Her Last Call (Arrington Mystery Book 2) Read online

  In the case of Mr. Tunney, he seems to be a bourbon man with a taste for dirty chat lines and women half his age. If not younger. He meets his latest girl a couple of times a week at the Emerald, a small boutique hotel out in the Queen Anne section of Seattle. Every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork.

  “I have no idea why Tunney is cheating on his wife,” Brody comments. “I mean, have you seen her?”

  I laugh. “Of course I have,” I reply. “I did the consult, remember?”

  “Then you know,” he laughs. “That woman is a total smoke show.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate the endorsement.”

  “Hey, all I’m saying is, I’m happy to be the shoulder she cries on once you bust this creep.”

  As we laugh together, I hear the bell on the elevator chime. Curious because I don’t have any other appointments scheduled today, I walk around the corner and into the lobby, only to find my father stepping out of the car.

  Oh, no. My father is one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the country. He’s always been, let’s say, less-than-enthusiastic about my chosen line of work. In fact, this is the first time my father has set foot in my office. It has me more than a little curious.

  “Father,” I greet him.

  “Paxton.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment, and then he turns away. His eyes cut around the office, taking it all in. He gives himself a small nod and looks like a man who’s surprised by what he sees. It’s like he expected to walk into some wildly disorganized and chaotic frat house, rather than a well-organized, tightly run, professional business. It’s like he doesn’t know me at all. But then, I suppose he doesn’t, all things considered.

  “What can I do for you, Dad?”

  He turns to me. “Actually, I was hoping we could speak together,” he starts, his eyes shifting over to Brody, almost suspiciously, “privately.”

  Brody steps back into the kitchen, and I hear him chuckling to himself. I know he’s not offended. I don’t know that I’ve actually ever seen him genuinely offended about something before, which is a good thing, considering how thoughtless my family can sometimes be.

  “Let’s go have a drink,” I say.

  Two

  The Pulpit; Downtown Seattle

  My father looks around with an inscrutable expression on his face. He clears his throat and settles back into the booth, clearly uncomfortable as his eyes settle on me.

  “Well, this place is… colorful,” he says.

  I chuckle. The Pulpit has become my go-to place for a drink after work. It used to be a church, but when they moved on, it was purchased by a couple of local guys and turned into a neighborhood tavern. They left all of the high arches and Gothic architecture in place and repurposed all of the materials that were left. The pews were cut and turned into booths; the altar is now a stage for bands and DJs or whatnot. The stained glass has all been left intact, the waitresses all wear somewhat revealing uniforms fashioned after nun’s habits, and everything on the menu has a religious name.

  I know some think it’s rude and tacky, while others think it’s sacrilegious. And I don’t know. Maybe it is. But to me, it’s just a fun, neighborhood spot that isn’t meant to be taken too seriously. I think— no, I know— Veronica would have loved the irreverence of the place, and maybe that’s why I enjoy it here so much.

  I sit across the booth from my father, trying to figure him out. My relationship with my folks has gotten better, but we’re still not what you would call… close. They’re far closer to my brother George. But I can’t deny that things have gotten better over the last couple of years.

  They haven’t approved of my life choices ever since I was in college. Or more specifically, ever since I met Veronica. They didn’t approve of me marrying her. Didn’t approve of my becoming a cop. And they certainly didn’t approve of me becoming a PI. They think every choice I’ve made reflects poorly on the family name, and this life of service I’ve committed myself to is beneath me. That it’s not the “Arrington Way.”

  They never approved of Veronica, and though they were always polite and civilized to her— which is, of course, part of the “Arrington Way”— they never embraced her as family. That is just one of the reasons my relationship with my folks has been less than ideal.

  “Okay, one Bloody Pope, and one Burning Bush,” says May, as she sets the drinks down on our table. “Anything else I can get you fellas?”

  “I think we’re good, May,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Anything for you, darlin’,” she beams.

  May presses her index finger to my nose and makes a “boop” sound before she leaves, drawing a laugh from me. May has been trying to get my attention for months, and it seems like the harder I push her away, the harder she comes at me. She’s a sweet girl and is definitely a knockout, but I’m just not interested.

  Apparently, my dad is, though, as his eyes are riveted to May’s back side as she bustles away from our table.

  “Stare any harder and your eyes might pop out old man,” I note with a laugh.

  He clears his throat and quickly refocuses on me, making me laugh even harder. My father is not the sort who checks out other women. For all of his faults and flaws, he loves my mother and is one hundred and ten percent devoted to her. The only certainties in life are death, taxes, and my father never straying.

  “I just… they certainly didn’t make women like that when I was your age,” he says. “And she certainly seems to be fond of you.”

  I shrug. “Waitresses flirt to improve their tips. It’s no big deal.”

  He chuckles. “I am not quite the stick in the mud you’ve always thought me to be, Paxton,” he says. “I can tell when a woman is interested.”

  “Yeah well, that’s a one-way street in this case,” I reply. “I assure you.”

  He gives me a small frown and takes up his tumbler of Bushmills straight-up… the Burning Bush. I stir up my drink, similar to a White Russian, but it has a splash of grenadine, also known as the Bloody Pope. That one added ingredient is all that differentiates it from a White Russian, but for whatever reason it makes them addictively good.

  My father raises his glass, and I follow suit, touching mine to his. As we take a sip of our drinks, I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing here. My parents are of that aristocratic mindset. They don’t come to the city if they don’t have to, and if they do, they don’t linger any longer than strictly necessary. They much prefer living in their bubble of wealth and privilege in Laurelhurst, which is one of the wealthiest suburbs in Seattle, if not the entire country.

  It’s like twenty minutes from here, but it might as well be another world. Having grown up there— and having had my eyes opened by Veronica— I see Laurelhurst for what it is now. Truthfully, I’m ashamed that I was ever of that mindset and mentality. That I could ever see anyone as lesser than simply because of the circumstances of their birth, or because of the twists of fate that leave some less fortunate than others. While I am still connected to it by blood, I can no longer really say I’m of “that world.”

  “It’s been going on three years now,” my father starts. “When do you think you will begin seeing somebody again?”

  I sigh and take another drink. That is one of the questions I most dread hearing because truthfully, I do not have an answer for it. The truth of the matter is that Veronica was— and will always remain— the love of my life. I have not been interested in a woman since she died. When I lost her, I felt like I’d been cut open and completely hollowed out. It’s a feeling that continues to persist and hasn’t gotten better in the least. I don’t know who said time heals all wounds, but whoever it was is a filthy liar. Even after going on three years, I still feel… empty.

  “You know, Marcel Fitchburg’s daughter, she’s a lovely young woman—”

  I hold up my hand and cut him off. “Not interested. But thanks.”

  “Paxton,” he admonishes. “You are still a young man.
You’ve got a lot of years ahead of you. You shouldn’t spend them alone.”

  “I’m not ready, Dad.”

  My dad opens his mouth, readying to argue again, but closes it, apparently deciding not to press the issue. Smart move. The truth is, even if I was ready, Cynthia Fitchburg is the last person I would spend my time with. Maybe before I met Veronica when I saw myself and the world around me differently. But not now.

  He takes another swallow of his drink, and I can see his face darken. My love life— or lack of one— is not the reason he’s here. He wouldn’t lower himself to spend time in the city just to ask if I’m seeing somebody. He’s got another agenda. I can see it in his eyes. I’m curious, but I’ll let him play this out in his own time.

  “So, how is George doing at Archton?” I ask. When I got fired from the Seattle PD, my father had wanted me to step in at his media company. But that’s a job I’ve never wanted nor frankly would ever have the patience for. Not my brother, though. It’s like he’s made for that line of work. It took some doing, but I eventually convinced him to really step up and embrace that role rather than waiting around for me to fill it.

  My father nods. “He’s doing well. He has had some very innovative ideas,” he replies. “He will do well in leading Archton into the future.”

  “I have no doubts,” I say. “George is a very smart man.”

  My father falls silent for a moment then drains the last of his drink and signals for another. A few moments later, May drops off a fresh round for us, even though I’m only halfway through my first drink. She gives me a wink and a sultry smile before she sashays away. My father frowns as he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, a maelstrom of thoughts swirling around in his eyes.

  “What’s bothering you, Dad?”

  He looks up and takes a small sip of his drink. Setting the glass back down carefully, a rueful smile touches his lips.

  “I know it’s been some time since I’ve come by to see you,” he says.

  Actually, this is the first time he’s come by to see me since I moved into the city, but I’m not going to split hairs with him at this point. Instead of pointing it out, I remain silent.

  “Anyway, I wanted to tell you how proud of you, your mother and I are.” His words are slow. Halting. He’s a man not used to paying compliments. It’s like the words are sticking in his throat. “I admit, I was skeptical when you launched into this new endeavor, but I see now the good that you’re doing.”

  “Well, most of it’s chasing down philanderers, but—”

  “Do not sell yourself short, son,” he cuts me off. “You stopped a serial killer. And if I’m not mistaken, received a commendation from the Police Commissioner for the effort. Though I am somewhat appalled that I had to hear of it from somebody other than you.”

  I laugh softly as I drain the last of my first drink. About a month and a half ago or so, Commissioner Gray— the former Police Chief and one of my few allies when I was with the SPD— gave me an official commendation in a small ceremony. Truthfully, I hadn’t bothered mentioning it because my folks very rarely showed any interest even when I was on the force, so it didn’t seem worth it to me.

  “It really was nothing,” I tell him. “Just a small, quick ceremony. It didn’t seem worth bothering you with it.”

  “You’re my son, Paxton,” he replies softly. “I know things between us haven’t always been… ideal, but I have always been proud of you. I want you to know that. Your mother and I have always been proud of you.”

  It seems easy to say now, but it’s something he never told me when I was younger. Back then, nothing ever seemed to be enough. No matter what I did, there was always something more I could have done. Something I could have done better. My father would never let me celebrate my successes. Rather, he would push me on to the next thing instead. I chased the approval of my parents for so long. I wanted it more than anything. And the more I was denied it; the more determined I became to have it.

  It got to the point that my disappointment in them as parents, as well as all of my frustration and anger, was consuming me. And the only way I knew how to deal with it was to cut them out of my life entirely. It was Veronica, though, who helped me release all of the resentment and anger inside of me. She convinced me to keep an open mind in regard to my parents and to not shut the door on them once and for all. She reminded me that they had likely grown up with similar pressures and expectations put upon them, and they were merely doing what they had been taught.

  She told me that while there was nothing I could do about how they conduct themselves, I can control how I react to them. That I didn’t need anybody’s approval to be a good man and to live my life the way I saw fit. She taught me all I needed was the courage to be the man I wanted to be, and the strength to not seek out the approval of others.

  It’s funny. I’ve never cared about other people’s opinions of me. What other people think, or what they say, has never mattered. When you grow up in the spotlight as I did, you either learn to grow a thick skin, or you wind up a twenty-something-year-old burnout with photos of you, drunk and coked out, splashed on the cover of every tabloid.

  I chose the first path and grew a tough hide. Let people say what they want. Doesn’t matter to me because those people are beneath me anyway. But when it came to my parents, their opinion of me always mattered. Even when, thanks to Veronica, I came to embrace the belief that I didn’t need their approval any longer, there was still a part of me that wanted it.

  Yeah, I know. First world problems for the poor little rich boy. I’m sure that would be right up there with my folks not buying me a pony when I was a kid. They didn’t, but that’s an entirely different issue. I craved their approval like little else in my life. But I think that desire is applicable to people across the social and economic spectrum.

  That’s not a conversation I want to have right now, though. It’s not a wound I want to re-open. It’s irrelevant to anything right now anyway. I’ve dealt with it. I’m over it. With Veronica’s help, I learned to live my life, to find approval within myself, and to quell the need for it from my folks. For the most part, anyway.

  I clear my throat. “Thanks, Dad,” I say. “That means a lot.”

  “I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you that enough when you were growing up,” he offers. “I just saw the potential in you and did not want you growing complacent. I wanted to keep you always moving forward. Striving for more.”

  I chuckle softly. “That much was obvious.”

  His face tightens, but he quickly reins it in. My father isn’t a man who tolerates being taken to task or called out for anything. And he certainly does not apologize to anybody for anything. He is the top of the food chain at Archton, and as such, everybody bows to him, so I suppose I should take his contrition like it’s a winning lottery ticket.

  “I appreciate that, Dad,” I tell him. “I truly do. Thank you.”

  A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips, and he looks down into his drink again, clearly uncomfortable with anything approaching emotion. I sometimes wonder how he managed to lure my mother into marriage, being as cold and distant as he is. But I know that he is different with her than he is with anybody else. Even his children.

  I can tell there’s still more on his mind though. My dad is the smartest man I know; he might even give me a run for my money. But when it comes to communication, I’ve never met anybody worse. Ironic, considering he heads up one of the largest media conglomerates in the world, and his position requires him to communicate clearly and concisely.

  It’s always been a push and pull with him. There are always ten thousand things going through his mind at any given time. Sometimes getting to the root of what he wants to talk about, buried underneath the layers of other things, is like pulling teeth. Especially when it comes to asking for help. For a favor. My father is not a man who enjoys being indebted to anybody and will take great pains to avoid it.

  And as we’ve sat here, dancing around
whatever is really on his mind, I’ve realized that’s what this is about. He needs to ask me for a favor.

  “What is it you need, Dad?” I ask. “It’s okay for you to ask, you know. You’re my family. If there’s something I can do to help you, I will.”

  He purses his lips and nods, a look of relief flashing across his face for the briefest of moments. He carefully composes his features and looks up at me. There’s still something in his eyes. Some darkness there. Something almost like grief. It makes me sit up and take notice, silently scolding myself for not noticing sooner.

  “You remember Marcus Hughes, don’t you?” he starts.

  I nod. “Sure. I remember him,” I say. “Good guy.”

  “Yes. He is,” my father says, his voice heavy. “His daughter Stella, I’m sure you remember her.”

  “I do.”

  He sighs. “She was found murdered a few days ago.”

  His words hit me hard. I sit back in the booth, shocked. I’ve known Stella for years. I always thought she was a good person. She was kind. Sweet. She was a lot like her dad. To know she was murdered… I don’t even know what to think about it right now.

  “Jesus,” I whisper.

  My father nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Anyway, I spoke with Marcus, and he wants to know if you’d be willing to see him.”

  “I don’t know what I’d have to offer him.”

  “He’s looking for answers about the death of somebody he loves,” my father says. “Surely you can understand that.”

  It’s a bit of a cheap shot, and one that stings; meaning, it had the desired effect. Of course my father is talking about Veronica, though I don’t think he brought her up maliciously. It was simply to make his point. So yeah, I can understand where Marcus is coming from.

  “Just sit down with him, Paxton. Hear him out,” he says. “If, at the end of the meeting, you don’t think you can help him, so be it. But please… do this for me.”