by Elle Gray
Interestingly enough, I don’t see her brothers or mother in the photo. In fact, as I look at the framed pictures that hang on the wall, I see very few— outside of childhood photos— that have all the family members all together. There could be a number of reasons for that of course, and most of them have nothing to do with anything. Whether it’s significant or not is another matter. But the omission stands out to me. I mentally file that away to look into a little deeper.
“Your father certainly has built a reputation for himself inside the SPD and District Attorney’s office,” I say.
“That’s a very kind way of putting it.”
“Where is he now?” I ask. “Your father, I mean.”
“He’s staying in the house in Oak Harbor.”
Oak Harbor is a posh enclave out on Whidbey Island. It’s less than forty miles from the heart of Seattle, but it feels like another world. It’s not the most exclusive of neighborhoods, but it has a small-town feel that a lot of people find appealing. It’s not where I would have expected to find one of the city’s most high profile, high powered attorneys.
“The house belonged to his father. He was stationed at the naval base, and my grandmother loved the island, so they stayed until they both passed on,” she explains as if reading my mind. “My dad couldn’t bear to get rid of it. It’s one of the only things he’s genuinely sentimental about.”
A dim smile touches my lips, able to relate on many deep levels. I nod, then turn away, continuing on through the house. My tour takes me upstairs, where I find more of the same destruction I found down on the first floor, though it seems mainly limited to the master bedroom. My eyes fall on a jewelry box that appears to have been ransacked. It’s turned over on the dresser and there is nothing in it. It’s been totally cleaned out.
“I take it your mom had some nice jewelry,” I note.
“There was nothing overly extravagant, but she had some nice pieces, yes. Certainly nothing worth killing her over though.”
I move around the room, carefully avoiding the chaos on the floor to avoid breaking anything or turning an ankle on some hidden hazard.
“The destruction in the house seems really over the top,” I say. “This is way too much for a simple smash and grab.”
“The police think it was somebody hopped up on meth, maybe. Somebody looking for a quick score to go buy some more dope,” Sarah responds. “They think my mom was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Maybe. She wouldn’t be the first, unfortunately.”
I leave the bedroom and walk down a short hallway to a staircase at the rear of the house. It lets me out into a kitchen, and from the tall glass doors, I can see the pool area beyond. The doors open to a covered space that’s got a large fire pit set between a pair of comfortable-looking outdoor sofas across from some other furniture. A long bar made of polished mahogany is mounted against one wall of a small outdoor kitchen area.
Unlike the inside of the house though, nothing is in disarray out here. Nothing turned over. Nothing smashed and broken. Everything is in its place, all orderly and clean. The incongruity to the interior of the house strikes me strangely, given this is where Mrs. MacMillan met her end.
Continuing on through the outdoor living room, I step out onto the deck of the pool. Done in a red stone with a waterfall at one end, it has a natural hot spring motif. The sun glints off the water, making the near-perfectly smooth surface of the pool sparkle. I try to imagine what it was like for Sarah that night. To come here and find her mother floating face down in the pool.
I turn and find that Sarah hasn’t followed me out to the pool. She’s still standing in the outdoor living room, pointedly refusing to look out at the water. It’s not difficult to understand why. I walk back to where she’s standing but don’t say anything. She’s wiping at her eyes, so I give her a moment to gather herself.
“I appreciate how difficult this is for you,” I start. “And I’m sorry I have to have you here answering my questions.”
She shakes her head and sniffs. “It’s fine. Do what you have to do.”
“Well, the most obvious question is, do you know of anybody who would want to harm your mother?”
She shakes her head again. “No, I can’t think of a single person. Everybody loved her.”
“Anybody she’s had problems with recently?”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean, she’s had some issues with some of the people on the board at the Worthfield, but nothing that would result in this.”
“What sort of problems?”
“Fundraising issues mainly,” Sarah answers. “She’d mentioned that somebody was misappropriating and possibly embezzling funds.”
That raises a red flag in my mind. Among the bluebloods who sit on the boards of the various art galleries and museums in the city, being found out to be embezzling would be a scandal. It’s usually only “new money” who celebrates, or rather, tolerates, that sort of transgression. Not only could it wind up with them in prison, but it would also tarnish their legacy. Their family name. And trust me, having come from that world, legacies and family names are things taken very seriously. Protecting them is absolutely a motive for murder.
“Did she mention any names?” I ask, hopefully.
“She didn’t. And I never pressed because I thought it was silly.”
“Silly how?”
She shrugs, her expression pained, looking miserable. But more than that, I see an expression of guilt, and I’m pretty sure whatever is eating her right now is going to haunt her for a really long time.
“I didn’t take it seriously. I mean, squabbles between people on these charity boards— the way they act, you’d think they were developing the cure for cancer. It’s a museum charity board,” she all but shouts. “Anyway, I told her I’d have our office investigator look into it, but I never got around to it. And now she’s dead.”
I’m just about to point out that embezzlement is a crime, so at least that part of the allegation isn’t silly. As for the other, rich old men and women stirring up stories and conspiracies and conjuring up old feuds between their families— yeah, all of that is purely garbage and beyond silly.
“What did the SPD say about it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“They said they’d look into it, of course. But they said not to get my hopes up, that it was an unfounded allegation and without proof…”
She doesn’t need to finish that statement for me to know where she’s going with it. And with a slacker detective who would rather take shortcuts and not do a proper and thorough investigation. Not that he actually has the mental acuity to do the job. But he’ll fake his way through it anyway. Price is the kind of jerk who does as little as possible while working his way through most investigations, only bothering to make an effort for ones that will make splashy headlines. And all the while, the people of Seattle are less safe because of punks like him.
“Don’t worry, Ms. MacMillan, I’ll run down every lead. I won’t leave a stone unturned. I promise you that.”
She nods. “I believe you. And please, call me Sarah.”
“I’ll do that… Sarah. Now, until I’m done with my investigation, I’ll want to keep this house just as it is if you don’t mind.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me. Dad’s not living here, and I have my own place,” she says. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. Dad might sell it.”
She says the last bit with a touch of sadness in her voice. As if she realizes, maybe for the first time, the history that’s embedded in this house. Her history. The happy times she must have had as a child are baked into these walls. This house breathes her family’s story. Her story.
The expression on her face tells me she knows she’s going to lose if her dad dumps the house. And even though this house now contains the dark memory of her mother’s death, she looks as if she knows there is still an awful lot of joy to be found within the walls. And it’s a joy that maybe she had planned to s
hare with children of her own one day.
“May I have a key so that I don’t have to call you every time I need to swing by?”
“I’ll make sure you’re given a copy as well as all of the alarm codes.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “Speaking of which, was your mother pretty diligent about making sure the house was locked and the alarms set? Did she take her security seriously?”
She nods. “Absolutely. Especially when my dad is out of town. She was almost paranoid about it. He was in Portland consulting the night…” she pauses and seems to be struggling to keep her emotions in check. “He was in Portland that whole week.”
I give her what I hope passes for a look of sympathy, or at least something close to it. It’s still something I’m working on.
“Okay, I think I’ve got the basics. If you could just have the keys and alarm codes sent to my office, I’d appreciate it,” I tell her. “I’ll start digging into things on my end and see what we can come up with.”
“Thank you, Mr. Arrington.”
“Pax,” I say. “Just call me Pax.”
Her smile is faint and sad. And in her eyes, I see a flicker of hope. She’s such a strong person. A rock. I can tell that her family leaned on her heavily— perhaps not her father— but everybody else looked to her for her strength. And probably because of that, I can also tell she’s not used to being vulnerable and is doing all she can to hide it. It’s something else I can relate to.
It makes me want to not fail her all the more.
Five
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
Amy’s busy on the phone as I step off the elevator. She gives me a wave, and I see Nick ushering a client into his office for what’s likely a consult. I walk through the lobby and through the smoked glass, see Brody and Marcy sitting in the Fishbowl, both of them toiling away on their laptops.
I veer off and head over, pushing the door open, and they both look up at me as I step inside. They’re sitting practically shoulder to shoulder as if neither of them can bear the thought of not being in close, physical contact at all times. It brings a small smile to my face.
“I didn’t know it was bring your girlfriend to work day,” I crack, taking a seat on the opposite side of the conference table as them.
“Don’t be a dick,” Marcy replies. “You know you’re happy to see me.”
“Of course I am. And I was talking to you.”
She laughs, and Brody flashes me an obscene gesture but laughs along with her. She leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek. The happiness and contentment between them is palpable. You just have to look at them to see the joy and love that radiates from the both of them, and it makes me glad. They deserve it.
I won’t lie though. As I’ve watched them interact and grow closer over their time together, I’ve felt a small pang of loneliness resonating deep within me. More than anything, I miss the companionship and that sense of completion I always felt with Veronica. It’s something I don’t expect I’ll feel with anybody ever again.
“Going with the platinum today, huh?” I observe, gesturing to the multiple streaks of color in her otherwise dark hair.
“Thought it was time to change it up,” she replies. “Gotta do it in sections first though. Might go for bright silver?”
Marcy’s an unusual character. She’s a tiny thing, all of five-two, thin as a beanpole. But she’s got a ferocity and tenacity that makes her seem so much larger. She carries herself like somebody who’s ten feet tall and built like Shaquille O’Neal. It’s one of the things I’ve come to admire about her. That and she’s managed to whoop Brody into shape.
“Before you ask,” Brody raises a hand. “I haven’t found our mystery messenger yet. Still untangling the knot.”
I nod, and although it still frustrates me, I keep it in check. That’s a long-term project, and right now, we’ve got something more immediate to deal with.
“Keep that simmering on the back burner. We’ve got other things to handle right now,” I tell him.
“Still putting together the backgrounds on the MacMillan kids. And let me just say, Sarah is the one who turned out right,” he tells me. “The other two… let’s just say the apple fell pretty far from the tree.”
“How so?” I ask.
It’s Marcy who speaks up. “The two boys— Eric and Lance— both have had serious drug issues. By all accounts though, Eric’s cleaned up his act and is now running a program for at-risk youth,” she informs me. “But Lance is still in and out of rehab, and in and out of employment. He bounces around, and nobody really seems to know where he is.”
I sit back, absorbing the information. Saying that Marcy has her fingers on the pulse of the city would be a vast understatement. It’s probably more accurate to say that she’s got it in a death grip. There is almost nothing she doesn’t know about what’s going on or can’t find out.
Most PIs would bristle at having an outsider helping with a case. Most of the ones I’ve met are hung up on anybody being on their turf. They’re like cops in that way. Which is ridiculous, to begin with. Marcy has proven to be a valuable source of information— not to mention a good friend— and has access to information we mere mortals do not. I’d be a fool to refuse her information just because she doesn’t work for me. I’m a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them.
“Interesting,” I say. “But there’s one lead I want to check out first. According to Sarah—”
“Sarah now, is it?” Brody cuts in. “What happened to Ms. MacMillan?”
“Shut up,” I fire back with a chuckle. “She asked me to call her that.”
“I’ve seen the pictures,” Marcy throws in. “She’s a good-looking woman. Maybe not quite as smokin’ hot as May— who’s totally into you, by the way— but very pretty. In that robotic ‘Live Laugh Love’ kind of way.”
“I think he needs somebody like May though,” Brody says to her. “Somebody to loosen him up and teach him to have a little fun.”
“I agree,” Marcy adds. “Someone to pull that giant stick out of his—”
“You two done?” I ask. “There are bigger things on our plate than my love life.”
“Technically speaking, one has to have a love life in order to claim there are bigger things than said non-existent love life,” Marcy chirps.
“I’m pretty sure a speck of dust is larger than his love life,” Brody cracks.
“That’s a very good point,” she says.
“Okay, I’ll be in my office. You two let me know when you’re done rehearsing your act for open mic night at the comedy club.” I start to get to my feet.
They laugh. “Okay, we’re done,” Brody relents.
I sit back down, giving them both a critical eye, waiting for the next punchline. Neither of them says anything more, so I settle back in my seat. But then Marcy speaks.
“All I’m going to say is that May is a really sweet girl, and she’s crazy about you. She’s cool, got a great head on her shoulders, and did I mention crazy about you? Because given your surly disposition, I’ve got to believe that quality in a woman is in short supply these days,” she beams.
I prop my elbows on the desk and bury my face in my hands as Marcy and Brody laugh together. I take it back. I’m not so crazy about this pairing after all.
“Okay, on to business,” Brody announces.
“Finally. Thank you,” I groan. “I need the particulars on the members of the board of the Worthfield.”
“The Worthfield?” Brody asks. “The art foundation?”
“That’s the one,” I confirm. “Sarah says that her mother found out somebody was misappropriating funds. Thought somebody was embezzling a pretty good chunk of change.”
“Oh, that one’s easy. You’re going to want to talk to Carson Falucci,” Marcy tells me. “There’s been rumors about shady crap swirling around him for years.”
“What kind of shady crap?” I ask.
“Embezzling. Extortion. Money laun
dering,” she shrugs. “If you listen to the rumors, he’s involved with drug trafficking, the human sex trade, as well as a host of things even less savory than that.”
“Hard to think anything gets less savory than human trafficking,” Brody notes.
“I think trafficking children would qualify for that. At least, if you believe the rumors,” Marcy tells him.
“Jesus,” Brody groans.
“But the Falucci’s made their money in real estate development, right?” I ask.
She nods. “Sure, back in the day. They built a good chunk of the city,” she tells me. “But that’s all ancient history. Great-great-grandpappy Falucci was a stand-up guy, but as the MacMillan children prove, the apples sometimes fall very far from the tree.”
“So, in theory, if Mrs. MacMillan found out he was skimming off the top of the charity fund, he’d have the motive to kill her.”
“Exactly,” I say, then turn to Marcy. “And do you? Believe the rumors, I mean.”
She shrugs. “Hard to say. I mean, the guy is definitely shady and greasy. No question about that. And I have no trouble believing he’s into some dirty stuff. But I don’t know about most of it. He also doesn’t seem like a killer to me. I’ve talked to him a number of times for different stories.”
“Could be that he hired somebody to do it for him,” Brody offers.
Marcy concedes the point with a nod. “That’s true. He could have. But I still don’t think so. He’s not really the murdering type. Guys like that don’t like getting their hands dirty.”
“Well, either way, he is somebody I’m going to want to talk to,” I say. “Do me a favor and dig up what you can on him and send it to my tablet. I’d like to read up a bit before I approach him.”
“On it.”
I pull my tablet over to me and start doing what I can to search. My skills, though, are pretty basic. Brody’s the technical genius around here, so while I’m stuck cruising Wikipedia and Google, he’s finding— or building— back doors into supposedly secure computer accounts. Brody can always seem to find those things people would rather be kept hidden.
