I See You (Arrington Mystery Book 1) Page 3

  “I see some things haven’t changed,” she chirps. “You know, one of these days, all those girls are gonna unionize against him.”

  “Yeah, he’s still grazing at the buffet of life,” I note.

  “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get out of here and get a drink.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Three

  The Pulpit; Downtown Seattle

  “So what were you doing on the task force?” I ask.

  “Gunrunners,” she replies. “Had a complicated multi-state network going on.”

  “Did you get them?”

  “Have you ever known me to not get somebody I went after?”

  I chuckle. “And you say I’m full of confidence.”

  “No, I say you’re full of crap,” she counters. “There’s a difference.”

  We’re sitting in a bar down the street from our office called The Pulpit. It’s an old church building that was abandoned and has been converted into a neighborhood tavern. Rather than demolish the building and construct something new, the new owners of the building left all of the original architecture in place. The Pulpit retains all of the soaring arches and Gothic details of the church, even the large stained-glass windows.

  They also repurposed all of the original wood and furnishings in the place to build their bar. The pews have been cut and used to make the booths, and the raised dais that held the altar is now the stage for live music. The acoustics in this place are amazing. I thought reusing and repurposing of all the materials inside the church was pretty clever actually. This place definitely has an atmosphere you won’t find in most bars.

  “Isn’t this place a little… sacrilegious?” Blake asks as she eyeballs the waitresses dressed in a rather risqué nun’s habits.

  I shrug. “If you’re uptight about it, I suppose,” I grin, then snap my fingers. “Oh that’s right; you’re Catholic. Being uptight is natural to you.”

  “You’re such a jerk,” she laughs.

  Our waitress, May, stops at our table and flashes me a smile. It falters slightly when her eyes fall on Blake, but she recovers quickly. May’s a cute, shapely brunette who’s been trying to get me to ask her out for a while now.

  “Well hey Pax,” she says. “How ya doin’ today?”

  “Doing good,” I nod. “How about yourself?”

  “I’m good, sweetie,” she says. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have the usual,” I say with a grin. “Blake here is going to have a Bloody Pope.”

  Blake looks at me with wide eyes and a crooked grin on her face. May gives her another look, and it’s not hard to see the coldness in her eyes. But she turns back to me and is all smiles once more.

  “Sure thing,” she says. “Be right back with your drinks.”

  “Thanks, May.”

  “Cute girl,” Blake says. “I think she’s got a crush.”

  “It’s harmless,” I tell her. “Besides, I think you intimidate her.”

  She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “That’s ridiculous,” she replies. “But if you ever order for me again like that, I’ll show you how intimidating I can be.”

  I quirk a grin at her and wink. It’s easy to see why a girl like May would be intimidated by Blake. She carries herself well, like the strong, accomplished woman she is. The Bureau is a man’s world, and if you’re a woman, the only way to thrive is to be as tough, if not tougher, than the men you’re dealing with. And Blake is thriving.

  Add to that the fact that she’s a knockout. She’s five-nine, with strawberry blonde hair and green eyes that sparkle like polished emeralds. Her body is somehow both curvy and rock-solid with muscle. She wouldn’t be out of place as a swimsuit model. She’s smart as a whip, too. There aren’t many people who can keep up with me, but Blake is definitely one of them. She’s the complete package and has an air of confidence about her that is undeniable.

  “So what is a Bloody Pope anyway?”

  “It’s kind of like a White Russian with a drizzle of grenadine in it.”

  “And you thought I’d like it, why exactly?”

  I shrug. “I just wanted to add to your sacrilegious experience here at The Pulpit.”

  “So kind of you,” she laughs.

  May drops off our drinks a moment later and scampers off after eyeballing Blake coolly one last time.

  “She should really just piss on your leg and get it over with,” she says.

  “Don’t give her any ideas.”

  I watch as Blake raises the glass, studying the creamy white liquid with the swirl of grenadine red in it. She frowns, looking at it like it’s a snake, coiled and ready to strike her. But she gamely takes a sip of her drink, and her expression changes. The frown disappears, and she smiles.

  “It’s actually not half bad,” she admits. “Sacrilegious, but not bad.”

  “So I’m guessing you don’t want to try the Crucified Man? It’s served with a skewered cocktail weenie as a garnish.”

  “That’s nasty. And don’t push your luck,” she laughs. “So how are you doing, Pax? I mean really.”

  I take a sip of my scotch and nod. “I’m good, actually.”

  “Yeah?” she replies. “I know how you feel about change and losing your gig with PD is a pretty big change.”

  “I’m working on that,” I admit. “But truth be told, I think getting out of the SPD might be one of the best things that could have happened for me.”

  “How so?”

  “Because now I don’t have to deal with all of the politics. I don’t have to worry about ‘fellow officers’ riding me because they don’t know how to investigate the way I can,” I say. “I’m free to get results now, without having to worry about somebody else second-guessing my actions. And since I don’t have to stick to the rules as a detective anymore, that opens up a whole new line of communication with anyone who doesn’t want to deal with the SPD. I’m accountable to no one but myself.”

  “So basically the leash is off, and you’re free to be your cocky self,” she grins. “Well, more so than you were already anyway.”

  “You— and the department apparently— call it having an attitude,” I offer. “I simply call it cutting through the crap and getting to the truth of the matter.”

  She laughs. “You need to learn to play the game.”

  “I detest the game,” I respond. “The game is why we have so many problems in society. If people would just be honest enough to speak the truth—”

  “Nobody wants to hear the truth,” she cuts me off. “Oh, they say they do. But they don’t. Not really.”

  “That’s why I think people are idiots.”

  “And that’s why I can count the number of friends you have on one hand,” she grins. “And have fingers left over.”

  “Yeah well, I’ve always preferred quality over quantity anyway.”

  She takes another drink and settles back into the booth. “So why go the PI route?” she asks. “I mean, with your resources, you could do anything you wanted to. But you’re going to spend your time chasing down deadbeat dads and unfaithful spouses? I can’t see it.”

  “Would you believe me if I said I was obsessed with Sherlock Holmes when I was growing up?” I ask. “I read my first Holmes book at eight-years-old.”

  “Sure, I’d believe it,” she replies. “Obsessive is your personality type. You don’t know how to do anything in moderation.”

  I chuckle. “I loved the books, and because of them, I always thought I’d make a top-notch investigator,” I continue. “And aside from Veronica pushing me in that direction, it’s one reason I ended up joining the SPD. I wanted to make detective and start investigating real crimes. Make a real difference.”

  Blake nods. “I can see the similarities between you and Holmes,” she grins. “Both arrogant. Condescending. You both always think you’re right and everybody else is a moron.”

  “And more times than not, I’m proven correct,” I shrug.

  She laughs. “Fine. But
tell me why you want to be a PI,” she presses. “It has got to be about more than just your childhood love of the books.”

  A small smile touches the corners of my mouth as the thoughts go swirling through my mind, inevitably landing on images of Veronica, as they usually do. Even in death, she’s still my guiding light. My Northern Star. Everything I do is with the hope that she’d approve and perhaps, even be proud of me. Even in death, her influence on me is strong.

  Before I met Veronica, I was shiftless. Aimless. I had no real sense of purpose or direction and was just sort of wandering through life with no real thought to my future. When you come from the kind of family I did, you never really had to think about it.

  But when I met Veronica, that all changed. She taught me all about my privilege and how I was in a position to make a positive impact in this world. She’d come from very little and had worked her way up on her own merits. Everything she had, she earned. She believed very strongly in serving others and doing right in her community.

  And it’s because of her that I started to think about joining the police force in the first place. She inspired me. She moved me. She actually got me thinking about my life in terms of how I can help others, rather than just living my life for myself. Selfishly. And without regard for others.

  “I’ll admit, I am hoping it’s not all cheating husbands and wives,” I laugh. “I hope there’s some actual detective work in there too. A chance to make a real difference.”

  “But why?” she asks. “When the whole world is your oyster— as it so clearly is— why do it?”

  I let out a long breath, then drain my glass and signal to May for another round of scotch for the both of us. Blake’s only halfway through her Bloody Pope, but I know she can drink with the best of them and will be ready for another soon enough.

  “Veronica really got under my skin all those years ago. Made me appreciate what I have and where I come from,” I tell her. “But more importantly, what sort of a difference I can make. She made me believe in service and giving back to the community. Doing what I can to make it a better place.”

  “That sounds like you should be running for office, not becoming a PI. That’s a political stump speech,” Blake grins. “It’s a beautiful speech, don’t get me wrong, but tell me why you’re really doing this.”

  A faint smile flickers across my lips. That’s Blake. I can always count on her to give it to me straight and not sugarcoat things. She and I are a lot alike in that way. The biggest difference is that she knows how to play politics. She just seems to inherently know how to smooth over the ruffled feathers and say the right thing at the right time. It’s a skill I never cared to learn. But then, I’m not a woman trying to make my way up the ladder in the Bureau either, so I guess it’s just another example of my privilege showing.

  “Seriously, have you met me? I can’t kiss babies or glad-hand with donors. My personality is a bit too…”

  “Rude and abrasive?”

  “Yeah. But I guess that honestly, it’s kind of my way of keeping Veronica’s spirit alive with the tools that I have. By helping others like she would, I feel like I’m keeping her alive in my heart. Like I was doing as a detective,” I say softly. “That’s about the best way I can put it.”

  May drops off our round of drinks and gives me a smile before turning around and sashaying away again. Blake and I lapse into silence for a long moment as she absorbs what I said.

  “That’s beautiful, Pax,” she finally says. “It really is.”

  I give her a tight smile and look down into my drink. I’m not big on opening up and sharing my feelings with anybody. But I’ve always felt comfortable with Blake. I don’t even feel comfortable enough with Brody to share the things I’ve shared with her. Probably because of what we went through together when Veronica died, I feel bonded to her in a way. With her, I feel safe enough to open up.

  “And here I honestly didn’t think you had a sensitive, sentimental bone in your entire body,” she says. “In fact, I didn’t know you had emotions at all.”

  I can see her trying to stifle the smile that’s flickering across her lips. It’s a fight she loses, though, when she erupts in a fit of laughter that echoes all around The Pulpit, drawing the eyes of the patrons to us. Like I said, the acoustics in here are pretty amazing.

  “And you say I’m a jerk,” I laugh along with her.

  “That’s because you are.”

  “Or maybe I’m the normal one,” I argue. “And everybody else is a jerk.”

  She arches her eyebrow at me, a grin twisting her lips. “Yeah, you keep believing that.”

  Four

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  Arrington Investigations has been officially open for three weeks now, and the only people who’ve come through the door are the Postmates guy, a man who was lost and on the wrong floor, a woman who wanted to drop off some religious literature, and an eight-year-old girl who wanted me to find her cat. I did technically end up finding it, but only because it happened to be in her own front yard once I drove her home.

  Suffice it to say, we haven’t gotten off to the booming start I’d anticipated, and I’m not doing much in the way of service to the community. Not as much as I’d hoped.

  I stand at the windows looking out over the expanse of the city, wondering what I need to do to get my name out there and get people coming through the door who need help. It’s not a money thing. It’s more of a pride thing, really. That I haven’t had one legitimate client in three weeks of operation is bothering me. I want to help people and make Veronica proud by carrying on her legacy.

  She was a journalist who worked for the Seattle Times for a couple of years. But she couldn’t seem to get off the community spotlight desk and felt stifled. She thought she could do more good investigating and reporting on actual issues that impacted the people, rather than covering chili cook-offs and spelling bees.

  So she launched her own investigative journalism website and podcast. She focused on investigating the real issues. It was all still in its infancy, but she was already growing a following after a few short months.

  She inspired me to want to be an investigator, too. I had dreams of the two of us as a tag team. Me taking down criminals, her taking down corrupt politicians and exposing scandals. We could have done so much good. But then she died, and all those dreams faded like Seattle mist.

  When Blake asked me why I’m pursuing this PI gig, I told her it was to keep Veronica’s spirit alive and my love for the old Sherlock Holmes books. Which is entirely true. But that’s not the entire story. I refrained from telling her everything, from sharing all of my reasons, simply because I know she would have frowned on it. Knowing her like I do, she probably would have tried to talk me out of it. Or at least poured a bucket of cold water on my enthusiasm.

  Officially, Veronica died in a car accident. It was a cold, rainy, January night. The theory is that she hit a patch of black ice and lost control. Her car rolled over four times and landed top side down in a ditch. The medical examiner said she suffered severe head trauma and died quickly. All of the T’s crossed, all of the I’s dotted.

  The trouble is, I don’t buy the official story. For a lot of reasons. First, it was cold that night, but it wasn’t cold enough to ice the roads over. I pored over the weather reports and all of the pertinent data and cannot force myself to believe there was ice on the road. Second, I made dozens of requests to review the wreckage of the car, but I never got a chance to. It was impounded before I could find anything. The investigators say it was too damaged during the wreck, but I don’t buy it. Never have.

  Blake’s looked over all of the files, and she hasn’t found any fault in them. She thinks the investigation was thorough, complete, and the conclusions they came to are correct. I don’t want to contradict Blake necessarily, but the conclusions they drew never sat right with me. I’ve never agreed with the official story.

  I’ve tried for the last couple of years to g
et somebody to look into the case. To get somebody to take a deep dive into it. But nobody was willing to open the files to take a closer look, and I was shot down at every turn. And as a relative to the victim, I wasn’t allowed to look into it myself. If I’d tried, it was possible I could have found myself in trouble for misconduct and abusing the power of the police for my personal benefit.

  But in this new role, free of the constraints of department politics, I can do what I want. I can take a closer look at Veronica’s case and not have to worry about politics or having Internal Affairs breathing down my neck for crossing a line I shouldn’t have. I can investigate now until I am thoroughly satisfied with the conclusion I draw.

  One way or another, I will find out what happened to my wife.

  I held that back from Blake. But she’s insanely perceptive and probably knows reopening Veronica’s case is part of what I’m doing with Arrington Investigations anyway. If she knows, she was good enough not to say anything about it. She’s willing to let me do what I need to do and is probably hoping that I’ll work this out of my system and eventually come to agree with the official conclusion.

  I hear the office door open and turn to see Brody coming through. Immediately, I can tell something’s wrong. His face is tight, his expression pensive. He’s usually the clown with a smile on his face at all hours of the day, so seeing him look distressed like this tells me that whatever it is can’t be good.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “You okay?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Without another word, I lead him into my office and sit down behind my desk. He drops down into the chair across from me. His body is tense, and he’s got a strange look on his face I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

  “Talk to me, man,” I tell him. “What’s going on?”

  “A friend of mine— well, the daughter of a family friend anyway— had her daughter kidnapped,” he explains. “Her name is Kayla Morgan, and her daughter is Jordan.”

  I sit up a little straighter, my interest piqued. For my first case to be a kidnapping has me feeling inappropriately excited. Not that I’ll tell Brody that. I’m not that much of an insensitive bastard, regardless of what Blake says. It’s just that I actually have a chance to do something good and to genuinely help somebody in need.