Woman in the Water (Arrington Mystery Book 3)

by Elle Gray

  “Be patient, he said,” I mutter to myself.

  Yeah, I don’t really do patience very well. But at least I’m self-aware enough to know that. It’s something Veronica tried to teach me, but with her gone, I don’t have that backstop to keep me from sliding back into some old habits and routines. Though thankfully, I like to think I’ve been able to check the worst of my normal impulses, like my temper.

  The sound of a door slamming and a feminine giggle pulls me out of my head. I focus on the screen and see Gerald Towson and Melanie Sutter. He pulls her into an embrace, and they begin to kiss passionately. As things get progressively heated and the clothes begin coming off, I turn down the volume and sit back in my seat, not wanting to hear the grunting and groaning of their rutting. I close my eyes, thinking about Veronica and how much I miss her.

  My mind naturally turns to thoughts of tracking down those responsible for her death and what I want to do to them. Once I find them, I know I should call the SPD in to handle it, turning over all evidence I’ve developed. I know it’s the smart, logical play. It’s the right thing to do.

  But I still haven’t decided if that’s the route I’ll take. It might be the right thing to do, but that doesn’t mean it’s the right thing for me. Exacting my pound of flesh from them is still very much on the table.

  Two

  Arrington Residence; Downtown Seattle

  I shut the door behind me, making sure to turn the locks. Wiping the sweat from my brow onto the sleeve of my shirt, I walk through the house and into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator. After twisting off the top, I take a deep swallow, letting the cool liquid quench my dry, parched throat.

  As my breathing slows, I walk back through the main room of our place. It was Veronica who found and then fell in love with the open floor plan of the condo. Overhead are exposed beams and pipes, and there is a lot of red brick, adding to that old, gritty warehouse vibe. It took me a minute, but I eventually came to like the industrial loft feel of the place.

  And now? Well, now I couldn’t get rid of this place even if I wanted to. Too many memories are tied up in here. Everything from the artwork on the walls to the fabric of the furniture is all Veronica. My friends and family have all told me this isn’t healthy. They say that hanging onto this place like a hermetically sealed shrine to Veronica is going to drive me insane eventually. Maybe they’re right. But this is the last physical, tangible reminder I have of her, and I’m not willing to let it go just yet.

  I swear to God, sometimes it’s like I can still feel her in this place. There are times I can physically feel her presence here with me. Sometimes I can hear her laughter echoing through the rooms. And not often, but every once in a while, I sometimes smell her perfume. Just a whiff, every now and then, but it’s her scent.

  As I said, I’m not big on the metaphysical, new age, woo-woo kind of nonsense, and I’m sure these are all simply imagined manifestations of my desires. I’m basically conjuring these things to come to life in my imagination because even almost three years after the fact, I’m still grieving. I know they’re not real, but they still bring me a sense of comfort, so I actually don’t care what anybody else says or thinks about me keeping this place.

  As I do most mornings, I walk down the hallway and step into Veronica’s office. Carrying my bottle of water with me, I drop into the chair behind her desk.

  Some people meditate. Some do yoga. Some go to church. I sit in Veronica’s office and commune with her in that way. Being surrounded by all of her things— her collection of bizarre knick-knacks she collected, photos, the small space in the corner she used as her podcast studio— it brings me peace. It calms my mind.

  I pick up the silver frame on her desk. It’s a photo of us in Seychelles. She’s wearing a red bikini that looks amazing on her. Veronica always had an incredible body, but it’s actually her smile that always captivated me the most. Her smile is so open and beautiful. It makes her eyes sparkle. Even in a photograph, it’s enough to make my heart skip a beat. Even still, after all this time.

  The muted ringing of my cell breaks through my thoughts, making me sigh as I set down the picture. I fish my phone out of my pocket, then connect the call, pressing the phone to my ear.

  “Arrington,” I answer.

  “Good morning, Paxton.”

  I chuckle softly. “Morning, Amy.”

  It’s taken me some time and more than a little effort, but I’ve finally managed to break Amy of the habit of calling me Mr. Arrington, or even worse, Mr. A.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “We had a walk-in this morning,” she tells me. “Just wanted to find out what your ETA is?

  “Walk-in, huh?”

  “Yes, sir,” she chirps.

  “Are they for real, or just rubberneckers?”

  Amy laughs quietly. We’ve noticed that with the notoriety that’s come with helping run down Alvin Perry and David Tucker, a couple different groups of people have started coming into the office. Some of them are people with legitimate cases and think because we’ve been in the news, we have more credibility than other firms. Not that I don’t appreciate the influx of business.

  The second group of people we’ve taken to calling the rubberneckers. They come in like they’ve got a case, but all they want to do is ask questions about Perry and Tucker. They’re like those ghouls who enjoy slowing down to look at accidents on the freeway, touring serial killer homes or sites of some unimaginable tragedy. They’re the kind of people who’d buy a house simply because a family was murdered in it.

  “I get the feeling they’re legit,” Amy says. “They don’t seem like rubberneckers to me.”

  Amy’s quickly developed pretty good instincts about these things. She’s always able to separate the wheat from the chaff. And since Brody’s out of town for a couple of days, it’s up to me to do the meet and greet.

  “Okay, put them in the Fishbowl and offer them some coffee or something,” I tell her. “Give me about thirty minutes or so.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Seated across from them at the conference table in the Fishbowl, the first thing I notice is that Marshall MacMillan— one of Seattle’s most prominent criminal defense attorneys— isn’t as big as he looks on TV. He’s a couple of inches shorter than me, and although he looks remarkably fit for his age, he has a leaner build and narrower shoulders than I thought. He’s got high, sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a long aquiline nose, giving him that classic aristocratic look.

  The presence and gravitas of the man— which I assume is what lends him that larger than life feeling I’d expected— is missing. He looks somehow… diminished. Smaller, and maybe a bit shrunken. Which is understandable. His wife was just murdered, after all. And I, of all people, know just how much of a toll that will take on you. Not just mentally and emotionally but physically as well.

  MacMillan is something of a bogeyman around the SPD— his name is spoken only in hushed tones, lest he appear. Cops and prosecutors alike hate him, because if we’re being honest, he is absolutely brilliant at his job. I’ve never seen him live in a courtroom, but I hear he’s equal parts Oliver Wendell Holmes, F. Lee Bailey, and Gregory Peck’s Atticus Finch, and wins jurors over by the force of his personality alone. All I know for certain is that he’s dynamic as an attorney and wins far, far more than he loses.

  The second thing I notice is just how much he doesn’t want to be here. He shifts in his seat, is constantly glancing at his watch, and is in general totally disengaged from the conversation— and seemingly from the entire world around him. Also understandable, as far as I’m concerned.

  His daughter Sarah is with him. By contrast, she is anything but disengaged. She is fully engaged with us and is, in fact, steering the conversation. Or at least, I’m letting her think she is. Oftentimes, you learn more from what people don’t say, and by studying their body language and facial expressions, than by what actually comes out of their mouths.
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  “What have the police said?” I start.

  Sarah scoffs and waves me off. “They’ve been an absolute joke,” she replies. “Just a nightmare to deal with.”

  A grim smile touches my lips. “Yeah, that’s been my experience with the SPD as well.”

  She nods as if she understands. “You were with the department for what, almost a decade?”

  “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  “Of course I have. I wouldn’t consider hiring anybody I hadn’t personally vetted,” she tells me. “And I expect that your experience with the police department has provided you with a certain perspective about their… dysfunction.”

  I chuckle and nod. “You could say that.”

  “Well, I for one, am not certain they did a thorough job of investigating my mother’s death. I’m far from satisfied,” she huffs.

  I turn to Marshall, who’s remained silent throughout the proceedings thus far. In some ways, he reminds me of my own father. In his professional circles, he’s a titan and a man that everybody respects— or at least fears. A man with a larger than life persona and the undisputed head of the family. Obviously, I don’t know him personally, but given the personality type of men at the top of their respective career food chains, I’d imagine he rules his family with an iron fist. He would demand that his family adhere to every social norm, and he would take great care— and be almost obsessed— with their public image. Just like my own father.

  I’m making a lot of assumptions and generalities, of course. But I’ve run into enough of these titans of industry over the course of my life to have seen some common personality traits among them. Maybe lawyers are different, but I don’t think so. And nothing I’ve seen from the brief snippets of Marshall MacMillan’s life— admittedly gleaned primarily through the media— would lead me to believe any differently.

  “And what about you, Mr. MacMillan?” I ask. “Are you as dissatisfied with the way the SPD has handled your wife’s case as well?”

  He looks up at me, his eyes dull and lifeless. He sits in the chair, looking entirely unplugged and disinterested in anything at all. As I look at him, I have to wonder if that’s how others — perceive— me. I’m obviously not as physically detached as MacMillan, having thrown myself into work, but from a mental and emotional standpoint. It wasn’t so long ago that I was in his exact shoes. And did I seem like the empty shell he looks to be right now? Do I still?

  “I—I…”

  MacMillan shakes his head. His voice trails off, and he looks down at his hands in his lap. The man is only fifty-six years old, and yet, he suddenly looks eighty. I’m doing my best not to pity him because I hate it when people pity me, but it’s very difficult not to when he’s like this. In the clips of him I’ve seen on television, he’s always been so vibrant and bold. He seems so weak now, and I can’t help but empathize with him. Which makes me feel like a hypocrite for snapping at people who have expressed their concern for me.

  “Of course he is,” Sarah cuts in. “It was his wife, for God’s sake.”

  Sarah is a lot like her father. At least with regard to her temperament. I have no doubt that, like her father, she’s a bulldog in the courtroom and a fierce advocate for her clients. She’s dressed smartly in a dark pantsuit, has long blonde hair that’s tied back into a ponytail, and eyes that are a deep, rich cornflower blue. Sarah’s features are softer than her father’s sharp angles, but the eyes are the same. Those intense eyes could drill right through a witness.

  “So, what is it I can do for you exactly, Ms. MacMillan?” I ask.

  I ask, even though I already know the answer to the question. Partly because it should be expected, but partly because this is where we set down the ground rules. This is where I get a clear picture of my client’s expectations of me. It’s where I lay out in no uncertain terms what I can and can not— or will not— do. If she is expecting me to perform some sort of miracle, this is where I disabuse her of that notion.

  It may seem indelicate, perhaps even insensitive to be so blunt, but for one, I never like to sugarcoat things. I speak my mind. Always have and always will. And secondly, the public successes we’ve had have somehow made people think we’re running around in spandex, masks, and capes, fighting evil archvillains in the city. It’s important for me to let them know upfront, that’s not actually the case. It’s important to temper expectations with a dose of reality.

  “The police have already moved on from my mother’s death,” she tells me.

  “Have they made an official determination?”

  She nods. “They have. Home invasion robbery.”

  “I see. Do they have an active suspect?”

  She shakes her head. “No. They say it’s still an ongoing investigation of course, and that they’ll continue working the case diligently,” she says, the bitterness in her voice apparent. “They’ve said all the right things, but I’ve been around long enough to understand cop-speak. And as a former officer yourself, I’m certain that you know what that means.”

  I nod grimly. I do indeed know what that means. When a detective on a case makes a determination and doesn’t have an active suspect, that’s usually about as far as they’ll go with it. The good ones will go further, of course. They’ll actually keep working the case and trying to drum up a suspect. And I’ve known a few good ones at the SPD.

  But “few” is the operative word there. In my experience, most of them will make their determination and leave it at that. Oh, officially it’s still an open crime that’s being looked at. But when they say it’s being looked at, all that means is the case file is sitting in a basket on their desk marked, “open,” and they’ll glance at it now and then.

  “Even though the police have moved on and are putting this behind them, I’m not ready to let it go yet,” she continues. “I think there’s more to the story, and I won’t rest until I find out what it is.”

  Marshall rubs at his eyes, which are red-rimmed and watery. He’s a man in agony. I turn to Sarah.

  “I understand better than you think,” I tell her. “I can’t promise you that I’ll be able to do any better than the SPD. I may come up as empty as they did. But I’ll look into it for you.”

  She nods. “If you’re even half as good as your reputation says you are, then I’ll be satisfied with whatever result you come back with.”

  If I don’t come back with the killer’s head in a bag, I know she won’t be satisfied, no matter how much she claims she will be. I’ve been down that road. Hell, I’m still going down that road as I sit here. If I don’t find out who did it, maybe she lets it go, or maybe she moves onto another firm. God knows there’s enough of us in the Emerald City.

  But what I will promise her is that I’ll work diligently and thoroughly as I possibly can. I may not solve this, but it won’t be for lack of effort. And it’s because as I look at Marshall MacMillan sitting in his chair silent and folded in on himself, I see my own pain reflected back onto me. If I can help ease the man’s burden, I will. Not because I’m expecting it to ease my own pain, but because nobody should have to suffer that sort of agony. I don’t know if I can do anything to ameliorate his suffering, but if I can, I will.

  “I’ll do my very best, Ms. MacMillan.”

  Three

  The Pulpit; Downtown Seattle

  I sit in a booth in a quiet corner waiting for Brody to show. He took a couple of days off, traveling with Marcy to poke around in New Orleans for a story she’s working on. The place is only about a quarter full right now. Aside from the music being piped in through the overhead speakers, it’s pretty quiet. Though after glancing at my watch, I know that’s not going to be the case much longer.

  If you looked up ‘sacrilegious’ in the dictionary, you’d probably find a picture of The Pulpit. In a former life, the Pulpit was a large Catholic church. Today though, it’s one of Seattle’s newest and hippest local bars. The owners refurbished the building, keeping the high, soaring arches, stained glass, and
Gothic architecture original to the church.

  The pews have all been transformed into booths and tables, and the pulpit itself has been turned into a stage for live music. And if there’s one thing to be said for an old church building, it’s that it’s got great acoustics. On the weekends, this place really rocks out and is always packed.

  A long oak bar polished to a glossy sheen spans almost the length of one wall, there is a dance floor in front of the stage, and maybe a dozen black, wrought iron chandeliers, studded with faux candles give off a dim illumination that leaves much of the bar in the perpetual gloomy haze of dusk.

  As if all of that weren’t offensive to Catholics everywhere enough, the waitresses all wear scandalously scanty outfits designed to look like nun’s habits, and the menu contains drinks like the “Bloody Pope,” the “Burning Bush,” and a host of other religious-themed alcoholic beverages.

  I’m sure some find it offensive, but it fits in well with Seattle’s very well-known counterculture and alternative vibe. I’m not usually big on the club and bar scene, but this place is lively and fun, it’s walking distance from the office and not too far from home either, so I enjoy coming in for a drink now and then.

  “So how was the Big Easy?” I call up as Brody finally slips into the booth across from me. He’s grinning like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “What? Do you have eyes in the back of your head or something?” he asks.

  “You should know by now that I see all.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he chuckles.

  He slips off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. He sits back and blows out a long breath.

  “Marshall MacMillan, huh?” Brody asks. “I guess we’re movin’ up in the world to attract a big name like that.”

  I chuckle. “Pretty sure Marcus was a bigger name than Marshall. And probably better liked, especially among law enforcement.”