I See You (Arrington Mystery Book 1)

by Elle Gray

  I quickly stagger back, taking Perry’s blade with me. He reaches for it, but I’m quicker this time, and lash out with my foot, sweeping his legs out from under him.

  Perry hits the ground with a loud grunt but starts to get up again right away, so I step forward and drive my foot square into his jaw. I hear something inside snap, and Perry falls forward, falling face-first onto the combination wood and stone floor. He doesn’t move for a moment. I fear I might have killed him.

  The irony isn’t lost on me. I fear I might have killed this absolute monster, who has not hesitated to kill dozens. But the selfish part of me is still holding onto the possibility of his answers. I regret that I could have killed the one man who could have told stories, named names, and given me the information I’ve sought for so long. It leaves a hollow feeling in the center of me.

  But then he stirs. I’m hit with an overwhelming wave of relief and let out a long, shaky breath. He’s alive, just out cold. I turn back to Blake and give her a smile. I move behind her and cut her zipcuffs off. She quickly gets to her feet and takes a moment to work the stiffness out of her muscles. Then she steps forward and delivers a vicious kick to the unconscious man’s midsection.

  “Bastard,” she spits on him. And then she turns and slaps me hard across the face. “And that’s for making me think you were actually going to do it.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” I chuckle, nursing my cheek with my good arm.

  “Or maybe you’re just that good of an actor. And a bastard.”

  “Probably a bit of both.”

  I see Blake looking at me and see the adrenaline that’s been pumping her up the last couple of days ebbing and know she’s about to collapse. I pull Blake to me and hold her in a tight embrace. She melts against me, her entire body going limp. Eventually, she’s able to stand on her own again. She uses the sleeve of her shirt to wipe the tears from her face, and she sniffs loudly.

  “We need to call the cops,” she says. “Mr. Perry here is going to be going away for a very long time.”

  “You should probably call the bomb squad too,” I say. “Just in case.”

  “That’s a good idea. And an ambulance,” she nods, pointing at the knife still lodged in my arm.

  I look at the fallen man. He’s still out and hopefully having pleasant dreams because where he’s going, it’s nothing but a waking nightmare day after day after day. We find some rope and quickly tie his hands and feet, using double and triple knots. When he comes to, we don’t want to have to battle him again, and then we sit down on the far side of the room as Blake calls the cops, fills them in on what’s happening, and requests assistance.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here and go get some fresh air. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “That’s a fantastic idea.”

  Leaning heavily against each other, knife still protruding from my arm, we walk out of the Underground and into the cool, night air. As we walk, she looks up at me, a curious expression on her face.

  “Were you the least bit tempted to trade me for that information?” she asks.

  “I’d be tempted to trade you for a Snickers bar,” I scoff. We both share a laugh, echoing up into the evening air.

  Thirty-Three

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  It’s been two weeks since our showdown in the Underground, as one local paper called it, and the phones have not stopped ringing. More work than we can handle and more interview requests than that. I guess that tends to happen when you help take out one of America’s most notorious serial killers.

  It’s been so crazy here lately, we had to hire a receptionist to field the calls for us. And I’m already thinking about bringing on another investigator or two to help handle the overflow cases. Which is what I’m doing right now: poring through resumes. It’s not a very easy task when you’ve got one arm in a sling.

  “How’s the arm?”

  I look up from my coffee and see Blake standing in my office doorway.

  “Hurts still,” I tell her.

  “Don’t be such a baby. It was a flesh wound,”

  “Tell that to the muscle they had to surgically repair.”

  She’s got a warm smile on her face, but I can tell that something is going on. Something’s bothering her.

  “What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

  She leans back in her chair and crosses her legs, pursing her lips and looks away from me. Whatever it is, it’s tough for her to take. I can tell.

  “Were your bosses not impressed with how great you are?” I ask. “I mean, you took out a man who’s murdered over fifty people.”

  “That’s the thing… they are impressed,” she says. “I’m getting promoted.”

  “Hey, that’s fantastic. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice is tinged with sadness. “But the promotion is in New York.”

  I lean back in my chair and whistle low. “That’s a long commute.”

  She laughs. “At least it’s not congested too badly. I can probably make decent time.”

  “Yeah, two or three days, tops.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “Thanks. I needed a laugh.”

  “Anytime. Listen, I know it sucks, but it’s a promotion,” I tell her. “You have to take it because I guarantee if you don’t, there may not be another one coming for a long time. People remember being turned down and not too fondly.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she replies. “I was just hoping you’d tell me not to go.”

  “Well, when you fall flat on your face in your new job, you know where to find me,” I say. “And we are always looking for trained investigators. We’ll even take Bureau scraps.”

  She laughs wildly. “You are such a jerk.”

  “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”

  “You’ve been lied to.”

  We both fall silent for a moment, each of us contemplating her impending move. She is often out of town, and we sometimes go several months without seeing each other. But she always came home to Seattle. Always. And this time will be different. This time, she’s not coming home. I hate the idea of losing my friend— one of my only friends, truth be told.

  “When do you go?” I ask.

  “End of the week.”

  I purse my lips and nod. “It’s going to suck with you gone. Especially with only Brody here,” I grin. “But I’m proud of you. You deserve this, Blake. And besides, you have got to milk this whole, ‘I bagged a serial killer’ thing for all its worth. Take advantage of it while it lasts.”

  She laughs and nods. “I do,” she responds. “But this will be a good time for you to get out and meet new people. Socialize.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.” I pause, looking at her for a long moment. “I am going to miss you though.”

  “And I’m going to miss you too.”

  My cell phone rings, interrupting the moment. Blake looks away, and I see her cheeks flush as I pick up my phone and connect the call.

  “Arrington.”

  “Mr. Arrington,” comes the familiar voice. “Lovely to hear your voice again.”

  “Wish I could say it was mutual. What do you want, Perry?”

  Blake looks at me; her interest piqued when she hears who’s on the other end of the line.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” he says.

  “So hurry up and talk. Isn’t phone time expensive down there in prison?”

  “No, no. Face to face,” he replies.

  “Not happening. You have a great day—”

  “I reconsidered, Paxton,” he cuts me off. “I’ll give you the information I found on your wife.”

  I’m taken aback by his words and stare at Blake. “Really? Why the change of heart?”

  “Because we only have so long on this planet,” he tells me. “And I’d like to leave this world with a clean conscience.”

  I purse my lips and nod. “Okay, so can you just go ahead and tell me?”
/>   “I can’t. It has to be face to face.”

  “But why?” I ask.

  “Because those are my rules.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and growl under my breath. Perry is doing his best to assert control of the situation. Control over me. What else is new? But if it gets me the information I want— have wanted for years— it could be well worth it.

  “Okay,” I finally relent. “Face to face.”

  “Excellent,” he beams. “I’ll look forward to your visit then.”

  I disconnect the call and drop my phone on my desk. Blake looks at me for a long moment in silence.

  “Guess I’m going to jail,” I mutter.

  Epilogue

  King County Correctional Facility; Seattle, WA

  The harsh buzz echoes in my ear as the gate slides open in front of me. I walk through and am frisked by one of the correction officers while a second runs the metal detecting wand over me.

  “Your buddies did this two gates back,” I say. “Do you really think I stuffed an automatic rifle under my clothes between there and here?”

  “Protocol,” the guard who’d frisked me says.

  “The first group of guys could have missed a grenade up your sphincter when they wanded you the first time,” the other guard gives me a smirk.

  I chuckle. “Fair enough.”

  “He’s good to go,” shouts the first guard. “Open three.”

  The harsh metallic buzz sounds again, and another gate opens in front of me. I’m ushered through the gate, then down a long hallway. I pass through another door and find myself in a room with a row of booths before me. Each booth has a chair and a telephone receiver on the wall and is separated from the other side by a thick sheet of plexiglass.

  Of the eight booths, three are occupied. I pick the one that’s furthest away from everybody and sit down to wait. It’s against my better judgement to be here, but Reuben Hayes— or rather, Alvin Perry— promised me information that I would want about Veronica that specifically related to her death. Thinking of him as Alvin Perry and not Reuben Hayes is still taking some getting used to, despite the fact that I always knew Hayes was an alias. His real name doesn’t feel quite right in my mouth just yet, though.

  He wouldn’t give it to me over the phone, saying he’d only give it to me in person. One last face to face. No doubt to try and convince me one final time to pick up his mantle and build on his legacy. Given that there are officially fifty-two bodies to his credit, I’m relatively certain Alvin Perry’s legacy is pretty secure on its own without any help from me.

  I check my watch and stand up, trying to see the door to the prison on the other side of the glass. There’s a CO on the door, but nobody coming through. I grunt and sit back down, irritated that he’s making me wait. Given that this is the final time I’ll see him, and he knows it, Alvin is trying to pull the ultimate power play by making me wait. One last grasp at retaining control over me.

  I would say screw it and leave if I didn’t desperately want the information he’s got. Or at least, that he claims he’s got. Part of me doesn’t want to believe him. Wants to think this is just some attempt at control. One last game.

  But the rest of me isn’t willing to take that chance. If he has some bombshell about Veronica’s investigation, I want it. Need it. And if it ends up being a dry hole, merely a case of him just screwing with me again, all I’ve lost is a few hours of my day. I’ll willingly make that trade any day of the week.

  “Arrington?”

  I turn around and see the guard from earlier leaning in the doorway— minus his wand. I give him a curious expression.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you come with me please?”

  I point to the glass. “I was waiting—”

  “I know. It’s about that,” he replies. “Come with me, please.”

  Feeling uneasy, I get to my feet and cross the room, walking out the door. The guard leads me quickly through a series of corridors, looking around nervously the whole time. Something feels really off to me. I’m just giving thought to turning back when he ushers me into an empty office, which immediately sets the warning bells off in my head.

  I turn around to push my way past him and back to the visitation room, but he closes the door and blocks the way. He’s a big guy who obviously works out a lot, but I’m pretty sure I can take him. Or at least get in a few good shots before he takes me out.

  “What is this about?” I demand. “Get away from the door and let me out of here right now.”

  He holds his hands up in surrender to show me he’s not a threat. “I’m sorry I ambushed you like this. I just don’t know who to trust right now, and I have a message for you.”

  My uneasiness ebbs slightly, but my curiosity spikes. “What’s going on? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s Mr. Perry. Alvin Perry,” he says. “The guy you were here to see.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware of who he is.”

  He runs a hand through his crew cut, his face flushed, and beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. The man is nervous. More than nervous, really. I’d say the man is downright terrified. I look for his name badge but see that he’s taken it off, deepening my sense of unease again. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m getting the sense that whatever it is, it’s bad. Very bad.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  He opens his mouth to reply and then shakes his head. “I’d prefer you not know. No offense and nothin’ against you, but with the way things are right now, I don’t want my name anywhere near this.”

  “Okay. I understand,” I nod. “No names. Now, what’s going on?”

  He blows out a breath and mops the sweat off his brow. “It’s Mr. Perry. He’s… he’s dead.”

  My eyes grow wide, and my heart drops into my stomach. That was about the last thing I expected him to say. I feel like a mule just kicked me in the gut. I mean, I should be celebrating. One of the most prolific serial killers in the history of our country is dead. That’s not a bad thing.

  But he had information I wanted. Information I needed. And with him dead, I’m not going to get it. Those questions will continue to linger in my head. Perhaps even worse, now that I know how close I came to possibly being able to answer them. But they’re gone. Like a puff of smoke on the breeze, they’re just gone.

  “H-how?” I ask. “How did he die?”

  “Hung himself in his cell.”

  I look at him in disbelief. I’d expected that maybe he’d been shanked by a bigger, meaner inmate. Maybe beaten to death. Maybe he had a heart attack. The last thing I expected was to hear that he took his own life.

  But once the initial wave of shock wears off, I look at the man as my disbelief sets in. Alvin Perry was a malignant narcissist. People like him are so self-absorbed, they would never kill themselves. It’s not an absolute, of course, but nine times out of ten, a malignant narcissist would never kill themselves.

  “I don’t believe that,” I tell him. “Not for a second.”

  “Yeah, me either,” he replies. “But that’s the official story around here. Somebody on the night shift found him hanging from his bunk with his bedsheet wrapped around his neck.”

  “That’s crap,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I can’t really speak to that. You’re goin’ to have to check out the autopsy on your own,” he says. “I’m only talkin’ to you because I made a promise to Mr. Perry.”

  “Okay, promised him what?”

  I watch as the man slips an envelope out of his pocket and walks it over to me. I take it from his trembling hand and look up at him.

  “What has you so spooked?” I ask.

  He looks back at the door like he’s expecting somebody to come bursting through it to haul him away.

  “Mr. Perry told me it was goin’ to happen,” he practically whispers. “Told me they were goin’ to kill him. Said they’d kill everybody who knows what he knows.”

  “Who?” I ask. “Who’
s going to kill him?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t know and don’t want to know,” he replies. “I’ve got a wife and kids, and I don’t want to know.”

  I start to tear open the envelope, and he lets out a choked gasp. I stop tearing and look at him.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Whatever is in that envelope is radioactive, man,” he replies. “Mr. Perry died for it. I’d prefer it if you waited until you were out of here before you opened it. Like I told you, I’ve got a wife and kids.”

  I nod and slip the envelope back into my pocket. “Fair enough.”

  “Okay, time’s up. I need to get you out of here.”

  I follow the guard back out to the main reception area. As we make our way through the jail, I can’t help but feel like I’m being watched. I feel eyes on me at every turn, and every time I pass a guard, I feel like they’re scrutinizing me a little too closely. The man leading me is no less nervous, jumping at every sound, and acting like he expects to be murdered where he stands.

  By the time we make it to the main gates, I felt as emotionally spent as he looks. I turn and am about to speak, but he beats me to the punch.

  “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. And I didn’t say or pass nothin’ to you,” he says.

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  He closes the gate in my face and turns, scurrying off quickly. I do the same and head back to my car, strange thoughts and conspiracy theories running through my head. By the time I get behind the wheel of my Navigator again, I’m positive that Perry didn’t kill himself. It just doesn’t fit with my profile of him. It doesn’t fit with the profile of malignant narcissists in general. As a rule of thumb, they just don’t kill themselves.

  With hands trembling from both anticipation and trepidation, I tear open the envelope and slide out the single sheet of paper. I drop the envelope in my lap and unfold the page, carefully reading the neat and precise penmanship of the late Alvin Perry, and feel a chill slither down my spine, sending an army of goosebumps marching across my skin.

  I’ve never been a particularly superstitious or spiritual man, but it feels like he’s reaching out from the grave to speak to me. It’s just creepy. I read the message several times over, trying to grasp what it is he’s saying but come up completely empty. Except for his last-ditch effort to recruit me to his murderous cause.