Fixed in Fear (18 page)

“I got shit to do, man.” Bilbo stood and took a second to balance himself. “Ain't got no time for these questions.”

Mort pulled himself up and stood next to him. “But you remained friends. Despite the changes. It's impressive. That's all I meant.”

Bilbo held his gaze with rheumy eyes. When he spoke it was with a world-weary voice. “What Carlton and I had? What we shared? It was a bond nobody could break.”

Bilbo walked into the house without another word.

Mort glanced at his watch. It was almost noon. He thought about his favorite sandwich shop and their pastrami on rye. Larry and he had once declared it the best in the city…and they'd gone on quite the hunt before making the pronouncement. He'd grab one for Bilbo, too, certain the man would prefer that to a microwaved burrito. He pulled his car keys from the pocket of his windbreaker and turned to enter the house to let Larry know he'd be right back. Before he could reach for the door, however, Larry was opening it from inside.

“Talk to me, Morton.” Larry's voice was a mixture of hesitancy and curiosity. “I'm having trouble making heads or tails of what I've been reading.”

Mort's eyebrows shot up. “You want
my
help? Listen, all I remember from my religious training are the words to ‘Jesus Loves Me.' ”

Larry waved him inside. “Carlton's latest journal entries. I've been poring over them. It seems that for the past few months he'd been cataloging the similarities between the three Abrahamic religions' take on forgiveness.”

They were in Carlton's office now. Larry stood behind the table, a cloth-bound journal in front of him.

“What's an Abrahamic religion?” Mort asked. “And lose the professor stuff. Tell me like you're talking to a two-year-old.”

“Three great religions sprang from the same source: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The three religions each trace their origins back to the patriarch Abraham.”

“Yeah? So I imagine they've got some similarities then. And given how much blood has been spilled in the name of those three religions, I imagine they've got their differences, too.”

“Exactly.” Larry flipped to a page in Carlton's journal he'd earmarked. “Carlton had developed a grid system on each religion's forgiveness rituals. See?” He turned the book for Mort's inspection. Carlton had drawn a grid, with columns for religions and rows for rituals. “Look where the religions agree.”

Mort drew a finger down the page. “There's an
X
for each religion for confession.”

“That's right.” Larry nodded. “Same concept, but the execution is different. Jews believe you only confess those sins to God that have offended God. Slights you do against men you confess to the person you've offended.”

“Don't bother God with the small stuff,” Mort said.

“Something like that. Christians mandate you confess everything to God.” Larry pointed to another area of the graph. “And Islam sort of combines the two. According to Islam, in order to be forgiven, a person must recognize and admit their wrongdoing to God, make a commitment to never repeat the offense, and, finally, if another person is involved, ask that person for his pardon.”

Mort thought about that. “Is that why he was always at Kenny Kamm's parole hearings? To make himself available for Kamm to confess? But that makes no sense. Kamm
did
confess. Remember? He told us that even though he doesn't remember that night, he's come to accept he was responsible for Helen's death.”

“That is confusing. But look at this.” Larry picked up a smaller ledger. “This is his personal journal. In the three months before his death, Carlton had even more entries about the need to confess and to address the person he'd harmed.”

“Harmed in what way?”

“He doesn't say.” Larry set that journal down and picked up a third. “This is his calendar. The police found it in the room Carlton rented at the lodge. It was in the personal effects they gave me when I identified the body. Look. His calendar's almost empty. Carlton spent most of his time, when he wasn't traveling, here in this room.”

Mort started with Carlton Smydon's September schedule. He felt a heaviness in his chest when he saw the September entry for the sweat lodge. There was an exclamation point next to Carlton's notation of his arrival at Tall Oaks Lodge.

He'd been excited to be going.

Mort flipped several pages back. Larry was right. There weren't many entries in the calendar. There was a dentist appointment in August as well as an opening for an art exhibit. He flipped back to July. Carlton had arranged to have his car serviced. There was a dinner date with Larry that was crossed out. In June, Carlton had made note of a lecture at a local synagogue.

Mort's brow furrowed when he saw the notation for another appointment. On June 14, Carlton had written
Abraham/noon.
Mort looked to his friend.

“Carlton made a lunch date with his brother. Abraham said he hadn't seen his brother since Kenny Kamm's last parole hearing. That was a year ago.”

Larry's hands shook as he took the calendar from Mort and turned back to July. “Carlton kept meticulous records. I couldn't make that dinner we'd arranged. See? He crossed our appointment out.” Larry flipped back to June. “There's no such
X
through his appointment with Abraham.”

Mort let the news settle in.

“I think there's more at play here.” Larry laid his hands over Carlton's journals. “I thought all these years Carlton was searching for a way to forgive Kenny Kamm. But from what I'm learning today, I can't help but wonder if he was also searching for a way
to be
forgiven. But for what?”

Mort wondered if Bilbo might be able to fill in some blanks. The two men lived together. Could he have an idea of why Carlton had wanted to have lunch with his estranged brother? He stepped into the hallway and called out. “Bilbo? Can you come to Carlton's office?”

There was no response.

“He's probably back out front smoking. I'll get him.” Mort left Larry and went to the porch. When he didn't find Bilbo, he came back into the house, walking through the rooms. “Hey, Bilbo. Where are you, man? I gotta ask you something.” Mort looked in the kitchen. Then the bathrooms. He felt his neck tighten when he found Bilbo's bedroom empty. Mort picked up his pace and trotted to the back of the house.

Bilbo's car was gone.

Allie would have loved to have slept in that Friday morning, but her guest was due at nine, which meant he'd be there at eight thirty, and she needed everything to be in place. The Russians were married to their rituals and traditions. In order to maintain her position as czarina, she'd need to show every one of her men that their rituals were now hers.

Fyodor Ratchnikov had been reluctant to give Allie his allegiance when she made her move. She'd killed Tokarev in front of his men, then demanded loyalty from each in exchange for riches beyond what any of them could imagine. With guns pointed at them, they listened to her pledges and plans. One by one they recognized there was no other choice but to come forward and kiss her ring, thereby swearing their lives to her. It was only Ratchnikov who balked. He had been Tokarev's most loyal lieutenant and was the last to fall in line.

Allie set to work making real her promise to her men. In the few months she'd been in charge, profits were up nearly 16 percent, with nothing but endless potential in sight. The men were happy. Their women were happier when Allie instructed each of her lieutenants to make sure they introduced their ladies to the finest jewelers in Moscow, London, and Paris. Allie threw lavish parties on a regular basis, providing a venue for the men to flaunt their gilded and bejeweled women. Times were good.

But Ratchnikov kept his distance. Allie sensed his displeasure despite his impeccable manners and perfectly timed smiles. She could feel him waiting, like a tiger in the grass, for a moment of weakness from her. He would pounce. And she would lose everything.

She needed Ratchnikov firmly committed to her if she was to maintain a firm grasp on the Russian cartel. Allie had plans for expansion into the Far East. The opportunity to secure supply lines, not to mention the billions of customers waiting for their product, demanded solidarity. She could not be distracted by potential power plays from Ratchnikov. So when her alarm went off at six thirty
A.M.
she overrode her desire to click it off and grab a few more hours of sleep. Instead she shoved aside the 1,200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and headed for the shower.

It had been nearly midnight by the time Staz delivered her back to the Larchmont after her visit to Lydia. Lydia had refused to intervene with her father. No problem. She'd try again. Besides, the drive to Olympia hadn't been a total loss. Allie stepped into the shower and let the steaming water warm her skin as the memories of yesterday's encounter with Oliver Bane did the same for her libido. She'd known she'd have no trouble. She knew how to get a man to invite her into his bed. But she hadn't expected him to be such a tender lover. She leaned under the shower spray, let the water envelop her, and recalled the gentleness of his touch. It had been too long since she'd truly enjoyed a sexual encounter. When she was with Vadim Tokarev sex was a commodity to be used and exchanged. Tokarev was a barbarian who wielded his cock as a tool to control her. But Allie knew how to play his abusive game. She endured his brutality and taught him another way. It took her little time to convince him no man could satisfy her the way he could.

Men are so easy to control after you get them to believe that,
she decided.
They instantly fall in love, convinced they've finally met a woman who understands what they've known all along…that their dick is king above all others.

Tokarev had planned to kill Allie at what was to have been their engagement party and use her death as a way to cement fear into the hearts of his men. But Allie had turned the tables with two shots…the first to his beloved penis and the second straight through his heart. Tokarev's men realized their options were to pledge their faithfulness or join their fallen leader on that bloody dance floor.

They all had. Even Ratchnikov. The entire cartel was now hers to command.

And she intended to keep it that way.

Allie wrapped herself in a soft cashmere robe and walked to the closet of her rented villa. She'd arrived in Seattle three days earlier and called the concierge to arrange for a personal shopper once she was satisfied the villa suited her needs. Allie always traveled light. She used one piece of rolling luggage and packed sufficient toiletries and cosmetics for one night, along with a single change of clothing. Her only indulgence was her six-inch cubed jewelry case. Allie detested packing and found it more convenient to have someone buy whatever she needed wherever she landed. That way she'd have clothing keyed to the local style, allowing her to be perfectly attired for her location, whether she found herself spending a week in Bali or a month in Madrid. She stood patiently while they measured her from head to toe and urged them to take free rein with their selections. The only request she had was that anything they brought her had to be of the highest quality.

“Make me the best-dressed woman in any room I enter” was her one rule.

The personal shopper the Larchmont had provided introduced herself as Calliope Valentine. She was a tall middle-aged woman. Rail thin with severe, patrician features. Dressed entirely in black. One silver band on her left ring finger. Calliope held herself with an elegant posture and spoke with an air of condescension usually born from years attending exclusive boarding schools and ski trips with Daddy on spring vacations to St. Moritz. Allie wondered what had led the woman from there and then to here and now: measuring the bust line and shoe size of a total stranger. But she didn't ask. And Calliope Valentine did not disappoint. Allie stood in the villa's room-sized closet and nodded her approval at the array of slacks, blouses, jackets, shoes, and coats the woman had selected. Everything near couture in quality and fitting as though custom-made for Allie, right down to the pajamas and slippers.

Allie had asked, in addition to casual day and evening outfits, for an ensemble suitable for a high-level board meeting. Calliope chose a dress from a local designer who'd trained in Paris. The garment was a simple sheath of dusty blue merino wool. An exposed zipper, each tooth covered in a thin veneer of black leather, ran down the front left side from shoulder to hem, lending an on-trend edginess to the classic design. Calliope paired the knee-length dress with three-inch black leather pumps. Allie knew the sapphire and diamond ring and simple half-carat diamond studs Patrick had given her during a visit to South Africa four years earlier would accent the look with quiet elegance.

A gentle chime sounding through small speakers mounted near the ceiling pulled Allie away from admiring Calliope's selections. She glanced at the clock. Seven
A.M.
The hairdresser was here.

An hour later Allie slipped a hundred-dollar tip into the hand of her beaming stylist and said she looked forward to seeing him tomorrow.

“You look stunning, Ms. Roberts.” Alex Dontelle gathered his brushes and gels back into the Seattle Seahawks duffel bag carrying the tools of his trade. “Like I said, this vision of you with your hair in a loose bun gathered at the nape of that swan neck of yours came to me in a dream last night. I have to say, it looks even better in real life than in my dream.” He zipped his bag and threw it over his shoulder. “I'm a genius. An artist.” He threw her an air kiss as he headed to the door. “Promise me ten percent of whatever deal that hair gets you today. Whether it's a billion-dollar deal or an afternoon romp with a senator. That style is going to rock your world.”

Allie promised to think about it and the door closed behind him. She tightened the sash on her bathrobe and headed to the kitchen. On her way to the breakfast of mixed berries, bagel, and orange juice she'd ordered, she caught sight of herself in a hallway mirror. She turned her head this way and that.

Yes. This will do.

After breakfast she returned to her closet and dressed. The sheath rested against her, following her curves in a subtle drape that was subdued seduction. She slid the ring on her finger and thought of Patrick. He would have enjoyed the Larchmont. And he would have loved seeing her in her new position. She closed her eyes and called his handsome face up from the deep recesses of her memory.

If you can hear me, my darling, be with me. Give me your strength. Share this with me.

Another gentle chime pulled her from meditative communion with the lover whose death she'd arranged. It was exactly 8:30, of course. She raised an eyebrow in amusement at how much the murderous, thieving, whoring Russian thugs valued punctuality. She stepped into her heels, threw her shoulders back, and walked to the front door as the czarina of a Russian criminal cartel.

Staz barred the entryway from the two men who'd arrived. The giant of a man who had once been Vadim Tokarev's favorite assassin had now sworn his eternal devotion to Allie. Staz would always stand between her and anyone who might pose a threat. And Staz would follow any command Allie issued. Without question or hesitation. Allie greeted her protector with a loving glance before looking beyond him.

“Fyodor Ratchnikov!” Allie dialed her tone to gracious welcome. “Thank you for coming. I know this is an inconvenience. I will never forget the kindness of this accommodation. Please!” She spoke in her guest's mother tongue, a language she was becoming more fluent in each day. “Come in, please. Welcome.”

Staz entered first and took his place next to the door. He was followed by Fyodor Ratchnikov, once Vadim Tokarev's second-in-command, now hers. Bringing up the rear was a man Allie did not recognize. A large man, every inch as tall as Staz, with shoulders that seemed three feet wide. His dark hair was cut close to the scalp. His facial expression was neutral, but his brown eyes were filled with disgust.

Allie was used to men underestimating her. She held the stranger's gaze until he looked away, then turned to Ratchnikov.

“Welcome, my friend.” She extended her hand.

Fyodor Ratchnikov hesitated half a heartbeat before taking Allie's hand. He bowed toward her but his lips failed to connect with her fingers. He straightened and ran a hand through the thick waves of his hair.

“So this is Seattle?” Ratchnikov looked around the entryway. “Clouds are thick. Like in Moscow. I can see why you are comfortable here.”

I will never be comfortable in that sewer you call home,
she thought.
Where a man is a man only if he can drink all night then piss away his vodka into a city street as the women leave at dawn to start their workday.

“I was raised here,” she replied. “We all love the place of our birth. Don't you find that true?” She turned to the large man who had accompanied him. “Introduce me to your friend.”

Ratchnikov waved a hand. “This is Vassily. He is with me.”

Allie understood that description. Vassily was with Ratchnikov as Staz was with her. Bodyguard. Confidant. Agent of any manner of bidding. Allie offered the man a smile. It was met with no change of facial expression.

But Vassily's eyes still flashed venom when he looked at Allie.

“If Vassily is with you, then he is with me.” Allie hid her irritation at the man's obvious disrespect. “Tell me, Fyodor, was your flight comfortable? You came from Tunis, if I'm not mistaken.” She stepped toward him, brought her arm to his back, and shepherded Ratchnikov toward the living room.

Ratchnikov took two steps, then looked over his shoulder. “Come, Vassily.”

“I've arranged for Staz and Vassily to relax at the villa next door. There's food and drink.” Allie dropped her volume to a naughty whisper. “And entertainment.” She returned her attention to Ratchnikov. “You and I have business to discuss. Business best kept between us.”

Ratchnikov hesitated.

“I need your counsel, Fyodor.” Allie appealed to her lieutenant's expertise. “On the highest of matters. Please. Staz knows where to go. They'll be back in two hours. I've arranged a feast of a meal for us all upon their return. Let our men relax, Fyodor. There's no need for them to be bored while we leaders work.”

Allie knew referring to Ratchnikov as a leader in front of his man would feed his ego. There's no better way to get an underling to obey than to let him think he's your equal.

Ratchnikov turned toward his man. “Go, Vassily. Enjoy. You and Staz keep an eye on each other and make sure your cock comes back in the same condition it was when you held it this morning.”

Ratchnikov and Vassily roared in that gutter way Allie found so repulsive. She was proud Staz offered not even a smile at their crude remarks.

“It must be helpful having your man unable to speak.” Ratchnikov settled himself on the sofa. “Tokarev had the right idea cutting out his tongue. Vassily sometimes talks so much I think I should check inside his pants to make sure he's not a woman.”

Allie sidestepped Ratchnikov's tasteless reference to the cruelty Vadim Tokarev had waged on Staz. Staz had protected and befriended her in those darkest of days when Tokarev had first taken her. She'd been locked in a barren hellhole, naked and shivering. Enduring countless assaults by the man known as the Butcher of Moscow. It was Staz who risked his life to bring her blankets and food. Who communicated with her through drawings and gestures.

Who treated her like something other than a stray and hungry dog.

Allie stood by the credenza and poured two fingers of vodka into a crystal tumbler. She handed it to Ratchnikov and watched him toss it back in one gulp. He handed the glass back to her.

“Would you like another?”

Ratchnikov shook his head. “More with that feast you promised. Drinks are better when the men are here.”

Allie wondered if she might play a game. Should she try to guess in advance how many tokens of disrespect Ratchnikov would play that morning? She decided against it. She had a specific goal for this meeting. Better to focus on that than the Russian's stupid misogyny. This would be a long-term process. But she would ultimately gain Ratchnikov's respect. Of that she was certain. She sat gracefully on the sofa across from her guest. “We need to discuss some changes I want to make in our operations.”