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

by Elle Gray

  “So why did you let him join the first place?” I ask.

  “Some kids gotta see what this life is like to know it ain’t for them,” Demone goes on. “I wanted to give him a taste of the life to convince him he needed to go do somethin’ with his life. Somethin’ good to help provide for his moms.”

  “Family’s all we got in this world. Some dudes join us because they need family,” Blade adds. “Benny had a family. His moms is a good woman, and Benny needed to do right by her.”

  I stare at the two men before me, unable to keep the surprise from my face. Granted, my interaction with street gangs is limited, but this isn’t what I was expecting. My understanding was always that once you’re in a gang, you’re in it for life. That they don’t tolerate disloyalty, and trying to get out is a death sentence.

  I’m not saying Demone and Blade are good guys. One look at their jackets says they’re about the furthest thing from good guys that you can get. They’re murderers. Rapists. They peddle drugs and push that poison onto children. These are not good men. And yet, they’ve got an unexpectedly soft side. They take care of their own. They look after them and try to steer them onto the right path.

  It’s not something I would have ever expected from these guys—that they’d try to protect Ben like that. But even more than that, I’m blown away by the fact that they put such a high value on family, given how little value they put on human life as a whole.

  “You look surprised,” Blade observes.

  I shrug. “Honestly, I suppose I am.”

  “Like folks say, don’t ever judge a book by its cover.”

  “So, this wasn’t a drug deal gone wrong? This wasn’t one of your boys looking for a little payback for something Ben did?” Astra asks.

  I watch them closely, looking into their eyes, as they both shake their heads. Their reaction seems genuine, and they honestly seem upset about the fact that Ben is dead. I don’t think these guys are good enough actors to fake that.

  “No, it wasn’t us,” Demone says. “But I guarantee you if we find out who did it, they’re gonna end up in a barrel.”

  “Yeah, not the smartest thing to say to a couple of Feds, Demone,” I say.

  Blade grins. “You said we’re completely off the record here.”

  I laugh despite myself. If I’m being completely honest here, there’s a small piece of me buried deep down inside that wouldn’t mind if the Kings got to Ben’s killers before we did. I’ll never openly advocate street justice, but I can’t say that once in a while it doesn’t feel a little satisfying.

  “Alright,” I say as I get to my feet. “Thanks for the chat, fellas. I appreciate your candor.”

  “My what?” Demone asks.

  Blade chuckles and shakes his head. “You coming in here….that took some real stones, ladies. Respect,” he says. “And don’t forget, when you deal straight with us, we’ll deal straight with you. You have my word.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I nod.

  Astra stands and together we head out. The glares I felt when we walked in here are still present, but they don’t feel quite as hostile as they did before. I won’t say they’re friendly. I’m not getting warm fuzzies or anything. But I suppose with Blade’s and Demone’s tacit endorsement, they don’t feel compelled to murder us on sight. Which is good.

  “You buy it?” Astra asks. “That they had nothing to do with Ben’s death?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Actually, I do,” I shrug. “I think they were telling us the truth.”

  “Strangest damn thing, but I do, too. Turns out people really do contain multitudes,” she responds. “Of course, that puts us back at square one again.”

  “Not completely square one,” I correct her. “Which reminds me, we’re headed to Pullman in the morning. Pack an overnight bag.”

  “Pullman? Can’t we go to Cabo?”

  “Sure,” I shrug. “If the killer leads us down there.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “No, I just don’t want to have to deal with all the travel paperwork,” I say and flash her a grin. “Our flight’s at eight.”

  “You better bring coffee,” she tells me. “Lots of coffee.”

  Nineteen

  Emmanuel’s French Bistro; Downtown Seattle

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say as I slip into the booth.

  “That’s alright, dear. We’re used to it,” my Aunt Annie says.

  Maisey elbows her mother and murmurs something to her. Annie looks up from her menu with a confused expression, as if she doesn’t realize what she’s just said. And she probably doesn’t. She’s so conditioned to throwing out bits of snark and backhanded jabs that she does it without thinking about it anymore. I learned to tune it out a long time ago.

  “I’m sorry, Blake,” Annie offers. “I didn’t mean that to sound so—snarky.”

  I give her a smile. “It’s fine, Annie. I deserved it for being late.”

  Annie reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Ever since we had our little—tiff—and then talked things out, Annie has been really trying to be better. To not be so judgmental and more accepting of the choices both Maisey and I make. The best thing to come out of this is that for the first time in her life, Maisey is feeling both heard and supported. Annie has even started getting to know Maisey’s boyfriend, Marco. I’m glad that my cousin no longer has to hide her relationship from her mother.

  For my part, I’m doing better about making time for Annie and Maisey. Carving out time to have dinner or just hang out with them. And I have to admit, it’s been nice. It’s not always easy and there have been plenty of bumps along the way—and there will likely be more—but things are better than they used to be. For the most part.

  “So, what kept you so late tonight?” Maisey asks, a maniacal gleam in her eye. “Chasing down a serial killer?”

  Maisey has always been a fan of true crime. She eats it up, reading every book and watching every documentary. It’s a fascination I don’t think Annie is ever going to share or understand, but at least she’s not giving Maisey as much grief about it as she used to.

  I laugh. “Serial killers are a very small part of our case load,” I tell her. “Most of the cases we handle are boring, garden-variety crimes.”

  “What kind of crimes could ever be considered garden variety?” Annie gasps.

  “Rape. Fraud. Drugs,” I say. “We chase down—”

  “That was rhetorical, dear,” Annie rolls her eyes.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry,” I say with a chuckle.

  “So, what were you doing tonight then?” Maisey presses.

  “Astra and I had to meet with a couple of gangsters we thought killed a man—”

  “Oh, that sounds exciting!” Maisey squeals.

  “Do we have to do this at the table, girls?” Annie interrupts.

  “Your drinks, ladies,” the waitress says as she arrives at the table.

  “I took the liberty of ordering a drink for you,” Annie says with a smile.

  I’m about to thank her, but freeze with my mouth hanging open for a moment as the waitress sets a glass of red wine down in front of me. My stomach churns as I look at the red liquid. My mind flashes back to when I was just a kid and walked in on the bodies of my parents lying in a thick pool of red, congealing blood. Ever since that day, I’ve sworn off the color red. I won’t wear it, eat or drink anything of the color, or have it in my home. I know it’s irrational; it’s a ridiculous emotional response to trauma. But I can’t help it. It’s something I’ve not yet been able to overcome.

  “Oh, God. Blake, I’m sorry,” Maisey says then turns to the waitress. “Can you please take this away? Blake, what do you want to drink?”

  “Just an iced tea, please,” I reply.

  The waitress scoops up the glass of wine and gives me a patient smile before turning and walking away. Annie looks at me strangely for a minute and then the realization seems to dawn on her.

  “I’m sorry, Blak
e. I wasn’t thinking,” she frowns. “I didn’t realize you were still having—issues—with the color red.”

  I grit my teeth and try to stuff down the annoyance that flashes through me. “That’s certainly one way to put it, I suppose.”

  “Well, how would you put it?” Annie asks.

  “I wouldn’t put it any way,” I tell her. “It’s—complicated.”

  The tension in the air is growing thicker and I’m just barely hanging onto the thin threads that are controlling my temper. I don’t want to have a blowout with my aunt here—I don’t want to have a blowout with my aunt at all. But sometimes it seems as if she makes no effort to understand my problems, acting as if I can just wish them away. That’s not how it works. No matter how much she thinks it should.

  The waitress arrives again and drops off my tea, defusing the moment. “Are you ready to order?” she asks brightly.

  “Yeah, but start with them, please,” I say.

  As they place their order with her, I snap up the menu and take a quick look through it. I settle on the chicken cordon bleu simply for expediency’s sake, which seems to offend Annie’s delicate sensibilities, and I groan to myself. We seem to be stuck in that place where nothing I do can please her. I take a couple of beats to tamp down my irritation. I’d rather not spend the night fighting. I want to enjoy the evening out, but she doesn’t make it easy to do.

  “So, how are things at work, Annie?” I ask, trying to take a different tack.

  “The same. Nothing ever changes much there, really,” she shrugs. “But I suppose it’s better than chasing gang members and getting shot at.”

  I’m about to open my mouth to deliver a scathing reply, only to see the corners of Annie’s mouth curling upward. That was her idea of a joke and a way to call a truce between us—which I’m all for.

  “Maisey and Marco are going on a vacation,” Annie announces.

  Her smile wavers and I can tell she’s trying to be alright with it. But at least she’s not entirely shutting Maisey down out of hand and is trying to be open to the idea. That marks a big shift in the relationship between them. Six months ago, Annie would have forbidden it and Maisey would have gone along with what she wanted. Seeing this turnaround in their relationship makes me stupidly happy.

  “Well? Where are you two going?” I ask.

  “We’re going to Jamaica,” Maisey announces, absolutely beaming.

  “That sounds amazing,” I reply. “I’m so happy for you, Maisey.”

  Annie reaches over and takes Maisey’s hand, giving her a gentle smile. Maisey looks back at her mother with an expression of pure happiness on her face—something I’ve seen all too infrequently in her life.

  “I’m happy for you too, dear,” Annie says. “Marco is a good man.”

  My jaw practically hits the table, and I find myself gaping at my aunt. I can’t believe she’s come this far in such a short amount of time. And it makes my heart swell with joy. The fact that Annie is trying so hard to change her behavior and be somebody different than she’s been for so many years—somebody her daughter needs—is amazing. I couldn’t possibly be happier.

  Sure, I may have my gripes with her, but I know she’s trying. Maybe I’ve been too harsh on her myself. Despite the fact that she’s a second mother to me, this is all uncharted territory. There will probably be road bumps on the way—but as long as Annie is willing to try, I will, too.

  Our meals arrive and any tension that had been lingering evaporates. The conversation is light and fun with lots of laughter, and I can honestly say I haven’t enjoyed a night out with my aunt and cousin more in a very long time. And as I think about how much my aunt has handled her own issues and has changed as a result of it, I start to wonder if I can do the same. I start to wonder if I can handle my own issues with as much ease and aplomb as my aunt.

  After clearing all the dinner plates, the waitress comes back to take our dessert order, and I look at the photo in the menu of the strawberry crepes. I look at the red glaze and sliced strawberries, red and plump on the plate, covering the crepes, trying to work up the nerve to order them. To conquer my own fears and issues with something as simple as ordering a dessert.

  But as I sit here, looking at the menu, I see the dull, lifeless eyes of my parents. I see their pale, waxy skin and the wide pool of thick, viscous blood all around them. In my mind’s eye, I can see that ocean of red, so sharp and vivid. I can’t do it. My courage flees and I know it’s still a bridge too far right now.

  “I’ll take the flourless chocolate cake with the chocolate ganache, please,” I tell the waitress and close the menu, feeling disappointed in myself.

  Twenty

  Registrar and Records Office, Washington State University; Pullman, WA

  “Can you give us his class schedule, please?” Astra asks.

  The woman behind the counter eyes our badges with wide eyes and a look of concern on her face. She’s probably a fresh graduate in her mid-twenties, with long blonde hair and a bookish air about her. She’s also obviously not used to dealing with law enforcement. The woman licks her lips nervously and glances around, perhaps hoping somebody will come save her from us.

  “I’m not sure if I can give out that information,” she says.

  “Fine. Then get us somebody who can,” Astra replies.

  “My boss isn’t coming in today,” she tells us.

  I slap my forehead and try to keep myself in check. We’ve been standing here for ten minutes dickering with this woman about whether or not she can give us a class schedule. I hate getting the run-around, and my last nerve is stretched way too thin.

  “We’re not asking for the nuclear codes or state secrets,” I tell her. “We just need Ben Davis’ course schedule. I’m pretty sure that’s something you can give us. There isn’t a law or a school policy that says you can’t give that to federal agents.”

  “Look, I just got this job and I really need it. I’m not trying to get myself fired,” she says. “I was told we don’t give out personal information.”

  “Listen—Jackie,” I start, after clocking her nametag. “You’re not giving out personal information. It’s a class schedule. We’re conducting a murder investigation, and right now, you’re interfering with it. So, unless you want to get hit with obstruction of justice charges and spend a couple of years in prison for it, go and get us the damn schedule.”

  Her eyes grow wide as I speak, and when I’m finished, she turns and hustles away with the promise of getting the information we’re asking for. Astra turns to me and grins.

  “Pretty good. I always knew you had the heart of a BS artist in you,” she chuckles. “Obstruction charges. That’s pretty good.”

  “Got the ball rolling.”

  “That it did.”

  A moment later, Jackie comes back to us with a sheet of paper that’s still warm, obviously fresh out of the printer, and thrusts it at us.

  “Thank you,” I say as I snatch the paper out of her hand.

  The girl fires off about a thousand questions, but Astra and I turn and walk out of the registrar’s office, ignoring her completely. I scan Ben’s list of classes, and aside from a couple of general ed courses, most of his time was spent in the biology department and science building in general.

  “What do you think?” Astra asks. “Where should we start?”

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and frown as I think about it for a minute. That the drug-and-gang angle didn’t pan out was a bit of a blow. It was a definite setback. I’d been so sure that’s where this was all headed. And that’s not to say another street gang in Seattle didn’t murder Ben. It’s an avenue of investigation I’ll keep open. Yes, I’m fairly certain the Kings and the Playboys didn’t do it, but there’s still the possibility that another gang murdered Ben to either send a message or make a name for themselves.

  But we really are back at square one again. The only difference is that now we know Ben’s name and his story. We can open new lines of inve
stigation, which is helpful. The wider you cast a net, the quicker you can usually haul in the truth. Usually. There’s a sinking feeling in the back of my mind telling me that this case isn’t going to be easy or straightforward. I just have a feeling we’re in for a bumpy ride.

  “I guess we head over to bio department over in Macpherson Hall,” I shrug. “Might as well start with the basics.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We head out and try to find our way across the large, sprawling campus. All around us is the hustle and bustle of students busy dashing to and from class. Here and there we can see small groups sitting over in the green areas or at picnic tables. I get that familiar buzz I always feel whenever I’m on a campus. There is just a special energy on college campuses you don’t find most anywhere else. I think of it as a vibrant optimism. All these kids are so looking forward to their futures and achieving their dreams, it creates a physical energy you can feel. Or at least I can. But then, maybe that’s because I loved my college experience, and the time I spent on a campus a lot like this one.

  We have to stop half a dozen times and ask students for directions, and after about half an hour of walking, we finally find it. Like the rest of the buildings on campus, it’s large, and made of red brick with large windows bordered by white trim. I won’t say Washington State is the most beautiful campus I’ve ever been on, but it has a certain charm to it, I suppose. It’s a very colorful campus with trees and green spaces everywhere, somehow making the red brick buildings seem more vibrant. I imagine in the fall this place is something to see.

  We make our way to the fourth floor, where we find the office of Dr. Henry Avila—he taught one of Ben’s human anatomy courses. The door is partially open and so I knock on it.

  “Come in, the door’s open,” he calls out.

  I push the door open and let Astra step in before me. I follow and close the door behind me, then turn to find Dr. Avila seated behind a large, ornately carved desk made of some dark wood I can’t identify. A pair of matching bookcases flanks Dr. Avila on the wall behind him, and in between is a plethora of degrees and awards he’s garnered. He’s obviously very proud of his education and achievements.