Her Last Call (Arrington Mystery Book 2)

by Elle Gray

  As he swivels toward his computer monitor, he frowns for a moment, then starts tapping away at the keys. I’m sure he’s in the SPD databases, navigating through them with ease. Over the months since we started this venture, Brody’s gotten quite adept at ferreting out information from the SPD, having built back doors into their databases. He’s said the SPD’s databases have security so flimsy, any twelve-year-old could hack into them.

  Brody takes a perverse sense of joy out of hacking into different systems. The more difficult, the better. And though he may complain and worry out loud when I ask him to breach some tightly guarded database like the feds, I know he gets a rush out of it.

  “You are looking for one TJ Lee,” he says, swiveling back to face me. “Know him?”

  “In passing,” I reply. “He’d just gotten his Detective’s shield when I left.”

  “So you never really worked with him?”

  I shake my head. “No, not really.”

  “Well that’s good,” Brody says. “Means the chances that he hates your guts probably aren’t as high.”

  I chuckle. “The chances are better, though nothing is guaranteed.”

  “Given your rep around the SPD, trust me, I know nothing is guaranteed.”

  I get to my feet, a faux-wounded expression on my face. “Thanks for digging up his name. I got it from here.”

  “Anytime.”

  I open his office door, but before I go through it, I turn back to him. “I was serious though. You’ve done a great job with things here,” I tell him. “I appreciate it.”

  I shut the door behind me and head back to my office before he can respond. I can tell my words meant a lot to him, but the last thing I want is for him to get all teary-eyed and emotional about it. That would make the situation even more awkward than it already is.

  See? From time to time, I guess I actually can be a human being.

  Eight

  Golden Sun Restaurant; Chinatown-International District, Seattle

  I spot him in the back corner of the restaurant, looking over some papers in a file as he sips from a bowl of soup. I wave the hostess off and make my way to his table. He looks up as I sit down across from him. It takes a moment, but I see the light of recognition dawn in his eyes.

  “Paxton Arrington,” he says.

  “TJ Lee.”

  TJ is a good-looking guy. Almost six feet tall with dark, almond-shaped eyes, and hair as black as pitch. He’s got an angular jawline, smooth, olive-colored skin, broad shoulders, and a lean build. You’d never be able to get a bead on his age just by looking at him. He’s got an almost ageless face.

  I’ve seen him in action, and the guy is athletic and well versed in martial arts. More than his physical prowess though, the guy is razor-sharp. I think he’s one of the smartest people in the SPD. He probably should have made Detective long before he actually did. The fact that he didn’t tells me he must not have a lot of fans among the brass. Which might give us a little common ground to start with.

  He drops the paper back into the file and closes it, looking at me suspiciously as he slurps down a spoonful of his egg drop soup. He sets the spoon back into the bowl and wipes his mouth with a napkin, dropping it in his lap. Never once taking his eyes off me. His look could best be described as ambivalence, though it seems to be drifting toward contempt.

  When I told Brody I’d only crossed paths with TJ while I was with the department, I didn’t tell him a few things that honestly didn’t seem important enough to mention. But things that might explain TJ’s frosty demeanor. One night, I responded to a call for backup. A liquor store robbery. One of the other responding officers— a friend of TJ’s— fired two shots into the suspect, nearly killing him.

  The officer said the perp was reaching for a gun. Lee and the fourth officer on the scene backed him up. I didn’t. The truth was, it was a tense scene, and emotions were running high. But the perp didn’t reach for a gun. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t even armed. The officer, a kid barely out of the academy, flipped out and lost his cool. In my opinion, it wasn’t a good shoot. A blotch on the SPD’s name. The kid made a mistake, and I wasn’t going to stain my credibility or jeopardize my career by saying it was.

  Ultimately, my word was disregarded. The shooter was reprimanded but cleared. The suspect, it turns out, had been connected to a string of robberies in the area. But since the officer overstepped, he was able to win a big settlement from the city a few months later and was back out of jail a few months later, nearly a hundred thousand dollars richer. And because I didn’t hold that thin blue line, because I didn’t support the word of my fellow officers, they saw me as a traitor.

  While TJ was never quite as vocal or vehement as the others, his displeasure with my decision to tell the truth as I saw it was always more than clear. Judging by the look on his face, it still is. So much for starting from some common ground.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Heard this place has the best shrimp egg foo young in Seattle,” I offer.

  He sits back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the file, his eyes boring holes into mine. I chuckle and sit up, folding my hands together on the table in front of me.

  “Cut the crap, Arrington,” he replies, his voice as cold as the air outside right now. “What do you want?”

  “Just to talk.”

  “What could we possibly have to talk about?” he asks.

  “A few things.”

  We stare at each other in silence for several long moments, the air between us crackling with tension. A waitress arrives at the table and looks at me with a wide, warm smile on her face.

  “Can I get you something?” she asks.

  “I think he’s leaving,” TJ says.

  “Actually, yeah,” I reply. “How about an order of shrimp egg foo young and a beer. Whatever you have on tap is fine.”

  She gives me a nod and turns away, bustling back to the kitchen. Across the table, TJ sighs and slumps back in his seat.

  “Going to ruin my whole lunch hour?” he asks.

  “Probably not the whole hour.”

  “How did you even find me, anyway?”

  “I’m really good at what I do, TJ,” I tell him. “But tell me something. Are you still pissed that I didn’t back Parker’s story about that liquor store case?”

  TJ leans forward and slips a spoonful of the soup into his mouth, then wipes his mouth again. He’s a very neat eater and fastidious about his appearance. I can respect that. It’s actually one more thing he and I have in common, though I doubt he would see it that way.

  “You’re mistaken, Arrington. I never begrudged you that,” he starts. “In fact, I respected that you stuck to your guns, man. It took a lot of balls to stand against everybody like that.”

  I cock my head, feeling taken aback by his words. That was about the last thing I expected to hear. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what to do about it. But it actually leaves me with a couple more questions than I had before.

  “So if that’s true, then what’s with the attitude you’ve always given me?” I ask.

  “Because you act like you’re better than everybody, Arrington,” he tells me. “You walk around all high and mighty like you’re a god, and the rest of us are just peons. Like we’re somehow less than you.”

  The truth is, I do think a lot of people— especially those in the SPD— are less than me. For a lot of different reasons. TJ’s never been one of them, but I know that’s not what he wants to hear right now. I know he’s looking for some form of contrition or acknowledgement that he’s right. And I know you sometimes have to give to get. It costs me nothing to mollify him, and the payoff could be well worth it.

  “Listen, that’s not at all how I have ever intended to come off,” I tell him. “And if that’s how I come off to you, I apologize. Believe it or not, I have a lot of respect for you, TJ.”

  The expression on his face tells me he doesn’t believe it. But that’s fine. So long as we can
call enough of a truce that we can work together, that’s all that matters. Assuming he’ll actually work with me.

  “So now that you’re done blowing sunshine up my ass, what do you want?”

  His voice is gruff, but I can see a faint smile flicker across his lips, and I take that as my sign that we’re cool. Or at least something close to it. The waitress arrives and sets my egg foo young and beer down. She also brings out a noodle dish for TJ.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m good. TJ?”

  “I’m fine; thank you.”

  She gives us a nod and walks away to see to her other tables. I drop my napkin into my lap and take a bite of my dish. The flavor explodes in my mouth, and I look up, taken aback by it.

  “Wow,” I note. “This actually is very good.”

  He chuckles to himself. “I’ll tell my mother you approve.”

  “Family owned place, huh?” I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Guess you’re not as good at your job as you thought.”

  A wry smile crosses my lips, and I shake my head as I tuck into the plate of food. I wash it down with a long swallow of beer and sit back. TJ uses his chopsticks to take a bite of his noodle dish and stares at me as he chews. He takes a drink of his water and sets the glass down.

  “Okay, so now that we’re done dancing around one another and observing all the social niceties, what do you want, Arrington?”

  No sense beating around the bush with TJ. He’s too smart to be manipulated or played, which already makes him head and shoulders more capable than some of his contemporaries within the department. A guy like TJ doesn’t want to be flattered. Which means the best way to go at him is straight on and be upfront about it.

  “I need some information,” I say simply.

  He immediately bristles, and a veil drops over his eyes. He’s put on his cop face, and I’m already treading on dangerous ground with him. If there’s one thing cops don’t do, it’s share information. Especially with civilians.

  “What kind of information?” he asks.

  “It’s about the Stella Hughes case—”

  “Come on man,” he cuts me off. “You know I can’t talk to you about that.”

  “I’m looking into this for her dad, TJ,” I plead. “I assume you know who he is.”

  He pointedly glances at his watch, then takes another bite of his noodles and nods at me. I know I’m running out of time.

  “Of course I do,” he nods. “Doesn’t change the fact that I can’t talk to a civilian about it.”

  “You know I was on the job,” I tell him. “I’m not some true-crime junkie looking for a thrill here.”

  “The operative word there is, ‘was,’” he fires back. “You were on the job. You’re not anymore.”

  I run a hand over my face, doing my best to keep my temper in check. Losing my cool and blowing him up isn’t going to help my cause.

  “Look, I’m not trying to step on your toes here,” I tell him. “The collar is yours. I’m just trying to give Marcus some closure.”

  “You know better than that, Arrington. There’s no such thing as closure. It’s a myth,” he replies. “All you’re going to do is give him a whole new set of questions.”

  “Yeah, but I know what it’s like to not have answers to the first set of questions,” I tell him. “To not know who killed somebody you love. I want to spare him that sort of pain if I can. Marcus is a good man, and he deserves the answers.”

  “And what do you think it is I’m doing out here?” he asks. “This is what I’m talking about, Arrington. You think you’re better—”

  “That’s not what this is,” I cut him off, my voice growing hard. “Marcus came to me. He wants me to look into this as a way of augmenting, not usurping your investigation. And think about it. Two heads are better than one.”

  TJ doesn’t say anything, but I can see the skepticism on his face. That and a growing sense of irritation. He glances at his watch again, his expression darkening, and I can tell he’s getting ready to wrap this up.

  “I’m not looking to take the credit here. The collar is yours. That’s not my thing anymore, since I’m not a cop, as you pointed out,” I press. “I just want to give Marcus a little peace. He’s a family friend. I’ve known Stella since she was a kid, man.”

  That opens something. His eyes widen, clearly surprised, but I don’t take the opportunity to follow up with some well-timed snarky blow. I show him the seriousness in my face and voice.

  “I mean it, TJ. I want to help out. However I can. For Marcus.”

  He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again. He looks down at the table and falls silent. At least he seems to be thinking about it rather than dismissing me completely. That’s good enough for me for now. Especially since it seems to be the best I’m going to get out of him at the moment.

  I take one last bite of my egg foo young and get to my feet. After draining the last of my beer, I pull my wallet out and throw some money down on the table.

  “On me,” I tell him. “Sorry to have taken up all your time.”

  “It’s fine.” His tone of voice tells me it’s anything but fine.

  I put my wallet back into my jacket pocket and pull out a card. Setting it down on the table in front of him, I tap on it with my finger.

  “If you get to a place where you can talk to me, give me a call,” I tell him. “And I’ll reciprocate.”

  “I should remind you that if you uncover evidence and withhold it, I can charge you with a crime,” he says. “But you should know that.”

  A rueful smile touches my lips, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I turn on my heel and walk out of the Golden Sun, leaving TJ to his meal and his thoughts. I’ve made my pitch, and all I can do is hope TJ decides to play ball.

  If he doesn’t, then I’ll have to go around him and do things my way.

  Nine

  The Husky; University District, Seattle

  The Husky is, in every respect, a college bar. The walls are covered in University memorabilia: jerseys from athletes who went on to play in the pro leagues of their respective sports, team photos, pennants, and a host of other items. The bar itself is done up in the purple and gold, and there are a number of statues of famous Huskies all around the place.

  The main room of the bar has plenty of flatscreens, booths, and tables. It can easily fit a couple hundred boozed-up college kids without much of a problem. There’s also a door that leads out to a back deck for those who want to smoke, or just have a drink in the fresh air. From the deck, I can see the silhouette of Husky Stadium, where it sits facing Union Bay.

  The day is overcast, and there is a chill in the air. I lean against the railing on the deck and stare out at the city beyond, watching as college kids buzz up and down the street, their laughter and loud calls to one another filling the air. I try to think of the night Stella was here. I try to picture the crowd and play the scenario Sonya laid out for me over and over in my mind.

  There hadn’t been any games that night. I checked. So the bar would have likely been full, but probably not packed. Let’s face it; college kids don’t need a reason to get out and throw a few back on a random Tuesday evening. And in a bar full of college kids, I have to think a thirty-or-forty-something-year-old man would probably stand out in the crowd.

  God knows I got plenty of strange looks when I walked through the door, and I’m only thirty-four. A pretty young looking thirty-four, I might add.

  “Hey, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  I turn at the sound of the man’s voice to see a man stepping onto the deck. He’s an inch or two taller than I am, has dark hair, blue eyes, and the golden skin of a man who spends plenty of time outdoors. He’s dressed in a purple long-sleeved button-down shirt with the Husky’s company logo— the face of a Husky superimposed over a golden H, reminiscent of the University’s logo— on the breast, and blue jeans.

  H
e extends his hand and gives me a firm shake. “Don Gwynne. Owner and operator of the Husky.”

  He’s smooth. He’s a practiced and polished businessman. The vibe I get from him that he’s the sort who thinks of his business before anything else. Not that I think that’s necessarily a bad thing, but guys like Don Gwynne can sometimes pour it on a little thick, and that can be pretty off-putting.

  But sometimes, you have to play the game. And right now, just as I had to do with TJ, I have to do just that.

  “Paxton—”

  “Arrington. Yeah, I know,” he cuts me off. “You’re the guy who caught Alvin Perry. How could I not?”

  It’s petty and prideful, but I have to admit that it’s kind of nice to have somebody recognize me for something other than being Harvey Arrington’s son. Living in the man’s shadow is oftentimes unbearable.

  “I had a hand in it,” I reply.

  “More than a hand from what I hear,” he says with a grin. “So what brings you down here? Running down another serial killer?”

  I wince inwardly at the statement, the reality of what I’m actually doing here hitting me hard once more. I normally compartmentalize a lot better than this, but every once in a while, something slips through the cracks and forces me to remember that I’m looking into the murder of somebody I not only knew but considered a friend. And every time it happens, it’s like a cold slap to the face all over again.

  I clear my throat. “I don’t know about a serial,” I start, “but I am looking into the death of somebody I gather frequented your bar.”

  His face darkens, and a frown creases his lips. “Somebody who frequented this place? You sure?”

  I nod, doing my best to keep my emotions in check. To compartmentalize things again and lock them all away in the boxes in my mind, even as they start to heat up underneath the surface. Letting my emotions get the best of me has never done me any favors before, and I know they won’t do me any good now. The best thing I can do for myself— and for Stella— is to have a firm handle on myself. To think clearly. The best thing I can do is approach this case dispassionately as I would any other case.