The Red Hot Fix (14 page)

“Who’d we have out last night?” Guilt over enjoying last night’s ball game while Trixie plied her trade pounded inside Mort’s skull.

Jimmy scanned his notebook. “Six undercovers. All of them prowling areas Trixie’s hit before. Truck stops, cheap motels, liquor stores. This is her first foray down to the water. We missed her, Mort. Plain and simple.”

“She knows we can’t be everywhere, so she goes someplace new.” Mort felt a cold ice
pick stabbing behind his eyes. “What do we know about the victim?”

Jimmy flipped two pages. “Ron Patrick. Forty-two years old. Idaho driver’s license. Business cards in his wallet say he’s a textbook salesman based out of Boise. ICE listed is his employer. We’ve got a call out. If they can identify him, we’ll see about any next of kin.”

“Micki getting anything?”

“Too early to tell. Desk clerk said the victim checked in around eleven thirty. Rented the room for the entire night.”

Mort looked up to the gray April sky. “He didn’t know you could do this by the hour. Must be new to this whole thing.”

Jimmy rubbed Bruiser’s neck. “Once is all it takes, Mort. Can’t stop destiny.”

“Maybe this was supposed to be my destiny.”

“Meaning what?” Jimmy asked.

Mort filled him in on the card he’d gotten from Trixie. “I’ll give it to Micki, but I don’t need tests to tell me the lipstick on the envelope is going to check out to be Red Hot Number Seven.”

“She’s playing you, Mort. That’s what these whack jobs do.” Jimmy leveled a caring stare. “She’s asking you to dance. This has got nothing to do with fate.”

Mort knew Jimmy wrestled with the notion of fate. His mind flashed to Kimberly Forrest, the cop who’d transferred from the Portland PD nearly ten years ago. Smart and sassy, Kim could look at a group of suspects and tell you in ninety seconds who was dirty and who was just stupid enough to be along for the ride. Her uncanny instincts led Mort to encourage her to apply for her detective’s shield. But Kim liked patrol. “ ‘Protect and Serve,’ that’s what’s on the side of my car,” she’d said. “You suits do everything after the fact. That’s not my bag.”

Kim’s bag was dogs. Her reputation was strong enough in Portland that she could have had her pick of partners, and she always chose a canine. “Loyal, strong, and smarter than any man on the force. They never second-guess and they never hesitate. A good dog and a good gun and I’m ready to roll.”

Kim took a shine to Jimmy’s five-foot-ten bundle of swarthy Mediterranean good looks the moment she arrived, and Mort was pleased when his buddy warmed to the idea. It wasn’t long before Jimmy was dressing better and getting regular haircuts. Mort smiled at the memory of Kim’s reaction to Jimmy’s love-’em-and-leave-’em reputation.

“Thirteen’s always been good to me,” she’d told him. “I’ll say yes the thirteenth time he proposes.” It took four years, but Jimmy finally hit the lucky number and the two couples celebrated with dinner on top of the Space Needle. A year later they were back. This time celebrating Kim’s new partner, a six-week-old German shepherd puppy headed off to the academy for training.

“He’s a big one,” she’d said. Mort recalled how Kim’s eyes had glittered in the candlelight. “Paws the size of dinner plates. I’m calling him Bruiser. I got a hunch he’s going to be the best I’ve ever ridden with.”

Jimmy had teased that she was more excited about the dog than she was their upcoming wedding. “What’s coming first? Our wedding or my retirement?”

“We don’t need to rush.” Mort had liked the light in Kim’s eyes when she looked at his friend. “We’re together forever. We got plenty of time for dresses and cake.”

Kim had been right about Bruiser. He sailed through the academy and earned his first meritorious citation two months after graduation when he pulled a six-year-old out of a burning car. By then Jimmy and Kim were living together and Bruiser’s bed was at the foot of their own. Every morning the three of them would get up, share breakfast, and head to the station. Jimmy never worried about Kim. She was a good cop. And she had Bruiser riding shotgun.

Eight months later Kim responded to an all-units call. An undercover working narcotics had had his identity blown. Bruiser reacted when he saw the officer standing against a brick wall with a semiautomatic pointed at him. The bullets meant for the narc ripped into Bruiser’s throat. Kim ran up, her own gun drawn. She didn’t have time to order the perp to drop his weapon before he opened fire and pumped thirteen bullets into her. The undercover scrambled for Kim’s gun, killed the bad guy, and screamed into his radio for help.

Mort and Jimmy responded to the “officer down” call. Jimmy didn’t wait for Mort to stop the car before he jumped out. He found his fiancée dead on the pavement. Her beloved canine partner, barely alive, had crawled over and covered her body with his own. When the ambulances arrived, Jimmy rode with Kim, but they all knew she was gone. Mort rode with Bruiser to the nearest veterinary emergency room.

Now, watching the two of them in that pitiful playground, Mort remembered Jimmy’s nightly visits to Bruiser as he fought for his life, the damage to his throat so severe he’d be forever silent. “He was there, Mort,” he’d said. “Kim didn’t have to die alone.”

No one in the department questioned Bruiser’s full access to any crime scene Jimmy DeVilla worked.

“We’ve got to talk to the press,” Mort said. “Trixie’s out of control. We’ve got to go loud with this. Stop the flow of victims until we can find her.”

Jimmy stroked his dog’s flank and smiled. “Good luck with that. Things happen when they happen, Mort.”

Ingrid handed Allen Wilkerson a china cup emblazoned with the Wings logo. “That was an impressive show in Los Angeles. How’s the team? Travel getting the better of them?”

Wilkerson worked to balance the delicate cup and saucer. Ingrid smiled at the awkward knees-and-elbows position he settled upon. “They’re not flying tourist on a red-eye. I’ve got two practices scheduled today. We’ll do a tune-up tomorrow morning, look at some films. We’ll be ready for tip-off.”

She graced her coach with a smile as wide as her recent Botox allowed. “Two decisive wins against the best team in the league. On their own court, no less.” She made sure Wilkerson caught the glimmer in her eyes. “No oddsmaker in the world would have predicted it. I’m proud of you, Allen. We’re sold out for both home games. Concessions and product sales will be solid gold.”

Wilkerson nodded. “I’ll let you do the bean counting, Ingrid. Los Angeles is one pissed-off team. I’ll stay focused designing new plays to keep ’em that way.”

She calibrated her voice to flattering purr. “You’ve been brilliant so far, Coach. You’re playing LionEl and Barry beautifully.”

Wilkerson grappled to lift his lanky frame out of the chair. “They rally around Gardener, for sure. That rookie’s got a veteran’s soul. But they won’t follow LionEl. Despite all the points he puts up, we’re weak when he’s out there.”

Ingrid knew he was right. The sportswriters were poking fun at the obvious disregard his team had for LionEl’s leadership. “You want to play Barry more? The crowd adores him.”

Wilkerson smiled. “You should have seen them at the airport when we arrived with two wins in our pocket. Kids especially. It’s been nice having a clean-cut workhorse out front. I get so sick of these prima donnas sometimes I want to strangle them with their own gold chains.” His face grew serious. “But forty-eight minutes on the floor is an eternity. We need fresh legs, fresh arms. We need both our guards.”

“And that’s something I hope you’ll remember come tomorrow night.” L. B. Johnson’s clipped tones announced the entrance of the overstuffed blowhard. Ingrid did her best to cover her disappointment, especially when LionEl stepped in right behind him.

Ingrid crossed to the two men. “L.B., always a delight.” She bent to offer her cheek to the agent before stepping on tiptoes to kiss LionEl’s. “What can I get you?”

Wilkerson eyed LionEl’s black velour jumpsuit, replete with diamond “L” zipper fob.
“You should be at the arena. Roll call’s in ten minutes. First practice after that.”

LionEl looked away.

“My man’s feeling under the weather.” L.B wobbled to the coffee cart, sorted through the assorted teabags, and decided on orange spice. He poured hot water into a cup and dipped the teabag repeatedly as he spoke. “Not sure he’ll be able to play tomorrow. Could be one of those twenty-four-hour things, could be something worse.” He tossed five sugar cubes into his mug and shuffled to take his place beside his client.

Ingrid saw Wilkerson’s pissed-off meter threatening to spike. She gestured to the conference table. “Then by all means, let’s get him off his feet. Come, LionEl. Sit.”

Wilkerson took a chair across from L.B. and the silent LionEl. Ingrid slid into her spot at the head of the pink marble table.

“What symptoms are you experiencing?” she asked.

“Let’s call it restless leg syndrome.” L.B. leaned forward, trying to appear less like a tubby Lilliputian at the table of giants. “He needs guaranteed activity to fix it.”

Wilkerson’s jaw worked as he struggled to remain calm.

Lyndon Baines Johnson reached over to rest a heavy hand on his client’s arm. “One minute more playing time than the kid. That’s what it takes to get LionEl out of his sickbed for game three.” His eyes bored into Wilkerson. “You wanna play Bet-the-Series for sixty little seconds?”

Wilkerson started out of his seat and Ingrid reached across to restrain him. She was about to speak when Reinhart came through her office door, wearing his best black suit and the gold tie she’d given him last Christmas. She felt her heart accelerate and wondered for the briefest moment if it was due to attraction or fear. He held a small white box from her favorite bakery. His smile disappeared when he saw the four figures assembled around the conference table.

“I brought you a treat.” He moved his eyes from his wife. “Sorry, fellas. I only got enough for two.” He tossed the box on Ingrid’s desk, took a few wide steps, and pulled out a chair between his wife and his coach. “What’s the game? Texas Hold ’Em? Acey Duecy?”

L.B. alternated his gaze between Ingrid and Wilkerson. “So the real boss has arrived.” He settled his eyes on Ingrid. “Just as well. I don’t want to waste the Lion’s time talking to a puppet. Tell me, little lady CEO, what’s it feel like to have someone pulling your strings?”

Reinhart reached across the table and grabbed L.B.’s tailor-made lapels in one large hand. He stood and pulled the agent up with him. “You want to change your tone right now or do I squeeze tighter?”

“Reinhart, please.” Despite her weariness at yet another testosterone display, Ingrid felt a melting warmth deep in her groin. It had been too long since her husband had played the role of her Galahad.

Reinhart tossed L.B.’s quivering backside into his chair. He pulled himself to full height and looked toward LionEl. “That official workout gear, partner?”

LionEl glanced toward his agent.

“I’m talking to you,” Reinhart roared. He turned toward Wilkerson. “We’ve got our first home game in the playoffs in less than thirty hours and you have a player in pajamas?” He pivoted to his wife. “And you’re serving his beached whale tea?”

Ingrid forced her voice to remain calm. “I wasn’t expecting you, Reinhart.” She was torn between asking him to leave and throwing everyone out, locking the door, and replaying their night of passion. “The series is well in hand. We’re up two games. There’s no need for discord.”

Reinhart stepped around the table and grabbed the back of the chair where Lyndon Baines Johnson, agent to one client, labored to keep his lower lip from shaking. He bent to position his lips a quarter inch from L.B.’s ear. His voice was low and potent. “If I ever hear you speak to my wife or anything else that’s mine that way again, you’re going to be sipping your cheeseburgers through a straw.” He stood and placed a gentle hand on the back of his wife’s chair. “Ingrid’s done a fine job as CEO. She’s got us up by two against the best team in the league. But it’s time for her to step aside.”

Wilkerson stiffened. LionEl sat in silent fury, his eyes riveted on the marble table. Reinhart walked to the bank of windows as Ingrid traced the breadth of his shoulders and the ramrod of his spine. He finally turned and walked back to take a seat at the opposite end of the table.

“We’re going to take both home games. Finish Los Angeles and move on to whoever’s next.” Reinhart looked toward Wilkerson. “Tell your team I’m back and I don’t give one rat’s ass about what contracts they have. It will be
my
subjective opinion that dictates how many, if any, minutes of playing time they get. Mine alone. When we sweep this series and we’re done in the playoffs, I will send each player and ten of their friends for a week anywhere in the world. First-class. My dime.”