The Red Hot Fix (29 page)

“Would you like me to go through the obligatory offer to help you tidy up so you can politely decline?”

Mort had his first laugh of the day. “What would you do if I took you up on it, Mr. High and Mighty?”

Larry pulled out his car keys. “That’s Dr. High and Mighty to you. I’ll see you on Thursday unless your lonely misery requires earlier respite.”

Mort locked the door behind his friends and focused on the televised image of Pierce and Ingrid leaving the game, her arm linked through her son’s. Mort was glad they had each other. He knew grief was too overwhelming to be a solo experience.

Mort stepped back and looked at the whiteboard. “LionEl and Wilkerson. What do we have for alibis?”

Jimmy spoke first. “Vogel was murdered sometime within the half hour before the start of the game. LionEl and Wilkerson have twenty thousand witnesses.”

“What about that agent of LionEl’s?” Micki asked.

Jimmy read from his notebook. “According to his driver …” He looked up. “Who’s this guy think he is, king of Norway? Who has a driver?”

“Just tell me.” Mort’s headache was back.

“LBJ was picked up at the No Fly Zone approximately three hours before tip-off. He drove him to his home in Bellevue, where he was instructed to wait. Driver says LBJ kept him cooling his heels over two hours before he knocks on the window, dressed in a fresh set of duds. He drove him to the arena and deposited him there about five minutes before the game started.”

“Can anybody put him in his house the whole time?” Micki asked. “And what’s a guy who has a driver and wears custom suits doing in a crack crib at the airport?”

Mort’s internal radar hummed. “LionEl told us if he wanted Vogel dead he’d do it himself or trust one of his boys. Who hangs at the No Fly Zone?”

Jimmy smiled like a cop smelling a hot lead. “Guys who’d do any odd job if the price was right. And it gets more interesting.”

“How’s that?”

“LBJ wasn’t alone when the driver picked him up at the No Fly. Someone else got in the car with him. LBJ had the driver drop the guy off at the arena before taking him home.”

Mort’s fatigue evaporated. “Who?”

Jimmy’s grin threatened to rip his cheeks. “Number Nine. Superstar Barry Gardener.”

Lydia smoothed her palm over the knife hidden in her boot. She opened her purse and clicked the safety off her Tomcat .32. She slid her hands into both jacket pockets and felt a canister of Mace waiting in each. She checked her heavily made-up eyes in the rearview mirror and wondered what Oliver would think. He’d allowed her to hope that things could be different for her. Lydia shook her head clear and opened the car door.

She approached Gary Dunfield’s home, surprised how normal everything looked. A flagstone path led from the graveled parking area to a tidy ranch house. Lights welcomed from a gabled porch. Shrubbery and azaleas warmed the exterior. The fact the house sat in the middle of thirty-five chain-linked acres was the only indication things happened here requiring maximum privacy.

Dunfield answered her first knock. He’d tried to clean himself up. Lydia took in the white terry-cloth robe and freshly shampooed hair. Aqua Velva overcame the evening’s soft pine scent.

“This is going to be a walk-through of the set,” she said. “If you have any other ideas, tell me now and I’ll go.”

Disappointment shadowed Dunfield’s bulldog face. He pulled his sash tighter, stepped aside, and waved her in.

They stood in what may have once been a pleasant foyer but was now nothing more than an overflow stock room for Gary’s junkyard. Greasy engine parts had smeared unctuous streaks across scarred wallpaper. Mismatched hubcaps were stacked two feet high. A calendar was tacked next to the door. Lydia wondered how Miss April managed her seductive smile while holding a lug wrench tight against barely covered breasts and struggling to breathe in skintight shorts.

“Nice place,” she said.

Gary kicked a parts catalogue into the corner. “You’re the one who wanted this to happen fast.” His growl held a touch of embarrassment. “It ain’t easy running a business and raising a kid on my own. Don’t have time for woman’s work.”

Lydia inhaled the stench of stale cooking grease and dirty dishes. “I sensed the lack of a feminine touch.” She leaned to catch a view of the living room off to the right. “Sweet and Ready is yours?”

Gary jerked his thumb to the left. “I’m set up down stairs. You got no need to know who’s related to who. You’re interested in other things, am I right?”

Lydia avoided his eyes. “Just making conversation. Does she know I’m here? What we’re planning?”

Gary scratched his ample belly. “The girl does what I tell her. She won’t give you trouble.”

Lydia swallowed the rage teasing the back of her throat. She forced a tone of admiration. “As I said, I’m impressed with your work. I’m eager to see your stage.”

Gary stared at her for several heartbeats. He narrowed his eyes and licked his lips. “You ain’t paying me to teach you cinematography. And speaking of such …” His eyes dropped to her purse. “I believe we said thirty large.”

Lydia pulled a thick envelope from inside her jacket. “All here. Used bills.” She snapped it back from Gary’s reaching hand. “Not until I see the set. I told you my expectations.” Lydia looked around the foyer and shoved a fast-food wrapper aside with the toe of her boot. “Right now I’m less than enthusiastic. Show me the staging and I’ll let you know if we have a deal.”

“You’re one uppity bitch,” Gary said. “Anybody ever make mention of that?”

“Mr. Dunfield, you’d be surprised what people call me. But what I’ve never been accused of being is foolish with my money.” She held his stare. “Now, do I see what I’m paying for or do I head back to my car?”

Dunfield hesitated, but Lydia knew they both understood he would comply. He held his arm to suggest she head left.

“You first,” she told him. “I’ll follow.”

They made their way through what might have been a dining room if it hadn’t been for the filthy clutter. Lydia’s heart sank. A small table sat in an apparent no-entry zone marked by a barricade of boxes and stacked magazines. The area inside was clear. On the table a chipped Mickey Mouse lamp spilled a cheery circle of light onto a small framed photo of a lovely woman with blond hair. Lydia recognized the short stack of library books. A red yarn bookmark poked out about two-thirds into
Madeline and the Bad Hat
.

Dunfield hesitated at the top of descending stairs. He turned and offered a poor imitation of a seductive leer. “You sure you only want me behind the camera? I been told I got moves most women ain’t encountered.”

Lydia glared until his smirk melted.

He lumbered down carpeted steps. Lydia tracked the scene, calculating potential escape routes available to her target. A double-wide set of sliding glass doors were off to the right. She estimated them to be no more than six large strides away. She’d make sure to keep herself between them and Dunfield. Narrow windows set high in cinder block circled the space. There was no chance her portly prey could reach them, let alone wiggle through.

He stopped in front of heavy canvas drapes. “Wait till you see what I’ve cooked up.” He
pulled a curtain aside and waved her in.

When she was fully adjusted to the low light, Lydia took three slow inhales to quiet the rumble in her gut. Her instincts dared her to act. Gun or knife, she didn’t care. She wanted to see this man—this creature who’d created so vile a tableau with such unspeakable intentions—bleeding at her feet.

A ten-foot-square platform was raised several inches above the floor. It was walled on three sides with pink satin. White bookshelves held teddy bears, picture books, and rag dolls. A twin-sized canopy bed boasted pink-and-white-striped pillows and a ballerina coverlet. A small lighted carousel sat atop a white nightstand, casting dancing shadows across the fabric walls. A bentwood rocker completed the cozy scene.

Lubricating jelly, long strips of white rope, and surgical tape wide enough to cover a child’s crying mouth were laid out next to the twirling carousel nightlight.

“You’ve thought of everything,” she whispered.

Dunfield nodded his pride of workmanship. “It’s a big debut for her. First of many, is my hope.”

Lydia reached inside her jacket pocket and cradled the Mace. “Where is she?”

“I sent her away for a while. I didn’t want her seeing you before we film. You’ll be a total stranger to her. The camera will love it.” He looked Lydia up and down. “So? Your costume is what? Hipster babysitter? Sophisticated auntie in from the big city? What’s your story line?”

Lydia bent over and made a show of tugging her boot higher. She knew Dunfield would be too focused on her backside to notice she released the zipper just enough to allow rapid access to her knife.

“You work the cameras.” Lydia stood and returned her attention to the ersatz child’s bedroom. “Leave the improvising to me.”

“I’ll take that as you approve of the set.” He took a step closer. “So why not hand that fat envelope in your jacket over to me? You’ll feel a whole lot more comfortable.”

Lydia stopped him with a raised hand. “The set’s fine. But that’s not all I’m paying for.” She swallowed hard. “Let me see the girl.”

“I told you, I sent her away.”

“There’s no way you’re letting a piece of merchandise like Sweet and Ready out of your sight when a potential buyer’s on the premises. Let me see the girl.”

“There’s that uppity bitch again.” Dunfield stepped back. “Can’t say as I like it.” He crossed behind his tripod to a metal door. “You got any thoughts as to what you want to call her during the filming?”

Lydia tightened her fists and let the sting of fingernails digging into flesh hold her on task. She needed her hands busy with something other than reaching for her Tomcat and putting
a bullet in each of Dunfield’s eyes.

“Peggy,” she said. “To me she’ll be Peggy.”

Dunfield shrugged his indifference and dragged a metal door open. He stepped aside and a full minute later Maizie stumbled into view.

It was the first time Lydia had ever seen the child freshly scrubbed. Her hair shone in a soft ponytail secured by a pink ribbon. The creaminess of her complexion was accented by rouged cheeks and pale lipstick. She wore bright white cotton underpants and T-shirt. Dunfield shoved a floppy stuffed rabbit into her hands and pushed her toward Lydia. “Go meet the lady,” he said.

Maizie stood there, clutching the rabbit and looking down at her fuzzy pink slippers.

“Go on now.” Dunfield prodded her shoulder.

Maizie kept her eyes down and shuffled three steps forward and two to the side. She wobbled and stopped to steady herself.

“You drugged her?” Lydia fought the urge to gather Maizie into her arms and run to the nearest emergency room. “What did you give her?”

“Relax.” Dunfield stepped over to his camera. “It’s only Benadryl. No more than she’s had dozens of times. She can be a handful.”

Maizie shuffled closer. She glanced up and her drowsy blue eyes widened. Lydia quickly pressed a finger to her lips and winked. Maizie turned to look at the platform. Lydia stepped forward and gently guided the sleepy little girl to the bed.

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Lydia pulled back the covers. “Crawl on up here. Everything will be all right.”

“Hold on a second,” Dunfield yelled as he fumbled with his camera. “You didn’t say nothing about wanting to film tonight. I’m not set up.”

Lydia pulled Maizie onto the bed and covered her with the chenille spread before turning to Dunfield.

“The girl’s dead on her feet.” She stepped off the platform. “Let her sleep.”

“I’ll do my job. Don’t you fret a thing about nothing. She’ll get into it. You can count on that.” Dunfield held out his hand. “Now, about my fee …”

Lydia took two steps closer. “Thirty thousand for twenty minutes of filming me having sex with your daughter. That about cover it?”

“Just like we figured.”

“I like the set, Mr. Dunfield.” She shot a glance toward Maizie. “But we’re not filming tonight.”

“No sense letting that cash burn a hole in your bra.”

Lydia shook her head. “I want her fully awake. Lay off the drugs.”

Dunfield fumbled with a light stand. “I could start rolling now.”

Lydia grabbed his wrist before he could turn the camera on. “I’m not used to having my wishes ignored, Mr. Dunfield. I said I want her alert. You are not to drug her prior to our filming. Do I make myself clear?”

Dunfield cringed as Lydia twisted. “I got it, I got it.”

She released him.

“So we talking tomorrow?” he asked.

Lydia looked back to Maizie. “Tomorrow’s good. Three o’clock.”

“But I got my business,” Dunfield protested. “I close up at six. I can be ready to shoot by six thirty.”

“Three o’clock.” Lydia reached out and pulled open his sash. She offered a seductive leer and dropped her voice to husky as she ran the terry-cloth tip up over his belly to tease his lips. “Be ready to film when I come in.” She brought the sash back down to tickle his growing erection. “And if you’re a good boy … when the girl and I are done … maybe I’ll let you show me some of those moves you’ve been bragging about.”