Woman in the Water (Arrington Mystery Book 3) Page 19

  It raises yet more questions as to what truly goes on down here. I haven’t seen anything illegal just yet— sure, I wouldn’t exactly call this a family-friendly vacation destination, but everything I’ve witnessed has been conducted with consent, as far as I can tell.

  So why the bodyguards? The man takes a booth off the side, and the waitress arrives a moment later. His men take up flanking positions on either side of the booth, folding their hands in front of them. I wait until the waitress drops off his drink before I make my approach. As I close to within ten feet of the man’s booth, his bodyguards close ranks, their bodies tense, their eyes glittering with malevolence behind their masks.

  The man leans out around them and catches sight of me, a devious grin stretching his lips.

  “It’s okay. Let him pass, boys,” he says.

  They linger where they are a moment longer, still staring at me. They’re both a few inches shorter than me, but I have little doubt both of them could bench press a Cadillac. I slide into the booth, sitting across from the man. He’s dressed in a blue silk tunic, his red velvet doublet hanging open casually, a blue sash around his waist, and his mask in place.

  He’s not as large as he seemed in the photos, but he still seems like a man who knows how to take care of himself. He’s got broad, sloping shoulders and is thick through the chest. The scars on his knuckles show me he’s no stranger to a fight, making me wonder again why he needs bodyguards in the first place.

  “A man my age learns to hire others to do his fighting for him. If he’s wise and of the means, of course,” he says, obviously noticing me looking at his knuckles.

  “Of course,” I nod.

  “Did you enjoy the show?”

  I shrug. “Overall, I’d give it a solid seven. You had good form, but your dismount could use some work.”

  He smirks at me from behind his mask. I hear a low rumble that reminds me of thunder rolling in off the Sound. It takes me a moment to realize it’s his bodyguards chuckling.

  “You’re new here,” he notes.

  “I’m getting that a lot tonight.”

  “What brings you to the Playground?”

  “Isn’t this where we let go of our inhibitions and let our true inner selves run wild and free?”

  “That’s what the brochure says,” he replies, in a thick accent that screams pure New York to me.

  “You’re not from around here,” I observe. “Not originally.”

  “Been my home for the last three decades. I think that makes me from around here.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  He scoffs. “You’re new and all, so I’ll go easy on you. But you already know we don’t use names here.”

  I quickly clock his ring finger and don’t see so much as a tan line, telling me he’s not married.

  “So, what should I call you?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t matter to me. No offense, but I don’t see our relationship extendin’ much farther than this conversation. I’m not really into guys.”

  “No offense taken.”

  “So what can I do for you? You obviously had a reason to come all the way over here to talk to me.”

  “I was just over by the bar. It’s not that long of a walk,” I shrug.

  He chuckles and takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. He’s watchful. Careful. Perhaps even a touch paranoid. Knowing I need to be delicate to avoid causing a scene that will blow back on Falucci, I try to pick my words carefully.

  “Actually, I was sort of wondering about your relationship with Charlotte MacMillan.”

  His eyes widen behind his mask. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but not even his mask could hide his reaction. He quickly composes himself, but I can practically feel him growing frostier toward me by the second. He takes another sip of his drink to cover his reaction, but it’s too late, and I think he knows that.

  “Ain’t got any idea who you’re talkin’ about,” he tries weakly.

  “I know you do,” I tell him. “Was she just one of your flings here at the club?”

  “Yeah, me and like ten other guys,” he spits, not bothering to refute me.

  His posture grows even more rigid, and when he speaks, I can’t help but hear a pang of jealousy and maybe even pain in his voice.

  “So she was a frequent flier here,” I note.

  “You sure do ask a lot of questions. You a cop?”

  “No, I’m not a cop.”

  “Reporter?”

  “Definitely not,” I say.

  “Then what’s with the questions? Who the hell are you?”

  “Somebody who’s upset about her murder,” I tell him.

  His face darkens, and this time, he doesn’t even try to hide it. His eyes shift though, and he looks at me as a realization dawns on him.

  “You think I did it. Is that it? You think I killed her?” he growls, his voice growing more heated.

  “I’m not saying that. I’m just asking questions.”

  “Yeah, well maybe you shouldn’t be doin’ that. Maybe you should just let sleepin’ dogs lie.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I should,” I say. “But do you know the names of the other men she was seeing?”

  “Ain’t got a clue. And this here is over,” he snaps. “If you ain’t a cop, I don’t have to tell you nothin’.”

  “No, you don’t. But I got the impression that you cared for her—”

  “Don’t know where you’re gettin’ your ideas, but this conversation is over. You got me? I don’t gotta sit here and listen to you run your trap. Now get outta my booth and leave me the hell alone. Now.”

  “You getting this upset tells me you did care for her. A great deal, it seems—”

  “Boys, escort this man to his car. He’s done here this evenin’.”

  The two walking beef slabs turn and stare hard at me, the threat in their eyes crystal clear: get to my feet and leave with them or have them haul me out of here by my doublet. I turn back to the man and narrow my eyes at him.

  “You know, if you actually cared about her, you’d help me,” I say.

  A large hand falls on my shoulder and grips me hard. As his fingers press into my skin, I reach out and grab hold of the bodyguard’s wrist, giving it an awkward twist. He lets out a grunt and nearly falls to his knees. He manages to keep himself standing, but he’s wearing a grimace of pain. Still holding onto his wrist, keeping the pressure on it, I get out of the booth, my eyes still fixed on the man at the table.

  “Do the right thing and talk to me,” I say.

  “I got nothin’ to say to you, or to anybody.”

  “So you’re just going to let her killer walk free then? That’s the way you honor somebody you supposedly cared about?”

  He leans forward across the table. “As I said, I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

  I start at him for a long moment, then chuff in disgust as I let go of the guard’s wrist and step back, letting him see my contempt for him. The bigger man takes a step back, rubbing his wrist as the man at the table looks back at me with an expression much like mine. One way or another, I need to find out who this man is. I’m convinced he knows something and is simply not telling me.

  I give him a sneer. “I’ll see you around.”

  I walk through the lounge and make my way to the elevators that will take me back down to the garage. So much for preventing blowback.

  Twenty-Five

  I take one last look back at the table where the man and his goons are. They’re still leering at me from a distance. I’m not going to get anything out of this mystery man until I find out who he is. Which means I’m likely going to have to go back to Falucci. That’s not going to make him very happy. But what else can I do?

  I suddenly feel very irritated for having come all this way, having to see all of this, and ending up empty-handed. Yet again.

  And that’s when it hits me. I slip the device Rachel had given me when I first arrived out of the pouch on
my waist and press the button. A couple of moments later, she arrives, with an impish grin on her face.

  “Enjoying yourself, sir?” she asks.

  “Well enough,” I tell her. “But I’ll tell you what… is there someplace more private that we can talk?”

  Her smile turns slow but sensual. “Follow me, please.”

  I follow her down a short corridor to a door that she uses her own keycard to access. She opens the door and closes it after me. I was expecting something more seductive, but I find myself in an ordinary office, though it too is done in the same black and purple motif as the rest of the club.

  A desk stands in the middle of the room, with a plush office chair behind it. A wall of monitors sits to my left, showing the various angles of the interior of the club and the garage, just as I thought. To my right are filing cabinets and a sofa. A vase of bright, tall sunflowers stands on a low table next to the sofa, and a radio sits on top of the filing cabinets playing some top-forty hit, rather than the grinding, moaning soundtrack playing outside.

  “Sorry to break the fourth wall, so to speak,” she says, her voice suddenly normal, rather than throaty and sultry.

  I look at her, confused for a moment and unsure what to say. She takes off her mask, and I see that she’s a bit older than I first thought. I’d put her closer to her thirties now, though she’s got a very youthful face and a mischievous glint in her eye that makes her seem far younger.

  “I know who you are,” she says. “And I know this isn’t your kind of place. You seem very… uncomfortable here.”

  “How could you know who I am?”

  “I’m the manager. I have access to all membership files. Which is why I was intrigued when I saw your name pop up on our list,” she explains. “What I don’t know is why you’re here.”

  I give her a sly grin. “How do you know I wasn’t looking to make my fantasy a reality with you?”

  She arches an eyebrow and toys with the zipper on the front of her catsuit. “Are you? Because if you are, we might be able to work something out.”

  And this is what happens when you try to take control of a situation back by saying something outlandish. When you get called on your bluff… and end up looking like an even bigger fool. It’s a lesson you’d think I’d have learned long before now. Rachel bursts into laughter, going on like it’s the funniest thing ever. Slowly, her laughter fades, and she gets herself back under control again.

  “Relax, I’m messing with you,” she says.

  I give her a smile and shake my head. She’s smart, she’s bold, and she’s insightful. She can read people and size them up quickly, it seems. While men are busy salivating over her curves, she’s busy finding their weak points and devising ways to exploit them. I really like this woman.

  “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Arrington?”

  “I’m not sure if I should be flattered that you know who I am or assume that you’re a stalker,” I say.

  “You can probably be flattered and assume I’m a stalker. You’re the reason I went back to school,” she says. “I read a bio piece about you a few months back. This might sound melodramatic, but it kind of changed my life.”

  I laugh softly. I remember the piece she’s talking about. It’s not an interview I gave. In fact, I turned the reporter down half a dozen times before she went ahead and decided to write it anyway. Even without my input. It was a decent piece, and she treated me fairly, though I have to say that she did get some facts wrong. Probably because I refused to sit for it.

  “I was at a really low point in my life and was thinking this place was the best I was ever going to do. But after reading about what you went through and what you’re doing now, I felt inspired,” she tells me. “I mean, I can’t say that I ever endured something as tragic as you, but I was sitting there whining about my life anyway. That article was kind of the kick in the butt I needed. I’ve started taking criminology and psychology classes— or at least, I am when I can afford it— and I’d decided that when I graduate, I was going to come pester you for a job.”

  I look at her agape for a moment, not sure what to say to all that. Though, the fact that I’m her role model puts her judgment in a little bit of doubt.

  “That’s quite a story,” I tell her.

  “It’s the truth. You made me want to help people the way you do. I think it’s a worthy way to spend my life.”

  A small smile touches my lips. “That’s a lesson my wife taught me.”

  She looks away for a moment, seemingly unsure what to say, or perhaps afraid she’d said the wrong thing. I give her a gentle smile to reassure her.

  “I’m honored, Rachel. And I mean that.”

  She smiles. “Just the truth,” she repeats.

  We stand staring at each other in awkward silence for a moment, the energy from the emotional tension of the moment fading away. She shuffles her feet and then looks at me.

  “Sorry to unload all of that on you,” she says. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about before I went all diarrhea of the mouth on you?”

  I laugh softly. “You have nothing to be sorry for. What you said means a lot to me. It honestly does. And let me just say, when you get your degree and your PI license, you’ve got a job waiting for you.”

  She looks down at the ground, her cheeks flushing, and her eyes shimmer in the dim lighting of the office. The truth of the matter is I see talent in Rachel. To have a job like this means she’s excellent at reading people, providing for their needs, and watching them in vulnerable situations, even behind their masks— metaphorical and literal. I think she would be a fantastic addition to our team. Telling her she’s got a position waiting for her is as much for my own benefit as it is to keep her from going to one of the other guys.

  Rachel unobtrusively wipes at her eyes and turns back to me. “So, what was it I can do for you?”

  “You recall Mrs. McMillan?” I ask.

  She nods. “Of course.”

  “I’m looking into her death, and my investigation has led me here. That’s why I’m standing in your club right now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I walk over to the wall of monitors. It takes me a minute, but I find the man I was just sitting with. I point to him and turn back to her.

  “I need to know who he is,” I say.

  “Mr. Arrington, you know I can’t give out member names.”

  “I know, and ordinarily, I would never ask you to put yourself out like this,” I explain. “But that man knows something about her death, and I need to know what it is.”

  “He… he killed her?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that he’s got information that could lead me to who murdered her. And all I need is his name. I swear to keep your name out of it. I just need to know who he is.”

  Rachel bites her bottom lip, uncertainty etched into her every feature. I do appreciate that this is a difficult decision for her. It shows she’s got morals and ethics. And now, as she looks at me, I can see her questioning whether or not I meant what I said earlier or if it was just a ploy to get what I want.

  “I want you to know that regardless of what you decide to do here, I was being sincere. You have a job at my firm when you’re done with your schooling,” I tell her. “In fact, I know it sounds weird, but because this seems to be such a moral dilemma for you, I’d love to have you on our team all the more. So information or not, you’ve got a place at my firm.”

  She lets out a long breath. “I really appreciate you saying that Mr. Arrington, because I can’t, in good conscience, give you his name. I mean, I’ve had to sign NDAs for this job, and I can’t afford to get sued.”

  I nod. I understand. I really do. Having the specter of legal action looming over your head like the Sword of Damocles, especially if you’re not in a position to afford a legal defense, is enough to make you keep your lips zipped.

  I give her a smile. “It was worth a shot.”

  “Absol
utely,” she replies.

  I move toward the door, but her voice stops me. “Hey, do you like seafood?”

  Turning back to her, I give Rachel a quizzical look. “As much as the next guy, I suppose.”

  She nods. “Personally, I love it. Can’t get enough of it.”

  “Is that so?”

  Her smile spreads wider. “Absolutely. And I’ve found the very best seafood comes from Liberty Seafood Company. The freshest in all of Seattle.”

  “Liberty Seafood, huh?”

  She nods. “That’s the one,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you with the other thing.”

  “I understand. And thank you for your time,” I tell her. “I look forward to hearing from you when you’re done with school.”

  “Count on it, Mr. Arrington.”

  I head out of her office and take the elevators down to the garage. I’m halfway to my car when I feel them behind me, and I instinctively reach for my weapon, only to realize it’s not there. I turn around to find the two walking sides of beef with the bull masks standing a few feet away, staring at me.

  “I don’t recall asking for an escort to my car,” I announce.

  “You should learn to stop asking questions when you’re told,” says Bull One, the bigger of the two, his voice deep and guttural.

  “Our boss don’t like questions,” Bull Two chimes in.

  They move a lot faster than I would have thought possible. Bull Two gets behind me, and when he closes in, I drive my elbow backward, connecting solidly with his gut. His breath explodes from him with an audible grunt, but it doesn’t stop him from driving a fist that feels about as big as a Christmas ham into the side of my head. Stars burst behind my eyes as I stumble to the side, somehow managing to keep my feet under me.

  That doesn’t last long though. Bull One rushes in and drives his fist into my face. My mouth instantly fills with the coppery taste of blood, and from the corner of my eye, I see my mask go sailing. With warm, tacky blood flowing from my nose, the blow drives me down to my hands and knees, but I quickly regain my feet and move a couple of steps backward, trying to keep them both in my sight.