by Elle Gray
That costs me nothing to tell him. But there are definitely limits to what I’m going to tell him. Especially with him coming off like this. I can’t afford to tell him too much simply because I don’t want him interfering with my investigation. I can’t have anybody in my way.
“Why did he send it to you?” Lee asks.
I shrug. “Probably because he doesn’t have any friends,” I speculate. “He did some work for Veronica back in the day and… I don’t know. Maybe he felt like we were connected because of her or something.”
“What sort of work did he do for her?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
I am really not liking this new and improved version of Lee. He’s always been a rigid, rule-following Boy Scout. He’s had a stick up his backside for as long as I’ve known him. But he’s never acted like this big of a tool before. The crown on his head must be infecting him with a serious case of douchebaggery, and it’s annoying me.
“Can’t, because I don’t know the specifics,” I tell him through gritted teeth. “But even if I did, I still wouldn’t tell you. It had to do with a story she was working on and thus, is none of your business.”
Lee clenches his jaw as he stares at me. I can see the wheels in his head turning as he’s trying to think up some legal justification for dragging me in. He’s become different since getting a seat at the big table. A lot different. But it’s not hard to figure out why.
“You’re really working hard to get that interim label removed, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Whether they name me the permanent deputy chief or not isn’t my call. Therefore, it’s not my concern,” he replies. “But as long as I’m sitting in that chair, I’m going to make some changes. Torres left our reputation in the toilet, so it’s incumbent upon me to repair our image as well as the public trust. So, things moving forward will be different.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“First of all, we won’t be sharing information with you anymore, Pax,” he says. “You’re a civilian and thus, not entitled to the materials we develop throughout our investigations. I’m sorry, but the days of cooperation are over. There’s too much of a chance of corruption stemming from that sort of relationship.”
“Corruption? From me?” I scoff. “That’s funny.”
“Not necessarily from you. But from others,” he says. “I have to plug the leaks in the boat and unfortunately, you’re one of them. Exceptions can’t be made, Paxton. If I make one for you, I have to make them for everybody—”
“Not everything is so black and white,” I counter. “Nothing should ever be so absolute, because you never know when taking that sort of hardline stance will come back and bite you in the butt, man.”
He shrugs and spreads his hands out in front of him. “It is what it is, Pax. And right now, this is the way forward for the SPD,” he says. “There’s a lot riding on the line here. For me and for the department as a whole. I’ve been tasked with cleaning it up, and that’s what I intend to do. It’s nothing personal.”
“No? The way you came at me seemed kind of personal,” I respond. “But I get it. Do what you have to do. No hard feelings.”
I turn and walk away before he can reply, heading for my car. Lee is a good cop and I know his intentions are good. He’s a true believer in the SPD’s mission statement. He genuinely wants to clean up the department, the city, and do some good in the world. What he doesn’t seem to know, though, is that he’s a bait fish and he’s swimming with sharks. Torres wasn’t the only corrupt one in the department and he’s going to have a hard time rooting them all out. Cops who are used to the income their extracurricular activities are netting them aren’t going to take kindly to a crusader coming in and trying to take that away from them.
Lee’s going to find himself in over his head before too long. But that’s not my problem to deal with. I’ve got enough on my plate as is, and it’s not like I’m relying on the SPD to help me figure out who killed Veronica—or for anything else for that matter. Never have and never will.
As it is with most things, I’m better off doing it myself.
Seven
Arrington Residence; Wilton House Condominiums, Downtown Seattle
I pull a beer out of the refrigerator and wander around the condo as the afternoon light outside wanes. Standing at the windows, I look out over the city and try to put some order to my thoughts. Things are already in motion; I feel like I’m running to try and catch up. In a way, it’s gratifying to know that my intuition has been right all along. Veronica was murdered. It’s not only in my head. It’s not me trying to rationalize what happened or make up some story to help me cope with her loss. It really happened.
There really is a conspiracy behind her death. Somebody knows what happened. Somebody ordered her death. And while I don’t necessarily have proof right now, the fact that Takahashi is trying to put me on the right track from beyond the grave has me sends a new surge of confidence through me. I feel it sparking like goosebumps on my arms that I’m going to find her killers. There’s still a lot of work to do and a lot of unknown danger out there, but for the first time since Veronica died, I feel like the answers are within my grasp.
But how do I get there from here? What is the direction to get from point A to point B? Takahashi gave me a couple of breadcrumbs to follow, but they’re vague, to say the least. Okay, so I have the address—6471 Walker Street. Brody already looked it up. It’s the Emerald Bay Loan and Trust. That’s where I need to start. I drain the last of my beer as I walk into the kitchen then throw the bottle away. I open the refrigerator and am just about to pull out another bottle but pause and frown.
“No, this is definitely a job for scotch,” I decide.
Closing the refrigerator door, I walk into the living room and over to the sideboard. I grab the sixteen-year-old bottle of Lagavulin and a tumbler then head to Veronica’s office. I set the bottle and glass down on her desk and pour myself a couple of fingers’ worth of the amber liquid. Sitting down at her desk and booting up her laptop, I set the bottle down and pick up the tumbler, taking a sip of it. I close my eyes and savor the taste as well as the burn of it sliding down my throat. It’s a very fine drink.
The home page comes up and her background is a picture of us out on a whale-watching cruise we took about six months before she died. We’re bundled up in scarves and beanies on the bow of the boat and behind us, a humpback whale is breaching the surface, trailing water from it as it leaps into the sky. It’s a perfect picture on what had been a perfect day. A tremulous smile touches my lips as I look at the photo for the first time in a long time and recall what a special day that was. My God, I miss her.
Tearing my eyes from the picture, I take a swallow of my scotch and call up a search engine on her laptop. When the search box is ready, I plug in the address from Takahashi’s email—6471 Walker Street—and hit enter. A moment later, the search result for the Emerald Bay Loan & Trust comes up. I stare at it, studying the pictures of the building, but nothing of note comes to mind. It’s a building.
“So we know it’s the bank,” I say. “All right.”
If Takahashi is telling me to go to a bank, then the second number in that letter—1432D—is probably a safe deposit box. That would make sense, especially given that Takahashi said I needed a key. Or rather, that I already had a key. That’s the part that trips me up, though. I don’t have a key. Veronica never mentioned taking a box out, nor did she mention anything about a key to me. Takahashi must have assumed she had, which leaves me with absolutely nothing.
I can go to the bank tomorrow and try to plead my case but if Veronica had rented a safe deposit box in secret, there’s not going to be much I can do to access it without a key. But then, another thought strikes me. If she hadn’t made provisions for me to be able to access the box if something happened to her, Veronica probably wouldn’t have directed Takahashi to point me to it. But there is still the issue with the k
ey—the key I don’t have.
I suppose if it comes down to it and Veronica really had made provisions for me to have access to the box, if I don’t have the key, they’ll likely be able to drill it open. It’s going to cost me a bit to have them do it, but I’m relatively sure I can be done. It would just make it a whole lot easier and cut through all the red tape if I hate this key Takahashi mentioned.
I drain my glass and refill it, then start looking through the drawers in Veronica’s desk. I take everything out and look through every sheet of paper I can get my hands on, looking for any sort of clue as to where that bloody key is going to be. I check all six drawers thoroughly, opening every box, reading through every scrap of paper, and scanning her contacts book intently. Of course, I’ve already looked through this stuff a thousand times over the years. I don’t see anything. No clues, no hints, no—nothing. Next, I go through everything in her filing cabinets, her credenza, her bookcases, and then go through her computer again just for good measure. I come up completely empty. Veronica’s office is the very definition of a dry hole.
I collapse into her chair again and refill my glass. I pivot back and forth as I sip, letting my brain work the problem. There has to be a solution here. If Veronica had intended for me to have that key, she would have left me something to point me to it. But she was being so careful about everything she was doing regarding her final case, it’s not going to be obvious. There isn’t going to be a bright neon sign pointing to it saying, “Key Is Here.” But she would have left me a clue somewhere.
I lean back and take a sip of my drink, my eyes falling on the picture of her and Olivia once more. Her eyes, even in a picture, held such life and joy in them, it nearly took my breath away.
“Talk to me, Veronica. I’m at a loss here,” I say. “Where did you hide the key to this safe deposit box?”
She doesn’t answer me, of course. Not that I thought she would, but there is honestly very little I wouldn’t give in this world to hear her voice one more time. Sure, I have recordings and videos and whatnot, and those bring me some small sense of comfort. But it’s not the same as hearing her voice in my ear. It can never recapture the way her face lit up and her nose crinkled when she laughed. A recording of her voice on my phone can never replace hearing her wild, warbling voice when she danced around the condo, singing out loud like a loon.
Veronica could do most anything she put her mind to and do it well. Singing, though, was not one of those things. It was still endearing as hell to me, though. I would cut off an arm right now for a chance to hear her rendition of any song she chose—which would bear very little resemblance to the original. But it would make me laugh and make me love her even more every single time she put on an impromptu karaoke session.
Those are all great memories, but they don’t get me a single step closer to finding the damn key. I don’t know what’s in the box, but it has to be important. Critical. I have to think it’s going to help lead me straight to her killers and help me put her to rest. Maybe then I’ll be able to rest myself and move on with my life. Maybe.
As I pivot back and forth in her chair, sipping my scotch and staring at her photo, I rack my brain, trying to figure out where she might have stashed it. I tip my head back and drain my second glass, feeling the warmth in my belly spread outward. With my eyes raised, I happen to see a vase with a bouquet of silk flowers sitting on the top of her bookcase. The colors on the petals are fading, but that’s not what draws my attention. It’s the symbol on the front of the vase.
“Veronica, you are brilliant. Brilliant,” I say as I get to my feet. “Thank you.”
I set the tumbler down on her desk and reach up, pulling the blue and white vase down. I trace my fingertips over the design on the front of it. It’s the same design that was on the bottom of Takahashi’s email. With a flutter churning my belly, I pull the flowers out and set them down on the desk, then turn the vase over. The metal key clinks against the porcelain, then falls into my hand. A smile touches my lips as I see the number 1432D etched into the head of the key.
As I clutch the key in my hand, I feel a white-hot bolt of excitement course through my every nerve ending. My entire body shakes as I contemplate what this means. This is the first step toward having solid evidence that proves who killed my wife. Solid evidence that will bring her murderers to justice.
I can’t deny that as I clutch that key, knowing I’m on the brink of breaking Veronica’s case open, that the desire for not justice, but vengeance, is weighing heavily on my mind. I admit, I’ve fantasized about having Veronica’s killers at the end of my gun. In those fantasies, I never once hesitated to pull the trigger. I’ve killed these faceless murderers a million times over in my mind and part of me thinks that when I’m face to face with them, that I might do it for real. That I might not go through legal channels to get justice for Veronica—and for Brian Takahashi now.
It’s street justice, sure. But it’s still a form of justice. And to be frank, I don’t know that I trust the SPD, even under new, more rigidly moral management as they are, to get the job done. Nor do I necessarily trust the legal system to get it right even if I do turn him over. It might be better if I take care of it myself. I can’t even begin to fathom the rage that would fill me if I brought her killers in only to see their case bungled or watch them get off on a technicality. I’ve always been a believer in the system, but this one is too personal and too important for me to trust anybody else with it. I may very well have to put these people down myself. And if I do, I doubt I’ll lose a wink of sleep over it.
Before I have to make that decision though, I’ve got a lot of work to do. This case is a Gordian knot in my head that I have to figure out how to unravel. But finally, after all this time, I’ve got the first piece of the puzzle. I hold the key tightly in my palm, look at the photo on the desk again, and smile.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “We’re going to solve this thanks to you.”
Eight
King County Correctional Facility; Seattle
“Are you here to gloat?” he glowers.
“Yeah, partly.”
Torres sits across the table from me in his standard-issue orange jumpsuit, courtesy of the Department of Corrections. He’s shackled at the wrist and the cuffs are attached to an eyebolt in the middle of the table, preventing him from getting frisky. He glares at me with a few days’ worth of stubble on his face, looking generally disheveled. There are dark bags beneath his eyes and his hair is in disarray. Torres looks like he hasn’t slept well since they hooked him up and threw him into a cell to await his arraignment.
And with things in the world being what they are today, that might be a little while. With all the politicians, lawyers, high-profile public figures, and business leaders ensnared by the fall of the Thirteen, the courts—what’s left of them, anyway—are full to the brim. Who knows when Torres is going to get in front of a judge?
“You know, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen you in anything but a uniform or a nicely tailored suit. But that orange is nice on you. Really makes your eyes pop,” I say, unable to hold back a chuckle.
“Yeah, go ahead and laugh it up. Get it all out, pendejo,” he hisses in return. “Because I got news for you—I’m going to beat this rap. And when I do, I’m going to rain hell down on both you and your little girlfriend. I guarantee you that.”
I smirk at him. “I admire your optimism, Deputy Chie—oh wait, I can’t call you that anymore, can I?” I taunt him. “Ricardo, then.”
“You will afford me the proper respect and courtesy—”
“Or I suppose I could always go with inmate number two-six-four-three-nine-delta,” I cut him off.
He sucks in a heavy, aggrieved breath. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “What’s not to enjoy?”
“I will get out of this.”
“That’ll be a neat trick,” I fire back. “They have video evidence, Ricardo. You’re done. I mean, really done
. You’re never getting out of here.”
“I guess we’ll see about that.”
“Yeah, I suppose we will,” I say.
“So, what do you want, Arrington?”
“I want to know if it was worth it.”
Torres leans back in his chair, the chains around his wrists jangling. He glares balefully at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching.
“Was what worth it?” he asks.
“Selling your soul,” I respond. “Selling out all of your principles. Was it all worth it?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, you were paid to undermine and eventually kill Blake,” I explain. “You were in the pocket of the Thirteen. Beholden to them. You looked the other way, covered things up, and did their bidding—all the things you’re going to prison for. So, yeah. I have a pretty good idea of what I’m talking about.”
“If you’re only here to give me crap, then we have nothing to talk about,” he huffs.
“No, it’s not the only reason I’m here,” I say. “I want to know if the Thirteen paid you to close the investigation into my wife’s death. Or did they order it? Did you—”
“No, I had nothing to do with your wife’s death, Arrington,” he snaps. “Nor did the Thirteen order me to close the investigation prematurely.”
Something about the way he said that triggers a warning bell in my mind. In my mind, it’s weasel words. By saying the Thirteen didn’t order him to do anything shady in regard to Veronica, he left the door open to somebody else coercing or bribing him to do it. At least, that’s what’s bouncing around in my mind right now.
“So, you’re telling me the SPD wasn’t involved in Veronica’s death,” I note. “And that you didn’t cover it up on anybody’s behalf. That right?”
“I’m telling you that the Thirteen didn’t ask me to do anything to your wife, have anything done to her, or cover anything else up involving her,” he says. “So far as I know, your wife and the Thirteen never crossed paths.”
