by Elle Gray
“Sorry. This just really hurts. She made me happier than I’d ever been, and now… she’s gone,” he says.
As I sit there, the image of him last night flashes into my mind, and I look up. His eyes are still fixed on the box, but I find myself suddenly having doubts.
“You seem to have moved on fairly quickly,” I note. “I mean last night, you seemed pretty content.”
He looks at me ruefully. “Some people do drugs. Others drink themselves into oblivion. I don’t drink to excess, and I don’t do drugs. What does that leave me?” he asks. “I screw. Tacky? Perhaps. But we all cope with loss and grieve in our own ways, Mr. Arrington.”
He’s right. Everybody has their own process. Mr. MacMillan is one of those drinking himself into oblivion. I drown myself in work and on this crusade I’m on. Who’s to say that his way is wrong and mine’s right? Perhaps when death strikes so close to home for us, some people turn to something as life-affirming as sex to cope. It’s not for me to judge, and yet I realize I’ve been sitting here doing just that this entire time.
I want to ask him about the Velvet Playground’s other activities, but this caught me so off guard I can’t even gather my thoughts on that right now. I have to follow through with this conversation first.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask, Mr. Schyler,” I start, “but where were you the night she was murdered?”
“I was out on one of my boats. I like to go out with the fleet every now and then. I like to stay connected to my roots,” he says, then looks up at me. “My old man made me start on a boat. Had to learn everything there was to know about a boat and what we’re fishing for before he let me get involved.”
“And how’d you handle that?”
He laughs. “I had an Ivy League background; how do you think I handled it?”
“Like a spoiled, entitled prick.”
He nods. “Exactly. But I grew into it. Adapted. And it wasn’t long before I learned to love it. Like really love it,” he says. “I always like to say the sea was my first love. But I loved Charlotte even more than that.”
I’m convinced he didn’t do it. I believe it deep down in my bones. The love I hear in his voice when he talks about her, as well as what I see in his eyes convinces me that it’s true.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask.
“Might as well. I’d hate for you to have to drive all the way out to my home to accost me there,” he replies, though it’s not without a small trace of humor.
“Why the act? Why pretend you’re some thug from Brooklyn?” I ask. “I mean, the accent, the way you carry yourself… why the artifice?”
The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I had a professor at Brown a long time ago who told me that in business, it was always good to have a schtick. Have something that made you memorable. Memorable people, he said, always had the advantage, because why? Because people remember you,” he explains. “I had no schtick to speak of, so I just went with the tough kid from New York. The scars on my knuckles you were eyeballing at the club? Got them my first summer out on one of the boats. Truth is, I’ve never been in a fight in my life.”
“So why did you have your boys rough me up last night?” I ask.
“Honestly, they weren’t meant to lay a hand on you. They’re my cousins, and they’re good guys, but they’re not too bright if you didn’t notice,” he admits.
I grin. “I noticed.”
“Yeah well, I give them a job to keep them out of trouble. They’re there to sell the image,” he says. “They were just there to scare you, that’s all, but Donny gets a little overzealous sometimes. I’m sorry about that.”
“I’ll heal,” I shrug. “Just one more question… why is the Playground such a secret? What’s with the massive entrance fee and the hardcore secrecy? Why is everybody so worried about anybody knowing they’re members? Is there some Eyes Wide Shut conspiracy going on down there?”
He looks at me for a moment, down at his desk, and then back and me.
“You want my honest opinion?”
I nod. “Of course.”
“It’s all part of the act. The club is secret because it’s secret; the entrance fee prevents common riff-raff from intruding our space. But there's no conspiracy, no cult, as far as I know. Probably the majority of people want to feel like they’re part of something exclusive. It’s the thrill of the secret society.,” he says.
“And what about the others?”
“The rest of us have no other outlet to really be ourselves. It’s the one place in the world where we can go and let our hair down, and just be who we really are without judgment or public attention,” he tells me. “Most people think we’re just playing a role. Just playing at being somebody different for a night, when in reality we’re just free to be ourselves.”
I sit back, processing what I feel is a pretty profound answer. And kind of a sad one as well. I understand and relate to everything he just said all too well. We should be free to be who we are. But things like life, careers, friends, family, even society itself oftentimes force us to be anything but what we truly are. In the end, we’re all wearing masks every day.
It also makes me realize that I, yet again, had completely misjudged what was happening right in front of me. I was so utterly convinced that the Velvet Playground was going to be a hotbed of crime and who knows what else. But it’s not. It’s just a sex club. I allowed my own perceptions to shape my theories instead of following the facts.
I’m unable to think of anything else to ask him or say at the moment. My mind is spinning though, as I realize this is yet another dead end. I have nothing. I’m back to square one. Again. So I get to my feet, and Schyler follows suit.
“Thank you for talking to me today,” I say.
“As if I had a choice,” he says with a grin. “But I’m glad somebody’s looking into this. That somebody’s trying to find justice for her. I would like you to do me one favor if you would.”
“Name it.”
He purses his lips and looks down for a moment as if taking the time to organize his thoughts or perhaps control his emotions. When he looks back up at me, I decide it’s the latter. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are shimmering. And when he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion.
“Charlotte is the only woman I’ve ever known who’s seen behind my mask and loved what she saw. She loved me in ways I didn’t deserve. But I took it and ran with it because I loved her in ways I didn’t know I could love another person,” he says. “So do whatever you have to do to find the prick who killed her. I’ll do anything I can to help. All you need to do is call me. Find him, Mr. Arrington. Punish him.”
He extends his hand, and I grip it firmly, giving it a shake. “I’ll do everything I can. You have my word.”
Twenty-Seven
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
“Holy crap, what happened to you?” Marcy asks as I step into the Fishbowl.
Brody stares at me, wide-eyed. “Wow. Is this from last night? You didn’t tell me you’d gotten the snot kicked out of you when you called.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I shrug, taking my usual seat.
They’re both eyeballing me from their side of the table, and both Amy and Nick are leaning in the doorway, staring at me like a zoo exhibit.
“Did you get this at the club?” Marcy asks.
“Is this where we need to review consent laws with you?” Brody chirps.
“He can’t tell you,” Nick chimes in. “The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club. Right, boss?”
Amy punches him in the arm and flashes him a scowl. He gives her a look and a shrug. I sigh, knowing it’s better to rip the Band-Aid off now and get it out of the way.
“This was all just a misunderstanding. Schyler’s guys—”
“Schyler? As in Travis Schyler?” Marcy gasps. “The mafia don?”
I chuckle. “He’s not a mafia don.”
“That’s not what peopl
e say about him,” she replies.
“They also say Falucci is some human trafficking kingpin,” I remind her. “Schyler is as much of a made man as Falucci is. As in, they’re both made up men. It’s all an act. He’s as much of a mafia don as Brody is.”
“Hey, I could be a don,” he says. “I’d be good at it.”
“Yeah, not so much. You’re about as intimidating as a box of kittens,” Marcy deadpans. Both Amy and Nick nod in agreement.
“Screw you guys,” he protests with a grin.
“Okay, so spill it,” Marcy says. “What the hell happened to your face?”
Amy and Nick take seats at the table as I tell them everything, from the moment I stepped into the club to the moment I left Schyler’s office today, leaving nothing out. And when I’m done, all four of them are staring at me wide-eyed.
“They were going to get married?” Amy asks. “That is so sad.”
“It also means that Schyler didn’t do it,” I say.
“Isn’t it possible that Charlotte had a change of heart, and when she told him, he flipped out and killed her?” Marcy asks.
“It’s possible. I just don’t see it though,” I say. “I looked into the man’s eyes. Trust me when I say he was devastated.”
“Yeah, so devastated, he took on a tag team at the club last night,” Brody cracks.
I shrug. “As he said, we all grieve differently.”
Marcy cuts a sharp glare at Brody. “If something happens to me, you had best find a different way to grieve, buddy.”
A laugh ripples around the table but fizzles out quickly. There’s a heavy, ominous feeling in the air that I can’t explain. Maybe it’s the fact that we have to start over again and find a new suspect. Maybe it’s the fact that this case has so many parallels to my own situation that it’s reopening old wounds. Maybe it’s a combination of those things and more. I’m so wrung out at the moment; I can’t say what it is pressing down on me for sure.
My cell phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket, and I stare at the caller ID for a moment, surprised. I put it on speaker and answer the call.
“Ms. MacMillan, what can I do for you this morning?” I ask.
“Good morning, Mr. Arrington,” she replies curtly. “I just wanted to inform you personally that your services are no longer required. A final check has been cut and is being couriered over to you this afternoon. Though I have to say, I am very highly disappointed in the service provided.”
“I don’t understand. The case isn’t—”
“The police have apprehended my brother, Lance. He’s being charged with my mother’s murder as we speak,” she says.
“What? You’re kidding me?”
“I assure you that I am not,” she growls. “It seems Detective Lee took my concerns seriously, where you did not.”
“Ms. MacMillan, this is a serious mistake. Your brother didn’t do this.”
“The evidence says otherwise.”
“What evidence? There is no evidence.”
“That will be for the police to sort out.”
“Ms. MacMillan—”
“This was a courtesy call, Mr. Arrington. We’re done here,” she snaps. “Have a good day.”
The line goes dead, and we all sit around looking at each other, stunned disbelief on all of our faces.
“Did we just get fired?” Brody asks.
“Sounded like it,” Marcy replies.
I sit back in my seat and stare up at the ceiling, an anger-fueled fire burning in my veins. It’s not that she fired us that’s gotten under my skin. It’s the fact that she went behind my back to Lee. That she has him laser-focused on her brother when I can say with absolute certainty that Lance MacMillan didn’t kill her mother. But Lee, like Sarah, has this image of Charlotte MacMillan locked into his mind. That makes him particularly susceptible to Sarah’s influence behind the scenes. Sarah’s willing to do everything she can to protect this reputation. Even framing her own brother.
“Something about all of this stinks,” Brody says. “Something’s rotten here.”
“You think?” I grumble. “I need to go talk to Lee. I need to get in to see Lance.”
“He’s never going to talk to you,” Brody replies. “And he’s definitely not going to let you speak with Lance. You know this already.”
“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” Marcy adds.
I grit my teeth, my frustration welling up inside of me. I know they’re right, but I need to try. I need to stop this from happening. But Lee is a fact-based person. He doesn’t traffic in hypotheticals or suppositions. If I’m going to turn his opinion and make him see that he’s got the wrong guy, I’m going to have to present him with a logical alternative.
And that’s the problem. I don’t have a logical alternative right now. I scroll through all of the information we’ve collected to this point and replay all of the conversations I’ve had back in my head. I think about my time talking to Falucci and Turner, the entire MacMillan clan, Schyler, and everybody else I’ve talked to over the course of this investigation.
I’ve still got a hundred disparate pieces, but I’m no closer to being able to piece them all together and form a complete, coherent picture right now than I was the day Sarah hired us. I think about possible motives. I think about who benefits the most from Charlotte’s death. I think about everything I know right now. And then I line it all up in my head and give it another thorough look, trying to see something I might have missed. But there’s nothing there.
There’s one part of me that thinks it’s possible the SPD had this right from the start. That maybe this was a robbery gone wrong. I start to wonder if perhaps I’m the one who saw things that weren’t there and ascribed meaning to things that had none. Maybe the scene of the robbery wasn’t staged after all. Maybe they’d left the small valuables behind for a reason.
It’s just like the sex club. I spent so long convincing myself that this must have been some shadowy front for a cult or that there was illicit activity going on. But it wasn’t. I let my mind get ahead of me and create this narrative that didn’t even make sense, just because of my own biases.
Self-doubt isn’t a disease I’m infected with very often, and it comes with a strange feeling that I’m not used to. I’m used to being confident in my decisions and not second-guessing myself. Am I right one hundred percent of the time? Of course not. But I usually make my decisions and am content to stand by them, for the good or the ill. And if I’m wrong, I learn from it and move on.
But as I sit at the conference table in the Fishbowl, looking out at the faces of my friends— my second family— staring back at me, looking to me for some sort of guidance or a confident decision, I find that I’ve got nothing. I’m an empty well. It’s a feeling I’m not used to, and I hate it with a passion.
I close my eyes and draw in a breath, giving myself a ten-count before releasing it slowly. One of the things I’ve always excelled at is thinking outside the box. It’s being able to look at something one way, then turning it on its head and looking at it the other way. It doesn’t always yield results, but sometimes, a simple flip of the way you’re seeing or thinking about something can change the entire game.
And when I open my eyes, a smile crosses my face as the answer comes to me. Or at least a new direction. It may not yield the results I’m looking for, but it may just be the answer to all of the riddles. It may be the missing piece of the puzzle that will bring the thing together into one solid and clear picture.
I get to my feet, feeling that momentum building inside of me again. I feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, adding fuel to the fire already burning inside of me.
“Where are you going?” Brody asks.
“Down to talk to Lee. He’s going to let me talk to Lance,” I state.
“He’s got that resting superiority face going,” Marcy notes with a grin. “Lee’s not going to know what hit him.”
“Oh he’ll know, but it’s going to hit him
anyway,” I reply. “And while I’m gone, I need you guys to do something for me.”
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-First Precinct House; Downtown Seattle
The temperature drops about fifty degrees when I walk through the doors of my old precinct. Ted Willis, the riding desk sergeant and a staunch Torres loyalist greets me with a scowl on his face. He’s a short man with a Napoleon complex. He’s got mostly gray hair and brown eyes in his pink, porcine face. He’s a man who thinks he’s smarter than everybody in the room, and as such, doesn’t like to do any actual work. Riding a desk and shuffling papers for eight hours a day suits him just fine. Willis looks me up and down, his scowl only deepening.
“What do you want?” he growls.
“I need to speak with Detective Lee,” I reply.
“He’s busy.”
“Really? You know that, despite not picking up a phone or getting your rather sizeable self off that stool behind the desk?” I mock. “I’m impressed, Willis. Sitting here doing nothing but stuffing your face with donuts all day must be enhancing your psychic abilities.”
“Piss off,” he growls.
“I need to speak with Detective Lee.”
“Yeah, you said that already. Like I told you, he’s busy.”
“Huh. You sure you want to play it this way?”
He narrows his eyes. “You threatening me?”
“Not at all. I just didn’t want to have to go over your head to the watch commander to get you to do something as basic as picking up a phone,” I counter. “Which I would be well within my rights to do, of course. And last I heard, you and Lieutenant Farmer weren’t actually on the best of terms.”
Truth be told, Farmer and I aren’t on the best of terms either. At least, we weren’t when I left the SPD, and he was the desk sergeant here. But I doubt Willis remembers that. It’s an idle threat, but judging by the way his face turns red and he angrily snatches the handset out of its cradle and stabs the buttons on the phone, I’d say it was a pretty good one. He turns away from me and speaks low, except for the string of curse words he wants me to hear.
