Her Last Call (Arrington Mystery Book 2)

by Elle Gray

  I give a start as Marcy drops down into the chair across from me, some fancy coffee drink topped off with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles in hand. She gives me a small smile.

  “Must be reading something good. Or something really terrible,” she says. “I called your name twice when I was in line to see if you wanted anything. But hey, you snooze, you lose.”

  I pick up my mug and take a drink. “Thanks, but I’m good,” I tell. “And you’re almost ten minutes late.”

  “Wow. That stick is much further up there than I’d thought.”

  “I appreciate punctuality.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I have a feeling she’ll be late next time just to screw with me. She seems the type. Marcy takes a drink, her eyes never leaving me, and sets her glass down on the table. After wiping her mouth with a napkin— missing the small dot of whipped cream on the tip of her nose— she leans forward, a light of curiosity shining in her eyes. I recognize that light. I saw it often enough in Veronica’s.

  But there’s more than that. I can see by the way she’s practically bouncing up and down in her seat that she’s excited about something. She’s like a high school girl with some juicy bit of gossip she’s dying to share but doesn’t want to give it up too easily. Not without the assurance that she’s getting something in return.

  “So? What were you reading?” she asks. “What’s captivated your attention?”

  I look up and set my phone face down on the table and lean back, unwilling to give it up first. Marcy is incredibly likeable, and she is like Veronica in so many ways that frankly, sitting here with her, I feel a dull ache of grief inside of me flare up again.

  As we sit there in silence for a moment, I weigh out whether or not I should tell her about the email. She’s given me no reason not to trust her, but I need to be sure that I’m not simply blinded by her similarities to Veronica, and am actually thinking, rather than just feeling.

  “What did you want to meet about?” I ask.

  Marcy frowns for a moment, then shakes her head and sighs, as if she knows she’ll have to try harder to pry it out of me. She reaches down into her bag and pulls out a tablet. She turns it on and keys in her password to unlock it, then lets her fingers fly across the screen. When she’s done, she turns the tablet across the table to me.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Read it yourself,” she explains. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

  I chuckle and pick up her tablet, then take a drink of my coffee before I begin to read the email she’d called up.

  It’s from the same mystery email address. My eyes widen in shock.

  “A liar knows that he is a liar, but one who speaks mere portions of truth in order to deceive is a craftsman of destruction.”

  Dear Ms. Bryant,

  I am the man you have been writing about. You’re free to refer to me as the Seattle Ripper if it suits you. I know the media will conjure up some witty moniker, so I thought to give you my input on my preferred name first.

  I am responsible for taking the lives of five women, all of whom were liars. Deceivers. Manipulators. Whores. They needed to be taught a lesson and teach them a lesson I did. You could say, they really took my teachings to heart (ha ha).

  I am impressed that you have made the connection some— most, really— have not. And I am further impressed that you have the courage to publish my lessons when others do not. My lessons are vital to maintaining a polite, civilized, decent society. Women must learn that they cannot simply do as they please, or take what they want, without consequence.

  That sort of faithless, feckless behavior simply will not do. I hope you are not like the lying whores out there— I’ve studied you, and though you do not seem to be, people can surprise you. Sometimes, in the most unpleasant ways possible.

  I will take a leap of faith on you, Marcy, because I would like to work with you. I would like you to tell my story and pass along my teachings.

  Women must learn my lessons. Men must learn to harness their own power and not give it away. The police seem too stupid to understand my lessons. The media is too cowardly to publish them.

  But you are different. You have courage. Strength. Honesty. And I choose you to chronicle my teachings. I choose you to spread my lessons far and wide. I have read your blog and find it very interesting. You have real talent.

  I will be in touch soon.

  Your New Friend,

  The Seattle Ripper

  I read the words a couple more times, feeling a fresh surge of untempered excitement welling up within me. It’s unmistakable. This is the same man who wrote the email to me. There’s no doubt in my mind. Both start with an obscure quote, much of the diction and general writing seems alike. The only difference I can see at first blush is that he tried to inject a little humor in Marcy’s letter. He’s trying to establish a rapport. With me, it was more of a threat. A warning to steer clear of him.

  He certainly seems intelligent enough to know that’s never going to happen.

  I look up at Marcy, to find her staring back at me with widened eyes and a tense tightness across her lips. She seems like she wants to explode with twin emotions of excitement and nervousness, but is managing to hold it in check, perhaps out of a strong sense of decorum and not wanting to come across like a ghoul.

  “So? What do you think?” she asks.

  A smirk flickers across my lips. “I think he’s got a real problem with women.”

  “Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”

  “I also think it’s clear he’s dying for attention,” I continue. “And that he’s frustrated he hasn’t gotten it to this point.”

  “Yeah, I got that too,” she replies. “He must’ve seen my piece yesterday, and that’s why he’s trying to forge this bond.”

  I nod. “That’s a good bet. I’m sure he scours the news sites daily. Attention seekers always do,” I note. “He wants recognition. Or as he puts it, wants his lessons spread far and wide.”

  I sit back in my seat, mulling over the words in his letter to her as she takes a sip of her drink. It’s obvious she’s putting her trust in me. I don’t know why exactly, since she barely knows me, but she is. Cold, hard experience has taught me that trusting people is an exercise fraught with peril. You open yourself up to somebody, and it seems like more times than not, you’re only going to find a knife in your back. I choose my friends very carefully.

  As I look at her though, I can see Marcy is being open and honest with me. For whatever reason, she’s decided to take the chance and risk me stabbing her in the back. I don’t think she’s naive. Nor do I think she’s the type to blindly trust somebody. I have a feeling she picks and chooses her people as carefully as I do. But I also think she’s more willing to give people the benefit of the doubt than I am. She’s like Veronica in that way too: she wants to see people’s better angels, rather than immediately see the worst in them.

  I unlock my phone and call up my own email from the killer, then slide the phone across to her. She looks at me, curiosity etched upon her features for a moment, but then she picks up the phone and starts to read. She’s got a pretty good poker face, but can’t quite keep her eyes from widening just a touch as she takes it in. Marcy puts the phone down and looks up at me.

  “Sounds to me like he’s afraid of you,” she says.

  I tap my fingers on the tabletop, trying to decide how far to take this trust. It’s an unusual feeling for me since it’s been quite a while since I opened the door for anybody. Maybe this is one of those opportunities to be a normal human being that Brody likes to harp on me about.

  “What do you think?” she asks.

  “I think it sounds like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  “Yeah? We?”

  I nod slowly. “Yeah. We,” I reply. “I think we’ll be in a lot better shape if we pool our resources and combine forces here.”

  The smile on her face is wide and genuine. “I’
m in.”

  Twenty-Three

  The Queen City Lounge; Downtown Seattle

  “Dr. Jekyll”

  It’s been a long day. I sit at a table on the observation platform that overlooks downtown, having a quiet drink, and reflect on the past few days. Soft jazz plays from the overhead speakers, and the buzz of conversation in the lounge is a rolling wave of soft murmurs. This place is my preferred haunt after a long day because people seem to enjoy the quiet intimacy of the place. It’s not like one of those overcrowded, louder than hell college bars.

  “Another Manhattan?”

  I look up at the waitress and give her a smile. “Yes, please,” I respond. “Thank you, Danielle.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  She gives me a sumptuous smile, then turns, and I watch as she sashays away from the table. She’s got generous curves, amazing breasts, and reminds me a lot of Taylor Swift. I try to picture her with dark hair but quickly push the thought away. I enjoy coming here. Dating one of the staff, no matter how gorgeous she is, would make things awkward.

  The Queen sits on the top floor of a boutique hotel. Its walls are entirely made of glass, giving patrons an unobstructed, three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the city. It’s beautiful. The rest of the bar is furnished in dark oak polished to a high gloss sheen. The place is warm, with a very understated old-fashioned elegance. The Queen has been around for nearly a century and caters to a wealthier, classier clientele. It’s one of the reasons I prefer taking a quiet drink here.

  “Your Manhattan.”

  “Thank you.”

  Danielle slides the fresh drink down in front of me and picks up my empty glass. She gives me another smile before leaving me in peace again. She seems like a nice girl. Not the type who would lie and deceive to get what she wants. She doesn’t seem like the others.

  Speaking of the others…

  I pick up my phone and open it up. I check my sent emails and see that both Marcy Bryant and that nosy prick Arrington have both read the missives I sent them. I’m under no illusions and know Arrington will keep hunting me. He just can’t seem to leave well enough alone. At some point, I know I’ll have to deal with him, and when I do, he can’t say I didn’t give him an out. I offered him a chance to stay out of my way. If he elects not to take it, he will have to suffer the consequences for that poor decision. And he will find me to be a far more formidable opponent than Alvin Perry.

  I call up the photo of Marcy Bryant and gaze at her for a long moment. It’s a professional headshot from her website, a site that’s actually quite good as far as news outlets go. Sure, it’s got some fluff and gossip because people seem to love that. I have to assume she makes money on the ad revenues she generates from those pieces.

  But as far as news goes, like the gossip side of her operation, her investigative reporting beat is pretty spot on. She’s obviously got good sources not only in the police department but all over the city. And more than that, she’s intelligent. Clever. Marcy makes smart deductions— such as connecting all five of my kills despite the information blackout by the Seattle PD.

  It’s why I picked Marcy. Her intelligence. I’ve always had a soft spot for smart women, and as I look at her dark hair, deep soulful eyes, and delicate facial features, I feel something stirring within me. Were it not for those horrid tattoos, that purple streak, and piercings; she’d be perfect. I begin wondering if she’s a nice girl or a manipulative, deceitful whore like the rest of them.

  I want to believe she’s a nice girl. But then, my track record in picking nice girls hasn’t exactly been terrific. Women are devious creatures. They lure you in with promises of sex, love, and companionship. But once they have you hooked, they subtly reveal what their agenda really is, which is taking whatever they can get from you. That love and companionship usually becomes dependent on what you give them.

  And like the morons we are, we men just continue to give and give. Most of us never see the strings attached to that love they lavish us with. We buy into the fantasy. We let ourselves become hopelessly entangled, falling deeper and deeper into what we think is love. We lose our sense of self. We give up our power.

  But I finally broke through the facade Moira had put up. I finally saw through her lies, her deceptions, and saw her for what she truly is. And I’ve reclaimed my power. I’ve become the man I should have been all along. The man Moira never let me be. Or rather, the man I never let myself be simply because I let myself get tangled up in the fiction she wove.

  But no more. I’m going to teach these women a lesson. And I’m going to teach men how to reclaim their strength and their power. When my lessons are spread far and wide, people will see what I’ve done, and they’ll approve. And maybe then, we can have a fair, honest, and open society.

  Maybe then, women will treat men with the respect we deserve.

  I know it will take some time, but one day, all of my work will be well worth it. When people are happy and genuinely in love, when men don’t have to put up with women who only want to be with them for what a man can give them… people will thank me for what I’ve done to open their eyes.

  People may not understand right now. They may revile me. They may hate and fear me, but in time, they’ll see what I’ve done. And then they will thank me. Many may think my methods monstrous and decry me for a beast— and yes, I do have a beast within me— but I am making the world a better place.

  Both sides of me, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, are helping to shape this world for the better. They’ll see. They’ll all see.

  Twenty-Four

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  Paxton

  “Okay, so what do we know?” I ask.

  “Not a whole lot,” Brody quips.

  He and Marcy are seated at the table as I pace around it. On the screen are the two letters she and I received side by side. I look at them both, stroking my chin as I read through them again.

  “I think we know that he’s intelligent,” Marcy starts. “Well read. Articulate.”

  I nod. “I agree. The quote in my letter is from Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde,” I say. “I’m not familiar with the quote in your letter though, Marcy.”

  “It’s a quote from Criss Jami,” she replies. “He’s a poet and philosopher type. Writes songs and music too.”

  Brody and I both look at her blankly. Marcy laughs and shakes her head as she waves us off.

  “What? I read a lot,” she shrugs. “Don’t you guys know how to use Google?”

  Brody clears his throat. “Yeah, I was going to do that,” he says. “I just hadn’t gotten to it yet. Got a lot going on.”

  I laugh as Marcy gives him a knowing look. Brody shrugs but grins like a fool anyway. I can already see the sparks flying between the two of them. It makes me smile. I obviously don’t know her well, but Marcy seems like a good one. And Brody’s a great guy. I think the two of them might make a good couple. God knows Brody needs a calming, settling influence in his life. I’d like to see him with a good woman by his side.

  I give myself a small shake. There will be time enough to think about things like that later. Right now, our focus needs to be on catching this guy and putting an end to his murder spree. Marcy clears her throat and turns back to me. She’s got a determined glint in her eye, and I can tell she wants this guy caught as badly as I do. Though I think her motives might be a bit different than my own.

  If she helps me take this guy down, the Dispatch will have the inside scoop on the investigation. To be able to beat everybody to the story has got to be a juicy, tender morsel she can’t resist trying to get her bite of. And I can neither blame nor judge her for it. She’s hustling and doing what she has to do to pursue her dream. To me, that’s noble. That’s something that should be applauded and encouraged.

  “Okay, so he’s familiar with the classics as well as modern poetry and philosophy,” Marcy notes.

  I nod. “But I think it’s more than that. Those quotes weren’t picked at ra
ndom,” I say. “They have meaning. A specific meaning to him.”

  “Okay, so what is the meaning?” Brody asks.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I pace back and forth on the other side of the table. They’re both watching me, waiting for me to come up with something. I’ve spent countless hours over the last couple of years studying psychology and criminal profiling. And I like to think I’ve gotten fairly proficient at it.

  Granted, in a business that’s mostly chasing down deadbeat dads and unfaithful spouses, I don’t get to use those skills all that often. But there are some cases I’ve handled that have allowed me to flex those mental muscles. I like to think those skills helped me nail Alvin Perry. And I’d bet my entire reputation that they’ll serve me well here too.

  I close my eyes, drawing a deep breath and let it out slowly as I mentally pore over the letters again, letting my mind sort through the twisted thoughts of the killer. As some things start to fall into place, I nod to myself, open my eyes, and turn back to Brody and Marcy.

  “Okay, so I think our guy sees himself a bit like Jekyll and Hyde,” I say. “Just like we observed from the murder book.”

  “What? Like he’s got a split personality?” Brody asks.

  I shake my head. “No, more like he sees two different, distinct sides to himself. He’s got two faces,” I explain. “The smooth man of means. The kindly face he presents to the world. And the horrible, vicious beast that lies within him.”

  Marcy frowns. “But those two were at odds. In the story, Jekyll fought with Hyde. Tried to keep him repressed. He even tried to create a serum he thought would separate him from Hyde,” she notes. “But this guy seems to embrace his Hyde side. Seems to celebrate it, in fact.”