The Red Hot Fix (22 page)

Mort glanced at his watch. Nine fifty-three. He appreciated many things about Micki, but her respect for urgency always topped the list. He braced himself. “Tell me.”

He sensed reluctance on the other end of the phone.

“These CLIP folks friends of yours, Mort?”

His throat tightened and his breathing slowed. Blood pounded against his eardrums. “Tell me.”

“We got clear fingerprints. DNA will take a few days. Lab knows this one’s a priority.” Micki sounded sad to relay her next sentence. “Mort, the fingerprints match. So does the lipstick on the cup: Avignon Studio’s Red Hot Number Seven. We’ve got Trixie.”

One hand tightened around the phone while the other strangled the steering wheel. Mort leaned back and let the headrest cradle his aching skull. Mist gathered on his windshield, and the image of that spice rack he’d made his mother in eighth-grade shop drifted through his mind. That first project had sparked a lifelong love affair with woodworking. The smell of newly sawn lumber. Razoring thin planes to reveal the object waiting beneath. Staining and wiping until the grain sang.

He should have been a carpenter.

“You there, Mort?” Micki’s voice pulled him back. “DA grabbed the first judge he ran into. I’m holding the arrest warrant. How do you want to play this?”

He reached forward, clicked the windshield wipers on, and his world snapped into focus. “Get Jimmy. I’ll call you when I’m on the ferry. You can fill me in then.” His voice regained its volume. “And Mick … no one moves until I get there.”

Mort walked into CLIP headquarters at 11:48. The offices seemed even busier than they’d been
earlier. He remembered Charlotte had told him they were working against a grant deadline. Over twenty people were answering phones, grabbing files, or working at computers.

But at that moment he wanted to see Charlotte more than any other person on the planet.

Mort knew what waited outside. Armed officers were positioned at each of CLIP’s three entrances: front, side, and alley. Sharpshooters on rooftops opposite the building were locked, loaded, and poised to take Trixie if she somehow eluded the cops on the doors. Eight squad cars idled in the streets surrounding CLIP. Each person involved knew their role and waited for Mort’s signal. They’d reviewed the arrest plan in the departmental conference room. Face-to-face. No scanners or radios for the press to monitor.

Mort hoped the arrest would be uneventful. A locking of the eyes. An announcement of arrest. Cuffs on wrists. Miranda rights read. Load her into a car and get her out of his sight.

But he was prepared in case Trixie had something else in mind.

Charlotte came around a corner and did a double take when she saw him. She waved, obviously pleased he was back. Mort watched her smile turn into bewilderment as she registered Jimmy, Micki, and the large German shepherd standing beside him.

“Where’s Nancy?” he asked, going to her.

“Who’s with you, Mort?” Charlotte looked past him. “I mean, I know Micki. She looks a bit better, I must say. But who is that guy with the gorgeous dog?”

He reached for her arm. “Where’s Nancy, Charlotte? Tell me right now.”

Charlotte looked down at Mort’s grip and he released his hold. She scanned his face and looked back to Jimmy, Micki, and Bruiser.

“Nancy left here around an hour ago.” Charlotte’s voice signaled an understanding of Mort’s visit. “Your son was right on time. Nancy talked about little else this morning than her interview with a big-time author. That and how silly you all were for thinking Trixie had killed that Vogel fellow.” Charlotte glanced around the room. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation in my office?”

Mort signaled Micki and Jimmy as his mind screamed damnations for allowing his son to work on his own that day. “Get Robbie on the phone,” he told Jimmy as they all headed down the back corridor. Mort pulled a radio out of his jacket pocket.

“All units hold.”

Charlotte’s eyes locked onto Mort’s. “You’re telling me Nancy is Trixie, aren’t you?”

Mort liked her matter-of-fact reaction. She didn’t question, doubt, or debate. Didn’t fall into hysterical “How could I have not known?” puddles.

“What do you need?” she asked.

Mort ignored her question. He called to Jimmy, “You got him yet?” Phone to his ear, Jimmy shook his head. Mort turned back to Charlotte. “We’ll need you to tell us everything you
know about Nancy. How you met her. How she came to be involved with CLIP.”

“My hunch is she chose you,” Micki said. “Came up to you at one of your meetings. Maybe drifted in here to volunteer one day.”

“She lost her daughter to drugs and prostitution.” Charlotte crossed her arms against her chest. “Sadly, her husband died shortly after they buried their daughter. Nancy started coming to CLIP meetings and pretty soon she was an active volunteer for us.”

“Mort told me the story she told at the CLIP meeting. Daughter named Valerie Amber, husband Matt an aviation engineer. It’s all a lie.” Micki rattled off the facts she’d gathered after Mort used his time on the ferry to tell her everything he recalled about Nancy Mader. “No Valerie Amber Mader was ever enrolled in any school in the state of Washington. No Matt Mader was ever licensed as an aviation engineer. Nor was anyone by that name ever employed by any of the aircraft firms in the state. No death certificate in either name has been issued.”

“Nancy, or whatever her name really is, needed a cover story to get close to your group,” Mort said.

Charlotte’s brow wrinkled. “Why? We’re a small nonprofit. There’s no money to steal.”

“It’s part of her game,” Micki explained. “Nancy made her decision to start killing. For reasons I’m sure we’ll find out later, she decided to kill men who frequent hookers. But psychopaths need to play. Part of her particular game was to pose as a virtuous victim. Adored in a group that was somehow touched by her crimes. Being in CLIP allowed her to bask in the chaos she was creating.”

Charlotte nodded. “She did like to talk about Trixie. Whether she was stuffing envelopes or serving coffee at a meeting, she somehow managed to turn the conversation to the murders.” She looked up at Mort. “She especially liked to wonder why the police seemed so ineffective.”

Jimmy spoke up. “Whack jobs like to feel smarter than us. Sometimes they send us little letters. Sometimes they call.” He paused half a heartbeat. “Robbie’s not answering, Mort.”

“Charlotte, did Nancy or Robbie say where they were headed?” Mort asked.

“Just that she was going to introduce him to some families. I should have asked for names. Mort, I’m so sorry.”

He felt a near-primal need to protect her. “She was a valued volunteer. You trusted her.” He looked toward Jimmy. “Try again. Just find out where they are. We don’t want to tip our hand to Trixie.”

Jimmy opened his cell phone. “This is going in his book, for sure. I can see it now. ‘The day I rode shotgun with a killer, by Robert Grant.’ Little shit’s gonna eat off that for a year.”

Mort pulled out his radio and called off the troops outside. “As soon as we know where she is, we’ll reassess.” Maybe Robbie and Nancy had stopped for pie somewhere and they could just drop by and put her in cuffs.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Jimmy shot him a worried glance. “No answer. Four rings and voice mail kicks in.”

“Maybe he’s interviewing someone and doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Charlotte said.

Mort pulled out his own phone. Robbie might ignore calls from Jimmy, especially if he was taking notes. But Mort had promised to let him know if anything concerning the case came up. He’d take a call from his father.

“Damn it.” Mort snapped his phone shut. He struggled against fears surfing acid waves in his gut. “What exactly did she say as they left?”

Charlotte lowered her head in thought before replying. “Nancy and I spent the morning working on budgets. She seemed distracted. Excited about her time with Robbie. And like I said, irritated with the police.” She closed her eyes. “Robbie was punctual. They used this office for their chat. I know they left around ten forty-five. The courier’s coming at one o’clock to pick up our grant applications. I’ve been monitoring the time.” She snapped her head up. “She mentioned you, Mort. She told Robbie she’d drive. Said she knew right where they were going. Handed him a cup of coffee and told him to relax. Then she said, ‘It’s time to show your dad how it’s done.’ ”

Mort flipped his cell open and stabbed the digits of his son’s number again. “Pick up, Robbie,” he urged. When he heard the voice mail cut in, he closed the phone.

“Get me Nancy’s number.” His tone left no room for question. Charlotte crossed to her desk, pulled a black address book from her top drawer, and flipped through the pages. Mort punched the numbers into his cell as Charlotte called them out. He knew he was in trouble when he heard the irritating tone.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service …

He looked at his phone’s screen and called the numbers back to Charlotte. “That right?”

“That’s the number she gave us.” Charlotte closed her address book. “I can’t recall ever calling her, so I can’t say if it’s ever worked.”

A grisly montage of Trixie’s eight victims paraded past Mort’s eyes. The ropes tied tight around their necks. The humiliating posing. The garish red smear of lipstick on each forehead.

And now Trixie had his son.

“He was driving a new Toyota Camry. Silver. Picked it up at the airport.” Mort turned to Micki and barked out the date Robbie had flown in from Denver. “Find out what rental company. Use every officer back at headquarters. I want whoever’s manning that rental desk on the phone.”

Mort looked at his watch. Twelve-ten. Robbie had been with her for more than two hours. He closed his eyes and home movies played against his eyelids. Robbie chasing toddler twins around the backyard. Claire snapping photos as her husband scooped them up, one in each arm, carrying them over to their grandfather and dropping them onto Mort’s laughing chest.

“Mort.”

He opened his eyes as Micki shoved a phone at him.

“Rental company. They’ve got Robbie’s file.” Micki’s voice was all business and her eyes were all friend.

Mort grabbed the phone and gave his identification. “I assume you have a LoJack or OnStar or some tracking device on each of your vehicles. Tell me where that car is.”

The male voice on the other end hesitated. “I don’t know, sir. We use that only if the car’s not back twenty-four hours past its expected return. And even then only if we can’t contact the renters by other means.”

Mort wondered how much blood a body could lose in ten seconds. He was stunned at his level voice when he spoke. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Daniel, sir,” the boy on the line said. Mort estimated him somewhere south of twenty-one. “Daniel Hilley, assistant manager. And if you’re about to ask for the manager, well, I’m afraid I’m all you’ve got. It’s lunchtime.”

“Daniel, I want you to listen to me. You have a choice to make. You can tell me where that car is, save a life, be interviewed by the local news shows, and sit back waiting for the girls to unzip for the hero of the day. Or you can wait for your manager to return, get your ass fired for ignoring law enforcement’s request, have innocent blood on your hands, and deal with my police force and me for the rest of what will certainly be your very unpleasant life.” Mort notched his volume up. “Now tell me where that car is.”

He heard two seconds of terrified silence, the rapid click of computer keys, and Daniel’s whispered curses. Less than fifteen seconds later the kid was back on the phone.

“That car is currently parked at 623 Stillwater Drive. Our system says the doors are locked, the keys are out of the ignition, and the engine’s not been activated for six minutes.”

Mort closed the phone and barked out the location Daniel had given him. Jimmy relayed the address back to headquarters. “I want squads rolling now,” Mort said. “Tell them to secure the address and wait for instruction.”

Micki looked up from her cell. “Six twenty-three Stillwater is a motel off the airport strip. We can be there in less than four minutes. I’ll drive.”

“I’ll follow.” Jimmy snapped his fingers and Bruiser fell in behind him. “Squad cars are dispatched. They’ll beat us there.”

Mort raced out of the office. He didn’t look back at Charlotte.