The Secret She Kept (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 5)

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The Secret She Kept (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 2

by Elle Gray

“Stay reachable, Agent Wilder,” he sneers.

  “I’m always around,” I call over my shoulder as I walk out of the interrogation room, leaving Torres standing there with nothing but his impotent rage.

  Two

  Office of SAC Rosalinda Espinoza; Seattle Field Office

  “Did you lose your mind?” Rosie asks.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I reply.

  “Did you suffer a head injury recently?”

  I grin at her. “No. I did not suffer a head injury,” I tell her. “As far as I know, I’ve suffered no recent brain trauma.”

  SAC Rosalinda Espinoza—Rosie to most of us—leans back in her chair and looks at me closely, her eyes squinted in that way she gets when she’s really irritated. I didn’t expect that she’d have already heard about my talking to Torres. Good news apparently travels a lot faster than I anticipated.

  “So, if you’re not suffering from CTE or some other form of traumatic brain injury, can you explain to me why you’d go in and sit down with Deputy Chief Torres without a lawyer or your union rep?” she demands.

  “Because I have nothing to hide?” I reply. “Because I didn’t kill Gina Aoki?”

  “You know that, and I know that. But Torres is apparently looking to pin it on you anyway,” she says. “Given what’s gone down between you two lately, playing his game is only going to cause you problems you don’t want or need.”

  I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap, giving myself a five-count. I understand Rosie’s frustration—and her fears. Guys like Torres don’t like to lose, and they’re not above putting their thumbs on the scale to ensure they get the outcomes they want. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Torres is in the habit of ginning up evidence against suspects just to close cases. I can’t prove that, of course, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he had.

  “I thought it best if I got out ahead of it and was transparent with him,” I offer.

  “Well, according to him, you were anything but transparent.”

  “So, he did call you.”

  A wry grin curls her lips. “About two seconds after you walked out of the interview room. As a courtesy, he said,” she tells me. “Wanted me to know you’d been less than forthcoming with him—which he intimated puts you on his radar.”

  “Let him look into me. He’s not going to find anything connecting me to Gina’s murder.”

  Rosie sighs and shakes her head as she drops her pen onto the folders sitting on top of her desk. She takes a sip of her coffee then looks up at me.

  “What did you meet with her about?” Rosie asks.

  “It’s not relevant to anything. It was personal.”

  “Blake, I need to know what I’m dealing with. I don’t need the specifics. Just give me a broad-stroke overview.”

  I frown and look away for a moment as I think it over. Rosie is somebody I’d trust with my life. But I’m not willing to gamble with hers.

  “Rosie, what I’m looking into—it’s personal,” I tell her. “And it’s already gotten two people killed. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

  Rosie cocks her head at me. “What are you talking about?”

  I give her a brief rundown of the situation with Mr. Corden and now with Gina. Nothing specific—just an overview. I don’t want to get too deeply into it with her, just to be safe.

  “Trust me when I say the less you know about this, the better,” I tell her.

  Rosie sits back again, a thoughtful expression on her face, and seems to be processing everything I told her. I can see she wants to press me for more details—likely trying to calculate any potential blowback on the Bureau. But she also wants to respect my privacy. Which I appreciate a great deal. She leans forward again and cups her hands around her coffee mug, gnawing on her bottom lip.

  “Walk me through what you told Torres,” she says.

  So I do. I tell her everything I said from the moment I walked in to the moment I left. I even give her a timeline of my meeting with Gina Aoki, but decline to go into details about the substance of our conversation. Thankfully, she doesn’t press.

  “I really wish you hadn’t gone in to see Torres,” she sighs.

  “As I told you, I’ve got nothing to hide. Detective Lee called and warned me that Torres would be coming after me hard, so I thought it best to get out in front of it,” I reply. “Also, TJ warned me in confidence, so I’d appreciate it if that bit didn’t leave the room. I’d rather not drag him into my mess if I can help it.”

  “Fair enough. But you know how Torres can twist this to look, right?”

  I nod. “Yeah, but he was going to do that whether I sat down with him or not,” I point out. “He’s got an agenda—and a vendetta against me in particular—and is going to do everything in his power to tarnish my reputation.”

  “Just be sure you don’t give him the ammunition to do it.”

  “There’s no ammunition to give him. I didn’t do it.”

  “I know that, Blake. But you’re about as good at playing politics as I am,” she counters. “And that’s what this is—politics. It’s a game to him. He knows you didn’t do it, but he’s going to do his best to create the appearance of impropriety. So, just keep your head down and don’t play his game. And before you talk to him again, make sure you have a lawyer or your union rep present. Am I clear?”

  I blow out a long, frustrated breath. She’s right, of course. The appearance of impropriety is often even more damning than any real impropriety itself. If you’re perceived to have gotten away with something—like murder—that stink will linger, and you’ll never fully get out from under. And in an organization like the Bureau, where everything can get political very quickly, that could be the death knell for any career. The thought sends a cold chill down my spine, simply because I don’t want to be marginalized or sidelined over something I had absolutely nothing to do with.

  “Blake? Tell me you understand,” Rosie presses.

  “I hear you. I understand.”

  “Good,” she nods. “Now, chewing your butt isn’t the only thing I called you in here for.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  Rosie slides a slip of paper across her desk to me. “A friend of mine is a commander down in Tukwila. They’ve got an active crime scene right now and asked for our help.”

  I grab the paper and see the address listed, as well as the name of the woman who I assume is her friend.

  “What are we walking into?” I ask.

  “Body in a barrel,” she explains. “Fished out of the Green River this morning.”

  “Lovely.”

  Rosie shrugs. “Could be worse.”

  “Yeah, it could always be worse,” I comment as I get to my feet. “Let me just check in with my team, grab Astra, and we’ll roll out.”

  “I’ll let Sandy know you’re on your way.”

  Three

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “Okay, people, what do we have today?” I ask as I come through the doors. “Mo, where are you at with your analysis on Bremerton?”

  I step to the front of the bullpen, pacing in front of the bank of monitors mounted to the wall. Mo looks up from the files spread out on her workstation, then checks something on the computer screen in front of her. Maureen Weissman—otherwise known as Mo—is a bit rough around the edges but is sharp as a tack and is starting to find her groove here in the CDAU.

  Early on, I’d started to think I made a mistake with her—especially given what a liability she was in the field. But she’s really rounded into form. She came over to us from White Collar, which didn’t really prepare her for the grisly things we often see, but she’s doing better. At least she hasn’t thrown up on a crime scene again. That’s got to count for something.

  “I’ve got a sharp uptick in opioid deaths that exceeds the annual statistical average,” she replies. “They seem to be on pace for a record year, I’d say.”

  “Got any leads on where the drugs
are coming from?” I ask.

  “I’m going through prescription records now. I’ve found a couple of clinics that seem to be handing out scripts like candy,” she replies.

  “You got the names of the doctors or the owners of these clinics?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t dug too deep yet, but it looks as if they’re owned by shell companies,” she tells me. “I have Rick looking into the companies to see if they tie to the clinic doctors or if they’re third parties. I’ll know more after we audit all of these files.”

  “Good. Good stuff. Keep me in the loop,” I say, then turn to Astra.

  “There seems to be something going on in Spokane,” she announces without my even having to ask. “They’re on pace for significantly more sexual assaults this year than they had last year.”

  “Serial rapist?”

  “Possibly. Could account for the uptick,” she says. “It’s at least worth looking into.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And in addition to what I’m doing for Mo, I’m just working on being my normal, fabulous self,” Rick calls from his workstation in the back of the bullpen. “In case you were wondering.”

  “You should work harder on that,” Astra quips.

  Rick is our tech analyst and a wizard with all things cyber. He’s nearly on par with Paxton’s best friend-slash-personal hacker Brody. If there are digital breadcrumbs to follow, Rick is going to find them. He’s here to assist us with records searches and deep dives on suspects. He really is invaluable to this unit, and I’m glad I thought to request a tech analyst when I was given the green light to put it together.

  As a whole, I think the unit has come together well. We’re a team, but we’re also tight. We’re like a family. Yeah, we’re sometimes a bit dysfunctional, but what family isn’t? I’m extremely proud of this team and what we’ve been able to accomplish so far. We’ve taken a host of criminals and violent offenders off the streets, quite respectable for a unit some people didn’t think would amount to much.

  “Alright, well, you two keep doing what you’re doing. Astra and I are heading down to Tukwila,” I tell them.

  “We are?” she raises an eyebrow.

  I nod. “Rosie passed a case to us.”

  “Good thing I love field trips.”

  I give her a grin. “You might not be saying that about this one. Body in a barrel,” I tell her. “They apparently fished it out of the Green River this morning.”

  Astra frowns, her expression one of disgust—bodies in barrels are never the most pleasant things to deal with. But then she looks at me and shrugs.

  “Well, I suppose it beats sitting here listening to Rick talk to himself,” she says.

  “You do know they say geniuses often talk to themselves. It’s usually the only intelligent conversation they can get,” he shoots back.

  Mo tries to stifle a snort-laugh, and even Astra cracks a smile at that. She likes to rough him up about things from time to time, but I know Astra. She thinks of him like a little brother. An annoying little brother, but a little brother, nonetheless. Astra groans and gets to her feet and looks at me.

  “Can we go? I’m sure our floater’s going to make for better company than this nerd,” she tosses a thumb back to Rick, the smile still on her face.

  I see Rick open his mouth, ready to deliver another zinger, but I hold a finger up and he lets the words die on his lips.

  “Don’t make me send you to your rooms, children,” I say. “Rick, do me a favor and start getting the incident reports from the sexual assaults in Spokane. I want to start going through those when we get back and see if we can find anything to support the idea of a serial out there.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Rick salutes. “Have fun in Tukwila.”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be a real blast,” I mutter.

  Four

  Southeastern Command Zone; Tukwila, WA

  “I think Torres may have a crush on you,” she says.

  “Don’t make me smack you.”

  We made the thirty-minute drive in about twenty and I pull to a stop in a parking lot beside an abandoned motel. The building is dilapidated, surrounded by chain link fencing—an effort to keep out the transients and kids looking for a place to get high. But the holes in the fence show that effort hasn’t been entirely successful. The brick walls are chipped and cracking, and the boards that once covered the windows have all been busted out or ripped down entirely.

  “It seems to be the only explanation for his obsession with you,” Astra offers.

  My expression sours. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s not that. Between my friendship with Pax and the fact that we keep showing him up, he’s desperate to take me down a few pegs.”

  “Yeah, it could be that too,” she chirps. “But seriously, watch your back, Blake. That dude is bad news. Real bad news.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I shut the car off and we climb out, heading for the tapeline. The sky is the color of slate, and there’s a lot of moisture in the air that seems to be promising rain in our not-too-distant future. The parking lot is filled with emergency vehicles and clusters of Tukwila cops, firefighters, and paramedics. The scene is organized chaos, with people dashing about on various errands.

  “SSA Blake Wilder, this is Special Agent Astra Russo.” We badge the large, bored-looking cop on the tape as I make the introduction. “We’re looking for Commander Erskine.”

  He looks vaguely interested by the badges, but that soon fades as he holds the tape up for us. We dip beneath it and turn to him. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

  “She’s down at the riverbank with everybody else,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  We walk down the pathway toward the river that runs behind the derelict motel. In the distance, I hear the faint rumble of thunder.

  “Nothing like a spring storm to add a layer of the ominous to a crime scene,” Astra notes.

  We follow the path to a pop-up tent that’s been set up near the bank of the river. To the side of the tent, I see crime scene techs clustered around the barrel, taking photos and collecting samples. A blue tarp has been laid out on the ground underneath the tent, and I spot the unmistakable lumps of body parts being spread out, photographed, and cataloged.

  “Disarticulated,” I note.

  “That’s pleasant.”

  “Hey, at least you’re out of the office.”

  Astra shrugs. “Touché.”

  There’s a tall, lean woman standing over the blue tarp, her arms folded over her chest, staring intently down at the body parts. She looks over as we approach and gives us an expression that’s trapped somewhere between a grimace and a smile. The woman is dressed in a smart charcoal gray suit—it’s not designer, but still a little better quality than you’d find on the rack at a department store. It tells me she wants to look good but doesn’t want to be seen as ostentatious in her dress. She wants to look sharp but utilitarian, and as somebody to be taken seriously—a byproduct of being a woman in a male-dominated profession.

  She strides over, intercepting us before we can get to the tent. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail and she’s wearing minimal makeup—just a bit of color around eyes that are a piercing shade of blue. I’d put her in her mid-forties, though she looks younger than that. There are soft lines around her eyes and mouth, and up close, I can see flecks of silver in her hair, but anyone who wasn’t paying attention would miss those details.

  “Commander Erskine,” I say, extending my hand.

  She nods and gives my hand a shake, then turns and shakes hands with Astra. She takes a beat to look us over, then offers a grateful smile.

  “Thanks for getting here so quickly,” she says. “And please, call me Nora.”

  “I’m Blake and this is Astra,” I reply. “Rosie tells us you’ve got a nasty one.”

  She glances over her shoulder and frowns, then turns back to us. “Yeah. This one’s bad. I’ve honestly never seen anything like
it in the twenty-six years I’ve been with the department.”

  I nod. Tukwila is a small town that houses somewhere around twenty thousand souls or so. It’s a sleepy little suburban community that’s neither rich nor poor. It’s not as nice as some other communities, but not as bad as others. They kind of walk a middle path here. Almost as though they’re caught somewhere between quaint and nondescript.

  “Anyway,” she goes on. “I figured since something like this is outside our usual scope of crime, we could use a little help.”

  “Your techs seem to be handling it pretty well,” Astra notes.

  “They usually do a pretty good job with sample collection and whatnot,” she replies, looking back at the techs. “But I’m talking more about the body itself. I mean, taking somebody apart like that—it can only be a serial killer, right? I mean, the level of sadistic—”

  “I’d pump the brakes on that,” I interrupt. “I think it’s way too early to be making any assumptions just yet. That could come back to bite us in the backside later,” I explain. “But I would like to take a look at the body now if that’s alright.”

  “Oh, right. Of course,” she replies. “Please, just follow me down. I will warn you, though, it’s nasty and definitely not for the faint of heart.”

  “No worries,” Astra replies with a grin. “That’s kind of our thing.”

  We follow her the rest of the way and are soon gathered around the blue tarp, looking down at the ravaged remains of what was an African American male. Other than that, though, it’s hard to tell anything more about him, because he’s been savaged. Torn apart. The crime scene technician is laying the pieces out, roughly reassembling the body and cataloging it all.

  “As you can see, he’s been dismembered,” Commander Erskine says.

  “Disarticulated,” I say, pointing to the pieces of the legs that are sitting on the tarp. “All of the limbs were cleanly severed at the joints rather than just hacked off.”

  Astra looks at me. “You thinking our perp has some surgical skill?”

 

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