The Fixer (16 page)

She stood weighing her options. A fresh round of snow began to fall. She looked up into the gun metal sky. “I appreciate the offer, Detective.” Mort thought she sounded more resigned than grateful. “Let’s go.”

“Nothing like that’s come in yet. Let me give a shout out and see what’s what.”

Mort was glad to see Zeke McCallum behind the counter at the city’s lot. They’d first met at the downtown YMCA back when Mort was a patrolman. Zeke wanted to join the force but couldn’t get his weight down to academy standards. Mort offered to work out with him, and the two hit it off. Edie became fast friends with Zeke’s first wife Kim and the couples spent a weekend together on the Oregon coast when Mort made detective. Zeke’s fondness for donuts and sausage kept him out of the academy, but he stayed close to law enforcement working vehicle impound. Zeke’s second wife Alice didn’t care for his police friends, especially those who were fans of Kim, and they’d fallen out of touch. Still, Mort knew Zeke was always good for a smile and a stroll down Glory Days Road whenever their paths crossed.

Mort leaned against the counter while Zeke worked the radio. He kept an eye on Lydia, seated on a grimy bench across the small room.

“We’re in luck.” Zeke put the microphone down and called out in Lydia’s direction. “Your car’s on its way in. Donna Johns’ driving. She never leaves a mark. I was able to grab her before she hauled it to Center City.” Zeke turned to his old friend and leaned a beefy right arm across the counter. “That lot’s a sewer hole. Why the city doesn’t shut it down’s beyond me. I wouldn’t take a dying rat there.” He looked back toward Lydia. “Says she’ll be here within the hour. You guys want some coffee?” Zeke smiled and leaned closer. “Hell’s bells. It’s almost five, right? Got a little something in the bottom drawer could take the chill off.”

Mort shook his head. He doubted Lydia would be interested in anything that might melt her protective shield. He walked over to her.

“We could sit here and listen to Zeke jawbone about days gone by.” He pointed across the street. “Or, we could go over to Annie’s. Small, but brightly lit, warm. Plus she makes the best pie this side of the Cascades.”

Lydia shook her head. She’d spoken fewer than ten words on the drive over.

“Thank you, Detective. You don’t need to wait with me. I’m sure you have other places to be.”

“Zeke runs a tight ship. He’s not going to let your car out without me signing the paperwork. That paperwork’s in Donna’s cab.” He smiled and hoped she’d relax. “I’m afraid we’re stuck with each other til she gets here.”

Zeke looked up from his end-of-the-day chores. “Hey, lady. Old Mort here ever tell you about the time he and I decided to take a kayak out in the Ballard Locks?” Zeke chuckled to himself. “Sumbitch, that was back when we both lied about our ability to hold liquor.”

Lydia looked up at Mort. “A slice of pie sounds nice, Detective.”

The waitress set the heavy china plate holding a mountain of whipped cream in front of Mort.

“You sure there’s pie under there, Francie?” he asked.

“Double spiced pumpkin. Same’s you been having twice a week since Jesus was twelve.” The bleached blonde winked at Lydia. “Don’t let him kid you, hon. We don’t put that football of cream on there, he’s back in the kitchen asking Annie what he’s done wrong.” She took a stoneware mug and carafe of hot water off her tray and placed them in front of Lydia. “Sure I can’t get you anything else? Blueberry Cream’s looking special today.”

Lydia pulled the mug toward her and held it with both hands. “This is fine. Thank you very much.”

Mort asked Francie to give his best to Annie and watched Lydia focus on her steeping tea bag.

“You don’t like pie?” he asked. “They’ve got other desserts. Dinner, too, if you’re hungry.”

Lydia blew on her steaming tea before taking a small sip. Mort scooped a forkful of whipped cream and savored it before swallowing.

“Nothing like the real thing, huh?” He grabbed another scoop. “Anything less would be disrespectful to Annie’s masterpieces.”

Lydia stared at the snow swirling in the wind.

Mort leaned back against the orange vinyl booth. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed at me for not talking about the Buchner investigation. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m doing you a favor. Without me your car gathers snow and impound fees. And you have to find your way back to Olympia. Then back up here tomorrow to bail it out.” He reached for his coffee. “I think the least you could do is offer pleasant conversation while we’re killing time.”

She turned away from the window and glanced at him before taking another sip of tea. “I’m not angry with you, Detective. I’m disappointed in me. I should have known you couldn’t say anything.” She offered a small smile. “I do appreciate what you’re doing for me. I’d consider it a kindness if you’d let me buy your dessert.”

Mort tried to categorize her and decided he couldn’t. She wasn’t being coy. Nor mean. She wasn’t playing games. Mort wondered how it was that an intelligent professional woman felt so guarded sharing a cup of coffee with someone.

“My idea, my treat,” he said. “And there’s no need to be disappointed. You took your shot. I admire that.” He reached for his fork. “What’s your interest in Buchner, anyway? And don’t give me any bull about writing a book.”

She snapped her head up. “You don’t think I can write, Detective?”

“I think you could probably do anything you set your mind to, Lydia.” He enjoyed another bite of pie before continuing. “But I’ve been in this line of work a long time. I know a snow job when I hear one.” Mort jerked his head toward the window. “And your story’s bigger than what’s going on outside. What’s your real interest in Buchner?”

“My interests are my own, Detective. I think I can be of some help.”

Mort took a sip of coffee. “Yeah? How’s that?”

Lydia pulled her spine ramrod straight. Mort felt a quiver of discomfort as her eyes surveyed him with laser precision. She began her scan at the top of his salt and pepper hair and trailed her focus down his face, lingering a while on his mouth. She continued down his shoulders, concentrated on one arm at a time, and finished by scrutinizing his chest. Mort was glad they were sharing a booth. He didn’t want her sizing up his crotch like she was the body parts north of the table.

“You’re between 50 and 55 years old,” she said. “Closer to 55. You wear your hair in a classic cut. No product. You prefer barber shops. Been going to the same one for over twenty years. You’re fit, but you don’t belong to a gym. The cragginess of your skin tells me you prefer outdoor exercise. You have more age spots than you should have, which says you spend a lot of time in the sun. Hiking and biking would be my guess.”

Mort scooped a bite of pie. “You’re pretty good. All those years with patients? Must come in handy at cocktail parties.”

She tilted her head. “You’re widowed. The love of your life died about a year ago.” She lifted her mug. “How’s that for parlor games, Detective?”

He set his fork down and narrowed his eyes. “If that’s your attempt at being cute, you missed. Every guy in my building knows about Edie and me. Give me a name and I’ll stop the gossip.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you. No one told me. It’s your shirt.”

He looked down. Edie liked the way this one went with the grey suit he was wearing. “What about my shirt?”

“You’re not the type of man who’d choose pink pinstripe. Nor would you spend what that shirt cost. A woman bought it. A woman who loves you very much.” She leaned forward and pointed to the right cuff. “You haven’t noticed this yet. But any woman who bought a shirt like this wouldn’t let her man out of the house wearing it frayed. She’s not around to dress you anymore.” Lydia looked up at him. Her eyes were warmer. “You don’t have the edgy bitterness of someone recently divorced.” She smiled and her face softened. “There’s no gossip, Detective. No parlor game. I observe and conclude. I just happen to be extremely good at it.”

“That so?” Mort was eager to move the conversation away from Edie. “What else can you see? Knock my socks off.”

Lydia gave him another overall scrutiny. “You have a shop in your home. Most likely woodworking.”

Mort’s eyes opened wide. “Now that’s impressive, Doc. How’d you get that?”

She nodded toward his hands resting on the table. “Your nails. Battered and split, but not chewed. Small scratches on your fingers. Two slashes of loose flesh where you pulled splinters out. Probably last night. I’ll bet you were working on something special for your granddaughters. Two of them? Around five or six years old? Maybe twins? Are you making them dollhouses?”

Mort sat frozen. “Now where the hell did that come from?”

She leaned back. Was she finally relaxing?

“Not so tough if you know what to look for,” she said. “Workshops in basements are a dime a dozen in your particular demographic. I noticed two small plastic kittens clipped to your notebook when you walked into the interview room this afternoon. Perfect gift from a young granddaughter. One yellow, the other pink. Identical except for color. Ergo, twins. Now, what’s a woodworking grandfather who loves his girls enough to bring their kitty trinkets into a macho police station going to make for them? Dollhouses.”

He was impressed. “Observe and conclude, huh?”

“Nothing more. Let me share another observation, Detective.” She folded her small hands on top of the table. “Mr. Buchner’s been dead eight days. There have been no arrests. No press releases about persons of interest. No police artist sketch posted on the front page. The trail to his killer is getting colder. Your willingness to meet with me, unannounced, tells me you’ve got nothing and are willing to grasp at any straw that comes your way.”

Mort looked around the diner for anyone who might hear her irritatingly accurate description of his case.

“Let me help, Detective,” she said.

He sat motionless.

“You wouldn’t be the first detective to consult with a psychologist. The FBI hires people like me by the dozens.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m damned good at what I do.”

Mort stared at her, wishing he could borrow her powers of observation and deduction for two minutes. Three decades of policing and fifty-eight years of living made him a pretty good reader of people. But he couldn’t grab a clue off the woman sitting across from him. And he needed to know her connection to Buchner.

“What’s in it for you?” he asked.

Lydia kept her eyes on him. Solid and assured. “I can help.” She bit her lower lip. “I’ll keep my reasons to myself.”

His cell rang before he could respond. His eyes stayed riveted on Lydia as he answered. “Grant.” Three seconds passed. “Good enough.” He closed his phone. “Your car’s back. Zeke says I got five minutes to sign off or he’s locking it up.”

Lydia pulled on her coat, reached for her purse, and slid out of the booth. “What do you say, Detective?”

Mort tossed a twenty on the table and waved goodbye to Francie. “I’ll think about it. And call me Mort, will ya?”

“You’re late.” L. Jackson Clark offered his deepest basso sotto as Mort sat down and proffered a pint of Guiness in penance. “Had I any life or pride beyond Thursday crossword puzzles with you I’d have left an hour ago.”

“You didn’t want to brave the snow. Besides, weren’t you the one on the television three nights ago? Teaching Charlie Rose the subtle distinction between poly and pan theism?” Mort took a long sip of his beer. “You’ll get no pity from me, Larry.”

“A wonderful man, that Charlie. Always punctual.” The professor of religious studies tapped his completed puzzle. “You’ll enjoy today’s theme. Subterfuge and skullduggery.”

“I was helping a damsel in distress.” Mort loosened his tie and recalled the clues his shirt gave Lydia.

Larry tossed his Times aside. “Tristan and Isolde. Antony and Cleopatra. Bogey and Bacall. How I love a save-a-dame story. Speak.”

“Nothing much. Some shrink sticking her nose into one of my cases. Got her car towed.” Mort glanced around the room. The wholesome after-work crowd was being replaced by more dedicated drinkers. He wondered when Mauser would get around to taking down the neon Santa over the front door. “I drove her to impound and got it signed out.”

“A psychologist, you say?” Larry’s grin was subtle. The type that never failed to irritate Mort. “I don’t suppose she had any insights into your warped and nefarious character.”

“Some. Kind of scary what she knew just by looking at me.”

Larry’s grin grew. “You wear your heart, your liver, your spleen, and nearly everything else on your sleeve, Mort Grant. Don’t be surprised that someone reads you. Doctor or no.”

“I’m not a man of mystery is what you’re saying?”

“Not even of riddle.” Larry leaned back. “For example, right now I can tell you’re working a calculation that’s not adding up. Anything to do with the damsel you just rescued?”

Mort reached into the bowl on the table and tossed back a handful of peanuts. “She’s not being straight with me, that’s for sure.”

“What’s her interest?”

“Says she’s writing a book.”

“And you don’t believe her.”

“No, I don’t.” Mort washed the peanuts down with another pull of Guiness. “But something is telling me to stay close.”

“Something cosmic perhaps?” Larry re-donned his half-grin.

Mort scowled. “Save it for the students, Dr. Clark. Pass me my puzzle and let me enjoy the skullduggery.”

It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Lydia pulled into her driveway. The winter storm made the drive down Interstate Five long and slow. Too much time to think about the happenings of the day. She wanted a hot shower and a hard workout. Something told her a good night’s sleep wasn’t an option.

She heated a can of soup and thought about Mort Grant’s kindness. She’d send him a bottle of scotch in the morning. She needed him and the investigative resources of his department to help her find the truth behind who killed Walter Buchner. Lydia shook her head and hoped the trail wouldn’t lead to Savannah.