Woman in the Water (Arrington Mystery Book 3)

by Elle Gray

  The trouble is, the first blow knocked me dizzy. I’m seeing half a dozen of them in front of me. Bull One rushes in, and I spin to the side, avoiding his haymaker as I drive my fist into his ribs. He grunts and lurches away, his breathing labored and a pained look on his face. Good. I hope I broke a rib or two.

  I feel Bull Two closing from behind, and I spin, shooting my fist forward in one smooth movement. His nose crunches beneath my fist with a loud snap. He stumbles backward, his mask askew, blood flowing from his nose freely. He looks like he’s gearing up for another charge but then suddenly relaxes his stance, telling me I’m in it deep now.

  The distinctive sound of a round being chambered fills my ears, and then the muzzle of a gun is pressed to the base of my skull. Bull Two steps close to me, grinning like a madman, the lower half of his face covered in blood with sprays of it as high as his forehead. The effect gives him a nightmarish visage. His breath is warm and smells like he’s just eaten two full pounds of garlic as it washes over me. I have to fight to keep from gagging. I like garlic and all, but even I have limits on just how much I’ll ingest. A standard Bull Two obviously doesn’t have.

  “Are you guys really going to kill me in a parking garage filled with cameras?” I ask.

  Bull Two glances around nervously. “There ain’t no cameras in here.”

  “We ain’t gonna kill you anyway,” Bull One says. “Boss don’t want you dead.”

  “Then what does he want?” I ask, trying to avoid heaving a loud breath of relief.

  “He wants you to know he had nothin’ to do with that lady’s death. Nothin’, you hear me?” Bull One barks.

  “Forgive me for being so blunt, but that’s what a guilty person would say. I mean, it’s not like they’re going to say they did it. Right?” I note.

  They both pause for a moment as if confused by my logic, confirming for me that neither one of them is the brightest crayon in the box. I’m glad they were both able to obtain fruitful employment with an intellect as dim as theirs. But then, they’re kneecappers and thugs. It’s not like they’re being asked to understand quantum physics or anything.

  “Watch your smart mouth,” Bull One finally says. “Our boss just wanted you to know that. That he had nothin’ to do with nothin’.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Well, that’s all he had to say. Case closed. He’s innocent of everything he’s ever done in his entire history.”

  “You know, you got a smart mouth for somebody who’s got a gun to his head,” Bull One sneers.

  “You should see me when I don’t have a gun to my head. This is nothin’,” I crack.

  “Whatever. That’s your message. Don’t forget it and stop askin’ questions about stuff that’s got nothin’ to do with you.”

  “You mean nothin’ about nothin’, right?” I mock.

  Bull Two’s fist smashes into my cheek. I feel like I’ve been lifted off the ground and thrown backward like a rag doll. I hit the ground with a hard thud and lie there, on my back, staring up at the concrete beams in the ceiling above me. Everything in my body suddenly hurts. My lungs choke and gasp for air. I’ve been punched plenty of times in my life, but I never once considered how much being hit in the face by a hairless Sasquatch would hurt. Now I know.

  Bull One and Bull Two are suddenly filling my field of vision as they loom over me, matching sneers on their faces.

  “Are you two related? You look like you could be brothers,” I ask. “You also kinda look like your parents were related.”

  Bull One points his gun at my face again, the end of his barrel suddenly occupying all of my attention.

  “You’d best learn to watch your mouth,” he sneers. “And to stop askin’ questions.”

  “You don’t want us to pay you another visit,” Bull Two adds.

  “I didn’t want you to pay me this visit,” I say.

  They both smirk as they stand up and walk away. I lay on the concrete for a long moment, staring up at the buttresses overhead, as I try to collect my thoughts and take stock of my body. I haven’t taken a beating like this in a long, long time, and it renews my desire to pick up my jiu-jitsu classes where I left off.

  Just as soon as I stop hurting everywhere.

  Twenty-Six

  Liberty Seafood Company; Pike Place Market, Seattle

  I walk into the corporate headquarters for Liberty Seafood Company. My face is still throbbing with pain, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. I certainly can’t sit home and whine about it. I feel like I’ve got momentum starting to build on the case and the last thing I intend to do is kill it by sitting at home to lick my wounds. I took a beating. It happens.

  On the outside, Liberty Seafood is a four-story red brick building that looks like a relic from a bygone era. It sits just off the main market and is backed up against the water. On the ground level, they’ve got a large fish counter of their own against the front of the building.

  Short piers extend from the back, allowing Liberty’s fishing fleet to moor here. That’s why they have the freshest fish. They don’t have to truck it down from the port. Granted, it’s fifteen minutes tops, but that time saved means Liberty has products they literally just pulled off their boat on ice, ready for sale while other companies are still unloading at the port.

  As the fishmongers at the counter are calling back and forth, throwing the day’s catch to one another to amuse the customers, I pull open the glass door emblazoned with the company’s logo— the Statue of Liberty, who’s holding a fish in place of the usual torch. Very nice.

  I step into a long white-tiled corridor that frankly reminds me of a mental institution. The walls on both sides are lined with pictures of the company’s fleet of boats, artfully rendered. As are the photos of the ship’s captains. They’re all very moody and atmospheric, intended to convey the danger of the sea and the courage of those who brave the waters. Heady stuff.

  I walk through the door at the far end of the hallway and find myself in a medium-sized reception area. A fish tank is set into the wall on my left, with a plethora of colorful fish gliding through the waters. To my right is a reception area, with a dark-colored desk on top of an imitation Persian rug. The floor is made of faux marble, and the walls are done in softer, earthy tones. And the wall across from me is solid glass, giving everybody a view of Liberty’s docks and the Puget Sound beyond.

  “And how can I help you?”

  The woman behind the reception desk has dark, expressive eyes and a warm smile on her face. She’s in her late thirties, with a thick bun of hair on top of her head and a rosy glow in her cheeks. The nameplate sitting on the front of her desk names her Rebecca Allen.

  “Hi Rebecca,” I say, turning to her.

  She winces as if the bruises on my face are somehow hurting her. I give her a lopsided smile.

  “You should see the other guy,” I crack.

  “I’m not sure I want to, seeing the beating you took.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She frowns and then flushes with color as if she just realized what she said. An apologetic look crosses her face, and when she speaks, she stumbles over her words until she takes a deep breath and forces herself to relax.

  “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

  “None taken,” I say. “I’m here to see Mr. Schyler.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  I give her a small smile. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  She frowns. “I’m afraid if you don’t have an appointment, he won’t be able to see you. He’s got a pretty packed schedule today.”

  “Oh, I think he’s going to want to see me. I’m an old friend of his,” I say. “Can you just give him a quick call and let him know Henry Tudor is asking for him?”

  “Henry Tudor?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes, Henry Tudor. Just let him know there’s something I forgot to ask him last night and that it really is a matter of life and
death.”

  Miss Allen hesitantly picks up the phone and turns away, whispering in low tones to keep me from hearing. It doesn’t matter. I know he’s going to want to see me, the threat in my message inherent. Mr. Schyler is many things— and isn’t many things more— but he’s certainly not stupid.

  Using the blatant hint Rachel had given me as to the identity of Mrs. MacMillan’s mystery man, it wasn’t hard to figure out who he was. With Brody’s help over the phone, of course. Travis Schyler, born in Staten Island, New York took great pains to scrub his personal information from the Internet, but he couldn’t hide from my resident technical genius.

  Schyler got his degree in business from Brown, moved to Seattle thirty years ago, inherited Liberty Seafood when his father passed away twenty-five years ago. And over these last twenty-five years, he’s moved aggressively and has built Liberty up to become the largest seafood company in the state. It would appear that an Ivy League education, something he takes great pains to keep hidden from the world at large, has paid handsome dividends.

  He’s got an impressive resume, has some very keen business savvy, and is most definitely not the cheap knockoff made man gangster he poses as. His accent is even fake. It makes me wonder why he does it. Why he pretends to be somebody he’s not. Further, why he pretends to be some shady hood who people fear, complete with brickhead goons.

  When it comes to somebody like Falucci, I get it. He’s got no discernible business. He’s just a jack of all shady trades and relies on that reputation and the fear it sows to be successful. But Schyler is, by all accounts, a successful businessman. Yeah, he may go strong arm and be a bit heavy-handed and aggressive every now and then, from what I read last night. But that’s just business. You have to be tough and sometimes ruthless to survive and flourish. But from what I’ve read, it’s not like he’s out there knocking heads together, and there’s no indication I’ve seen that his company is involved in organized crime.

  Of course, the questions still loom in my mind of why he’d go to the trouble in the first place and why the Velvet Playground seems to be so hush-hush. I’m convinced there’s something I’m not seeing. I can smell it. And when I confront Schyler, I’ll get to the bottom of it.

  It’s interesting. I fully intend to ask him about it. And maybe when he recovers from the shock of me tracking him down and threatening to expose his double life if he doesn’t tell me everything I want, he’ll actually have an answer for me.

  Miss Allen clears her throat, and I turn around. She’s got a pleasant, if not entirely friendly smile on her face.

  “He said he’ll see you. Just take the elevator up to the top floor.”

  “Thank you, Miss Allen.”

  I take the elevator up as instructed and step out into his office, which takes up the entire top floor. It’s done in the industrial loft style, just like my condo, with the original red brick, exposed beams and pipes, and a wall of windows with a view of the Sound that is absolutely pristine.

  The side of the room directly opposite the elevator is obviously his office setup. He’s already on his feet, leaning against an ornately carved teak desk sitting on top of what looks to be an actual Persian rug, his arms folded over his chest and a scowl on his face. The wall to my left, opposite the wall of glass that looks out over the Sound, is one massive bookcase filled with hundreds of books.

  A massive saltwater fish tank sits against the wall to the right of the elevator, filled with fish even more colorful and exotic than those down in the lobby. And there’s a door in the wall to the left that I’ll assume leads to a private bathroom, perhaps even living quarters, given that this office only takes up about half the floor.

  “It would appear you did not get my message last night,” Schyler says in his thick accent.

  “Oh, I got it. I just thought I’d reply in person. I wanted to give it a more personal touch,” I reply. “Where are Bull One and Two?”

  A wry grin stretches his lips. “They have the day off.”

  I walk deeper into his office and peruse the titles on his shelves. It’s an impressive collection. One that hardcore bibliophiles would probably be envious enough of to either kill or die for.

  “Lots of first editions of rare collectibles,” I note. “Shouldn’t you have those in a hermetically sealed room?”

  “How would I be able to read them if I did that?”

  “You won’t be able to read them at all if they fall apart in the elements.”

  He shakes his head. “What is this? Am I supposed to be impressed that you’ve managed to obtain my identity? Or intimidated? Are you popping into my workplace unexpectedly in an effort to show me your dominance and superiority?”

  It’s my turn to offer him a wry smirk. “No, it’s nothing like that. That would be terribly crass. I’m far more subtle about showing my dominance and superiority.”

  “Always with the quick wit.”

  There’s a sitting area in one corner of the room. Large, plush sofas are sitting atop decorative rugs near the wall of glass. I sit down on one of the sofas and get myself comfortable. After a couple of moments, Schyler throws his hands in the air and sits down on the couch across from me. A coffee table that matches his desk, tastefully decorated in curios, is the only thing between us. He stares at me, the annoyance on his face starting to border on the hostile.

  “What is it you want, Mr…”

  “Arrington. Paxton Arrington,” I tell him. “And what I want are just some simple answers to some simpler questions. That’s all.”

  “Under the threat of exposing my particular… habits… I assume?”

  I look at him for a long moment, a million thoughts turning the wheels in my head. He’s playing it cool, but I can see how stressed he is about my sudden appearance here. And I see now that it would be unfair of me to weaponize his private life against him like that.

  “Mr. Schyler, I have no intention of exposing you. Frankly, I couldn’t care less what you do in your free time. Everything I saw last night was consensual, above board, and legal. It may not be my style, but I’ve got no issue with what you do in your private life,” I tell him.

  “I cannot tell you just how much your approval means to me,” he snarks.

  “What I do have an issue with is that you sent your goons after me last night just for asking questions.”

  He considers things for a moment, then turns it back on me. “So, why were you asking those questions?”

  “I’m a private investigator retained by the family to look into Mrs. MacMillan’s death. I’m not suggesting you had anything to do with it. But I want to understand your relationship with her,” I tell him. “Was it strictly play partners at the club?”

  “You may not be suggesting I had anything to do with it, but I can see in your eyes that you aren’t so sure about that. You may not admit it, but I’m a suspect in your book,” he says.

  I shrug. “Until I have reason to exclude somebody, everybody’s a suspect.”

  “You should be looking harder at that husband of hers. He’d have millions of reasons to kill her,” he says, finally dropping his accent and hopefully the entire artifice along with it.

  “Why would you say that?”

  He sighs and scrubs his face with his hands and leans back against the sofa. Schyler sits forward again, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. He’s such a different person than the one I saw at the club last night. He’s less bold and less gruff. Sitting here in front of him, he seems like a man who’s lost. A man who, in many ways, seems as adrift in a vast ocean, with no land in sight. In a lot of ways, he looks like Mr. MacMillan.

  “You and Mrs. MacMillan were more than just play partners, weren’t you?” I observe.

  A rueful smile turns to a frown. “Yeah, we started off as play partners. But it quickly became something else. We were in love, Mr. Arrington. Like very deeply in love,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She was going to leave him, and we were going to
get married.”

  This revelation hits me like a hammer and leaves me reeling. I search his eyes, read his microexpressions and his body language, but I can’t see that he’s being anything but sincere. I see no deception on his face, nor hear any in his voice. And this suddenly throws everything I think I know into doubt.

  I give myself a beat to digest his words, telling myself to calm down. To look at this objectively. Reminding myself that this is what I’d expect a killer to say. He would try to deflect and derail my investigation by throwing me a curveball. Even though I hear the earnestness and sincerity in his voice, I keep telling myself that I’m not infallible and sometimes make mistakes.

  He chuffs and gets to his feet, walking over to his desk. He comes back with a small black box in his hand and tosses it to me. I catch it and look up at him.

  “Open it,” he instructs me.

  I open it to see an absolutely stunning diamond ring. I pull it out of the box and look at it in the light. The inscription inside the band catches my eye. “Charlotte, you are my heart.” I stare at it for a long moment, stunned by the revelation that’s turning everything upside down.

  “Why hadn’t she left him yet?” is all I can think to ask.

  “She was going to. She just wanted to get through the holidays first and finalize a few things,” he replies. “Said she wanted to start the new year on the right foot, with a clean break and a fresh start.”

  I slip the ring back into the box and set it down on the coffee table, sitting back on the sofa. Schyler takes the box and turns it over and over in his hand, staring at it as his eyes well with tears. And witnessing this man’s grief, which is raw and seems very real, makes me feel like the biggest piece of crap in the world. The universe.

  He sets the box down on the sofa beside him and wipes his eyes, sniffing loudly, as he gathers himself. Schyler clears his throat and looks up at me, his eyes and nose still red and his cheeks flushed.