The Unforgivable Fix (13 page)

The last place Lydia wanted to be was at work, but she had decided it was best to carry on as though last night's invasion hadn't happened. If she had any hope of learning the identities of the two bodies currently being carried by the tides, she'd have to create enough curiosity to get whoever sent them to dispatch a scouting party.

With Mort at her place keeping tabs on Allie, Lydia was able to focus on her morning's roster of patients until Zach Edwards came in for their supervisory session. She continued the charade of normalcy. “Have a seat. How was your evening?”

Zach rolled his eyes. “Never ending, I'm afraid. I spent four hours last night trying to stay awake at the Washington Center.”

“What took you there?”

“Patty—that's my girlfriend, Patty Goines. She dragged me to that thing with the six one-act plays. If you haven't seen them, let me spare you a night of agony. They're just what you'd expect from first-time playwrights. Pompous, self-indulgent, and filled with symbolism I'm sure the writers think is profound, but really was just plain tedious.”

“I didn't know you were interested in live theater.”

He shook his head. “I'm not. Patty was a performing arts major in college. She works at a preschool. Volunteering to paint sets and schlep costumes is as close as she gets to Broadway these days. She got the tickets free. What's a guy to do? It's important to her.”

“You're a good boyfriend.”

Zach groaned. “And if three hours of watching people pose on a stark stage with perpetually lost expressions wasn't enough, Patty insisted we go to the reception afterward. There went another hour with watered-down wine, stale crackers, and a whole lot of family members and drama teachers fawning all over these guys.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe one of these guys is going to be the William Shakespeare of our generation. All I know is I'd much rather have been at home in my pajamas watching reruns of
Star Trek.
”

Lydia pointed back to her desk where the flash drive of his sessions sat. “Well, if theater isn't your game, let me tell you what is. I've listened to your sessions this week. Good job. I'm especially impressed with the way you handled Eric Schuell and Brianna Trow.”

“He's my unemployed depressed guy and she's my woman with the depression that's masked as overall GI distress. I think they're both making progress.”

Lydia agreed. “You're getting them moving and they're feeling better. I especially like how you sidestep that trap of letting them tell you again and again how bad things are. You're doing a great job explaining all the things they can do to manage their symptoms.”

Zach smiled. “I tell them what you tell me, Dr. Corriger. ‘You won't think or feel your way out of this. You're going to have to act your way out.' Eric is attending job-interview-skills classes. That'll go a long way toward lightening his mood. Brianna's getting back in touch with her friends. She's realizing that if she doesn't focus on her pain, it goes away.”

“Keep up the good work. Now, let's talk about Heather Blankenship. I see she canceled her session with you. Is it because you called CPS? What did they have to say?”

For a fleeting moment, Lydia detected a look of defiance flash across Zach's face. He'd wanted to hold off contacting the agency, but Lydia had insisted.

“They're overworked down there, as you know,” he said. “They agreed with me. As long as her uncle…he's the one who's abusing her—”

“Careful, Zach,” Lydia interrupted.

He bowed his head. “Sorry. I've really got to work on that.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Her uncle is the one Heather
says
is abusing her,” he continued. “CPS agreed with me that as long as he's out of town there's no need for emergency intervention. They've opened a file on the case. Next time I see Heather we'll work on giving her the skills and the courage to talk to her parents. I hope you're not upset that she canceled this week.”

“Relax. You're a fine therapist. We all get cancellations.” She glanced at the clock. “Anything pressing you want to discuss?”

Zach ran his eyes over his patient list and shook his head slowly. “I don't think so. Things are going well…despite my blunder with Heather.”

He handed her a thumb drive of his latest sessions. “Oh! I almost forgot. I wanted to ask you if you'd heard any more from Kenton Walder. How'd he respond to the report we submitted?”

“It's in the hands of the legal folks now.” Lydia stood and Zach did the same. “Your report was solid. We're out of it as far as I'm concerned. We've done all we can for Mr. Walder. Now let's hope the justice system does right by Emma.” Lydia made an exaggerated look at her watch. “Anything else?”

Zach grinned and tucked his files under his arm. “Nothing, Dr. Corriger. As always, you've given me more than I hoped for.”

S
EATTLE

Patrick Duncan stared out the eleventh-floor window and struggled to see the waterfront he knew was two blocks away. The grey clouds were low and a heavy mist deposited glistening prisms on the glass.
It's not even a proper rain. Just wet, dripping damp turning everything colorless and flat.
He wondered how his Olwen survived a childhood here. She was the essence of dazzling light. Colors were invented for her. He thought of her blue eyes, the hue of a tropical sea. Her hair the inspiration for an island strand.
I'm coming for you, Olwen. I'm here.
He held his hand, set in a cast, behind his back and turned.

“So what you're telling me is you've failed.”

Arnie Harb had come highly recommended. Patrick had been assured the private detective was thorough, discreet, and not afraid to use whatever means were necessary to accomplish his assignment. Patrick needed someone with Seattle contacts to help him find Olwen.

“We've got her landing in Miami five days ago.” Arnie spoke from memory. Patrick appreciated the absence of a paper trail documenting the detective's investigation. “There's some indication she may have spent a couple nights in a motel on the airport strip, but I can't be sure if the guy who saw her was being straight with me, or if he was just dancing to whatever tune I wanted to hear in exchange for the fifty bucks I was offering. After that, we got nothing.”

You wasted the money. Olwen would never sleep in such a place.
“Rental cars? Trains? Planes?”

“It's unlikely she flew,” Arnie answered. “She'd need a valid ID for that. She didn't rent a car. That's certain. But buses, trains…she could be anywhere by now.”

Patrick glanced out the window. “She's near. I can feel her.” He inhaled so hard his nostrils flared. “I can smell the scent of her skin.”

Arnie seemed unimpressed. “She's got family here. But the house she grew up in just got sold. New family's moving in. Couple of guys with a couple of kids.” He shrugged. “It's a new day, I guess. Daddy's got himself a houseboat down on Lake Union. Pricey digs. Could it be your girl was sending money home?”

Patrick stepped forward and stopped just inches from where the gumshoe stood. He pulled himself to his full height and held the detective's stare. “
Never
refer to Olwen as ‘my girl.' Understand?”

Arnie shrugged. “Got it. Still, houseboats down there run a pretty penny.”

You have no idea how pretty my pennies are. Nor any notion of how loyal my Olwen is.
“I'm sure her father has managed the financial side of his life well. Olwen has always described him as a good and obedient servant of the city.” Patrick crossed the room to the wet bar and poured himself two fingers of rum over ice. He hoped the taste of the islands would calm him, but the sting coursing down his throat only intensified his fear he'd never see her again. “Have you been to the houseboat?”

Arnie nodded. “No sign of Daddy. No sign of his daughter. Place is crawling with folks, though. Guy's got a lot of help moving him in.”

Patrick had no interest in Mort Grant's relocation plans. “What about the Russian?” He'd been pleased to learn Olwen left the island of her own accord. His darling understood the threat his impulsive actions against Tokarev's whore placed on her. She'd taken action to remain safe. She must be furious. It was unlike her not to contact him, if only to assure him she was out of harm's way.
I'm here, my love. Forgive me.
“Do we have any indication he's gotten to her?”

“Russia's a huge country, Mr. Duncan. And Tokarev's a powerful man. He can move about pretty much as undetected as you can. But I don't think he's got her. If he did, you can bet your ass you'd have gotten a package from him by now.”

A cold shiver shot down Patrick's spine as a vision of Olwen's beautiful body ripped apart by that barbarian's revenge flashed into his consciousness. “Find her. Before the Russian does.”

O
LYMPIA

“So am I under house arrest? Is that what this is?” Allie tossed aside the knife she was using to cut green peppers. “May I remind you I came home of my own free will? Willing to chat with whatever drug enforcement agencies you want? Give me one good reason why I need to stay shut up in this house 24/7.”

Lydia kept her eyes on the vegetables she was sautéing. She'd experienced a brief moment of pleasure when she returned home and saw Mort's Honda in the driveway. The thought of an evening with someone other than the squirrels and birds pulled on a long-dormant wish buried deep inside her. But the whirlwind of Allie's whines, questions, and demands made her long for her home's former isolated solitude.

“I'll give you two good reasons, Allie.” Mort slid the salmon under the broiler. “Patrick Duncan and Vadim Tokarev. Until we nail them, it's not safe for you to leave. I've spent the entire day explaining and arguing with you about this. Now Liddy's home and we're done. Let's have a nice meal and talk about anything except how awful it is that you're stuck in this beautiful home by the sea.”

Allie finished tossing the salad in stubborn silence. Mort uncorked a bottle of sauvignon blanc, poured three glasses, and carried them into the dining room. The three of them sat down at a table set with Lydia's finest china. If it wasn't for the Beretta next to Lydia's plate, the scene might inspire Norman Rockwell. She complimented the flowers in the center of the table.

“They're from your garden,” Allie said. “Apparently my warden here thinks it's okay to go out onto the lawn.”

“Keep that attitude up and you won't see the outside of the guest room.” Mort's voice gentled as he turned to Lydia. “Tell us about your day.”

Lydia shared what she could. “It's been raining all day. What did you guys do?”

“We stayed busy,” Mort said.

“How many games of gin can a girl take?” Allie whined. Mort's warning glare changed her tone. “Dad's right. Your home is lovely, Lydia. I've been enjoying your art especially.”

The conversation turned to an awkward discussion of the galleries Lydia enjoyed in the area. “And of course, blown glass is a Washington specialty.”

Allie glanced down. “I've lost track of the art scene here.” She turned and placed a gentle hand over her father's. “I miss the dance world, especially.”

A hush fell over the table. Lydia knew both her guests were thinking about Edie, the promising ballerina who sacrificed her career to be a wife and mother.

Allie finally broke the silence. “At least I can waltz.” She nudged her father's leg under the table. “Mom's lessons rubbed off on at least one member of the family.”

Mort smiled. “You had her talent, that's for sure. Remember that recital where you played the sparrow afraid to fly? What were you…five years old?”

“I was four,” Allie said. “I remember all that hopping I did around the house. It drove you crazy.”

“You remember that? I thought I did a good job at hiding it.”

Lydia pushed her chair away and began clearing the table while Mort and Allie continued reminiscing. Each made an effort to include her in their stories, but Lydia knew they were speaking strictly to and for each other. She busied herself as quietly as she could while their laughter cut into ancient wounds.

“Remember when Robbie tried to moonwalk at Aunt Janet's wedding?” Allie asked. “And he had just gotten that hideous permanent so he had that supercurly hair? If I could have crawled under the table and died I would have.”

“That wasn't Aunt Janet's wedding,” Mort corrected. “That was Charlie Lucas's. He was a cop from Tacoma. Don't you remember begging to stop at the mall? Your mother promised she'd take you after the reception if you behaved.”

“Are you going all Alzheimer's on me, Dad? It was Aunt Janet's. I distinctly remember the bridesmaids wore this seafoam-green color and Robbie's shirt, completely by coincidence, was the exact same shade.”

“Sounds like we need a third opinion here.” Mort pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Let's call your brother.”

Lydia slipped past them as Allie slid closer to her father. She went out to her deck and settled into her favorite chair, realizing it was becoming more and more her place of refuge from her visitors. She heard Mort's tone grow husky as he spoke with his son. In turn, Allie's voice seemed younger when Mort handed her the phone; a teenager joshing and teasing her brother. Lydia rose, crossed her deep lawn, and stood at the edge of her cliff. Dense fog obscured any view of the water, but she stood motionless and listened, allowing the crash of the waves to soothe her.

I belong here. This is my world. I am enough.
She looked up, wishing there were stars, but the fog masked everything. Even the moon was gone. Lydia lowered herself down to the grass and lay there, eyes closed, focusing on the feel of the grass against the skin of her arms and legs. There was dampness, but it wasn't heavy. More smell than actual moisture.
This is what I have and it is enough.
She tried to center herself on the feel of the air, but the heavy cloud sitting on the earth held no breeze.
Odd for October. Nothing's how it should be.
She turned her attention to a game she played on nights like this. With her eyes still closed, she placed an open hand over her face. She then extended her arm its full length and opened her eyes. The dense, dark mist prohibited her from seeing her fingers. Lydia slowly lowered her hand toward her. When her elbow was at nearly ninety degrees, she caught the first glimpse of shape. She notched her arm closer and her hand came into view.
There I am. I am here. I am enough.
She lowered her arm across her chest and listened to the pounding waves.

In time, she lifted herself up on to her elbows. She stood and walked toward the diffused glow of her house lights. As her deck emerged from the fog, Lydia recognized the shape of a human sitting in one of the chairs. She slid her hand into her pocket and gripped the stock of her pistol.

“Dad and Robbie have switched to sports.” Allie held up two glasses. “They could be on the phone awhile. Care to join me?”

Lydia released her gun and stepped forward. She accepted the wine and sat in the chair next to Allie. “You must be eager to see your brother.”

The porch lights increased visibility enough to view the younger woman's face. “I'm surprised he's moving here. I would have bet he would be in Denver forever…that is, if Claire didn't drag them all to France. Robbie says they've hit a snag. Something about the girls' school. Their move is delayed until Thanksgiving.”

“A month away.” Lydia took a sip of wine. “Not too long.”

The ensuing silence was awkward. Allie finally said she'd forgotten how grey the days could be in Washington.

“And it's been way long since I've seen fog like this. Patrick always insisted we live in the sunshine.”

Her casual mention of life with a global criminal intrigued Lydia. She quickly reminded herself of how she'd come to accept her own past.
Perhaps it's better to simply accept than continually rage against what can't be changed.

“Did you like the tropics?” Lydia hoped travel would be a safe topic.

“What's not to love? Warm sun, scented breezes, bright blue ocean everywhere you look.”

“What's your favorite spot?”

Allie considered for a moment. “I like the Caribbean. The nontouristy islands. Oh! Bali! How could I forget Bali? It's pure heaven. There's a restaurant there, on a small island just off the Balinese coast, built on stilts over the water. You walk out a long dock to get to it, and you assume it's going to be another high-priced seafood place. But when you step inside—inside this thatched-roof structure, mind you—you're transported into a pub so authentic you'd swear you were in London's West End. That is, until you look out the window and see marlin jumping out of a turquoise sea.” Allie hesitated. “Oh, what's the name of it? Some odd thing.”

“Conch and Bull Feathers,” Lydia said.

“That's it.” Allie smiled. “You've been there?”

Lydia's throat clenched. She'd met a target at that exact restaurant four years ago. Antoine Jolivette had been convicted in a Brussels court for running a sex-slave operation out of Thailand. The deaths of nine women had been directly linked to his activities, and it was estimated the actual number was likely ten times that. His people had abducted hundreds of women and dozens of boys over the course of twenty years to supply buyers ranging from back-alley sex clubs in Bangkok to billionaire potentates in the Middle East. A well-orchestrated escape following his conviction and certain life sentence put him out of justice's reach for three years. But The Fixer found him. Jolivette's body washed up not far from the Conch and Bull Feathers. Witnesses told police they'd seen Jolivette dining with a lovely woman and bragging about his time on the Eton swim team. They chalked up his drowning to alcohol-induced bravado. The woman was never found, despite witnesses' insistence she'd be hard to overlook. For all her beauty, she was missing an eye and wore a patch that coordinated perfectly with her deep-purple dress.

“I must have seen it on a Travel Channel episode,” Lydia lied. “Exotic eateries or something like that.”

“Well, the Conch and Bull is certainly that,” Allie said.

They settled back into their silence. Their wine was nearly finished when Allie spoke again.

“He loves you, you know.”

Lydia tightened her hold on her glass.

“It's not a romantic thing. It's going to take my dad forever to get over my mom. He doesn't speak of you often, but when he does his voice has this kind of…I don't know…protective pride. Like he admires the woman you are but he's afraid you're going to get hurt and he's got to stop that from happening. Like he would feel for a daughter.” There was a vulnerability in Allie's voice. “Maybe the daughter he should have gotten instead of me.”

Lydia resented the feeling washing over her. “We're friends, Allie. Not even that. We helped each other out a couple of times. That's it.”

“You don't have a family, do you?”

Lydia wanted off that deck. She needed to be out of this conversation.

“What?” Allie teased. “Are you, like, divorced? Are you in protective disguise and had to abandon your family? Is it something like that?”

Lydia ignored the question and stood.

Allie got up and placed a gentle hand on Lydia's shoulder. “I think you and my dad need each other, if that makes any sense.”

Lydia looked into the blue eyes of Mort's prodigal daughter and saw nothing but sincerity. “I'm going to clean up the kitchen. You stay here. I'll send your dad out.”