Her Last Call (Arrington Mystery Book 2)

by Elle Gray

  “I’m investigating Stella Hughes’ murder,” I remind him.

  “And? What does her murder have to do with this crime scene?”

  I look over at Torres again and notice that he’s looking at me. Or perhaps more accurately, he is trying to murder me with his eyes. At least he has the good sense to stay where he is and oversee the investigation, such as he’s able, rather than cause a scene. It’s probably the smartest thing he’ll do today.

  I look back at TJ and arch my eyebrow, a little disappointed that he’d lie to me, or at least pretend he has no idea what I’m talking about. But then, I guess given how secretive this task force is supposed to be, along with the fact that I shouldn’t know about the other victims, I have to cut him some slack. I know I can’t tell him everything I know and potentially out Commissioner Gray, but I need to squeeze him for any nugget of information that can help my own investigation.

  “I got a tip that your girl back there was done the same way as Stella,” I tell him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Frenzied stabbing. Chest sliced open, and the heart removed,” I respond.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Like I said, I got a tip.”

  He looks over at Chris, his jaw clenching. I shake my head.

  “Definitely not him,” I say. “He’s been about as helpful as you’ve been to this point.”

  He chuffs but doesn’t say anything more. The last thing I want is for Chris to get jammed up for this since he really didn’t have anything to do with bringing me here. Thankfully, it seems like TJ believes me. He finally turns back to me, his lips compressed into a tight line.

  “You know I can’t give you anything,” he says.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him. “Just blink once if my tip is right. Twice if it’s not.”

  TJ stares at me, unblinking for a long moment. An abnormally long moment. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen somebody go that long without blinking before. But finally, he frowns and gives me a slow, deliberate blink. I nod but don’t ask him to elaborate. I have what I need. Not that it stops me from pushing for a little more.

  “Thanks, TJ,” I respond. “Don’t suppose you can give me the vic’s name?”

  “Seriously, you need to get out of here.”

  I give him a nod and turn away. It would have saved me a little bit of time if he’d given me her name, but I’ll get it all the same.

  Twenty

  Sacred Grounds Coffee House; Downtown Seattle

  The barista drops my coffee drink off at my table. I give her a nod, then turn back to my tablet. I’m scanning through the local newspapers, looking for news on yesterday’s murder case. I find a few articles, but like I thought, they’re mostly small columns that are very light on facts. I’m sure most of it is because of Gray’s gag order, but I have little doubt the fact that most reporters just aren’t that intellectually curious plays a part as well.

  I’m frankly pretty stunned that not one reporter in this city has linked the deaths of these five young women. Not one of them has poked around and tried to see behind the curtain. Most simply seem content to throw out the basic known facts— the who, what, when, and where— but stop when it comes to asking why. And certainly none of them have deigned to dig deeper.

  In this day and age, more information than you can possibly ever use in one lifetime is available with just a few keystrokes. And yet, not one of our city’s esteemed reporters, those guardians of truth, had managed to connect five young women, roughly the same age, who looked almost identical.

  The latest victim’s name was Bethany Stoops. She was a twenty-six-year-old software engineer who was born in Portland but had moved to Seattle, where she attended UW, earned her bachelor’s degree, and was recruited to work for a tech startup that’s done very well. Those are the basics that are being regurgitated in all of the local rags.

  But then I freeze when I run across a site called the Seattle Dispatch; my picture is emblazoned all over a piece that was published less than an hour ago. In the photo, I’m leaning close to TJ, and if you were to take it out of context— which the Dispatch does— it looks like we’re conferring. Or conspiring. The headline above the photo reads, “SPD Brings In Famed Serial Killer Hunter Arrington.”

  I feel my gut churn, knowing that, although it’s wildly out of context, how much this is going to complicate things. Gray did technically bring me in, but that’s not why I was there, and if this is the story they’re going to run with, it’s just going to be a massive headache in solving this case. I don’t even bother reading the article since I’m sure it’s every bit as fabricated as the headline.

  I take a sip of my coffee and glance at my watch. I want to update Marcus on what we’ve found out so far but I’m dreading it. For one thing, we don’t have much to go on just yet, but for another, I hate the idea of telling him that his daughter was the victim of another serial killer. But I need to suck it up and check in with him. The last thing I want is for him to find out because of a glorified blog.

  I take another drink and am just setting the mug back down, still scrolling through the news, when a young woman drops down into the seat across from me. I look up at her, surprised by the brazenness of a total stranger to take a seat at my table when there are plenty of other open and available seats.

  I’m just about to express my displeasure but stop and hold my tongue. She’s looking back at me with a small smirk on her lips. She’s young. Looks to be in her late twenties to early 30s is probably about five-two, and all of a hundred pounds, soaking wet. All sorts of tattoos, mostly black and white but a few in color, cover her arms and shoulders, and she’s got a piercing in her right eyebrow. She’s got shoulder-length dark hair cut in a bob with a vibrant purple streak, pulled back into a tight ponytail, and sharp brown eyes.

  I recognize her instantly as one of the faces in the crowd at the park yesterday. She was one of the looky-loos standing at the tape. But why is she now sitting at my table?

  “Paxton Arrington,” she greets me.

  “You a bill collector?”

  She cocks her head, a strange expression crossing her face. “No.”

  “Process server?”

  “What? No?”

  “Journalist?”

  She nods, a broad smile stretching her lips. “Yes. Marcy Bryant—”

  “The only thing worse is a lawyer,” I mutter. “You can go now.”

  She doesn’t move. Instead, she folds her hands on the table in front of her and tries to stare me down. A neat trick for somebody who has to crane her head up to look at me. But I see a stubborn determination in her eyes.

  “I have questions,” she states.

  “I don’t have answers for you,” I respond. “Now leave so I can enjoy my coffee in peace.”

  “Did the cops bring you in on this case because of your success in tracking down Alvin Perry?”

  She asked her question as if I hadn’t just told her to leave, like the dogged and intrepid reporter she thinks she is. I have to admire her spirit.

  “They didn’t bring me in on anything,” I tell her.

  “Then why were you at the crime scene yesterday?”

  “I always take a nice walk in the morning,” I respond. “I find it helps to get the bowels flowing properly. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “And you’re annoying,” I shoot back. “Last chance. Leave me alone, or I’ll drag you outside and toss you in the street.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Try me.”

  She smirks. “You posture like you’re this tough guy, unaffected by the world around you,” she says. “But I know the truth. I know all about you, Paxton Arrington.”

  This time it’s my turn to smirk. A corner of my mouth curls upward, and I lean forward, holding her with my gaze, my expression hard.

  “Nobody knows all about me,” I tell her
. “You may know the basics about me, the things printed in the press, but you don’t know what makes me tick. You don’t know me. So, you don’t really know if I’d toss you out on the street or not. If anybody is posturing here, it would be you.”

  I sit back, and she looks disquieted for a moment. She’s probably not used to being pushed back on like that. The girl is brash and bold and can probably bully people into folding when she presses on them. That’s how reporters tend to operate. But I’m not like most people. I don’t fold.

  She quickly gathers herself and regains her composure. She glances around the coffee house, perhaps making sure nobody is listening. Probably worried about some other reporter, undercover, looking to scoop her; journalists and lawyers are the only species I know who are more territorial than cops.

  “You’re here because this is the fifth victim, aren’t you?” she presses, lowering her voice, speaking almost conspiratorially. “And the police are looking to you to help them figure it out.”

  “Five?” I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there were five victims. Where did you get that?”

  “I have sources too,” she snaps. “And you should really work on your lying. You kind of suck at it.”

  “Yeah well, I’m not a journalist, so I never acquired a talent for it. As far as your assumptions go, that’s all they are. Assumptions,” I respond.

  It’s her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Wow. What journalist hurt you?”

  I ignore it. “If you actually knew the first thing about me, you’d know I wouldn’t help the SPD with anything. But I wouldn’t expect a second-rate hack to know that.”

  She grins and shakes her head. “A bad liar and worse a stick up your behind. Are you always this much of a jerk, rich boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder the SPD fired you.”

  I stare at her for a moment in quiet disbelief. I don’t know how she knows that I got fired. My personnel file is sealed, and they can’t legally divulge that information. Which means that this little slip of a thing in front of me is apparently fairly well connected after all.

  “Who did you say you’re with?” I ask.

  “Seattle Dispatch,” she replies.

  A wry grin crosses my lips, and I run a hand through my hair. Of course she is.

  “Saw your piece online,” I say.

  “Yeah? What did you think?”

  “Didn’t read it,” I spit. “I don’t usually waste my time with garbage blogs that do nothing more than spout opinions and assumptions, rather than take the time to get the actual facts.”

  She draws herself up to her full height, a look of righteous indignation on her face, and I can tell this is the part of the program where she’s going to list off her blog’s achievements.

  “It’s not a blogger. I’m an independent journalist,” she says defensively. “And I’ll have you know, the Dispatch has been given the Best Citizen Journalist Award by Seattle Online three years running. And we have a readership of more than five hundred thousand a month.”

  Sometimes, I hate being right all the time.

  “Good for you,” I roll my eyes.

  I’m guessing she’s inflating her numbers, as most people do, by at least half. But even still, if she has a monthly readership of two hundred and fifty thousand, that’s very impressive. With a circulation like that, maybe the Intelligencer would still be around.

  I know the world is changing, and the traditional way we ingest news is changing along with it. I see it enough with Archton, my family’s media company. And I know that more and more, people like Marcy Bryant are breaking into the industry by doing what she’s doing— being an independent journalist.

  I can’t be mad at her for trying to blaze her own trail or trying to build her own future. Rather than wait for the gatekeepers to grant her access to their little fiefdom, she’s kicking in the doors and inviting herself in. I actually have a lot of respect for her. It makes me think of Veronica, who pretty much did the same thing.

  But the fact that she knows this is the fifth killing in the series when no other reporter in the city has put it together makes me take notice. I don’t know how she got her information since Gray, and the SPD have blacked this out. It tells me she’s got good sources and has terrific instincts. That she’s able to see beyond the simple box of what’s presented and make some sound logical leaps, and that’s something that can’t be ignored.

  That’s the sort of person who could be a good source of intel and a good ally.

  “Now, are you going to answer my questions or not, Arrington?”

  I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Listen, we are completely off the record here. But I’m being straight up with you,” I tell her, striking a more conciliatory tone. “I’m really not working with the cops on this one. I’m looking into the murder of Stella Hughes, on behalf of her father. And yeah, I know Bethany Stoops is number five.”

  She purses her lips and sits back in her seat, a look of satisfaction on her face as I confirm her theory that there is another serial killer running loose in Seattle. That look of triumph quickly fades though, morphing into one of horror.

  “Also, you tying me to the SPD is going to jam me up,” I continue. “The SPD is going to come down hard on me for you making assumptions. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they came down on you for it too.”

  “Oh, whatever. Won’t be the first time they tried to intimidate me unsuccessfully,” she shrugs. “If they’re not doing their jobs, that’s on them. In the meantime, it’s my job to hold their feet to the fire.”

  I grin. “Yeah, they don’t really like that… being held accountable.”

  She laughs softly, and we both fall silent for a long moment. This girl is tough. Strong. Independent minded. I can tell she’s a rule breaker. The kind of person Veronica would say “colors outside the lines.” That’s exactly how Veronica was, and despite my best effort, I can’t help but feel a small spark of kinship with her.

  “So, what is it you’re really doing here?” I ask her. “What is it you want from me?”

  “Aside from getting you to confirm the information I have, I wanted to propose a partnership,” she says. “Of sorts.”

  “A partnership?”

  She nods. “Yeah. An ongoing information exchange.”

  I laugh softly. “Ninety-nine percent of my business is chasing down cheating spouses,” I say. “You really want that sort of tabloid gossip? I thought you were all hardcore citizen journalism.”

  She sighs dramatically. “People love the tabloid gossip. They want somebody else’s misery to make themselves feel better about their own lives. Sadly, that ups my readership, which in turn ups ad revenue and brings eyeballs to the stories that really matter. I’m not crazy about it, but it allows me to pursue my passion,” she explains. “Have you seen the state of the journalism industry lately? You gotta do what you can to stay in the game, or you’re history. Finished. And if gossip is what it takes to lure people in, then gossip it is.”

  I nod. “That’s true. You’ve got to hustle.”

  “What would you know about that, rich boy? The closest you’ve come to hustling is hiring somebody to do it for you,” she says with perhaps— hopefully— more bite in her voice than she really means. “But I will say that I’ve never sold out. I never have, nor would I ever, sacrifice my integrity. And I’m hoping that maybe, just maybe, the work I do can start to make a difference.”

  I grin. I may not know about having to hustle personally, but when I met Veronica, she was all about that, and so, I learned from her. It’s yet another bond being forged between Marcy and me.

  “So far, this seems like a pretty one-sided information exchange,” I tell her. “What would I be getting out of this arrangement?”

  “I’ve got my ear to the ground and the pulse of the city,” she says. “I can feed you information about almost anything you’re working on.”

  “Think so?”

  She
nods confidently. “I know so.”

  “Let me just say upfront, if I agree to this, whatever I tell you is strictly confidential. My name will never appear in the Dispatch,” I state.

  “That’s a deal. I have never, nor will ever reveal a source,” she replies, and I believe her.

  “One more condition.”

  “Shoot,” she says.

  “You take down that article you posted this morning and fix it,” I reply. “I want my name stripped out of it, along with the references that I’m working with the SPD on this case.”

  “Done,” she nods. “But I should tell you, once it’s on the Internet, it’s forever. I can delete and change the piece, but somebody will have the original.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “Then I’ll make sure it’s done,” she replies. “So, do we have a partnership?”

  “A very discreet one.”

  Marcy claps her hands, looking pleased with herself. The fact is, it costs me nothing to give her the info on shady spouses. I feed her the name, she calls the offended party and sets up an interview. Or she doesn’t get an interview at all. But in my experience, angry, bitter soon-to-be divorcees will be very likely to speak. And I’m sure they’ll make for some scintillating reading in the Dispatch.

  On the plus side for me is that with her contacts, I assume inside the SPD, when I’m working a job, she’ll have generated some leads for me that I can use. Like I said, she seems pretty well connected, so when I’m working a case that actually matters, having that source of intel could be invaluable.

  Twenty-One

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  “You trust this girl… what’s her name again?” Brody asks.

  “Marcy. Marcy Bryant,” I reply. “And actually, yeah. Kind of. I mean, she’s definitely got her own agenda, but she seems solid to me. I got a good vibe from her.”