Dead End Fix (25 page)

“I can do that.”

“You can do what?”

“I can pass my high school. I can be the best army man. I can learn everything. I can bring it back to my brothers.”

D'Loco shook his head. “But you ain't got no brothers, man. They can't know that for a time. Till you eighteen and off to the army, them brothers gonna think you good old Green K. Off to be a soldier boy. Make the 97 proud. That's gonna be the story. Only you and I know the truth.”

Kashawn was confused. “What's the truth, then?”

D'Loco stepped to him. He grabbed Kashawn's jaw in his hand and squeezed hard. He stared into Kashawn's eyes. “The truth is you gonna act like a 97 for nine more months. You gonna eat and sleep and party with us like you one of the family. But you ain't. You gonna pass that test. You gonna join the army. And you ain't never comin' back here.” D'Loco's voice rumbled with an authority born in the streets and honed in hell. “Once you raise your hand to join up—once they ship you off to wherever the fuck it is they send new blood to turn 'em into soldier boys—once that day come, if I ever see your face again, I'ma kill you. Myself. My hands.”

D'Loco released him and turned toward the door.

“Now get on downstairs,” he said before walking out. “Brothers been askin' 'bout you all damn day.”

Lydia needed to go downstairs for an hour's workout on the heavy bag. She'd seen only four patients that day, but each had been complicated. One was a twelve-year-old girl who showed up to school drunk and broke her teacher's nose with a butt of her head, then kicked the principal in the groin when he intervened. Her single father had brought her to Lydia hoping for a magic answer to tame his wild child. Another was a middle-aged man who'd been his obese mother's caregiver for the past thirty years. Now that her diabetes had taken both her legs and she required more intense care than he could provide at home, he complained to Lydia that he'd wasted his entire life.

“I'm angry,” he'd told her at his noon appointment. “I'm sad. I'm lost. I'm acutely aware I've delayed beginning my own life out of some stupid sense of loyalty to a woman who cares more for double-chocolate Oreos than she does for herself. Or me, for that matter. Now I'm fifty-three years old and all I have to show for my life is an encyclopedic knowledge of every plotline in
Days of Our Lives
for the past forty years.”

Lydia's other two patients had come to their appointments actively suicidal. Lydia spent two hours sufficiently stabilizing one so that she could be sent home in the care of her sister. The other, a twenty-six-year-old recent college graduate, had come to tell her goodbye. Within five minutes of arriving at her office, he grew ever-more incoherent.

“Steven, have you already done something to end your life?” she asked.

The young man gave her a sleepy nod. “Little pills…lots of little pills.”

Lydia immediately dialed 911 and spent the next hour on the phone with the emergency room. She learned her patient would survive, but with enough damage to his kidneys that he'd be on dialysis until he could qualify for a transplant.

She intended to pummel that bag until the stress of the day dripped out of every pore. Then it would be a long shower and relaxing glass of merlot. With any luck she'd be in bed by ten thirty.

Her phone rang before her foot landed on the second stair to her basement. She glanced at the screen. She didn't recognize the number, but it was a Seattle area code.

“Is this Dr. Lydia Corriger?” a female voice asked.

“It is.”

“This is Jeanne Comstock. Detective Grant's assistant.” The woman sounded young. Tentative. “Detective Grant asked me to call you.”

“What's up?” Lydia trotted down the stairs to her basement. Instead of turning left toward her gym, she took a right and walked into her office.

“Detective Grant wants you to meet him. He says it's important.”

“Did he say what it's about?” Lydia logged on to her computer and accessed her communication system. In less than thirty seconds she learned the call originated in downtown Seattle, on the same block as the police department's headquarters.

“No, ma'am. Just wanted me to let you know he needed to see you. He said to tell you he was sorry for the short notice.”

“I'm more than happy to meet him. Did he give you specifics?”

“Yes. He said he'd meet you at your clinic office at nine o'clock.”

Lydia looked at the clock on her computer. It was already 8:07. “He must be on his way.”

“Yes, ma'am. Detective Grant left his cellphone at his office. He called me on his radio. Asked me to let you know he'd see you at nine o'clock. Can I tell him you'll meet him?”

“Certainly. Let him know I'll be there.”

The phone call ended with Jeanne Comstock's thanks and Lydia's assurance it was no problem at all.

Then Lydia left her console and went to her bookcase, pressing the button giving her access to her arsenal. She selected two guns and a Taser. She lifted the right leg of her yoga pants and strapped on a spandex holster, securing a six-inch Counter Tac II single-blade knife to her ankle. She closed the panel hiding her armory and took a final look around her office. Then she ran upstairs to her bedroom. She stripped off her sweatshirt and pulled on a concealable ballistic vest. She knocked hard against the Kevlar plates to make sure they were in place before putting her shirt back on. She swapped out her soft-soled workout shoes for a sturdier athletic pair.

She went next to her bathroom and brushed her shoulder-length hair into a tight ponytail. She wound the tail around itself, forming a compact bun that would deny anyone the opportunity to grab hold.

It was now 8:28. Her office was twenty-five minutes away. She grabbed her keys and sprinted to her car.

Mort Grant had never relayed a message to her. Not once. Their relationship needed to appear inconsequential to the world. If he wanted to speak to her, he called himself. If it was important, as the caller had indicated, he drove alone to her home.

I don't know who you are, Jeanne Comstock
.
But I know who you work for. Allie's coming for me. I'm ready.

Lydia circled the block before pulling into her stall in the empty private lot behind her building. She noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Clouds blocked any moon- or starlight. A steady rain blurred streetlamps and store signs. She opened the main door of the onetime mansion that long ago had been divided into small offices. The dim green glow from the exit signs offered eerie illumination throughout the marble reception hall. The building was quiet. Even the most workaholic tenants would have left hours ago. She had taken four steps across the floor when she heard the front door open again behind her. Lydia spun and balanced her weight over both feet, ready to spring.

“There you are.” A familiar voice rang out in the dimly lit vestibule. “Daphne gave me your message. Said it was urgent. What's up?”

Mort's voice was light. His tone was chatty. He walked toward her with a smile. But his eyes were focused lasers beaming onto hers.

I never communicate through a third party either. He knows.

“What's so damned important you call me all the way down here on a soggy night like this?” Mort gave one quick pat to his hip as he walked toward her.

He's armed.

“Wires must have gotten crossed.” Lydia kept her tone chatty. There was no need to alert anyone who might be observing that they were prepared. “I called Daphne a few days ago,” she lied. “To invite you to come down to see a new painting I got for my office. Told her to tell you lunch was on me.”

“That's our Daphne. If there's any way to get something screwed up, she's gonna do it. You shoulda known I didn't get the message when I passed up the lunch.” Mort's face was more serious than his tone. “Let's go see it. But if you're looking for artistic critique, you've got the wrong man.”

Despite their idle chatter about the weather and Mort's ride down in the rain, they worked as a team as they climbed the wide steps leading to the second floor. Lydia scanned the territory in front and to their left while Mort surveyed their right flank and rear. They paused at her office door. Lydia saw a sad apology in Mort's eyes.

Lydia unlocked the door and they stepped into her client waiting room. On instinct they stood angled to each other, shoulder to shoulder. Each able to view one complete hemisphere of the area. Lydia switched on the lights.

The waiting room was empty.

Nothing had been disturbed. Magazines were fanned across a coffee table. Pillows rested on the sofa just as they had when Lydia left that afternoon. Lydia nodded toward her therapy room.

“Am I going to choke when I hear how much you shelled out for this thing?” Mort asked as they approached the closed door.

“When I start asking you to pay my bills, you can start commenting on how I spend money. How's that?” Lydia flattened her back against the wall next to the doorjamb. Mort mimicked her on the other side. Lydia nodded and turned the knob.

The chair where she sat during sessions was still draped with the light blanket she often laid over her lap on chilly days. The sofa her patients used was undisturbed.

But her eyes caught something. Lydia pointed to the light leaking under the door separating her therapy room from her private office. It was her habit to turn off all lights as she closed her suite each evening. Lydia pointed to it and shook her head. Mort nodded and pulled his parka back, giving him free access to his holster.

“It's in my office,” she said. “If you don't like it, keep your opinions to yourself.”

She threw open the door. Mort stepped in first, Lydia one step behind him.

“What the hell?” Lydia spun around, looking for Allie, but all she saw was chaos. Her computer was shoved off her desk, along with her in-basket, clock, and everything else. Paper littered the floor. Mail, journals, reference books, calendars. Two filing cabinets were tipped over. Fortunately, they held Lydia's patient files and were double locked.

“Look.” Mort pulled her attention to the opposite wall. A closet where she kept supplies, along with an umbrella, a pair of rain boots, and a couple of sweaters, had been gutted. “Somebody was looking for something.”

Lydia's anger flared. “
Somebody?
You know damned well who was here, Mort.”

Mort stood with his hands on his hips, taking in the rifled office. “Well, whoever it was isn't here now.”

Lydia turned away from her rage. What could Allie have wanted from her office? The only evidence pegging Lydia as the Fixer was at Lydia's home. Allie knew that. Why had she come here?

She stepped over the scattered material on the floor, hoping to see something that might expose Allie's plan. When she came around behind her desk, she stopped midstep.

“That's not mine.” Lydia pointed to a file folder sitting on her desk chair. It was standard office size, but not the manila color Lydia always used. This folder was bright pink and emblazoned with flowers and butterflies. It was the kind of folder a teenaged girl might use to keep her algebra homework separate from her social studies. Designed to capture attention. She picked it up, opened it, and gasped.

Photographs of Oliver Bane filled the folder. Oliver greeting a customer with a smile. Oliver locking up his shop for the night. Oliver making his way to his car. Oliver walking up to his front porch. Each photograph had him wearing the same clothes. Each was time-stamped.

Today.

“This is a diversionary tactic.” Lydia slammed the folder on her desk. “Allie isn't after me, she's after Oliver. She…she…I don't know. Wanted us occupied while she executed her plan?”

“Why?”

“To hurt me. Let's go. My car's faster.”

Mort followed. They hurried out of her office, rushed through the therapy and waiting rooms, and were inches apart when Lydia opened the main door leading out of her suite.

A burly tank of a man standing in the hall with an automatic rifle pointed directly at them brought them to a dead stop.

A feminine voice called out when Mort and Lydia each reached for their weapons. “Don't!” Allie Grant came into view behind the broad-shouldered man. “Fyodor here can be quite the brute when he thinks I'm being threatened.”

The man marched forward without hesitation, his assault rifle pushing Mort and Lydia back into her waiting room. Allie followed, closing the office door behind her. She stood behind the sofa and pulled her own semiautomatic pistol from the pocket of her flowing black raincoat.

“Come here, Lydia.”

“Stop this, Allie.” Mort's voice was a paternal mix of insistence and disappointment. “You're digging a hole you won't be able to crawl out of.”

“Now, Lydia!” Allie turned to her henchman. “Keep your rifle steady, Fyodor. My father may be nearing retirement, but he's fit. And he's cagey.” She shifted to her father. “Relax, Daddy. Nobody's going to be hurt tonight. Not if you both do as I say.”

“What have you done with Oliver?” Lydia asked. “Where is he?”

Allie shook her head and golden hair drifted around a face so lovely even her own depravity couldn't diminish its beauty. “Dear martyred Lydia. Always thinking of the other person. With all those kills under your belt, too. One might have thought the sheer quantity of blood on your hands would have toughened you.”

“Is he alive?”

Allie tilted her head in wonderment. “Is it your naive idea of justice? Is that how you do the whole vigilante thing and still stay softhearted enough to be so easily misled?”

“Answer her, Allison,” Mort demanded. “What have you done with Oliver?”

Allie kept her gun trained on Lydia and used her other hand to point to her father, pinned against the wall by her man's rifle. “Don't speak to me that way!” She looked away for a moment, then spoke with softer words. “Really, Daddy. Are you about to send me to my room? Do you have so little awareness of who your little girl is?”

Mort's voice was laced with sorrow. “I have a good idea, Allie. And it kills me.”

“I command an army!” Allie roared. She signaled and her man brought a swift knee into Mort's groin, bringing him to his knees. When Mort found his breath again, Allie sounded calm. “Are you impressed with what I can do with a nod of my head? I remember Mom telling me I could do anything I wanted to. Become whatever I wanted to be. But she was lying, wasn't she? What she meant was I could be anything men wanted me to be.”

“Don't speak of your mother while your ape is holding a gun on me,” Mort panted.

“Mother wanted to be a dancer. But she married a cop who wanted hearth and home, so she settled for giving lessons to spoiled Queen Anne brats. Would you be more impressed with me if I was like Claire? She's one wicked smart lady. Wasn't it international relations that caught her attention? But she fell for my brother. He knocks her up with twins and the next thing you know she's elbow deep in laundry and home-improvement magazines. All dreams cast aside. And what about this one?” Allie nodded toward Lydia. “A genuine kick-ass assassin! She's dealing the cards that need to be when the men are too chickenshit to even ante up. But instead of giving her the respect she deserves, you cage her in. You should have done the decent thing and put a bullet between her eyes when you found out who she was. But the great Morton Grant wanted what he wanted. You going to tame her, Daddy? Groom her into the daughter you think you deserve? Make her wear St. John knits and sensible pumps?”