Her Last Call (Arrington Mystery Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Elle Gray

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Want more Pax Arrington Mysteries?

  Also by Elle Gray

  Prologue

  Gas Works Park; Downtown Seattle

  “Seattle 9-1-1 dispatch, what’s your emergency?”

  “Please, help me,” she whispers urgently. “There’s a man chasing me. I think he’s trying to kill me. Help me, please.”

  “Ma’am, can you provide your name and location? I am alerting the police now. Can you find a safe location?”

  “Yes, please help me,” she says. “My name is Stella Hughes. I’m at the Gas Works Park… please send the police.”

  She runs through the darkness, clinging to the shadows and gloom of the night at the edge of a copse of trees in the park. The sky overhead is clotted with thick, dark clouds that blot out the moonlight, making it hard for her to see anything within the tree line.

  “Ms. Hughes? Are you still on the line?”

  “Yes,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh God, please help me.”

  “I’ve already dispatched the police. They’re only a few minutes out. I’m going to stay on the line with you until they arrive. Are you able to get to a safe location?”

  “Please hurry.”

  She crouches down, the phone pressed to her ear, and sniffs as quietly as she can. She can’t even catch her breath before she hears it. The snap of a twig in the trees. The sound of furtive footsteps moving through the undergrowth, somewhere in the darkness. A lightning bolt of fear shoots straight through her. She bites the side of her hand to stifle the cry that threatens to burst from her throat.

  “I hear him,” she gasps, hot, wet tears spilling down her face. “He’s coming.”

  “Stay calm, ma’am. The police are on their way. Can you get somewhere safe?”

  She looks across the open field at the outline of the old, abandoned Seattle gasification plant that gives the park its name. She knows if she can get across the field without being seen, and hops the fence, there will be plenty of places to hide inside.

  “Ma’am, are you still with me?”

  “Yes,” she whispers. “I—I’m trying to get to a hiding spot.”

  “Good. That’s good. If you can get to it safely, just stay put. The police will be there soon.”

  The heavy sound of footsteps crunching through the leaves draws closer. Her heart thunders in her chest, tears continuing to stream down her face. Keeping the line open, she drops her phone into the pocket of her hoodie, then draws a deep breath and steels herself. Taking one last glance at the darkness behind her, she breaks from the cover of the trees and sprints across the park, ducking her head and never daring to look back.

  Being the athlete she is, she’s up and over the fence in seconds and slips into the abandoned plant. The darkness inside is nearly absolute. She barks her shins several times on the exposed piping, biting the side of her hand to keep from crying out.

  The sharp ring of metal on metal sends a jolt of the purest terror she’s ever felt shooting straight through her. She squeezes herself underneath a staircase, trying to ignore the cobwebs and thoughts of the creepy, crawling things that might be under there with her. She pulls her phone from her pocket and presses it to her ear, huddling in the dark corner beneath the stairs.

  “Ma’am, are you still there?”

  “Yes,” she whispers. “He’s here.”

  “You don’t need to speak, ma’am. Just hang on. Help is on the way.”

  The clanging echo of footsteps rings out loud and clear around the abandoned plant. She clenches her jaw, trying to make herself as small as she can. She covers her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle her gasps as well as her tears. A sharp, high pitched keening sound, like nails on a chalkboard, ratchets through the darkness, making her jump. It sounds like the man chasing her is dragging something along one of the many pipes in the plant. A knife maybe, she thinks.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

  The man’s sing-song voice is low but echoes all around her. It sends waves of ice rolling through her veins. Somewhere in the distance, she hears the faint wail of sirens, but they seem so far away. The footsteps are heavier. Closer. Too close. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to will herself to be invisible.

  The footsteps sound like they’re right beside the staircase. She squeezes her eyes tighter and slips her phone back into the pocket of her hoodie, then clamps her hand over her mouth even harder. Her heart thunders, the sound filling her ears as her entire body vibrates with stark terror, and her bladder loosens. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, but it’s quickly swept away by her fear.

  The screeching sound stops abruptly, replaced by a sharp ping of metal. It sounds farther away as if the man has moved past her and moved deeper into the plant. The sounds of the sirens draw closer, sparking a small flicker of hope inside of her. She has to get out of there. There’s a better chance of the police finding her if she’s out in the open.

  She strains her ears, listening, pressure building up inside of her like a physical weight. But she doesn’t hear him. No footsteps. No scraping metal. Nothing. Maybe the sound of the cops scared him off? Moving as slowly and quietly as she can, she slips out from beneath the stairwell. Her eyes have adjusted somewhat to the darkness inside the plant, but when she turns to run, she slams her shin on a pipe again, harder this time, and has to bite her lip viciously to keep from crying out.

  The coppery taste of blood fills her mouth and tears leak from the corners of her eyes. Pain radiates up her entire leg. She limps along, moving as quickly as she can toward the door at the end of the corridor. Beyond it is the warbling sound of the sirens… the sound of her salvation.

  She moves faster, the thump of her footsteps loud and hollow on the concrete floor. The door is there. Just ahead of her. Tantalizingly close. She can smell the pine trees and the earthy musk of Lake Union beyond.

  Ten steps.

  Almost there. Her heart slams against her ribcage.

  Five steps.

  Hands shoot out of the darkness and seize her, pulling her backward, away from the door. Away from her salvation. Her cry, shrill and piercing, echoes around the abandoned plant, startling a group of birds who are nesting high up in the structure. They take wing in a loud flap
of feathers and screeches that reverberate ominously through the plant.

  As he pulls her, kicking and screaming, her phone falls from the pocket of her hoodie and hits the concrete. The sirens wail, drawing ever closer, and she screams at the top of her lungs as she fights and squirms in his grasp. But he drags her away, deeper into the shadows and gloom of the abandoned plant.

  A small voice echo’s softly from where her phone hit the floor.

  “Ms. Hughes, are you still there? Are you all right? Ma’am? Stella?”

  One

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  Paxton

  I slide the manila folder across my desk to Mrs. Dutton, then sit back. She snaps it up and flips it open. I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes as she studies every picture inside of it with the intensity of an art collector checking the authenticity of a Renoir. A slow smile curls her lips upward, but then, as if she realizes she shouldn’t be grinning, she clears her throat and puts on a more appropriate expression of disapproval.

  Mrs. Dutton closes the folder and leaves it in her lap, folding her hands on top of it as she sits primly. I can see she’s doing her best to put on what she thinks is an expression of disappointment… perhaps even sadness... but it looks about as natural as a chimpanzee wearing a three-piece suit.

  She pulls a tissue out of her purse and quickly dabs the non-existent tears from the corners of her eyes.

  “This is… terrible,” she says. “I cannot believe he would do this to me.”

  She wouldn’t have hired me if she didn’t already know he was cheating on her. This was all just to get the goods on ol’ Mr. Dutton so she can stick it to him in the divorce. I’m not a fool, nor do I particularly care. But I give her a smile I hope looks sympathetic and understanding.

  “People can sometimes disappoint us,” I reply. “They can hurt us deeply.”

  She launches into a screed about how terrible her husband is, how little attention he pays to her, his multiple indiscretions, and a litany of other grievances. I tune out about three words into her diatribe, but I’m working hard to make it look as if I’m still paying close attention to every word that falls out of her mouth. It’s a lot harder than you imagine.

  Brody’s told me that I need to work on being more sympathetic to our clients and helping make them feel more at ease. He calls it being a human being, but I call it being a fraud. What’s wrong with Mrs. Dutton just coming straight out and saying, her husband is banging some twenty-something college girl, she’s tired of it, and wants a slice of his one-hundred-million-dollar pie when she divorces him?

  It’s honest, and frankly, I’d have a lot more respect for her if she was just upfront about it. If all of our clients were upfront about it. I hate playing the stupid games where they pretend to be hurt by something they already knew, which I merely confirmed, and then I have to play my role as the sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

  But I suppose that’s what people need. They need somebody to dance to the tune they’ve called, and because I’ve committed myself to helping people, this is the game I have to play. Whether I like or agree with their motives and actions is immaterial. I am providing them a service. I’m helping people and making a difference in their lives. And this is what Veronica would have wanted. It would have pleased her.

  I cut a glance at the framed photo of her on our wedding day I keep on my desk and hope it still pleases her. I’m not a religious nor spiritual man. I don’t believe in Heaven, Hell, or the supernatural at all, really. But I do believe when two people are bound to one another as deeply as Veronica and I were, that person is always somehow with you. Even though she’s gone, I believe she can see me. Hear me. I believe she lives deep within my heart and always will. So I try to live my life in a way that would make her proud.

  “Mr. Arrington?”

  I look up suddenly at the sound of my name. I’d been so lost in my thoughts; I didn’t realize Mrs. Dutton had been trying to talk to me. A frown pulls the corners of her perfectly painted lips down, and a disapproving look crosses her face.

  “Were you even listening to me?” she demands.

  No. Like not at all. “Of course I was. And it’s terrible. Horrible,” I reply. “Your husband— or should I say soon-to-be-ex-husband— is just awful. I’m so sorry for what he put you through.”

  This seems to mollify her, and her frown melts away. Clearly, she only wanted somebody to validate her opinion of her husband, not to have an actual dialogue with. Her husband is horrible. He’s a serial philanderer and an all-around jerk. I’m not going to dispute that in the least. All I’m saying is that over the last few weeks I’ve gotten to know Mrs. Dutton, I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s pretty high maintenance and difficult to be around too.

  But it’s not my place to judge Mrs. Dutton, her personality, or her marriage. She hired me to do a job, and I did it. Now she’s free to do what she wants with the information I provided her. And as a thirty-something woman who is very attractive, somewhat intelligent, cultured, and will soon be wealthy in her own right, the world is, as they say, her oyster.

  “Well, let me say that you are every bit as good as they say you are,” she chirps. “And thank you for your help with this matter.”

  She gets to her feet, and I follow suit. Mrs. Dutton extends her hand, and I take it before coming around my desk to hold the door open for her. I escort the soon to be ex-Mrs. Dutton to the elevator and wish her luck as she climbs in. Only after the doors slide shut and the elevator car is in motion do I turn and let out a loud sigh.

  Brody is standing in the kitchen and lets out a loud, barking laugh. “Turning you into a functional human being seems to be going well,” he notes. “At least you waited to let that dramatic sigh out until she was out of the office this time.”

  “Being a functional human being is exhausting.”

  I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee, then quickly dress it with a bit of Splenda and some flavored creamer. We stand in silence, sipping our coffee for a few moments. It seems like we rarely have time to enjoy the quiet much anymore. In the six months since we helped catch serial killer Alvin Perry, business has exploded. And as our reputation for quality work has grown, so too has the number of people who need help.

  The majority of our clients are men and women looking for us to dig up dirt on their spouses. Proof of infidelity and the like. The occasional property theft or corporate espionage case. Every once in a while, we’ll get the real good stuff: missing persons cases. Those are the cases I take the most pride in working. To me, finding missing people is gratifying. It makes me feel like I’m actually doing some good in the world, rather than like I’m just chasing around guys with a propensity to dip their quills into other inkwells, to take their pictures.

  I mean, I guess exposing cheating spouses is doing some bit of good in the world. To me, cheating is low and despicable. It’s the action of a coward. If things aren’t going well in your relationship or marriage, have the spine and the decency to stand up and do the right thing, instead of running around behind your significant other’s back. But that’s just me, I suppose.

  “So I did the background on Bill Tunney,” Brody says, waving a manila folder at me. “Phone recs, credit card receipts, the works. It’s all in the file.”

  I nod and take another drink of my coffee. “Good work. Thanks.”

  “You know, it would be really helpful to have some more hands around here,” he says. “I’ve been taking resumes—”

  “For another investigator?”

  He nods. “Another investigator, somebody for tech, and a receptionist wouldn’t hurt,” Brody shrugs. “It’s not like we don’t have enough work to go around.”

  It has been very busy. Having some extra bodies to fill in might be nice, actually. I’m just so used to doing things on my own that I don’t think about things like delegating the workload. Which is why having Brody around— a man who specializes in taking shortcuts and the p
ath of least resistance— is probably a good thing for me. To some extent, anyway.

  “Okay, run the interviews and find us some good bodies. I want them smart and motivated,” I tell him. “And I don’t want this new tech person to be involved with the stuff I ask you to do.”

  “So, you’d rather I be the only one who goes to prison for hacking?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, pretty much,” I grin. “I’d probably feel pretty bad if somebody else did.”

  “Jerk.”

  I laugh. “You know my circle of trust is small.”

  “Smaller than the eye of a needle.”

  “Right,” I nod. “That’s why I’d rather all sensitive stuff go to you.”

  “And that’s also because I’m the best.”

  “Yeah, if that helps you sleep better at night. Sure.”

  “You’re really on a roll today,” he fires back. “But I take your point. It’s a deal.”

  “Good,” I reply. “Then get us a staff.”

  He snaps me a salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  He hands me the folder, and I look at it for a moment, already knowing the story without even opening it up. Tunney is another serial adulterer, which means I’ll be spending my night trying to get pictures of him in a delicate position. Yet again. Thankfully though, Brody makes my job easier by using his computer skills to ferret out the personal information, giving me a snapshot of the target’s habits and usual haunts. It’s not the most legal thing in the world, but Brody’s good at what he does and knows how to cover his digital tracks.