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

by Elle Gray

  He scoffs. “I think it’d be easier if I listed off the gangs who didn’t take a person’s body apart to send a message these days,” he sighs. “Don’t get me wrong—it was never exactly safe, but the level of brutality these days…” He lets his words trail off with a shake of his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  I offer him my file of crime scene photos to review, but he holds out his hand to stop me. “I’ll pass, thanks. Seen plenty of this stuff to get the picture. What I don’t get, though, is the head and hands. The M.O. of most gangsters is to make ID as simple as possible to get that message out. They’d want everybody on the streets to know who killed the vic and why they did it. Preventing an ID doesn’t make sense to me, not in these streets. They’re all about the showmanship and drama.”

  “I had the same thought. But I was hoping for a little background information. Just something to start connecting some dots and eliminating others,” I say. “My first thought was the disarticulation was done by the Russian mob. I had a case like that once years ago. But can you think of any reason the Kings would be involved with one of the Russians or any of the other ethnic mobs who seem to favor that sort of method of execution?”

  “I ain’t heard anything to suggest the Kings were involved with the Russians,” he replies. “Way I hear it, the families would never do business with street gangs. Too unreliable and untrustworthy.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Hobbs said.”

  “He’d know,” Morello replies.

  “Which brings me back to the idea that this was street violence,” I say. “Maybe a drug deal gone wrong?”

  “It’s possible. But I still don’t get why they’d take the head and hands,” Morello says. “If your vic got caught stealing, skimming, or something else like that, whoever did it—be it the Kings or somebody else—would want to put everybody on notice. They’d display the body, not hide it in a barrel and dump it upriver somewhere with the hope it’s never found. That’s just how these cats roll.”

  I purse my lips and let everything he’s said rattle around in my mind for a moment. None of this is making the least bit of sense, and yet, I can feel the presence of a bigger picture in the background. It’s like staring at a freaking stereogram though—there’s so much noise, it’s making it impossible for me to see through to the image underneath.

  “So, if somebody had a beef with the Kings, who do think it would be?” I ask.

  His chuckle rumbles like thunder rolling in off the Sound. It’s so deep and reverberating, I can practically feel it on my skin.

  “There ain’t a gang out there on the streets that don’t have beef with the Kings. They ain’t the biggest gang out there, but they’re the most brutal. Hands down,” he tells me. “They’ve offed dudes from every other pack of thugs out there, and believe you me, they made it hurt. Dudes they killed died hard deaths. So, there ain’t a crew on the streets right now that doesn’t want their pound of flesh from the Kings.”

  “Charming,” I reply.

  He nods. “These cats don’t screw around. They’re territorial and they’re nasty. All of them,” he says. “But to answer your question, the crews who seem to have the most beef with the Kings are the Twenty-Third Street Killaz, which is a Mexican gang, and the Iron Dragonz, an Asian gang that’s supposedly tied into the Yakuza. I’ve never seen evidence of that, though. But those three crews are always trading blows and dropping bodies all over the city.”

  I commit the names to memory and will ask Rick do a deep dive on them when I get back to the shop. I want to know everything there is to know about them before I go and question them.

  “I can tell by that look on your face that you’re planning on talking to these cats.”

  “I’m not thrilled with the idea, but I don’t see any way around it,” I tell him. “They might have the answers I need to figure out who killed the man in the barrel.”

  He nods. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less. Jonas always said you had bigger stones than ninety percent of the field office.”

  “Yeah, well, he used to tell me I took stupid risks and did foolish things.”

  Morello shrugs. “Both things can simultaneously be true.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Can I offer you a piece of advice?”

  “Of course,” I reply.

  “If you’re going into their world, tread lightly. Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean they’re going to cut you any slack,” he tells me. “These cats are dangerous, and they’ll kill anybody for any reason. Just watch yourself—and have somebody watching your back.”

  “I will,” I nod. “And thank you. I appreciate your help.”

  He chuckles. “I’m not sure what help I actually offered, but you’re welcome. And if I hear anything I think can help you, I’ll let you know ASAP.”

  “Thank you, Edgar.”

  “Anytime.”

  I leave the anti-gang unit and head back to the shop with no clearer picture of what’s going on. But at least I have a direction to run now. Unfortunately for me, that means heading into a damn viper’s nest.

  Nine

  Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle

  The sounds of Wynton Marsalis’ trumpet float through my apartment, providing me with the soundtrack to drive myself crazy. I stare at the pages sitting on the desk in front of me, then look up at the wall—specifically at the photo I found among my mother’s things. I look at the faces of Gina Aoki and Mr. Corden, feeling that familiar stab of guilt all over again.

  I get up and walk out of my war room, needing to take a breather. I let the music wash over me as I head into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water. I twist off the cap and drop it on the counter, then take a long swallow, relishing the feeling of the cold water slipping down my throat. There’s a dull ache in the back of my head that seems to be growing. It’s probably my body’s way of telling me it’s time for bed. Not that I usually listen to my body or anything.

  My phone chimes softly from its spot on the counter: incoming message. It’s well after eleven, so I assume it’s either Astra checking up on me, or somebody letting me know we’ve got another body. I don’t feel like going out to a crime scene tonight. I’m tired and need to get a little sleep, at least, but if somebody dropped a body, I know I won’t get any.

  I call up my text messages and frown when I see it’s from Mark. A fresh wave of annoyance flashes through me. I know it’s not a very charitable response to have, but things between us are over and I don’t see the need to drag this out any longer. I know I should delete it, but I call up the message anyway—then can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes when I read it.

  “I don’t like how we left things. We need to talk. Call me. Please.”

  After I read the message, I delete it and set my phone back down on the counter. Maybe radio silence will convince him that I was serious when I said it’s over. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left for us to talk about. I certainly can’t tell him the biggest reason I broke things off with him. It’s something I haven’t even talked over with Astra—and probably won’t now. There’s no point in it, anyway. It’s not going to change anything. I’ve made my decision and I’m going to stick with it because it’s the right thing to do.

  I broke things off with him because, yes, I was tired of having the same fight over and over again. And yes, I was exhausted by his constant nagging and picking at me over me trying to find my parents’ killer. As if I need to justify it to anybody. But more than all that, I needed to get Mark away from me simply because it’s not safe to be around me. I’ve become toxic, and the target on my back is automatically transferred to whoever is closest to me. I think Gina Aoki and Mr. Corden could both attest to that. I care about Mark, and the last thing I want to see happen is for him to be hurt because I’m doing what I feel I have to do.

  I carry my bottle of water across the room and open the window. Cool air surges in, making me shiver.
I love it, though. I’ve always loved the rain and cold weather. I know a lot of people hate Seattle because it’s so cool and damp most of the time—although they tend to exaggerate about how much rain we actually get. Some people say they get depressed about how perpetually gray Seattle—and by extension, the entire state of Washington—is, but I’ve always thrived here. The cool air is invigorating; the rain and thunderstorms that roll through are inspiring. Yeah, I’m aware that people think I’m odd. I don’t care, though. Not really.

  I draw a deep breath and let it out slowly as I stare out at the city beyond the window. The twinkle of the lights in the dark is mesmerizing to me. With the window open, the buzz of city life floats up and seems to combine with Marsalis’ music, somehow making it even more beautiful and soothing to listen to. I stand there for a little while and absorb the atmosphere, letting the cool air and the music sluice away my tension.

  Eventually, I feel relaxed enough to go back to my war room, but rather than sit down, I lean against the doorjamb and stare at everything I’ve got pinned to the wall across from me. If I thought the man in the barrel case was bad, this is even worse. This is like the most intense stereogram I’ve ever seen. I can see everything in the foreground, but the actual picture remains buried in all the colorful noise and I can’t focus hard enough to see it.

  My eyes stray to the three Supreme Court Justices, all of them having died over the span of three years. Justice Amelia Sharp died a few months ago of a heart attack while she was in her rose garden at home. Justice Edmund Boone had a stroke while he was playing racquetball a couple of years ago. And a year before that, Justice Arnold Kettering died in a single-car accident when he lost control of his car and hit a freeway abutment on a rainy night.

  On the surface, their deaths are reasonable; nothing has come up that’s raised any red flags. Yet Mr. Corden was under the distinct impression all three were assassinated. There’s nothing in his notes about how or why, but he was sure of it. I’m not naïve enough to think that things in Washington aren’t shady as hell and political assassinations aren’t a thing. They are. People have been killing others for profit and position since the dawn of civilization. It’s not a new story.

  But with no proof of anything to go on, it’s a case I can’t make. It’s a case I can’t even attempt to make. I don’t have enough for a warrant, nor do I have anything I can use to haul somebody in. And I won’t try to make the case until I have evidence. If there is a conspiracy afoot—a conspiracy that got my folks killed—the last thing I want to do is stick my head out of my hole until I’m ready. If I tip my hand that I’m looking at someone, but don’t have enough to bring him or her in, I might as well just strap a target to my own back.

  No, if I’m going to get to the bottom of this and find out who murdered my folks and stole my little sister away from me, I need to move cautiously. I need to be more careful with this than anything I’ve ever dealt with before. I need to treat anything and everything with kid gloves and move slowly and deliberately. I need to build a rock-solid case before I do anything—otherwise, I’m going to find myself neck-deep in a river of crap.

  Moving foolishly, or as if I’ve got a giant pair of stones, as Hobbs says, is only going to put me in mortal danger. It’s going to get me killed. And I can’t die just yet. Not until I see this through and get justice for my family. Not until I have justice for Mr. Corden and Gina Aoki. I can’t bring them back, but maybe I can ease this burden of guilt on my shoulders. If not for me, if not for my pursuit of the truth, both of them might still be alive. I’ve tried to rationalize it away in a thousand different ways, but the guilt is something I can’t seem to shake.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I wander over to the wall and look closely at the pictures of the three Justices. I’m convincedthey’re the key to all of this. I think Mr. Corden was trying to tell me as much by including the partial dossiers on each of them in the file I found in his camper. But whatever it was he was trying to tell me about them, about why they’re the key to this whole thing, died with him.

  I finally drop down into the chair and stare at the wall, my vision trained on the photos of the Justices. As I let my mind unspool, letting my thoughts drift away on the currents of music floating through my apartment. Wynton Marsalis has given way to the piano of Count Basie, and SI let myself float along with those beautiful notes, letting myself go completely blank.

  **I’ve found that I often do my best thinking when I’m not thinking at all. When I’m not trying to actively unravel some Gordian knot and just try to relax, the answers seem to come to me a lot more easily. The problem is getting my mind to shut off and go blank. It’s often a real struggle to turn the volume in my brain down. I’ll eventually get to that point when I’m thinking without thinking, but it’s difficult. It takes a little effort.

  And that’s when I see what I should have been seeing all along. It’s not the dead Justices that are important. It’s their replacements. I want to slap myself stupid for not thinking of that until now. There’s something about the replacements for Justices Boone, Kettering, and Sharp that I need to be looking at.

  I glance at my watch and see how late it’s getting. Now that I have an idea where to be focusing my energy, I feel slightly better. I just hate that it took until now for me to see it. But I’m not going to see much more if I’m half-drunk with sleep deprivation. For now, I think it’s best if I go to bed, get some rest, and let my subconscious keep picking at that Gordian knot inside my brain.

  Maybe when I wake up, I’ll feel refreshed and have a few more answers. Or at least, have a few more relevant questions I should be asking.

  Ten

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “So, I talked to the ME’s office and put a little pressure on them,” Astra says. “They say they’re backlogged, so we’re going to have to wait a while for information. We did get the murder book and preliminary observations, but that’s about it.”

  “Wonderful,” I reply as I pace at the front of the bullpen. “Did we get the samples from Commander Erskine yet? I want to get them to Quantico. I think we’ll get the results faster if we run this through the in-house lab.”

  “Got them this morning and turned them around,” Mo reports. “They should hit the labs in Quantico later today.”

  “Excellent,” I nod. “But that’s still going to take a couple of days. I want to get an ID on our vic before then if we can.”

  “Yeah, about that….knowing we were in a holding pattern, I took the liberty of pulling missing persons reports for Seattle going back for the last month,” Mo pipes up. “I know we don’t have a fixed TOD just yet, and I’m no medical examiner, but judging by the condition of the body in the crime scene photos, I can’t see its being much longer than that. Even preserved in a barrel. It may be a dry well, but at least it’s a starting point.”

  Astra gives Mo a mischievous grin. “Well, gold star for you,” she crows. “Look who’s going for the teacher’s pet award.”

  Mo flashes her a devious smile in return. “Don’t be jealous. I mean, you can’t win it every single day, Russo.”

  “She shoots, she scores,” Rick calls from his workstation as he thrusts his arms victoriously into the air.

  The room erupts in laughter and more hurled insults back and forth. I enjoy seeing my unit coming together this way. When Mo first came in from White Collar, she was a little—stiff. She was rigid and a by-the-book, never-color-outside-the-lines kind of woman. I kind of worried about how she would fit in a room full of big personalities like Astra and Rick. I figured there was going to be some tension, but there’s been remarkably little of that.

  Day by day, she’s been loosening up a little bit more. She and Rick, in particular, have formed a pretty strong bond. And now, maybe with his influence, or just the general atmosphere in the shop, she’s getting to be just as snarky and sarcastic as the rest of us. She’s got a dry, scathing wit that I like. And every now and then,
she’ll bust out with some one-liner that leaves us all gasping for air because we’re laughing so hard.

  “Great idea, Mo. Good work,” I say. “What have you found?”

  “So far, we’ve got twenty missing. Of those, we have six black males,” she says.

  Pictures of six black males, ranging in age from twelve to twenty-four, pop up on the screens mounted to the wall at the front of the bullpen. I step back and take a look at them for a moment as I ponder ways to filter this down.

  “Okay, eliminate the twelve and fourteen-year-old,” I start. “The body is an adult.”

  Two pictures come down, leaving us with the four black men who went missing in the last month. All of them are within the potential age range of the body pulled out of the barrel and are of a similar body type—tall, lean, and athletic. Our vic could be among these four. It’s also possible that he’s not. Without a way to make a solid ID yet, it’s impossible to know for sure. But as Mo said, at least this is a starting point.

  I turn to Rick. “Rick, can you tell me if any of these men have been in trouble with the law before?” I ask, and he nods. “Also, Mo, can you check to see if they’ve got any known gang affiliations.”

  “On it,” she says.

  “What about me?” Astra asks.

  I grin. “You just sit there and be pretty.”

  She laughs and gives me the finger. “You’re such a jerk.”

  “Sometimes,” I reply with a chuckle. “Until we have something definitive to run with, there’s not much for you to do. Sorry. No gold star for you today.”

  “Oh, my God, I hate you so much right now,” she laughs even harder.

  “Boss, of the four, three have records,” Rick calls from his workstation.