Fixed in Fear (9 page)

“I know about the snuff films. Three women in your employ died, Allie. And you let that happen.”

“I needed something to do.” Her voice was calm and laced with a plea for understanding. “Being Tokarev's mistress didn't particularly lend itself to taking classes at the local community college or volunteering at the food bank.” She looked Mort square in the eyes. “You may not believe this, but it's the truth. I wanted to help the women who worked for me. I wanted to show them a way to make enough money to escape whatever trap they found themselves in. I had nothing to do with the films.” She locked her jaw and stared at him. “That was all Tokarev's doing. When I found out about it I confronted him. It was one of the worst beatings I took. I thought he would kill me with his bare hands. I had nothing to do with the deaths of those women. Whether you believe me or not, it's the truth.”

“I believe you. I've spoken with Chris Novak.”

Allie's voice was quiet. “He was my local man. I trusted him to take care of the women I employed.”

“I know that.”

“Then you know it was Tokarev who demanded the films. Did Chris tell you I fought him on that?”

“He did.” Mort wiped a hand across his face and wondered how he'd have the strength to say what he needed to next. “And he told me the way you impressed upon him just how disappointed you were.”

Allie said nothing, but held his gaze.

“I've seen the video, Allie.” Mort swallowed hard. “I watched your man…Staz was the name Novak said he used. I watched Staz kill Novak's little girl. Drown her for no reason other than you wanted him to know the cost of disobeying you.” Mort's voice choked. He didn't mind. He wanted his daughter to hear the pain he felt knowing Allie had ordered a fourteen-year-old's death. “Maria was just a kid, Allie. And you killed her.”

“And you believe him? You believe the story of a man who's been convicted of conspiracy to murder? A man who'd probably say anything to reduce what certainly must have been a very, very long prison term?” Allie's blue eyes narrowed. “You'd believe that about your own daughter?”

A flash of memory invaded Mort's mind. Five-year-old Allie calling the neighbor boy a liar. Little Bennie told his mother Allie had picked up a rock and thrown it through his dad's car window on a dare. Allie denied it, crying to Edie and him that Bennie had done it.
Who you gonna believe, Mommy?
Mort remembered her tiny voice asking.
Me or that lying boy who ate a worm last week?

Mort inhaled and held his breath for a slow count of four. He exhaled slowly before speaking. “I believe Novak. You had his daughter murdered.”

“Then put the cuffs on me, Detective Grant. Haul your own daughter in for murder.”

“You know I can't do that. You've covered the evidence well. Like you said, all I have is the video and the word of a man in jail. Novak doesn't know you're my daughter. He doesn't even know your name. No, Allie, I can't arrest you.”

“Are you saying you would if you could, Daddy?”

Oh, Edie,
he thought.
What has become of our girl?

“What I'm saying, Allie, is that I'm your father and I love you. I hate what you've become, but I love the woman I know you could be. You say you're lonely? I say come back home. You say you want a relationship with me, your brother, and his girls? Let us stand beside you…behind you…whatever. Let us support you. I'll get the best lawyers I can afford. I'll call in every chit I have. Work with the authorities to pay for what you've done. Start living a life you can be proud of. Be the aunt Hadley and Hayden deserve.”

Allie turned and took two steps away before spinning back toward him. “You'd have me locked up? You want me in a cell just to prove I'm living up to your standards? And do what? Bring Robbie and the girls by on visiting day?”

“You can't go on like this, Allie. You can't.”

Allie squared her shoulders and stepped back. Her face was composed, but Mort saw the anger raging in her eyes. “You have no idea what I can or cannot do, Dad. Those girls are my nieces. I want to know them.”

“Not like this, Allie. Not until you make good on what you've done. We'll stand with you, but we can't let the girls near the person you are now.”

Allie stared at him.
Screw the time machine,
Mort thought.
What I need now is the equipment to help me read my girl's mind.
She was silent for a while. Mort held her gaze, willing her to make the right decision. When she finally spoke, it was with an icy, detached voice.

“Think about what you're accusing me of, Dad. Think long and hard. If I'm one-tenth the monster you think I am, is it wise to deny me what I want? I wonder what Chris Novak would give to be able to rethink his particular decision to cross me.” She paused. “Assuming, of course, his fanciful story was true.”

Allie turned and walked away. Mort watched her disappear into the milling crowd, burning the image of her strong, sure gait into his mind; hating himself for hoping the memory of her hair shining in the light of a bright September afternoon would be the last he'd ever have of his daughter.

L. Jackson Clark walked out of the ivy-covered stone building housing his campus office at precisely three o'clock. Mort tooted his Subaru's horn, and his punctual friend walked over and settled himself into the front seat. After the drama of his surprise encounter with Allie earlier that day, Mort was eager to bask in the calming atmosphere that always seemed to surround Larry.

“You ready for this?” Mort asked as he pulled away from the curb, inching his car through the stream of students meandering back and forth across the narrow lanes of Seattle University, each more attuned to the music blasting through their earbuds than to the moving car just behind them.

“Wednesdays are always rough for traffic. Most courses meet, bringing nearly the entire student body to campus. Take a right behind the law library,” Larry said, buckling his seatbelt. “There's a back road that'll get you out of this mess sooner. And yes, I'm ready for this. It appears going to Carlton's house is not only the last favor I can do for Helen's uncle, but now it's my responsibility as well.”

Mort followed the lane leading him off campus into Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood and turned left. “What do you mean?”

“I got a call just after lunch from Carlton's attorney. Carlton named me executor of his estate. I was stunned. He never told me he was considering me for the position. He never asked me.”

“Did you think he'd ask his brother? Maybe he wanted someone younger than himself—more likely to survive him. And who better to handle your affairs after you're dead than the man
Time
magazine once called the Most Trusted Man in America? You know if I bite it before you, you're the guy who's sorting through my paperwork.”

“It's giving me pause is all. Carlton and I were connected through Helen, of course. And I've always considered him family. But I'd see him only a handful of times each year. Why didn't he pick someone closer to him to serve as executor?”

“He trusted you, buddy. That's a good thing.”

Larry's broad shoulders heaved as he sighed. “I suppose. But it's hard to think of any good thing coming from such a death, isn't it?”

Mort considered his question as he drove toward the address Larry gave him. He thought of Edie, taken from him in one brief heartbeat. Larry's wife, Helen, off to celebrate her father's birthday when she crossed the path of a kidnapper and was swept away from this world. Her uncle, murdered as he prayed in a sweat lodge. Mort's hands tightened on the steering wheel as the image of Maria Novak, the fourteen-year-old held under water until she breathed her last came into his mind. Little Maria, dead at his own daughter's order.

You're right, Larry. It's hard to think of any good thing coming from such a death.

Mort shoved the image aside and refocused. “Did his attorney give you any idea of the size of his estate?”

“She's bringing me a copy of Carlton's will tomorrow. From what I gather it's pretty straightforward. He wants me to take what I'd like from his religious books and artifacts. Carlton's amassed an impressive collection. Other than that, the rest of his estate is there for Bilbo Runyan to use. Carlton's property, personal effects, as well as his five percent ownership in Abraham's seafood business is to go into a trust, which I'll oversee, to provide for Bilbo's basic needs. At such time as Bilbo passes, the trust passes to Seattle University. Carlton wanted to endow a chair in my department for the study of forgiveness.”

Mort slowed to make a turn into Carlton's neighborhood. “That's quite an honor. Who's Bilbo Runyan?”

Larry smiled for the first time since Mort picked him up. “You'll meet him. He's quite the character. A friend of Carlton's from way back. They met in grade school, if I'm not mistaken. Growing up, Bilbo and Carlton shared a love of marijuana and skipping school. You remember I told you Carlton had been a bit of a handful when I first met him? Maybe that comes from being raised with privilege. Anyway, Bilbo was always Carlton's wingman throughout his years of wild oat sowing.” The momentary whimsy in Larry's voice disappeared. “Of course, all that changed when Helen died. Carlton changed. Turned his life around and focused on study and travel. He roamed the world and ripened into a learned and honorable man. I always had the impression he was doing it to honor Helen.”

“You mean like to prove to her somehow that he wouldn't remain the screwup he'd been?” Mort asked for the address again, and Larry told him they still had three blocks to go.

“Could be,” Larry said. “Or maybe he was trying to please Abraham. At any rate, Carlton changed, but Bilbo remained the perpetual adolescent. Never held a job as far as I know. Always on Carlton's couch. He's gotta be, what? Almost sixty years old now? Wait till you see him. Bilbo moves to his own rhythm.”

“Why did Carlton keep him around?” Mort pulled to a stop in front of the tidy Craftsman bungalow Larry identified as Carlton's.

“Who knows? Nostalgia? Maybe a sense of loyalty? At any rate, having Bilbo in his house allowed Carlton to travel without worrying about the security of his home and collections. I've met the man on several occasions. For all his other-mindedness, he keeps things neat and orderly.” Larry studied the house for several long moments before taking a deep breath and opening his car door. “Let's get this done, Morton.”

Mort followed his friend up the six stone steps leading to the house. He took in the neatly mown lawn and well-trimmed hedges in front. At the top of the stairs, matching urns held potted mums and cabbage plants, signaling the pending arrival of autumn. A teak patio settee with brightly colored cushions sat opposite two wicker chairs on the wide porch. In between, an iron coffee table supported another pot of mums. As Larry knocked on the door, Mort scanned the porch's paneled ceiling and hanging glass lamps. He saw no trace of spiderweb, bird's nest, or even dust. Larry was right. If the front porch was any indication, Bilbo kept an immaculate house.

The heavy cedar door swung open.

“Yeah?” A tall white man, thin enough to be called skinny, stood with one hand on the doorframe. His face was lined and marked with the fine red lines of a man who'd spent too much time on the open end of a liquor bottle. For someone who allegedly filled his days keeping the house shipshape, Bilbo seemed to give little attention to personal care. Though Mort stood five feet away, he could smell the heavy, sweet aroma of marijuana wafting from the man's stained gray sweatpants and blue plaid flannel shirt. His shaggy hair, more gray than brown, looked like it hadn't seen the business end of a brush for days.

“Bilbo, I'm Larry Clark. Carlton's friend. We've met.”

Bilbo turned unfocused eyes toward Mort, who wondered what time a person would have to start smoking to be this stoned by midafternoon.

“Who's this?” Bilbo asked.

“I'm Mort Grant.” Mort put out his hand in greeting. Bilbo looked at it with a curious half smile.

“This about Carlton?” Bilbo asked. “He's dead.”

“Yes, we know,” Larry said. “Can we come in? Carlton asked that I see to his things.”

Bilbo alternated glances between the two of them. “This is my house now.”

Mort pushed his jacket aside and rested his hand on his right hip, exposing the Seattle PD badge clipped to his belt. “Larry here has some legal things to talk with you about. It's the kind of conversation best had indoors.”

Bilbo looked at the two of them again, as if considering his options. When Bilbo stepped aside and held the door open for them to enter, Mort figured Bilbo realized he didn't have many. The thin man led them through a tiled foyer to a sitting room off to the right. Mort admired the woodwork on the stairway at the end of the hall. They didn't make houses like this anymore.

“Take a seat.” Bilbo flopped on a tweed sofa flanking a fireplace in the center of the far wall. Mort and Larry sat on its twin opposite him. Light poured into the room from a wide bank of windows overlooking the front porch, as well as two windows on each side of the fireplace. The walls were a pale shade of green that complimented the heavy woodwork wrapping the windows. A Persian rug in deep shades of red and blue covered narrow-planked maple flooring. The walls held paintings and masks. Mort didn't have Larry's wealth of knowledge, but he detected a theme. Every piece of artwork, including the various sculptures on the built-in bookcases, seemed to reflect some sort of religious image.

“Do you remember me, Bilbo?” Larry asked.

“Sure. Like you said, we've met.” Bilbo shoved a hank of hair off his face. “You just took me by surprise, that's all. You're Carlton's buddy. Helen's husband, right?”

Mort caught the surprise in Larry's eyes as he nodded. Helen had been dead twenty-five years now. It wasn't often Larry got to hear his name and his wife's in the same sentence.

“Why'd you bring a cop?” Bilbo asked Larry. “If you wanted to swing by and say hey, maybe crack a beer or order in a pizza, I'd be happy to accommodate. No need to bring Johnny Law.”

“Mort's a friend. I asked him to come along.” Larry looked around the room. “The house looks great, Bilbo. Like always.”

Bilbo's nod went on long enough for Mort to wonder if he'd forgotten how to stop. “You want something, man?”

“I've been named executor of Carlton's estate,” Larry said. “Do you know what that means?”

Bilbo looked to Mort and grinned. “Hey, I'm a loser. I'm not stupid. There's a difference.”

“I didn't mean to offend,” Larry continued. “Sometimes legal terms can be confusing.”

“There's no confusion to be had. This is my house now. Carlton always told me that.”

“The house is part of Carlton's estate. It will be put into a trust.” Larry steepled his hands together to signify a protective covering. Mort kept an eye on Bilbo as Larry explained his role. If Bilbo was going to get riled, he'd be ready. “Everything Carlton owned and any income still being produced will be put into that trust. You'll be able to live here as long as you'd like. Carlton kept his promise.”

Bilbo's thin face grew somber. “He was a stand-up guy. Made more of himself than I ever did, that's for damned sure.”

“He was a good man,” Larry agreed. “You'll have full possession of the house, and a modest monthly income will be made available to you. As executor, I'll oversee the trust.”

The thin face clouded over instantly. “What's this shit about modest monthly income? Carlton owned a piece of that shit-ass brother of his's fish biz. That's mine!”

“Everything Carlton owned is in the trust now,” Larry explained, ignoring Bilbo's aggressive tone. “You'll be provided for, like I said, but it's my understanding Carlton wanted to make sure you had an income to support you for the rest of your life. He wanted me to make sure of that. But you won't own anything.”

Bilbo's eyes narrowed. “And what do you get out of this?”

Larry looked over at Mort before answering. “I'm a professor, Bilbo. I teach and I research and I write about things Carlton was interested in.”

“You mean like world religions and shit? What's that mean to me?”

“Carlton wanted me to review his collection of things he'd picked up in his travels and studies. He wanted me to be able to take what I might find helpful in my own work.”

“What about the money? What part of that do you get?”

Larry smiled and shook his head. “I have no interest in the money. You'll be taken care of for the rest of your days. When you die, any money left over will go to the university where I teach.”

Bilbo jerked back against the sofa. “So the sooner I kick the bigger your payday. I got that right?”

“Ease up, buddy,” Mort said, getting to his feet. “Larry's just laying out Carlton's plan.”

Bilbo took a few seconds, then he relaxed his pose. “Shit, if all you want is his hocus-pocus stuff, have at it. I mean, long as I have a roof over my head, time on my hands, and munchies in my kitchen, I'm good to go. Am I right?” He pointed toward the entryway. “You remember where his office is? Knock yourself out. Take what you need.” Bilbo turned toward Mort. “I mean, for the good of science and all.”

Larry stood and asked Mort if he wanted to come with him to Carlton's office.

“You go ahead, buddy. I'll join you in a minute. Bilbo and I are going to get to know each other a bit better.”

Larry hesitated. “It's the last door on the left.” He looked down at Bilbo Runyan. “Thank you for understanding. I'll take a quick inventory of what Carlton has and then we'll leave. How's that?”

“Hey,
mi casa es su casa.
Isn't that what you just told me?”

Larry thanked him again and left the room. After a moment, Mort resumed his seat on the sofa opposite Bilbo.

“I'm sorry about your friend. I didn't know Carlton, but Larry liked him, and that's good enough for me. It must be a hell of a loss for you.”

“Carlton and I were tight, man. Since we were kids.” Bilbo pointed a finger at Mort and grinned. “People wonder what you and old Larry there have in common, am I right? What with you two coming from different ends of the skin tone chart and all.”

Mort said nothing. He knew a biracial friendship as deep and long lasting as his and Larry's wasn't common in a city like Seattle.

“It was like that with me and Carlton, man. In the way way back, even my own mother used to ask me what I had in common with that black boy. My own freakin' mother.” Bilbo shoved the same hank of hair back to where it came from. “But we were like blood, man.” He chuckled. “Pranking the teachers. Scamming the women. Getting ourselves into and out of all kinds of shit. Know what I mean?
Blood.
”

“Any idea who might have wanted him dead?”