by Elle Gray
After about an hour of searching on my own, I’m convinced that most of the rumors surrounding the guy are just smoke with no actual fire. I’m also of the opinion that Marcy is right. He’s definitely greasy and slimy, and I am ninety-nine percent certain involved in some shady operations. But I have a hard time making the leap to killer. That’s something I won’t know for sure until I look him in the eye.
While Brody may be able to ferret out information online, I still believe you can get a better measure of a person when you’re face to face with them. I’ve always been able to read people well, and that’s a skill that always helped me when I was a cop. It serves me even better now that I’m in private practice.
When you’re face to face with somebody, staring into their eyes, you can read almost anything if you know what you’re looking for. Any of a million different microexpressions— the twitch of an eye, the curl of a lip, anything really— can steer you one way or the other. Most of the time, people aren’t even aware of their microexpressions. They’re almost involuntary responses. Most people can’t control them. But they’re always so telling.
“Okay, I sent a package to your tablet. It’s just a quick and dirty primer on one Carson Falucci. I can put together something more comprehensive if you need it,” Brody announces.
“This should be good enough. Thanks very much,” I say.
“Anytime.”
I get to my feet and pick up my tablet, taking it with me. I’ll read up before I go and have a sit down with him.
“You kids behave yourselves,” I order.
“Don’t worry, we’ll do everything you won’t do,” Brody says.
Marcy squeals and playfully hits him in the shoulder. He just grins back at her. But then he turns to me.
“Seriously, be careful,” he says. “I don’t know if the rumors are true, but if they are, you don’t want to get on the guy’s bad side.”
“Agreed,” Marcy adds and gives me a sly grin. “And also, be sure to wash your hands if you shake his.”
Laughing, I head out of the Fishbowl and to my own office to do a little studying before I head out.
Six
The Nine Social Club; Belltown District, Downtown Seattle
The Nine is one of the most exclusive social clubs in all of Seattle. This is where the richest of the rich tend to congregate. But it’s not the staid, classy old money. This is where people think nothing of dropping five figures on a night of drinking. This is where designer clothes get flaunted and designer watches flashed. This is where reputations are made— or lost.
The Belltown District sits near the center of the city and is a mish-mash of trendy hipster shops, luxury condo and apartment buildings, and some of the nation’s biggest and wealthiest corporate headquarters. The district itself is populated by up and comers, as well as the established elite. It’s a very eclectic mix of personalities, with people on vastly different ends of the economic scale all co-existing together.
There’s serious money in Belltown, though it’s urban and chaotic as opposed to the staid and stoic suburbs, such as where my folks live. Given the hodgepodge and styles of people and businesses, you’ll often find hipsters and corporate CEOs, if not rubbing elbows, then in very close proximity to one another. It’s why The Nine blends right in on the same street as Toby’s Vinyl Emporium… which I assume is a shop that sells records. If it’s not, I’m not sure I want to know what it is.
I park in a lot that’s about half-full. The front of the building is done in red and dark bricks and has ivy crawling up, framing the white window frames. Light burns behind the four windows that face the street, but I know these are simple artifices. The interior of the club actually has no windows since most of it is underground.
I pass beneath the dark-colored portico and descend the half dozen steps that take me down to the short walkway that leads to the front door. Framed in white, like the windows, the door appears to be wood but is actually a dark wood paneling over a steel core. In the middle of it, right at eye level, is the numeral nine in a stylized calligraphic script.
Slipping the key card out of my wallet, I slide it into the electronic box set into the brick beside the door, then punch in a password I haven’t used since before I met Veronica. A moment later, the door in front of me slides aside with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a small foyer. Only when I step inside, and the exterior door closes behind me, does the interior door slide open, revealing the interior of the Nine.
A hypnotic, jazzy beat issues softly from unseen speakers, and there’s a hint of cigar smoke in the air; the fans and filtration systems inside the club do a pretty remarkable job of sucking all of the smoke out. Smoking is banned in public places in Seattle, but inside the Nine, one can do pretty much whatever they want. There is even one subterranean floor where weekly swinger’s parties are usually held. At least, from what I’ve heard.
The top floor of the building— the one above this one— has four fully stocked and luxuriously appointed apartments. It’s where some of the movers and shakers who belong to the club will bring their mistresses; no questions asked other than: Which room would you like? It’s just one of the many perks of being wealthy.
The interior of the Nine is done in rich reds and blacks. The seats in the booths are made of crushed velvet, and the smaller tables are fronted by deep, plush wingback chairs. A long bar of a dark cherry wood that’s been polished to a mirror shine and trimmed with brass runs along one entire wall of the club to my right. Tall stools line the bar, and maybe a quarter of them are filled.
The shelves on the wall behind the bar are all glass, stocked with premium alcohols, and is lit dramatically from below, though the lighting in the club overall is dim. A raised stage sits at the wall opposite me, with rich red velvet curtains behind it, unoccupied at the moment.
Everything in the place is spotless. Aside from the smell of cigars, the place has a fresh, clean aroma to it. The overall effect is supposed to exude class and style, and I guess to some people, it does. Everything about it certainly reeks of exclusivity. I feel like this place runs right up to the edge of seedy but somehow manages to not step over it. It’s a close thing, though.
It’s the middle of the afternoon, but the place is half full. The buzz of conversation is muted, and the atmosphere hushed.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Arrington. Welcome back, and it’s nice to see you again.”
I turn and give a smile to the hostess, a blonde who can’t be more than twenty-one. She’s dressed in a white button-down shirt, black vest, and black skirt that falls to her knees. I’ve never met her before in my life, so I assume she gleaned my personal information from my key in at the front door.
“Afternoon,” I say.
“May I escort you to a table?”
I give the room a quick sweep with my eyes and stop when I find who it is I came here for. I turn back to the blonde.
“That’s all right,” I tell her. “I found who I’m looking for.”
“Very good, sir.”
I cross the room to where Carson Falucci is sitting by himself. Despite seeing his photographs already, I’m surprised by his appearance. To be honest, when I first heard his name, I expected to find somebody along the lines of a second-rate Tony Soprano. I figured he’d be the sort who wore his shirts open to the third button, his chest hair and large gold medallion on full display. I figured he’d have slicked-back, dark hair and a prominent pinky ring.
Instead, he’s an older, bookish looking man. If I was casting the role of an eccentric professor or bookstore owner, he’d be my first choice. He can’t be more than five-nine, with a head full of thick, white hair, and has a lean frame. He’s wearing an obviously expensive and well-tailored, dark three-piece suit, the only color coming from a smattering of red on his patterned tie.
Falucci looks up from his newspaper, his pipe dangling from his lips, and gives me an amicable nod as I approach his table, obviously thinking I’m going to pass him by. But when I drop
down into the chair across from him, his expression changes, and irritation flashes across his features.
He looks harmless, and he wouldn’t be my first choice if I were asked to pick Mrs. MacMillan’s killer out of a lineup, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the most dangerous wolves often hide inside the skin of the softest sheep. I cross one leg over the other and sit back into the chair, never taking my eyes off him. The waitress is there a heartbeat after my butt hits the chair.
“Bourbon, neat, please,” I say, my gaze still locked to his.
“Very good, sir,” she says and glides off.
With a sigh of frustration, Falucci folds his newspaper noisily and sits up. He says nothing, and although he’s obviously irritated by my intrusion, I can’t help but see a glimmer of curiosity in his face as well. But he simply stares back at me, round, frameless spectacles framing blue eyes that sparkle in the dim lighting, waiting for me to break the ice. The waitress returns and delivers my drink. I send her off with a word of thanks, then take a sip, relishing the warmth of the amber liquid as it slides down my throat.
“They say it’s speakeasy chic,” I start, gesturing to the large room around us.
“That so?”
I nod. “I think it looks more like a French bordello.”
A burst of laughter passes his lips, and as if he’s somehow decided I’m no danger to him, Falucci picks up his drink and sits back in his chair, our eyes still locked onto each others.
“My dad gave me a lifetime membership to the Nine when I turned twenty-one. Thought I was going to be a world-changing titan of industry when I got older and that I needed to have the perks of exclusivity. At the time, I thought it was the greatest gift ever. Spent many a night in here,” I tell him.
“Disappointed him, did you?” he asks, his voice high and somewhat nasally.
I nod. “He let me keep the membership though.”
“Well then, I’d say you made out like a bandit.”
I shrug. “This is the first time I’ve been here in… a long while.”
He takes another drink, and a small grin curls one corner of his mouth upward. I can see the sharp intelligence in his eyes. He’s sharp. I don’t think he ever misses very much. He might look eccentric, perhaps even a bit doddering to some, but I’m positive he sees everything and rarely forgets anything.
“So what can I do for you, Mr. Arrington?” he asks. “I assume you didn’t come over here to talk about interior decor and to tell me about your birthday gifts.”
I arch an eyebrow at him, a small smile touching my lips, taking a drink to cover my surprise.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked. Of course I know who you are, son. You’re practically a celebrity these days,” he says.
“Hardly.”
“Son of a billionaire media mogul-turned cop-turned famed serial killer catching PI,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s quite the compelling story. If I were in the scriptwriting business, I might just take a crack at it.”
“It’s had its moments, but the reality of it all is far less dramatic, I assure you.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Well, given that I’m not a serial killer, what is it I can do for you, Mr. Arrington?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Charlotte MacMillan.”
I watch his face closely and see the flashes of anger and irritation. He waves a hand in the air as if he’s swatting at a fly.
“Hectoring old bat,” he gripes.
Given that they’re roughly the same age, his choice of words is amusing. But there’s something darker underneath it all. Something harder and angrier. I can all but smell it. He raises his eyes to me, a frown upon his lips.
“What is it you want to know? Am I glad she’s dead? Yes I am,” he says. “Did I do it? Of course I didn’t.”
“So, I should just take your word for it?”
“Frankly, I don’t care what you do with it, Mr. Arrington.”
“It’s just Pax or Paxton,” I tell him. “And where were you the night she was killed?”
“Out.”
“Out?”
“Did I stutter?” he snaps.
I drain the last of my bourbon and signal to the waitress, who’s at our table in the blink of an eye. The one thing I’ll say is that the service in this place is exceptional.
“Another,” I say, then gesture to Falucci. “And another for my friend here.”
“We’re not friends, Audra. Just so you know. This man, a complete stranger until ten minutes ago, is just sitting here pestering me,” Falucci complains to the waitress.
Audra gives me a sympathetic smile and walks away to gather our drinks. While she’s gone, I turn back to the older man.
“Why didn’t you go into your family’s business? Real estate development is very lucrative.”
He gives me an even look, a sly grin on his face. “I think the answer to your question can be found in your own reluctance to take up the family mantle, Mr. Arrington.”
“Can you just call me Pax? Or Paxton, if you prefer?”
“No.”
“No?” I chuff. “Why not?”
“That would imply a level of familiarity I have no intention of having with you.”
“You really are kind of a dick,” I say.
He chuckles. “As the cool kids say, it takes one to know one.”
“Yeah, I don’t think the cool kids have actually said that for like, forty years.”
He waves me off again. “Whatever.”
The waitress returns and hands us both our drinks. “Can I get anything else for you gentlemen?”
“You don’t happen to have a restraining order that you can serve him, do you? Something that requires him to stay at least five hundred feet away from me?” Falucci asks.
“Even if she did, my voice tends to carry,” I say.
The waitress laughs. “Sorry, I’m fresh out.”
“Pity,” Falucci grouses.
“Thank you,” I say, sending her off, then turn back to him. “So, Charlotte MacMillan.”
“Yes, what about her?”
“Did you kill her?”
He flashes me that crafty smirk of his. “If I did, do you think I’d tell you?”
“Given your apparent lack of a filter, you just might.”
Falucci chuckles. “You are an amusing man, Mr. Arrington. Clever. But probably not as clever as you think.”
“Actually, I’m even more clever than I think. I’m continually surprising myself with just how clever I am.”
The older man smirks and runs a hand through his white hair. He takes a drink, studying me over the rim of his glass, and I can see his mind working.
“To answer your question, no, I didn’t kill Charlotte. God knows there were times I thought about throttling her, but killing a woman is beneath even me. I don’t pretend to be a good man, Mr. Arrington, but even I hold to some standards of conduct,” he says.
“So, would embezzling be beneath you?”
“God, no. Of course not. Something like that? Right in my wheelhouse.”
“So were her concerns about you true then? That you were embezzling charity funds from Worthfield?”
“Absolutely not true,” he states. “Charlotte never liked me. She bought into all of the rumors that seem to attach themselves to me. Convicted me on hearsay.”
“Are you telling me all of those rumors are false? That you’re not actively doing anything of the things people think you are?”
That cunning smile touches his lips again. “Well, not all of them are true. A man does need to pay the bills, after all.”
“So human trafficking? Illegal casinos?” I press. “Running drugs? Guns?”
“As I said, a man must pay the bills. However, peddling in human cargo is a disgusting practice and one I would never involve myself in.”
“But from what I hear, you own a string of brothels,” I point out.
“There is a di
fference between offering honest employment to women who are of age,” he counters, “and the buying and selling of human beings. That’s beneath me, Mr. Arrington. Believe it or not, I do have standards.”
I take a sip of my own drink, watching him closely. The man is smart. Wily. And though I hate to admit it, he’s kind of funny, albeit in a dark, cynical way.
“So one more time for the record, you’re basically telling me that you’re a scumbag, but not the sort of scumbag who’d murder a defenseless woman,” I say.
Falucci purses his lips and nods, as if he’s measuring my words in his head. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the long and short of it,” he replies, and then his voice grows serious. “I didn’t kill her, Mr. Arrington. Nor did I embezzle funds from the Worthfield Foundation.”
I hold his gaze for a moment, looking deep into his eyes as I listen to his words. And the strangest thing is, I believe him. On all counts. I’m still going to follow up, just to be sure. There’s just something in his voice, as well as in his eyes, that convinces me he’s being honest and upfront with me about Mrs. MacMillan’s murder.
I drain the last of my drink and stand up. “Have a good day, Mr. Falucci.”
“Mr. Arrington, one word of caution,” he says. “Just as you shouldn’t believe all of the sins I’m accused of, neither should you believe all of the virtues heaped upon dear Charlotte.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Falucci shrugs. “Just be sure to keep an open mind as you investigate this diabolical crime.”
Falucci turns back to his paper, our conversation at an end. I walk over to where Audra is standing with another waitress, I hand her my card and closeout Falucci’s tab, then leave the Nine, his words echoing through my mind.
Seven
MacMillan Residence; Denny-Blaine Neighborhood, Seattle
