Woman in the Water (Arrington Mystery Book 3)

by Elle Gray

  “No? Then why was his knife in the house?”

  “Well, it wasn’t,” I say. “Not until the day it was found, actually.”

  “So what, you’re saying it just appeared there? Like magic?”

  I shake my head. “Oh no, of course not. Nothing that silly,” I reply. “I’m saying that it was planted there. I’m assuming by Mrs. MacMillan’s actual killer.”

  “That’s absurd,” she replies hotly. “The cleaning crew called me in from my office yesterday when they found it.”

  I give Brody a nod, and he taps a few keys on his laptop. On the screen comes the photo Lee took of the knife, laying where it was found. It’s sitting on top of some broken glass and papers underneath one of the chairs that managed to avoid being smashed to pieces.

  “Detective Lee took this picture yesterday to document where it had been found,” I say.

  “Yes, I was there. I saw it,” she snaps.

  I give Brody the signal, and the next picture comes up. It’s one of the photos I took on my initial walkthrough. I point to the screen.

  “And this photo was taken on the day I toured the crime scene. You were in attendance. Do you remember this?”

  “Yes,” she says slowly as if only now seeing the trap.

  Brody moves to the next image— It’s a blown-up shot of the exact area underneath the chair that Lee had taken. Albeit from a different angle.

  “As you can see, this is the same chair, same debris under it,” I say. “But there’s no knife.”

  Sarah pales as she sits there, but quickly recovers, masking her expression. She looks at me with eyes hiding a barely controlled fury.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Arrington,” she says, her voice ice cold. “All I know is that the cleaning crew reported the knife to me, so I called Detective Lee and rushed right over.”

  “Why did you call Detective Lee and not me?” I ask. “You did hire me to investigate your mother’s death, after all.”

  “Forgive me for being so blunt, but it was because Detective Lee is an actual cop,” she says. “You’re just a PI.”

  I don’t know if the disdain in her voice is directed at me personally or at my profession. Either way, she makes it clear she’s disgusted.

  “No offense taken,” I say. “In case you wondered.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I understand. And please, believe me, Ms. MacMillan, my purpose here is not to upset you. It’s to show you that your brother didn’t kill your mother.”

  “This picture hardly proves that,” she spits. “My brother is a very sick man, Mr. Arrington.”

  “No question about it,” I nod. “He definitely needs help. What he doesn’t need is to go to prison for something he didn’t do.”

  “The knife had his fingerprints on it, Mr. Arrington,” Sarah points out.

  “How do you know it’s his knife?”

  “Because he’s had it since he was a kid,” she snaps.

  “He said he lost it years ago,” Lee says.

  She rolls her eyes. “What else would you expect him to say?”

  “The fact that it appeared mysteriously, well after the scene was cleared by SPD homicide casts doubt on its provenance,” I explain. “Ask your father how well that will hold up in court.”

  “He’s right,” Marshall mumbles.

  “Quiet,” she snaps at him.

  “If you press forward with this persecution of your brother, I will present this evidence at a grand jury. Assuming it ever gets that far,” I tell her. “I have a feeling once the DA catches wind of this— again, something I will ensure happens— she will dismiss the case.”

  “Persecution? You actually see this as a persecution?” she hisses. “You don’t know the sort of turmoil he caused. You don’t know the damage he did to our family.”

  “I don’t discount that at all,” I tell her. “But what he did is because of his addiction. It also doesn’t justify sending him to prison for life. How could you live with yourself if you did that?”

  “Very well, actually,” she spits.

  “Did you plant the knife, Sarah?” I press.

  She glares at me but says nothing. That’s fine. Refusing to answer is as good as an answer. But that’s not the only surprise I have for her today. I cut a glance at Marshall and see that he’s as disconnected from reality as ever. He’s here in body, but most definitely not in mind or spirit. In those, he’s on another planet.

  “Now, my understanding is that Chief Torres ordered the arrest of your brother. Did you tip the Chief off to his whereabouts?”

  “Is this an interrogation?”

  “I’m just trying to get to the truth and ensure an innocent man doesn’t go to prison,” I insist.

  She sighs heavily, but I see a glint in her eye. I laid the bait, and I’m standing on pins and needles, waiting for her to take it.

  “Lance called me. Asking for money. As usual,” she sighs. “I told him I’d meet him to give him some cash. He told me where he was, and yes, I called the Chief. I told him what was happening and that I believed Lance murdered my mother. He jumped at the chance to make the arrest.”

  “Did you know the Chief forced Detective Lee to make the arrest and told him to build the case around your testimony and that fraudulent piece of evidence, under threat of losing his job?” I ask.

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t know about the Chief pressuring Detective Lee?”

  “I’m quite sure. Thought it doesn’t surprise me. Torres is a man who will step on a nun to get higher up the ladder,” she says.

  “You’re a defense attorney,” Brody speaks up. “You had to know that case was going to get tossed at some point down the road. Why put your brother through that?”

  “I don’t know any such thing. Juries convict on less all the time,” she responds. “And let’s not forget that he’s actually guilty. He killed my mother.”

  “He didn’t, Sarah. And I think if you’re honest with yourself, you know he didn’t do it,” I say.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks.

  “Because I believe in truth and justice,” I say. “And railroading your brother like this is neither of those things.”

  “Like hell it’s not. After what he’s done to our family for as long as he’s done it, a stint in prison is the least of what he deserves,” she growls.

  “That’s not for you to say,” I tell her. “You of all people should know that.”

  “Let’s assume you’re right. Lance didn’t do it,” she says. “That means the killer is still out there. What are any of you doing to find them?”

  “You fired us, remember?” Brody quips.

  “It is funny that you ask that question, though,” I say.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  I cue Brody and from the speakers mounted to the walls, Sarah’s voice plays.

  “P—p—please come to 3428 Covington Court, Denny-Blaine please. Come immediately. M—my mother’s been murdered.”

  The recording cuts off, and I look over at her. “That is your voice, correct?”

  “You know it is.”

  “That call was recorded at eight twenty-two pm,” I say. “That was the first time you’d been to the house that day, correct?”

  “Yes,” she says slowly.

  Her face is etched with confusion, and I can see she’s trying to figure out where I’m going with this. Brody’s fingers fly over the keys, and the internal security cameras come up on the screen. It’s a four-screen split that shows Sarah outside waving to the neighbors, then coming into the house. It shows her seeing the destruction inside, then running around the house in a near panic calling for her mom loud enough for the mics to pick up her voice.

  She goes to the backyard, finds her mom in the pool, and screams so loud; the neighbors mention they heard her when the cops later canvassed the neighborhood. The timestamp is eight nineteen. At eight twenty-one, she goes t
o the pool, finds her mother, and dials 9-1-1.

  “Strangely enough, there are about seven hours of footage missing from the day’s recordings,” I say. “From about one in the afternoon to just when you showed up.”

  “Weird,” Sarah frowns, sounding less than confident.

  “So you weren’t at the house earlier in the day then?” I ask.

  “I told you I wasn’t.”

  “Huh. Interesting,” I say.

  “What’s so interesting about that?”

  Brody taps out a few commands, and on the screen, Sarah’s cell phone tracking grid pops up.

  “What is that?” she asks.

  “That is your movements on the day before and the day of your mother’s murder,” I say. “You’ll note that it dropped a pin, showing you at your mother’s house six hours before you made that 9-1-1 call. Can you explain that?”

  She swallows hard and gets to her feet. “This is over. I’m done being harassed by you people.”

  “Harassed?” I ask. “I’m just trying to determine why you’re lying to us.”

  “Come on Dad, we’re leaving,” Sarah says.

  Lee gets to his feet. “Actually, you’re not. You have some questions to answer,” he says. “We can either do it here, or we can do it down at the precinct. It’s your choice.”

  Sarah’s eyes dart left and then right as if she’s searching for a route of escape. Seeing none, she slumps back down into her chair and buries her face in her hands. Marshall laughs, looking somewhat engaged for the first time since they came in.

  “Told you so,” he says.

  “Shut up,” she snaps.

  Lee sits back down as well, but he’s perched on the edge of his seat, ready to move if he needs to, and eyes them both carefully. Sarah finally looks up at me, all pretense of control gone. Her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks blotchy, and tears roll down her face.

  “So Sarah, can you explain what you were doing at your parent’s house six hours before you called 9-1-1?”

  She looks at me but says nothing. I can see the emotions scrolling through her eyes, but also see the wheels spinning in her mind. She’s doing her best to reassert control. To find some crack in the mounting wall of evidence being built in front of her. She’s a smart woman, and if she can find a little wiggle room, she’s going to exploit it. It’s time to hit her with the big stick now.

  “I don’t think you killed your mother, Sarah,” I tell her. “In fact, I know you didn’t.”

  “Then what is this all about?” she asks, sounding weary.

  “Because it was your father,” I say. “He killed your mom, and you helped cover it up after the fact.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re wrong,” she says, but I can hear the defeat in her voice.

  Brody brings up car rental receipts and the corresponding credit card charges on the screen. And just to pile on the last bit, a screengrab of a red-light camera clearly shows Marshall behind the wheel of his rental four miles from the house on the night Charlotte was murdered… when he was supposedly in Portland.

  “None of this is admissible,” she stammers, a tinge of optimism in her voice. “You didn’t have a warrant to search our electronic records.”

  “Actually, Judge Bell was more than happy to sign off on a warrant last night,” Lee counters. “This is all above board.”

  Sarah hangs her head, knowing she’d just played her last card and busted. Marshall just laughs, then takes another long pull from his flask. I’ve come to realize that he’s been lost in an alcoholic haze since Charlotte died, not because of his grief, not because he couldn’t cope with the loss and the pain it brings. But because he couldn’t deal with his guilt while sober. So he pickled himself with the vain hope of subverting the pain. It, unfortunately, doesn’t work like that though. The pain is always there. It’s always waiting. And it will always have its due.

  “Time to get out in front of this, Sarah,” Lee says. “Tell us what happened.”

  Sarah sniffs loudly and looks at her dad, who gives her a nod. “It’s okay, honey. It’s over,” he says. “No more running. No more hiding.”

  She sits back in her chair and wipes her eyes, though the tears come right back, rolling down her cheeks, a look of exquisite agony on her face. She sniffs and looks at me, the pain on her face melting away, replaced by one of intense hatred. Who she hates though, is up for debate. Could be me. Could be her father. Could even be her mother for all I know.

  “When I came by earlier in the day, I found my dad in the house. My mother was already in the pool, and he was holding a baseball bat with her blood and hair all over it,” she says. “He told me that he’d found out she was having an affair. That she was going to divorce him and marry this other man. So he arranged to be out of town, then sneak back in to… do what he did.”

  “Murder her,” Marshall says. “I murdered her. There’s no coming back from what she did. She was sullied. Dirty. I no longer wanted her. But I didn’t want anybody else to have her either. So I had no choice.”

  Everybody turns and looks at him for a long moment, disgust on their faces. Everybody but Sarah anyway. She just looks miserable. Marshall shrugs and drains the last of his flask.

  “You wanted me to be honest,” he snaps. “This is me being honest.”

  “Anyway,” Sarah says. “We came up with the plan to trash the house and make it look like it was a robbery.”

  “I kind of feel like this is one of those Scooby-Doo moments where she’s going to say, ‘and I would have gotten away with it too, if not for you meddling kids,’” Brody pipes up.

  Sarah looks at him with pure contempt as Lee, Marcy, and I do our best to stifle a laugh. Probably not appropriate for the situation.

  “Sorry,” Brody says. “Thought we needed a little levity.”

  “So you came to us with the idea that you could steer us toward Lance as the killer. You intentionally put him in our way thinking we’d focus on him,” I say.

  She nods. “And when you didn’t, I had to do it myself. And here we are.”

  I look over at Lee. “I think that about covers it.”

  He nods and sends a quick message on his phone. “I think so too.”

  A couple of minutes later, two patrol cops step off the elevator and stride over to the Fishbowl. Lee gets to his feet and looks down at Sarah and Marshall.

  “Sarah MacMillan and Marshall MacMillan, you’re both under arrest for the murder of Charlotte MacMillan. Please, on your feet.”

  They do as they’re told, and the two patrol cops step in and put the cuffs on them. Sarah glares hard at me as they lead her out, but she says nothing. Really, there’s nothing left to say. Lee lingers for a moment before turning and coming around the table. He extends his hand, and I give it a firm shake.

  “Thank you,” he smiles. “I owe you one.”

  “We don’t do favors, remember?”

  He flashes me a smirk. “Are you always this big of a surly jerk?”

  “Yes,” Marcy and Brody reply in unison.

  Lee laughs as he walks out to escort his prisoners back to the precinct, and all I can hope is he gets the credit he deserves for this. Knowing Torres as I do though, he’s going to suck up all the oxygen in the room. Lee’s going to have to find a way to counter that. Sarah didn’t directly incriminate the Chief, but she said enough that it might keep him from going after Lee. At least for a while.

  I exchange high fives and hugs with Brody and Marcy. The sound of a champagne bottle popping fills the room as Amy comes in with a bottle in hand. Nick is behind her with flutes for all of us. I raise my flute to them.

  “We did it, guys. Excellent work, everybody,” I say. “We pulled a win from the jaws of defeat. That wouldn’t have happened without you, and I’m grateful for all of you. Even you, Marcy.”

  She squeals with laughter and punches me in the arm. “Watch yourself, or I’ll beat you as bad as those other guys did.”

  “I believe you,” I say, stifli
ng a laugh, prompting another punch in the arm from her.

  “So how long do you think Sarah’s going to the hole for?” Brody asks.

  I shrug. “Depends on how vindictive the DA’s going to be. And after being shown up in court by two generations of MacMillans, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her throw the book at them.”

  “You did make sure her check cleared first though, right?” Brody turns to me and asks.

  Thirty

  Arrington Residence; Downtown Seattle

  It’s Halloween night— and my birthday— and the streets are filled with kids in costumes scurrying about on their quest for candy. All I want to do is get away from them and shut myself away in my place. After a busy day, I just want some quiet. I spent most of the day down at the DA’s office giving my statement and turning over all of the evidence I’d collected.

  Marshall is being charged with second-degree murder and is looking at a very long stretch in prison. He’s expected to plead guilty, which may knock off a few years, depending on what his lawyer can finagle. He doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, though. The fact that he killed his wife is eating him up inside and will until his dying day.

  Sarah is being charged with being an accessory after the fact. Since all she did was try to cover up the crime and didn’t participate in the murder itself, that’s about the best they’re going to get her on. It’s still a substantial prison term, and she’s definitely going to need to find another career since she’s going to be stripped of her license and disbarred, but she’ll be out in a few years, likely.

  I spoke with Eric earlier today, and all he could do was laugh. Not a lot of sympathy coming from him. At least not outwardly. I have a feeling this is something that’s going to stay with him for the rest of his life, whether he shows it or not. He’s angry, but he’s not without emotion.

  As for Lance, I want to believe that he finally gets it. That he sees the massive bullet he dodged, or rather that we helped him dodge. He’s vowed to clean up his life, and to that end, I got him into a program in Idaho. I figure a new environment, well away from his friends and usual haunts, couldn’t hurt. We’re just going to have to wait and see how that plays out. I gave his contact info to Eric, who promised me that he’ll keep an eye on his brother. For good, this time.