A Wife's Secret (A Pax Arrington Mystery Book 4)

by Elle Gray

  I grin at him. “Fine. But you’re a close second.”

  He drains the last of his coffee and nods. “We’re going to get through this. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I now. “Yeah. It’ll all be okay,” I echo him. “We’re going to find out who murdered Veronica and we’re going to take them out.”

  “Take them out?” he asks worriedly. “You’re not talking about—”

  “I’m just saying, we need to figure out who these people are before we decide anything,” I say, doing my best to not sound like a man who wants to kill somebody. “I just want to get justice for Veronica and Brian.”

  “Fair enough,” Brody says. “But let me just say, I don’t dig the idea of my best friend going to prison for life for killing somebody in cold blood.”

  I give him a grin. “I’ll do my best to restrain myself.”

  “Yeah, you should probably do that.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The case is definitely picking up momentum now, and even though we’re just in the beginning stages, things are already getting dicey. That tells me there are important, powerful people behind the curtain pulling the strings. Nothing about this reads like a simple organized crime mob boss to me. They’re more straightforward and will simply walk up and shoot you in the face.

  No, the subterfuge, surveillance, and cat-and-mouse games they’re playing read like something else. Something worse. Something I really need to worry about. And something I need to find a way to get in front of. We’re playing a game here, but they’re two moves ahead of me and have been from the jump. I need to find some way to change that up and level out this playing field.

  “Hey, I changed my mind. Leave the bugs where they are,” I say. “Just be sure you don’t mention anything about this case in the office. When we need to talk, we’ll find neutral ground. Preferably some place any tails will stand out.”

  “You got an idea?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Or at least the beginning of one,” I answer as a million thoughts race through my mind.

  Thirteen

  The Jade Panda Restaurant; Chinatown-International District, Seattle

  The address hidden in the code Brody gave me led me to the Jade Panda. It’s a venerable old restaurant. One of the oldest in Chinatown, in fact. It’s also owned by one of the most ruthless crime lords in the history of Seattle—Huan Zhao, otherwise known as Fish. I have no idea what Veronica’s business here was. I had no idea she knew the man. It was something she never mentioned to me. Of course, she might have failed to tell me because she knew what my reaction would be. For that, I suppose I can’t blame her.

  I’ve heard Blake talk about Fish before. She seems strangely fond of the man. It’s something I find utterly perplexing, given the fact that she’s a federal agent and he’s one of the biggest crime lords in the city. Fish built his fortune from the blood of others. I know he’s assisted her on a few cases over her career, but the whole thing seems pretty self-serving to me, given that she took out some of his biggest competitors. But I know firsthand in law enforcement, you sometimes have to make deals with the devil.

  Blake seems to think he’s a decent man. She believes that he’s going legit. I suppose if you were to judge only by what’s in the papers, he seems to be going that way. But I look at more than puff pieces in the newspaper. Although he’s divesting himself from a lot of his illegitimate operations, there are quite a few he’s hanging onto that might be best described as morally questionable. While it seems to be true that he’s gotten out of running drugs, extortion, and contraband weapons, I know for a fact he still runs a few illegal gambling spots and brothels.

  So, the truth of things is that Fish is going legitimate-ish. Legit-lite, if you prefer. I admit, I’ve never met the man and know his reputation only by what I’ve seen in the papers and in the bloody crime scenes he’s left behind, so I may be biased. I’ve seen his handiwork up close. I’ve seen what he does to rivals and those who betray him. Although he never made it a habit to hang severed heads from freeway overpasses, Fish can be every bit as brutal as the cartels in Mexico. I suppose it’s necessary to hold onto power the way he does.

  Blake is taken with his story, though. She’s fascinated by the fact that Fish emigrated here as a child, worked the docks as a fishmonger, and educated himself. By all accounts, he’s a highly educated man, which I admit is impressive. He built his empire from the docks and still has a stranglehold on the city—although other ethnic crime families have since moved in and carved out their small slices of the pie. Blake sees his rags-to-riches story as something to be impressed by and believes he’s reforming himself. I trust her judgment, I really do. I just can’t get past the fact that on his rise to power, he’s left a mountain of bodies as high as Mt. Rainier. It’s something I can’t unsee no matter how hard I try. The notion of rehabilitation, to me, is the stuff of fantasy.

  None of that matters right now, though. The only thing that does is finding out what my wife’s business with him was. It wouldn’t be the first time Veronica befriended a less-than-savory character. I’m coming to find out that she seemed to make a habit of it. Some people befriend stray dogs and cats. Veronica seemed to go out of her way to befriend criminals and shady figures. Not that she didn’t have a soft spot for dogs and cats too.

  But she never failed to see the best in people—even if those people are responsible for a pile of murders. Like Blake, she truly did believe in the notion of rehabilitation and people being able to cast off a checkered past and make something new—and better—of themselves. It was probably the time I spent with the SPD that soured me on the idea. I’ve seen too many of the horrible things people do to each other to think they can change.

  But then again, I changed—and markedly so—from her influence. So maybe there’s something to that theory that even I don’t want to admit to myself.

  I stand in the parking lot across the street from the restaurant. It’s a two-story, mixed-use structure—restaurant on the bottom floor, what looks like offices on the second story. The exterior is painted a vibrant yellow and large smoked plate glass windows line the front, looking out onto the street. It looks clean and well kept, and I have to admit, the aromas wafting from it are making my mouth water. If the food is half as good as it smells, I can understand why this place has been around so long.

  Knowing I’m not going to get any of the answers I’m looking for standing on the sidewalk, I cross the street and step inside and walk to the hostess stand. There isn’t anybody there, so I wait. The interior of the restaurant is as pristine as the outside. The walls to the left and right are sectioned off into booths while the middle of the restaurant is filled with tables, just before a pair of swinging doors in the far wall that lead back to the kitchen.

  The restaurant is done in light woods with a lot of green bamboo everywhere. The carpet is light green and designed to look like palm fronds. White tablecloths cover all the tables, and each one has a small centerpiece with a tealight candle on it. The waitstaff is dressed in black slacks, white shirts, black bowties, and white waist aprons. The restaurant is about half full, which isn’t bad considering this is the post-lunch hour. I guess that speaks to how good the food is. I make a mental note to place a to-go order before I leave.

  A small Asian woman with straight dark hair, an olive-colored complexion, and dark, almond-shaped eyes approaches me with a warm smile on her face. She has a youthful appearance, but as I look closer, I see flecks of gray in her hair, making me think she’s older than I first thought.

  “Just one?” she asks, her voice lightly accented.

  “Yes. I mean, I need to ask for special 3C,” I say, cringing at how stupid that sounds coming out of my mouth.

  The smile on her face falters. “Special 3C?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  The woman looks me up and down for a moment as if she’s trying to decide something in her own mind. But the smile returns, and she nods.r />
  “Please, follow me,” she says.

  She turns and walks away from the hostess stand, so I fall in behind her. She leads me through the dining room, pushing through the double doors and into the kitchen. It’s like a sauna back there. Beads of sweat form on my skin almost immediately, making my shirt stick to me uncomfortably. But the aroma of a hundred different spices fills the air, driving out the feelings of discomfort and makes my stomach rumble—my body chastising me for skipping breakfast this morning. I catch the side-eyes and curious glances from the cooks and dishwashers we pass.

  The woman opens the walk-in refrigerator and holds the door open for me. I look at her questioningly, but she gestures for me to follow her inside, so I do, letting the door swing closed behind us. There are four rows of shelves inside the walk-in, all of them filled with meats, fish, vegetables, and noodles. It’s so cold inside I can see my breath, so this is obviously a very well-functioning refrigeration unit.

  The woman walks down the aisle between the racks of shelves. On the rear wall is a box that looks like an electronic thermostat. She punches in a code on the buttons and a moment later, I hear a loud clunking sound from the wall. The rear wall of the refrigerator swings open an inch or so and she pushes it the rest of the way. I follow her out and find myself standing before a staircase. The woman looks at me and points to a red button on the wall beside the door we just walked through.

  “When you’re ready to leave, push this button and I’ll come retrieve you,” she says and hands me a key. “Your room is 3C.”

  “My room?”

  She gestures to the stairs. “Up there.”

  Before I can ask any more questions, the woman disappears back into the refrigeration unit and closes the door behind her with a loud thud that reminds me of a prison cell door slamming shut. I look at the key in my hand and feel the waves of disbelief mingled with an intense curiosity washing over me.

  “Well, I didn’t come all this way just to turn around and go home,” I mutter.

  I climb the stairs and walk down the hallway the landing opens up to. The wooden floor beneath my feet creaks and groans as I walk. The walls are all stark white and the doors on both sides of the corridor are painted a vivid shade of red. There are six doors in all, three on each side of the short hallway. It doesn’t take me long to find the one marked 3C. With a small flutter in the pit of my stomach, I unlock the door and step inside, then pause at the threshold for a moment, taking a minute to absorb what I’m seeing.

  “What in the hell?” I whisper.

  It’s a one-room studio apartment. I take a cautious look left and right before stepping inside and closing the door behind me. There’s a door to a small bathroom to my left and in front of me are three large smoked windows that look out onto the street, making it difficult for anybody to see inside. On the wall to my right is a six-drawer dresser made of light wood with a flatscreen TV sitting on top, and a large Persian rug sits in the middle of the hardwood floor.

  On the wall the bathroom door is set into, sits a long, wooden table. There is a laptop set up at the head—Veronica’s workstation. Right next to the laptop is a small framed photograph. From this angle, I can’t see what it is, but when I step forward, my heart jumps to my throat.

  It’s of me and Veronica on our wedding day. Not just a posed, professional shot of us gazing lovingly at each other, either. It’s a candid shot from the reception. We’re both holding champagne glasses and holding each other tight as we sit on a bench together. My arm is around her shoulder and my head is thrown back in laughter. Her expression matches mine: her eyes are closed and her smile is wide as she clutches my chest and rests her head on my shoulder, both of us clearly in a fit of hysterics—probably over something silly Brody said.

  The fact that she has this here, at her workstation in her private, secret studio, sends a ripple of agony through me. That she would think to have this picture here with her, a reminder of us, touches me in a way I didn’t know I could feel. There’s something in that small gesture that moves me—and makes me miss her even more.

  I place the frame back down, clear my throat, and glance around the room, giving myself a minute to get my emotions back under control. In the corner stands a large white board with pictures and papers taped to it with handwritten notes beneath many of them. I stare at the feminine handwriting—Veronica’s handwriting—and feel that pang of loss that’s always with me—a pang of loss that feels infinitely worse right now. I push the emotions away, though. I can’t afford them right now. I need to keep my head and my wits about me.

  Stacks of papers, overfilled binders, and more pictures sit on the table, arranged in neat, orderly piles. As I step over to the table, I see the fine layer of dust that’s collected over everything. Nobody’s been in here for a while. Probably not in the five years since Veronica died. I quickly peruse the papers and note that some of them are duplicates of what I saw in the safe deposit box. Same with some of the pictures. But there is a whole bunch of material I’ve never seen before.

  On a low table next to the whiteboard is a small photocopier, which makes me think as Veronica progressed through her investigation, she was copying key documents and stashing them in the safe deposit box. A likely safeguard in case this place was ever compromised. The thought brings a small, nostalgic smile to my lips. That’s my Veronica… always prepared. She never left anything to chance and always made backups of everything.

  I need to get everything out of here. Quickly. The killers have the email and it’s only a matter of time before they crack the code which will lead them here. I have no idea what will happen when they try to order special 3C. The hostess knows I’m up here, but will she admit somebody else as long as they know the right password? Or will she turn them away? And if she turns them away, what will they do? They don’t strike me as guys who take no for an answer all that well.

  No, the best thing I can do is get this place packed up and get out of here. There are a few empty banker’s boxes against the wall. They’re likely what Veronica hauled all this stuff in, and as I pack it all up, I reflect on the idea that there is a whole section of Veronica’s life I knew nothing about. She kept this secret here and I was none the wiser about it. I know it’s not a bad thing—what she was doing here was obviously work.

  But it makes me sad to know she never felt like she could talk to me about this. Not the story she was working on. I get the need for secrecy, and I don’t begrudge her that one bit. It’s that she was renting a private space from Fish. I mean, if she needed a private space, we could have rented her a studio from a reputable landlord. She didn’t have to keep this a secret from me. I would have given her anything she needed.

  But even as the thought crosses my mind, I realize it would never have worked. She only kept this place from me to keep me safe. She knew how dangerous this case is and how radioactive everything in this studio is. Veronica knew what these people were capable of and rented this space to keep me out of the loop entirely. She wanted to protect me. It’s a thought that makes me smile, but also makes that pang of loss even more profound. She did everything she could to keep me safe, but when it came down to it, I wasn’t able to do the same for her.

  As I pick up the picture she kept and put it in the box, I hear the creak of the floorboard outside in the hall. I stop what I’m doing and hold my breath, straining my ears to listen. There’s another creak and a furtive footstep. If it were one of the other people who rent one of these studios from Fish, I really doubt they’d be sneaking down the hallway like this. As quietly as I can, I move to the wall beside the front door and press myself flat up against it. A long minute passes by and the only sound I hear is my heartbeat hammering loudly in my ears.

  “Mr. Arrington. We know you’re in there,” comes a muffled voice through the door. “We don’t want no trouble, so how about you come on out and let’s talk, huh?”

  “Well, crap,” I mutter to myself.

  Fourteen

  Th
e Jade Panda Restaurant, Unit 3C; Chinatown-International District, Seattle

  “How about you guys go away?” I call out from behind the door.

  “I think you know we can’t do that.”

  “Sure, you can,” I reply. “We were all given free will.”

  “Mr. Arrington, let’s just talk. Open the door and let’s have us a conversation.”

  I stay where I am, pressed flat up against the wall, weighing my options. Bitter realization sinks in that I have startlingly few. I silently curse myself for not bringing my gun with me and quickly scan the room, looking for something I can use as a weapon. Other than a chair and some dry erase markers, I’m pretty well out of luck as far as weapons go. Which means I’m going to have to bare-knuckle fight my way out of this one too.

  “Awesome,” I mutter to myself.

  They don’t even give me time to game plan that out though, as the door bursts inward in a hail of broken wood and shattered hinges. Two men in black rush in fast and low, guns in hand. I step forward and grab hold of the second man. I slip in behind him and grab his wrist, twisting it awkwardly to make him drop his gun, then get my arm around his neck and squeeze as tight as I can. He sputters and curses, writhing and thrashing in my grip, but I hold him tighter, keeping the pressure on. The first man wheels around, his gun raised, and I keep as close to the man I’m holding as I can, using him as a human shield.

  “Drop it or I’m going to snap his neck,” I growl.

  The man doesn’t move a muscle. He stares at me balefully, keeping his gun pointed in my direction. His hand doesn’t waver. It’s as steady as his gaze. I know I’m in trouble. They’re not the same guys who hit me in the parking garage, but they’re cut from the same cloth, which tells me I’m in even more trouble than I thought. Whoever is behind all this has a private army at their disposal.

  “Let him go,” the man growls, his voice colored by a faint southern accent.