I See You (Arrington Mystery Book 1) 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

  Epilogue

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  Prologue

  Paxton

  Seattle Police HQ; Downtown Seattle

  “Over your nine years with Seattle PD, you have put together quite a record, Detective Arrington.”

  “I was always told that when I put my mind to something, I tend to excel,” I reply with a casual shrug.

  “That was not meant as a compliment,” he growls.

  “And that was sarcasm,” I fire back, and then belatedly add, “Deputy Chief Torres.”

  I’m sitting in a boardroom on the eighth floor of Seattle PD Headquarters, otherwise known as the Ice Palace, overlooking downtown. I’m here for yet another reprimand. This time, though, is more of a dog and pony show than I’m used to. They rolled out all the brass for this one: Deputy Chief Torres, Captain Deanna Lewis, Lieutenant Anthony Washington, and my watch commander, Sergeant Terri Welsh, all sit across the table from me, stony faced and silent. It’s a superfluous show of force meant to intimidate me with their dour, disapproving glares. They’re there to reinforce the gravity of what I’ve done.

  It’s cute that they think trotting me out in front of the department heavyweights is enough to rattle me. I know I was in the right, and that’s good enough for me. But for paper pushers like these clowns— people who haven’t been on the streets in as many years as I’ve been alive— it’s all about perception and politics.

  Torres motions to a younger woman in the corner of the room. She picks up a remote and punches a button, then sets it back down on the table as she turns back to her stenograph. Apparently, bureaucracy demands both an oral and a written account of this utterly ridiculous sideshow.

  “All right, we are on the record now,” Torres begins. “Detective Arrington, you are reminded once again that you are permitted to have outside counsel or your union rep here to advocate on your behalf.”

  “Noted and waived,” I say. “Let’s get on with this.”

  “Very well. Detective Arrington, you are before us today because you struck your superior officer, one Detective Sergeant Matthew Schreiber,” Torres says. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I fold my hands together on the table before me and lean forward so the mic can pick my voice up easier.

  “First of all, I wouldn’t call Detective Sergeant Schreiber ‘superior’ in any sense of the word.”

  Although I see Sergeant Welsh stifle a chuckle, the temperature in the boardroom feels like it just dropped ten degrees. I already see how this is going to go, so I don’t really care about making the proper and appropriate impression. This is nothing more than them crossing their T’s and dotting their I’s as bureaucracy demands. Might as well get my licks in while I can. If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging.

  “Do you think this is all a joke, Detective?” Torres seethes.

  “Actually, I do,” I reply. “I think it’s a joke that I’m being hauled in here before you all and Schreiber gets a pat on the back for what he did.”

  “You were the one who struck D.S. Schreiber, Detective Arrington,” Captain Lewis reminds me.

  “True. But I would not have needed to do so had he not escalated the situation to that point,” I counter.

  “A situation of your own creation, Detective,” Torres interrupts. “After all, Detective Schreiber would not have confronted you if you had not disobeyed a direct order—”

  “A ridiculously stupid order.”

  “Yours is not to question the orders of your superior—”

  “Even when I know they’re wrong?”

  “That is not for you to say, Detective Arrington.”

  I lean back in my chair and let out a breath. The air in the boardroom is crackling with a taut, angry tension. Torres, Washington, and Lewis all glare at me like they want nothing more than to come across the table and beat me bloody. The only friendly face in the room is Welsh, and she already told me there was nothing she could do to help.

  I don’t blame her. In her spot, I wouldn’t want to get ground up in the gears of police politics either. There’s no use in her throwing her own career into the meat grinder to save me. Not when this hearing is nothing more than a farce anyway.

  “If I had followed D.S. Schreiber’s order to remain at the tape line and continue canvassing witnesses, a triple murderer named Adam Barnes would have gotten away,” I say. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but are we not in the business of putting men like that behind bars?”

  “You can’t know for certain that Barnes would have gotten away,” Washington counters.

  I arch my eyebrow at him. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, you and I both know that D.S. Schreiber is not exactly a— physical specimen,” I say. “Barnes is younger and far more athletic. There is no doubt he would have gotten away had I not acted.”

  “You know, you're continuing to insult D.S. Schreiber is not helping your case,” Captain Lewis interjects.

  “I am not insulting him, I am merely stating a fact,” I respond. “Detective Sergeant Schreiber is in his fifties, he’s a smoker, a heavy drinker, and he is at least fifty pounds overweight—”

  “Enough, Detective,” Torres snaps. “D.S. Schreiber’s physical fitness is not in question here today—”

  “Perhaps it should be,” I comment. “Or perhaps about the physical fitness requirements of the SPD as a whole.”

  “It is your attitude, Detective,” Torres says. “An attitude that has seen you written up nearly a dozen times and suspended once in your career. If not for the intervention of Commissioner Gray, you would have never gotten your shield. I certainly never would have given it to a malcontent like you.”

  “Sorry, was that a question?” I ask.

  Torres’ typical pettiness shines through once more. He just had to get it on the record that former Chief Gray promoted me, likely with the hope that my fall from grace will somehow tarnish the reputation of Gray, who is now the Commissioner.

  Conventional wisdom says I should keep my mouth shut, listen to what they have to say, then tell them what they want to hear. I’ve never been good about adhering to the conventional wisdom though. Plus, they’re just plain wrong. The truth is, I’ve grown tired of the bureaucratic bull and the politics of the job. I joined the police department because I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help people.

  But the bloom has definitely been off that particular rose fo
r quite a while now. And frankly, at the moment, I don’t care whether or not they suspend or fire me. I think I’m pretty well done here. I mean, it’s not like I need the job or anything. I’ve got money. This has always been more of a hobby or passion project for me. The desire to help people and be a positive force for change was instilled into me by my late wife. That’s why I joined up in the first place. And if they won’t let me be a positive force for change in this world, what’s the point of being a cop at all?

  “Detective Arrington, do you know what your problem is?” Torres growls.

  “Constantly being surrounded by imbeciles like Detective Sergeant Schreiber?”

  Torres clenches his jaw and exchanges glances with the others, and his expression darkens as he glares at me. If looks could kill, I would be dead ten times over already.

  “It’s that. Right there,” Torres says through gritted teeth. “That attitude. You always think you’re the smartest man in the room.”

  “In almost every case, that has turned out to be true,” I egg him on. “No more true than as it relates to D.S. Schreiber.”

  “Gentlemen, we are getting far afield here, and this is proving counterproductive,” Captain Lewis says. “Detective Arrington, as it relates to the incident with D.S. Schreiber, if you would please tell us your story in your own words.”

  I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the headache that’s coming on. Raising my head, I look at each of the people seated across from me in turn, hoping I’m conveying the proper level of contempt I’m feeling for these proceedings with my eyes.

  “As I stated in my report, I arrived on the scene of a homicide in the Morris building. Detective Sergeant Schreiber ordered me to secure the police line, assist with crowd control, and interview potential witnesses, which I did,” I tell them. “As they worked the crime scene inside, I noticed a man behaving suspiciously. I contacted D.S. Schreiber and asked if he wanted me to detain the man. He said no.”

  “Because at the time, you had no reason to suspect Mr. Barnes of anything, isn’t that correct, Detective Arrington?” Washington adds. “Nothing but your gut.”

  The corner of my mouth curls upward. “Half of police work is based on your gut, Lieutenant,” I say. “You might recall that if you ever stepped out of your ivory tower.”

  Washington’s face twists into a mask of outrage, but Torres puts a hand on his arm, defusing the man’s anger. Sort of. Torres turns to me with an expression of utter contempt on his face.

  “Go on, Detective,” he snaps.

  “The man was wearing a hat and jacket, but underneath he matched the exact description from the 9-1-1 call of the suspect. Specifically, I noticed a tattoo on his right wrist that he had missed covering up with the sleeve of his jacket. As I approached to question him, he tried to disappear into the crowd, but I tailed him,” I go on. “I was able to move through the crowd and detain the suspect before he broke through.”

  “So you left your assigned station and took it upon yourself to detain who you merely thought was Mr. Barnes,” Washington presses. “The crowd rushed the building and nearly compromised the investigation because you abandoned your post.”

  “I did. But I would do it again. I had a strong suspicion that this man was Mr. Barnes, and I feared he would kill again. It turns out I was right. He was Adam Barnes, who had committed the three homicides in the Morris building.”

  “And when D.S. Schreiber confronted you—”

  “You mean when D.S. Schreiber verbally accosted me,” I correct him. “And put his hands on me first.”

  “Detective Schreiber admits that he poked you in the chest with his index finger,” Lewis jumps in.

  “That is incorrect. After spewing a litany of curses on me and insulting every member of my family,” I say, “he gave me a two-handed shove in the chest.”

  “That’s not what he says,” Torres spits.

  “Then he’s a liar.”

  “Nobody can corroborate your account,” Lewis says.

  “Not surprising,” I say.

  “So let’s just assume that you’re right. That Schreiber is lying,” Torres goes on.

  “I’m right. He is lying,” I fire back. “Don’t forget that I have hyperthymesia. I don’t forget things.”

  Torres’ face darkens. “Even if he did shove you, do you actually consider delivering two punches to the face to be an equal and appropriate response?”

  “Yes. If you put your hands on another man, you should expect a response. If you don’t, you are not very bright,” I say flatly. “Which brings me back to one of my original complaints about D.S. Schreiber.”

  “I think we’ve heard enough,” Torres says.

  “Of course you have,” I reply. “But let’s not pretend the result of this exercise wasn’t predetermined anyway.”

  Silence descends over the room, and nobody will meet my eyes— except for Torres, who’s staring at me with eyes that are gleaming like a kid on Christmas morning. But of course he is. He’s been on my back from the jump because he doesn’t think somebody like me, who comes from my background, should be allowed to join the force or something. It seems ridiculous that a Deputy Chief had singled me out from the very start, when I was riding in a patrol car, and has harassed and tormented me for the entirety of my career. But he did. Ever since we crossed paths when I was at the academy, and he figured out who I am— or rather, who my family is— he’s had a hard-on for me.

  “Detective Arrington, over your time with the SPD, you have developed a track record of defying authority and insubordination,” he intones. “And now, you’ve struck a superior officer. We have no choice but to terminate you effective immediately. And I intend to have you stripped of any pension benefits you have accrued.”

  “Your intelligence could have made you a first-rate detective, Pax,” Captain Lewis says. “But your arrogance and that inherent belief you have that you’re better than anybody else proved to be your undoing. It’s a shame.”

  A grin curls my lips upward. “In the spirit of all this honesty, let me just say that the constant backstabbing politics within this department, particularly among those of you at the top of the hierarchy, is costing people their lives,” I tell them. “It makes you sloppy, unfocused, and largely ineffective as a police force. And that is to the detriment of every citizen of this city. That you choose to focus on me punching Schreiber rather than the fact that we got a killer off the streets is proof of that. That you coddle those who suck up to you in just the right way, rather than the cops who bust their backs and put in the work, those who are good police, is more proof.”

  “Are you done?” Torres glowers.

  “Yeah, I think that about covers it,” I say as I get to my feet.

  I take the badge and gun off my belt and toss them onto the table, where they land with a hard thud. I would have thought I’d feel something about losing my badge and the career I’ve had for the last decade, but the truth is, the only thing I feel is relief. Which should tell me everything I need to know.

  “All right everybody,” I shrug. “It’s been fun.”

  I turn and walk out of the room, then out of police HQ for the last time, my head held high and feeling pretty good about myself.

  Arrington Residence; Laurelhurst, WA

  “It’s for the best, darling,” my mother Jessica says. “And now that you have that out of your system, you are free to take your rightful place at the head of the company. Where you should have been all along.”

  “Agreed,” adds my brother George after a brief hesitation. “It’s good to have you back, Pax.”

  And just like that, all of the good feelings I had walking out of HQ disappear like a puff of smoke on the breeze. I have no idea why I came to my family home after being fired. I don’t even think it was a conscious decision. I just got in my car and ended up here rather than going home or somewhere else. I really wish now that I hadn’t been on autopilot.

  We’re sitting on the
back deck having lunch. Well, George and I are eating. My mom is sipping on what is probably her third martini of the day. The afternoon sky is littered with gray clouds that are growing darker with the whispered promise of rain on the breeze. But for now, the day is relatively warm.

  “I’m not back,” I tell them. “Just because I’m not working for SPD anymore, doesn’t mean I’m thinking about coming back to Archton, or that I don’t already have other ideas about what I want to do.”

  George looks at me curiously. “You already have something else going on?”

  “Dear, your father will be so disappointed,” my mother frowns. “You know how much he wants you to come work for the family company.”

  “He’ll get over it. As he has for the last decade,” I tell her. “George will be great in the role. He’s got a real passion for it. I don’t.”

  There’s been a wall of ice between me and my father ever since I decided to forgo working for the family’s media company in favor of becoming a cop. He said he didn’t understand it, and couldn’t respect it, which helped open the rift between us. My brother wants the top spot though. He’s always coveted it, ever since we were kids. When I told him I was going to be a cop instead, he’d been thrilled with my decision, knowing it cleared the field for him to take over at the top of the Archton Media food chain when my father finally steps down.

  Now that I’m not a detective anymore, I know my brother is nervous that I’m going to change my mind about working at Archton. He’s been learning the ropes under our father, but he’s very clearly the second choice. If I told my father I was coming to work for Archton, I have no doubt that he would push George into some meaningless role with a fancy-yet-serious-sounding title with no real responsibilities. And George knows it too.