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

by Elle Gray

  “Yes, ma’am,” she says.

  Mo walks out of the shop with a spring in her step that makes me smile. She’s growing into an excellent agent. Talented, instinctive, and doggedly determined. I’m so glad to have taken the chance on her.

  “I do believe you made her day,” Astra says. “Who knew she had it in her to be a door smasher?”

  “I did,” Rick replies. “It’s all she talks about. She’s stoked to be in the field. So yeah, I think you did make her day.”

  “She’s earned everything,” I admit. “I really am impressed.”

  “Then why do you look like a mother who’s watching her little girl go off to kindergarten for the first time?” Astra asks.

  My laughter echoes around the bullpen. “I do not.”

  “You do. Totally,” Rick cracks with a grin.

  I shrug. “Well, I guess I kind of feel that way. I’m proud of her. And scared for her.”

  “She’ll be good,” Astra says firmly. “She is good. This will give her some solid field experience. She needs it.”

  I nod and try to refocus my thoughts. Astra’s endorsement makes me feel slightly better about sending Mo out there to run point. Granted, the guy is a doctor and probably won’t pose much of a violent threat, but you just never know. But if Astra, who’s been hard on Mo, thinks she’s ready to run her own op, then I should probably ease up. I need to let her get some experience running her own team in the field. After all, if things go well and we end up expanding my unit, I’m going to need experienced leaders out there I can lean on.

  “They grow up so fast, don’t they?” Astra quips.

  “Shut up,” I smirk at her, then turn to Rick. “Okay, since we’re still waiting for the evidence to be processed, and we don’t have Ben’s laptop yet, I want to know about Chloe Diamatta. What can you dig up on her?”

  “Give me a minute,” he says.

  I continue pacing back and forth in front of the monitors as I wait for Rick to pull up some information. The facts of the case are still swirling around in my mind, but I can’t get the complete picture to resolve yet. I don’t even have enough to put together a viable profile of the suspect we’re looking for.

  “Why do you think Ben was so secretive about Chloe?” Astra wonders. “That’s something I haven’t quite been able to figure out yet.”

  I shake my head. “My best guess is that somebody in her life—likely her father—didn’t approve of Ben for some reason,” I say. “They had to keep their relationship a secret from him.”

  “Why her father?”

  “Her father came to pick her up from school, and given how hastily she withdrew from classes for the semester, I’m imagining he’s a little domineering,” I explain. “And for her part, I’m guessing Chloe jumps when he tells her to. I’m getting a picture of somebody who’s a bit on the meek side.”

  Astra nods. “That makes sense.”

  I honestly don’t know if it makes sense. I’m thinking on the fly and speaking off the cuff. I’ve got absolutely nothing to back any of these theories up. But as I speak, I feel as if the words coming out of my mouth are right. They just have that ring of truth to them.

  “So, how does Ben’s little weed farm factor into all of this?” Astra asks.

  “Whoa, Ben had a weed farm, and you didn’t bring me a sample?” Rick calls over with a chuckle. “How thoughtless are you?”

  “She couldn’t bring any back for you,” Astra says. “She was too busy satisfying Ben’s client base.”

  “And you leave me out,” Rick scoffs. “Man, that’s cold.”

  I shoot her a look, which makes her laugh as if she just made the best joke in history, which prompts Rick to join her. Allowing Dwight to take what he’d paid for is not only against Bureau protocols, it’s illegal. That was evidence. I don’t know why I did it, to be honest. I just saw how shaken up Dwight was and thought he needed something to calm himself down, I guess. Not my finest hour and not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. But what the Bureau doesn’t know won’t hurt them.

  “Anyway,” I say, cutting into their laughter. “I still think Ben’s weed farm is the primary reason he’s dead. I’ve come back around to thinking that it’s a deal gone bad.”

  “I don’t get that. Over weed?” Rick asks. “It’s legal here, for crying out loud.”

  Astra arches an eyebrow. “The way that room smelled, I’m pretty sure Ben was cultivating better stuff than you can get at the dispensary.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ve gotten some really good stuff at the dispensary,” Rick counters, then seemingly remembers he’s a federal employee, adding, “I mean, gotten, um, that info from a friend who told me about it.”

  Astra laughs. “I’m no expert, but I’d put Ben’s stuff up against the dispensary product,” she says. “And I have a feeling he was probably undercutting them by selling it cheaper.”

  “Yeah, but he wasn’t growing enough for mass distro,” I say. “He wasn’t going to put anybody out of business. My guess is he was only selling to the kids on campus. Maybe some of the townies, but I’m willing to bet his primary customers were students.”

  “Like Dwight.”

  I nod. “Yeah. Like Dwight.”

  “Some of these dispensary guys are more territorial than those gangsters you talked to,” Rick adds. “I mean, they’re like crazy territorial. You don’t have to be threatening to put them out of business. Some of them take any dip into their profit pool as a major personal offense. Might be a bit of a stretch, but I think there’s a possibility there.”

  “You sure do know a lot about the world of weed, Tech Analyst Jenkins,” Astra says.

  “I read a lot.”

  “Uh-huh,” she replies. “You better be reading up on how to beat a pee test.”

  They continue trading barbs with each other as I clasp my hands behind my back and walk back and forth, letting it all crystallize in my mind. Nothing about this makes sense.

  “You look troubled,” Astra notes.

  “Just trying to put it all together,” I say. “We’ve got about a thousand disparate pieces but no idea how they all fit together.”

  “I think we need to take another run at the Kings,” she tells me. “Maybe the Playboys, too. We rattle their cages and see if anything falls out.”

  “I’m just having trouble seeing any of them as the killer.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Whoever murdered Ben is a highly organized offender,” I say. “He wasn’t killed by some street gangster or angry dispensary owner in the heat of the moment. Whoever murdered him was efficient. Methodical. And had a good enough sense of human anatomy to perfectly disarticulate the body. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment kill. This was planned out and it took a long time.”

  “You’re not thinking that maybe one of the geeks in his lab might have done it, are you?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to rule them out yet. But they’re not at the top of my suspect list,” I say. “I’ll go out on a limb and say Monty was one of Ben’s regular customers. It’s possible they got into a beef over money.”

  “Possible but not likely,” Astra responds. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  “No, I don’t think so either. But it’s something we need to factor in, anyway,” I acknowledge. “I just wish we had a primary crime scene to look at. I want to know where he was killed.”

  “Whoa,” Rick gasps, his eyes fixed to his computer screen. “This might just change everything.”

  “What is it?”

  “Chloe Diamatta isn’t exactly Chloe Diamatta,” he says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Astra and I walk over to his workstation and look over his shoulder. On the screen, we see her driver’s license photo and then on another monitor, he pulls up a copy of the application she filed to change her name. A few years back, Chloe dropped her paternal surname and adopted her mother’s maiden name.

  “So who is her father?” Astra
asks.

  On the monitors at the front of the bullpen, an image appears. The man in the photo has cold, pale skin and dark, intense eyes. His hair is salt-and-pepper, trimmed neatly, as is his beard. He’s got a strong jawline and high cheekbones. He’s a handsome man, but I don’t see anything distinctive about him. I haven’t the first clue who he is.

  “So? Who is he?” I ask.

  “Ladies, you are looking at Sarvan Petrosyan, also known as Stephen Petrosyan—he changed his name upon gaining citizenship thirty years ago,” Rick explains. “Petrosyan is the head of the Elezi crime family. He is the Armenian mob.”

  Astra whistles low and we exchange a look.

  “You’re right,” I say. “This does change everything.”

  Twenty-Six

  Avenue Four Luxury Condominiums; Downtown Seattle

  “Swanky,” Astra whistles as we approach the doors.

  “Very swanky,” I confirm. “Makes sense, though, if your daddy is the head of a crime family.”

  “Hey, if I got to live in a place like this, I might not mind if my daddy was mobbed up.”

  I laugh as the doorman opens the door for us and we step into a large marble foyer. It’s sleek and modern in design, with lots of glass and burnished steel. There’s a fountain with a sitting area to our right, and to our left is a counter that looks like a hotel check-in desk. A woman in a bright blue blazer is flashing us a smile bright enough that it should require eclipse glasses.

  “May I help you ladies?” she asks.

  We walk over to the counter and show her our creds. “We need to find Chloe Diamatta’s apartment.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t furnish—”

  “You actually can. We need to speak with Ms. Diamatta immediately,” I cut her off, my voice cold. “Tell us which unit is hers unless you want to find yourself looking at federal obstruction charges.”

  The woman quickly types something into her computer then looks up at us. “Seventh floor. Unit number 17-B.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” I say.

  Astra and I turn and head for the bank of elevators, and from the corner of my eye, I catch her grinning at me. We step into the waiting car and the doors slide closed behind us.

  “Federal obstruction charges—that old chestnut again, huh?”

  I shrug. “It seems to work. Might as well use it until it doesn’t.”

  After doing some preliminary digging into Chloe, we were able to find that her father bought this condo for her after she graduated high school. We also found the OC unit has an active but sealed file on her. I tried to get hold of Hobbs for some help, but he’s doing some undercover work and is unreachable at the moment.

  So we asked Rosie to flex her muscle and get the file for us. I want to know what the Bureau has on her. Bureaucracy works slowly; I’m sure it’s going to be a while before we get the file. I further realize that if and when we do get that file, it’s likely going to be heavily redacted. Especially since it’s still an active investigation—which I have to assume is into her father.

  But with all those factors weighing on me—and not being the most patient person ever born—Astra and I decided to have a sit down with Chloe ourselves. I’m pretty sure OC is going to be pissed and Hobbs will likely chew my backside for it, but Chloe’s being the secret girlfriend of a murder victim makes her somebody I really think we need to talk to. I’ll deal with the fallout when it comes.

  The bell chimes and the doors slide open, a mellow robotic voice announcing that we’ve arrived on the seventh floor. Because apparently, the gigantic embossed “7” that’s mounted to the wall across from the elevator isn’t enough to tell us which floor we’re on. We find our way to Chloe’s unit and knock on the door. She has one of those doorbell camera units attached to the door and I know she’s looking at us, so I hold up my creds.

  “Y—yes?” her voice issues through the speaker, quavering and uncertain.

  “Ms. Diamatta, we need to have a word with you, please.”

  “O—okay. Just a moment please.”

  We wait and then we hear the sound of the door unlocking. It opens a crack. The girl staring through the small gap stares at us with wide eyes that are bloodshot and puffy. She’s obviously been crying.

  “Chloe Diamatta?” I ask.

  “Yes?”

  “SSA Wilder and Special Agent Russo,” I announce. “We need to speak with you. May we come in for a moment.”

  She hesitates but opens the door to us. We walk inside as she closes the door, then leads us to the living room. Her condo is a loft-style unit. Done in red brick and light hardwood, it has a look that’s both modern and old-world at the same time. The entire rear wall of the unit is glass, and a staircase leads up to the bedroom area. The kitchen, done in black and white subway tile with brand-new stainless steel appliances, is separated from the living room by a tall bar with black stools lined up in front of it.

  The living room is warmer, with a plush sofa set across from a pair of deep, well-cushioned chairs and a glass and wood rectangular coffee table between them. It’s all set on a large area rug that’s colorful and vibrant—my gut tells me Chloe picked this out. Against the red brick wall is an entertainment center with a large flatscreen TV flanked by a pair of bookcases stuffed with books of every genre, along with personal knick-knacks. Photos crowd every surface and hang on the walls in a way that reminds me of Grace Davis’ house.

  There are pictures of Chloe with her mother and friends. Pictures of her in various vacation spots, engaging in a variety of activities from skydiving to snorkeling. She appears to be an avid skier and seems to enjoy the outdoors, if the photos tell the whole story. But what I don’t see is what strikes me the most. Not only are there no pictures of Ben anywhere, there are no pictures of her father, either. I assume that ties into why she took on er mother’s maiden name rather than using her father’s surname.

  “Wh—what is this about?” she asks.

  “Please, have a seat,” Astra says.

  Chloe is a small girl. Five-five at most, and petite. She’s got silky-smooth dark hair, eyes like chips of amber, and deep olive skin. She obviously takes after her mother, as I see no trace of Stephen Petrosyan in her face. She sits down on the couch and seems dwarfed by it. The way she’s drawn into herself makes her look even smaller than she is. Almost child-like.

  Astra and I take the two chairs across from her and exchange a look. Judging by the pillows and blankets surrounding her, Chloe has been sleeping on the couch—when she’s managed to sleep at all. She looks exhausted. Wrung out. She’s dressed in pajama bottoms and a hoodie, and it’s not hard to believe she’s been wearing the same thing since her father yanked her out of school and dropped her here.

  “Are you alright?” I ask.

  Chloe pulls one of the pillows into her lap and hugs it to her tightly, avoiding my eyes. She bites her bottom lip and nods. She looks up at me, meeting my eyes for just a moment, then drops her gaze back down to her pillow.

  “I’m fine. Thank you,” she says, her voice soft. “What is this about?”

  “We need to speak to you about Ben Davis,” Astra says.

  Chloe immediately tenses up and I see her eyes shimmer with fresh tears. She manages to fight them off and looks up at us with a carefully crafted expression of neutrality. She’s obviously been schooled in keeping her face blank and giving nothing away—probably especially when she’s speaking with law enforcement. Given who her father is, I’m sure that’s been ingrained in her from an early age.

  “Who?” she asks.

  I frown. “Chloe, we know Ben was your boyfriend. We wouldn’t be sitting here if we didn’t know, so let’s not play games, alright?”

  I say it as gently as I can, but Chloe recoils as if I’d slapped her across the face. A single tear spills from the corner of her eye and races down her cheek and she angrily scrubs it away.

  “He was my boyfriend,” she says. “We broke up some time ago.”


  “Some time ago?” Astra asks.

  She nods. “I haven’t seen him in months. It was for the best.”

  The answers she’s giving sound robotic. As if these were the lines she’s been fed and is expected to speak on command.

  “Chloe, why are you lying to us?” Astra asks. “We know you were at Ben’s apartment in Pullman a week ago.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s not possible. We broke up some time ago. I haven’t seen him in months,” she repeats. “It was for the best.”

  Astra and I exchange another look. It’s obvious she’s more afraid of somebody—her father, probably—than she’s afraid of us. She has obviously been fed these lines and is dutifully reciting them back to us.

  “Chloe, is it your father forcing you to say these things?” Astra asks. “We can—”

  “My father has nothing to do with this,” she interrupts. “I broke up with Ben. I couldn’t be with somebody who deals drugs and runs with a gang. That’s beneath me. He’s beneath me.”

  Her words ring completely hollow, and I can see the toll it’s taking on her to say them. Tears roll down her face unabated, and this time, she doesn’t even try to wipe them away. She looks down at the pillow in her lap again.

  “Chloe, did your father force you to break up with Ben?” I ask.

  “No, my father has only ever wanted the best for me,” she replies. “He protects me. Keeps me safe.”

  “Chloe, we know who your father is,” Astra adds. “We know what he does. And I think you do, too. Did he kill Ben? Did he kill your boyfriend?”

  She shakes her head but says nothing. It’s obvious to me that she knows what happened to Ben. Or at least, she knows he’s dead, even if she doesn’t know the exact manner of his death—which is probably for the best.

  I’m just about to open a new line of questions when the front door opens and a man in a stylish, very expensive three-piece suit enters. He’s about six feet tall, very fit, with blue eyes, perfectly coiffed hair, and a ten-thousand-megawatt smile. He looks as if he belongs behind an anchor’s desk gleefully reciting the day’s horrible news, but he’ll most often be found in a courtroom defending scum like Stephen Petrosyan.