by Elle Gray
She arches an eyebrow at me. “You’re kidding?”
“Not even a little.”
“Promised somebody the impossible again, huh?”
I shrug. “It was for a good cause.”
“What do I know about getting sportsball tickets? I’m not even sure what sport that is, to be perfectly honest.”
“You knew it was a sport, so that’s a good start. And it’s hockey.”
“Hockey,” she grumbles. “What do I know about hockey?”
“You’re a resourceful girl,” I tell her. “I’m always impressed with your ingenuity. I’m confident you can make this happen.”
She grins. “And of course, this comes with a little bonus, right? ‘Cause I was looking at some very nice shoes—”
“Don’t get any funny ideas,” I fire back. “Just the tickets.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Amy walks out of the Fishbowl, grumbling to herself, and the rest of us laugh. I take a drink of my coffee and sit back in my seat and look at the office beyond the Fishbowl windows. It looks like Halloween threw up out there. All I can do is roll my eyes. It’s an even more garish display than what I saw at Redemption House.
“Who told Amy to decorate the office?” I ask.
“I did. She was excited to do it. Turns out she loves decorating for the holidays,” Brody says, flashing me an evil grin. “Everybody loves Halloween.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?”
“What am I missing?” Marcy asks.
Brody chuckles. “Pax here hates Halloween. It’s a whole thing with him.”
“What’s a whole thing?”
“Nothing,” I cut Brody off before he can speak. “How about we focus on the task at hand instead?”
“People in masks creep him out,” Brody says.
Marcy turns to me, barely able to keep the smile from her face. “Seriously? The big tough guy who took down two knife-wielding crackheads is afraid of people in masks?”
“I’m not afraid—”
“Totally afraid,” Brody cuts me off. “It’s kind of adorable. You know he always got freaked out by horror movies too.”
“Aww, is widdle Paxy afwaid of some scawy movies?” she taunts in a sing-song voice.
“Ask him about the first time he watched—”
“Okay, let’s focus on things that are actually important,” I grouse. “Like trying to find a murderer. Can we do that instead?”
They share a laugh at my expense, but then the levity in the room dissipates as we turn to the pressing concern: finding Mrs. MacMillan’s killer.
“What does your gut tell you about Lance?” Marcy asks.
“It tells me he didn’t do it. That’s not based on anything, mind you,” I say.
“That’s usually why it’s called a gut feeling,” she teases.
“Smart-aleck.” I give her a grin. “Brody, did you find anything in Marshall’s caseload? Anything that stands out?”
“Not so much. There’s nothing that really stands out to me. As I said, the guy doesn’t lose often, and when he does, there’s usually a good reason for it… like his client is guilty as sin, and there’s too much evidence to say they weren’t,” he says. “But I’ll keep digging and looking deeper.”
“What do you think about Eric?” Marcy asks.
“Again, my gut tells me no. He’s angry and doesn’t much care for his family,” I say. “But I don’t know if he actually cares enough to murder her.”
“Didn’t you say she showed up at his foundation the day she died?” Brody asks.
I nod. “Yeah. He said they argued, but I didn’t get the idea it was anything outside the normal or all that serious.”
“Not to sound like a broken record, but what about Marshall?” Marcy conjectures. “How did your conversation with him go?”
“About as expected. He’s still in shock, but he’s doing better than he was before. Slightly. He’s drinking a lot,” I say.
“Can’t say I blame him,” Brody mutters.
“Me either,” I reply. “And no, I didn’t get the vibe that he had anything to do with it. He’s a man in mourning.”
Marcy bites on her bottom lip and looks away. She clearly has something on her mind, but I can tell she’s holding it back.
“Spill it,” I say.
“Spill what?”
“Whatever’s making you look like you’re swallowing battery acid.”
She blows out a long breath and drums her fingers on the table. I can see the thoughts and emotions warring inside of her. She looks at me, an apologetic expression already on her face.
“I don’t want you to take offense but is it possible you relate to Marshall so much that he’s a blind spot for you?” she asks.
“A blind spot?”
“Just that, you’re already ruling him out simply because of this perceived connection you have with him? That you relate to his sense of loss so profoundly that you’re not scrutinizing him the same way you’d look at everybody else?”
I open my mouth to tell her how ridiculous that is, but I have to close it again, knowing it’s a point I can’t dismiss out of hand. It’s a point of view I haven’t considered before. I don’t particularly care for it. But it’s an interesting point all the same.
“I really don’t think so. I just didn’t get that vibe from him. His grief is too real,” I tell her. “But your point is taken.”
“Okay then, so what do we have exactly?” Marcy asks.
“Honestly, about a hundred different pieces and no idea how they all fit together yet.”
“Do we have one suspect we like more than the others?” Brody asks.
A wry grin touches my mouth. “Not yet. There is a pile of people who could be good for this,” I say. “About the only thing that is clear to me right now is that Mrs. MacMillan isn’t the perfectly altruistic saint some people think she is. There’s another, darker side to her.”
“Yeah well, until you actually prove that, you’re not getting the thousand bucks,” Brody says.
Marcy turns her head to him. “You’re betting on Mrs. MacMillan’s character?”
He gives her a sheepish smile. “It’s not as crass as it sounds.”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” she says and shakes her head. “Children. I’m surrounded by children.”
“There’s something we’re missing here,” I muse aloud.
“Aren’t you the perceptive one?” Brody comments.
“I think I need to go back to the MacMillan house,” I say.
“Why?” Marcy asks. “Haven’t you been through that place a few times already?”
I nod. “But there’s something I’m missing. Something that might unlock a few doors that could put me on the right path.”
I fall silent and think about it for a moment. While it’s true that Eric and Lance both have a reason to want their mother dead or at least a reason that makes sense to them, I have a hard time thinking either of them did it. I looked into both men’s eyes, and I just didn’t see a killer. Ditto that for Marshall.
Now, I’ll admit that this investigation hits pretty close to home on multiple fronts for me. And if I’m being honest with myself, Marcy’s suggestion that I might have a blind spot when it comes to them is a possibility. I think it unlikely, but I’m a big enough person to admit that it’s a possibility. And if I can’t develop another viable suspect, it’s one I’ll have to revisit.
But I’m not there quite yet. I still think there are answers out there. I’m just not looking in the right places yet. I get to my feet, intent on finding those answers.
“Where are you headed?” Brody asks.
“I’m going to go fill in TJ Lee on what we’ve found. See if maybe I can get any information out of him in return.”
Brody scoffs. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
Seventeen
Golden Sun Restaurant; Downtown Seattle
Having thankfully missed the worst of the lunchtime rush, I’m
ensconced in a booth in the back of the restaurant owned by TJ’s family. After a little digging, I learned that he stops by for a quick lunch almost every day, so I decided to camp out and wait for him.
The restaurant is done in shades of red and gold, with the tables, chairs, and wainscoting on the walls, a highly polished light wood. There are bamboo plants in large pots stationed around the restaurant, and decorated paper lanterns hang from the ceiling. It’s simple, tasteful, and from what I can tell, pretty traditional. It’s not like a lot of the other Chinese restaurants around here who have a more modern motif that’s sleeker and more spartan in decor.
The lunch special— chicken in oyster sauce, beef chow mein, fried rice— is delightful. Makes me wonder why I haven’t eaten here before. Aside from the plate of noodles I had with a very annoyed TJ Lee during the Tucker case. That was more to irritate him than me trying to actually enjoy a meal.
As I bit into a seaweed wrapped spring roll that’s crisp and flavorful, TJ comes through the door and greets his mother and sister warmly. But that warmth fades when his eyes fall on me. I see him say a few words to his family, then take a deep, steadying breath before he comes over and sits down across from me.
“The glass noodles in this spring roll are really good. The seaweed wrap is crisp, and—”
“Cut the crap, Arrington. What are you doing here?”
I wipe my mouth with my napkin and drop it into my lap. “Enjoying a very fine meal. Your mother and sister, both really lovely people, by the way, are fantastic chefs. I mean, this is the best—”
“I assume you want something. What is it?”
“Could it be I just wanted a nice meal? I mean, this is a restaurant; it’s sort of their business to—”
“I know you, Arrington. It’s never as simple as that. You always want something.”
“Well that’s just ugly, TJ. And not accurate.”
He leans forward, his eyes blazing with anger. “I told you before, promotion or not; I’m not going to be your inside guy. I never asked you to put a good word in for me with the Commissioner, and as far as I’m concerned, I don’t owe you anything.”
He’s taking this whole promotion deal far too seriously. TJ is a proud man, and I suppose I underestimate just how much of a blow to that pride, and his ego, having something he feels he didn’t earn would be for him. I honestly was trying to do something good by standing up for him with Gray.
“I never said you did. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t owe me anything either. Never wanted it to be like that.”
“Then what do you want?” he hisses. “Start talking, or I’ll throw you out of here myself.”
“Lee Tai-zhang, bùyào cūlǔ,” a woman snaps.
We both turn our heads to see TJ’s mother standing at the table, a deep scowl, and expression of disapproval on her face. She’s a stout woman in her mid-fifties with dark hair shot through with gray, olive-colored skin, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Aside from a discrepancy in height— Ai-lan is five-five tops— the resemblance is unmistakable. If TJ were a middle-aged woman with a few more pounds on him, he’d look exactly like her.
TJ looks down at the table as she sets a heaping bowl of noodles with shrimp, bok choy, and a host of other vegetables down in front of him, and a small plate with three spring rolls off the side. The steam curls off the surface of the bowl and rises upward. It smells divine.
Ai-lan gives me an apologetic expression. “I am sorry for my son’s behavior. He can sometimes be— abrupt,” she says, her voice colored by a thick accent.
“There’s nothing to apologize for, ma’am,” I reply. “I perfectly understand his position, and I don’t take offense to it.”
“You are kind to say so. But my son knows better than to be so rude. This is not how he was raised.”
TJ looks down at the table, a sheepish expression on his face. I’m sure having his mother dress him down in front of me isn’t going to do a lot to improve his mood. She says more to him in Chinese, undoubtedly reinforcing her point judging by his expression, which keeps growing tighter.
She gives me a small smile. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Actually, I would love a bowl of that to take home,” I point at TJ’s bowl. “It smells incredible.”
“My pleasure,” she smiles and gives me a slight bow.
She departs, leaving me with a very sour-looking TJ who tucks into his meal without a word. He won’t even look at me. I clear my throat.
“Tai-zhang,” I say. “Shouldn’t that be TZ?”
“You ever heard of a kid growing up in Beacon Hill named TZ?”
I shrug. “Point made. Look, man, I don’t want things to be like this.”
He shrugs in return. “You can always fix that by not coming around.”
“I only tracked you down to update you on my investigation and share what I’ve learned so far.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because we both want the same things here,” I tell him. “We both want to find Mrs. MacMillan’s killer.”
“What I mean is, why would you willingly share information? I thought you were doing this for the glory? Or if not glory, then a chance to show the world how much better you are than the SPD?”
“If you really believe that, you don’t know me at all,” I protest, though I can’t deny taking a certain pleasure in showing up the SPD.
“You’re right. I don’t know you. And I prefer to keep it that way.”
“Look, we don’t have to be best friends. But we’re both professionals. You’re good at what you do; I’m good at what I do. I think we can help each other.”
He grunts but doesn’t say anything, keeping his eyes fixed on his bowl, content to pretend that I’m not actually there. As he eats, I fill him in on everything I’ve learned so far. Which admittedly, as I speak, sounds pretty paltry. And when I’m finished, he sits back in his seat and stares at me.
“Sounds to me like Lance is our guy. He’s got the means, motive, and if he’s actually back in town, the opportunity,” he says.
“I don’t think it’s him.”
“What makes you say that?” he raises an eyebrow.
“My gut feeling. He’s a junkie, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”
“Your gut. Yeah, that’ll hold up in court.”
“TJ, you know that most police work is done by gut feelings.”
“Right, and those gut feelings usually lead us to actual evidence,” he fires back.
“He loved his mother. That much is clear to me.”
“And she also cut him off, pissing him off, according to your account of things.”
“Not to the point that he’d actually murder her.”
He smirks at me. “According to your gut feeling.”
“I’m pretty good at reading people.”
“Yeah well, I’m going to want to talk to him. Where is he?”
I stare at him, my annoyance with him smoldering. He’s made it clear he’s under no obligation to tell me anything, just as I’m under no obligation to share anything I’ve found with him. If he really wants to engage in a pissing match, he’s going to find that I’m a master at the game.
“I don’t need to remind you of obstruction laws, do I, Arrington?”
“So far as I know, Lance isn’t a suspect. I don’t think he’s even listed as a person of interest right now,” I counter. “So far as the SPD goes, my understanding is that they’ve issued no warrants for anybody. I would only be obstructing justice if I were hiding somebody who had a warrant out on them. So, I don’t need to remind you that I’m not here to do your job for you. If you want to have a sit down with Lance, you can find him yourself.”
Lee stares hard at me, his face stony. I can tell he’s doing his best to keep himself in check and not blow up at me. Probably doesn’t want to incur the wrath of his mom again. Especially not with me sitting here.
“So, what are you expecting with all of this? A pat
on the back?” He wipes his mouth on his napkin and drops it on the table beside his bowl. “Okay, atta boy. Good job. Way to go, Arrington. You’re number one.”
“What is your problem? I’m trying to help here,” I ask.
“The better question is, what are you hoping to accomplish by trying to tarnish the legacy of a truly great woman? She’s better than you or I will ever be, Arrington. What exactly are you trying to do here? Prove that she’s somebody she’s not? Prove that she’s a phony?”
“I’m trying to find her killer, TJ,” I lower my voice, my tone sharp. “And in any investigation, the first thing you do is look at the victim. You find out their secrets and the things they keep hidden. More times than not that will lead you to a suspect. You know this, TJ.”
“Hey, thanks for the tip on how to do my job. I appreciate that.”
I sit back in my seat and glower at him. It’s then that Marcy’s words earlier in the day echo back to me. TJ is so enamored with Mrs. MacMillan, believing she truly is the greatest thing since sliced bread, he’s got a blind spot where she’s concerned. He can’t conceive of a world where she’s not who she portrays to the public, seeing her only as this pillar of good and generosity.
“You ever stop and think that you might have a blind spot where Mrs. MacMillan is concerned?” I ask.
“Why? Because I believe she was one of the few people in this city that actually cared about others? Because I believe she actually put her money where her mouth was and did good work for the city?”
I look at him evenly. “Maybe because your defense of her is so impassioned when by your own admission, you only know Mrs. MacMillan by her reputation?”
His face remains calm and impassive as he sits back in his seat and glares at me. If my words got through to him at all, he shows no sign of it. I see now what Marcy was trying to say to me. I don’t know that it changes my opinion that Marshall was involved with the death of his wife, but if nothing else, it shows me one of my own weak spots. It’s something I’ll have to address.
“You know what? You just do your thing. I’m done talking to you,” Lee snaps. “Maybe you should go tell Gray to revoke my promotion since I obviously have no desire to be your lapdog. If you want to help out so badly, go direct traffic or something. Leave me out of it.”
