by Elle Gray
I nod, still numb with disbelief. “Yeah. Of course,” I say. “Tell him to give me a call, and we’ll get something set up.”
My father drains the last of his glass and gets to his feet. His business concluded, anxious to get out of the city and back to the safety of his bubble in Laurelhurst. He claps me on the shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.
“Thank you, Paxton.”
I put my hand over his and give it a squeeze. Though he tenses, he doesn’t remove it.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
Three
Arrington Residence; Ballard, Seattle
Still feeling shellshocked by the news of Stella Hughes’ murder, I let myself into the condo and shut the door behind me, making sure to lock it. I’m a bit older than Stella, but I knew her well. I knew her family well. She was a good kid, and her dad is a good man. And I hate that he has to endure this sort of pain.
I drop my keys on the table beside the door in the small foyer, then walk into the spacious, open floorplan, loft-style condo that was the home I shared with Veronica for all too brief of a period of time. The walls are mostly red brick, and there are exposed pipes and beams overhead, giving it something of an industrial feel. Tall windows line the back wall of the place, looking out over the sprawling city of Seattle.
Veronica had fallen in love with it the second she’d seen it. As with every single time I come through the door, I get a sense of her. It’s almost like she’s still here with me. The condo itself is like a time capsule. I haven’t touched a thing since she died. All of the same black and white photos hang on the walls, along with our wedding photos. The furniture is all the same, and every piece of art she collected is still in the same place. Even the back room, which we had converted into her office-slash-podcasting-studio, remains untouched. Everything is exactly where it was the last time she was in there.
Brody has told me more times than I can count that I should change the house up. Make it my own. He said it’s kind of depressing, even calling it a bit creepy and sad, that everything within these walls seems frozen in time. Blake, another good friend of mine, who’s with the FBI and is now stationed out of New York, has said pretty much the same thing.
I see their point. I just disagree with it entirely.
I’m not ready to change things up. I’m not ready to let Veronica go, and truthfully, I don’t know that I ever will be. Right now, all I have left of her are these photos and the pieces of art. Even the papers on her desk. If they want to call it a museum or shrine to the dead, or a sad, depressing reminder of everything I’ve lost in my life, so be it. It’s my house; I’ll do what I want with it. And right now, the only thing I want to do with it is leave it be.
I go into the kitchen and pull a beer and a box of leftover noodles from last night out of the refrigerator. On my way out of the kitchen, I grab a pair of chopsticks and head down the hallway to the back half of the condo, to the bedrooms. I glance to my right, through the door into her office, still half-expecting to see her seated at her desk, pounding away on her laptop, or with the cans on her ears as she records an episode of her latest show. Even after almost three years, it still hurts to see that her chair sits empty. That her studio remains dark.
I turn into the door on the left and descend the three stairs into my own office. I set my things down on my desk, turn on my computer, then flip on the flatscreen that hangs on the wall and find a game. The Lakers are battling the Cavaliers. My desk is set facing the doorway with a large oak credenza behind it. In the hutch that sits atop the credenza are framed photos. One of Veronica, one from my graduation from the police academy, and some others with notables I’ve met over the years.
Across the office from my desk is the flatscreen, and two wide, deep wingback chairs facing the desk. Just in case I have to meet clients here, I guess. To my left is a large window that gives me the same view as from the living room, to my right is a large whiteboard mounted to the wall. And next to the whiteboard is a bank of file cabinets.
I drop down into my seat and pop open the box and use the chopsticks to munch on the noodles as I watch Anthony Davis nearly puts the man guarding him on the ground with a brilliant spin move. He drives to the hoop and slams the ball home, igniting the crowd.
My computer chimes, and I turn to look at the screen. As I bite into a cold egg roll, I scroll through my emails but don’t see anything important, or anything that remotely catches my interest. I finish my cold noodles and egg rolls, washing it all down with the beer just as the halftime buzzer sounds. I set my bottle down on my desk and turn around and stand, walking over to the whiteboard mounted to the wall.
At the center of my whiteboard is a picture of Veronica. I reach out and touch it, sliding my finger along the alabaster skin of her jawline, remembering instantly what it felt like to feel her warm, supple skin beneath my fingertips. And as I stare into eyes as blue as the Caribbean sea, I feel my heart swell painfully as a thousand different memories come crashing down over me with the force of a tidal wave.
Sometimes I hate having perfect recall, simply because everything remains so vivid and so vibrant for so long. Sometimes, I think it would be nice to forget, if only for a little while. Despite the pain it sometimes brings me, I would never want to forget one single thing about Veronica. She changed my life in ways she never even realized. I can confidently say, with all certainty, that not only did she change me for the better, but I wouldn’t be the man I am today without her. And I like to think I’m a pretty good man, all things considered.
Arrayed around Veronica’s photo are pictures of others. Former Detective Sergeant Boo Radley and his crew, all now comfortably tucked away in prison. I’ve long suspected them of being responsible for her death, though I’ve never been able to prove it. They’re only sitting in prison because I uncovered their corruption and blew the whistle on them.
Then there’s a photo of Alvin Perry, the serial killer I helped put away. Though I know he didn’t kill Veronica, he did pass me a note shortly before he died in prison under mysterious circumstances. That told me he might know more. Not that I’ll ever get a chance to question him about it.
And next to Perry’s photo is one of the prison guard who’d given me said note—and refused to give me his name. I later found out his name was Bill Grundon, and I only found that out because I saw an article in the paper. Shortly after passing Perry’s note to me, Grundon was found dead in a local park. The victim of a mugging gone bad. But I remember just how scared he was about the events playing out. He didn’t believe Perry had killed himself either. He believed something bigger was in play. And he paid for that belief with his life.
Yet another coincidence in a growing chain of them. I don’t yet have the link that will connect this whole chain together. I just know there is one.
As I look at Perry’s picture, I recall the note he’d left me, remembering it word for word without needing to look at the page:
Paxton,
The game is still afoot. If you want to know why your wife died, look into something called Xytophyl.
All the best,
Alvin Perry, aka Reuben Hayes
PS: It is never too late to become what you were meant to be.
Like me, Perry was a Holmesophile. It’s how our paths crossed in the first place; dumb luck and a mutual appreciation for Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes books. Perry seemed to think we were drawn together by fate, destined to play out a real-world Holmes murder mystery together. And so, he tried to draw me in, baiting me to play cat and mouse with him.
He also apparently thought I was destined to follow in his footsteps and be his serial killer protege. I admit, I can be pretty dark, and I’m definitely angry, but a serial killer? No. Not hardly. Perry was wrong on just about everything.
But with no other leads to follow, I was compelled to do my due diligence. I looked into it. Had Brody do a deep dive on Xytophyl, and we came up empty. All we came up with is that it’s a drug being manufactured by a pharmac
eutical company called Lomtin Laboratories and is being used to treat certain forms of cancer. Other than that, it’s a dry well.
I’ve looked and looked and found no connection between Lomtin and Veronica. I’ve searched her files, her computer. I’ve looked through everything and found nothing. The only conclusion I was able to draw was that it was Perry’s final game for me. His last chance at being the Moriarty to my Holmes.
But like everything else in his miserable life, it came to absolutely nothing.
I take a step back and stare at my board, reading through the various bits of information I’ve scrawled on it, and studying the photos. I don’t need to. I have this stuff committed to memory, but I look at it anyway, sometimes hoping I see something I missed, or suddenly discover some flash of new insight that puts everything in a different light. I’m just looking for that one thing, that one nugget of… something… that will turn this case on its head for me.
I know it’s been nearly three years now, and everybody has moved on with their lives. I know that nobody is even looking at this, and everybody is convinced it was just a freakish accident that killed her. They’re convinced that I can’t accept that fact and have become obsessed with trying to find some hidden conspiracy where none exists. Brody and Blake both call me a dog with a bone, saying I’ll worry and gnaw on it for the rest of my life. And maybe they’re right. Maybe they all are.
But the one thing I keep coming back to, the one thing I cannot reconcile in my mind, is the official accident report. The official report states that Veronica was traveling too fast and hit a patch of black ice, causing her to lose control of the car. The problem with that is that the night was cold, but not cold enough to form black ice on the road. I remember everything about that night, including the temperature, and it was not cold enough. I’ve looked up the temperature charts from that night, and it matches my account.
Yet nobody is listening.
They conducted their investigation, signed off on the right papers, checked all of the right boxes, and that was that. Case closed. But that’s not good enough for me. Who knows? Maybe they’re right, and this is a bone I will gnaw on until the day I die. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure out who killed my wife.
Turning away from the board, I sit down at my computer and call up a search engine. I need to occupy my mind with something else right now. Knowing I’m going to be meeting with Marcus Hughes tomorrow, I should probably be up to date on what’s going on with the investigation into Stella’s murder. So I plug Stella’s name into the search engine, and as the results appear, I get up and walk to the kitchen. I throw away my trash, grab another beer, and head back to my office, glancing into Veronica’s office as I pass just out of habit.
Fighting off a wave of melancholy, I sit down at my desk and start to read the first article.
Four
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Hughes,” I say, giving him a firm handshake.
“Please, it’s Marcus. We’re both grown men,” he replies. “And it’s good to see you too, Pax. It’s been a minute.”
I nod. “It has,” I reply. “I only wish we were meeting again under better circumstances.”
A shadow crosses his face, and he gives me a small nod. “Yeah, me too.”
I lead him from the elevator and through the lobby, then into the conference room and offer him a seat. A moment later, a curvy brunette in a dark pantsuit bustles in with a tray loaded with coffee service and pastries. She sets it down on the table and lays everything out for us. I just sit there looking at her, my head swirling with confusion.
Once she has it all set out, she nods to Marcus, then turns and offers me a bright smile. She’s probably in her early twenties, with dark hair that’s pulled back into a ponytail that falls to the middle of her back. She’s got eyes the color of jade, and alabaster colored skin that’s flawless. She’s striking, that’s for sure.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Arrington?” she asks.
“Yeah. Sorry,” I start. “But who are you?”
Her smile falters slightly, and she suddenly looks uncertain. “I—I’m Amy,” she stammers. “Amy Laughlin?”
I stare at her blankly, the name meaning absolutely nothing to me. Marcus shifts in his seat, and though he’s still frowning, he’s got a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.
“Mr. Singer hired me,” she adds. “To be the new receptionist?”
I sit back in my seat as it all falls into place. I chuckle and rub my jaw, the two days’ worth of stubble on my face sounding dry and scratchy.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Arrington?” she asks. “I mean if you need to talk—”
I hold my hand up. “No, no. It’s fine,” I reply. “Sorry. Brody just moved a lot faster than I anticipated. Well, I suppose I should welcome you to Arrington Investigations.”
Relief floods Amy’s face, and her smile, as well as a measure of her self-confidence, returns. She stands up a bit straighter, her eyes sparkling once more.
“Thank you, Mr. Arrington,” she beams. “You won’t regret this.”
I give her a small smile. “I’m sure I won’t,” I say. “Thank you, that will be all.”
She nods to me, then to Marcus, and marches out of the conference room, making sure the door is closed behind her. I turn to Marcus and give him a tight smile.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
Marcus says nothing. He just sits there with a vacant look on his face as I watch him fold in on himself. Given what he’s going through, I understand. I’ve been there. I pick up my cup of coffee, quickly dress it, and take a drink. Marcus follows suit. We sit in silence for a little while, as I let him gather his thoughts and tell me why he’s here and what he thinks I can do for him.
Marcus Hughes is a former NBA standout who built what I’d call an unlikely friendship with my dad some thirty-odd years ago, back when Marcus was a rookie with the Sonics. It’s one of the quirks of my dad’s personality I’ve always found odd, but he’s always been a basketball junkie. He loves it as much as anything else in his life and can’t seem to get enough of it.
I’m not sure how it happened exactly, but Marcus and my dad forged a lifelong friendship all those years ago, bonding over their mutual love of the game. Marcus stayed with the Sonics for a few years, then was traded to the Spurs in the mid-90s, where he spent the balance of his career until bouncing around the league in his last few years, finally retiring as a Sonic just a few years before they left the city. He was always one of those unsung players who was good enough to play for thirteen seasons in the league— even earned an All-Star bid, and a Sixth Man Award— but not quite good enough for the Hall of Fame. Through it all though, his friendship with my father never wavered.
Even when he was playing in San Antonio or Phoenix or Detroit, Marcus kept his house in Seattle, saying he didn’t want to drag his family all over the country. It meant that I saw a lot of him during the offseason. I got to know his family well over the years and always thought they were lovely people. Kind. Charitable. Generous. They did a lot in the community, helping countless at-risk kids in Seattle.
Breast cancer took Marcus’ wife a few years back, and that had been a hammer blow to the man. To the community. But it had really broken something inside of him. How could it not? She’d been the one and only love of his life. And though he fought through it, always managing to keep a smile on his face and a positive attitude, there’s been a shadow of pain and loss that lingered in his eyes ever since then.
And now he’s lost Stella, too.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss, Marcus,” I tell him. “Stella was… she was an incredible girl.”
He nods vaguely. “She was the light of my life,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I know every parent says it, but Stella was special. She was going to change the world. I truly believe that.”
Not sure what to say, I just nod and take another drink
of coffee. Stella was a special girl. She was very smart and had her father’s determination and grit. Marcus wasn’t that blue-chipper who had teams scrambling to draft him. He was never the best. He got to where he did through hard work, an unrelenting spirit, and a drive like I’ve never seen in anybody else. He had a fire inside of him that pushed him to excel beyond anybody’s wildest expectations. He played his whole career with a chip on his shoulder and took nothing for granted.
Stella was the same way. As I got a bit older, my life changed and got busy, and I lost touch with her. But I remember her having the same chip on her shoulder as Marcus did. My dad told me she attacked high school academics and sports with that same sort of underdog, take nothing for granted, work for everything you get mentality, and she’d excelled as a result. She’d even earned a scholarship to play volleyball at the University of Washington. This would have been her junior year. Maybe she could have changed the world. I don’t know. All I do know is that it’s a shame we’ll never find out.
“What can I do for you, Marcus?” I finally ask.
He sighs, sets his coffee cup down on the table, and sits back in his seat. He looks weary. There are dark circles beneath eyes that are bloodshot and swollen. I don’t think Marcus has slept in days, which is understandable, given what’s happened.
“I want you to find who murdered my little girl,” he says.
“I’m sure Seattle PD is better suited to finding out who did this.”
He blows out a loud breath as he shakes his head and waves me off. I hated forcing those words out of my mouth but felt like I had to. Nobody knows the incompetence and laziness of some within the Seattle Police Department better than I do. It’s a viper pit of politics and personal ambition, where trying to advance yourself takes precedence over serving and protecting.
There are some good people who work for the SPD, don’t get me wrong. People who believe in doing the right thing. There are officers and detectives who work for the city and the people. Good police who do things the right way. But then you have people like Radley or Deputy Chief Torres, who only seek to enrich and empower themselves, at the expense of everybody around them. And worst of all, I think, are those who are there simply going through the motions, collecting a paycheck, and positioning themselves for a full pension down the line.