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

by Elle Gray

  I nod. “Yes, victim.”

  “What the crime y’all investigatin’?”

  “Homicide,” Astra says.

  The big man chuckles again and I swear it reminds me of the sound that passes Morello’s lips when he laughs.

  “So, wait. Y’all are investigatin’ a murder, and y’all don’t know who got theyselves killed?” he asks. “What kinda half-assed Feds are y’all?”

  “If I had to guess,” starts a man who stepped through the door behind the bar, “I’m thinkin’ they’ve got no way to ID the body. Which means the head and at least the tips of the fingers were taken. How’d I do, Agents?”

  All his friends turn and look at him, an expression caught somewhere between disgust and respect on their faces. A slow smile curls the corners of his mouth as he stares right at us. I can see in his eyes that Antoine isn’t your typical mindlessly violent gangster. Not this guy. He’s smart. Very smart. What’s more, he knows it. And given that he’s got intel that hasn’t been released to the media, I’d say that he’s a pretty well-connected man. Which makes him a dangerous man.

  I give him a smile. “Antoine Booker.”

  “Alive and well,” he replies. “So, I’m obviously not the dude all chopped up and stuffed into that barrel.”

  Antoine is about five-ten and lean. He’s got a rich ochre skin tone and dark eyes that are direct and piercing. He’s athletic, and as the big man said, has dreads that fall to the middle of his back, though they’re all tied back with a dark-colored ribbon right now. He’s wearing a black and white tracksuit and some brilliantly white sneakers. I see a flash of gold in his ear and my eyes are drawn to the diamond stud embedded in the lobe.

  Judging by his demeanor and the way everybody is looking at him, with a respect that borders on awe, I’d guess that he isn’t just a member of the Playboys—he runs the group. Which makes my earlier thought that he might have been trying to switch gang allegiances entirely moot. And it makes him all the more imposing, given that he’s only nineteen. I don’t care if your gang has ten or a hundred members, it takes somebody with some serious smarts and spine to run one. I shudder to think what he’s done to earn the awe I see in the eyes of the other men.

  “And where’d you hear all that, Antoine?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Word gets around.”

  “I bet it does,” I reply. “Can we talk for a minute? Privately?”

  He gives me a casual smile, his eyes moving up and down as he takes my measure. In most guys, I think the elevator eyes are creepy simply because I can see the thoughts going through their heads—and more often than not, it involves seeing me naked. With Antoine, though, it’s almost clinical. It’s not a sexual thing, it’s a trying-to-see-through-me thing. Trying to determine whether I pose a threat to him or not. His gaze is that of a predator sizing up his rival, to figure out who’s going to come out on top in a scrap.

  Antoine must not think Astra and I pose much of a threat, because he gives me a wide, bright smile.

  “Yeah, sure. Why not?” he asks. “I’m always happy to help law enforcement.”

  His boys chuckle as he walks out from behind the bar and I guide the three of us toward the front door. Personally, I’d like a little fresh air and I’m sure Astra will appreciate it as well. None of us speaks until the doors close behind us and we’re sucking deep breaths of the crisp air on the street. When I’ve got the stench of the pool hall out of my nose, I turn to face Antoine.

  “Nineteen years old and you’re running your own crew. I’ve never heard of anything like that before,” I say. “You must be something special.”

  “Or something more violent and brutal than everybody else,” Astra notes.

  “Do those things have to be mutually exclusive?” he asks with a smile.

  “What happened to the man who used to run your….club?” I ask.

  “He retired.”

  “Retired?” I ask.

  “Sure did,” he nods. “Wanted to spend more time with his family.”

  “You seem like a man with big plans,” Astra offers. “Got big plans for the Playboys, do you, Antoine?”

  He shrugs. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t have plans? What kind of man would I be if I didn’t strive for more or try to better my lot in life?”

  “So, you’re just going to knock off everybody who gets in the way of your getting what you want?” Astra asks.

  He chuckles to himself. “Getting what I want doesn’t entail violence, Agent Russo,” he says and taps his head with his finger. “This is my most dangerous weapon. I don’t have to shoot somebody when I beat him by outthinking him. When you can outwit somebody, you take away his power and control. And when you take his power and control, it’s even more effective than killing him. Credibility is king, Agents. When you have all the credibility, you’re going to find yourself on top.”

  “Yeah, but on these streets, you can’t attain that credibility without leaving a trail of bodies behind you no matter how smart you are. We both know that,” Astra presses.

  “As they say, you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

  Antoine speaks with the quiet confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants and intends to get it. He’s intelligent and articulate. He’s not like most of these mindless mobsters and gangsters. He’s not like the common criminals we run down. If anything, his calm, cool demeanor strikes me as similar to that of some of the sociopaths and serial killers we’ve gone after. They’ve all had this self-possession and ironclad determination about them. They’ve all seemed to make it inevitable that they’ll get what they want.

  “Fair enough,” I acknowledge. “But tell me, since you somehow know about it, do you know who the man in the barrel is? Do you know who put him in the barrel in the first place?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t,” he replies.

  He’s looking me dead in the eye, and as good as I am about reading people, I swear to God I can’t tell if he’s lying to me or not. There isn’t a ripple of deception in his face that I can see. There’s just—nothing. His face is totally expressionless and blank. For all I know, he could have killed our man in the barrel himself and I wouldn’t know it.

  But I don’t think he did. As I study him, I get the feeling Antoine is telling me the truth. That he really doesn’t know. And unless it was him or one of his boys, I don’t think he would have lied to me about it. It’s entirely possible I’m wrong, but I like to think I’ve been doing this job long enough and have developed good instincts to get a bead on a person. And my instincts are telling me that Antoine is being honest with me.

  I slip a card out of my pocket and hand it to him. “Alright. But if you hear anything that might be relevant, I hope you’ll give me a call,” I tell him. “I appreciate your time.”

  “Of course.”

  He gives Astra and me both a long look, a smirk tugging a corner of his mouth upward. He slips the card into his pocket then walks back into the pool hall, leaving us standing on the corner looking at each other.

  “In twenty years, that kid is going to be running the Seattle underworld,” I mutter.

  “You think?” she scoffs. “The kid is creepy as hell. And he’s smarter than any gangster I’ve ever met. Yeah, we’re going to be seeing and hearing more about him.”

  “Yeah… I think you’re right,” I nod. “And I guarantee he’s going to be even more dangerous as he gets older.”

  As we head back to the car, I wonder how long it’s going to be before the Playboys make their move and take over the city. With a guy like Antoine running the show, already commanding the respect and loyalty he does, I can’t imagine that it’ll be long. And when they do, there are going to be a lot of bodies dropping around Seattle.

  Thirteen

  Creative Design Solutions; Downtown Seattle

  After striking out all the way around with our potential victims, I found myself feeling restless and not wanting to go home. I just don�
�t feel like sitting there staring at the wall as I wait for the answers to come to me—the answers to both my parents’ case as well as the man in the barrel. Having a million more questions than I do answers is enough to drive me mad.

  So instead, I’ve opted to do a little more digging on my own. I may not come up with any answers to the questions I have, but the act of doing something and being proactive is a lot better than sitting around waiting for something to happen. I always prefer being active and trying to take control of a situation. That’s just how I’m wired. I’ve had enough of life happening to me—rather than trying to seize control and make something happen—to last me forever, thank you very much. I may not always be successful, but at least I try. And while I may not always be satisfied with the outcomes, I think it’s a whole lot better than doing nothing.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’d like to look at the crime scene.”

  I stop before the cop standing in front of the door to Gina Aoki’s office. Creative Design Solutions is—was— Gina’s startup tech company. She did IT work, but she was also a software and app designer. And by all accounts, she was very well respected in the tech community and made a pile of money doing it.

  CDS, as it says on the door, is a small office that’s thoroughly modern in design. It sits on the edge of a campus of office buildings that look similar—lots of glass, steel, and strange angles in the architecture. From what I know, CDS was a one-person operation. Gina was it. The alpha and omega of the company. I can definitely see the appeal of working solo—zero layers of BS and bureaucracy to deal with. It’s one reason I sometimes envy Paxton. But my creds get me into places he can’t go—legally, anyway—which is why I’m in no rush to go into the private sector.

  And speaking of my creds, I whip mine out and show them to the cop on the door. He looks at the badge, then at me, his expression telling me he’s unimpressed. I suppress the grumble. Once upon a time, the sight of FBI creds would make people tremble and then comply. Nowadays, though, it seems that all they earn me is scorn and derision.

  “Nobody in or out. It’s still an active crime scene,” he grunts.

  “I understand that, but I need to take a look at it.”

  “Sorry, I have orders. Nobody in or out,” he repeats robotically.

  I have to tamp down the frustration that’s growing inside of me. I know this guy has orders and that he’s expected to follow them. This isn’t his doing. But it’s hard to keep my temper in check all the same.

  “I get it, Officer….Doran,” I say after a quick check of his name plate. “But I’m with the FBI—”

  “I was told that the FBI especially was not allowed on the crime scene,” he cuts me off. “So, if you have a problem with it, take it up with my supervisor.”

  I step forward and glare at him, clenching my jaw. “Officer Doran, I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” I say, purposely putting emphasis on the word ‘federal’. “I make one phone call and let my boss know you’re interfering with a—federal—investigation, and you’re going to be opening up a whole Pandora’s Box of trouble that you, trust me, don’t want to deal with. Now, I’m going onto that crime scene, and if you have a problem with it, have your supervisor call mine and we’ll see what happens, huh?”

  Office Dolan hesitates for another moment but then steps aside, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. And this is exactly why relations between local PDs and the FBI are usually a bit strained. I don’t like bigfooting my way onto a scene. I don’t like flexing my federal muscles. I’d prefer it if we all got along, because in the grand scheme of things, we’re all on the same team. We all want the same thing—to make the world safer.

  But the reality of the situation is that there are always competing agendas. There are always those who put their own schemes and plots ahead of the job. People like Deputy Chief Torres who see solving crimes and taking down criminals as headline makers and tickets to a promotion, rather than as a sacred duty to protect the public from these evil beings. Not all of us are doing this job for the right reasons. And that goes not just for the local PDs but for the Bureau as well. There are rotten apples on every tree.

  I have a job to do, though. One I hold as a sacred obligation, so I’m going to do it my way and do whatever I need to in order to get the job done and protect the people. Even if that means I have to force my way onto a crime scene now and again. I’m not going to let punks like Torres keep me from doing my job. So, hard feelings among the rank and file be damned. It is what it is; I make no apologies.

  I open the door and step into Gina’s office space and am immediately hit with the smell. Death, especially when there’s a lot of blood involved, carries a particular odor. It’s like a metallic tang. Kind of like the taste of having a penny in your mouth. However you describe it, the smell is never very pleasant.

  The office floor plan is open, and with windows all around; plenty of natural light filters in, leaving the room looking fresh. There’s a conference table with six seats around it on one side of the large room. There’s also a sitting area with two pairs of large wingback chairs sitting on either side of an oval-shaped coffee table. The whole ensemble is set up on a circular rug that’s splashed with a riot of color. And it looks as if there’s a small kitchenette near the back of the space, and next to that, Gina’s office.

  I pull a pair of nitrile gloves out of my pocket and snap them on to avoid contaminating the scene. Once I’m gloved up, I walk back to the office and push the door open. Everything’s covered in fingerprint dust, and some of the yellow evidence markers were left behind. I stand there for a moment, looking at the papers and other items scattered around the floor. Things on her desk have been knocked over, picture frames and coffee cups are shattered—and of course, the blood. There is so much blood. It’s dried and a brownish-red color now, but it’s unmistakable.

  My eyes track the thick spray of it that cuts across the top of her desk in a sharp line, covering everything in its path. That’s the arterial spray that would have jetted out of her severed carotid. There’s a larger pool at the edge of her desk and an even larger pool on the floor behind her desk where she had fallen and then bled out. I stand back and take it all in, trying to put it all together in my mind. Trying to “see” the crime in my mind’s eye.

  She was killed after normal business hours. Between that and the fact that she didn’t have any meetings scheduled that evening, it appears that she possibly knew her attacker. Gina seemed to me to be the type who was meticulous about her calendar. So her killer either dropped by unannounced or she was comfortable enough with him to let him into her office after she’d closed for the day. My theory isn’t definitive, of course. It is just a theory. But it’s a scenario I’ve seen play out about a million times, so it’s experience that’s informing my opinion.

  I spend a little time poking around her office. Not that there’s much left. The SPD did a pretty thorough sweep and anything of value has already been taken. The truth is, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I know I’m not going to find anything. Any potential clues have already been bagged and tagged. But even knowing I wouldn’t find anything important, I still felt compelled to come.

  Maybe on some deep level, I feel the need to punish myself. I can feel the familiar tendrils of guilt wrapping themselves around my heart, squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe. The deaths of Gina and Mr. Corden are both on me, and I feel the weight of that guilt on my shoulders. I’ve carried that weight every day since Mr. Corden’s death, and it only got heavier after I learned Gina had been killed.

  I’ve tried to lift that burden off me. I’ve tried to rationalize the guilt away a thousand different ways, telling myself that it’s not my fault. That I didn’t kill them. But no matter what I tell myself, or how many times I say it, my feeling of culpability never lets up. I hide it well enough that most days I can ignore it—or at least pretend that I don’t feel it.

  But in the quie
t of the night, when it’s just me and my thoughts, the self-reproach I sometimes feel is relentless. It’s soul-crushing. No matter what I say or do, I cannot escape the certainty of my thoughts that if it hadn’t been for this quest I’m on, neither of them would have been killed. And that point is really driven home as I stand here, among the blood and wreckage that marked the last moments of Gina Aoki’s life.

  “I’m so sorry, Gina. I never meant for this to happen,” I whisper. “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

  As my eyes fall on the dark stain on the carpet once more—Gina’s blood—my guilt and my grief are joined by my anger bubbling up from deep inside me. I feel dark. But I feel more determined than ever.

  “I’m going to get him, Gina. I’m going to get the man who killed you,” I say. “I promise you that I’m going to get justice for you. I swear it.”

  It’s a promise I don’t know that I can keep, but I’m damn sure going to try. She deserves justice every bit as much as my parents do. And I’m going to do everything in my power to see that she has it.

  Fourteen

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “Rough night?” Astra asks as I step to the front of the bullpen.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you look like twice-warmed-over roadkill,” she replies.

  “Hey, thanks for that. At least I know my self-esteem will never get too out of control with you around,” I crack.

  She grins. “What are friends for?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder that myself,” I reply.

  She gives me a wide grin and blows me a kiss. The truth is, I didn’t sleep much last night—for the last week or so, honestly—so I probably do look like twice-warmed-over roadkill. I feel like the bags under my eyes have become suitcases. Ever since I went to Gina Aoki’s office to look around a few days back, sleep hasn’t come easily. I can almost feel her presence hovering over me. Judging me. Waiting for me to figure out who killed her.