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

by Elle Gray

  She finally turns back to me and looks so utterly lost. The tears roll down her face and this time, she doesn’t try to stop them.

  “I’m going to die, you know. Soon.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I want them to pay,” she tells me. “Sjoberg, Rogers—all of them. I want them to pay for what they did to me and all the others.”

  “I want that too. That’s why I’m here,” I tell her. “I’m going to make sure they pay for what they’ve done.”

  “Good. That’s good,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m really tired. I need to go lay down.”

  “Of course. Thank you for speaking with me.”

  “Make them pay, Mr. Arrington. Make them pay with their lives,” she says, her voice surprisingly strong. “And make sure you burn the lower levels. Burn them or they’ll just keep doing it to other people.”

  “Lower levels?”

  “They said the lower levels are where they make the medicine,” she explains. “But if you ask me, it’s a portal to hell. That’s where they do unspeakable things. Make sure you burn it.”

  Emma gets to her feet and shuffles away without another word. I watch her go, wondering how much longer her suffering and torment will go on. All I can do is hope that when her end comes, it’s swift and merciful. And I hope she can finally find some peace.

  As I stand and walk to my car, her words echo through my mind. The lower levels. Unspeakable things. I have no idea what she’s talking about. Were there subterranean levels beneath the Lomtin campus? Or was that just the product of a broken, grief-stricken mind? She sounded earnest and perfectly lucid, though.

  As I exit the doors and settle into my car, I feel a sharp sting of pain and guilt for not being able to do more for Emma and the others. For so long, I’ve believed that the suffering was mine alone. I lost my wife because of Sjoberg and Rogers. I lost my world. But now I see others, people like Emma, have lost so much more. The suffering they’ve caused is bottomless and I will make them pay for it.

  Thirty

  Arrington Residence; Wilton House Condominiums, Downtown Seattle

  I sit in Veronica’s office, staring at the computer screen. Behind me, I hear the incessant tap-tap-tap of the raindrops against the window as a storm rolls through. My mind is filled with images of people like Emma Welsh, Judy Upton, Casey O’Toole, Monica Black—and the many more I don’t know, who undoubtedly suffered under Sjoberg’s cruelty. I see scores of broken bodies. Broken people. And nobody in a position of power or authority is doing a damn thing about it. Well, some of them are getting rich off it. That just turns my stomach.

  That thought leads me to wonder how many of our elected officials are making money hand over fist as Xytophyl’s sales continue to grow. It’s the system that encourages this sort of naked greed. It’s the system that encourages this sort of corruption. Xytophyl never should have made it to market in the first place. Not with the damage it causes. Sjoberg should be punished for falsifying records to get a toxic chemical on the market—not celebrated for it. But the people who are supposed to protect the public from this sort of thing are in his pocket. The gatekeepers who are charged with protecting the welfare and the health and safety of the people are flinging the gates open wide to the barbarian hordes, all for a little cash in their pockets.

  The problem isn’t just people like Sjoberg. It’s everybody who plays a part in this little dance. Everybody up the governmental food chain who signs off on the approvals necessary to get this poison onto the market is responsible. The people who are supposed to be protecting us are in fact failing us—just to line their own pockets. I hope that new house in the Keys or that new BMW is worth the blood of countless thousands of innocent people to them.

  I look at the picture of Veronica and Olivia on the corner of her desk. Somebody has to speak for her. Somebody has to speak for Emma. For Judy, Monica, Casey, and those children who Sjoberg’s drug murdered. Somebody has to speak for all of them. Somebody has to stop Sjoberg and Rogers from spreading their death and misery over the entire world.

  “Guess that task falls to me,” I say quietly.

  I pull up my video conference program on the computer and set up a scheduled release message. The sort of timed-release message Takahashi sent to me that got this entire thing rolling. I add in Brody and Blake’s emails, since they’re the ones who will be most impacted by what I’m going to do. I can only hope they’ll understand why I have to do this—and heed my wishes. I can’t afford for them to interfere or try to stop me. Not now.

  I adjust the camera so that I’m in the frame then pause for a moment, trying to find the right words. When I’m ready, I look up and start recording.

  “Blake and Brody, you’re the two people in this world closest to me. That’s why I need you to understand what I’m doing. As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, I’m going dark for a little while. I ask—no, I beg—you to let me do what I need to do. Don’t come looking for me, don’t try to contact me, just let me be... Let me do what I need to do… I have to end this.”

  I talk for a good ten minutes, trying to make them understand why I’m doing this. I don’t know if I’m successful in that though. I just hope they’ll listen to me and do as I ask. I finish setting it up so it will release twenty-four hours from now. That should give me enough time to do what I need to do and put me out of their reach. A day from now, they shouldn’t be able to get ahold of me, but I take nothing for granted.

  With that task done, I’m about to stand to get ready for tonight, then pause as a thought occurs to me. Another piece of the plan in my mind falling into place. It’s perfect. I sit back down in front of the computer and set up another video message on a time-release. I settle myself into the chair, then hit record…

  Thirty-One

  Lomtin Laboratories; Main Campus, Seattle, WA

  Using the cloned ID card Brody made for me, I slip in through the back door where the janitorial crew usually enters. I’m wearing my gray Lomtin coveralls—stolen from the locker room—over jeans and a black t-shirt, and a black ballcap that’s pulled low. I’ve got the fake goatee my makeup artist friend made for me on, and when I glance in a mirror I’m passing, think I look the part of the low-wage, disgruntled janitor. The disguise has worked well to this point. One more night is all I need.

  I go to the janitorial supply closet and fetch my cart. It’s amazing to me that nobody has stopped me at all in the several times I’ve been here. But I guess when you work at a company as big as Lomtin Labs, you’ll never know everybody. I push my cart along the hallway, nodding a greeting to the pair of security guards as they saunter by. They look at me but not too hard before passing on, engaged in an animated conversation about whether Tom Brady is the GOAT or not. As much as I despise the guy, he’s got seven rings—can you really make the case he’s not?

  I spend about an hour sweeping, mopping floors, and emptying trash cans. All the while, I’m working my way closer to Sjoberg’s office door. When I finally get there, I glance around to make sure I’m alone, then slip the needle of my lockpicking gun and squeeze the trigger. The door unlocks and I’m inside in a matter of moments. I push the cart in a little further, then close the door behind me.

  I stand in the center of Sjoberg’s office for a moment and get to work. I search his desk and file cabinets, looking for the proof I need to blow this case wide open and expose these monsters for what they truly are. I pull open a drawer in his credenza, looking for anything relating to the trials, and feel my heart skip a beat when I actually find a file marked ‘Xytophyl Trial’. Surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep the incriminating evidence around, let alone in his own office. Would he?

  I flip through the file, glancing at everything, and though I don’t understand a lot of what I’m looking at, I do see a few notations that mention irregularities and side effects—things Sjoberg said didn’t exist in his FDA filings. I dash over and slip the f
ile into a space between the liner and the trash can, then return and close the drawer. I know I should get out of here. I’m pushing my luck already. But call me greedy: I want to find more. I want to bury this guy with everything I can find.

  I had just opened another drawer in his credenza when the door to the office opens. I stand up to find Ethan Rogers and two very large men dressed in black from head to toe—obviously employees of Black Crown—standing there.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Rogers asks.

  “Emptyin’ the trash can,” I reply, pitching my voice low. “’Swhat ya pay me for.”

  “No, you weren’t,” Rogers spits. “You were looking through Dr. Sjoberg’s files in the credenza.”

  “What? You’re crazy, Doc. I was grabbin’ the trash can.”

  Rogers looks at me for a long moment, scrutinizing me from head to toe. It takes a moment, but I see the light of recognition flash in his eyes, and all of a sudden, he looks worried.

  “I know you,” he says suspiciously. “You’re the photographer who was here with that girl. That glorified podcaster.”

  I grin and stand up straight. The jig is up.

  “Oh, I think she takes pride in being a podcaster. Has a nationally syndicated show, in fact. So, I don’t think that’s quite the insult you seem to think it is.”

  “What are you doing here?” Rogers asks.

  “I was actually going to apply for a position with your fine janitorial staff and just wanted to take it for a test drive tonight,” I tell him. “You know, get a feel for having that mop in my hand.”

  Rogers cocks his head, still scrutinizing me. His eyes bore into mine and I can see the connections forming in his mind. Slowly, but they’re getting there.

  “I know you from somewhere,” he muses. “You’re familiar to me.”

  “I can honestly say we’ve never met,” I reply. “Never even heard of you before a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” he gasps. “I do know you. Paxton Arrington. Oh, God.”

  “Paxton is fine. I’ve never been one for fancy titles.”

  Rogers runs a hand through his hair, staring at me. I can see he knows what a predicament he’s in. He can’t kill me. I’m too high profile for that. Questions will be asked. My father, for one, will tear down the entire city, brick by brick, until he has those questions answered. The two guards behind him look at one another and shrug, clearly not sure what to do since Rogers hasn’t let them off their leashes and given them the attack order.

  “What do you want? What are you doing here?” Rogers growls.

  “Some answers,” I reply curtly.

  “About what?”

  “Well first, I want to know why you and Dr. Sjoberg rush a drug to market when you knew it was flawed,” I say. “When you knew there were deadly side effects.”

  “We didn’t know.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Dr. Rogers. I know. I’ve spoken with Emma Welsh personally. And I know you have records proving the results of your clinical trials were fraudulent,” I say. “I know everything, Dr. Rogers. What I want to know is whether or not the money you made was worth the lives of innocent people?”

  “You know very little, Mr. Arrington,” he states. “Be that as it may, I don’t know why any of this matters to you. You didn’t know any of these people.”

  “You are murdering people, Dr. Rogers. That bothers me,” I shoot back. “And as far as the personal connection here, you people murdered my wife.”

  “Don’t be absurd—”

  “You murdered my wife!” I shout, my playful demeanor slipping away. The guards tense up and put their hands on their weapons, but make no move forward. “You had her killed because she was getting too close to exposing the truth about your clinical trials and the damage your drug was doing—and your indifference to it!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Who did it, Rogers?” I scream at him. “I know you gave the order! I know you greenlit my wife! Who murdered her?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shouts back. The guards slowly strafe outwards from their positions, still at the ready. I lift my hands to show that I’m unarmed, but I won’t back down. Not now.

  “You’re a liar, Rogers. I’m going to burn this whole place down to get to the truth if I have to,” I sneer. “And you don’t even want to imagine what I’m going to do to you to get the truth out of you.”

  “Mr. Arrington, I had nothing to do with your wife’s death. I honestly didn’t.”

  “Oh, you honestly didn’t? Is that like you pinky promise you didn’t have my wife killed?” I spit. “Well, I guess I should just take you at your word.”

  “Yes, you should. Because I’m telling the truth.”

  “He actually is telling the truth, Mr. Arrington.”

  We all turn to see Sjoberg step into the office. He gives a curt nod to one of the guards, then steps up beside Rogers. He looks at me, suddenly realizing I was the photog from the earlier interview with Marcy. He chuckles and shakes his head.

  “So, what was that interview charade about?” he asks.

  “Gathering intel,” I say. “I needed to get a lay of the office so I could break in.”

  “And you didn’t account for the alarms and security cameras?” Sjoberg asks.

  “I’m new at this,” I admit. “But what did you mean that he’s telling the truth?”

  “I mean just that. Dr. Rogers is telling you the truth. He did not kill your wife,” he says. “I did. I had your meddling wife put down, and put in the same circumstances, I’d do it again. All she had to do was keep her nose out of places it didn’t belong.”

  “She got too close to proving you faked your clinical trials and bribed FDA officials to get your drug to market,” I hiss. “Did you ever stop to think about what your drug is doing to people like Emma Welsh? Did you stop to think about what your drug did to those other mothers? Oh, and by the way, Emma’s cancer is back. She’s probably got just days to live.”

  “Your wife was warned. She was told what would happen if she didn’t stop digging into matters that don’t concern her. She didn’t stop, and so I had to deal with her. My business with the FDA is just that—my business. You call it a bribe, I call it an investment in the future of cancer treatment. But your wife had a problem with boundaries,” he growls. “As far as Emma and the others go, yes that’s all terribly sad and all. But our success rate is well over eighty-five percent—”

  “Wow. Eighty-five percent. So, when it comes to saving lives, you’re averaging a B.”

  Sjoberg’s face darkens. “I wouldn’t expect somebody like you to understand. You lack the intelligence, and you lack the vision,” he mutters.

  “Who killed my wife?” I demand.

  “Does it matter?”

  “You only gave the order. I know that,” I say. “What I want to know is who actually killed her. Which team was assigned to murder her?”

  He waves me off. “I have no idea. Go talk to Howard Ball over at Black Crown. They’re his men, not mine. If anybody can tell you something like that, it’s him.”

  Rogers turns to Sjoberg, a look of concern on his face. “What are we going to do with him? We can’t kill him, Dr. Sjoberg. That’ll draw too much suspicion. Too many questions.”

  Sjoberg nods. “I agree. But if he simply disappears, there will be fewer questions,” he says. “The headline will be, ‘Playboy Trust Fund Kid Goes Jet-Setting.” Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

  “But how should we—”

  “Do you need me to explain everything to you, Ethan? Jesus,” Sjoberg snaps. “Take him to your laboratory. Do your experiments. Do whatever you want with him. Just be sure that when you’re done, you dispose of him completely. In small pieces.”

  A malicious grin crosses Rogers’ lips. “That’s a great idea,” he says. “Ben, Alvaro, subdue Mr. Arrington and take him below.”

  The two large men both smile as they step
forward and I ready myself. Ben lunges for me, but I spin to the side and drive my elbow backward, connecting with his nose. I hear the crunch followed by the howl of pain. My victory is short-lived, though. A moment later, my head is snapped to the side. I see spots dancing across my field of vision as Alvaro’s meaty fist crashes into the side of my head.

  I stagger to the side but manage to keep my feet—only to see Ben charging at me like an enraged bull. Blood flows from his nose and fury lights his eyes. Moving quickly, I spin and grab the metal dustpan off my janitorial cart in one fluid motion. As I swing back around, the flat of the dustpan connects solidly with Ben’s face. He drops to his knees almost immediately.

  Before I can even spin around to take stock of the situation, I catch one of Alvaro’s knees in my gut. The air is driven out of my lungs. I double over and retch, then he grabs my hair and yanks my head back. My vision is just clear enough to see the smile curling his lips upward as his asteroid-sized fist comes hurling down at me. I feel a sharp stab of pain and see a bright flash—and then everything around me goes dark.

  Thirty-Two

  Lomtin Laboratories; Subfloor 1, Cell 2D, Main Campus, Seattle, WA

  Time has ceased to hold any meaning for me. My life has been reduced to this cell and the periodic times I’m allowed to leave this cell only to receive a thorough beating before I’m returned to it. I don’t know if it’s day or night. Don’t know what time it is. I don’t even know how long I’ve been down here. It’s kind of hard to keep track of time when you’re moving in and out of consciousness because you’re getting your ass kicked so often.

  My entire body hurts. There isn’t one square inch of me that isn’t bruised and racked with pain. They like to pretend these beatings are interrogations, but they seem to enjoy it a little too much. Clearly, their Chief Beatings Officer is working out some childhood issues. I lay on the small cot curled up in a ball, willing myself to push the pain away. It’s not easy to do because their CBO is very good at what he does.