Fixed in Fear

Fixed in Fear
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Alibi eBook Original

Copyright © 2015 by Teresa E. Woods

Excerpt from
Dead-End Fix
by T. E. Woods copyright © 2015 by Teresa E. Woods

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

A
LIBI
is a registered trademark and the
A
LIBI
colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
Dead-End Fix
by T. E. Woods. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

eBook ISBN 9781101886571

Cover design: Caroline Teagle

Cover image: © Elizabeth Ansley/Trevillion Images

readalibi.com

v4.1

ep

It was September and the air blew warm across the broad clearing high atop a pine-forested hill. Nevertheless, Dalton Rogers mentally hummed “Here Comes Santa Claus” as he stepped over the smoldering remains of five burned bodies. His grandfather had sung it to him every Christmas Eve when Dalton was a kid. The night before Christmas had always been his favorite time. Back then, his mother would make an effort to stay sober long enough to drive her young son to her parents' house. She'd drop him off and promise to be there in the morning. A couple of years she even made it. But to Dalton it didn't matter where his mother went on Christmas Eve. There was always plenty of food on Grandma's old hickory kitchen table, as well as a giant tree done up with bubble lights and tinsel. His grandparents would let Dalton wrestle with their old hound dog right there in the living room. And when it was time for bed, Grandpa would tuck Dalton in, cover him with a quilt Grandma's mother had stitched herself, and sing the silly song until Dalton fell asleep. It always brought him comfort.

He hadn't thought of that song in years. Not since his mother had had that last screaming match with her parents. After that, she packed up and moved herself and eleven-year-old Dalton two counties over. He didn't see his grandparents again until their funeral. Flu took them both the year Dalton graduated from high school. But today the song came back to him. He hoped it might work its magic to keep the beef-and-bean burrito he had for lunch down in his stomach where it needed to stay. He didn't need old Tug spreading stories about how the new guy blew chunks at the sight of all those dead bodies.

“Rogers!”

Dalton looked toward Officer Tugger Mahoney, a fifteen-year veteran of the Enumclaw Police Department, who stood talking with the shaking and crying woman who'd placed the emergency call.

“You catching anything?”

Dalton forced himself to monitor the carnage and yelled back the details as he circled the burned-out area. “Looks like five of 'em. All dead and then some.”
Here comes Santa Claus, Here comes Santa Claus.
“Best I can tell it's two ladies….I mean, two females.”
Right down Santa Claus Lane.
“Clothes are pretty near burned off all of 'em.” He swallowed hard against a mixture of taco sauce and bile climbing up his throat. “Some's got their fingers burned off.” He didn't yell out any description of the slash wounds he saw on the bodies. There was no need to traumatize the woman any more than she obviously was.

Dalton kept surveying. He was careful where he placed his boots. He'd been on the force for nearly two years. This was his first murder scene. But he remembered from the academy that the first rule, after arriving and securing any crime scene, was not to disturb the evidence. “Lots of what looks like burned rugs or carpets.”

“Sure there's only five?”

Dalton wondered how many more old Tug needed to make it interesting. He looked again, this time counting off the charred mounds of flesh on his fingers.

“Five's what I see,” he yelled back.

“Get on up here, then. And step wide of any ash. Don't contaminate anything.”

The acrid stench of burned flesh stuck in Dalton's nostrils like burrs on a hunting dog's legs. Streams of rancid smoke curled up from the large crater holding the bodies. Dalton stepped wide as Tug ordered, but he wondered how much more contaminated the place could get.

“You okay, ma'am?” Dalton asked when he reached the two of them. “This must be quite a shock.”

A thin woman—who Dalton made as no older than himself—with long red hair braided with blue and silver ribbons, struggled to answer. “This is a holy place,” she said. “How could this happen?”

“You know these people, ma'am?” Dalton asked.

“Of course she knows them,” Tug barked. “She brought 'em up here. They came from the lodge. Tourists up here—”

“Travelers,” the woman interrupted. “We call them travelers. They come to experience the sweat lodge. It's part of their spiritual journey.”

Tug rolled his eyes. Dalton was glad Tug was standing behind the woman so she couldn't see.

“Anyway,” Tug continued. “She brings the
travelers
up here. Dropped 'em off last night. Comes to pick 'em up this morning, and this is what she sees.”

“This site is sacred,” the woman said. “What caused this? There was no storm last night. No lightning.”

A storm doesn't cause slashes,
Dalton thought.
Thunder doesn't gouge.

Old Tug rested his hand on his holster, threw his shoulders back, and spit to the side. “That's what we intend to find out, little lady. Don't you worry.”

Dalton Rogers took another look toward the smoldering pile of flesh and bones. A sudden gust of chilled air blew against the back of his sweaty neck. He looked up and counted seven hawks circling in the cloudless sky far above the carnage. Another memory of his grandfather floated into his awareness. The two of them were walking through the forest. Grandpa pointed out a hawk and told him the hunting bird always flew alone.

“So if you see more than one, Dalton,” his grandfather had warned, “you know you got trouble.”

So fill your hearts with Christmas cheer 'cause Santa Claus comes tonight.

Lydia Corriger sat behind the communication console in the secure room of her basement at-home office. She kept her eyes riveted to the thirty-inch high-definition screen in front of her, breathed deeply, and braced herself against the white-hot surge of strength radiating from her spine out to her limbs.

There you are.

She used her finger to trace a circle around the man shown walking across a small-town main street, then tapped the screen to freeze the image. With her thumb and forefinger she enlarged the encircled area. The man's face filled the screen.

Eddie Dirkin looked a bit older than his mug shot. But then, it
had
been seven years. Dirkin's hair was grayer than it was in the dozens of photographs Lydia studied. Photographs taken from his trial as well as from the front page of the newspaper under headlines screaming of his escape. Lydia swept her hand and the Man on Main Street's image shifted to the left half of the screen. She manipulated her computer mouse and a gallery of other photos filled the right side. She tapped them in succession, and with each tap the selected photo filled the eastern hemisphere of her viewing area, giving her a side-by-side comparison of Eddie Dirkin to the man on the left.

You've put on weight, Eddie. Is that by design? Did you purposefully add pounds to round out the chiseled physique you had when you murdered your friend? That must have been difficult for a vain man like yourself. You always tried to stand out in a crowd. How many cheeseburgers and pizzas did it take for you to morph into soft-bellied anonymity?

She brought up another old picture of Eddie. In it, he was walking out of the courthouse and looking to his right, just like the Man on Main Street. Lydia's eyes traced the two profiles from brow to chin. She used her finger to drag the seven-year-old image of Eddie over the top of the shot of the Man on Main taken from a live-feed webcam just that morning.

It was a perfect match.

I found you, Eddie.

Lydia leaned back, closed her eyes, and let an image of Ann Louise Chait float across her consciousness.

It had been nearly four years ago. Before she met Mort. Before Savannah had walked her troubled soul into Lydia's office.

Life was easier then. I had my patients. My home. And I had The Fixer.

Ann Louise had contacted The Fixer the way everyone seeking relief had. Someone who knew someone knew somebody who heard from a guy in a bar who got it from a lawyer buddy of his that there was a person “out there” who took on cases. Cases where the bad guy got away and left no hope for justice. Ann Louise didn't put much stock in the legend of The Fixer, but she'd been desperate enough to follow the instructions whispered to her by a friend who swore it was true. Ann Louise placed three identical ads in
USA Today, The New York Times,
and
Rolling Stone
on the first Thursday of October four years ago. Following the advice she'd been given, Ann Louise's ad said she needed help translating an old family cookbook. Lydia called Ann Louise three days later from her secured communications center, her voice digitally disguised and cell signals bouncing randomly seven times every minute.

Ann Louise told Lydia about her husband. They'd been married six years. They had a son, Billy, who would be three in a few weeks.

“But he hasn't seen his father since before his first birthday,” Ann Louise explained. “Edward Dirkin murdered him.”

Ann Louise related the story of Dennis Chait and Edward Dirkin. They'd been friends since their freshman year at the University of Minnesota.

“Everyone always wondered how they got along,” she said. “Dennis was so quiet and studious. Edward was a charmer. Never concerned about his grades. Only interested in getting to the gym or the next party. I met Dennis our senior year. We knew from the start that what was happening between us was serious. That didn't stop Eddie from hitting on me the first time I went to their apartment. I told Dennis how uncomfortable it made me, but he shrugged it off. Said that's just the way Eddie was. Still, it was always hard for me to relax around him.”

Lydia learned that Dennis had graduated at the top of his engineering class. Edward Dirkin never completed his degree. He left the university after Dennis graduated.

“He was utterly dependent on Dennis,” Ann Louise said. “For all his bravado and carefree ways, Eddie relied on my husband for everything. Dennis thought of him like a goofball brother. When Dennis got his first patent, there were offers from major companies, but my husband recognized what he had. He was a visionary. I couldn't have been more proud when he started his own company. I thought it was a mistake for him to hire Eddie, but, like I said, Dennis loved him like family.”

Dennis's murder captured the headlines in Minnesota. Lydia researched newspapers, webcasts, blogs, and court records for the details of the case. She learned that Dennis's company had started small. Dennis designed the products, Ann Louise handled the administrative details, and Edward Dirkin represented the company to the corporations eager to buy Dennis's switches, relays, and programming boards. Within three years Dennis held more than twenty patents and his firm was billing nearly fifteen million dollars annually.

“Dennis thought it was time for us to get married.” Ann Louise chuckled through her tears. “He wanted to be financially stable before he proposed. Of course, Eddie was his best man. Things were good for a year or so. But when Billy was born, Dennis started to change. The business wasn't as important to him anymore. He wanted to sell it, move somewhere warmer. Just the three of us. He wanted a simpler life. He didn't want to be an absent father to Billy. I told him I loved the idea. And the thought of not having Eddie around every day was a bonus.” Ann Louise's sobs made her difficult to understand despite Lydia's sophisticated equipment. “We never got that chance. Eddie killed him.”

Dennis Chait was shot three times at close range. Twice in the neck, once in the shoulder. He died on a Sunday afternoon in the hallway connecting his office to Edward Dirkin's. Eddie called 911 immediately. The frantic recording was played during his trial. Lydia was able to access it and for the first time heard Eddie's voice.

“Ohmygod…ohmygod…Den, I'm sorry. Ohmygod, come quick. My friend's been shot. I shot him. Oh, God. Den…Den…I'm so sorry. I thought he was a burglar. I'm here by myself. It's a Sunday. Oh, God, Den. What are you doing here? Come quick. I think it's bad.”

The prosecution brought first-degree murder charges against Edward Dirkin, citing pending criminal exposure as Eddie's motive. Ann Louise's pregnancy had been difficult. She had left Dennis's company when her ob-gyn recommended complete bed rest her last trimester. Following the birth of her son, Ann Louise had become a full-time stay-at-home mother. Eddie agreed to manage the two women hired to take over Ann Louise's administrative duties. Dennis had continued to focus on product development. Everything seemed fine until a potential buyer's pre-purchase audit uncovered nearly ten million dollars of cash, equipment, and inventory missing.

“There was only one person who could have done it,” Ann Louise explained. “Dennis was crushed. The buyers backed out. His dream of leaving the business died. Someone he trusted like a brother had betrayed him. Eddie knew Dennis was coming to confront him that Sunday. He knew and he killed him.”

Eddie's legal team stuck to the strategy that the shooting had been a tragic mistake. Eddie told the authorities he was aware of the missing funds, but laid responsibility on Dennis. He testified that Dennis was tired of his life with Ann Louise. He didn't like being a father and had plans to amass as much cash as he could and simply walk away. Investigators found no evidence of a phone call between Dennis and Eddie that Sunday, supporting Eddie's claim that he believed someone had broken into the office. His defense team laid bare Edward Dirkin's financial records. At the time of his arrest he had less than two thousand dollars in savings and his checking account was nearly overdrawn.

Ten days into the initial testimony, the judge declared a mistrial. Eddie, ever the charmer, had been making eye contact with Juror Number Three, a twenty-nine-year-old violinist with the Minneapolis Symphony. The judge had noticed it on day three and warned Eddie and his defense team to knock it off. A week later the bailiff saw the juror drop a tightly folded note onto the defense table as she walked by. He confiscated it and handed it to the judge. The note, in the juror's handwriting, complimented Eddie on his eyes. She wrote how compassionate he seemed and stated she was certain he could never do the terrible things he was accused of. She told him she was already making sure the other jurors would find him innocent. The juror provided both her phone number and email address and asked if he liked classical music.

The prosecution demanded Eddie's bail be revoked and that he be immediately returned to custody. The defense was equally forceful arguing to the judge that it wasn't their client who'd dropped the note. They saw no need to penalize a man who'd shown up dutifully every day.

The judge, though furious about the situation, agreed with the defense. Edward Dirkin thanked the judge and went home. He met with his attorneys the next morning to discuss potential changes in strategy, given the prosecution's assurance a new trial would begin as soon as a new jury pool could be established.

“He was supposed to show up for another meeting with his lawyers a week later. When he didn't come and they couldn't contact him, they called the judge. The police found his car in his driveway,” Ann Louise explained. “No clothes were missing. His savings account was untouched. But his computer showed Google searches for foreign countries. They all had one thing in common: no extradition to the United States. The police checked flights but found nothing. What they
did
find were the remains of a small notebook in Eddie's fireplace. It was pretty burned but they had experts who could reconstruct the long lists of numbers on them.”

The numbers represented accounts in multiple banks, each under different names and each holding just under one hundred thousand dollars accumulated from deposits of various amounts. The deposits had begun when Ann Louise left the company and were added to on a weekly basis for nineteen months. The last deposits were made nine days before Dennis was killed.

And now the accounts were closed. Emptied with cashier's checks in random amounts over a six-week period that ended just as the trial meant to bring Dennis Chait's murderer to justice was beginning.

Eddie Dirkin had been as careful closing them as he had been opening them.

Ann Louise waited nearly two years before reaching out to The Fixer. She said she prayed each day the police would find Eddie. But as the months dragged on and the trail got colder, Ann Louise could sense the hopelessness in the detectives' voices. More months passed without a lead and she heard a growing irritation whenever she called.

“I guess I can understand it,” she said. “Every time I call them, their noses get rubbed in a flaming trash pile of failure. But I have to try. My husband's dead, and Eddie's dancing on all of Dennis's hard work.”

The Fixer had high fees. Ann Louise was back at work as an office manager with a small insurance company. Lydia told Ann Louise that The Fixer wouldn't be taking the case. She wished her luck and never contacted her again.

But Lydia continued to monitor all correspondence related to Dennis's murder within the Minneapolis Police Department. From her communication console she secretly accessed emails, status reports, and monthly updates. Anything submitted electronically was hers to review. She learned Edward Dirkin's name was placed on no-fly lists across the country and in every nation listed in Eddie's computer search history. Banks around the globe were asked to notify local authorities should someone matching Eddie's description try to open an account.

Lydia focused closer to home. Eddie would have sacrificed his passport when he was granted bail. She was betting Eddie, with his good-time reputation and his lifelong aversion to hard work, wouldn't assert the effort necessary to build a new identity deep enough to support a valid passport.

Eddie was somewhere in the United States.

As a clinical psychologist, Lydia was a trained researcher. The same investigative abilities that led to an award-winning dissertation, dozens of scientific papers, and expert clinical diagnoses proved invaluable as she set about learning all she could about Edward David Dirkin. Within a week she knew his childhood history, his tastes in music, his hobbies, and what he liked to eat. She learned about his health, the kind of movies he rented, and what kind of wine he drank. She gained access to his school and medical histories. His credit cards provided insight into everything he consumed.

Lydia also monitored Juror Number Three, Janice Gleason. She followed the woman's electronic and phone communications. For three years there was nothing to indicate Eddie had been in contact with the violinist. But Lydia was patient. Eddie wasn't built for the isolation of an underground existence. When Janice received an email from a Bill Smith, complimenting her on her jury service, Lydia knew instantly it was Edward Dirkin reaching out for human contact. She tracked the source to an address in Westbrook, Maine: a small rented house overlooking the Presumpscot River.

Lydia stared at the face on the screen. Dennis Chait was dead. Ann Louise and her young son deserved to know that the man who stole everything from them would not enjoy one more breath bankrolled by their misery. A calm, steadying warmth settled across her shoulders.

“I'm coming for you, Eddie.” She laid her hand across the face of the man on her computer monitor. “I'm going to fix this.”