A Wife's Secret (A Pax Arrington Mystery Book 4)

by Elle Gray

  “They say a leopard can’t change its spots for a reason, you know.”

  “Maybe. But maybe not,” I acknowledge. “I mean, the guy saved my life. Literally.”

  “Yeah, there is that. Maybe you caught him on a good day.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Erma sets our plates down in front of us and I inhale deeply, savoring the heavenly aroma of the barbecue sauce.

  “There you go, boys,” she says.

  “Smells as divine as ever, Erma.”

  She grins at me. “You’d best stop flirtin’ with me. I don’t mind it, but the mister might take offense to it,” she tips me a wink.

  The mister in question is her husband, Fat Louie himself, and he’s in the kitchen slinging this glorious fare. He played pro football for a few seasons before washing out but kept the physique—the physique of an offensive lineman, that is. His fists are bigger than a full rack of ribs and his wide smile is even bigger. He’s always got a wink in his eye and a hearty laugh in his throat, but make no mistake—anybody who messes with Erma is taking their life into their hands.

  “Well, you tell that mister of yours he better treat you right or he may just lose you,” I say.

  “You’re such a charmer, Paxton Arrington,” she laughs.

  “He’s really not,” Brody pipes up with a grin on his face. “The man can’t hang on to a good woman to save his life.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you and May split up?” Erma frowns, looking genuinely sad for me.

  I shrug. “I don’t know what we are right now.”

  “Well, you had best make things right with her. She’s a good girl and if you let her get away, shame on you,” she admonishes me. “Don’t be a fool, Paxton. She makes you happy.”

  “See?” Brody says with a laugh.

  Erma ruffles my hair like I’m a child then lets out a throaty laugh before walking away. Brody is sitting on his side of the table with a smug grin on his face.

  “Funny man,” I say.

  He nods. “Yes. Yes, I am. But I’m also not wrong,” he says. “And neither is Erma.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter.

  Fat Louie’s is my favorite barbecue joint in all of Seattle. It’s been around since Louie hung up his helmet and fired up a grill decades ago, and now, it’s an institution. I honestly hadn’t heard of it until I started dating Veronica and since then, I haven’t been able to get enough of the place. People will call me a blasphemer, I’m sure, but I’d put Fat Louie’s up against any BBQ spot in the south.

  It’s a casual spot that has an old roadhouse feel to it. It’s all done in burnished steel and dark wood. There are old, rusted-out signs and license plates on the walls, and vinyl red and white checkered tablecloths on all the tables. When you come in, you feel like you’re stepping into somebody’s backyard for a good, old-fashioned barbecue rather than a restaurant.

  “Thank you, Erma,” I say.

  “Anythin’ for you, sugar,” she replies with a smile.

  The restaurant may be named for her husband, but Erma is the real owner. She’s the one with business sense. She’s got rich, ebony skin, dark eyes that always seem to glitter with a mischievous light, and a smile that can light up the darkest room. She’s tall and sturdily built with long, wavy hair that falls to the middle of her back. She’s a wonderful woman who makes everybody feel at home when they step through her doors.

  I take a bite of my pulled pork sandwich and hear myself make a sound that’s entirely indecent. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been in, and the moment that sweet sauce hits my tongue, everything feels right in the world.

  “Did you want me to give you and that sandwich a little privacy?” Brody asks.

  “Yeah, you might need to.”

  Brody laughs and digs into his meal, and though he enjoys the food, he’s not as vocal about it. We eat in silence for a few minutes and although my attention is focused on the ambrosia sitting on my plate, my brain is still focused elsewhere. I’m still mentally obsessing over the case and what we’ve found so far—which, to be honest, isn’t much. But it’s intriguing and hints at much larger things.

  “So, I looked into this guy Sjoberg,” Brody finally says as he pushes his plate away. “Did a deep dive on him. I’m telling you, this guy is squeaky clean. He doesn’t have so much a parking ticket.”

  I finish chewing my last bit of sandwich and wash it down with some soda, then sit back in the booth, pondering the enigma that is Didrik Sjoberg.

  “Then why was Veronica so obsessed with him?” I ask. “She’s got a stack of surveillance pictures of him and a dossier that’s in inch thick—I’m assuming Takahashi went through the guy’s life with a fine-toothed comb.”

  He shakes his head. “No idea. Maybe because he’s the CEO of the company and she assumes the rot starts at the head and works its way down?” he offers. “I mean, she’s got dossiers on several people who are high-level execs at Lomtin.”

  “So, she’s casting a wide net to see who she reels in,” I muse. “But my question is, why was she looking so hard into Lomtin Labs in the first place? What was the story?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” Brody says. “And once we get back to the bunker, I’ll dig into her laptop. Surely, there will be something in there to put us on the right track.”

  I nod. “Good. That’s good,” I say. “Just be sure to airgap it. I don’t want anybody else getting a peek at what’s on her hard drive.”

  “Yeah, that makes two of us,” Brody says with a frown, no doubt thinking about our recent data breach.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know. It’s still a little raw for me,” he sighs. “Somebody breached my security walls and I’m not ready to move past that just yet. I’m still a little pissed.”

  “Just don’t be pissed at yourself,” I tell him. “There’s nothing for you to be upset about. Trust me. These guys are slick, organized, well-funded, and can break into anything. It’s fine. They didn’t get much, and without all the material we’ve got in the bunker, they’ve got nothing really. The case is going to be made with what we have there and in our own heads.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he says.

  “Of course I am.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, okay.”

  As I drain the last of my soda, I scan the room again. I don’t see anybody who’s out of place, but I do catch one guy who turns away when I look over. He’s got brown hair, brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. He looks suspicious to me. But then, everybody looks suspicious to me these days. I feel like that tends to come with getting almost murdered twice. I turn away from him and back to Brody.

  “When we get back, I want you to do a deep dive on Lomtin’s head of R&D—Ethan Rogers,” I tell him.

  “Why’s that?”

  I shrug and think back to the photo I found in the stack. I perused the pictures of Lomtin’s executives that Brody dug up for me, so when we cross-referenced with the photos in Veronica’s pile of candids, I’d recognized him right up. Something about him struck me as off, so I wanted to get more information on him because I couldn’t tell why he’d set off my warning bells.

  He’s not a tall man—five-nine or ten at the most. He’s thin, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and wears round wire-rimmed glasses. He’s got a babyface and looks young, and in several photos, he’s shadowing Sjoberg, standing just behind. They two look pretty chummy, and it started me wondering if Rogers is running something behind Sjoberg’s back.

  Maybe my brother is right and Sjoberg is the second coming of Mother Teresa. Maybe it’s Rogers—perhaps his protégé, or just a good friend—who is running something shady. something that caught Veronica’s attention. Something that ultimately got her killed. At this point, it’s just as possible that Sjoberg ordered her death as it is that Rogers did. The one thing I know for certain is that these teams of goons who keep turning up wouldn’t take orders from a line worker or lab rat. Those orders could only come fro
m the top. Perhaps from Sjoberg himself. Or maybe from somebody else in that upper echelon of Lomtin’s power structure.

  “All right,” Brody says. “I’ll do a deep dive on Rogers.”

  “Good, good,” I say with a nod. “I feel like we’re starting to get close to the truth, Brody. Or at least, closer. I think we’re on the right track here. I can feel it.”

  “Yeah, I just hope we don’t get run over by a train coming down that track.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep that from happening.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” he says. “Because if something happens to me, Marcy will kick your butt.”

  I laugh. “Don’t I know it.”

  I glance over and see the man with the beard who’d been looking our way earlier is gone. I frown and look around but see no trace of him. Maybe my paranoia is starting to get the best of me after all.

  Nineteen

  Archton Media Corporate Tower, Subfloor 1, Room 3; Downtown Seattle

  “Didi Sjoberg, age fifty-eight, holds a Swedish/US dual citizenship. Holds a Ph.D. in chemistry from the Karolinska Institute in Sweden and another for good measure from Johns Hopkins,” Brody reads from the page of the dossier in front of him. “Is worth an estimated nine billion dollars and holds a patent on twenty-two life-saving drugs. Funds a dozen endowments for children in need and also has his own foundation which serves the needy. That’s just what’s on record. There is also a lot more philanthropic work he does.”

  I look up from the file in my hand and look at him. “And?”

  “And? Does that fit the profile of a killer to you?”

  “Ted Kaczynski held a Ph.D. in mathematics and Ted Bundy did volunteer work at a suicide hotline,” I shrug. “I don’t have enough information to know if that fits with the profile of a serial killer. I’ll grant you; it seems unlikely. But it’s not impossible. Tell me more about Ethan Rogers.”

  “Right. Ethan Rogers,” he reads off. “Age forty-six. Holds Ph.D.’s in both biochemistry and neuropharmacology. He’s got a boatload of awards and honors for his work in cancer research.”

  “Accomplished,” I note.

  “Very much so. He’s not worth nearly as much as Sjoberg, but he’s not in danger of going on the ramen diet anytime soon,” he continues. “Has worked for Lomtin Labs for fifteen years and pulls down a mid-six-figure salary per year and has a very diversified stock portfolio.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Negative. He was born and raised an only child in Wisconsin. Parents died when he was twenty. Moved to Seattle the year he started working for Lomtin. Obviously for the job. Rogers never married and has no children, but according to his social media, has a very affectionate Golden Retriever named Dog.”

  I look at Brody and arch an eyebrow. “He named his dog, Dog?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “Obviously a psychopath and the one we should be looking closely at.”

  “That was my thought too.”

  I shuffle through some of the paperwork in the dossier Veronica had put together—what little there was of it. She hadn’t been able to gather much information on Rogers at all, which I found curious.

  “He doesn’t seem to have much of a footprint anywhere,” I point out.

  Brody shakes his head. “No, he doesn’t. He seems to live a quiet life,” he says. “He’s got a nice house in Denny-Blaine and drives a BMW X7. Midnight blue in case you wondered.”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “What I want to know is where he fits into Lomtin’s power structure. Does he have decision-making power?”

  “According to what I’ve read, he’s Sjoberg’s protégé. His right-hand man,” Brody says. “So, I’d say it’s safe to assume he has some authority there. How much, I have no idea.”

  I nod and look through the pages again. “He’s a loner. Doesn’t have much of a social or romantic life,” I muse. “Has some bit of power and according to some of these documents, likes to flaunt it. I’ve got half a dozen complaint forms to HR about his abusiveness, and claims of Rogers creating a hostile work environment. This one says he likes to remind people he’s the smartest man in the room.”

  Brody looks up at me and grins. “That fit more with your profile of a psycho killer?”

  I consider it and nod. “It fits some of the usual parameters, yeah.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “The fact that you fit a lot of those parameters too.”

  A laugh bursts from my throat and I throw my pen at him. “You can go fu—”

  The door opens and I turn to see Marcy step through with a wide smile on her face. Brody and I were supposed to be the only ones with access to this room, but he’d obviously included her on the guest list. I can’t be mad, though. Marcy is solid. Trustworthy. And because she’s so much like Veronica, she’s also a good compass for me. She’s blunt and straightforward. She’ll tell me honestly if I’m chasing my tail or if there’s something here. I’ll always listen to Marcy because she’s wise and gives sound advice. I haven’t known her long, but I have a respect for her that I don’t have for a lot of people.

  She comes around the table as I get to my feet, and she wraps me up in a tight hug. “It’s good to see you, Pax. It’s been a little while.”

  “It has. I’m sorry about that,” I tell her.

  “Well, you better get your butt over to our place for dinner soon,” she says.

  “Our place?” I raise an eyebrow at Brody. He throws his hands up in resignation.

  “Surprise?”

  I chuckle. “It’s a date.”

  She walks around and drops into the chair next to Brody. She leans over and gives him a quick kiss; I can all but see the cartoon hearts floating over their heads. It’s nice to see that even though they’ve been together for a little while now, that spark is still there between them. That’s how a relationship should be. It’s good to see Brody with somebody who’s got her head on straight and keeps him in line—even if she is covered in tattoos and piercings, and changes her hair color like a chameleon. Today, she’s rocking a two-tone look, with her hair hard parted down the middle: half of it bleached a silvery-white, the other half a shocking pink.

  For so long, Brody was content being a player, hopping from one bed to the next. But then Marcy got ahold of him, and he changed—and he says a leopard can’t change its spots. I need to remember to throw that in his face the next time he says it.

  “So, I hear you’re jet-setting all over the country chasing stories,” I say.

  “It’s such a glamorous life. I was in Portland for a day and stayed in a hotel where they actually left a mint on my pillow. It kind of tasted like a mint anyway,” she says with a laugh. “I felt like a VIP, I tell you.”

  “I notice you found the time to get a new tattoo,” I point out. She winks and shows off a tiny new rose on her wrist. “But did you get the story?”

  She shrugs. “TBD. Not sure there’s a lot there, but I’ll follow up on it and see where it leads me,” she says. “But at least I have time now to get back to what I’ve been working on for the last month.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “There is something really strange going on in Seattle,” she explains. “The transient population has been thinning out. Like people are just disappearing off the street—the homeless, prostitutes, runaways—they just fall off the face of the Earth.”

  “But isn’t that the nature of a transient population?” I wonder. “They move around a lot. I mean, how do you know they’re missing and haven’t just moved on to another city?”

  “I don’t for sure. Not yet. But that’s why I’m looking into it,” she tells me. “There’s been a nearly twelve percent decrease in the transient population over the last two years. It’s the first two years on record there’s been a decrease like that. We normally add to that population every year.”

  “When you put it like that, it strange,” I note. “But it could also just be nothing.
People picking up and moving on.”

  “It could be.”

  “You should talk to Blake about this. Her team would love something like this, and if there’s anybody who can help you run this down, it’s them,” I tell her. “Blake has somebody working for her named Mo who is a whiz with statistical analysis. She might be able to help you get to the bottom of it.”

  “That’s a really good idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before,” she says. “I’ll give Blake a call. Thanks, Pax.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So, how are things going down here? Any suspects yet?”

  “I was just telling Pax how closely he resembles his profile model for a serial killer,” Brody cracks with a grin on his face.

  “And I was just telling Brody to get stuffed.”

  “Let’s play nice or I’ll have to separate you boys,” Marcy warns, laughing before the words even finish coming from her mouth.

  “Right now, we don’t have much,” I admit. “I’m looking at the two men Veronica seemed most focused on—Didrik Sjoberg, the founder and CEO of Lomtin Laboratories, and his number two, Ethan Rogers. She keyed in on these two, and right now, I just don’t know why. On paper, nothing seems amiss about these guys.”

  “Except for the fact that Rogers named his dog Dog,” Brody chirps.

  “Yeah, there’s that,” I say.

  “Dog?” Marcy raises an eyebrow. “That guy isn’t right in the head. Bring him in.”

  We share a laugh as Marcy paws through some of the papers in front of Brody while he bangs away on his keyboard. I’m at a loss. I haven’t found anything that ties either Sjoberg or Rogers to anything untoward at the moment. I’m no closer to knowing why they’d have Veronica killed today than I was before, and it’s frustrating me.

  “I don’t know what it is Veronica could have found out about either Sjoberg, Rogers, or Lomtin as a whole that would have sent her down this rabbit hole,” I sigh.

  Marcy sits back and purses her lips, seeming to think about it. Then she points to Veronica’s laptop that’s sitting half-covered by loose papers.