by Elle Gray
“Where did you find him?” she asks.
“A flophouse in South Elridge.”
She nods. “Not surprising,” she says, then adds, “how is he?”
I shrug, seeing no reason to sugarcoat it. “He’s in rough shape. The drugs have a tight hold on him.”
“And where is he now?”
I rub my jawline, the stubble on my face making a dry, scratchy sound. I give a brief thought to fudging the story. But I can no more do that than I can throw the security company under the bus… although I should. But in the end, they’re my subcontractor. It was my decision to hire them in the first place, so the blame ultimately lands on me. My decision, my fault.
“He slipped my security team this morning,” I tell her. “But we’re making every attempt possible to find him.”
Her face darkens, but she quickly smooths her features, and her face becomes unreadable. She’s able to mask her emotions very well, which I suppose is an important trait as a defense attorney. She sits there statue still, just staring at me, not moving, and not breathing from what I can tell, for several long moments.
Her thoughts are totally opaque to me, which is a rarity. I can usually pick up on something. Everybody has a tell. Some little tic or subtle expression that gives me a clue as to what’s going on in their head. Not Sarah, though. The mastery of her thoughts and emotions is impressive.
“My brother is very good at not being found when he doesn’t want to be,” she finally says. “You might as well recall your team. I doubt you’ll be able to find him when he goes to ground.”
I pause to digest the information for a moment. Pulling the teams off the search seems like a monumentally bad idea. If Lance had anything to do with Mrs. MacMillan’s murder, I want to know exactly where he is at all times. And to do that, we need to find him. I don’t know why Sarah would suggest I let him stay in the wind.
“Was there anything else, Mr. Arrington?”
Her voice pulls me out of my head, and I nod. “There is, actually.” I drop the file folder I’m holding on the desk in front of her. She looks at it like it’s a snake that’s coiled and ready to strike.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Before you open that, I want to prepare you,” I tell her. “I found some information about your mother that might be… upsetting.”
“Upsetting how?”
She makes no move to open it. Instead, Sarah looks at the file again and leans back in her chair, as if she’s trying to create some distance between her and it. I try to think of a way to ask the questions I want to ask, as well as impart the information I’m holding in the most delicate, sensitive way possible.
But I don’t do those things well, to begin with. And then I decide that Sarah, being the blunt and direct person she is, would prefer the unvarnished truth, rather than a delicate and convoluted delivery.
“Did you know anything about your mother having extramarital affairs?” I ask.
Her eyes widen, and she gasps. “What are you talking about? She didn’t…”
“I’m afraid she might have.”
“Might have?”
I gesture to the folder. “In that file are photos of your mother and a man attending events at something called the Velvet Playground.”
“And what is that?”
“In simple terms, it’s a sex club. A very exclusive sex club for only the wealthiest and well-connected,” I tell her. “People of means go there to let go of their inhibitions and go wild for the night. I’ve seen photographs of these events, so there’s no doubt in my mind.”
“You’ve seen pictures of my mother having sex with other men?”
“Not specifically, but she does attend these parties regularly.”
“That’s not proof she was cheating on my father, Mr. Arrington. One can attend a party without becoming involved with the… activities.”
It strikes me as an odd way to put it. Makes me wonder if Sarah has a membership to the Playground of her own. Still, she has a point. She’s a lawyer, and she deals in absolutes like hard-proof versus circumstantial evidence. And pictures of her mother attending one of these events falls into the latter category. To me, she’s clinging hard to the image of her mother she has in her head. She’s holding fast to her memory of who her mother was.
But still, one doesn’t usually pay exorbitant fees to join a sex club just for the atmosphere. For that matter, to hear Marcy tell it, sex clubs like these are apparently pretty common. No, if she just needed a place to let her freak flag fly, there were places she could have done that. You pay those fees for a very specific reason. I don’t know what it is yet, but there’s something there. We may not have pictures of her in flagrante delicto, but you have to be trying really hard to avoid the obvious. One plus one equals two, after all.
I suppose I can’t blame her too much though. Sarah grew up believing her parents were one way. And that way has never changed from her childhood to now. She all but idolizes her parents, seeing only their virtues while ignoring their flaws. And any challenge to that paradigm in her mind is going to be met with very stiff resistance. As I’m seeing.
But I need to know if she recognizes the man in the pictures. I realize he’s wearing a mask that obscures his face, but the beard would be memorable. As would his build.
“I’m sorry that I have to ask you, but will you look at the photos for me, Ms. MacMillan? I have a couple of questions.”
“I’d rather not.”
“It’s important.”
She grimaces, but after another moment’s hesitation, opens up the file in front of her. She scans the pictures, her face completely inscrutable. If she has any sort of reaction to these photos, she’s keeping it entirely, and impressively, internalized.
“As I said, these photos don’t prove she was cheating on my father,” she comments after scanning the last picture.
“No, not specifically.”
“And I’m not even certain that’s my mother in the photos. The mask makes it impossible to gather a positive identification.”
She is, of course, splitting hairs. The obvious is staring her right in the face, but it seems to me that it’s delivered such a massive gut punch to Sarah, the only way she can cope with it is to deny the truth and reality of the situation. And that’s fine. She’s entitled to her beliefs and delusions.
But she asked me to find her mom’s killer and to do that, she’s going to have to be uncomfortable for a few minutes. She can go back to the fairy tale land where her mom isn’t wearing masks in some mysterious underground sex cult.
“The man in the photos with her… do you recognize him?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “He’s a stranger to me. Is this supposed to be the man she’s allegedly having an affair with?”
“He is.”
“These photos don’t show that.”
I purse my lips. She won’t even meet my eyes right now. She can’t handle me challenging everything she knows, believes, and holds dear about her mom. I’m tempted to remind her that she’s the one who told me to be aggressive and do what I had to do to find her mom’s killer. But I don’t think she’s in a place to hear that message right now, so I try a different tack.
“As a successful defense attorney, you’re well used to reading body language. You do it to witnesses to find out the best points of attack. You do it with jurors during voir dire to find those you deem most likely to see your side of the argument. You’re experienced at reading gestures and body language, right?” I ask.
She frowns and looks like she wants to deny it, but instead, she simply nods her head.
“Then what is that man’s body language telling you?” I ask.
“It tells me nothing, other than he happens to be standing near somebody who’s allegedly my mother. And if we were in court, I’d say these appear to be consenting adults engaged in totally above-board legal behavior. This man just happens to be close to this woman who you claim is my mother.”
&nb
sp; “But in five different photos, taken on five different days?” I ask. “All with the very same close connection?”
“This doesn’t prove anything, Mr. Arrington.”
“I’m sure this is difficult for you, and for that, I apologize. Please understand, I’m not trying to put your mother or her personal life on trial,” I tell her. “I’m trying to do what you hired me to do… find her killer.”
“And you think this man did it?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know right now. But he is somebody I want to talk to. Are you sure you don’t recognize him?”
“I don’t recognize him, Mr. Arrington,” she insists, her voice carrying a hard edge to it. “If you want to know what I really think, now that I know Lance is in town, he’s probably the one who did it.”
“I didn’t get that impression when I talked to him.”
“And you’re never wrong, is that it?”
“Of course not. I’m wrong plenty,” I shrug. “But I do know people, and I know how to read people. And your brother doesn’t strike me as a killer.”
She shrugs. “Well, you don’t really know him. And like I said, he is a very changed man.”
I sit back in my seat and study her for a moment. She’s so resistant to the idea that her mother was having an affair. Like the very thought of it makes her blood boil. But the one thing I don’t see on her face is shock. She’s done a good job of masking her emotions and deflecting the conversation. But as I really scrutinize her, it’s almost like…
“Did you know your mom was having an affair, Ms. MacMillan?”
“I told you I didn’t.”
I shake my head. “Actually, you didn’t. Not specifically.”
“Mr. Arrington, I’ve got more important things in my life to worry about than the state of my parent’s marriage. But everything I know about it is that it’s rock solid and filled with joy and love. And has been for a lot of years now,” she snaps. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to the courthouse.”
“Of course,” I say and get to my feet.
I turn and head for the door, but her voice stops me before I get there, so I turn back to her.
“And Mr. Arrington, if you can’t come up with better theories than mysterious affairs and sex clubs, I will fire you,” she says. “I want results, and I want them soon. Look into Lance more closely. His sudden appearance in town should have put him at the top of your suspect list.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I nod.
I walk out of her office and head for the elevators that will take me down to the parking garages, replaying the conversation over and over in my mind. Her hostility was unexpected and was off the charts. She seemed genuinely put off by the idea that her mother was having an affair… despite the evidence being right there in front of her. She’s smart enough to be able to look at the evidence and come to a conclusion. Sure, she’s good at hiding things, and she’s probably in deep denial in some ways, but something’s off about the way she keeps trying to point the investigation to Lance.
And of course, as I step off the elevator and make my way to my car, I make a mental note of the fact that she still didn’t answer my question about whether or not she knew her mother was having an affair.
Twenty-Three
Arrington Residence; Downtown Seattle
“So, this is the infamous Arrington lair,” Amy whistles.
“Pretty sure it’s not infamous, nor is it a lair,” I reply.
She walks around the condo, taking everything in, spending several minutes studying some of the framed pictures of Veronica and I hanging on the walls.
“I mean, I’ve seen pictures before, but she was really beautiful,” she says.
I nod as I step into the kitchen, feeling a hitch in my heart. “Yeah. She was.”
As she continues exploring the condo, oohing and aahing over this or that, I grab a couple of bottles of water from the refrigerator, then hand one to Amy as I walk into the living area again. She’s here to help me get ready for tonight’s party at the Velvet Playground. She’d done some costume design work for her college’s theater department and was able to put together an outfit for me.
“How are you doing? I mean, really?” she asks gently
I shrug. “I’ll be fine as soon as I know who’s responsible for Veronica’s death and they’re punished for it.”
She looks at me, her eyes softening. “Will you, though?”
“Of course. That’s my mission in all of this… to find and punish her killers.”
“And what about when the mission’s over?” she presses. “What happens when the bad guys are caught and punished?”
I open my mouth to reply but close it again, realizing I haven’t actually given much thought about what comes after. The normal cases we work aside; all of my focus has been on finding Veronica’s killer. It’s one of the only things that gets me out of bed in the morning and keeps me going throughout the day. It’s more or less my reason for being at this point.
But I’ve never really given a lot of thought to what comes after that. What will my life be like once that reason for being is over when my mission is accomplished? I look at Amy and shake my head.
“I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” I tell her. “More than likely, I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing now, putting one foot in front of the other.”
“That’s kind of a dreary existence,” she remarks.
I shrug. “It’s all I got.”
She turns to me. “You have a lot more than you think, Paxton. You’re surrounded by good people who love you. Who would run through walls for you. You have the sort of life most people can only dream of. I mean, you can pick up and go travel the world tomorrow if you felt like it.”
“But being here, doing what I’m doing, is what feels right. There’s no place else I’d rather be, and nothing else I’d rather be doing,” I reply. “I think… no, I know, this is what Veronica would want me to be doing. She’d want me to be helping people in need.”
“And that’s a noble thing to do. But at the same time, you need to have something for you. I’m not saying you should stop doing what you’re doing. You’re doing amazing things, and I know for a fact that you’re doing good in the world,” she continues. “I’m saying you need something more than the work you’re doing. You need some other reason to get out of bed than just the thought of catching bad guys. You need something you can find solace in, something— or someone— you can find that brings you joy. Like true, genuine joy.”
It’s good advice. I know it is. My brain accepts what she’s saying as wise and thoughtful. But my heart is saying something else entirely. It’s not letting me see anything other than what’s right in front of me. It keeps me moving from case to case, from day to day, always with the goal of finding Veronica’s killer at the fore. I don’t know any other way to be right now, and honestly, I have no idea how to go about finding another way to be.
I know most people think I have it all together. They see me like a rock. But the truth is, I’m a mess inside. Most days, I feel like I’m barely keeping it under control. It’s like I’m in the middle of a hurricane, only held together by tape and twine as hundred-mile-an-hour winds tear at me from all directions. But I try to project the image of resolute determination. I try to keep everything inside from making it to the outside.
This is my garbage. Nobody else’s. I don’t want anybody else to feel sorry for me. I refuse to allow anybody to pity me. And I’ll figure out what comes after when we get there.
“This is a big world with a lot of fun things to do and amazing people to meet,” Amy says. “Obviously, I didn’t know her, so I can’t speak with any sort of authority. But if Veronica is the sort of person I’ve been told she is, I can’t see her wanting you to live your life like this. With nothing but the work to keep you going. I want to believe she’d want you to be happy. To maybe even find love again.”
A small smile touches my lips, and
I look away, trying to stifle the emotions I feel welling up inside of me. Finally in control, I turn back to her.
“Maybe I’ll get there one day. But right now, all I have is the work to keep me going. Once Veronica’s killers are punished, then I’ll reassess my life,” I say with a smile. “Believe it or not, I want to be happy. I do. But I know I’ll never get there so long as her killers are walking free.”
She nods. “I get that. Just know that there are a bunch of us here who want to help you get there. There are a bunch of us who care about you and want to see you come out the other side of this well and happy.”
“I appreciate that. More than you know. And you are very right about one thing.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“That I’m surrounded by some of the best and most amazing people in the world,” I smile. It really is a genuine smile. “And don’t think for a moment that I’m not aware of that or that I don’t appreciate you all. You’ve become a family to me.”
She smiles softly and looks away. Her words really do resonate with me. I’m grateful for the people in my life. Brody, Marcy, Blake, and Amy. Hell, even Nick. In a short time, I’ve found myself really leaning on their companionship. Just a year ago, I’d have thought that was scary, but now? Now I am really coming to see them as a second family. Finding myself open to their friendship, love, and loyalty gives me hope that maybe one day, I actually will be able to move on from all of the misery and pain I’ve chained myself to. That maybe one day, I’ll be able to leave the past where it belongs: in the past.
But until that point, the work continues. I can and will continue helping find justice for other people with the hope that one day, I’ll have justice for Veronica. And for myself.
I drink down half my bottle of water and set it down, then clap my hands together as I look at Amy.
“Okay,” I nod. “I guess if I’m going to do this, I better get to it before I lose my nerve.”
She waves me off. “Sex clubs are nothing to be nervous about.”
I arch an eyebrow at her, and she blushes furiously. “That’s totally not what I meant. I’ve never been to a sex club before.”