The Red Hot Fix Read Free

floor-to-ceiling windows and watched three kayakers paddling across silver-streaked waves. “I like my mug. Saves Hildy the trouble of refilling some rose-petaled thimble again and again.” He tapped the newspaper. “You have a plan?”
    Ingrid dabbed her napkin across collagen-plumped lips and smiled at her husband of twenty-five years. “The plan is to beat Portland. Last game of the season. A win puts us in the playoffs.” She used both hands to lift her hair off her shoulders. “I’m CEO of this team, Reinhart. Let me do my job.”
    Vogel’s voice knocked the warmth out of the yellow and white room Ingrid’s designer had worked so hard to make cheery. “You’re one game over .500. If Salt Lake hadn’t tripped on their dicks, your season would be over. Like everything else in your life, you’re where you are because it was handed to you.” He quieted when Hildy returned and placed his omelet, potatoes, and toast in front of him. He thanked her with a wink and told her to go enjoy her own breakfast.
    He waited until the housekeeper was gone. “I’m sole owner of the Washington Wings. And the sole owner is telling one very lucky CEO that he wants his team in the playoffs or changes will be made.” He glared across the table. “Am I clear?”
    Ingrid threw her shoulders back. “Are you threatening me, Reinhart?”
    Vogel leaned over his plate, closed his eyes, and breathed in the heaven of cheese and garlic. He grabbed a fork, loaded a bite of hash browns, and smiled as he chewed. “I don’t threaten, Ingrid. I announce.”

Chapter Four
    Mort descended the concrete stairs to the basement of the Westmoreland Methodist Church and was greeted by an attractive dark-haired woman seated behind a folding table and wearing a “Hi, My Name Is Nancy” nametag. He introduced himself and asked if he was in the right place for the CLIP meeting.
    “Is this official business?” Her smile offered a warm understanding. “Or have you lost someone?”
    Mort balked at her question. For a moment he wondered what Nancy knew about his losses. Then he realized that CLIP stood for Children Lost in Prostitution, which made her question obvious.
    “Your organization’s been recommended.”
    Nancy dropped her voice and leaned her heart-shaped face forward. “This about the Trixie murders?”
    There were times Mort regretted the dogged determination of Seattle’s journalistic community. “I’m here to learn what I can.”
    “Then you’re in luck. Our speaker today is Charlotte Conklin. She founded CLIP.” Nancy grabbed a sticky-backed nametag and wrote “Mort” in heavy black marker. “Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll introduce you to Charlotte after the meeting.”
    Mort thanked her and entered what looked like a teen meeting room. The cinder block walls were covered with Bible verses sprayed graffiti-style in vibrant colors. The far end of the room had a raised platform. Mort estimated sixty folding chairs faced it, nearly every one filled with a somber-looking adult, most female. Despite the crowd, the room was quiet. He glanced at his watch and took a seat in the back row. In less than three minutes Nancy took the stage and what little whispering there was ceased.
    “Welcome, everyone,” she said. “My name is Nancy Mader. Thanks for coming.” She glanced toward the small windows set high in the basement walls. “It’s a lovely spring afternoon and I’m sure we all wish we could be somewhere else.” Nancy inhaled long and deep, apparently hesitant to begin. “My daughter, Valerie Amber, was just thirteen years old when her father and I discovered she was smoking marijuana with friends after school.” She gave a weak smile. “That wasn’t supposed to happen to us. Matt, that’s my husband, was an aviation engineer and I sold real estate. We had a wonderful life and Valerie Amber was its center. She ran track and played soccer. We went as a family to church every week. Drugs weren’t supposed to