by Elle Gray
“What do we got here?” he says.
“It’s all good. Nothing that concerns you,” I reply. “You’d better just walk away.”
“Bull,” he shoots back. “You a cop, bro?”
“I’m not a—”
Lance picks that moment to struggle in my hand, doing his best to break my grip. But it’s no use. He’s so frail and weak that when I give him a hard shake, he falls limp again. I glance over at Marcy.
“Hold him,” I tell her.
She takes hold of Lance as I put myself between her and the two junkies. Marcy may be small, but I have no doubt she’ll be able to handle Lance, who’s about as threatening as a kitten at the moment.
“Tell you what,” the junkie says. “You give me a hundred bucks and we’ll let you two go.”
He gives me a sinister grin, and the guy with him remains silent, but his eyes glitter with the prospect of violence.
“How about I give you nothing and you get out of my way before you get hurt?” I snap.
He produces a knife from under his shirt, looking at me with a sneer on his face. He waves the knife in front of me, the edge of the blade gleaming in the sunlight.
“That’s gonna raise the tax you gotta pay me to get out of here now,” he hisses. “Now you gotta give me every dime you got on you.”
“I’m not going to give you anything but one more chance to turn around and get out of here,” I tell him. “That’s all you’re going to get from me.”
He steps forward, brandishing his blade. I have to keep from rolling my eyes. He isn’t half as intimidating as he thinks he is, and the way he’s holding that blade, a five-year-old with some basic self-defense training could take it from him. Marcy gasps as he rushes in on me and slashes wildly. I knock his arm to the side with ease, his blade whistling harmlessly past me, his momentum causing him to stumble past.
With him already off-balance, I drive my fist into his face. It connects with a sound like a baseball hitting an old, leather mitt. His head snaps backward. He trips over his own feet, falling flat on his ass with a loud grunt. He sits there for a moment, looking dazed, a thin rivulet of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. His friend is standing there, looking from the man with the knife, to me, and back again, a dumbfounded expression on his face. Apparently, they’re not used to somebody standing up to them, let alone getting the upper hand.
I watch as the man’s body tenses as he turns to me, a snarl of rage on his lips. I have my weapon out and leveled at his face before he can even begin to move. I step closer to him, watching as his rage melts into fear, and when I have the barrel of my sidearm pressed flush to his forehead, he lets out a mewling whimper.
“D－don’t kill me, man. Please don’t kill me,” he pleads.
His eyes are wide and focused upward, on the gun pressed to his head, and a wide, wet spot grows on the front of his filthy jeans. I grimace in disgust and press the barrel harder against his head.
“Take your friend and get him out of here,” I growl, my voice low and menacing. “Now.”
He scrambles backward. Keeping his eyes on me, he grabs his friend and helps him to his feet. Together, they scurry away like a pair of cockroaches, diving into the darkened room we found them in. I quickly holster my weapon and pull out my cell. Dialing a number from memory, I hold the phone to my ear.
I hold a finger up, telling Marcy to give me a minute. She nods, her face pale, her eyes still wide. Lance is leaning against her heavily, a stupid grin on his face. At least her fear is keeping her from throwing up on him. That’s got to count as a silver lining.
The line is picked up. “Narcotics.”
“Jameson. It’s Arrington,” I say. “I’m at the Rainier Motel in South Elridge.”
“Hey Arrington, long time no hear. What in the world are you doing there?”
“Long story. Anyway, this place is crawling with junkies and underage girls turning tricks for a hit. There are a couple of bad apples in here, but most of them are just in a sad state. As a favor to me, can you get them set up in rehab and otherwise take out the trash?”
“On it. Thanks for the heads up.”
He disconnects the call, and I drop the phone back into my pocket. I pull my weapon again as Marcy and I walk Lance past the room where the cockroaches are hiding. I see their shadowy forms hunched against the far wall. They’re leaning close to each other, likely conspiring together. But when they see me, they jump apart quickly, pressing themselves against the wall.
“It’s cool, man. You can pass. Don’t worry about it,” says the man I punched. “Just next time—”
“Shut up,” I snarl at them. “Otherwise next time will go very badly for the both of you.”
We take Lance down the stairs and through the remnants of the front door we’d come through. Hustling across the street, I use my key fob to open the tailgate, and we unceremoniously dump him into the back of my Navigator. Marcy looks at me, raising an eyebrow.
“In the trunk? Really?” she comments.
“It’s not a trunk; it’s a cargo space. And he looks perfectly happy back here.”
Lance flops over onto his back, his eyes still glazed, that goofy grin still plastered on his face.
“Besides, I don’t want him on my leather interior,” I note.
She rolls her eyes at me but grins. “Always so practical.”
“That’s me.”
She pauses a moment, her face growing ashen for a moment. “You— I forgot how intense you can be sometimes.”
“Intense?”
A nervous grin pulls the corners of her mouth upward. “Scary. There’s just no other way to really put it. You’re scary as hell sometimes.”
I shrug. “When I need to be.”
“I totally thought you were going to shoot that guy in the face.”
“I knew it wouldn’t come to that,” I shrug. “He’s a coward, not suicidal. I could see in his eyes he didn’t want to die.”
We shut the rear door and climb into the front seats. As we pull away, the two junkies who accosted us are standing in the ruins of the front door shouting and giving us the finger.
“Got to admire their courage,” I note, and Marcy laughs.
Fifteen
Ricky’s Burger Shack; Downtown Seattle
I didn’t think it possible, but the stench wafting off of Lance is even worse now than it seemed to be back at the motel. The man needs a shower and some fresh clothes in the worst way possible.
Because neither of us wanted to sit next to him, Marcy and I are crammed together in the booth of this lower tier, greasy burger joint that I have trouble believing actually passed a health inspection. I glare at the white placard with the “A” in the window and wonder how much they bribed the inspector with to get that grade.
Marcy and I exchange a glance at each other as we watch Lance demolish his third double everything burger, second large fry, large onion ring, and second chocolate shake.
“When’s the last time you had a meal?” I ask.
He shrugs and stuffs another handful of fries into his mouth. Lance chews with his mouth open, a wet smacking sound coming out of it that turns my stomach. I look down at my own burger and fries and push it away, my appetite gone. Marcy does the same.
“So listen,” I start, “We needed to talk to you about your mom.”
He pauses mid-bite, his eyes still locked onto the table in front of him. I see an expression of grief cross his features though. So, he’s aware that his mother’s been murdered. That’s something, I suppose. Rather than say anything, he goes right back to stuffing his face. We have to wait until he’s finished every last bite in front of him before he even looks up and acknowledges our presence— though only as a source of more food.
“Are you guys gonna eat that?” he asks, gesturing to our trays.
He reaches for my tray, but I pull it away from him, and he gives me a look like I’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. He leans back in his seat and ey
es Marcy’s tray covetously, but she too pulls it back in front of her. Lance lets out a long breath and runs a hand through his greasy, scraggly hair.
Once upon a time, Lance was a good-looking guy. His DMV picture shows a youthful-looking guy with blonde, almost platinum colored hair, bright blue eyes just like his siblings, and a handsome, chiseled face with the high cheekbones and aquiline nose of his father. He’s listed at five-ten, one hundred and ninety pounds, and at least in the photos I’ve seen of him, he was once lean and trim, but fit and well-muscled.
But now, time and drugs have ravaged him, leaving his cheeks sunken, pitted, and hollow. The bags beneath his eyes are so dark, he almost looks like a raccoon. His complexion has become sallow, and his teeth are well on their way to rotting out of his head. Gone completely is the All American mom and apple pie good looks, and in their place is the face of a man whose demons are sucking the very life out of him.
“What do you want?” he finally asks.
“I need to know how long you’ve been in town,” I say. “Last I heard you were in Portland.”
He burps but at least has the good grace to cover his mouth as he does it. Marcy presses herself back harder against the seat as if she’s afraid of getting it on her.
“Sorry,” he says. “Anyway, things didn’t work out in Portland. So I came back.”
“I gathered that, given that you’re sitting across from me, eating enough to feed a small village for a month,” I snap. “What I want to know is when did you come back?”
He shrugs. “It’s been a while, I guess.”
“And have you had any contact with your family? Specifically, with your mother?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I tried calling, but she wouldn’t answer her phone. Never returned my calls either. Hey, would you mind if I got another soda? You’re paying, right?”
“You know your mother is dead, right?” I ask, just to confirm. “You know she was murdered?”
“Yeah, I heard,” he says, his face darkening once more.
Like his brother, Lance doesn’t seem particularly emotionally moved by the fact that his mother was murdered. You’d think that he would be devastated, given that she was the only one who seemed to give a damn about him. She may have been misguided and very well may have been keeping him trapped in that cycle of addiction by feeding his habit, but she did it because she loved him. From everything I’ve gathered to this point, she was the only one who did. And yet, he treats the knowledge that she was killed like it’s nothing more traumatic than a change in the weather.
“Is that all you have to say?” Marcy cuts in suddenly. “Your mother was murdered and all you have to say is, ‘yeah, I heard’?”
He looks up at her, and for the first time, I see actual fire in his eyes. Gone is the dazed expression of a junkie, and in its place is a fully aware, functional human. One who feels pain and grief. One who feels anger. One who feels… emotions, period. It’s something I didn’t think him capable of.
“What do you want me to say, Marcia?”
“Marcy.”
“Whatever,” he snaps. “What do you want me to say? That my heart is broken? It is. Do you want me to throw myself on the ground, kicking, screaming, and crying? That’s not gonna happen. I shed the last of the tears I will ever shed for this family— if you can call it that— when my mother threw me out like the trash.”
I have to stop myself from arguing on behalf of the family, reminding myself that it’s not my place. I’m not a family counselor. I’m here to find out who killed this man’s mother. Not reunite him with his family.
“She tried to help you,” Marcy adds. “And you spit in her face every single time you bounced out of whatever rehab center she put you in.”
“Who in the hell do you think you are to judge me?” Lance growls. “You don’t know me. Don’t know what I endured growing up. You don’t—”
“Enough,” I roar, slamming my hand down on the table. Both Marcy and Lance jump out of their skins.
The other diners in the restaurant turn and look over at us, most of them looking eager to watch a fight. I lower my voice and give the both of them a hard glare.
“We’re not doing this,” I say. I turn to Lance. “I have questions, and you’re going to answer them. And after that, I’m taking you someplace where you will stay until my investigation is complete. I may have more questions for you, and I want to make sure you’re somewhere I can find you. Do you understand?”
He looks at me with a stricken expression on his face. But he slowly nods. I turn to Marcy and fix her with a stern look.
“And you. No more questions like that. If you have a question that has a direct bearing on this investigation, fine. But anything else, you can stuff,” I tell her. “You got me?”
Her expression grows surly. “Yeah fine. I got you.”
“Good.”
“Now answer my question,” I turn back to Lance. “Did you murder your mother?”
“No. I did not murder my mother.”
“Where were you the night she was killed?” I ask.
He scoffs. “I don’t freakin’ know, man. I barely remember last night.”
“Then how do you know you didn’t kill your mother?” Marcy asks.
“Because that’s a pretty major event. I think I’d remember something like that.”
I let out a long breath. You think he’d remember something like that, but the drugs have turned his mind into Swiss cheese, so his memory isn’t exactly the most reliable thing ever. However, as I look him over, I have an idea.
“So, just for the record once more, you had nothing to do with your mother’s death?” I press.
“You can believe me or not; I really don’t care, but— for the record— I didn’t kill my mother,” he says with a scowl. “She threw me out like garbage, but I never would have hurt her.”
Marcy and I exchange a look. He sounds sincere. Earnest. He sounds as if he truly believes what he’s saying. And hey, he could very well be telling the truth. Or, he could be an accomplished liar. I don’t know which at this point.
“Okay, that’s enough for now,” I say. “I’m going to get you someplace where you can get a shower and dry out for a few days.”
“I don’t want—”
“What you want doesn’t matter right now,” I interrupt. “All that matters at the moment is finding out who killed your mom and being able to find you when I need you.”
“Fine,” he scowls. “But can we get some food to go?”
Sixteen
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
“Okay, let’s go back to you two traipsing into a crack den,” Brody says, casting a wary eye at Marcy. “What were you thinking?”
“Honestly, I was thinking about looking for a story. I never expected that a couple of crackheads were going to jump us.”
Brody looks at her evenly. “You didn’t expect a couple of crackheads to jump you… in a crack den. Yeah, who could have ever seen that coming?”
“Nothing to worry about. I had the Terminator here with me,” she says. “You should have seen him in action, Brody. He put them in their places like it was nothing. It was like being in the middle of an action movie. It was awesome. He’s like the smaller, whiter version of the Rock.”
“It wasn’t as dramatic as all that. Or as difficult. They were both higher than kites and about as dangerous as Play-Doh,” I offer.
“It was totally dramatic. And they didn’t seem high to me,” she tells Brody. “Seems to me like he’s just being humble again.”
“He should stick to things he’s good at.”
“I agree,” she says.
“You’re still not off the hook for doing something so dumb. You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” Brody chides her.
A moment of tense silence passes between us as Brody looks at Marcy, frowning. She stares back at him impassively. He obviously doesn’t approve of her decision to follow me into that flophouse— which is so
mething I could have told her would happen. But he better get used to the idea that he can’t control her or what she does. He’d have an easier time trying to control the tide or getting the sun to not rise tomorrow. I’d have thought that he would have learned that lesson by now. But then, he always was a bit thickheaded about some things.
“So do you believe him?” Brody asks, changing the subject.
“I believe he needs to avail himself of the shower in that hotel room,” Marcy says. “He smelled like an outhouse.”
“Actually, I’ve been in outhouses that smelled more pleasant,” I say.
“I find it hard to believe that you’ve ever been in an outhouse. You’ve always struck me as the type who thinks a three-star hotel is roughing it,” she quips.
“Traitor!” I clasp my chest in mock woundedness. “Thought you were on my side here!”
We all share a laugh, but my mind is still working on the situation. After getting Lance checked into a hotel, I called Nick to babysit him until I have a security team in place to watch him. It very well could be that Lance has nothing to do with anything. But the fact is, he came back to town right around the same time his mother was murdered. And despite the fact that he claims to be innocent of it all, I don’t trust him. More to the point, I don’t trust his memory, which has been shredded by whatever cocktail of drugs he’s been ingesting.
Which is why I took his clothing and got him something new to wear. I bagged his old clothes and took them to a friend of mine down at the medical examiner’s lab. He was none too pleased with the stench emanating from the bag or the rush I asked him to put on the analysis, but knowing what a big hockey fan he is, I promised him VIP tickets to the Kraken’s inaugural opening night, and that seemed to smooth the waters a bit. Which reminds me…
I pick up the phone in the middle of the conference table and call Amy and ask her to come into the Fishbowl. She pops in a moment later.
“What can I do for you, boss?” she asks.
“I need you to do me a favor. I need you to squeeze all your resources and find out how I can get my hands on a pair of VIP passes to the Kraken’s opening night.”
