by Elle Gray
“Maybe he works in an ME’s office or a morgue,” Mo wonders.
“I don’t think so. This guy is filled with rage and hatred,” I say. “I think the hate for women he carries around with him would be noticed by other people.”
“Or he could be the kind of sociopath who knows how to turn it off when he needs to. The kind of sociopath who is adept at blending in,” Astra offers.
“That’s definitely possible. We can’t discard that out of hand,” I say. “But something tells me this guy works alone. I don’t have anything to back that up. It’s just a hunch right now.”
“So, what about the brunettes?” Mo asks. “Why don’t you think those are his kills?”
“Because they’re not his type,” I reply. “If you look at the three I’m positive are his—Emily, Summer, and Serena—they all look virtually the same. Or close enough, anyway. All of them blonde, young college-aged girls. All of them thin and gorgeous. Line up the blondes and they could all be sisters. I’m pretty comfortable saying he’s a preferential offender, and thin, pretty, blonde girls are his type.”
“So, is he fantasizing about killing a sister or his mother?” Astra asks. “Or an ex?”
“That’s something we’re going to have to find out on our own,” I say. “We just need a little more data.”
“I think we need to question Emily Tompkins’ family, as well as Serena Monroe’s. We need to find out where they were abducted from. If we can figure that out, maybe we can find his comfort zone. That could lead us close to where he lives.”
“What’s up with the water?” Mo asks. “Is that just a forensic countermeasure?”
Rick pulls up the crime scene photos from the blonde girls. I step closer and study the bodies of water they were dumped in and frown. Yeah, it could definitely be partly about forensic countermeasures. But as I study the photos closer, something inside of me tells me it’s more than that. A lot more. This is his pathology on display for the world to see.
I shake my head. “This is his signature. The water,” I say. “For some reason, the water is important to him. It’s not only a forensic countermeasure—if it is at all—but water is important to him completing his ritual.”
“Water?” Astra asks. “Why would water be important to him.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know for sure yet. But something about it is. I’m guessing it has to do with something in his childhood. Something left this impression on him and water became important. Critical to his life. even. What that is, I don’t know yet.”
I frown and continue studying the photos, looking for something to stand out to me. But nothing else does right now. I know I’m on the right track, though. I can feel it. The pieces of the puzzle are starting to come together and fall into place. I walk over to the whiteboard and pick up the green marker, then start to write down what I know of this guy so far.
“Caucasian. Late twenties to early thirties,” I say the words as I write them.
“How can you predict the age?” Mo asks.
“You can’t really, but don’t get hung up on that. Age is the hardest thing to predict,” I say. “But that’s my guesstimate, because you don’t typically see this level of rage combined with organization in somebody younger. It wouldn’t shock me if he were older than I’m calling out.”
Mo nods. “That makes sense.”
“He’s also going to be physically fit. He probably works out. Maybe even obsessively,” I say. “He’s charming. Socially adept. He can talk people into things.”
“Why do you think that?” Mo asks.
“Because he got three young women to go off with him without raising an alarm,” I point out. “These young women didn’t cause a fuss, draw attention to themselves, or do anything that gave anybody the impression they were being abducted. That takes some social skill.”
“It also means he’s probably going to be attractive,” Astra chimes in.
“Our boy’s got game,” Rick remarks.
“Maybe he can give you a few tips when we catch him,” Astra says.
Rick gives her the finger but laughs. I give it a little more thought, trying to pull all these scraps together into one coherent picture.
“He’s also going to have a place in a remote area. Somewhere off the beaten path. I’d guess it’s going to be a cabin in the woods,” I say.
“Why do you think that?” Mo asks.
“He’s keeping the girls for a day and torturing the hell out of them,” Astra explains as she nods along. “He’s going to need privacy to do that because the girls will likely be screaming. A lot. I’d reckon that’s what this guy gets off on—their screams.”
“I’d wager you’re right,” I nod. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if we found audio and videotapes of the torture sessions. He’s going to want to relive it as often as he can.”
“Damn. That is just brutal,” Rick mutters.
“All right, Astra, I want you to go interview Serena Monroe’s family and friends. See if you can dig anything up. Also, find out if you can figure out the last place she was seen,” I say. “And Mo, I want you to go to the family of the first victim—Emily Tompkins. Same thing. See if you can pin down where she was taken from.”
“Me?” she asks.
I nod. “You got this. You’re intuitive and have great interviewing skills. You’ll be great.”
“And where are you going?” Astra asks.
“Going to see Fish.”
Twenty
Jade Pearl Billiards House, Chinatown-International District; Seattle, WA
I walk through the front doors of the Jade Pearl and am immediately overwhelmed by the combined stench of cigarette and incense smoke. I give myself a moment to adjust, then walk through the billiards hall, aware of all the eyes on me. This is more of a locals-only establishment; not many Caucasian women just casually stroll through this place. Frankly, I can’t see why any woman, regardless of ethnicity, would come in here.
The ground floor has a bar, a dozen pool tables, and a side room loaded with video games. Although the place is busy, with all the pool tables in use and a decent crowd at the bar, this is all a front. A façade hiding the real action, which is upstairs. I make my way through the billiards room, doing my best to avoid choking and/or contracting cancer from all the secondhand smoke. It’s been a long while since I’ve been here but, if I remember right, there’s a staircase at the back near the kitchen, hidden behind a steel door.
As I come around the corner, I’m assaulted by the odor of frying foods, which adds another layer of horrible to the smoke and incense hanging in the air. My eyes are watering so badly, I almost run into the man sitting on the stool beside the steel door. I rub my eyes and wait for my vision to clear before I’m able to get a look at him.
He's as tall as he is wide, with fawn-colored skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, and not a lick of hair on his head. He’s got a round, smooth babyface, and possibly the biggest hands I’ve ever seen. He might be able to palm two basketballs with one hand.
“Well. You’re new,” I mutter.
The man looks me up and down, a roguish smirk on his face. “You lost?”
“I wish,” I reply. “I’m here to see Fish.”
“What you want with Fish?”
“A conversation about proper air filtration, to start,” I tell him. “Other than that, my business is with him.”
“He’s not seein’ nobody,” he says.
“He’ll see me.”
“Doubt it.”
“Call him.”
“Don’t have to. Fish ain’t seein’ anybody,” he snaps.
I run a hand through my hair and count to five. Letting my temper get out of control probably isn’t a good idea, knowing there are probably Triad men—Chinese mobsters—all over the place. Then again, coming here probably wasn’t a good idea in general. But if there’s anybody who knows, or can get me, the correct answer to my question, it’s going to be Fish. Which is why I need to get man-mountain h
ere to let me through the door so I can get to the upstairs gaming room, which is where I know I’ll find him.
“Fish will see me. Now go upstairs, find him, and ask him. My name is Blake Wilder,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Fish ain’t seein’ anybody right now.”
I clap my hands over my face and rub my eyes again, my frustration growing hot.
“An,” a sharp voice sounds.
Man-mountain and I both look up at the staircase to see Huan Zhao, aka Fish, standing there in a pair of silver pants and a black silk shirt. He’s scowling at the big man, and lets loose to him in rapid-fire Chinese. I don’t know what he’s saying, but it sounds angry. The next thing I know, the large man is opening the door and stepping aside for me.
I cast him an “I told you so look,” as I pass him and ascend the stairs. Fish is waiting for me on the next landing with a wide smile on his face.
“Agent Wilder. Lovely to see you again,” he says, his English crisp and precise.
“Silver pants. That’s a bold choice,” I say.
“I’m a bold man.”
“It’s good to see you too, Fish,” I reply with a smile.
He laughs and shakes his head. “Nobody has called me that in years,” he says, then gestures to the stairs. “Please, go ahead.”
I take a step up and he grabs my arm, turning me to face him. I look him in the eye and feel my stomach churn. His face is smooth and passive, his features giving none of his thoughts away. Huan is tall and lean, with dark hair cut stylishly short, tawny skin, and dark eyes. He’s fit and takes care of himself, mainly through the practice of martial arts. Last I knew, he held black belts in four different martial art styles and has a body of taut, corded muscle as a result. He says it’s as much for physical and mental discipline as it is for exercise.
“You’re not here to bust me again, are you?” he asks.
“Me? Seriously?”
“You’re a Fed. That’s what you do,” he replies.
“Not tonight I’m not,” I tell him. “Tonight, I’m just Blake and I’m looking to have a conversation with an old friend.”
He laughs. “Is that what we are? Friends?”
I shrug. “I like to think so. At least, we’re not enemies.”
“That’s very true,” he says, his laughter rich and elegant sounding. “Please, let’s go upstairs and get a drink.’
When I was new to the Field Office, I briefly worked with an organized crime unit. I met Huan Zhao—Fish—on that one and only case I worked with OC. He was an informant for us—though I later found out, he was only informing on his business rivals, clearing the board for his eventual takeover. I want to be mad at him, but the guy played us by using our own ignorance, arrogance, and vanity against us. He gamed the system and he won. And in the process made the FBI look like we’re a bunch of bungling idiots. Some of us learned a hard lesson from that. Others, not so much and have wasted their careers chasing—and never catching—him.
He got the name Fish when he was young and fled his native China, emigrating to Seattle. The story goes that he scraped together a living as a fishmonger, but eventually grew tired of the nickels and dimes he was making, so he turned to selling drugs. He eventually scraped enough money together to open his own fish cart and started to use the fish to transport the drugs he was selling. Business boomed, and he made his first fortune by the time he was eighteen, which was the seed he used to grow his empire. The rest, as they say, is history. That is, if you believe the legend—and I do.
Fish is a clever, intelligent guy. He’s good-looking for his age—I’d say he’s in his mid-fifties—and even though he never went to school here, you’d think he has a world-class education. He’s a colorful character. Big on personality and with charm to spare. He taught himself to read and speak English. In every sense, a self-made man. It would be even more impressive if he used his powers for good, rather than the illegal things he’s gotten up to in his life—like this gambling hall.
I know I’m supposed to dislike him. He’s a criminal. He does bad things. But I’ve found it’s hard to dislike the guy. I’ve used him as an informant from time to time—he has his finger on the pulse of Seattle every bit as much as Marcy does. Though his finger usually strays more toward the underbelly than hers does. But every time I’ve needed information, Fish has always provided. And over the years, I like to think that we’ve developed a decent working relationship. There’s a mutual respect between us. On my end it’s not for what he does, but for what he overcame to get to where he is. I know very few people with his level of intelligence and gumption.
He leads me through the tables of card games, roulette, craps, and other games I can’t even name. I have to weave around the waitresses carrying drinks to their thirsty customers, and past wildly gesticulating gamblers. This place is like Vegas with less neon and fewer hookers.
“Here we are,” he says.
Fish holds the door open for me, then follows me into his office. It’s large and windowless, done in polished wood and soothing earth tones. He drops down behind his desk, a massive oak monstrosity that somehow seems to suit him. I fear I’d look like a little kid playing grown-up if I sat behind it. He gestures to the chairs across from him so I take a seat.
On the wall to his left is a bank of monitors giving Fish a view of the floor outside his door as well as the billiards hall downstairs. To his right is a bookcase filled with books on topics ranging from history to current events, to biographies, to structural engineering. The spines on all of them are cracked, making it easy to see they’ve been read. Perhaps numerous times. And on the wall right behind his desk is a large framed black and white picture of the fishmongers in Pike’s Place. I point to it and smile.
“Reminder of where you came from?” I ask.
He turns and looks at it, a faint smile upon his face as he turns back to me. “And a reminder of how easily I could be back there.”
“If you’re worried about losing it all, maybe you should consider giving up all the illegal stuff then,” I say. “Just a thought.”
He laughs softly. “Would you believe me if I told you that gambling hall outside this door is the last of my illegal activities?”
“No. Not really,” I say. “Not at all, actually.”
“You wound me, Blake.”
I laugh. “I know you’ve still got a finger or two in the drug trade.”
“Ahh, but I’m neither buying nor selling,” he counters. “I’m merely facilitating meetings between consenting adults.”
“You sound like a pimp.”
“Is that what they sound like? I never got into running women,” he shrugs. “It’s barbaric and as far as I’m concerned, those who peddle flesh should be shot.”
“That might be one of the first things we’ve ever agreed on.”
“That’s not true. We’ve agreed on a great many things,” he replies. “Oh, by the way, I saw your clip on YouTube. Can I just say how amusing it was watching you trying to take Torres’ head off? If there ever was somebody who deserved to be put in his place, it’s that man.”
I shake my head. “I’m never going to live it down.”
“Don’t try. Wear it as a badge of honor,” he tells me. “You stood up to evil and corruption. Quite literally. There is no shame in that. In fact, it’s something that should be praised.”
“You only say that because you hate Torres as much as I do.”
“That I hate him as much as you do is irrelevant,” he offers. “Torres represents everything wrong with the SPD. And you stood up to him. People will see that, and they will praise you for it. And rightly so.”
“Well, I’d like to see that come about because as of now, I’m only being roundly mocked for it,” I admit with a rueful laugh. “You have seen the remixes, I assume?”
He nods, suppressing a laugh. “Yes, and I particularly liked the techno mix. It was clever and catchy.”
I sigh and roll my eyes as Fish laughs. Eventua
lly, it tapers off and we’re left staring at one another in silence. I shift in my seat and sit up.
“So, I need some information,” I say.
“If I have it, I can help.”
“I know you’re a facilitator only now, but I’m looking for a guy who’s buying up ketamine,” I say. “I know it’s uncommon, which is why I thought you might have a line on it.”
“Ketamine. That went out of fashion a few years back,” he shrugs. “Honestly, I can’t think of the last time I even heard of somebody buying that foul stuff.”
“Well, that might make my job a little easier then,” I replied. “If you had a name for me anyway.”
“May I ask what sort of case you’re working on?”
Fish is as into true crime as my cousin Maisey. Both of them just can’t seem to get enough of it. If he weren’t, you know, a criminal, I totally would have been willing to introduce them and let them bond over serial killers and murder in general. But I’m not going to have my cousin wrapped up in an illegal gambling hall with a guy who’s got a shady as hell past and is still technically involved with the drug trade in some fashion. I think deep down, Fish is a decent guy, but he’s like a shark—and just behind those charming eyes is a mind more ruthless than I can even imagine.
“It’s a murder,” I tell him. “Actually, three murders now.”
“Oh, a serial killer. Fascinating,” he replies. “So, this man—he injects his victims with ketamine and then…”
“Tortures, rapes, and them strangles them to death,” I finish for him. “He beats these women. Stabs and slices them. He puts cigarettes out on their skin. And then when he’s done bearing them senseless and breaking their bones, he strangles them.”
Fish looks at me with wide eyes and the sheepish look of a man who is endlessly fascinated by something he knows he shouldn’t be fascinated by.
“There’s a chance he’s buying it online, but I tend to think he’s buying it on the street,” I continue. “This guy is careful. Meticulous. He doesn’t leave evidence behind, which suggests to me that he wouldn’t leave an online paper trail. He’d prefer paying cash.”