Woman in the Water (Arrington Mystery Book 3)

by Elle Gray

  I make a full circuit of the MacMillan house again, this time without Sarah hovering over my shoulder. It’s not that I minded her being here or that she was that much of a distraction, but I prefer being able to move about freely and without interruption.

  I try to get a sense for the night of the crime, snapping pictures as I spend a good couple of hours slowly moving through the house. I make my way to the outdoor living room and take a seat on one of the couches, pulling up the initial crime scene report on my tablet. It’s something I’m not supposed to have, but Brody’s built a back door into the SPD’s database that allows him to come and go as he pleases, gathering whatever information we might need.

  It’s probably a little unscrupulous and unethical, sure. But the best way for me to serve my clients is to have all the facts. That includes knowing what the police know, and since they’re never very forthcoming with assistance, I do what I have to do. You’d think in this day and age, a police department would have tighter electronic security to prevent unscrupulous and unethical people from raiding their cookie jar, so I put some of the blame on them.

  According to Price’s initial report, the time of death was around eleven p.m.. She’d been in the water almost a full day when Sarah found her. Those are autopsy photos I’m definitely not looking forward to seeing. A body that’s been in water for a good amount of time is never a pretty sight.

  Price posits the intruder surprised Mrs. MacMillan in her bedroom and that she put up a fight that spilled out into the rest of the house, resulting in the widespread damage and current condition of the place.

  There’s something about the entire scene and Price’s report that’s bothering me, but I can’t put my finger on it. Not yet, anyway. It’ll come. It’s just a matter of getting a new perspective and teasing that information out of my head. I still have a ton of information to sift through. Usually, reading the murder book will help shift my thinking and also allow me to accept or reject any number of suppositions, and then start building my own theory out from there.

  The sound of glass crunching under somebody’s foot alerts me to the fact that I’m no longer alone in the house. Though I don’t know why she’d come back here, I assume it’s Sarah.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  Surprised, I turn to find newly-minted Detective Second Grade TJ Lee standing in the doorway. He’s got his hands on his hips and a look of disapproval on his face. Which is nothing new for him.

  TJ is an unassumingly handsome man. If you ask me, with his olive-colored skin, almond-shaped eyes, and classic Asian looks, he seems like an older version of some of those K-Pop stars, in that he seems preternaturally young. He’s almost six feet tall, lean, rangy, but is incredibly fit. He’s also not a man I would ever wish to be on the wrong side of because he looks like somebody who can handle his business.

  “Apparently, what you boys are unable to do,” I quip.

  His scowl deepens. “That’s really funny.”

  “You need to relax and learn to laugh a little. It’s good for the soul.”

  “Yeah? Ironic advice coming from you. I hear the last time you even thought about cracking a smile was sometime around 2005.”

  I shrug. “People exaggerate. It was more like 2007.”

  Lee grumbles under his breath as he steps into the outdoor living room and walks over to where I’m sitting, dropping down in the chair across from me. We sit in silence for a moment, each of us appraising the other. Lee is one of the good ones. He works hard, does the job right, and does his best to avoid the politics. He seems to be one of the few within the SPD who does the job for the right reasons, his only agenda being to find the truth and protect the public.

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

  “My job.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Great. I’m going to have you trailing me around again?”

  I chuckle. “Funny. I seem to recall being ahead of you on that last case.”

  Lee looks like he’s about to respond but wisely chooses to remain silent about that. There’s nothing he can say. Me and my team did what the SPD task force couldn’t do. We took Tucker out.

  Despite being on the opposite side of things, I actually like TJ. I think he’s a good guy overall, and I respect his work ethic and commitment to the city. But I don’t think we’ll ever be drinking buddies.

  “I understand I’ve got you to thank for my promotion,” he admits grudgingly.

  I shake my head. “You don’t owe me anything. Your hard work is what earned you that promotion.”

  He chuckles softly. “Having a benefactor with the Commissioner’s ear certainly didn’t hurt anything.”

  “You know how political the SPD is. It’s not what you do so much as it’s who you know. I think you’re smart enough to understand that.”

  “Maybe. But I like to think that I earn everything I get.”

  “You have earned it. If Commissioner Gray didn’t think so, he wouldn’t have promoted you. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Is it, though?” he asks.

  “If it was such a moral and ethical quandary, you could have always declined to accept the promotion.”

  He purses his lips and looks at me. “Right. And because I’m not one of Torres’ pets, spend another five years waiting for another chance.”

  I shrug. “Sounds to me like the only problem here is the one you’re making up in your own head.”

  He falls silent again and looks down at the notebook in his hands, seeming to be weighing my words. But when he looks back up at me, he frowns.

  “I just don’t want you thinking you own me now or something,” he says.

  “As far as I know, the practice of owning people was outlawed a long time ago.”

  His expression darkens for a moment, and he looks ready to throttle me. Lee really is wound tighter than I am, and even I know that’s saying something.

  “You know what I mean, Arrington. Stop being so deliberately obtuse,” he snarls. “I don’t want you thinking you can just come to me for favors or ask me to do your bidding. I’m not your inside guy.”

  A grin touches my lips, and I shake my head. “I wasn’t asking you to be my guy, inside or otherwise.”

  “Good, because I’m not anybody’s puppet.”

  “Hey, as long as I have you here, can I get a copy of the stolen property report?” I ask, making him arch an eyebrow at me. “It’s something Sarah will give me; I just figured it’d be easier and less traumatic to her if I got it from you.”

  “Yeah, fine,” he says, obviously annoyed at this perceived favor.

  He opens his tablet and taps on the screen harder than is necessary, still bristling about either emailing me the property list or his notion that he got promoted solely because of me. I’m not sure which at this point since he seems pretty testy about everything today.

  “Look, if it’ll help you sleep at night, the only reason I even mentioned it to Gray was because I know you’re good police. I know you do the job right. And I also know you were being overlooked by Torres and would continue to be until you kissed his ring,” I tell him. “But it was ultimately Gray’s decision. Outside of mentioning your name to him, I had nothing else to do with it.”

  That’s not exactly accurate. I had actually demanded that in exchange for letting his task force take the collar on Tucker, Lee be given his due credit. But Lee doesn’t actually need to know that. It would only serve to fuel his outrage even more, so I keep that bit to myself.

  Lee looks at me for another moment; then, I see his features slightly relax. He seems to accept my explanation, though it’s obvious he still doesn’t like the idea that I had a hand whatsoever in his promotion.

  “So, what are you doing here anyway?” I ask. “I thought this was Price’s case.”

  “I took it over.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Because I can.”

  I nod and look at him thoughtfully for a moment. �
�Know what I think?”

  “I think that no matter what I say, you’re going to tell me what you think anyway. So, you might as well go ahead and spill it.”

  I flash him a wry grin. “So cynical.”

  “Call it hard-won experience where you’re concerned.”

  I shrug. “Fair enough. Anyway, I think you took the case because you saw what a garbage job Price was doing with it and decided to step in. I’m assuming Price was more than happy to give it up since it seems like a dog of a case that won’t result in a conviction and will only drag his closed case rate down. At least, not with him running point.”

  Lee frowns and looks wistful for a moment. “Charlotte MacMillan was a good and kind woman. She did a lot for this city and this state as a whole. She didn’t deserve to end up like this. And she sure as hell deserves to have her death investigated fully and vigorously.”

  “Something Price wasn’t doing.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, you kind of did.”

  “Let’s just say, I appreciated Price’s efforts, but I want to do a deeper dive and leave it at that.”

  “I didn’t know you and Mrs. MacMillan were so tight.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I met her a handful of times. She did a lot of good works for Seattle… especially with the children. I respected her quite a bit.”

  It’s then that Carson Falucci’s words about not believing all of the virtues and praise heaped upon Mrs. MacMillan echo through my mind. It leaves me wondering what he could have been talking about. To hear the awe in Lee’s voice as he talks about her makes her sound like a saint.

  But I know as well as anybody that people always have two sides to them. There’s the public face. It’s the face they want everybody to see. And clearly, Mrs. MacMillan wanted everybody to see her as charitable and kind. As a saint. But everybody always has that other side. That face they wear only in private. And Falucci’s comment has me wondering about that private face.

  “Why do you do it? This work?” he asks me. “You’ve got more money than God, you’re a good looking guy… you could be living it up in the Bahamas with the supermodel of your choice. Why do you do this?”

  It’s a question more people than I can count have asked me. I don’t bother answering it most of the time simply because I don’t think most people would understand why I’m not out living it up, enjoying the rich playboy lifestyle. Plus, it’s none of their business. But honestly, I think Lee would understand.

  “I do it for the same reason you do your job,” I tell him. “There really isn’t a lot of difference between us.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, I see a lot of differences, Arrington.”

  “On the superficial side of things maybe. But I do this job because I’m trying to make a difference and protect the people of this city. I do it because I want to leave this world better than I found it and because I’m trying to do a little bit of good before I’m all done here. I think you’re the same way.”

  He pauses for a moment and considers my words. I can see he relates to what I just said and it’s connecting with him. The problem is that Lee still can’t see past how I grew up or how much money I have in the bank. Like most people, he can’t see past the privilege I grew up with. And that’s fine. I’m not seeking his approval— or anybody else’s, for that matter. I’ve only ever sought the approval of one person in this world, and I like to think she’s proud of me.

  “You sound like you’re trying to atone for something.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “Doesn’t work that way,” he says.

  I shrug. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  We both fall silent for a moment. He seems more tense and on edge than he normally does, which makes me think Price’s dismissal of the case is eating away at him. Lee is a straight shooter, and the man does not cut corners. He’s as by the book as they come, and sloppy police work irritates him. It’s yet another thing we have in common.

  “So are you buying Price’s theory?” I ask. “That this was a home invasion gone wrong?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “You know I can’t tell you—”

  “I’m not asking you to divulge anything official. Besides, I can probably dig up more, and better, information than you can,” I cut him off, to which he gives me a sour expression. “I’m just asking you as a person. What are your thoughts as a person?”

  He lets out a breath and runs a hand through his short, dark hair. Lee looks at the pool for a moment, then turns back to me, his face clouded over.

  “I probably wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now if I bought that theory,” he finally admits, confirming my thoughts.

  Eight

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  Brody and I are sitting in the Fishbowl the next morning. Over muffins and coffee, I fill him in on my chat with Falucci, as well as my impromptu meeting with Lee the previous afternoon.

  “That Lee character. He’s always so pleasant,” Brody says. “Reminds me of you.”

  I let his ribbing slide. “He’s definitely intense.”

  “That’s one word for it,” he replies. “What was your take on Falucci?”

  I pop a bite of a blueberry muffin into my mouth and chew on it as I think back over the conversations I had yesterday.

  “Oh he’s shady as hell. There’s no question about that,” I tell him. “He’s probably into some nasty business.”

  “But?”

  I laugh softly. “He’s quirky. I like him.”

  “He’s a hardcore criminal and you— like him?”

  I nod. “He’s funny. Sharp. He’s oddly likeable. And strangely enough, I think he’s honest. Or at least, as honest as he can be.”

  “Oh, an honest criminal. Well that’s a novelty.”

  I laugh. “I know it sounds weird. But he was up front about what he was into— without being specific, of course— as well as what he wasn’t,” I respond. “He said he didn’t kill Mrs. MacMillan, nor did he embezzle the money she was accusing him of. Though he was very clear that embezzlement was well within his purview.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I do.”

  “Huh. Well that’s certainly interesting,” he says.

  “I’ve got an interview lined up with Marion Turner, the chair of the Worthfield Foundation’s board,” I add. “We’ll find out just how much we can trust Falucci.”

  “I’m just going on record now by saying we can trust him about as much as we can trust one of those Nigerian princes who just want to park money in our bank accounts,” he tells me.

  “Noted.”

  “About as far as we can trust doctors who operate out of the back of a panel van in a dark alley and take cash only.”

  I laugh. “Noted.”

  “About as far—”

  “Duly noted,” I grin. “You don’t trust the guy and never will. I got it.”

  “Okay, just making sure I’m on record,” he adds. “So, it’s not Falucci. We can cross one name off our suspects list. That leaves us with—”

  “Way too many.”

  “You’d think it would be a small list, given how highly regarded she was and how much good she did.”

  “You’d think. But everybody’s got a dark side. And I’m thinking it’s somebody from that dark side of her life who did it,” I tell him.

  “Dark side? Charlotte MacMillan. You’re joking, right?”

  I lean back in my seat and take a drink of my coffee, trying to order my thoughts. I know how preposterous it sounds, given her reputation as one of Seattle’s most prominent philanthropists. She sat on the boards of a dozen different foundations and charities and was well known for her acts of generosity. She is revered in Seattle as a regular Mother Teresa type.

  On paper, she’s the model of propriety and charity. But how many people have we seen who seem that way, only to have some seedy dark side of their personality? We’ve seen respected reli
gious leaders, politicians, celebrities, and athletes— role models all— have some seriously dark skeletons exposed. That doesn’t even take into account the seemingly normal, everyday people, pillars of their communities, having some twisted, terrible double lives rolled out into the open.

  “It was something Falucci said to me right before I left. And I already know, your objection to his trustworthiness is noted.” I flash him a grin. “But he said just as I shouldn’t believe all of the sins attributed to him, I shouldn’t believe all of the virtues attributed to Mrs. MacMillan either.”

  Brody looks at me for a long moment. “Seriously? You’re going to take his word for this? I think he’s got a pretty clear conflict of interest when it comes to Mrs. MacMillan.”

  I nod. “He does. But what’s one thing we’ve learned about human nature? That nobody on this planet is either all good or all bad. Everybody has the capability within them to do the most horrible things. All of us. I mean, look at Tucker… trauma surgeon by day, saving lives, and by night, he was removing the hearts of women.”

  “He was never as well thought of like Charlotte. Even his co-workers said there was always something off about him,” he argues.

  I pop another piece of muffin into my mouth and chew slowly, not saying a word. I just let Brody stew on his own words for a minute. Something that’s always surprised me about him is his belief in people’s better angels. Given all he’s seen on his own, added to what we’ve seen since we started this firm, he still has a bright, shiny sense of optimism.

  It’s not something I ever want to see change about him. It’s oddly endearing. But sometimes, unbridled optimism blinds us to the truth. And in this business, we can’t afford to have blinders on. A certain amount of cynicism is necessary. Too much of it is obviously blinding as well; that’s why I think we provide a good balance and is one of the reasons we work so well together.

  “So, what… you think she was out drinking the blood of babies after her charity board meetings? Maybe she was a secret serial killer. Oh no, I know, she was chopping people up and eating them.”

  A wry laugh escapes me. “I find it so interesting that so many people are willing to throw out logic and reason as they rush to her defense,” I say, then add pointedly. “Especially those people who don’t actually know her or know her by reputation only.”