Woman in the Water (Arrington Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Brody turns to me with an inscrutable expression on his face. “She’s right. From what I’ve found, you have to be a member to access the site.”

  “Did Mrs. MacMillan have her login information on her computer?” Marcy asks.

  He nods. “She did, surprisingly. But they’ve already deactivated her account. Her login information is useless.”

  “That was fast,” I note.

  He nods. “They must keep close tabs on their members.”

  “And how do you become a member?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” he muses.

  Marcy is staring at her phone and then suddenly looks up at us with a smile on her face. Clearly, she’s been doing some digging on her own.

  “Let me guess, you have the answer to the question,” I say.

  She shrugs. “No offense, boys, but you wouldn’t know where to look for this stuff if it whipped you with a riding crop,” she chirps. “So I sent out some feelers, and one of them just got back to me.”

  I chuckle. “So, what is your feeler saying?”

  A small frown touches her lips. “That’s the trick. You have to know a member and be invited to join. It’s apparently how they keep themselves so discriminating.”

  “Well that’s great,” Brody says. “How are we going to get an invite to some secret sex society?”

  “I don’t suppose your contacts could wrangle that?” I ask Marcy.

  She shakes her head. “My contacts, unfortunately, aren’t in the right tax bracket. They were merely entertainment at a few of these parties.”

  “Your contacts are strippers and hookers?” Brody asks.

  “Something like that,” she replies. “You often find you get the most valuable information from the working class.”

  “Working class,” Brody chuckles. “That’s one way to put it.”

  She shrugs and gives him a look that could melt ice. “They work hard. Have to put up with some of the worst in humanity. I mean, I’ve heard stories that would turn your stomach. I’m certainly not going to look down on them just because their skills differ from mine. You shouldn’t be such an elitist snob.”

  Brody grins abashedly and apologizes as I sit back in my chair, letting my mind work the problem. Access is the problem. It’s one I’ve never encountered before, to be honest. My name and money can usually grant me access anywhere I want to go. But this is something entirely different.

  As I sit there listening to Brody and Marcy banter back and forth, the answer hits me in the face. I sit up in my seat and lean forward.

  “He’s got that look,” Brody says.

  “What look is that?” Marcy asks.

  “That ‘I’ve just figured it out, and I’m so much better than you because I did’ face,” he replies.

  “I thought that was just how he normally looked.”

  “Sort of like ‘resting superiority face,’” Brody quips.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  I roll my eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

  Brody’s grinning at me. “So, what did you figure out?”

  “How I’m going to get an invite to this club.”

  “So? Spill,” he says.

  I give them both a wide smile. “If you’re going to do something shady, it pays to know the shadiest people.”

  Marcy’s smile matches mine, and she nods, obviously catching onto where I’m going with this.

  “That’s pretty much my motto,” she says.

  Brody’s looking back and forth between us. “What am I missing here?”

  Twenty

  The Nine Social Club; Belltown District, Downtown Seattle

  “Welcome back, Mr. Arrington,” a brunette hostess greets me warmly. “It’s a pleasure to see you this evening. What can I assist you with?”

  “I’m actually just looking for Mr. Falucci. Thank you, I’ll be fine.”

  She inclines her head and bustles off to attend to the other guests. The Nine is a different animal after dark. There’s more of a crowd, the buzz of conversation is louder, and there’s a thick haze of smoke hovering near the ceiling as the members puff on cigars, cigarettes, and pipes. Or in the case of the small group in the corner, some very pungent pot.

  I don’t see Falucci in the main room, so I walk through the arched doorway into one of the rooms to the right. I hear the sound of chips clinking together before I see a dozen tables set up in the room, a full poker gambling operation in full swing. I spot Falucci sitting alone at a table in the corner, so I make my way over and drop down into the empty seat next to him. He looks over and groans when he sees me.

  “You looked like you needed a playmate,” I start.

  “I don’t play well with others,” he replies.

  “Really? And you hide it so well.”

  “I truly must have been wicked in a previous life to have the fates inflict you upon me again,” he sighs.

  I shrug. “Word on the street is you’ve been plenty wicked in this life for that.”

  “You’re like herpes. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get rid of you, and you seem to pop up at the most inopportune times.”

  “Sorry to hear about your medical condition. You should see a doctor about that. I hear they’ve made tremendous advances in the treatment of STDs,” I say.

  The dealer, a tall willowy blonde, suppresses a laugh as he sighs and shakes a cigarette out of the pack in front of him, then lights it. I pull several hundred dollar bills out of my wallet and change it for chips, stacking them neatly in front of me. I give the dealer a nod and toss a fifty-dollar chip into the pot for my ante.

  “Very good, sir,” she says. “Lovely to have you with us this evening.”

  “Speak for yourself, Tricia,” Falucci nods.

  A waitress comes by and drops off a bourbon, neat, for me. They obviously have my preferences listed in their computer system. I have to say, eccentricities aside, the customer service here is top-notch.

  “The game is Blackjack,” Tricia announces.

  She deals our hole cards to us, and I lift the corner, seeing the ten of spades. I toss a hundred into the pot. Falucci looks over with a suspicious look. He matches me and then raises me a hundred.

  “Call,” I say.

  Tricia throws down our second cards, and I turn it up to see the queen of clubs. I toss in another hundred-dollar chip. Falucci matches me and raises another hundred.

  “Call,” I say again.

  Tricia flips her cards over. She’s got fifteen and has to hit. She draws the king of hearts.

  “Dealer busts,” she announces.

  I flip my cards over, showing that I’ve got twenty. Falucci frowns as he flips his cards over, showing nineteen.

  “Winner,” Tricia says and pushes the chips over to me.

  We play for almost an hour. I win more than I lose, and I’m up by a thousand. By the end of it, Falucci’s frustrated, his expression darkened. He drains the last of his drink and nods to Tricia, tossing her his last fifty-dollar chip.

  “Thank you, Tricia,” he says. “It’s been an… expensive evening.”

  She gives him a smile and a nod as he stands. I collect my stack of chips but push a hundred-dollar piece over to her.

  “Thank you, Tricia.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she replies. “I hope to see you again soon.”

  I give her a smile and set off after Falucci. He looks over his shoulder and sees me following, a look of sheer annoyance on his face.

  “You really need to stop following me. I don’t know what you want with me, but I can assure you, there is nothing I want from you,” he says.

  I say nothing and just keep following him. And when he sits down at a table in the corner of the main room, I sit down across from him. A waitress is there in a moment, a smile on her face.

  “Bourbon neat for me,” I tell her. “Old fashioned for him.”

  “Very good,” she says and bustles off.

  He arches an eyebrow at me as if surpri
sed I remembered what he was drinking the last time we met.

  “I’m in the business of noticing things,” I explain.

  “Clearly.”

  We sit in stony silence for a few minutes, staring at one another. The waitress drops off our drinks and walks away, leaving us sitting there like a pair of statues. I finally lean forward and pick up my drink and hold it up. Falucci sighs heavily and finally relents, picking up his own drink and raises it to me.

  “What shall we drink to?” I ask.

  “To short visits with people whom we’ll never actually be friends with,” he offers.

  I shrug. “That works for me.”

  We both take a sip of our drinks, and he sits back in his chair.

  “How’d you know I’d be here?” he asks.

  “From what I hear, you’re always here. I just took a chance.”

  “Clearly, I’ll need to change my social calendar if it means avoiding unexpected drop-ins from you.”

  “If I get what I need, I can promise you that I’m pretty sure this will be my last unexpected drop-in,” I tell him honestly. “I’ll make sure to book an appointment next time.”

  “And what is it you need, Mr. Arrington?”

  “Help.”

  “Help? And what can I possibly help you with?”

  I take a sip of my bourbon. “I need access to a certain place, and I think you might be able to help me.”

  “Surely, with your money, influence, and newfound fame, you can obtain access anywhere you wish,” he says.

  “You’d think so,” I reply. “But no, this is more of a specialized place I’m looking to get into. More important than even the money and fame is the connection. There is a very small circle in the know, and all members must be invited by someone in the know. So that’s where you come in. My connection.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me and considers me for a moment. I get the idea he knows exactly what I’m driving at. But Falucci isn’t the sort who gives anything voluntarily. It’s like pulling teeth with this guy.

  “And what is it that makes you think I can grant you access to this very exclusive club you are seeking to enter?” he asks.

  A wry grin curls the corner of my mouth upward. “I dunno. It just seemed like your kind of wheelhouse.”

  He chuckles then takes another sip of his drink. “I gather you are looking for an invitation to the Velvet Playground.”

  “You’re more intuitive than you let on.”

  He shrugs. “I happen to know all of the very exclusive and… discriminating… clubs in Seattle. And there are very few that require an invitation from a member.”

  “So, can you help me?” I ask.

  “May I ask why you require an invitation to the Velvet Playground?”

  I don’t want to give him too much, but I also know that I have to give him something. If I don’t, he’s going to say no. And without him, I have no idea how I’m going to get into the club. I honestly don’t know if the answers I’m looking for are there, but Charlotte took such pains to hide this part of her life; there has to be something there.

  “To be honest, it’s important to my investigation.”

  He arches an eyebrow again. “And do you believe that Mrs. MacMillan’s killer is a member of this club?”

  “I really don’t know at this point, but it is very possible,” I reply honestly. “She was leading a secret life, and I’d like to know why. I’d like to know what she was hiding. After all, you were very right when you told me to not believe all of the virtues heaped on her. My investigation has uncovered some… interesting things about her. She wasn’t exactly who she portrayed herself to be.”

  A smug, satisfied smile touches his lips. “This is ordinarily where I would tell you that I told you so, but I’ll refrain from gloating. It’s so unseemly.”

  “I appreciate your restraint,” I reply.

  He drains the last of his drink and signals the waitress for another round. She’s there in moments, replacing our empty glasses with fresh ones. I take the opportunity to look around the room and, unsurprisingly, see some familiar faces among the crowd. If any of them recognize me, they’re good enough not to show it. The waitress departs, and I turn back to Falucci.

  “So, can you help me out with this, Mr. Falucci?”

  He sighs, then purses his lips as he looks at me. “The dilemma I face is that if I sponsor your membership, and then you go and stir up trouble for the clients, I am the one who will face the blowback for that. Not you.”

  “There isn’t going to be any blowback,” I assure him. “I’m not going in looking for trouble. I just need to take a look around and to ask a few questions.”

  “Famous last words. One never goes in looking for trouble. Yet some seem to be a magnet for trouble, nonetheless. I believe you are that sort of person,” he counters.

  I chuckle through a sip of my drink. I place my glass down very deliberately and then look straight in his eyes. “Tell me something,” I say. “Did you ever run across Mrs. MacMillan at the club?”

  He shrugs. “Only in passing. We did not ever socialize,” he says. “And no, before you ask, I never paid attention to who she was with or what she was doing. Half the time, I never saw her at all, to be perfectly frank. It was not my business and given the… contentious… nature of our professional dealings, we preferred to stay out of one another’s way.”

  It would have been a lot easier if he’d seen her with somebody specific, but life is rarely ever that easy. Especially my life, it seems. Yeah, I know. Let me just get some cheese for that whine. But, I can understand Falucci keeping his head down and avoiding Mrs. MacMillan when he could. I know I’ve been selectively blind in certain social settings where somebody I wanted to avoid was in attendance. But still, it would have been nice.

  “Mr. Falucci, it’s imperative I get into the club,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Why would I care if her killer is ever found or brought to justice?” he asks. “It’s not like we were friends. We barely qualify as acquaintances.”

  I give him a small grin. “Because you make yourself out to be a cad, Mr. Falucci. You make yourself out to be a scoundrel. But deep down, I know you’re a better man than you portray,” I say. “Just like Mrs. MacMillan, you present a face to the world that isn’t quite your real face. Your reasons may be different, but the end result is the same. And I am certain you are not nearly the bad man you claim to be.”

  He leans back in his chair, an intrigued expression on his face. I take it as a signal to continue.

  “You say you don’t care if Mrs. MacMillan’s killer is brought to justice, but I think that’s a lie. You may not have liked her, but I think even you want to see such a barbaric act punished. You do have a sense of morality and believe in doing what’s right— most of the time, anyway. And I don’t think that even you, as cynical as you are, believe that letting a killer walk free is right. Regardless of who they killed.”

  Falucci replies with a heartened, exaggerated clap of his hands. “That’s a wonderful speech. Bravo, lad. How long have you been practicing that in front of a mirror?”

  My smile widens. “And your deflection just tells me I’m right.”

  He scoffs. “I don’t know where you would have gotten such a preposterous idea. I may have a bit of a moral compass left, but that doesn’t mean I give one whit about somebody I did not like.”

  I shrug. “As I said, I’m in the business of noticing things,” I tell him. “And I’m very good at reading people.”

  He drains his drink and signals for another. As we wait for his refill, we eye each other carefully. I know what I said got through to him on some level. He may well be involved in some shady things— in fact, that’s a certainty— but I do believe the man possesses the human decency, so many others lack. He’s a walking contradiction, to say the least. But then, aren’t we all?

  Like Falucci, most of us are good— and bad. Even if we do the right thing ninety-nine percent of the time, we have th
e capability of doing something monstrous with that other one percent. And I believe the opposite as well: even if someone is ninety-nine percent cruel and corrupt, there is always a glimmer of goodness in them.

  He eyes me evenly over the rim of his fresh drink. “No blowback?”

  “You have my word.”

  He guffaws. “If I had a nickel for every time somebody gave me their word, then promptly broke it, I could buy my own island and do away with this city.”

  “Nah. I think you love it here. I also think you love doing the things you do and being who you are. You’d never get that sort of a thrill out on some deserted island.”

  His grin is wide and open. “Perhaps you do know a bit about me after all, Mr. Arrington. Perhaps you do.”

  Twenty-One

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  “Say what?” Marcy gapes at me. “How much?”

  “Ten grand,” I reply.

  The look of shocked horror on Marcy’s face is almost comical. The day after my meeting with Falucci, we gather together in the Fishbowl again to go over everything and lay out our course of action. My membership credentials arrived after I’d paid my fee to join, which I did last night.

  “Don’t worry,” Brody says. “He probably found it between his couch cushions.”

  “Says the guy who used to blow more than that in one night at the strip club.”

  If Marcy’s mouth opens any wider, it’ll be dragging on the ground. Brody though looks absolutely mortified. He turns to her, holding his hands up.

  “That only happened once. It was my birthday party—”

  “Two years ago,” I clarify, just to torment him further.

  Marcy slaps him on the arm. “Ten thousand dollars? On strippers? You’re such an idiot. Who drops ten grand on a stripper? A high-end call girl would have been cheaper, and she could have taken care of what you ended up going home alone to take care of anyway.”

  Now it’s our turn to gape at her. That was not the way I expected that conversation to go, and judging by the look of shock on his face, Brody’s thinking the same thing I am. Marcy just sits there with a smug, Cheshire Cat grin on her face. Her words hang in the air for just a moment, but then we all burst into laughter.