The Fixer Read Online Free PDF

sir. Mort knew to pay attention to Jim when he used that tone. “Officer on scene says it’s a white female, tall, thin, brown hair. Team’s out and I’m heading over.”
    Mort’s stomach clenched. “You got an i.d.?”
    Jim stepped into Mort’s office and closed the door. “Couple of skateboarders found her behind a dumpster at Seattle Center. Drug rigs next to the body. No identification. Officer puts her age in the ballpark.”
    Mort grabbed his keys and pushed away from his desk. Jim stepped back and blocked the door.
    “Why not let me go down and see what’s what?” Jim’s tone softened. “I’m Chief of Forensics. Let me earn my keep.”
    Mort pushed Jim aside with a silent glare.
    “At least let me drive, will ya?” Jim called to his friend’s receding back. “Bruiser’s already loaded.”
     
    Mort slammed the car door and the cluster of investigators divided, forming a human hallway to the dead body sprawled on the asphalt. His eyes tracked left then right, surveying the scene. He focused on the litter of rubber tubing, bottle caps, and syringes; deliberately diverting his eyes from the corpse until he knelt beside her. He brushed back the dead woman’s shoulder length hair and exhaled. He looked up and locked eyes with Jim DeVilla who stood ten feet back, an oversized German Shepherd at his side. Mort’s subtle head shake was enough for his friend to know the dead woman wasn’t Allie. Jim ordered Bruiser to stay and joined the team.
    “What do we have?” Mort asked the uniformed officer closest to him.
    Mort and Jim were brought up to speed. Two fifteen-year-olds trying new jumps spotted the dead woman’s legs behind the dumpster. Jim’s forensic team had bagged and labeled a blanket, seven beer cans, and assorted drug paraphernalia.
    “Looks like they had a party down here.” Jim scanned the area. “We got enough litter for at least three or four fun-lovers.” He walked over to the body and knelt. “North Face jacket, leather shoes.” Jim reached his gloved finger into the front pocket of the woman’s coat and pulled out several slips of paper. “Bookstore receipt from Seattle University.” He rifled through the stack. “Looks like she bought herself a latte’ at 10:37 yesterday morning.” Jim flipped through two more. “Bingo. She has a massage and facial scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow at the Olympic Spa.” Jim grinned up at his team. “And that, children, is what we call getting lucky.”
     
    An hour later a frightened set of parents confirmed the identity of the dumpster corpse. Meaghan Hane. Twenty-nine years old. Fourth year graduate student. Her tearful mother described her daughter as a virtuoso cellist who’d twice toured Europe playing with local symphonies.
    By 1:00 Jim and Mort sat across an interview table with two of Meghan’s terrified classmates. Richard Kimberly was an aspiring portrait painter who told Mort he had an aristocratic chin. Mike Suster was finishing his dissertation on the role of ritual drumming in sixteenth century China. Both of them looked like they’d rather call their mommies than their lawyers, and both of them bolted for the bathroom when shown photos of Meaghan’s lifeless body.
    Mike didn’t make it.
    “I told you we should have stayed.” Mike moaned to Richard before he sipped from the paper cup in his shaking hands. “We shouldn’t have left her with him.”
    Richard stared straight ahead and said nothing. Mort thought the look on his face was the perfect model for a portrait in self-loathing.
    “Tell me what happened,” Mort said.
    “And there’s something you ought to know before you speak.” Jim nodded toward Bruiser who sat beside him on high alert. “He’s specially trained. He can smell the filokenes in sweat when you’re telling a lie.”
    Mort rolled his eyes, always surprised at how many people bought Jim’s bull.“Start at the beginning.” He clicked on the recorder.
    “Meaghan’s been our buddy