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

by Elle Gray

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “I know this is hard and painful. I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Chloe,” I say. “I wish there was something I could do to take away the pain.”

  She gives me a shaky smile. “It’s not your fault.”

  “No, but I know this whole thing isn’t easy for you.”

  “I know you’re only doing your job,” she says. “Want to hear something weird?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Being here in this cell? It’s the safest I’ve felt in a long time,” she says. “Isn’t that like, super bizarre?”

  “I actually think I get it.” At this point, I think it’s time, so I ask, “Do you know who killed Ben, Chloe?”

  A lone tear spills from the corner of her eye, but she lets it run. She just shakes her head.

  “I don’t know who did it,” she admits. “But I’m sure my father was involved. He knew it was the only way to keep us apart.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments, everything we’ve said swirling around between us. And as I look at her, I see the core of strength in her. No matter how this plays out, I know she’s going to bear the scars of her ordeal. She’ll carry that grief around with her maybe for the rest of her life. She didn’t ask to have a father like Petrosyan. She’s done everything she can to distance herself from him. She didn’t ask for this kind of life. All she wants is to be happy. To love. To live life to the fullest.

  Things will be tough for a while after this. She’s going to go through a minefield of pain and grief. But I want to believe she’s going to be alright. In time, she’s going to come out the other side of this stronger for it. I have to believe that for her.

  Thirty-Five

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “So, what do we have?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Astra replies. “At least, nothing we didn’t have before.”

  “Rick, have you been able to find anything?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing yet.”

  I growl in frustration as I pace the floor at the front of the bullpen. I’m pretty sure it won’t be long before they have to replace the flooring up here since I’m wearing a groove in it. But I think better when I’m moving.

  “What about the security cameras?” Mo asks.

  “He said they delete everything after seven days,” I reply.

  “Wait… do you know what kind of system they use?” Rick asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t. Why, do you have an idea?”

  “I might. Let me do some digging before you all get excited. This may be nothing.”

  Astra is looking through the evidence boxes again, just for lack of anything better to do. We know Petrosyan did it. We know why he did it. We just can’t prove it. Tinsley has been down in the holding cells with her all morning, so I haven’t gotten to talk to Chloe today. Tinsley is a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. I know he knows I spoke to her last night, so I’m sure he’s doing some damage control down there. He’s probably pumping her for information, trying to find out what she told me and figure how to contain or spin it.

  But she’s a smart girl, and I think she’s hoping we can nail her dad for this, so I’m not worried about her revealing the details of our conversation. Not that we got into any details. I was careful to avoid talking about anything specific enough to tank the case. Although I did want some information from her, I also wanted to make sure she knows she isn’t alone. And that she has other options in her life. She just needs to find the courage in herself to take them.

  “Chloe is positive her dad is somehow involved with Ben’s death,” I say.

  “Which is great, but we can’t prove it,” Astra replies. “Unfortunately, we can’t convict the guy just because his daughter hates him.”

  “It would make things a lot easier,” I mutter.

  “Wouldn’t it, though?”

  “Hey, wait, did you guys see this?” Mo asks.

  I turn and see her holding one of the picture frames that were taken out of Ben’s secret room. It’s covered in fingerprint dust. I recognize the frame and recall it was a picture of Ben and his mom. But Mo’s taken it apart and is pulling out a slip of paper from between the photo and the backing. It’s been taped to the picture, so even if the frame is opened, the paper will likely be missed.

  “Wait, wait,” I say. “We need to document it for the chain of custody and evidence preservation.”

  “Right,” Mo nods.

  She sets it down and takes some pictures with her phone. After that, she snaps on a pair of black nitrile gloves and uses a pocketknife to slice the tape, then carefully lifts the paper out of the frame. We’re huddled around her as she sets the frame aside and unfolds the page. I’m holding my breath as I watch her reading it, and when I see her eyes widen, I feel a spark of hope ignite inside of me. I try to temper it, reminding myself of the cost of crushed hopes.

  “What is it?” I ask, forcing myself to stop feeling such a wave of hope inside of me.

  “It’s a travel itinerary,” she says.

  I quickly put on a pair of gloves before I take it. Astra, thinking her usual two steps ahead, has an evidence bag out and ready. We’re going to need to get this printed just for the official record and to avoid claims of tampering. I hold it up so we can all read it. Sure enough, it’s a travel itinerary.

  “Two tickets to Florida,” I say.

  “Look at the date,” Astra points. “Unless I’m mistaken, they were going to leave right after the semester ended.”

  “Do you see that?” I ask.

  “What?” Astra replies.

  “These tickets are one way,” I announce. “They weren’t coming back.”

  Mo and Astra both draw in a sharp breath as the full import of the moment settles down over us. This piece of paper might be what got Ben killed. This could be why Petrosyan murdered him. It suggests that he found out Ben and Chloe were leaving for good. But it brings a question to mind that I need to answer before I’m completely sold.

  “Mo, can you run a search? I need to know if Ben was transferring schools,” I say.

  Mo sits down and starts banging away at her keys, and I can feel the excitement starting to fill the room. If we’re right, this is our motive. Is it a smoking gun? No. But this could potentially take things out of the abstract and make the scenario more concrete. It makes me wonder why Chloe didn’t mention it to me last night. Or maybe she did—when she talked about her dreams dying with Ben. And maybe she’s smart enough to know that if she’d told me outright that it would taint the evidence, because it was elicited without her lawyer present. She may not have known where Ben hid the itinerary and was trusting me to find it. There are still so many questions floating around, irritating me. I need concrete proof.

  “Bingo,” Mo chirps, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “His application to the University of Florida medical program was recently accepted. Once this semester ended, they were going to get the hell out of here.”

  “That’s the motive. Petrosyan was not about to let his daughter go. Especially not with Ben,” I say. “This is why he murdered her boyfriend.”

  “That’s great but how are we going to prove that?” Astra asks.

  “We’ll need to get Chloe to confirm it. She knew better than to tell me about it directly last night. But now that we’ve found it, I know she’ll testify to it,” I say.

  “Hey, guys, that’s great and all, but I am about to be a hero to all of you,” Rick cuts in, a wide smile on his face.

  “And why is that?” I ask.

  “Tell me something—does finding a key piece of evidence, perhaps the most critical piece of evidence to date, come with a raise?”

  “Hey, I bought you kabobs the other day,” I offer.

  “That’s true. And they were really good,” he acknowledges. “Fine, fair enough. I’d like to direct your attention to the monitors at the front of the bullpen, please.”


  We all turn, and a moment later, the screen fills with a video feed. And as I look at what I’m seeing, then at the date and time stamp, my eyes widen and my mouth falls open. There in the center of the screen, we see Ben sitting with Petrosyan. They’re talking and sharing a meal together. I turn around to find Rick leaning back in his seat, his hands folded behind his head, grinning like the cat who ate the canary.

  “Tell me, who’s the best tech analyst in the world?” he asks.

  “Well, Brody Singer. But you’re a close second,” I tease.

  “You wound me so, madame.”

  “How did you get this, Rick?” Astra asks. “Petrosyan said his system auto-deletes after seven days.”

  Rick grins and I can tell that, like a magician explaining his secret, he’s about to draw this out and wow us with his skill. But hey, he just put a smoking gun in our hands, so he can do a tap dance for all I care right now.

  “And after finding out which system he uses, I can say that is true. But most subscribers to this particular system don’t read the fine print—I always read the fine print—”

  “Of course you do. Most nerds thrive on the fine print,” Astra quips.

  “This is true. Anyway, this fine print tells them the footage is uploaded to a cloud-based storage service every twenty-four hours,” he says. “So, while the hard drive in the machine will auto-delete, unless the user physically goes into the cloud and deletes the files by hand, they will stay up there forever. All I did was use the date range on the ME’s report and sifted through the footage until we found this.”

  “Rick, you are an absolute genius.”

  “Yes, I am. And so under-appreciated in my time,” he says.

  “Nice work, nerd. I mean it,” Astra says brightly. “Gold star for you today.”

  “That’s almost as good as a raise,” he replies.

  My cellphone rings, and I’m so jazzed about what’s happening, I connect the call and put it on speaker without thinking about it.

  “Wilder,” I say.

  “SSA Wilder, this is Palmer Tinsley.”

  I look at my phone then turn around to make sure he’s not standing behind me. “Tinsley? Aren’t you still down in the holding cells?”

  “No, I left a little while ago,” he says. “And let me just say, if you go down there and talk to Chloe again, without my presence, I will file a report with SAC Espinoza. What you’re doing is—”

  “I brought a hungry kid a burger,” I cut him off. “You really want to make a federal case out of my feeding a hungry girl? I mean, if you really do, have at it. I’m not stopping you. But don’t waste my time with idle threats.”

  “You violated her Miranda rights—”

  “No, I actually didn’t. I solicited zero information pertaining to the case,” I tell him. “We mostly talked about her.”

  I cringe, though, knowing just how close to the line I was treading. But the important thing is that I did not cross the line.

  “Also, before you go running to the media to prop up this crazy notion that I acted improperly, I’ll pull the security videos from her cell and they will prove that we didn’t talk about anything inappropriate,” I tell him. “Or actually, on second thought, please go to the media with this story, because I would love to release those videos and make you look like an enormous jackass. That would make a good day even better.”

  “A good day?” he asks, his voice suddenly filled with the ring of suspicion.

  “Maybe I should say a great day,” I add. “See, we have the smoking gun evidence that is going to bury your client. And I’m not speaking of Chloe. We’re about to bury Petrosyan so deep, it’s going to make the Mariana Trench look like a crack.”

  “What is it you think you have?”

  “You’ll get it at discovery before the trial, I’m sure,” I reply.

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Am I?”

  The silence that follows is telling. He’s calculating the odds that I’m bluffing against the possibility that I’m not, and what that means for his client.

  “Give me a preview. Call it a professional courtesy,” he finally says.

  “Fine. Your client lied to us. He told us point-blank that he had never met Ben Davis before,” I say. “We can prove conclusively that was a lie. Not only that, but we can prove conclusively that your client was with Ben the night he died.”

  Another silence follows. I can almost see Tinsley pacing his office in a near panic as he thinks about one of his cash cows going down in flames. I only wish I could see it in person. And when he finally speaks, I feel a rush of satisfaction at hearing just how tight and worried the tone in his voice is.

  “Before either of us does something rash, let me propose something,” he says.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Let me bring Mr. Petrosyan in for a conversation.”

  “Will this conversation include a confession?” I ask.

  “It will include an explanation.”

  I look over at Astra and she nods, a wide smile on her face. Mo is doing a silent happy dance with Rick back by his workstation.

  “Be here in an hour,” I demand. I disconnect the call and give Astra a high five.

  Everyone gives out a whoop.

  “Sooo…about that raise?” asks Rick.

  Thirty-Six

  Interrogation Suite Alpha-4; Seattle Field Office

  Astra and I sit across from Tinsley and Petrosyan. The man sits there staring at me stone-faced. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are filled with hatred.

  “Thanks for the kebabs, by the way,” I tell him. “I heard they were outstanding.”

  I see Petrosyan’s body tense, and I’m half convinced he’s going to come over the table at me. But Tinsley puts a hand on his arm and whispers something in his ear. He looks at his lawyer, then back at me, and says nothing, but his jaw is clenched so tight, I’m sure he could split steel between his teeth right now.

  “Be advised that this session is being recorded with both audio and visual equipment,” Astra says. “Mr. Petrosyan, do you acknowledge that you have been properly Mirandized?”

  He says nothing but continues grinding his jaw as he stares at me. I look at him and flash him my best smile.

  “Mr. Petrosyan,” Astra repeats. “Do you acknowledge that you have been properly Mirandized?”

  “Stephen?” Tinsley prompts.

  It seems to break the man out of his hate-induced stupor as he looks away from me and nods, waving Astra off.

  “Yes. I acknowledge this. Fine,” he says.

  “Excellent,” Astra says. “Then let’s begin.”

  “You said you had an explanation,” I start. “Would that be an explanation for why Benjamin Davis was found disarticulated and stuffed into a barrel, then fished out of the Green River by the Tukwila Police Department?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know how Benjamin Davis came to be in this condition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that because you murdered Mr. Davis?” Astra asks.

  “No,” Petrosyan says with a small, smug smile.

  “No? Are you telling me you didn’t murder Benjamin Davis?” I ask, staring at him completely dumbfounded. “You’re honestly sitting there trying to convince me that you didn’t turn him into a human jigsaw puzzle?”

  “That’s what my client is saying, yes,” Tinsley says.

  Tinsley looks at me with a small, knowing grin on his face that, frankly, makes me nervous. I don’t like it when worms like Tinsley feel they have the upper hand. That means more often than not, they do. And he looks like a man with something stashed up his sleeve. I exchange glances with Astra and can tell she’s thinking the same thing.

  “What motive would I have to kill this man?” Petrosyan says.

  “What motive did you have when you lied to us?” I counter. “You told us point blank that you had never met him before.”

  “I lied because I knew you were trying to pin his unfor
tunate death upon me,” he says. “And I lied to protect somebody I care about.”

  “We know Chloe had nothing to do with this.”

  “I was not speaking of my daughter,” he says flatly.

  “Then who were you speaking of?” I ask.

  “First, I want you to answer his question,” Tinsley says. “I want to know why you’re so hellbent on trying to prove he killed Mr. Davis.”

  “He didn’t approve of Chloe’s relationship with Ben,” Astra says. “And he’s a man who has to control everything—including his daughter’s love life.”

  Tinsley smirks. “That seems a little thin as far as motives go.”

  I open the folder in front of me and take out the photocopy of the travel itinerary, then slide it over. Tinsley picks it up and they both look at it.

  “Mr. Petrosyan learned that his daughter was leaving. That she was going away with Ben Davis and was not coming back,” I explain. “And he could not countenance that after he had forbidden her from seeing him again. So he killed him.”

  Tinsley flicks the page back to me, clearly unimpressed. He’s still wearing that smug smirk. It’s getting harder and harder to keep myself from slapping it off his face.

  “That still seems very weak as far as motives go,” he says.

  “People kill for less all the time,” Astra chimes in. “And you should know, considering defending scumbags like that is your stock in trade.”

  He laughs gently. “Charming.”

  “But not untrue,” she replies.

  I open the folder and take the still photo we took from the security footage and slide it over to them.

  “This is proof that you and Mr. Davis had dinner the night of his death. You lied to us and said you had never met him before,” I say. “And the fact that he was murdered mere hours after this doesn’t bode well for you, Mr. Petrosyan. I think the best thing you can do for yourself is to get out ahead of this. Tell us what happened and—”

  “I think you’re putting the cart before the horse here, SSA Wilder,” Tinsley cuts me off. “What you have evidence of here is two men having what looks like a very cordial dinner together. Last I checked, that isn’t a crime.”