by Elle Gray
I eye him skeptically. “So, who was it then? Who ordered you to take her out? Or at least cover up the facts surrounding her supposed accident?”
Torres gives me a grin. “Who says anybody did?”
“You did,” I reply. “You’re being too smug and squirrely. Plus, you’re playing word games with me. So, I know you know something. What is it? Who told you to take my wife out?”
“Nobody asked me to take her out. And even if they had, I wouldn’t have anyway,” he says. “That’s not my bag. Never was and never will be.”
“That’s right. You don’t like getting your hands dirty.”
“You know, for somebody who wants something from me, you’re being kind of a jerk. Makes me glad I fired you back in the day.”
“Actually, I quit. I distinctly remember tossing my badge onto the table in front of you when I walked out of that little dog and pony show you put together,” I correct him.
“Yeah well, I was going to fire you.”
“I was going to be a starting cornerback for the Seahawks. I guess some things just don’t work out the way we thought they would,” I shoot back at him. “So, who paid you to tank the investigation into Veronica’s death?”
He opens a wide-toothed grin, clearly under the impression he’s holding all the cards. He’s not, but I’m willing to let him think it for now. I’ve got the key to the safe deposit box. I’ve got the tools and resources I need to find out who killed Veronica. But getting the information out of Torres will not only streamline the investigation and facilitate the capture of those responsible, but it could also provide some much-needed corroboration in case this thing ever does get to court.
I’m not going to tip my hand, though. It’s better to let him think he’s got the juice in this situation. He thinks he’s led me to this point we’re at right now, and he thinks that gives him all the leverage in the world. It’s a negotiating tactic I’m all too glad to let him employ. If Torres thinks he’s got me over a barrel, he’s more likely to show me his hand when the ask comes. He wants something, and knowing him as I do, he’s probably looking for a walk on all the charges pending. I’m sure in his place I’d be doing and asking for the same thing. But I’m not a corrupt cop and a murderous scumbag, so I’ll never know for sure.
“I can tell you. But it’s going to cost you,” Torres starts.
“What do you want?”
“I want a walk. On all charges. Full immunity,” he says. “I also want witness protection.”
And there it is. I knew he’d be looking for immunity from prosecution. I just hadn’t expected that he’d be looking for witness protection too.
“That’s a big ask,” I raise an eyebrow.
“I’ve got some big information.”
“So you say,” I reply. “You always did have a penchant for self-aggrandizement. Always thought you were bigger and more important than you actually are.”
His expression darkens as he glares at me. I can see how badly he wants to deliver some zinger, but he lets the cutting remark die on his lips. He frowns and clears his throat instead.
“You want to know what happened to your wife? Who was behind it?” he asks. “It’s going to cost you.”
“Did you forget I’m a PI? Why are you telling me all this? Why not haggle with the prosecutor?”
“Because I know you have a lot of pull in this city. I know you know people who can make things happen,” he answers. “I figure if I have you advocating for me, I stand a better chance of getting the deal I want.”
“I think you may be overestimating how much influence I have.”
“Your family name carries a lot of power with it. Don’t think of me as an idiot, Arrington.”
“I think that ship sailed a long time ago.”
“Cute.”
I shrug. “Gee, thanks for saying that,” I say. “I was having an ugly day.”
Torres looks like it’s taking a Herculean effort to keep his temper in check, but he’s somehow managing to keep his cool. Torres has always been able to get whatever he wants effortlessly, and right now, he wants me to save his life. I laugh softly and shake my head.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“It’s just that when I was with the SPD, you used to give me such grief about my name. Said I was a trust-fund kid who wanted to play cops and robbers,” I reply, remembering the multitude of digs and insults he hurled my way.
“Listen—”
“You used to ride me hard, Torres. Really hard,” I go on. “Do you remember that?”
He sighs. “Yeah. I remember. What’s your point?”
He offers no apology for the things he said and the way he treated me back in the day. It’s probably a good thing though, since we both know it would be wholly insincere anyway. At least he isn’t trying to patronize me. Torres isn’t putting on pretenses, simply remaining his usual defiant and belligerent self, which is at least something I can appreciate.
“It’s just funny to me that for so many years, you rode me and treated me like dirt because of my name,” I say. “And yet now you’re begging me to use that same name to save your ass. Ironic, don’t you think?”
Torres shrugs. “If you want to survive and even flourish, you learn to adapt to situations as they change,” he says. “And that’s what I am—a survivor.”
A smirk pulls a corner of my mouth up. “You know what else adapts to changing situations in order to survive?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Cockroaches.”
Torres’ grin is malevolent, but he manages to restrain himself. I suppose I have to give him credit for his self-control. A little, anyway.
“Fine,” I say. “Tell me what you have, and I’ll make a few phone calls on your behalf.”
“Uh-uh. That’s not the way it works,” he replies.
“It is if you want me to pull some strings for you.”
“You don’t get it. You’re not the one in control here, Arrington. I am. I’m the one dictating the terms in this situation,” he snaps, his voice tight. “Now, you go talk to whoever it is you have to get me a deal.”
The chair squeaks sharply as I push it back and get to my feet. Torres is watching me closely. It would be nice to have whatever information he’s holding. But I don’t need it. With whatever is in the box she left for me, I’m sure I can get to Veronica’s killers on my own.
“So? Do we have a deal?” Torres asks.
For the first time, I hear a quiver of nervousness in his voice and see a look in his eyes I never thought I’d see—fear. This is the last card he has to play, and he knows if I walk away from the table, he’s screwed. He knows the only way he’s getting out of this mess is if I help him, which is why he’s dangling information about Veronica’s death in front of me. It shows just how desperate he is.
“I’m going to pass. But thanks,” I say and turn, heading for the gate. “Great seeing you again, Ricardo. You take care of yourself.”
“Arrington, wait. Just wait,” he calls after me, his voice cracking this time. “What if I can sweeten the pot?”
I turn and look at him skeptically, his face twisted with fear. He knows without me, he’s going away for the rest of his life, and as much as he hates me, he’s more terrified of that. Torres is willing to say or do anything to avoid his fate.
“Sweeten it how?” I ask.
“How about the names of the people who murdered your girlfriend’s parents?” he asks, trying to work up his trademark smugness—and failing. “That sweet enough? Because I can give you that too. But if I do that, witness protection isn’t negotiable.”
His words give me a moment’s pause. Though Blake took down the Thirteen, the one thing she didn’t get was the name of the person who ordered the hit on her parents. She’d thought it was Willem Mangold, but before she left, Kit told her it wasn’t him. Blake tries to play it off, but I know just how badly that’s eating her up inside. Like me, she wants to know who killed her loved one. It�
�s something that’s driving her that she draws motivation from. And it’s something she won’t ever be able to let go of until she has her questions answered to her satisfaction.
I would love to be able to serve this up to her. I would love to be able to put Blake’s heart and mind at ease by helping her answer those questions and put the memory of her parents to rest once and for all. But the cost is one I don’t think either of us could bear. Giving Torres a pass and letting him walk—with a whole new identity to boot—after what he did just isn’t something either one of us can countenance.
“Nice offer,” I say. “But I’m going to pass.”
“You know she’s not safe, don’t you?” Torres says. “The Thirteen is down but they’re not out. And they will be coming for her. Mark my words, Arrington. They will be coming for her.”
“Unless I let you walk, huh?”
“I can give them to you. I can help you keep Blake safe.”
“Good luck with your trial,” I say. “And enjoy prison. I’m sure you’re going to love it.”
I turn and walk to the door. There’s a loud buzz and a heavy clank as the door slides open. Torres is calling after me as I step through and follow the marked corridor that will lead me outside and to my freedom. To the cool breeze and the sunshine on my face. Those are just a few of the things Torres will never get to enjoy again—a fact that leaves me feeling satisfied.
Nine
Emerald Bay Loan & Trust; Downtown Seattle
I sit in my car in the lot across from the bank Veronica directed me, taking slow sips of my coffee. It’s a little before they open for the day, but I arrived early. I wanted to be sure I was there right when they opened. The sooner I can get in and get whatever Veronica left for me, the sooner I can get busy tracking down her killers. Being that I’m obviously not going to get anything useful out of Torres, I want to get started on analyzing whatever it is she left for me straight away.
I glance at my watch and see it’s nine o’clock, then look up to see a man in a dark blue suit unlocking the doors. Slipping out of my car, I put on my own jacket then check my reflection in the car window and adjust my tie, making sure everything is just so. I’m not sure what I’m going to be walking into in there, but I intend to make a decent first impression. Wearing a sharp, tailored suit and looking well put-together will open a lot of doors for you.
It’s a simple trick I learned when I was a kid—for whatever reason, people trust others who are wearing uniforms or power suits seem more trustworthy. I’ve seen numerous studies that seem to back that idea up. It’s silly to me. A scumbag with bad intentions can put on a nice suit or put together his own uniform and do terrible things. But hey, it works in my favor, so I’m not going to complain too loudly.
Grabbing my briefcase, I lock up the car, cross the street then pull open the door and step into the cool air of the bank. It’s all done in a dark speckled marble with four fluted columns lining the entryway. The bank has a staid and heavy atmosphere that confers age and a certain gravitas. The burnished bronze plaque on the wall announces the name of the bank and the date it was established—1906—which makes it one of the oldest banks in Seattle.
Beyond the lobby is a sitting area with a sofa and four plush wingback chairs surrounding an oval-shaped coffee table stacked high with magazines dedicated to practically every hobby and interest under the sun. There’s a coffee station near the sitting area and behind that, half a dozen desks for the managers and loan officers. There are four private offices behind the desks for the personal finance officers.
To my right is a long counter sectioned off into individual stations with inch-thick plexiglass separating the tellers from the public. The tellers are all gathered together behind their thick plexiglass wall, talking and laughing together as they get ready for the morning rush. To my right, among the desks behind the sitting area is a small cluster of people in suits.
The man in the blue suit I saw unlocking the doors is talking to his staff. Giving them a little pep talk to start the day. I take him to be the manager. After he dismisses them, he's standing there all alone, checking his phone and not paying attention. It’s only when I’m standing right in front of him and clear my throat that he looks up. A sheepish grin crosses his face, and he quickly slips his phone into his pocket then nods.
“Apologies,” he says. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Yeah, it’s tough to see much of anything with your face buried in your phone,” I note.
“Right. Apologies,” he stammers. “What can I do for you, Mr.—”
“Arrington,” I reply. “Paxton Arrington. I’m here to see about a safe deposit box my wife rented a while ago. Veronica Arrington.”
“Right, uhhh… Mike Grenier,” he says. “Follow me please,”
I give him a nod and he leads me over to a desk and gestures to one of the chairs in front of it. I sit down as he drops into the chair behind the desk and wakes up his computer. He bangs away at the keys for a minute before nodding.
“Right, yes. Veronica Arrington,” he says. “And do you have the box number?”
I hold up the key. “Box number 1432D.”
He nods. “Very good. It appears your wife made you a signatory to the box,” he tells me. “I’m just going to need to see some identification first.”
“Of course,” I reply.
I take my wallet out of my jacket pocket then pull my license out and slide it over to Grenier. As he does his thing with it, I lean back in the chair and look around. Veronica and I never used this bank, adding another layer to the veil of secrecy she’s built up around this whole thing. Whatever this thing is.
“One question,” I start. “How has this box been paid for all this time? My wife passed away a few years ago.”
He gives me a perfunctory frown and when he speaks again, his tone is sober. I’ll give it to Grenier, he’s good. He can actually make you believe he cares. But if you look close enough, you’ll see it’s all performative. Not that I expect him to mourn a woman he didn’t even know. Not really.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says as he glances at the computer screen. “It shows here that she tied the payment to an account at a different bank. It was automatically debited monthly.”
I nod. “That makes sense.”
Grenier slides my license and a form across the desk to me. “I’m just going to need your signature at the bottom of the form, please.”
I pick up the pen and sign on the line, then pass the page back to him. He slides the page through his desktop scanner, then slips it into a folder and turns to me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes on his face. He looks like a man who can go through the motions and play the part of the dutiful bank manager, but deep down loathes his job, and possibly people altogether.
“There is one last thing,” he says and slides a small black box with a glass screen on top over to me. “I just require your thumbprint, Mr. Arrington.”
I press my thumb to the glass, and it glows green for a moment. Grenier watches his computer monitor and when a beep sounds from the box, he nods.
“Very good,” he says. “Now, everything is in order, so allow me to escort you down to the deposit box room.”
We get to our feet, and I pick up my briefcase. We head across the lobby to a door to the right of the teller’s windows. We go down a flight of stairs and find ourselves standing before a large steel door. Grenier slips his ID badge into the reader on the wall next to the door and a moment later, the reader lights up green with a high-pitched beep. A loud clank echoes through the small space and Grenier pulls the door open.
I follow him down a long hallway that ends in another door. To my right are rooms fronted by solid steel bars, keeping the riffraff like me away from the pallets of cash wrapped in plastic that are hiding in plain sight. Grenier access the next room with his badge again and inside, the three walls are lined with safe deposit boxes of various sizes. A softly glowing fluorescent light hangs over the stainl
ess steel table in the center of the room, giving the entire thing something of an ominous vibe.
“If you’ll join me at your box, Mr. Arrington.”
I walk over to where he is. The box is medium-sized and emblazoned with a burnished steel tag on the face of the box that reads 1432D. There are two keyholes, one on either side of the tag.
“Your key, sir.”
I nod and slip my key into the first lock. Grenier slides his key into the other lock and turns. I hear a pair of clicks inside the box, then he turns to me and points to the small glass screen on the flat black square.
“Biometric scanner,” he explains. “Just another layer of security we offer.”
I nod. “Thank you very much.”
I press my thumb to the glass and like the unit upstairs, it glows green. There’s a beep and a clank as the locks disengage. Grenier nods, then points to a camera and call box on the wall beside the door.
“Should you require assistance, please use the call box and I will be down promptly,” he tells me. “And if you’re ready to leave, type in the code 3279 on the keypad, and it unlocks the door from the inside, letting you out.”
“Terrific. Thank you.”
“Right. I’ll just give you a little privacy.”
I wait until Grenier steps out of the room and closes the door behind him. When I hear the lock click, I turn to the box and open it. The first thing I see is a stack of candid photographs of people I don’t know. Surveillance photos. I flip through the stack to see if I recognize any of the people in the pictures. There are a lot of one man in particular. He’s older and has a full head of neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper-colored hair. His mustache and beard are of the same color, and he has flinty gray eyes. He’s thin, but looks to be in good shape for a man of his age—I’d put him in his late fifties to early sixties.
The mystery man is dressed in an expensive, well-tailored, designer suit in each of the photos. He’s obviously a man of some wealth; even in pictures, he has an air of dignity and refinement that shows through. The time stamps on the photos appear to cover several weeks. Veronica had obviously been shadowing this guy for a while.