Her Last Call (Arrington Mystery Book 2)

by Elle Gray

  Arthur swallows hard and then turns and walks away quickly. I follow him with my eyes as he drops into a booth on the other side of the lounge and is immediately razzed by all of his buddies. He simply glowers at them all. I turn to Blake and grin.

  “Playing the wilting flower?” I ask. “Doesn’t seem like you.”

  “I told you, I’ve always wanted to try this place,” she replies with a laugh. “And if I’d kicked his ass, they probably would have made me leave.”

  “That’s fair,” I laugh.

  The hostess comes over and lets us know our table is ready, so we pick up our drinks and follow her out of the lounge. As we go, Blake gives a flirty wave to Arthur, whose face darkens as he turns back to his drink.

  “Rubbing a little salt in the wounds?” I ask. “Now, that’s the Blake Wilder I know.”

  The hostess seats us in a corner booth, then sets our menus down, then gives us a smile and walks away. I raise my glass to her.

  “It’s good to see you again, Blake.”

  She touches her glass to mine. “You too,” she replies. “I’ve missed your grumpy, morose ass.”

  “Morose. Nice. Good to see working for the Bureau is broadening your vocabulary,” I quip.

  She laughs. “Eat crap, Arrington.”

  We peruse the menu, and I revel in the feeling of comfortable companionship I have with Blake. It’s an easy friendship, and one neither of us have to work too hard at, which is a rarity in my life. I have it with Brody, but that’s about it.

  The waiter comes by and takes our order; braised lamb chops and sautéed greens for Blake, a porterhouse, and pommes frites cooked in truffle oil for me. When he goes, I sit back in the booth and take a drink of my Gibson and can’t help but feel like it’s old times again. I’ve always known I’ve missed having Blake around, but sitting here with her really drives that point in, all the way down into my bones.

  “So how are things really going out in New York?” I ask.

  “They’re fine. We’re doing a lot of good work,” she tells me. “We’re taking a lot of bad guys off the board. It’s satisfying work.”

  “But?”

  She gives me a wan smile then takes a sip of her martini. I can see the emotion and conflict scrolling across her face. Without her even having to tell me, I can tell it’s been tougher on her than she’s been letting on.

  “I guess I’m just not a New York kind of girl. I miss it here. This is my home,” she replies. “More than that though, I hate the politics. I mean, I get it. It’s the FBI. There’ll always be office politics to consider. But that’s not why I joined the Bureau, to begin with. I joined to take down bad guys and do some good.”

  I nod, fully understanding where she’s coming from. As far as interoffice warfare goes, I’m sure the SPD is small potatoes compared to the Bureau. I can’t imagine the pressure she’s under. And as far as I know, she’s the only woman running a unit tasked only with tracking and taking down serial killers. I’m sure that only ups the pressure she faces on a daily basis from the different factions at war with one another inside her field office.

  “Do you think it’d be different here in Seattle?” I ask. “Could you still run your task force?”

  “The task force is mobile. We’re designed to be run anywhere. All we need is an office and some computers. And I know it would be different here only because everything in New York is magnified. Amplified,” she tells me. “Outside of DC, it’s the biggest field office we have. It’s the crown jewel. There’d still be politics here, of course— you can never fully escape those tendrils. They always pull you in. But because it’s a smaller field office, I don’t think they’d be as intense. And honestly, I think we’d be even more effective if we didn’t have to deal with the gigantic spotlight of being in New York City.”

  I can tell by the heat in her voice that Blake’s been wanting to get that out for a while. She sounds frustrated. She’s also not one to make speeches, so I know it’s been weighing on her. And because I can relate, I can’t blame her. She’s got every right to be frustrated.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to go off like that.”

  “If you can’t talk to me, who can you talk to?” I shrug. “You know I always want the unvarnished truth.”

  She nods. “And I appreciate that about you.”

  Our salads arrive, and we both dig into them, chatting more about her situation in New York. It’s then that an idea occurs to me.

  “Think they’d give you the green light to move your op here?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I doubt it,” she replies. “It was my idea, to begin with, but the NYFO’s taken control of it. They’ve become possessive of it because we’re getting results. They’d never willingly give up that little feather in their cap. Especially these days when they seem to be getting nothing but bad press.”

  A wry smile crosses my face, and I nod. More of the politics at work. It’s not unlike what Gray is asking me to do for him. He wants to be able to dole out the credit for any good we do to those he favors, while still maintaining his plausible deniability if things go sideways. I still want to believe that at the heart of it, he wants to reform the SPD for the better, but I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t continue to have lingering doubts.

  Gray may have been good police back in his day, but now he’s a politician. And if there’s one thing politicians do, it’s consolidate power for themselves first and leave everyone else twisting in the wind. I’ve personally never seen Gray do this. But the fact that he wants to assign the credit to his handpicked men leaves me feeling a bit wary.

  As far as Blake’s problem goes, I have a potential solution, though it’s one she’s not going to like. The way to get things moving is by applying pressure. Right now, Blake’s being crushed by pressure from above, so the best way to alleviate that is to have somebody higher up the food chain than her bosses apply pressure to them. Through my family, and Archton, I have contacts— Congressmen and Senators— I can call. They might be able to put the squeeze on Blake’s bosses to help facilitate a move west.

  I know she’d hate the thought of it. Blake is one of those who wants to earn everything she has. She never ever wants to be thought of as somebody who uses her connections to get ahead. And if she knew what I was thinking, she’d probably kick my ass. So the simple answer is, she can never know about it.

  “Anyway, enough of my woes,” she sighs. “Tell me about this case. How’d it end up in your lap?”

  Our food arrives, and as we tuck into it, I tell her the story from start to finish. She listens attentively, not interrupting with questions, but I can see her filing everything away for a Q&A session after. And I can already see her mind working a profile. Blake can’t help herself from diving into something like this headfirst any more than I can.

  By the time I finish giving her every last detail I have to that point, we’re both pushing our plates back, most all of our food gone, both of us stuffed. She looks at me with a satisfied smile on her face.

  “That was amazing,” she says. “That might be the best meal I’ve ever had.”

  “Stick with me, kid. I’ll show you a few things.”

  She laughs as our waiter arrives to clear our plates away. After that, we order a couple of after-dinner drinks, which gives us time to decide whether or not we want dessert. The thing I like about The Butchery set up is that it’s geared more toward dinners that stretch out of a couple of hours. The European style encourages people to sit and talk, to enjoy the dining experience, rather than the turn and burn style of most American style restaurants. In places like this, there’s never any rush to get you to stuff your face then get you out the door.

  We sip our brandy and sit back in our booth to let the food settle for a moment. I don’t indulge like this very often, but it’s a special occasion. Then Blake sits forward again with a determined glint in her eye that I recognize all too well.

  “I have questions,” she starts. />
  “I figured you would,” I reply. “But seriously, you’re on vacation. You should use the time to unwind, Blake. Recharge your batteries.”

  She laughs. “You know me better than that,” she tells me. “My batteries are always fully charged.”

  I nod. “Fair enough. But I don’t want you to be working while you’re on a break from working.”

  “Well I’m curious now,” she says. “I’m invested. Especially knowing how personal this case is for you. You need somebody to keep you focused.”

  “I’ve been managing.”

  “You need to be one hundred percent present,” she presses. “Let me help you.”

  There’s no question that she’d be an invaluable resource to have at my disposal. She’s got one of the finest minds I’ve ever known, and though it pains my pride and ego to admit, she’s a far better profiler than I am. The woman is talented, intuitive, and the Bureau is lucky to have her.

  “I’m going to go nuts if I have nothing to do all day,” she tells me. “At least this way, I’ll not only get to hang out with you and Brody, but I’ll get to exercise my mind. And let’s be honest here. With you running the show, it’s not like you couldn’t use my brain.”

  I laugh. “Fine. You’re right. I can use you,” I laugh. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll hit this hard and put this bastard down.”

  “Looking forward to it,” she replies with a grin.

  Twenty-Six

  Golden Schooner Tavern, Northeast Seattle

  “Dr. Jekyll”

  I sit at the bar, nursing a drink after another long day in which I did some good. Did some things to be proud of. Most people, if they were in my shoes, would be proud of what I accomplished today. But then, I’m not most people. I’m far, far from most people.

  After work, I needed to unwind a bit but didn’t feel like going to the quiet, staid comfort of the Queen. So I came to the trusty old Schooner. It’s not as loud and raucous as the college bars but has a bit more life and energy than the Queen. You can still have a quiet conversation here, but you can also enjoy a night out with your friends.

  I drain the glass in front of me, then signal to the bartender, Sean, for another. The bartenders at the Queen make a better drink, but the Manhattans at the Schooner aren’t bad. A moment later, Sean drops off my drink with a nod, then scoots down to the other end to continue chatting up a couple of thirty-something soccer mom types. I watch their interaction, see the mutual flirtation, and wonder if he’s going home with one of them tonight. Or maybe both of them.

  Then I find myself wondering if they have husbands at home waiting for them. I wonder if their men stupidly believe these women when they say they’re just going out for drinks with the girls when they’re actually on the hunt for sex with someone other than their husbands. Somebody like Sean, maybe.

  I then wonder if Sean even knows these two are probably married. Probably not. They’re probably luring him in the way women do. Telling him what he wants to hear and using their charms and those feminine wiles to get what they want. Sean’s only crime is not being smart enough to see through it. But then, even I have to admit that when a woman pours it on, it makes a man’s head cloudy. It makes it difficult to see through to the truth of the matter.

  I pick up my phone and call up the picture of Marcy Bryant again. I can’t deny her physical similarities to Moira. Her dark hair and eyes, the soft, delicate features, and her milky white skin all stir something deep inside of me. But that’s where I think the similarities end. Marcy’s arms and legs are littered with tattoos. She’s got one on her collarbone and on her shoulders as well. But I can look past that, primarily because Marcy, unlike Moira, seems genuine. Honest. She seems like a woman who values the truth and has a strong set of morals and ethics.

  Marcy doesn’t seem like Moira— or the two soccer moms at the end of the bar, using their flattery and sweet words to get what they want. Marcy seems like the real deal. An honest and good woman. She merely needs to be instructed in the proper lessons. I think if anybody could, she would understand— perhaps even appreciate— what it is I’m trying to do and how I’m trying to change the world around me.

  Granted, I don’t know her very well, but I aim to change that. I think she’s exactly the sort of woman I can settle down and build a life with. All she needs is my guidance.

  Truthfully, to even have that thought go through my mind surprises me. After Moira, I honestly thought I’d never be open to the idea of love again. But there’s something about Marcy that intrigues me. There’s something about her that stirs things inside of me I haven’t felt since Moira.

  Ever since I saw that article and saw that she had connected my lessons when nobody else did, I’ve been hooked on her. She’s published a slew of articles since then, updating her investigation. Even some pieces critical of the SPD, accusing them of a cover-up. It’s beautiful. And it’s drawn me even closer to her. Made me feel a kinship with her I’ve not felt in a long time.

  Yes, Marcy’s beauty is a huge draw. I’m a warm-blooded man who isn’t immune to the effects of a woman’s beauty, after all. But it’s her intelligence that I find most compelling about her. I refuse to be with a shallow, vapid moron. Ever since Moira, I realized that I should only be with somebody on the same intellectual plane that I am. Moira wasn’t, and look how that turned out.

  But Marcy… she’s different. I’ve followed her around a few times, just keeping an eye on her to see if I can get a better sense of her. What I’ve seen hasn’t disappointed in the least. She’s thorough and uncompromising. She’s dogged and determined, never backing down from a challenge. And best of all, even though I know for a fact that she’s single, I’ve never seen her flirt inappropriately with anybody. She’s not like that whore Bethany, who was bringing men home every other night.

  Marcy seems devoted to building her brand and her career than in chasing sexual partners for meaningless one-night stands. I respect that. That shows me her quality.

  “Get you another?”

  Sean’s voice snaps me out of my reverie, and I look up. Clearing my throat, I drain the last of my glass and set it down.

  “No, I’m good, thanks,” I tell him. “I need to head out.”

  I pull out a stack of bills from my wallet and drop them on the bar. Enough for my tab and a more-than-generous tip. He gives me a nod.

  “Thanks, Doc,” he says. “See you next time.”

  I give him a small salute and then turn and walk out the door. I lean against the wall just outside and call up Marcy’s phone number, which was not very hard to find. In this day and age, with perverts and freaks running rampant, this girl is brave for leaving her personal information out there for all to find. My finger hovers over the button as I try to decide. Call her? Or should I wait?

  What am I going to say if I call her right now? No, if I’m going to call her, I need to do it when I have something to offer her to draw her into a conversation. That’s something that, no matter how successful I have become, has never gone away: my awkwardness when talking to women. Especially that initial conversation. I’m not one for pickup lines or empty platitudes. Even though plenty of women are into me, I’ve never been great at striking up conversations.

  No. I slip my phone back into my pocket. I won’t talk to her until I actually have something to give her. A gift of sorts. A gift often provides a good initial ice breaker, so that’s what I’m going to do. The problem I have to figure out now is, what am I going to offer her?

  “Hey, you got a smoke?”

  I look up and find myself staring into the eyes of a girl. She’s probably twenty-three or twenty-four at the most. I recognize her from inside the bar. She’s got dark hair, dark eyes, full lips, and a warm smile. She’s perfect.

  It’s like God himself is giving me his blessing. It’s fantastic.

  Twenty-Seven

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  Paxton

  Brody had been as surprised to see Bl
ake as I’d been. And just as happy. We sat around for almost an hour as they caught up, but then he had an appointment to keep, so now Blake and I are sitting in the Fishbowl, both of us staring at the images on the wall-mounted monitor.

  She looks away from it for a moment and glances through the smoked glass, looking out at the office beyond. Amy is on the phone with a vendor, entering some things into the computer at the same time, and Nick is in his office, conferring with a client. She looks back at me, a small smile flickering across her lips.

  “A receptionist. A new investigator. Improvements to the office,” she notes, nodding. “You’ve come a long way.”

  “Honestly, the credit goes to Brody,” I tell her. “He’s stepped up and made this a really viable business, rather than just the hobby he said I treated it like.”

  “Sounds like he needs a raise.”

  I grin. “Can’t have him getting all uppity and eating at places like The Butchery, now can we?” I say. “Gotta keep him humble.”

  She laughs and turns in her seat, so she’s facing the monitors. After a moment, she gets up and goes to study the crime scene photos on the screen. She’s quiet as she looks at them.

  “Blow up image one,” she says.

  I hit a few keys on my tablet, and the first image fills the screen. She’s standing perfectly still, her hands behind her back, as she takes it all in.

  “Next image from this crime scene.”

  I flip to the next image, and she studies it closely before calling for the next one. We go through the series of crime scene shots for each of the victims, and Blake takes careful study of each, mentally categorizing and filing everything away. I can already see her starting to move pieces around on her internal board. Like I said, she’s good at this stuff. Really good.

  Once we’re done with the crime scene photos, she takes a seat next to me and spends the next couple of hours on the tablet, going through the murder books. Having already read and committed them to memory, I don’t need to go through them again, so I scroll through my phone, looking at the news, just wanting to be near at hand to answer any questions.