I See You (Arrington Mystery Book 1)

by Elle Gray

“Kayla is right, Joseph,” I say. “A guy like this isn’t going to be able to be traced. He’ll use a burner phone, and he’ll destroy it right after using it.”

  “How many kidnappings have you worked, Mr. Arrington?” he asks.

  I clear my throat. I don’t know what Brody told them about our track record, but I don’t get the idea that they know this is my first case as a PI. It’s obviously not going to inspire a lot of confidence in them to know I’m just getting my feet wet, so I can’t tell them that. But I needed to ensure they have confidence in me.

  “I was Seattle PD for over nine years before becoming a private investigator. First as a cop, and then as a detective,” I tell them, hoping it will instill a bit of confidence in me. “I know how criminals think. How they work. Just trust me, follow my lead, and we’ll get through this together. We’ll get Jordan back to you safely.”

  Joseph opens his mouth to reply but the phone rings, cutting him off. I glance at my watch and see that it’s six o’clock straight up, which surprises me. I had expected him to make us wait. Kayla and Joseph both tense up, their faces tight with fear.

  “Okay Kayla, this is it,” I tell her. “Remember everything I told you. Stay calm. Be firm. Show no emotion.”

  She draws in a deep breath then lets it out slowly. She closes her eyes, then picks up the phone and presses it to her ear.

  “H—hello,” she says with only a slight flutter in her voice.

  Her face twists with confusion, and she cuts her eyes to me. “Y—yes,” she says. “O—okay.”

  Kayla reaches down and punches the button to put the call on speaker and drops the handset into the cradle.

  “I would like to know who the gentleman with you is, please,” the kidnapper says, his heavily modulated voice echoing around the office.

  “How do you know there’s somebody with us?” Joseph asks, his voice pinched with anxiety.

  “That does not matter,” the man says. “I would like to know who he is and why he is there. I told you, no police.”

  They both cut a look at me, their eyes wide, the expressions of absolute terror on their faces matching. I give them a tight smile and a nod.

  “I’m not a cop,” I say. “I’m here to facilitate the exchange and ensure everything goes smoothly.”

  “And what is your name, please?” he asks.

  “Paxton Arrington,” I reply. “And what is your name?”

  “Paxton Arrington,” he repeats. “I see.”

  “And your name?”

  He chuckles softly. “Surely, you can’t be that dim,” he says. “You may call me Reuben Hayes.”

  The name tickles the keys of familiarity in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite put my finger on it right away. But a moment later, it occurs to me. I’m hit with a wave of serendipity so powerful and deep I feel like I can’t breathe for a moment. Reuben Hayes is the name of the villain in a story called The Adventure of the Priory School, written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It’s a Sherlock Holmes story.

  In the story, Hayes is hired by a man named James Wilder to abduct the ten-year-old child of the Duke of Holdernesse, forcing him to change his will. The finer points of the story aren’t entirely relevant. The fact that the man on the other end of the line has adopted the name of Reuben Hayes is. And the fact that the abductor is assuming the identity of a Holmes villain immediately makes me feel as if I am meant to be the one on this case. As if this is all some sort of kismet.

  Of course, there is always the possibility that I’m overthinking this, and the abductor using the name is a simple coincidence. For all I know, it was chosen not because he somehow identifies with Hayes, or has a passion for Holmes, but because he picked two names at random. Or maybe it’s the name of somebody he knows. It could be nothing more than a case of pareidolia. But it would certainly be a striking coincidence.

  “Fine,” I say. “I will be making the exchange tonight. So what are your instructions?”

  “That is not the arrangement I—”

  “If you want your money, that is the arrangement you are getting,” I cut him off. “I will not risk the lives of the Morgans.”

  “I am a man of my word, Mr. Arrington,” he says smoothly. “I have no desire to see this end in violence. This is a simple transaction.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I choose not to take the word of a man who has kidnapped a child and is now extorting a large sum of money from her parents,” I reply. “I’m sort of finicky that way.”

  There is a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. The eerie sound of his laughter modulated so that it sounds almost robotic, wafts through the speaker, sending chills down my spine.

  “I suppose that is fair,” he finally says. “And who are you to the Morgans? If I may be so bold as to ask.”

  “A family friend,” I reply. “And somebody who cares about bringing this whole episode to a smooth, efficient, and mutually satisfactory conclusion.”

  There is a long pause as the man calling himself Hayes seems to be considering my words. Joseph and Kayla look at me fearfully, their eyes wide, faces drawn and pale. I give them an encouraging nod and a gesture meant to say, ‘calm down’. They don’t. Not one iota. And I guess, given the circumstances, I can’t blame them. Also, I know I suck when it comes to being reassuring.

  But what they don’t know— that I fortunately do— is that this man has no desire to kill a child. I can hear it in his voice. He is cultured and refined. He is a man of learning, and for him, this transaction is all about money and nothing more. I can’t explain to Kayla and Joseph how I know this. I just do. I’m as certain of it as I am my own name. They just need to trust me.

  “Fine. Please use Mrs. Morgan’s cell phone, so I can contact you,” Hayes finally says. “In the southwest corner of Dwyer Park, there is a bridge that spans the small lake. Please be on the bridge in exactly thirty minutes. And do not be late, Mr. Arrington, I do not like to be kept waiting.”

  The line goes dead, and Kayla disconnects the speakerphone. They both turn to me with a million questions flashing through their eyes. And they look at me as if I have all the answers. I don’t have the time to stand here and give them the answers they want, nor the reassurance they’re seeking. I set the timer on my watch for thirty minutes and launch it. After he called at six o’clock on the dot, I got the impression that punctuality is very important to this man.

  “Dwyer Park is fifteen minutes from here,” I say. “I don’t want to be late, so help me load the bags of cash.”

  We carry the pair of duffel bags out to my Navigator and load them into the back seat. That done, I shut the door and turn to face Kayla and Joseph, looking at each of them in the eye in turn.

  “Last chance to back out of this,” I say. “We can find another way.”

  “He’ll kill Jordan,” Kayla says, her brow creased with worry. “This is the only way.”

  “I really don’t think he will,” I tell them. “I don’t get the sense that he would harm a child.”

  “What makes you say that?” Joseph asks.

  I shake my head. “It’s a hunch,” I admit. “He just doesn’t sound like a man who would kill a child to me.”

  Joseph and Kayla look at each other for a moment, some silent communication passing between them. And as if they’ve come to some telepathic agreement, then turn to me as one.

  “Your instincts could be right—”

  “But we aren’t willing to take that chance,” Kayla finishes the sentence for him. “Not with our daughter’s life on the line.”

  I give them a nod. “Fair enough,” I say. “This is your call to make.”

  “Do it,” Joseph says. “Get our little girl back. And find out who he is if possible.”

  “I will,” I tell them. “This will all be over soon.”

  As I head out, all I can hope is that this truly will be over soon and that when it is, I will be bringing Jordan home to her parents alive and well.

  Eight

  Dwy
er Park; Windermere, WA

  As I stand on the bridge, I can see why the man calling himself Hayes chose this spot. It’s out of the way, doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic at peak times, and is dark. He could be standing right beside me and I wouldn’t know it until he tapped me on the shoulder.

  I glance at my watch and see that thirty minutes have elapsed, and right on time, the phone in my hand rings. I connect the call.

  “I’m here,” I say by way of greeting.

  “I can see that,” he replies in his modulated robotic voice. “Thank you for being on time.”

  A chill, like the tip of an icy finger, slides up my spine. I have to suppress a shudder. I don’t like the idea that he’s out there lurking in the darkness. Able to see me, even though I can’t see him. It’s so dark out here in this section of the park; it tells me that Hayes has to be using night vision to see me. It’s whether that night vision comes in the form of binoculars or a rifle scope that concerns me.

  Just because I don’t think Hayes will kill a child doesn’t mean I don’t think he’d kill a grown man.

  What does interest me is how polite he is. The man never fails to say please and thank you. He has exceptional manners. It reinforces the notion in my mind that he is very refined, and makes me think he grew up with money, in a family where social graces mattered. It’s something I can relate to. I grew up in a world where things like manners, politeness, and social graces mattered.

  “How is Jordan?” I ask. “Is she safe?”

  “She is in the exact same condition she was when I took her,” he replies. “Not a hair out of place and not a scratch upon her skin.”

  It’s strange to say of a kidnapper and extortionist, but I believe him. It’s possible I’m entirely wrong, but I believe him when he says that Jordan is in perfect health. For some reason, my instinct that says he’d never hurt a child grows more certain.

  “Why don’t you come on out here and talk to me? Face to face like men,” I offer.

  “Nice try. But I get the feeling you’re smarter than that,” he replies.

  “You can’t blame me for trying.”

  “I suppose not,” he says. “Where is the money, please?”

  “It’s close,” I say. “Where is Jordan?”

  “She’s close,” he counters. “Here is what’s going to happen. You are going to go back to your car where you will remove the bags of money and leave them on the ground. You will then get in your car and drive to the location I provide. Once you arrive at said location, I will give you Jordan’s location, and you can go and collect her. We both get what we want.”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell him. “You will get your money when I get the girl.”

  “Please do not presume, just because we are speaking amiably, that you have any sort of control or leverage here,” he says. “Believe me when I say that if you do not do as I say, I will kill the girl.”

  “See, that’s the thing. I don’t think you will,” I say. “You don’t have it in you to kill a child. I get the impression that for you, this is purely transactional. You would rather die yourself than kill a child.”

  “Is that what your profile says about me?” he chuckles. “That I won’t kill a child?”

  “In fact, it does,” I reply.

  Over the last few months, even before getting fired, I did a lot of studying. Criminal psychology, FBI profiling techniques, abnormal psych… pretty much anything relating to the criminal mind. I wanted to brush up and enhance my own base of information and knowledge to better prepare me for this endeavor. I might be overeducated for a PI, but at least I’ll never feel out of my intellectual depth.

  “Profiles can be wrong. Profiles depend on humans and their knowledge of psychology and observation of behavioral patterns,” he says. “And we both know how… unreliable… humans are. Yes?”

  “You are not wrong about that. Any of it,” I acknowledge. “But if you know what you’re doing, more times than not, the profile you develop will be right on the money.”

  He chuckles. “And what does your profile tell you about me?”

  “Well, that you’re not a child killer.”

  “But what if I am a killer?”

  “It’s possible, and I’ve taken that into account,” I say. “But I don’t think you’d kill a child.”

  “And why is that?”

  I shift the phone to my other ear and casually glance around, searching the darkness for some sign of him. I peer through the deep pockets of shadows, looking for movement in the gloom or perhaps a light from his phone. I search for something. Anything. But I see nothing. The man is very good and knows how to leave no visible trace of himself. He knows how to be invisible.

  And that tells me this isn’t his first time doing this. He’s smart and savvy. He knows how to cover his tracks and take all precautions against being seen or giving himself away. He’s skilled and clever. Smooth and in control of himself and the situation— and he’s experienced. That is all bad news for me because it means the man does not rattle easily, and he is not the sort of man who is prone to panic or making mistakes.

  “You’re punctual and demand that of others. You are articulate, exceedingly polite, and seem to be well-read and well educated. And your manners and mannerisms, to me, speak to a man of stature and high class. Or at least, to a man who has learned to mimic the behaviors of those elites to the point that you believe you are one of them,” I recite. “I believe that to somebody like you, immersed in that sort of social strata, harming a child would be an affront to that station. An outrageous behavior that not even you could abide.”

  “It is interesting that you have developed such a detailed profile in such a short period of time,” he says. “And with such a limited amount of data. After all, this is only our second conversation.”

  “I’m a quick study.”

  “You should not, however, presume to believe you know everything about me.”

  “I would never presume such a thing,” I reply.

  He pauses on the other end of the line so long, I might think he’d hung up if I didn’t hear the train whistling in the background of the phone as well as in my own ears. He’s close. Very close. I strain my eyes again, peering into the darkness, trying to see a silhouette, a shadow moving among the shadows or anything that might give him away. But there is nothing to be seen.

  “Try as you might, you will not be able to discern my location visually.”

  “It never hurts to be thorough,” I reply.

  He chuckles softly. “You are an interesting character, Mr. Arrington.”

  “As are you, Mr. Hayes,” I say with a grin. “But tell me, will we find a Mr. James Wilder pulling your strings?”

  I can all but hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. “So you know the reference. That makes you even more interesting to me,” he says. “But alas, there is no Mr. Wilder behind the scenes. I am merely a man trying to secure my future.”

  “So of all the characters out there, why choose Hayes?” I ask. “A bit player in a bigger drama.”

  “Hayes is quiet. Unassuming. Not the man you would expect to find,” he replies. “Also, he’s obscure enough as a character that not many people would know the reference.”

  “I was something of a Sherlock aficionado when I was younger,” I reply.

  “That is an interesting fact about you,” he says. “There seem to be so few of us these days.”

  “Indeed,” I reply. “Now, about Jordan—”

  “I have already told you how to retrieve her. It is now up to you to follow my instructions,” he cuts me off. “While the girl is in peak health right now, if you leave her where she is too long, I cannot say that will remain the case. It is your move, Mr. Arrington.”

  He has the upper hand, and I know it. Even worse, he knows it. There is nothing I can do to talk him into giving Jordan up until I give him the money. If I refuse to play by his rules, she loses. Joseph and Kayla are already prepared to lose the money
so long as they get their daughter back alive and unharmed. My only function here is to ensure that happens.

  “Fine,” I say. “We’ll do this your way.”

  “Very good, Mr. Arrington,” he says. “Little Jordan will be home, safe and sound, all snug in her bed in no time then.”

  He disconnects the call as I walk back to my car. Knowing he’s out there watching me makes the darkness around me seem all the more oppressive. I don’t fear him attacking me to take the money and then abscond with Jordan though. He gave me his word that this would all turn out all right so long as we played by his rules. And I think going back on his word would be as much of an affront to his sense of honor as hurting a child would be.

  As strange as it seems, I believe this man’s sense of honor is important to him. It is everything. He lives by his own code, and though it might not make a lick of sense to anybody else, to him it is everything. It is his entire sense of self.

  I pull the pair of duffel bags out of my car and drop them onto the pavement of the parking lot. I turn and scan the darkness around me one more time, knowing he is out there watching me but can’t see him through the shroud of night. The phone rings, so I connect the call and press it to my ear.

  “It’s all here,” I say. “Two hundred and fifty grand.”

  “Please open the bags so I may see the contents.”

  “Not the trusting sort, are you?”

  “No more so than you are.”

  “That’s fair.”

  I kneel down and unzip the bags, opening them wide so he can see the bundles of cash stacked inside.

  “Very good,” Hayes says. “Thank you. You may rezip them now, please.”

  I do as he says and get to my feet again, taking a step back. “You know, the bags are kind of heavy,” I say. “Do you need some help getting them into your car?”

  He laughs softly. “I think I can manage, but thank you for the kind offer,” he replies. “You may proceed to the corner of Twelfth and Grand, where you will await further instructions.”

  Knowing this is a fight I can’t win and focusing on my primary goal— getting Jordan back to her parents— I climb into the Navigator and head to the designated location. It’s about a ten-minute drive, and just as I’m pulling to the curb, Kayla’s phone rings. I connect the call and hold the phone to my ear.