I See You (Arrington Mystery Book 1) Page 2

  “What do you have going on?” he presses, sounding hopeful. “I mean, you just got fired today.”

  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a little while,” I reply.

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I’ll tell you when you need to know. And right now, you don’t need to know.”

  “Paxton, there is no need to speak to your brother that way,” my mother admonishes me.

  “Look, I just don’t want you thinking I’m trying to encroach on your territory, George,” I say. “As far as I’m concerned, Archton is your baby. You’ve got the desire to do the job that I never had. I mean, come one, you used to hang posters of Citizen Kane and Ted Turner on your walls as a kid. You always wanted to be the big-time media man.”

  “That’s not true.” George’s face flushes scarlet because he knows it’s true.

  “I really think you should talk to your father,” my mother chimes in.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see my brother stiffen and his face darken. I’m sure it makes him feel like garbage to have my mother and father trying so hard to convince me to take the job he feels is rightfully his. It’s something that’s always made me feel sorry for him since it’s a constant reminder to him that he’s number two. A constant reminder that he— at least in their eyes— will always live in my shadow.

  “I’ll speak with Father,” I finally relent. “If only to tell him I’m not coming to work at Archton.”

  “Keep an open mind, dear,” she says. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  I drop my napkin onto the table and get to my feet. “Thank you for lunch, Mother,” I sigh. “But I need to go.”

  I pat my brother on the shoulder as I walk off the deck and leave the house, my good mood spoiled. My family is good at doing that. Always has been.

  One

  Reuben Hayes

  Bel Air, CA

  I watch from the window of the abandoned building as the white Escalade pulls into the empty parking lot. Given how many of them I’ve seen in her neighborhood, it’s apparently the new soccer mom’s vehicle of choice. I raise the night vision binoculars to my eyes and watch as Mrs. Elena Henderson steps out of the vehicle and looks around, wringing her hands together nervously.

  I turn my binoculars to the old, ratty Toyota Camry I stole that’s parked across the street and can see the cardboard box on the back seat. I can’t see the bundle inside, but I’m sure it’s there. This is the part I hate most about my admittedly unusual lifestyle. I consider it barbaric and uncivilized. But there is, unfortunately, nothing I can do about it. I have work I must do, and that requires money. Which makes this a tasteless but necessary chore.

  I open the cell phone I picked up at the market earlier and switch on my voice modulator. When I see the green light showing it’s active, I punch in Mrs. Henderson’s phone number, and with the phone pressed to my ear, I watch her through the binoculars. She is an exquisite creature. Tall, thin, long, lustrous blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She could be a supermodel.

  “Yes, hello?” she answers the phone, panic in her voice. “I’m here. I’ve done what you said.”

  She has. From my vantage point, I can see she’s come alone, and there are no cops in the area that I can see. She and her husband never called the police and have done everything I’ve asked. These types of people always do.

  “Yes you have, Mrs. Henderson. You’re a very good, very brave woman,” I tell her. “And you brought the money?”

  “I—I did.”

  “Let me see it, please.”

  She quickly reaches into the car and pulls out a bag. It’s large and heavy, and I can see her struggling with it. It hits the ground, and she kneels and curses under her breath, trying to hold the phone between her chin and shoulder. She fumbles with the zipper for a moment before she manages to get it open, spreading it wide. I peer closely at it through the binoculars and see the bundles of cash inside. So far, so good.

  “One hundred thousand,” she stammers. “Just like you asked for.”

  It’s a hefty sum but will hardly make much of a dent in her husband’s bank account. My goal is not to bleed these people dry but make just enough to sustain me. I’m not a greedy man. I consider greed to be a foul and distasteful quality in a person. It’s… rude. And I place a high value on manners and decorum since I’ve always believed that poor manners are a sign of poor breeding.

  “That is very good, Mrs. Henderson,” I say. “You have done well. Thank you.”

  “So do I get my son back now?” she asks frantically. “Do I get my Toby back?”

  “Yes of course,” I tell her. “I am a man of my word. I abhor lying.”

  “Wh—where is he?” she pleads. “Where is he?”

  “All in due time, Mrs. Henderson,” I reply. “I need to make certain that I secure my payment without incident.”

  “Please, please, let me have my son. I’ve done everything you asked.”

  “And so long as you continue doing that, everything will turn out fine,” I say. “And we can put this whole disagreeable mess behind us.”

  She lets out a choked sob, the fear for her son’s safety keeping her from forming anything resembling a coherent sentence. It’s understandable, of course. A mother’s fear for her child is primal. Visceral.

  “Now, drive to the corner of Surrey and Fourth and pull to the curb,” I instruct her. “I will call and give you the location of your son.”

  “Please. Tell me where—”

  “Surrey and Fourth, Mrs. Henderson,” I cut her off. “Get into your vehicle and drive there now, please.”

  The time it will take her to get to the location I’ve given will give me enough time to get across the street, grab the bag, and get away cleanly, the funds to continue my work secured for another year. Truthfully, it’s more than enough for a year with the excess going to my retirement fund. Over the years, I have put together quite a nest egg, and once I am ready to walk away from this life and my work, I will be able to live well. I think I deserve that.

  “Mrs. Henderson, I do not like having to repeat myself. I won’t ask you again,” I press. “Please close the bag, get into your car, and drive to the corner of Surrey and Fourth.”

  She hesitates for a moment but finally relents and does what I say. She zips up the bag and clambers into her car, her tires chirping on the pavement as she takes off quickly. Knowing I have only minutes to act, I throw my binoculars into my backpack and descend the stairs quickly. I step into the cool night air and cross the street, picking up the bag, before retreating to the second car I have stashed around the corner. I toss it into the trunk and climb behind the wheel.

  I start the engine and then use the burner phone to make my call to Mrs. Henderson. I redial the number and hold it to my ear. She picks it up before the first ring even ends.

  “Where is my son?”

  “You will find him in a yellow Honda Civic across the street from the old Majestic Building. The car is locked, and the key is under the front drivers’ side wheel well,” I tell her. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Henderson. Be well.”

  I disconnect the call and break the burner in half before throwing it out the window. I put my car in gear and drive off, cutting down side streets, following my route until I make it to the highway. I turn up the volume on my stereo, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in time with Duran Duran’s song “Planet Earth”, feeling good. Feeling great, actually. I’ve always loved eighties music. It fills my soul with something close to happiness. Or as close as I get to it. There is just something so pure and innocent about it.

  And as I drive home, my thoughts turn to Elena Henderson. She is beautiful. A goddess made flesh. Marcus Henderson is not worthy of her, and he certainly does not deserve such a remarkable creature. Not that I am any more worthy, but it’s a shame she did not find somebody who deserves her.

&
nbsp; Elena Henderson is a former beauty queen. Miss Nebraska 2009. She is bright, articulate, and passionate. And she is the current trophy wife of Marcus Henderson, one of the slimiest celebrity attorneys in Los Angeles. If you’re a movie star who runs afoul of the law, Marcus Henderson is the man to sweep it all under the rug and make it disappear. The Henderson’s laugh it up with studio execs and big-time producers at black-tie galas practically every week.

  I know everything there is to know about Elena. And about her family. I’ve been watching them for months now. Getting to know them. Memorizing their routines. Collecting every bit of information I could about them, all in preparation for tonight’s activities. And now that it’s done and my immediate future is secured, and I no longer have to sully myself with the distasteful practice of ransoming money out of terrified parents, I can focus on my work once more. My real work. My passion, really.

  But the more I think about her, the deeper she burrows into my mind. I literally cannot stop thinking about Elena as I drive home. Every other thought is flushed out of my head, and I can’t seem to stop seeing images of her face in my mind. She is perfection, and I would love to add her to my collection.

  I don’t normally do what I’m thinking about right now. I have a thing about going back to the same well again since, statistically speaking, it increases the odds that I get caught. I’ve been very disciplined and rigid in my planning and execution and never deviate from my plans unless it is absolutely necessary. That’s why I’ve been able to operate for more than twenty years unimpeded.

  I pull my car up to the guard shack and lower the window as I turn the volume down on my stereo. The guard, a doughy, pale, but pleasant enough man steps out of the booth and flashes me a smile.

  “Heard you comin’ a block away,” he says.

  “What can I say, Robert? I enjoy the classics,” I reply. “You should give them a try sometime.”

  He nods. “I’ll do that,” he says with a grin and presses a button on his remote. “You have a good night, Mr. Hayes.”

  “You as well, Robert.”

  I drive through the gate and follow the streets through the tract homes. Everything so normal. Staid. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens here, and everything can usually be anticipated. Planned for. It’s one of the things I love most about this housing community. The predictability.

  As I pull into my driveway, I see Elena Henderson’s face once again. Maybe this once. Maybe I can go back to that well this one time. Just this once. Surely, she has some sin that she needs to be cleansed of.

  Two

  Paxton

  Four Months Later…

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  I watch the workman leave after he finishes hanging the burnished metal sign emblazoned with my company logo on the far wall. I take a moment to admire it and nod. It’s sharp. Adds a little gravitas to this operation.

  “I think that’s it,” I say. “We are officially open for business.”

  “I think that calls for a drink then.”

  Brody Singer— Broderick to his parents— produces a bottle of scotch and a pair of glasses, sets them down on my desk, and pours out a couple of drinks for us. He hands me one and raises his own. I tap my glass against his.

  “To the grand opening of Arrington Investigations,” Brody says.

  “To the best investigative team since Sherlock and Watson,” I reply.

  Brody laughs. “You know Watson was the brains behind that dynamic duo, don’t you?” he says.

  I wave him off with a laugh. “They each had their own strengths and contributed in their own way.”

  “Yeah, but Watson was the brains.”

  I laugh then take a long swallow of my scotch. Brody’s been my best friend since prep school and is closer to me than my own brother. After the SPD fired me, I told him I was thinking about opening my own investigative firm, and he was all in from the jump. I was still waffling for weeks. But it was Brody who actually pushed me to pull the trigger and do it.

  He’s been floundering about since we graduated from college, with no real sense of what he wanted to do with his life. He’s traveled the world as he searched for himself and finally went to work for his father’s financial firm for lack of anything else that interested him. And when he finally talked me into this, he couldn’t get this office set up fast enough, so I let him locate an office and design its set up.

  We occupy the top floor of a small red brick office building, and the elevator opens straight into our lobby area. It’s a loft-style office with an open floor plan done in red brick and dark, hard woods. There are three large arching windows in the back wall, giving us a clear view of the Cascade Mountain range and the iconic Space Needle. We both have offices on opposite sides of the loft; both of them made of three walls of clear glass against the brick. There is enough space that we have room for two more offices should we ever expand, and a glass-encased meeting room with a long table, apparently for meetings with our non-existent staff. A kitchenette, outfitted with all the latest gadgets, sits tucked away in a corner.

  The office is decorated with vintage photos of Seattle, framed and mounted, hung on the walls. It’s a touch of old Seattle done with a modern flair. I like it. I like it a lot.

  “You know, you have a real future in interior design if you wanted to go that way,” I tell him.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind in case I ever get tired of you.”

  “That shouldn’t take long,” comes a female voice. “I give it a month. Tops.”

  I turn and see Blake Wilder sauntering into the office, a wide smile on her face. She works out of the FBI’s Seattle field office, but she rarely seems to be in the area. Blake steps over and pulls me into a warm embrace. I met Blake at an anti-terrorism seminar a few years back, and we struck up what some consider an unlikely friendship. Local cops and Feds don’t typically get along, but Blake’s different. She doesn’t throw her FBI creds around like they make her better than anybody, and she never tries to bigfoot her way onto a case.

  Blake is just a good, decent person who’s more interested in doing her job and getting results than in chasing headlines or making a name for herself. She’s a straight shooter who doesn’t take crap from anybody, and a very good agent to boot. I’ve got a lot of respect for her. Veronica, my late wife, was really fond of her. They were friends. And after Veronica passed, it was Blake who helped me through the grief. She was always there to talk to, to listen to me, and to offer advice. Blake was always just there whenever I needed her.

  “A month?” I ask. “Do you have that little faith in me?”

  She scoffs. “It’s not a lack of faith. I just know how much of a jerk you are,” she replies. “How Brody’s been able to put up with you for as long as he has is a mystery to me.”

  “Lots and lots of this,” Brody points to his glass, taking an exaggerated swig.

  “Screw you both,” I fire back with a laugh. “It’s good to see you, Blake.”

  “Good to see you are landing on your feet after getting the shaft from PD,” she says. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner. I had this task force I was part of—”

  I wave her off. “You don’t need to apologize,” I say. “You’re a big rock star Fed. You don’t need to explain yourself to us mere mortals.”

  She laughs. “Shut up, Arrington.”

  I grab a glass from the sideboard and pour her out a few fingers of scotch and hand it over. She takes it and taps it against my glass and takes a swallow, a slow smile creeping across her face.

  “I’ll say one thing for you rich boys,” she notes. “You sure do drink the good stuff. A bottle of this stuff would probably cost me a year’s salary.”

  “Right. I know what you Feds make,” I grin. “And it’s not like you came from a poor family yourself there, Wilder.”

  She takes another swallow of her drink and nods. “Maybe not, but I still don’t have a ten-figure trust fund.”

  I chu
ckle. “Please. It’s eight figures, at best,” I correct her. “Remember, I have to split it up with a couple of siblings.”

  “Whatever you say, Arrington,” she rolls her eyes. “So what’s the division of labor around here? I mean, when you actually have a paying client come through the door, that is.”

  “If you build it, they will come,” I offer. “We’ll have clients. We’ll have to fight them off with a stick soon enough.”

  “You sound so sure of yourself,” Blake remarks. “But then, I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me. If there’s one thing you’re not short of, it’s confidence.”

  “People need quality investigative work,” I reply. “More than that, we can do things and go places SPD can’t go.”

  “Yeah well, just be sure you’re not breaking any laws when you’re doing your quality investigative work,” she reminds me.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “As far as the division of labor goes, I do all the work, and Pax here is going to take all the credit,” Brody chimes in.

  “That sounds about right,” Blake says.

  “You’re both regular comedians,” I reply. “To answer your question, Blake, Brody’s specialty is tech, so he’s going to be doing the computer work, and I’ll be in the field.”

  “So basically, I’ll be doing all the work,” Brody grins. “And he’ll be taking all the credit.”

  Brody’s phone rings and he pulls it out of his pocket, a slow grin spreading across his face.

  “I recognize that look,” I say. “What’s her name?”

  “Jeanine,” he says. “Or Madeline. I don’t remember offhand.”

  He heads out of my office and answers the call, making Blake rolls her eyes as a chuckle bubbles out of her throat.