call on her list.

“All Service Answering. How—”

“Dr. Corr…Doc…Dr. Corrig…” Lydia listened as Delbe’s terrified voice interrupted the operator. She was impressed he was able to decipher who Delbe wanted through her sobs. Lydia clicked off. She had the target call. She entered more commands, this time directing her powerful communication surveillance equipment to pinpoint the location of Delbe’s call.

The upper right screen offered a red and yellow grid against a green background. Highlighted cell towers traced the route of Delbe’s hysterical reach-out. Lydia leaned in, reexamining what she didn’t expect to see. The cell towers ended, of course, in Olympia, the location of Lydia’s office and her answering service. But it was where the relay began that surprised her. She traced her finger over the grid to make sure she was reading it correctly.

Delbe wasn’t in Olympia. She was in Seattle.

Lydia expanded the screen. She grabbed a pad off the nightstand and noted the cross streets of the immediate tower picking up Delbe’s cell transmission. The zip code was marked: 98119. Lydia took to the keyboard and entered additional instructions to list all phone numbers picked up by that tower. This time she was able to limit the window to five seconds. Only six cellphones had used that particular tower within that time frame. Their numbers popped up. One was familiar. She didn’t need to go any farther. She knew which number was the one Delbe used. She knew it by heart.

Lydia unplugged her phone, powered off her remote, and packed it up. She returned it to the safe, grabbed her jacket and purse, and left the room. The same doorman tipped his hat as she exited the hotel. The rain had stopped. She’d make better time. The four blocks to the Seattle police station seemed too far away for the news she had.

“We’ll need lilacs.” Allie walked through the empty ballroom. She liked the echo of her heels against the inlaid floors. Heavy velvet draperies softened her steps, turning what could have been a sharp clip-clop into a gentle steady rhythm.
Patrick would have appreciated this room. Its understated elegance would have delighted him
. She looked at her left hand and saw the garish prism weighing down her ring finger. She’d turned the offensive diamond around when she first met the hotel’s general manager, holding the vulgar chunk of ostentation in a closed fist. But the sophisticated ease of the Englishman handling her tour of his five-star boutique hotel relaxed her and the gaudy ornament twisted itself around, demanding to be seen. She caught her host’s eye and saw his judgment in that blink of an instant before his manners turned him once again into her pleasant companion. She tucked her left hand into the pocket of her Chanel skirt.

“They’re in season now, ma’am. That’s a lovely choice.”

Allie steadied her breath. “I chose them for their romance, not their price.” She regretted her defensiveness the moment it left her mouth. “Can you fashion a canopy of lilacs and roses? White roses. Let’s cover the entire space with a dropped ceiling of lilacs and roses.”

The manager gave a tentative nod. “We can do whatever you’d like. But…”

“I told you I’m not interested in what it will cost.”

The manager bowed his head. “I was just going to suggest a complete canopy of lilacs and roses might overwhelm, ma’am. They are quite aromatic in spring.”

Allie again felt the sting of his gentle rebuke.
I’m losing my step. It’s been too long since I’ve arranged a soiree.
She inhaled deeply and forced a small smile. “I’m speaking in concepts. Surely your florists are talented enough to implement my ideas in a gracious way.”

“Of course.” The manager assumed the look of a properly chastised staffer. But Allie could read his impression. He knew whose woman she was. No one spoke Vadim Tokarev’s name, yet everyone knew his reach. He was a criminal of the highest order. In the privacy of their homes, every shopkeeper, caterer, jeweler, tailor, and banker bemoaned his presence.
What is this world coming to that we must tolerate a butcher in our midst? They say he has teams of lawyers to keep the law from touching him. Still, he’s no more than a barbarian, really.
She could almost see their lowly appraisal building, mounting in their guts, waiting for the moment they’d be alone with their own kind and could speak freely about the Philistine they’d been forced to endure that day.

Yes, everyone knew him. Everyone feared him. And everyone was eager for his business.

“Let’s talk menu.” Allie continued her stroll through the room. “Canapés during the cocktail hour. An assortment of at least six. On trays. Staff in full livery.” She turned to the manager. “I’ll let your kitchen make the selections. The best, of course.”

“Of course, ma’am. And I’m assuming more caviar than we English may expect.”

Because the hordes will be Russian. That’s what you’re thinking. Beasts with more money than class.
“Yes. In fact, perhaps a caviar station in addition to trays is what we need.” Allie imagined the fine Englishman’s vision of barrel-chested Slavs and their satin-clad guttersnipes hovering in hungry groups around buckets of self-serve roe.

“Certainly, ma’am.”

She decided to torture him. “Let’s put an ice sculpture there. A mermaid. With a tray of chopped egg on one breast and slices of rye on the other.”

The far door opened before the manager had a chance to respond. A giant walked toward them. The manager looked as frightened as his good breeding allowed. He turned to Allie.

“A friend of yours, ma’am?”

A flush of heat flooded through her. Staz was supposed to be in Seattle. The idiot she had running things had just been shown a valuable lesson in the costs of disrespecting her leadership. It was a tricky time. The death of his daughter and the threat of further harm to his sons and wife might hold him in line, but you could never tell with men. Sometimes they didn’t know when to lie down. She needed Staz there to keep him in check.

“Will you excuse me a moment?” Allie didn’t wait for an answer. She crossed the floor to meet the enormous man. She laid a hand on his massive shoulder and led him to a window far from the ears of the general manager.

“Staz,” she kept her voice low. “Why are you in London?”

The large man bowed his head.

“Look at me,” Allie snapped. “You have disobeyed me.”

He raised his oversized head as commanded. She recognized a deep sadness in his eyes. He dug into his pocket, pulled something out, and reached for her hand. She opened her palm. Staz laid a bullet against the pale cream of her skin.

Allie stared at it for several long seconds.

“This is from him?” she asked.

He nodded. His eyes filled with grief.

“Who is the target?” Her knees threatened to give way. Staz closed his enormous hand into a fist, pointed out one finger, and gave three gentle taps against her chest.

Allie leaned against the glass. She tried to focus on the hustling shoppers and tradesmen three stories below. The day was sunny and warm, a rare day of springtime loveliness, and every Londoner and tourist was out to savor it.

Tokarev had grown weary of her.

“Because of Seattle? Because I wanted the filming to stop?”

Staz shrugged his shoulders.

Allie felt the anguish pulsing off the man standing in front of her. Staz had been assigned to guard her in those early days. He was the son of a Russian father who met his American mother while studying economics at the University of Massachusetts. His father returned to the homeland, bringing his pregnant new wife with him. Staz’s English was flawless, thanks to his mother’s insistence on a dual-language education. During those long days of isolation, when Tokarev was away and she was locked in her cold room, Allie learned that Staz’s parents were killed when the former Soviet Union fell and middling members of the party apparatus were easy targets for angry mobs. Staz had been an angry young man, just out of his teens when they died. He had been looking for action in the newly lucrative capitalism flooding the country when he crossed paths with Vadim Tokarev. Tokarev was smart enough to think in global terms and knew he could use the angry Staz’s intimidating size and bilingual skills. And Staz was smart enough to see Tokarev was a man on the rise. A man who would soon wield enough power to avenge his parents’ murder. He hitched his wagon to Tokarev’s star and served his master in any number of bloody ways. When Vadim landed his helicopter in Lydia Corriger’s backyard all those months ago, it was Staz he assigned to monitor her in his absence. Allie had been desperate to keep her sanity and soon learned, despite his silence, that Staz understood everything she said. In those long, tedious times between beatings and rapes, guard became confidant. Staz listened as Allie cried. He never touched her. She was Tokarev’s property. But he was able to convey with eyes and gestures that he’d come to hate his boss’s appearance at Allie’s locked chamber. When Tokarev would leave, Staz would enter the room, sit by her bed, and listen to her weep.

She had asked him, back in her first days with Tokarev, to speak to her. Some days she would beg.
I know you speak English,
she’d plead.
I’ll go mad if I don’t hear a word. Please.
One day, after a particularly brutal visit from Tokarev, Staz had simply opened his mouth to reveal a stub where a tongue should have been. Allie remembered she’d touched his cheek. She started asking yes-no questions. Then he’d bring a pad and pen to communicate. They passed the time sharing personal stories. She owed him so much. His companionship had kept her sane. The language tapes he brought allowed her to stutter words of endearment to her rapist in his native tongue, keeping her alive for another day. Allie recalled Staz’s delight with her linguistic talent. He was still able to make sounds, and the first time she greeted him by running her hands through unwashed hair and twirling around on bruised legs that survived day upon day of assault, with a saucy “So, tell me, Staz. how do I look?” delivered in near-perfect Russian, Staz nearly doubled over in laughter.

Their time together became the anchors of humanity during her captivity. She learned Staz had started as an errand boy and had quickly risen through Tokarev’s ranks. As he did, he’d taken on, among so many other assignments, the role of Tokarev’s personal assassin.

And Tokarev had cut out his tongue, a symbolic reminder against ever speaking of his sins.

Tokarev’s empire grew, and he’d realized the shortsightedness of his impetuous act. Staz’s English speaking ability was of no use to him now, but the assassin could still read and often accompanied Tokarev to meetings, verifying with a subtle flick of a finger whether any interpreter the Russian was using was passing his words along accurately. Tokarev’s trust grew. Perhaps that was why he appointed Staz to guard his hostage. When Tokarev softened his stance with Allie, she’d asked if Staz could be assigned to her. She never understood why her brutal lover agreed, but was pleased he had. Allie repaid the kindness Staz had shown her by placing him in Seattle, far from Tokarev’s cruelty. He’d proven himself to be as loyal to her as he’d always been to the Butcher of Moscow.

And now he’d been assigned to kill her.

“When?” she asked.

Staz held up his fingers. One…two…three…four.

“Four days?” she asked.

Staz nodded.

“After the party?”

Staz nodded again.

Her fear morphed into rage. Tokarev planned to use her. Everyone in his empire knew she was his woman. This extravagant engagement party was to show anyone who doubted just how much he loved her.

Which would make her assassination all the more effective. She saw it play out. The party would be a lavish show of adoration. Then would come the revelation she had betrayed him. He’d use Seattle as an example. He’d make a show of killing the person he loved most in the world to cement fear into the hearts of his men. No one would dare cross the man who killed the woman who was to become his wife.

She thought she’d have more time.
Oh, Patrick. It was so lovely with you. Why didn’t you listen to me? We could have dealt with the Russian and ruled on.
She closed her eyes. A memory of Patrick walking down a Barbados beach, holding her hand, flooded her. Her heart was heavy in her aching chest.

She opened her eyes and inhaled deeply. She looked at the anguished man who’d been so kind to her. The man who was to become her killer.

“Will you be kind?” she asked.

Staz nodded.

“Quick? No pain?”

He nodded again.

She laid a hand against his chest. “I thank you, dear friend.” She looked again out to the busy London street. Then up to the bright blue English sky.

Allie turned back to Staz and smiled. She nodded her head over her shoulder. “You should go. I have a party to plan.”