Her Last Call (Arrington Mystery Book 2)

by Elle Gray

  A wry smile stretches my lips. He’s not entirely wrong about chaos seeming to follow me around. Boo Radley. Veronica. Alvin Perry. Now this. What was a simple case looking into the inexplicable murder of a young woman has morphed into a case involving a serial killer and hiding a possible target in my home. Good times.

  “Just talked to my friend,” Blake says as she comes back into the Fishbowl. “They can have a security detail by tomorrow. It might be pricey for what you want though.”

  I give her a look, and she laughs.

  “Right. I forgot,” she replies. “Daddy Warbucks doesn’t worry about money like us mere mortals.”

  “Hey, why don’t you ever razz Brody about his family’s money?” I ask. “His family is—”

  “Nowhere near as wealthy as yours, so don’t even try it,” Brody cuts in. “I think you guys make more in interest every year than my family’s worth.”

  “Well that’s a load of crap,” I say.

  “Anyway,” Blake cuts in. “Where are we at?”

  Brody taps a few keys on his laptop and pulls up the photo of a young, white, dark-haired woman.

  “Debbie Moore,” I read off the screen. “Twenty-two years old. She works as a waitress, high school grad, no college.”

  “So he’s changed his victimology,” Blake says. “And given the time frame between his last kill and this one, his MO as well.”

  “Changed his victimology?” Brody asks.

  “Up until this girl, he’s chosen educated women. Women who had gone, or were going to college,” she explains. “Professionals, not blue-collar types.”

  “I’m thinking she is maybe a victim of opportunity,” I postulate. “If he was trying to impress Marcy and draw her into his game, he may have grabbed the first girl he could find who still met his overall physical preference.”

  “That tracks,” Blake says. “That’s the one thing he can never change. The physical type.”

  “Why is that?” Brody asks.

  “Because it’s only a woman who meets his physical requirement who can trigger that sort of fury,” I explain. “The woman who did him wrong originally looks just like these women, and only women who look like her can provoke that murderous response in him.”

  “That’s messed up,” Brody says. “But why hasn’t he just killed that woman? The one who did him dirty? Why not just kill her and be done with it?”

  “Because he somehow still feels impotent around her,” Blake says. “She took his power. Emasculated him. And she apparently still holds some sort of mythical quality in his mind. So, because he can’t kill her, he kills her by proxy.”

  “That’s even more messed up.”

  “We need to vet the other heart surgeons in the city,” I say. “Brody, can you break up the list into three parts and send one to each of us? We’ll get through it a lot quicker if we’re all working on it.”

  “You got it.”

  “What’s our age cutoff?” Blake asks.

  “I’m thinking that for now, we can eliminate women and anybody under thirty-five,” I say. “We can go back to them later, but I think our guy is older than that.”

  She nods. “Sounds good.”

  We spend most of the day going through our lists and separating them into different categories— those who fit the parameters of our profile, those who don’t, and those who are on the cusp and warrant a closer look. When we’re done, we have forty-seven in the “fit our profile,” category, thirty-one in our “don’t fit” category, and nineteen in the “on the cusp” category.

  We review all forty-seven of the profile matches on the wall monitor. And as we do, I can’t help but wonder how Lee and the SPD task force are doing. I wonder if they’ve gotten this far yet. And I wonder if I should give them this information and let them run with it.

  I push the thought away though. If they haven’t gotten this far, they’re idiots and can’t really be trusted to not screw it up. If I give it to them, I know Torres will immediately start angling for how he can best use it to advance himself and his own agenda. Things will be overlooked. Clues will be lost, and along with them, the chance to get justice for Stella and the other women. And peace for Marcus Hughes.

  No, we’re going to see this through. And when we’re done, we’re going to let Commissioner Gray sort through the pieces and dole out the credit as he sees fit. For better or for worse, I threw my lot in with Gray the moment I accepted that flash drive he gave me. I won’t go back on my word to him. I’ll just have to live with the consequences and hope the chips fall in the right way.

  “We’ve got our work cut out for us,” Brody says.

  I nod idly, trying to find a way to narrow down the workload. I have to think the world of heart surgeons is as insular, cliquey, and gossipy as the SPD. If we start interviewing them, word will spread quickly. And if that happens, our guy might hear it, then go underground. If we tip our hand now with blind interviews, we lose the element of surprise, and possibly our chance to nail this guy.

  We need to be smarter than him.

  “Hey, do me a favor and pull up Debbie Moore’s social media accounts,” I say.

  I know since the social media accounts of the other women were dry holes, this is probably going to be the same, but we have to be diligent and explore everything. On the monitor, Brody pulls up Debbie’s Instagram page, and when he does, a bolt of white-hot electricity shoots through me. I cut a glance at Blake, and she’s sitting up too, obviously seeing what I’m seeing.

  “Scroll down really quick,” I say.

  Brody does and we can see that Debbie is very active on Instagram. The woman documents everything, no matter how tedious, posting at least a couple times every day, and meticulous updates to her “Story”. In fact, her “Story” is useful as a minute-by-minute update of every errand she ran, every place she went yesterday. But there hasn’t been a single update since last night— a check-in post at a place called the Golden Schooner Tavern at just after ten p.m.— with the following message: Drinking solo tonight— sad face emoji— who’s going to come keep a girl company over a beer?! winking emoji

  Blake and I exchange a look. I can see she’s definitely feeling the same charge I am. I turn to Brody.

  “Keep digging up whatever you can on her,” I tell him. “All social media. Do a deep dive into her life and see if you can cross-reference is against the names of the heart surgeons. Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll have mentioned one of them. In fact, if you can do that with all six victims, that would be better.”

  Brody snaps me a salute. “You got it, boss.”

  He’s doing his best to keep himself in check and look casual, but I can see in his face that he feels the same electric excitement shooting through Blake and me. He knows we’re getting close. We’re drawing inexorably closer to getting the justice Stella and the other girls deserve.

  Thirty-One

  Golden Schooner Tavern; Northeast Seattle

  The Schooner is a warm place done in light wood and brass. There’s a large square bar with seating all around it in the center of the room, with a ring of tables along the walls and front windows. It’s clean and well maintained and looks to be the sort of place where you come for a drink and a conversation.

  The tavern is starting to fill up with the young professionals just popping in after work for a drink. It’s about three-quarters full at this point, but unlike some of the college bars— like The Husky— it’s relatively quiet. The buzz of conversation is muted, and the people inside aren’t shouting over one another to be heard.

  A large man with a shaved head who looks like he doubles as the tavern’s bouncer is tending one half of the bar, and a thin blonde woman tends the other. Four cocktail waitresses float around the bar, taking orders, dropping off drinks, and flirting with the young would-be power brokers in their nicely tailored suits with the hope of upping their tips.

  One of the cocktail waitresses, a redhead with a bright smile, steps over to us. “Sit anywhere y
ou’d like,” she says. “We don’t stand on ceremony around here.”

  I give her a soft smile. “Actually, we’d like to speak with the owner or manager.”

  Blake flashes her credentials for dramatic effect, and the redhead’s eyes grow wide, and she looks nervous. She then quickly looks at us and nods eagerly.

  She nods. “Sure. Gary’s in the back,” she says and points to a door. “Just go on back.”

  “Thanks,” Blake says coolly, playing the part of the stoic FBI agent to the hilt.

  The redhead scampers away, looking relieved to get as far away from us as she possibly can. No doubt about to spread the word to the other staff members that the Bureau is here. Blake and I cross the bar and step through the door she indicated, and into a storeroom. The shelves around us are lined with bottles of every liquor imaginable, as well as the various accoutrements for the drinks being slung out front.

  At the rear of the storeroom is an office. The door is open, and as we step inside, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a bit of a paunch around the middle, and a kind face looks up at us. He’s got frameless round spectacles on the end of his nose, and he drops his pen onto the stack of papers on his desk. He looks at both of us curiously, then leans back in his chair.

  My eyes go to the bank of monitors on a desk behind him. They show the scene out front from multiple camera angles, and I feel myself tense, that sensation of closing in on our killer growing even stronger. I just have to hope they actually keep their recordings, unlike The Husky.

  “Help you?” he asks, his voice carrying the hint of a Southern twang.

  Blake flashes her creds at him, and unlike the redhead, he looks unimpressed. He looks at me, though, and I can tell he recognizes me.

  “I’m Agent Wilder,” she says smoothly. “And your name sir?”

  “Gary. Gary Marston,” he replies.

  “Thank you, Mr. Marston,” she says. “This is my partner, Paxton.”

  “Partner, huh?” he raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you joined the Bureau. Catchin’ that serial killer must’ve done wonders for you, huh?”

  I laugh softly. “I’m not with the Bureau. I am a private investigator, though,” I reply. “And right now, Agent Wilder and I are working on a case together.” It’s not technically a lie. We are working a case together. He just doesn’t need to know that it’s not technically an FBI case.

  He frowns slightly at that, but sits forward, folding his hands together on the stack of papers in front of him.

  “And what sort of a case could bring you to my doorstep?” he asks, his voice thick with concern.

  “Murder, Mr. Marston,” I say.

  His eyes widen. “We got another serial killer?”

  Although I believe the public should know— has a right to know— I also don’t want to be responsible for the panic I’m sure would ensue from having another serial killer running amok so soon after Alvin Perry. It’s not for me to make public announcements, so it’s best that I stick to the truth. Or at least, as close to the truth as possible anyway.

  “I’m actually looking into the murder of a young woman on behalf of her family,” I reply. Again, not technically a lie. Yet anyway. “And we have reason to believe the victim was here last night.”

  “Here?”

  Blake nods. “We just need to look at your surveillance footage from last night.”

  Gary nods. “Yeah, sure thing,” he says. “Just give me a minute.”

  He swivels around in his seat and pulls the keyboard on the table behind him closer to him. Blake and I step closer, crowding around him as we stare at the screens. Adrenaline is pumping through me so thick I feel like they might absorb some of it just by standing so close to me.

  “Can you start off at nine p.m.?” I ask.

  He nods and strikes a few keys, bringing up the surveillance footage from the night before. The timestamp in the corner shows nine. Small beads of sweat form on his brow. I can almost feel his heartbeat, which has to be churning wildly. The tavern is about half-full; there are maybe nine or ten tables occupied, and a dozen people seated at the bar. From this vantage point, I can see just the top of a man’s head. He’s seated at the very end of the bar, underneath the camera, and I have to wonder if it’s intentional.

  “Fast forward,” Blake says.

  We watch as the sped-up footage scrolls by. Then at nine fifty-three, she tells him to stop. He hits a button, and the screen freezes. Through the angle on the front door, we see Debbie Moore enter. She’s wearing skinny black jeans and a white shirt under a dark, bulky jacket. She’s got a knit beanie on her head, and she’s staring down at her phone, typing away. Probably her call out for a drinking companion.

  She walks in and takes a seat at the other end of the bar. She’s quickly served a shot and a beer. I look down to the top of the guy’s head and can’t see him, nor what he’s doing. He doesn’t appear to be paying any special attention to her. Or to anything, really. He’s just sitting there. But still, the way he’s sitting beneath the camera just feels… intentional.

  But then he gets up. My eyes follow him until he leaves the frame, never giving us a glance at his face as he throws some cash on the bar and leaves. At the other end of the bar, Debbie has just downed her shot and looks to be taking a phone call. I watch as she gets to her feet and motions to the bartender, telling him she’ll be right back, and sets her jacket down on the stool she’d been perched on.

  With the phone still pressed to her ear, she fishes into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out what appears to be a pack of cigarettes, then heads through the front doors and out onto the street, where we lose her.

  “Nothing looks out of the ordinary,” Blake observes. “I don’t see anybody watching her—”

  I tap the monitor to the position where the top-of-the-head guy was sitting. “Is there another camera that gets an angle on his guy’s face?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” Gary replies. “I think… hang on.”

  Gary scrolls through the different camera angles until we get to one that sort of shows that end of the bar. It’s obscured, and it isn’t clear. It looks like the camera is shooting through a cobweb, a piece of gauze, or something that’s clouding the view.

  “Looks like you’ve got a blind spot, Gary,” Blake notes.

  He nods. “Yeah. I never noticed it before,” he replies. “I mean, nothin’ ever happens here, so I…”

  In the frame, I can see the man is white. Dark-haired. Maybe about five-eleven or so. He’s fit and looks like he could be in his forties. The image is so muddled, it’s hard to distinguish individual features, but when I see him, see how many boxes of our profile he’s ticking off, that electric surge of excitement inside of me doubles. I look over and see Blake practically glowing.

  “Do you know that guy?” I ask.

  “Yeah sure. Sort of,” Gary says. “About as well as I know any of our patrons. He comes in from time to time, but I wouldn’t call him a regular or anything.”

  “Do you know his name?” Blake asks.

  Gary looks from her to me and back to her again. “Is this the guy you think murdered somebody?” he asks. “No way. Not this guy. I think y’all are barking up the wrong tree here.”

  “And why is that?” Blake asks.

  “This guy’s a doctor. He saves lives; he doesn’t kill people,” he explains. “Keeps to himself mostly, but he’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet.”

  “Do you know his name?” I ask.

  Gary shakes his head. “No, we usually just call him Doc whenever he comes in,” he says.

  That’s not extraordinarily helpful, but at least we have confirmation that our guy is in fact, a doctor. It’s another piece of the puzzle that’s fallen into place. We have no proof, but my gut is telling me this is our guy. Everything in me is telling me the man on the screen before us is the man that murdered Stella Hughes and five other women.

  “What kind of doctor, do you know?” asks Blake.

&nb
sp; “Come to think of it; I don’t know offhand. Some sorta surgeon, I think,” answers Gary.

  Blake and I exchange a terse glance. But who is he? The picture is not clear enough to identify him. But at least his dark hair is another data point we can use to narrow down our suspect pool even more. It’s not much, but it’s something. More than we had when we came in here. I’ll have to be satisfied with that.

  “Can you give us a copy of this disk?” Blake asks.

  “Sure. I guess,” Gary shrugs. “But I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  I bite back the flash of annoyance and cutting reply that sits on the tip of my tongue at the man’s insistence that we’re wrong. I know we’re not.

  “If it’s not him, I suppose all we’re going to lose is time,” I reply as evenly as I can. “Just burn us a copy. Please.”

  But then Gary pauses, and he looks up at me, his eyes narrow, suspicion crossing his features. He frowns.

  “Is this going to cause him some problems?” he asks. “I don’t want to be responsible for tarnishin’ this man’s good name.”

  “If he’s the good man you think he is, then he’s got absolutely nothing to worry about,” I reply.

  “What he means is, if the facts and evidence we’re gathering don’t end up pointing to him, he’s not even going to know you gave us a copy of the tape,” Blake says, shooting me a hard look. “In an investigation such as this, we don’t make an arrest until we have ample evidence.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen lots of people get all caught up in false accusations,” he says. “People goin’ to prison for crimes they didn’t commit. Sometimes, the government ain’t too picky about who they throw in the can, so long as they throw somebody—”

  “Mr. Marston, I assure you that the only person who will be going to prison will be the one responsible. You have my word,” Blake cuts him off. “I don’t run shoddy investigations, and I have never arrested anybody I didn’t have an ironclad case against. There is no doubt the people I’ve put away are guilty. I can provide you with names if you’d like.”