by Elle Gray
“What about your brothers?” I ask. “Were they close to her?”
A wan smile touches her lips. “In their own way, I suppose.”
“What does that mean?”
“Eric and Lance were both— difficult. They both had issues with substance abuse,” she replies. “It caused a lot of stress in our family.”
“I can imagine.”
“Eric eventually got his life sorted out. But Lance… he’s a lost cause, I’m afraid,” she tells me. “My father cut them both off a long time ago. My mom could never seem to let go of Lance though. He’s the youngest. The baby of the family. And he was closer to her than any of us.”
I can’t help but hear the note of bitterness in her voice when she says it. It sounds to me like she resents her brother for his relationship with their mother. Or is maybe jealous of it. Sibling rivalry is alive and well, I guess.
“When you say she couldn’t let him go, what did you mean?” I ask.
“Just that she was going behind my dad’s back and giving Lance money. Even still,” she says. “She just kept feeding his addiction, rather than forcing him to change his life.”
“I take it you didn’t agree with that approach.”
She shrugs. “Ultimately, what I think doesn’t matter. But to answer your question, no. I didn’t agree with it. I think Eric and Lance both made bad decisions in their lives. Eric was forced to pay for his. He’s still paying for them. But Lance never learned there are consequences to his actions. Mom treated him like a baby and in my opinion, made him worse for it. He never beat his addictions like Eric did because he never had to.”
There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, but I’ll do it later. I’m intrigued by Sarah’s reaction to her brothers though. It’s clear there’s not a lot of love lost between them— not even for Eric, who conquered his own addiction issues. She obviously harbors a lot of anger and resentment for them both.
“How did you know your mother was still giving Lance money?” I ask.
“Because I saw them together and confronted her about it,” she replies. “It led to an argument. When I threatened to tell Dad, she promised to stop giving him money. She said she was going to put him in rehab. Again.”
“Where is Lance now?”
She shrugs. “Who knows? He left the rehab facility three days after she checked him in. Haven’t heard from him since.”
“No idea where he would have gone?”
She shakes her head. “He was staying with some friends down in Portland for a while, from what I heard. I wouldn’t doubt he’s back in Seattle though.”
She says it haltingly. As if she’s not telling me something. Sarah notices me scrutinizing her, and she quickly looks away, a guilty expression crossing her face. She lets out a long breath, her frown deepening.
“I told my father anyway. I thought he had a right to know,” she explains.
“And what happened?”
“He found Lance and confronted him. Put him on a bus back to Portland,” she replies. “After that, he had a talk with my mom.”
“A talk?”
Her lips tighten into a firm line. “An argument. He wasn’t wrong to be upset, Mr. Arrington. She was only enabling Lance. Hurting him even more than he was hurting himself.”
I nod, knowing how terrible addiction is both for the addict and for their family. I know it’s complicated and can wreak havoc on a family’s dynamic. It can drive a wedge between people and destroy relationships. I can’t claim to be any sort of authority on the best way to treat or handle people in the grips of addiction, so it’s not my place to judge the MacMillans on that front.
“He called me a couple of weeks after that. He was shouting, threatening me… he was angry that I’d told Dad about what Mom was doing,” she goes on. “Mom wasn’t pleased with me either, but she’s usually a little more subtle about her displeasure.”
“How so?”
She shrugs. “Just giving me the cold shoulder. Not returning my calls, ignoring my texts.”
“And your brother… did you take his threats seriously?”
“Not at first. Lance has always talked a lot, but he never followed through with anything. He was always a coward at heart, and all bluster,” she says.
I cock my head, hearing more in her statement than she said. “Was there something more?”
She lets out a breath as if it pains her to speak the words, and I’m dragging them out of her. I guess that even though they’re not close, it still hurts her to speak against her brother.
“He’s a changed man, Mr. Arrington. He’s not well. He’s become increasingly angry, although he’s always had a wicked temper. But he’s become… there’s no easy way to say this, but he’s become violent,” she says.
“Violent enough to kill?”
She looks away and seems to be considering her answer for a moment, a myriad of emotions scrolling across her face. Sarah finally turns back to me.
“If you’d asked me that question six months ago, a year ago, I would have said no, absolutely not.”
“But now?”
She frowns. “As I said, he’s a changed man. The drugs have done terrible things to him.”
“Do you think he could have killed your mom?”
A heavy sigh escapes her. “Let me say I really doubt he did it. But… it’s possible. He’s become a monster, and it’s possible.”
A long pause follows as I ponder her words. But when she pointedly checks her watch again, I give her a nod. The message is clear: it’s time to wrap this up, so I get to my feet.
“Thanks for your time, Ms. MacMillan. I’ll keep you in the loop if I learn anything new.”
Eleven
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
“Sounds like a tight, cozy family,” Brody remarks.
“That’s kind of what I thought too,” I say.
“The MacMillans have actually been very open about Eric and Lance’s struggle with addiction. Mrs. MacMillan’s been a pretty vocal advocate for addicts,” Marcy tells us. “She’s fought to get funding from the state for treatment and rehabilitation centers. It’s one of her things.”
Marcy’s sitting in her usual spot next to Brody in the Fishbowl, and I’m sitting in mine, across from them. It seems like she’s here more often than at her own office in the Archton building. She said she finds the atmosphere stifling, and on that, I can’t quite disagree with her.
I’ve filled them in on everything I gleaned from the conversations I’ve had. None of us quite know what to make of it or what we have right now if anything. I tap my pen on the tabletop and purse my lips, thinking.
“Then why would she try to undermine the work the Worthfield is doing?” I ponder aloud. “What Turner’s doing seems to be in line with her position.”
“My opinion? It’s about prestige and having her own name on the initiative, rather than the Worthfield’s,” Marcy counters.
Marcy’s words track with what I’m thinking. All of the information I’ve gotten so far is just fragments. Pieces of a bigger picture. The one thing I can say fairly confidently is that Mrs. MacMillan, while she may have had many virtues and a golden soul, she was far from the saint many are making her out to be. Her life is filled with more shades of gray than anyone would think at first glance.
“Okay, so she’s got ambition and worries more about her legacy than she lets on,” I say. “That’s bound to earn her some enemies along the way.”
“What about Marion Turner? I mean, if she and Mrs. MacMillan were in some sort of a power struggle over the direction of the foundation…”
Brody’s voice trails off. I have to admit it’s an angle I hadn’t considered previously. But as I give it a little thought, I shake my head.
“I don’t see it. Turner doesn’t seem like a murderer to me. That being said, we won’t take anything off the table at this point. Not until we have an actual reason to exclude them,” I respond and chuckle when I see Brody’s arched ey
ebrow. “That includes Falucci. We’ll just put both Turner and Falucci on the not likely list.”
“That’s fair,” he nods.
Marcy raises a hand.
“I don’t want to sound like a jerk or like I’m being insensitive here— ”
“Oh, so you’re turning over a new leaf?” I interrupt her.
“And it’s such a mystery why you don’t have many friends,” Marcy fires back with a laugh. “But as I was saying, have we even stopped to consider the possibility that Mr. MacMillan did it? By and large, a spouse is usually the first suspect. And a lot of them actually do it.”
“As I said, we’re not taking anything off the table right now. But Marshall was out of town. Everything the SPD collected confirms that,” I say.
“So, we’re trusting the SPD now?” Brody asks.
I shrug. “They’ve got airline tickets, restaurant receipts, hotel room receipts. Everything seems to check out. More than that, he seems really torn up about it. Trust me; you can’t fake that kind of grief.”
They both nod, accepting it, and we all fall silent for a moment. I personally don’t feel Turner, Falucci, or Marshall are good for this. Unfortunately, that still leaves a suspect list that’s as vast as it is murky.
“There’s also the revenge factor to consider,” Brody offers.
“Revenge?” I ask.
He nods. “What about clients not happy with Marshall’s defense? It’s possible one of them could have taken it out on Mrs. MacMillan, just to punish him.”
“Or a vengeful vigilante. Maybe someone who thought one of MacMillan’s clients should have been punished more harshly but blamed him for getting the guy acquitted?”
“You think someone would do that?” asks Marcy.
I incline my head. “It’s a possibility worth looking into. Brode, can you go through his case logs for the last… year, maybe… and see how many had outcomes that were less than desirable for his clients?”
“Don’t call me Brode, Pain-In-The-Axton. I’ll go back five years, just to be safe. The guy doesn’t lose often, so it shouldn’t be prohibitive.”
“That works.”
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“I’m going to take a look at Eric and Lance,” I reply. “I’m going explore those family bonds a little deeper. What’s the word on the street with them, Marcy?”
She arches her eyebrows at me. “What am I, your little go-to source of information?”
I shrug. “You’re here so much, you’re kind of our unofficial mascot.”
“Mascot?”
I chuckle. “You’re like a member of the team.”
“You’re like Pete Best,” Brody offers.
A wry smile on her face, she turns to him. “So, I’m the fifth Beatle, huh?”
“Better that than being the Yoko of our little group, isn’t it?” I ask.
“If you ever call me Yoko, I may just have to cut off bits you’d rather not have cut off,” she tells me.
“It’s not like he’s using them anyway,” Brody comments.
A faux thoughtful expression crosses her face. “Yeah, you have a point there.”
“You both can stuff it,” I reply with a chuckle. “Marcy, you have a knowledge and a presence on a street level that Brody and I could never hope to have. Your insights and perspective are invaluable. And the input you offer is always very much appreciated.”
“Well, I appreciate you saying so,” she replies. “Anyway, I’ve never done a deep dive on them, but I know that Eric runs an organization for at-risk youth. Redemption House, it’s called. I don’t know much about it other than it’s got a pretty good reputation. Raises a lot of money, helps keep a lot of kids off the street, and out of jail.”
“And how about Lance?” I ask
She shakes her head. “I only know what’s common knowledge. Guy’s bounced in and out of rehab and can’t keep himself straight.”
“Think you can squeeze your sources and find out if he’s in the city or not?”
She shrugs. “I’ll do my best. No promises though.”
“Good enough for me.”
“Brody, can you shoot what you’ve dug up on Eric so far over to my tablet? I want to be armed and ready when I meet him.”
“You got it,” he says.
“Excellent. Thank you.”
I head out of the Fishbowl and to the elevators, off for another hopefully more productive day of interviews. It hasn’t been very long, but I’m already feeling the pressure to find Mrs. MacMillan’s killer. If for no other reason than to beat TJ Lee to the prize. Yeah, I can be petty. Sue me.
Twelve
Redemption House; South Delridge, Seattle
Eric MacMillan obviously chose this spot to set up his foundation deliberately. He set up camp where he was needed most. South Delridge is a place people like my parents try to forget exists. It’s the sort of place some of the bluebloods of the Worthfield Foundation purport to want to help but would never deign to set foot in. South Delridge is a tough part of town. It’s rough, gritty, and while it’s not nearly as bad as cities in other parts of the country, it’s most definitely got its own violent edge to it. Shootings, stabbings, and murders aren’t uncommon here, and neither are gangs.
After taking a ticket from the armed security guard in the booth, I pull into a lot that sits behind Redemption House. I have no illusions that the guy sitting in the booth reading a Batman comic book and making minimum wage is going to take a bullet for my Navigator, so I’m just rolling the dice that my car will still be here when I come back out.
After locking the car and setting the alarm, I walk around to the front of the building. Redemption House is a three-story, gray cinder-block building. Kind of drab and uninspiring. There is what looks like the beginnings of a colorful mural to cover up the spots where graffiti once littered the walls, but it looks like the work stopped on it long ago. The landscaping out front is mostly dried up and dying. I find myself hoping that’s not a metaphor for the kids who pass through these doors.
I give myself a mental slap upside the head, reminding myself not to be so judgmental. What a building looks like doesn’t matter much when compared to what goes on inside those walls. And from most everything I’ve read, what this place does, in many cases, is damn near miraculous. They’ve turned around the lives of a lot of kids. They’ve saved them from lives of drugs, crime, and probably a premature death. And I have to give them kudos for that.
So, as the old saying goes, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Besides, I have to admit that spending a lot of money upgrading the exterior of the building would be a waste better spent in actually doing the good work this place does.
I step through the front door and find myself in what amounts to a rectangular box. Directly across from me is an imposing, and what looks to be iron, door. The wall to my left is blank, the large bulletin board with notices for various functions. To my right is what looks like a bank teller’s window set into the wall. A younger Latina woman, twenty or twenty-one maybe, with dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, dark almond-shaped eyes, and rich, tawny skin, sits behind inch thick plexiglass.
There’s a narrow opening at the bottom that allows papers or whatnot to be passed through, and a small speaker is mounted to the wall next to the window with a button mounted just beneath that. This place seems built well enough to repel an invading enemy army.
“Can I help you?” the girl’s voice sounds tinny through the speaker. “Press the button to talk.”
I do as she says and lean closer to the speaker. “I’m here to see Eric MacMillan, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I really need to speak with him. My name is Paxton Arrington. Please tell him it regards his mother.”
The young woman frowns. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
There’s a soft pop as she cuts off the speaker and picks up the phone. She turns away and puts her hand up over her mouth
. Apparently, they’ve had bad experiences with professional lip readers with bad intentions around here, and she feels she has to take precautions or something.
After a brief conversation, she hangs up the phone and turns back to me. “He’ll be right with you.”
“Great. Thank you.”
The speaker pops as she turns it off, then goes back to scrolling through her phone. I turn and look at the bulletin board, reading the different flyers that list job postings, things for sale, and the like. I’m reading one for a nature clean up when there’s a loud buzzing noise, followed by the sound of the iron door opening. I turn to see a man that’s half a foot shorter than me, with blond hair and cornflower blue eyes step out. The immediate resemblance to his sister is more than obvious.
“Paxton Arrington,” he says.
“Eric MacMillan.”
He nods and shakes my hand, his grip firm. The years haven’t been exceptionally kind to him. His cheeks are sunken and pitted, and he has dark half-circles beneath his eyes. He’s got lines already forming at the corners of his eyes and mouth. According to the information Brody sent me, he’s only twenty-eight but could easily pass for ten years older. He seems to me to be the walking billboard for what prolonged drug use can do to a person.
“I understand you’re looking into my mother’s death,” he starts bluntly. “I thought the police already ruled this was a robbery gone wrong?”
I nod. “I’m looking into this at the request of your sister. She was not convinced that the police got it right.”
He makes a chuffing sound before catching himself. Eric does his best to put on an air of cool indifference, but it’s easy for me to see through it. He obviously doesn’t like Sarah any more than she likes him. Must make holiday get-togethers especially awkward.
