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

by Elle Gray

  Once we pulled it out, we plugged it into the laptop and found the drive contained two video files: one marked “watch me first,” and the second marked “Private for Pax.” We set it up and cast it to the video monitor on the wall of our makeshift war room. I grab the bottle of water and take a long swallow, doing anything I can to distract myself from the grief churning wildly inside of me.

  “I know you’re watching, so hi, Brody. I miss you too. You’re a good guy who always made me laugh. My biggest hope for you is that you’ll find yourself a good woman—and somebody who won’t take your crap. You deserve to be happy, Brody. I hope you find that,” she says, her smile wide and warm. “Also, do me a favor and keep an eye on my guy—our guy. I have a feeling he’s going to need to lean on you in the days and weeks ahead. But don’t let him feel sorry for himself too long. We know there’s nothing good down that path. Slap him around if you have to, but make him snap out of it. Please.”

  Brody looks away and I can see him fighting to control his own emotions. Marcy takes his hand and raises it to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles. She never knew Veronica, but I guess seeing our reaction is stirring her own emotions because her eyes are shimmering with tears.

  I focus on the recording and can tell by the background that she’s recording this from the secret room above Fish’s restaurant. I can’t imagine what must have been going through her mind as she made this recording, knowing she was taping a message I would see if she died. The fact that she was contemplating her own death as she recorded this, knowing what sort of heat she’d drawn down on herself… it must have been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. One of the most terrifying things. It makes my heart break for her.

  “I actually don’t know when you’re going to get this. So maybe all that has happened already. And if so, that’s great. And if you never have to see this, that would be even better. But I told Brian to deliver everything to you when the time was right in the event something happened to me. I wanted him to wait until the hornet’s nest we’d kicked died down and nobody was looking for him—or you,” Veronica explains. “I left that to his discretion. My hope is that when you see this, everything will be over already. My hope is that the balls I put in motion brought about the end of Lomtin Laboratories and their cancer drug Xytophyl, and you won’t have to get involved at all. But, just in case it hasn’t, and nothing has changed, there are some things you need to know.”

  There’s a pause as she consults some notes in front of her. She holds up the photo of Didrik Sjoberg I’ve become very familiar with.

  “This is Didrik Sjoberg. He’s the CEO of Lomtin Labs,” she says, then picks up the photo of Ethan Rogers. “This is Ethan Rogers. He’s the head of R&D at Lomtin and Sjoberg’s right-hand man. One of these two is guilty of murder, among a plethora of other things. And together, they’re responsible for flooding the market with a cancer drug that can be lethal and cause birth defects. They knew their drug had problems but they falsified records and pushed it through to market anyway. This was the story I was working on… well, I guess when I was killed.”

  I wipe the tears from my eyes and bite down on my tongue hard enough to taste blood in an attempt to choke back my emotions. Brody looks over at me and I can see the tears streaming down his face. He reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. I grip his hand in return as a lone tear spills from the corner of my eye and rolls down my cheek.

  “I was contacted by a whistleblower who told me what was going on. This person worked inside Lomtin, and when I started looking into it, my source went dark. I haven’t heard from her in weeks, and I’m convinced she’s dead. All I know is her first name—Marina,” Veronica says. “She told me the company was hot to bring Xytophyl to market but there were some problems with the clinical trials. Problems that could have denied the drug FDA approval and shelved it for good. But Sjoberg didn’t want to hear that. He was convinced the drug worked on cancer and believed the benefits outweighed the costs. The costs, of course, being human lives.”

  She pauses long enough to drink from a bottle of water, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts. While she does, all I can do is stare at her. My heart is turning somersaults in my chest. All I want to do is reach through that screen and take her in my arms. I want to hold her. If I’d known the day she died was going to be the last day I ever got to see her again, I might have held her a little bit longer. I would give anything to do that right now. As she stares back at me, her eyes boring into mine, I feel my heart swell with emotion so deep it nearly steals the breath from my lungs.

  “Marina told me the records for the clinical trials were falsified. She said there were four women she knew of who took part in the trials who had children born with horrible birth defects. None of them lived past four days after birth. I haven’t had time to run them all down yet, so all I have are their names: Emma Welsh, Judy Upton, Casey O’Toole, Monica Black,” Veronica goes on. “I don’t have proof to back these things up, but I’m sure they have it in the Lomtin building. Or you can try to contact the women whose children were affected by the drug. I don’t yet know who’s ultimately responsible for the falsified records. But if you can get your hands on the paperwork from the original trials, you’ll have your answer. Marina was looking for the originals and went dark before I could find out.”

  There is a pause as she looks away for a moment and appears to be gathering herself. It’s as if the weight of all she’s doing, all she’s done, and all she still has to do are pressing down on her. Veronica suddenly looks tired. Exhausted. I just want to pull her into my arms and let her rest. Let her sleep. She always called me her safe harbor in the crazy, stupid world, and I wish like hell I could give her peace right now.

  “I don’t expect you guys to pick this up where I’m apparently leaving off. This is my cause. And if you choose to let this go, you’ll get no judgment from me. I don’t expect you to go off on my crusade. Maybe it’s better that you don’t. But I know how you guys are,” she says. “So, if you do, please be careful. Whoever is doing this at Lomtin has a security force that’s not on their books—I looked. I don’t know who they are or what company they work for, but they’re not afraid to get rough. They’re not even afraid to kill. I’m sure it’s these goons who got Marina, and I’ve seen them watching me, which is why I’m making this tape. I can’t guarantee something isn’t going to happen to me. So, if you choose to pursue this, be careful. Please be careful.”

  There’s another pause as she picks up her bottle of water and takes a long swallow. I can see her hand trembling and she looks like she’s gone pale. It’s as if making this recording is taking all the strength and vitality out of her. I suppose that’s understandable. Knowing you’re making a recording as you’re facing your own death has to feel like a ten-thousand-pound weight on your shoulders.

  “Anyway, I guess that’s it,” she says with a wavering smile, trying to summon a bit of cheer. “If you’re watching this—and believe me, there’s a part of me that hopes you never have to—whatever you decide to do, be careful. These people are not playing around. Brody, remember what I said. Find a good woman and live a long, happy life. And Pax, there’s a second recording on this drive. That’s for you and you alone—sorry, Brody. Watch it when the time is right. I have a feeling you’ll know when that is. So, until I see you boys again, be safe and be happy. Love you both.”

  The screen goes dark as the recording ends. She’s gone again.

  Reading her words had been one thing, but seeing her face and hearing her voice bowls me over. It’s too much. I blink back the tears, but they overwhelm me. The wave of emotions that I’ve been fighting for days finally breaks, dashing me against the turbulent shore. I stand up, my chair clattering away from me, and take a few steps away to the corner.

  “Pax…” Marcy starts after me, but Brody holds her back. I think. I’m not really paying attention to them right now.

  I stand there facing the corne
r, my head in my hands, as the tears fall freely and sobs rack through me. I don’t cry, I’ve never been a crier, but I don’t care about that right now. All I can think about is how much my wife loved me.

  The memories flood back once more, each one like a new punch to the gut. The way her eyes lit up when she’d tell me about a story she was chasing. The way she smiled in the candlelight on a romantic evening. The way she’d playfully tease me when I felt out of sorts with her world.

  Buying our condo together and filling it with love.

  Holding hands as we discussed our future.

  Laughing on our wedding day.

  I don’t know how long I stand there silently weeping, but the feelings finally subside. I manage to catch my breath and get my head above water. I rub my face dry and look back at Brody and Marcy with bleary eyes.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Brody steps forward and hugs me tightly, and Marcy touches a light hand to my shoulder.

  “All good, man,” he says, clearly trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears himself.

  We break the hug and begin chuckling nervously, letting the emotion of the moment linger. I’m grateful to have such good friends. A profound silence descends over the room as the three of us sit and stare at the screen, each of us lost in our own thoughts. For me, I’m still trying to process it all. The cloak of grief that I’ve worn every day since Veronica’s death wraps itself around me even tighter, almost suffocating me. There’s a part of me that hopes it does squeeze the life out of me. I want to be with her again that badly.

  But I know there’s still work to do here. She may not necessarily want us to go on her crusade, but I fully intend to pick up where she left off and see this through. I want to bring those responsible not just for Veronica and Brian’s deaths, but the people who’ve suffered because of their drug to justice—in whatever form it takes. Sometimes, justice—true justice—isn’t dispensed from a courtroom. Sometimes true justice has to be doled out in a more savage and permanent fashion—by the people.

  Lawyers are paid to obfuscate and deceive. They twist and bend the law to the breaking point. Sometimes even more than that. If Sjoberg, Rogers, or whoever is responsible for this goes free because of a technicality or a jury who doesn’t truly understand the case falling for a lawyer’s tricks, that would never be justice. Veronica, Brian, Jia, Marina, and all the people affected by this drug deserve better.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Marcy asks. “And before you say a word, whatever is going to happen here, I’m in. Don’t even think about trying to cut me out.”

  Brody and I exchange a look. His gaze is intense and doesn’t waver, and I see a steely determination in his eyes. He gives me a small shrug.

  “Like I told you before, ride or die, man,” he says. “I’m in.”

  I look to Marcy. “I guess we’re going to get to work.”

  Twenty-Two

  Seattle Police Department Twenty-First Precinct House; Downtown Seattle

  I walk through the doors of my old precinct house. Other than a new paint job, nothing much has really changed: the stench of human body odor and desperation still saturates the air, and the buzz of conversation still fills the air. I walk to the reception desk and wait for the duty officer, Sergeant Carr, to finish up a call. I remember him from my days in this house—we worked patrol together. He was a Torres loyalist. Probably still is. But Carr was arrogant back then and given the way he’s eyeballing me up and down, I see not much has changed.

  “Paxton Arrington,” he says, managing to make it sound like a sneer. “What do you want?”

  “Good to see you too, Carr. Congrats on the stripes. Your lips must still be chapped after the effort it had to take to get those,” I reply.

  “Yeah well, not that you’d know anything about it, but good things tend to happen to good cops,” he says.

  “Oh, is that a new thing here at the twenty-one? Is that one of Torres’ final pilot programs or something?” I shoot back.

  “Still the same jackass, I see.”

  I shrug. “What can I say? At least I don’t try to pretend I’m not for the sake of a couple of stripes on my shirt sleeve.”

  There’s a tension in the air between us that to me, just feels stupid. It feels like coming face to face with your high school bully at your twenty-year reunion and reigniting those same hostilities. I mean, what’s the point? Is there really some conflict between you so great that you’ve carried it around for twenty years? Chances are, you haven’t even thought about your high school bully in those twenty years. The same way I haven’t thought about Carr since I’ve been gone. Clashing like this now is childish. It’s stupid.

  “Listen,” I start. “I don’t mean to come at you sideways. I apologize. There’s no reason we have to be hostile to one another.”

  He eyes me for a long moment and gives me a grin. “Sure there is—you’re a jackass and I never really liked you.”

  I shake my head and laugh to myself. Well, at least I tried to be the grownup here. I tried to do the mature thing. As Victoria liked to say, at least I kept my side of the street clean. If Carr wants to be a child about it, that’s on him.

  “I need to see Deputy Chief Lee,” I say.

  “That’s Interim Deputy Chief Lee,” he fires back, stressing the ‘interim’ label hard.

  Carr is apparently going to carry Torres’ banner until the end of time. He probably believes Torres is going to make a triumphant return at some point. It’s sad really. Sad and confusing, because I simply don’t know what it is about him that inspires that kind of loyalty in other people. Of course, the Torres loyalists I’ve known have never struck me as the brightest crayons in the box, so perhaps that’s the common denominator.

  “Fine, interim,” I say. “I need to see him.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Give me a break, Carr. Call him and see if he’s got time to see me,” I say.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’m going to make sure the story about your little accident in the squad car that one time gets out,” I say. “And I’ll make sure to include the pictures of that mess you made too.”

  He pales. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me, Brownie,” I say.

  He picks up the phone and punches Lee’s number. He turns away and murmurs into the phone before hanging up and pointing to the gate that separates the lobby from the bullpen behind it.

  “I’m sure you remember the way,” he says, not able to look at me.

  “Thanks, Brownie.”

  He grumbles under his breath as I walk through the gate. Okay, so maybe I’m not a totally mature person. Maybe my side of the street isn’t totally clean. But he started it. I grin to myself as I make my way through the precinct and take the stairs up to the command offices on the second floor. I can feel all the eyes on me and hear the whispers as I head for Lee’s office. That’s fine. Let them gawk and talk like a bunch of old ladies. It’s not as if my self-esteem is dependent upon the opinions of anybody in this house. I mean, hell, I never really liked very many of them to begin with.

  I get to Lee’s office and chuckle to myself. They haven’t even scraped off Torres’ name off the glass and put Lee’s on it yet. I rap on the door and Lee looks up. His expression immediately darkens, and he suddenly looks as if he’s got a mouthful of lemon juice. I see him sigh, but he waves me in. I open the door and step inside.

  “Arrington,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I come for the warm reception I always get when I come into the house,” I say. “It helps build that healthy self-image I’m working on.”

  Lee purses his lips and stares at me. “If you’re here to test out material for your stand-up act, try going down to the motor pool. The sense of humor down there is generally less refined,” he says. “Otherwise, I have a department to run and don’t really have time for your nonsense.”

  I cross the office and stand behind the chairs
in front of his desk. I notice he hasn’t invited me to sit, but I don’t say anything about it. It’s not a hill worth dying on.

  “What do you want, Arrington?” he presses.

  “I need a favor.”

  “I thought I made it clear that the days of the SPD doing favors for you were over,” he counters.

  “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need the SPD to do me favor then,” I reply. “I only need the interim deputy chief to do me a favor.”

  “I’m not in the mood for your games, Arrington. And I’m not doing you any favors.”

  “Tell me something, what’s the status on the murder of Brian Takahashi?” I ask. “I bet it’s still in red on the board, huh?”

  Red is the color they use to denote open and active cases. Black is for closed cases. As the deputy chief, he is going to be judged by how much red and black are on his board at the end of every month. Everybody in command in any house is sensitive when it comes to the case closure rate. I can’t really blame them too much. They know their jobs depend on having more black than red on the board at the end of the month.

  “Last I checked, the twenty-one has a closure rate of about thirty-three percent,” I go on. “Now, if this were the major leagues, hitting one out of three translates to a three-thirty-three batting average. That’ll get you into Cooperstown, for sure. But is it enough to have the interim label removed and have you made the permanent deputy chief? I just don’t know.’

  Lee sighs and stares at me like he’s seriously considering shooting me right then and there. I can’t blame him. I am being a little obnoxious after all. But I’m merely trying to make a point to get him to bend to my will. So, now that I have his attention, I press on.

  “I need what you have on the Takahashi murder. A copy of the murder book and—”