I See You (Arrington Mystery Book 1)

by Elle Gray

  “How many adoption agencies were there in Kirkland in 1986?”

  Brody’s fingers fly over the keys. He turns to me. “Just one,” he says. “It was called Helping Hands. In fact, it’s still called Helping Hands.”

  “Can you hack into their database?”

  He arches an eyebrow and looks at me pointedly. “Please. It’s not like I’m trying to hack into a federal criminal database. This is child’s play.”

  I watch as he works the keys on his laptop like a maestro conducting an orchestra. I can see the excitement on his face as he does it. Yeah, Brody may protest and whine about doing these hacks for me, but he gets as big of a charge out of doing them as I do hunting killers. He stops and stares at his laptop for a moment and frowns.

  “What is it? I ask.

  He sighs and purses his lips. “Their digital files only go back to 1990,” he says. “Anything before that hasn’t been digitized yet.”

  “Figures,” I growl and slam my fist down on the table.

  Silence descends over us for a moment. I weigh my agonizingly slim pile of options. I know I’m only working a theory here, but the more I think about it, the more I think I’m right. The kid in the photo, the unnamed child of Jacob and Karen Perry, has got to be Reuben Hayes. All of the different pieces of the puzzle fit. It has to be him. But without the file, I’m sunk.

  “What do you think the chances are I can sweet talk some bitter receptionist into giving me the file?” I ask.

  “Somewhere between slim and none.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  I tap the edge of the picture against my chin as I think. There has got to be something I can do. Some way to get that file. And then the answer occurs to me. It’s foolish and borderline insane, but it’s the only plan I can come up with. So it’s going to have to do.

  “Where do they store those physical records? The ones from child’s services in Kirkland,” I ask.

  Brody looks at me. “You cannot be serious.”

  “And yet I am. It might be the only chance Blake has,” I say. “I want to know where Helping Hands keeps their physical records.”

  Brody whistles low and turns back to his computer, the keys clicking and clacking as he types away. Finally, he looks back up at me.

  “There’s an off-site warehouse near the shelter,” he says. “They store everything there, apparently.”

  “Okay great. Text me the address,” I say.

  “You do know this theory of yours might not be correct.”

  “If you have a better competing theory, I’m all ears.”

  He falls silent and looks down at his laptop. I give him a grim nod.

  “That’s what I thought,” I say.

  I turn and hurry out of the office and out to my car. I need to get home to get dressed for my excursion. And though I’m loath to admit it with Blake’s life on the line, there’s a surge of excited adrenaline coursing through my veins. It’s the same sort of rush I used to get when I was a cop and going on a raid. That surge of fear blended with nervous excitement that lights me up inside and makes me feel like I’m on fire.

  I’m sure Blake, a law enforcement professional and veteran of her fair share of raids, would understand. But when I’m done with Hayes and I’ve gotten her out of there, I probably shouldn’t mention it to her. Just in case.

  Twenty-Eight

  Helping Hands Storage Facility; Kirkland, WA

  Thankfully, the night is overcast and darker than pitch. It’s like somebody up there is looking out for me. Who or whatever it is, I’ll take it. I bypass the guard booth at the front of the facility and park on a street behind it, traversing through a public park to jump the fence that fronts a flood control channel. It’s thankfully dry, so I run down one side and up the other, then walk to the tall fence topped with razor wire, hunkering down behind a bush.

  I scan the rear grounds of the storage facility, looking for guards. Given how dark the night is, and the fact that I’m dressed like a ninja, I have no fear of being seen. Somebody would need excellent night vision to see me. And working in my favor, the guards I saw when I cruised by the front of the facility were carrying those ultra-bright cop flashlights, which will tip me off when they’re coming my way.

  “Okay, here goes nothing.”

  I set my backpack on the ground and take out the wire cutters. I then quickly cut a hole in the fence and push my way through it. Not seeing anybody on patrol, I dash across the open ground from the fence to the rear loading dock and make it without incident. I run up the ramp and am moving toward the back door, slipping my set of lockpicks out of my back pocket when I see it’s been propped open with a standing ashtray. Clearly, somebody didn’t want to be locked out when they stepped out to cop a smoke. That’s a bit of good news for me.

  I ease the door open and slip inside, carefully shutting it behind me. The light in the warehouse is dim, but it’s enough for me to see by without having to risk turning on a flashlight. They aren’t guarding this place like it’s Fort Knox or anything, but I’m pretty sure they’d frown on me breaking into the place anyway. This section of the warehouse is filled with furniture and other essentials for the dormitories in the shelter.

  I see a doorway on the far side of the building with a sign over the door marked ‘records’. I make a beeline for it. Halfway there, I hear a door slam, the heavy echo of it reverberating around the warehouse. I freeze and duck behind a pallet full of mattresses wrapped in plastic. I strain my ears to listen and hear the footsteps of one of the guards. A moment later, I hear music and a man’s deep, gruff voice singing along with Jay-Z.

  My heart’s hammering hard enough I’m sure he can hear me over his singing, I swallow hard and peer around the stack of mattresses. The man is tall and built like an NFL safety. Wide shoulders, lean build, and if he gets a running start, I’m sure he could blow me up like a missile hitting a wood bunker. I watch as he walks through the warehouse and disappears through a door that, when it closes, I see marked with the men’s room symbol.

  “Great,” I mutter to myself.

  Now I have to decide whether to wait where I am while he takes his evening constitutional or carry on with my business. I glance at my watch and see that it’s eight o’clock. Time is starting to grow perilously short for Blake. That makes my decision for me, and I start to move.

  I cross the rest of the warehouse at a run and slip into the records room, easing the door shut behind me. Pulling the penlight out of my pocket, I switch it on and sweep the room. It’s a large room filled with row after row of shelving, and every shelf is stuffed with boxes. There are some empty shelves, and as I scan the tags, I take note that the boxes from the ‘90s are missing.

  They’re slowly but surely making their way to the digital age. But as it is with any and all underfunded bureaucracies, progress moves at a glacier’s pace. I walk down the rows until I find the stack for 1986. I know what a longshot this is, but it’s better than the no shot I had before. But if this fails, I’m not sure what I’m going to do.

  “Think positive,” I mutter.

  I find the November 1986 box and pull it down. I sit down on the floor, so I’m partially shielded by boxes on the shelves. I’ll be able to see anybody coming before they see me. Not that it will do me a lot of good since I’m surrounded by shelving, which means I’m trapped. But at least I’ll have the element of surprise. It’s not much but it’s something, I suppose.

  I take the lid off and set it aside then begin rifling through the files. There is a depressingly large amount of children who were taken into foster care in November 1986. And if I multiply this out by all twelve months, the number of kids put into the system, for one reason or another, is staggering.

  “You’re not here to solve the foster care system right now,” I whisper to myself. “Do your job. Blake is counting on you.”

  Having mentally kicked my own ass, I dig into the box and immediately discard the files bearing girl’s names. That leaves
me with twenty-seven files. I flip them open one by one until I see a familiar face staring back at me. Gone, though, is the gap-toothed grin and, in its place, is a solemn, sober look. It’s the look of a boy who knows he’s been abandoned by his parents.

  “Bingo,” I say.

  Though tempted to read the file now, I know I’m pressing my luck every moment I’m in here. I hear Blake’s voice in my head and feel the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite the desperate and deadly circumstances.

  “Patience you must have, my young Padawan.”

  She always says it to me as if I have a habit of going off half-cocked and running amok like a madman. That’s a better description of her honestly, but I enjoy the irony when she says it.

  I put all the rest of the files into the box and replace it on the shelf. I then take the file I came for and tuck it into my backpack, zip it up, and sling it over my shoulders again. After that, I creep to the door and quietly open it, peering out into the gloom of the warehouse beyond. I strain my ears but hear nothing. The silence carries a pressure all on its own, pressing down on me, making my body taut with tension.

  I have no idea if Mr. Evening Constitutional is still in the bathroom or if he’s gone already, so I need to be cautious. Opening the door, I slip out and immediately freeze when I see him in my peripheral vision.

  “Crap,” I mutter.

  He’s leaning against the wall casually, tapping his heavy flashlight against his palm like a billy club. My only saving grace right now is that he’s not carrying a sidearm. I don’t even see mace or a taser on his belt. All he’s got is that flashlight.

  “What’s up?” he says with a smirk on his face.

  “Came for the concert,” I reply. “I heard you sound just like Jay-Z.”

  He chuckles. “So are we gonna have a problem here, ninja boy?” he asks. “Or are you gonna come to the security office with me all quiet and easy like?”

  I smirk. “One thing you’ll learn about me is I rarely do anything easy like.”

  “That’s cool,” he says. “I haven’t beaten anybody in a dog’s age. Been feelin’ kinda rusty.”

  He stands up and starts making a show of limbering up, making sure I have a good view of his biceps. I cut my eyes to the door I came through, and all of a sudden, it seems like it’s a mile away, rather than a hundred yards or so. The guard grins.

  “I should warn you, I ran the 40 in 4.4,” he says. “You won’t make it to the door. I guarantee you that.”

  “Oh yeah? Why aren’t you playing pro ball.”

  A sour look crosses his face. “Blew out my knee at the Senior Bowl.”

  “That’s a tough break,” I say.

  He nods. “Sucks,” he says. “Now, why don’t you just take off the mask and come with me. It’ll be easier for everybody.”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to have to pass. I have somebody really relying on me right now.”

  He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Okay man, have it your way,” he says. “Just remember, I warned you.”

  “You did. And I appreciate it,” I reply. “But how about you give me a three-second head start? Just to be sporting.”

  He laughs, his smile genuinely good-natured. “Yeah, all right. Just to be sporting,” he agrees. “I’ll count to three.”

  “Good enough. I appreciate your sportsmanship.”

  “You won’t be sayin’ that when I catch you and jam my foot up where the sun don’t shine.”

  “Sure I will,” I say. “But that’s if you catch me.”

  He laughs out loud. “Go on, let’s do this.”

  I don’t even wait for him to say one when I take off like I was shot out of a cannon. I race across the warehouse and slip my hand into my pocket as I go. I hear him call three, and the chase is on. A sly grin curls my lips upward as I hear him closing in on me. The man was right. He’s fast.

  I hold off as long as I can, and just when I feel him closing the gap when I imagine him reaching for me, I whip my hand out of my pocket and scatter the handful of marbles I’d brought onto the ground behind me. I hear the little spheres of glass hit the floor and start to bounce, and a moment later, I hear the sound of him cursing up a blue streak as he slides on them.

  I can’t help myself and cut a glance behind me just in time to see his feet slip out from under him awkwardly, almost like he hyperextended his knee. A moment later, his legs come out from under him. And then, just like in a cartoon, his legs go up, and he lands on the concrete floor on his back with a loud grunt. He immediately grabs his knee and starts to writhe on the ground screaming in agony.

  “Oh my God, it worked,” I gasp.

  A chuckle immediately bubbles out of my throat, but realizing his howling will bring the other guards, I turn and take off. I bang the door open as I go and don’t even bother looking around me as I fly across the open ground, head down, arms and legs pumping. I make it to the fence without being caught, or anybody even shouting at me. I’m amazed. But as I stand at the hole I cut into the fence, I see the door bang open, and guards come spilling out of it like angry ants coming out of their hill to swarm the intruder.

  “That’s my cue,” I mutter.

  I duck through the hole and retrace my steps back through the park and to my car. I jump in and slam the door, then fire up the engine and quickly pull away from the curb. I check the rearview but don’t see any of the guards in the street, finally letting out a long breath of relief.

  “I made it,” I gasp, feeling a surge of electricity flowing through my veins. “I can’t believe I made it.”

  As I turn out of the residential streets and merge into traffic, I see a pair of cop cars, lights flaring, turn quickly onto the street I’d just exited. And as I drive away with my prize in my backpack, I’m struck by a feeling of relief that’s so strong; I start to laugh. And once I do, I can’t stop. At first anyway.

  Once Blake’s face flashes through my mind, I sober up real fast. I may have won one small skirmish, but the war is far from over. And the only battle that matters is still to come.

  Twenty-Nine

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  I slap the file on the table, and Brody looks at me with wide eyes and a look of stunned disbelief on his face.

  “I cannot believe you got it,” he says.

  “Believe it.”

  “I thought for sure I was going to have to come bail you out of jail, man.”

  I shrug. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  I tell him what happened at the warehouse, and that dumbfounded expression on his face only deepens. And when I’m done with my story, he gives me a crooked grin.

  “Okay, one, I can’t believe that marble stunt worked,” he laughs. “What kind of cartoon bull is that?”

  “Effective cartoon bull,” I reply. “Where do you think I got the idea?”

  “Uh-huh. And two, that was pretty bush league, man,” he grins. “Making him slip on marbles? Really?”

  “Well, in my defense, he ran a 4.4 forty-yard dash,” I say. “If I didn’t cheat, I wouldn’t be sitting here with the file right now.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Glad you agree,” I say. “Now, can we figure this out?”

  Brody nods, and together, we flip open the file and start to read. The first thing we both do is try to get to his name first. We both have a hand on the admissions sheet, reading the words, then turn to one another.

  “Alvin Perry,” we say in unison.

  As Brody turns to his laptop, I start digging through the file, digesting all of the information I can. The more I know, the more I can weaponize that information and use it against him. Try to knock him off balance long enough to turn the advantage my way.

  As I read his file, read about the neglect and abuse he suffered at the hands of his own parents, and then the few fosters he had, my heart actually goes out to him. It’s no wonder Alvin Perry the adult has such a skewed, warped image of religion and relationships.


  “This kid never had a chance,” I sigh.

  “Au contraire, mi amigo, he had a chance,” Brody interjects. “He just chose to piss it away.”

  “Why are you mixing languages?” I ask.

  “Because I’m barely literate in either.”

  “You’re barely literate, period,” I say.

  He chuckles. “Anyway, this kid was smart.”

  “Still is smart.”

  “Fine. He’s smart. But he won a full academic scholarship to U-Dub,” he says. “Got a degree in English and Literature and became a teacher.”

  I sit back in my chair and look at him strangely. That was not what I expected. Like, not at all.

  “A teacher?”

  He nods. “Yup. Taught at Wagner High School in Kirkland, in fact.”

  “So he never left the area.”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” he tells me. “But get this, Alvin Perry goes dark after 1996. He just falls off the grid completely.”

  “And two years later, the murders begin.”

  Brody nods. “So he spent two years building a new identity and preparing himself for his mission.”

  “Exactly.”

  He probably spent those two years honing his craft, building his new identity, and building a war chest by ransoming kidnapped children back to their very wealthy parents. There likely won’t be any records on that though. No police reports, no trail. But that doesn’t matter anyway. It’s window dressing.

  The salient point here is that Alvin Perry essentially died in 1996, and someone new was born. He called it his becoming. His metamorphosis. Which means that his first kill, the most critical one and the one that shaped him, that launched him on this mission, took place in either 1995 or 1996. That would be my best guess.

  “What are you thinking?” Brody asks.

  “Look up murders in Washington state in the years 1995 and ‘96.”

  “That’s casting a wide net.”

  “No choice.”

  Brody turns to his computer and starts typing away. He sits back, and as the data spools up, he looks over at me.