by Elle Gray
It wasn’t always like this. When I was first assigned to the SFO, Grant was warm and welcoming. He was gracious and kind. But then we butted heads on the first case we worked together and that facade crumbled pretty quick. The problem was he’d zeroed in on a murder suspect in a case we were involved in, and I disagreed with him about it. And he didn’t take me disagreeing with him well at all.
The guy Grant had homed in on didn’t strike me as a serial killer. In fact, he didn’t even match the profile he’d put together on the killer we were tracking－a profile I personally found incomplete and lacking. But Grant targeted the guy because of a couple of inconsequential coincidences. Things I found easily explained away. But the harder I pushed back, the harder Grant went after the guy. He made it his mission to take the guy down.
In the meantime, I worked up my own profile with the information we had in hand and it pointed to somebody very different. I shared it with Grant, but he rejected it out of hand. With nothing else to do and not wanting to see an innocent man get railroaded just because Grant wanted to prove his superiority to me, I went to Rosie with my concerns... and my profile.
Suffice it to say, it wasn’t a popular move with Grant, or his buddies. But my profile led us to the real killer, and he was forced to admit that he was wrong. For a guy with an ego like his, it must have been about as easy as flaying himself. Ever since then, he’s been on a crusade to destroy me. Or barring that, to make my life so miserable that I’ll transfer out of Seattle just to get away from him. Hence his ridiculous little nickname for me. He thinks he’s clever.
That just proves he can’t profile worth a damn. If he could, he’d know there’s no chance in hell he’s going to chase me out of Seattle. It’s my home. If he were able to profile at all, he’d know that when somebody comes at me the way he does, I tend to dig my feet in and fight back. I’m not easily intimidated. Especially not by arrogant jerks like him.
“So what are you going to dazzle them with today, Golden Girl?” he snarks.
“Aren’t there some boots you need to be licking somewhere?” I finally fire back.
“There’s that searing wit again.”
“I’m surprised you recognize it for what it is.”
Grant fancies himself a climber, and since he’s clearly lacking in the smarts department, he’s relying on his superior power of ass-kissing. That’s the one thing he can do ten times better than I can. A hundred times.
“Are you ever going to get tired of trying to show me up, Wilder?”
“I’m not trying to do anything. Your incompetence just makes it look that way.”
“You’re just a little ray of sunshine today,” he replies.
I roll my eyes and grunt in frustration. “What do you want, Grant?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to remind you that stars may rise quickly, but it’s just as easy to get knocked off that high horse.”
I stop and turn to him. “Are you threatening me?”
He shrugs. “No. Just trying to keep you humble. You have yourself a good day now, Agent Wilder.”
He walks off, leaving me glaring at his back and feeling slightly unsettled. There’s no question in my mind that it was some sort of veiled threat. It makes me wonder what he and his boys are planning. What I don’t know is if it’s real or if he was just trying to knock me off my game, obviously knowing I’m going to meet with SAC Potts. If it’s the latter, he’s a bigger idiot than I thought. If it’s the former, all I can say is, “bring it on.” I don’t get that rattled very easily.
“Jerk,” I mutter as I turn and walk away.
A couple of minutes later, I’m sitting in front of SAC Potts, watching him look over the data on my tablet, his expression skeptical. He’s a tall man with broad shoulders, icy blue eyes, and hair that’s slowly ceding its dark color to the ravages of time as it slowly turns gray. It’s mostly around the temples, which gives him something of a distinguished appearance and a gravitas he tries to cultivate.
Potts is fit, trim, and very obviously takes care of himself. His presence just screams baseball, Mom, and apple pie, and he’s got this chest thumping, flag waving aura about him. If you ask me, you can’t see him and not think Fed. He looks like the stereotypical FBI agent you see in the movies－minus the dark aviator shades and darker trench coat. At least indoors.
After a few moments, he looks up at me and frowns.
“ASAC Espinoza gave me a quick briefing, but I wanted to look at your information and speak with you about it myself,” he starts.
“Thank you for taking the time this morning, sir,” I reply. “As you can see, Briar Glen is a city about a third of the size of Seattle, and yet it has a murder rate that’s six times as high.”
“I can see that. And do you have a theory? Are we looking at a serial?”
I shift in my seat and clear my throat, trying to summon the might of my powers of persuasion. Such as they are. Ordinarily when I come to Rosie and Potts, I’ve got a specific theory and data to support it. But right now, I’ve got little more than some numbers and a feeling. A feeling I know is right, but a feeling nonetheless. And I’m not sure how that’s going to play with the SAC. Rosie is usually willing to give me a bit more leeway in most things.
“At the moment, whether there is a serial operating in Briar Glen is unclear. I would need to be on the ground there, with access to their case files to make a final determination on that, sir.”
“Then why am I even looking at this?”
“Because I’m of the opinion that there is something happening in that city, sir,” I urge. “Their murder rate is－”
“Higher than normal. Yes, I gathered that.”
“Not just higher than normal, sir. Alarmingly high,” I argue. “I’ve gone back thirty years in Briar Glen’s history, and this violent trend started roughly fifteen years ago, and took an even higher uptick four years ago. Prior to that, the city was well below the state and national averages. It was, by all accounts, an idyllic place to live.”
“From what I’m seeing here, there’s no pattern. We’ve got shootings. Strangulations. Stabbings. There’s no signature.”
“That we know of, sir. Again, I won’t have specifics until I review some of their case files. I’m willing to admit the spike could be… natural. For lack of a better word, anyway.”
“But you obviously don’t believe that.”
I shake my head. “Not at all, sir. I think there’s something going on in Briar Glen. Something bad.”
Potts sighs and leans back in his seat, his eyes on the tablet in front of him. He’s working through the cost benefit analysis in his head－the cost of turning me loose in a city, and the benefit he will reap from it if I’m right. We go through this every time I bring something to his attention that I want to investigate. He’s also, of course, weighing out how much of a hit he’ll take if I’m wrong and/or cause a scene. It doesn’t happen often, but I’ve been known to butt heads with the locals now and then, and I’m sure he’s factoring that into his equation.
“Sir, it’s my belief that if we do nothing, people in Briar Glen will continue to die,” I press him. “Their murder rate is so out of whack with state and national averages, there is no other conclusion to draw than somebody, or perhaps multiple people, are out there killing people, and have been doing so for over a decade.”
“I’ve got to be honest here. This is really thin, Agent Wilder,” he sighs. “A lot thinner than what you usually come to me with.”
“I understand, sir. This one is somewhat unusual, I admit. But my gut is telling me there’s something there. Something we need to be looking into.”
He’s wavering, caught somewhere between trusting me and doing the right thing, and making sure his own backside is covered. Although I love my job and doing what I do, this is the one thing I really despise about it－letting your need to give yourself some political and professional cover get in the way of doing the right thing. I want to scream at him, tell him this isn’t s
ome political calculus to consider. These are people’s lives at stake.
“Look, if I’m wrong, I’m wrong. I’ll come back to the field office, no harm, no foul,” I push. “But if I’m right, just think of how good it will look for the field office. And for you, sir.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “You really shouldn’t try politicking, Agent Wilder. You’re lousy at it.”
My smile is rueful. “Had to try, sir.”
“You feel this strongly about it, do you?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
His eyes flick to the tablet again before he looks up at me. “You’re to tread lightly, Agent Wilder. You are not to antagonize the locals. I don’t want another phone call from an angry sheriff,” he says. “Are we clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“And if there is nothing there, you get your butt back here ASAP. I won’t have you trying to force the facts to fit your narrative.”
“I hope you know me better than that, sir.”
His face relaxes and he nods. “I do. I don’t question your integrity,” he replies. “I’m just looking out for you and this office.”
He knows I would never try to trump up a case when the facts aren’t there, nor would I try to force them to conform to my view of things. I know he doesn’t question my integrity. I’ve never given him cause to. When I’ve been wrong, I’ve always been the first to admit it.
But I’m not naïve. What he’s actually looking out for is himself. He’s simply trying to hide behind the facade of protecting me and the office, when his biggest concern is how big of a chunk of his hide will be torn out if I make him look bad in all of this. That’s outweighed, only slightly, by his concern over how big of a chunk will be torn out if he does nothing and more people are murdered in Briar Glen. Deaths we could possibly prevent.
“Understood, sir. I’ll tread very lightly. They won’t even know I’m there,” I say.
“Stop being smart with me.” He can’t quite stifle his smirk entirely though. “Dismissed, Agent Wilder. And good luck.”
Six
Marco’s Corner Diner; Downtown Seattle
“So where are you off to this time?”
A smile crosses my face as I take a drink of my iced tea, then set the glass down. My cousin Maisey is sitting across from me, a small grin curling the corners of her lips upward, a knowing gleam in her eyes.
“What makes you think I’m going somewhere?” I ask.
“Whenever you get ready to leave town, you invite me out for dinner,” she replies simply.
“What? That’s not true.”
She nods. “It totally is.”
“We just had dinner a couple of weeks ago and I didn’t go anywhere,” I protest.
“That’s because I asked you,” Maisey says.
I screw up my face and think about it for a second. “Really?”
“Yup. Sure did. I can show you the text messages.”
“No arguing with physical evidence.”
“You should know that better than most,” she says.
A soft, rueful laugh escapes me. As I think about it more, I come to the conclusion that she’s right, I do usually only call her to meet for dinner right before I blow out of town. Maybe on some level I think it could be the last time I see her or something, which is incredibly morbid. But I can’t deny that’s the way my mind works sometimes. A sunshine and rainbows girl I am not.
I’m sure Dr. Reinhart would tell me it stems from the loss I suffered as a child. That I have dinner with Maisey before I head out on a case to make sure I can at least say goodbye on my own terms, in case everything goes wrong－a goodbye I never got to say to my parents. Having seen a therapist for most of my life, as well as having one of my two degrees in Psychology, I’ve got a pretty good idea of how my brain works. But sometimes, things still pop up and surprise me.
“Wow. Maybe you should be profiling for the Bureau,” I comment.
“Yeah, I’m not really a fan of being put in a position where I have to shoot, or be shot,” she says wryly. “I kind of like the quiet solitude of the library.”
That’s a very Maisey thing to say. She’s very risk averse and has avoided things that might be considered dangerous all her life. I can’t even get her to go on a roller coaster with me when the fair comes to town.
I give her a soft smile. “I’m sorry. I just never realized…”
“It’s fine. You’re a busy woman with an important job,” Maisey says. “I’m just glad we get together as often as we do.”
“Even if it’s you facilitating it.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me how it happens. Just that it happens.”
I never realized before that she’s usually the one who puts in the effort to make it happen. Knowing that makes me feel a little ashamed. Maisey is an incredibly important person in my life, and I now see that I’m not doing a good job of showing that. The fact that I apparently only try to connect with her before I leave town－and that she’s noticed it－sends a wave of guilt washing over me.
It’s true that I’m busy most of the time, but I like to check in on her as often as I’m able, just to be sure she’s doing all right. I send her texts fairly regularly and give her a call when I have a chance to sit and talk. Granted, it’s not often I have the time to sit back and chat for an hour, but I do my best.
“I’m sorry, Maisey,” I tell her. “I promise to do better.”
She gives me a smile as the waitress drops off our meals－a steak, skewer of shrimp, and baked potato with all the trimmings for me, a pistachio crusted salmon filet for Maisey－and we tuck into them. Marco’s is a quaint little place that has a log cabin, hunting lodge motif, complete with faux animal heads mounted on the walls, and a massive fireplace set into one wall. There are pictures of Seattle from a bygone era on the walls, and other kitschy decorations all over the place.
It’s Maisey’s favorite place to eat when we go out, and while the food here is outstanding, I’m relatively sure her fondness for the place has more to do with Marco, the owner, than it does with anything else. Marco is a tall, lean, guy with tawny skin, dark hair, and darker eyes, and looks to be of maybe Mexican descent. He’s a good-looking man and I can see why my cousin has a crush on him.
Not that she’d ever admit that to anybody. Not even to me. She’s always been incredibly shy around men. Maisey has only had a handful of relationships in her life at most, and none of them ever lasted more than a couple of months. With dark hair, green eyes, and a curvy little body, Maisey is a knockout. Her biggest problem, and the reason she can’t seem to connect with most guys, is her confidence. Or rather, her lack of it. If she’d only believe in herself, I have no doubt Maisey would find a man who would love her the way she deserves to be loved.
“How is Mom?” I ask. Even though she’s my aunt, it’s important to me sometimes to think of her as another mother. Annie never once tried to replace my real mom, but she made sure I always knew I could call her Mom, and I could be her mother too, whenever I needed a mother. I didn’t quite understand it at the time, but I appreciate it now.
“She’s good. Keeping herself busy as always,” she replies. “She’d like you to come for dinner soon. She misses you.”
“I’ll do that. It’s been a little while since we got together and I miss her too,” I tell her.
I’m not as close with my aunt as I am with Maisey, but we get along well enough. Annie is even more reclusive than Maisey. She really tried her best raising us, but the years have been tough on her, and when my mom died she took it hard. She almost makes my cousin look like a towering monument to confidence. Annie had a bad marriage and left just after Maisey was born before things got worse.
Probably because of that, Annie’s lived a quiet life alone, distrustful of men and avoiding personal connections of any kind. Her experience has turned her cold. Bitter. And unfortunately, that’s rubbed off on Maisey a bit. While my cousin isn’t nearly as bitter as Annie, she’s definite
ly distrustful of men. That, combined with a sense of self-esteem that’s in the gutter, explains why Maisey can’t find or keep a man.
I’ve tried working with her on it. Tried to get her to be a bit more open. I’ve encouraged her to be bolder, more adventurous, but I can never seem to pull her out of that pit where her confidence resides. I’ll never quit trying, though. I want her to live a life filled with love and happiness. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her from being the surly spinster my aunt has become.
“So where are you headed this time?” she asks.
“Briar Glen,” I say around an incredibly tender mouthful of steak. “On the coast down near the Oregon border.”
“What’s happening down there?”
I take a sip of my tea and shake my head. “Not sure yet. Just going to down there to check some things out.”
“People being murdered down there?”
I nod. “Yeah, but I’m not sure what’s going on yet. I’m basically just going down to see if there’s something bigger going on, or if it’s just coincidental.”
Although she isn’t big on blood and guts, Maisey has a peculiar fascination with true crime. She’s always watching documentaries about serial killers and TV programs about notorious murders. She’s probably read every last book on the subject in the library she works in. Maisey always has a million questions and loves to talk to me about cases I’ve worked－minus the gory details, of course.
“What does your gut tell you?” she asks.
“There’s something bigger happening.”
“Then I’m sure there is,” she replies. “You’re never wrong about these things.”
I give her a smile. “I appreciate your faith in me.”
“It’s well-founded, given your history. I’m surprised the Bureau hasn’t given you a blue spandex suit and a cape yet.”
A small laugh escapes me. “Yeah, let’s not get carried away.”
Maisey’s eyes flick over to Marco, who is standing near a table, chatting with the patrons. Her gaze lingers on him, an expression of desire etched into her features. Marco looks over at her, and when their eyes meet, I see her cheeks flare with color and she quickly averts her gaze. Maisey turns back to her plate, her attention fixed firmly on the remnants of her meal.