A Perfect Wife (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 2)

by Elle Gray

  “Oh, I threw that out ages ago,” I reply, giving her a wink.

  She laughs but it’s a hollow sound. Her eyes are still glued to the monitors as she processes the enormity of what we’re dealing with. She gives herself a shake and looks over at me, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth down.

  “Rick, can you give me the cause of death for each?” I ask.

  He pecks away at his keyboard. “Looks like it was manual strangulation,” he reports. “And before you ask, there doesn’t seem to be any forensic evidence on any of them. There are no hairs or fluids listed in evidence. The bodies were bleached… inside and out.”

  “You’re kidding me?” Mo gasps.

  “ME’s report says bleach was administered… internally. Washed clean, so to speak,” Rick replies, grimacing at his own dark humor.

  “Well, that should make it simple to catch this guy,” I mutter.

  “Needle, meet haystack,” Astra says.

  “Well, I suppose we’re going to have to employ some good old fashioned detective work,” I say.

  “I don’t think we were trained for that,” Astra says, flashing me a grin.

  “Guess you’ll just have to learn on the fly,” I reply.

  “Apparently. So how do you want to divide up the work?”

  I shrug. “You, me, and Mo will take two of the murder books each,” I say. “Read them cover to cover. Make some notes of things that stand out to you. Then we’ll switch until we’ve read them all. I want us to know these books inside and out. I want us to find the things I know SPD missed.”

  “I’m all for that,” Mo says. “Any day we can make them look bad is a good day in my book.”

  “I know at least two people who agree with you,” I tell her. “So, let’s get to it.”

  “Ummm… boss?” Rick calls. “What should I do?”

  “Just sit there and look pretty,” Astra says. “That’s challenging for you, so I know it’ll keep you busy for a while.”

  We all laugh as Rick gives Astra the finger, a good-natured smile on his face.

  “I want you to get into the lives of these women,” I tell him. “Do a deep dive. I want to know if they went to the same yoga studios, gynecologists, art galleries… anything. I want to know if they ran in the same social circles. Any place common between them that the unsub could have crossed paths with them.”

  “Do you really think he would have run across them all at a gynecologist’s office?” Rick asks, arching an eyebrow.

  “Maybe not,” I say, my tone serious. “But we leave no stone unturned here.”

  “Roger that, boss,” he says.

  I grab a workstation and as we all delve into our work, the bullpen gets as quiet as a church. I quickly lose myself in the paper, reading every report, noting every finding, looking at every photo, and reviewing every page in the murder books. And once I’ve done that, I go back through them all again, just to commit as much of it to memory as I can.

  It takes me the balance of the day to get through all seven books, and by the time I’m done, my eyes are crossed and my head is throbbing. I get up and stretch my legs and back. A few minutes later, Mo and Astra, their reading apparently complete, both join me in trying to walk some feeling back into her bodies.

  “That was some intense reading,” Mo says.

  “That’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Astra replies. “This is going to get a lot more twisted before it’s all said and done.”

  A sour expression crosses Mo’s face, but she clenches her jaw and seems to be determined to gut it out.

  “It’s been a long day,” I say. “Everybody go home and relax. Get some rest and come back tomorrow fresh and ready to roll. I want fresh eyes and minds because we are going to figure this out and we are going to nail this guy. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  Twenty-Two

  Residence of Blake Wilder; Downtown Seattle

  I considered giving Mark a call after leaving the shop, but when I got into my car, I decided that it felt more like a solitary night. My mind is occupied with everything I read and learned today. The case is starting to gather some steam and I need to let my mind process it all without distraction.

  Billie Holiday is playing softly on the stereo, singing about how what she does is nobody’s business but hers, and I’ve got a nice glass of Pinot Grigio at hand. I’m sitting on the sofa with the TV on, but muted, with a nature documentary about the big cats of the African plains playing－I just enjoy the cinematography, loving how close they seem to get to these beautiful and majestic creatures. Yeah, I realize this is the equivalent of only looking at the pictures in a book, but whatever. I find it relaxing.

  I like to think that in some parallel universe where SSA Blake Wilder doesn’t exist, that Blake Wilder, nature documentarian, does. I’ve always loved animals. Dogs, house cats, elephants, primates, whales, and the big predator cats… I love them all. When I was a girl, I sometimes daydreamed about going off to Africa, or the jungles of Asia to record and document these incredible creatures in their natural habitats. It was a passion of mine for a long while.

  But then of course, my life was shattered and all of my dreams went by the wayside. When my parents were murdered and my sister abducted, my focus and energy shifted, and my dreams changed. From that point on, the only thing I wanted to be was an FBI agent. Not a cop, not NSA like my folks. I wanted to join the FBI so I could hunt down the killers and monsters that destroyed families and the dreams of little girls everywhere. I wanted to join the Bureau so I could prevent other little girls from ending up like me.

  I take a sip of my wine as my eyes drift over to the framed photo of my family. That familiar pain lances my heart as I get to my feet and walk over to it, then take it down from its spot. Carrying my wine and the picture frame over to my desk, I take a seat and let my eyes wander over the picture, feeling the sting of tears welling in my eyes as I think about them.

  As I’ve done more times than I can even count, I wonder what their last moments were like. I wonder if they knew their killers, what was going through their minds, and what it was that brought their killers to our door. Those are but a few of the hundreds of questions I have that have never been answered.

  I open up my laptop and call up the files on my parent’s murder. I’ve read every document generated on the case at least a thousand times. I know every single word on every single page verbatim. And yet, I keep coming back to it, hoping that I’ll find something new. Hoping some new perspective will emerge that pulls the case into focus and gives me a lead to follow.

  But in all the years I’ve been looking at these pages, scrutinizing, and studying them, nothing tangible has materialized. I’ve made more than a few inquiries with the local police, the Staties, and the NSA itself. All have gotten me nowhere. They aren’t interested in closing the case, or in helping me to close it. I’m totally and completely on my own on this one.

  It makes me appreciate Paxton’s position. He’s convinced somebody murdered Veronica and has been investigating it on his own. For their part, the SPD hasn’t seemed overly interested in running a thorough investigation, which has only added fuel to his fire. Our situations are obviously very different, but I can relate to what it is he’s going through, and what he’s feeling.

  With a sigh, I try to detach myself from it and call up the crime scene photos, closely studying them again. And hoping yet again that something will pop for me. I make note of the position of their bodies… doing my best to avoid seeing the wide pool of blood beneath them. I zoom in on the plastic cuffs that bind their hands behind their backs, looking for… something. I try to will something to stand out to me, but there’s nothing there. They’re just plain plastic cuffs you can buy almost anywhere.

  There were no prints, no tracks… no forensic evidence at all. It’s like somebody went through and sanitized the place, leaving just the bodies of my parents. Which, as I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older and wiser, is the hallmark of a professional h
it squad. Over the years, I’ve become convinced that’s what it was－a hit.

  I don’t buy for a second it was a home invasion robbery gone wrong. I find it really hard to make that case when nothing of value was taken. It screams arrogance to me that the killers were so bold that they didn’t even try all that hard to make it look like a robbery. Oh, there were some things thrown around and busted up, but it was all window dressing. A first-year cadet at the Academy could have told you that. But for whatever reason, local PD and the Staties are all sticking with their story.

  I’ve tried to track down the two responding officers, a Mike Destanzo, and a Sergeant Colin McAfee. Destanzo is dead. He apparently died in the line of duty about a year and a half after my parents were killed. McAfee just disappeared. An eighteen-year veteran of the local PD, McAfee left his pension and never filed retirement papers. He went totally off the grid, leaving no trace of himself behind.

  I know most people think he’s dead. He apparently had a pretty healthy amount of gambling debt, and the rumor is that those debts came due and he didn’t have the money to pay it. So, as the theory goes, the debtors took their pound of flesh. Literally. It’s plausible, but I have real trouble with that theory. Like serial killers, bookies who are all mobbed up, as McAfee was allegedly in hock to, often make their kills public as a way of encouraging others with a mountain of debt to pay up.

  McAfee’s disappearance hasn’t felt right to me from the start. I think it bolsters my theory that the murder of my parents was part of a conspiracy. But because I don’t have access to their old case files, I don’t know what they were involved in exactly, or why they’d need to be taken out. I mean, my understanding from everything I’ve been able to find is that they were low-level analysts and not involved with anything that was too heavy. Certainly nothing that could get them killed.

  At least, that was what they told me. And in all the years I’ve been investigating this case, I’ve never found anything to contradict that. But I know better than most that people who work for the alphabet agencies－FBI, CIA, NSA, etc.－aren’t exactly reliable when it comes to being honest. The only thing that makes sense to me is that low-level analysts or not, they were investigating something bigger than both of them and it cost them their lives.

  Frustrated but still determined, I go through all of the files again. I read everything, trying to look at it as if I’m seeing it all for the first time. And after reading every single page of every single report that’s been filed, I still have nothing new. With a heavy sigh, I log into the FBI database and run my usual searches, looking for Colin McAfee.

  By this point, I’m feeling discouraged. I already know I’m going to come up empty, but this is my usual routine when I go through all of the files. And having a routine is important. Even when that routine involves beating your head against a brick wall over, and over, and over again.

  I just keep hoping that one of these days, I’m going to catch a break. One of these days, I’ll get a ping on Colin McAfee. There’s something about his disappearance that’s never sat right with me. To put it bluntly, I think the story about homicidal bookies is crap. He was first on the scene and his report was lacking, to say the least. While he may not be the key that solves the case, I think he has information that could be important in opening up a new avenue of investigation I haven’t seen or considered yet.

  I need to find him. If I ever hope to figure out who killed my parents and abducted Kit－and why－I need to find Colin McAfee. He knows something, and I think he knew he would end up like Destanzo if he stuck around. That’s why he disappeared. I have absolutely nothing to back that theory up, but I know it’s true. I can feel it in my gut. I just need to find him.

  I log out of the database, close my laptop, and drain the rest of my glass. As Ella Fitzgerald’s “I Got You Under My Skin” starts to play, I get up and head for the kitchen for a refill. Tonight suddenly seems like a very good night to get drunk and pass out since this case is very, very much under my skin.

  Twenty-Three

  Residence of the Unsub; Location Unknown

  As the movie plays, I steal a glance at Cassie and feel my heart swell. All I can see in the flickering light from the television is her profile. But her high cheekbones, strong jaw, and full lips are still enough to send an electric jolt shooting through me. She looks so much like Debbie that I can’t stop feeling the pinch of pain her memory still brings me.

  It’s been a decade since I lost her. Ten years without my precious Debbie, and there isn’t a day that goes by that the pain of her loss doesn’t hit me all over again. My life has been so empty and has felt so meaningless without her. I rambled around for two long years alone, with nothing but my grief for a companion. It had been a lonely, bleak existence for a long time.

  But then eight years ago, I met Sara, and that experience changed my life forever. I realized that I didn’t have to be alone anymore. Sara made me realize that I could open my heart to love again. That I could have everything I had with Debbie. No, it wouldn’t be the same, and my grief would still be a constant companion, but I wouldn’t have to suffer through it alone anymore.

  Unfortunately, things with Sara didn’t work out. She turned out to not be the one. Definitely not who I’d thought she was. So, I had to break things off with her. But the time I spent with Sara showed me that I could have something good in my life again. That I could have love again. I just need to find the right person. I need to find the person whose soul connects to mine in the same way Debbie’s did.

  It hasn’t been easy so far. I’ve thought I had the right one, only to find out that I was wrong. After Sara came Holly. And after Holly came Brianna. Then Maggie. Then Hilary, Deanna, Sylvia, and now, Cassie. And I have a really good feeling about Cassie. I really think she might be the one. No, she’ll never replace my Debbie, but she can be the person I share my life with. The person who can fill my heart with joy and love. She can be the person I can come home to at the end of a long day who can make me smile just by being there.

  And as I look at her in profile, the television casting flickering lights and shadows across her face, I feel… content. Almost happy. Yes, I have a very good feeling about Cassie indeed.

  “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  I turn to watch Humphrey Bogart’s Rick Blaine, and Captain Louis Renault, played by Claude Rains, walking across the tarmac as “La Marseillaise” plays, signaling the end of the film.

  “Casablanca has always been one of my favorite films,” I say. “It’s just beautiful. Everything about it. The cinematography, the score, the stirring romance… what did you think, Cassie?”

  “It was… good,” she says. “I enjoyed it. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  Her words bring a smile to my face. I’ll admit, those first few days with her were rough. I was beginning to wonder if I’d made a mistake with her. I wondered if I had just imagined that spark I felt when I met her for the first time. But she’s been changing. Coming around. For the last few days, Cassie has been a delight, and I think she’s starting to develop some feelings.

  I’m realistic enough to know that she’s not quite there yet. It’s going to take some time, and I understand that. It’s a good thing I’m a patient man. I understand that love takes time to flourish. But I do believe we’re on the right path. Or are at least, starting to head down the right path. And nothing pleases me more.

  “I think my Debbie would approve of you,” I tell her. “I think she’d like you a lot. You two are a lot alike. Yes, ma’am. Two peas in a pod.”

  Cassie turns and I flip on the lamp that sits on the table next to me so I can see her green eyes sparkling in the light. They’re breathtaking. And they’re just like my Debbie’s were.

  “Who’s Debbie?” she asks.

  I hesitate for a moment but, don’t see any reason not to tell her. Cassie’s got mighty big shoes to fill, so she might as well know what size they are.

&nbs
p; “She was my wife,” I say. “Greatest woman I’ve ever known. Beautiful. Intelligent. Compassionate. She was the whole package.”

  “And what happened to her?”

  As the memory of that night flashes through my mind, I frown and feel that familiar stitch in my heart. It’s grief mixed with guilt, and although I’ve learned to cope with it, it’s not a pain that will ever leave me. It’s pain I’ll carry forever. It’s pain I deserve to carry forever.

  “She… died,” I finally say.

  “Died? Died of what?” Cassie presses.

  “Enough questions for the night,” I say softly.

  “What did she die of?”

  She’s persistent. Stubborn. Just like Debbie was. And as much as it frustrates me sometimes, lashing out at Cassie for indulging her true nature would be like lashing out at Debbie for indulging hers. Cassie really is a lot like Debbie. I bite back my anger and refuse to let that monster out of its cage. I did that once and have no desire to do it again.

  “It’s been a lovely evening, Cassie. Thank you,” I say. “But it’s time to say goodnight.”

  I get to my feet and Cassie looks at me, her eyes wide and pleading. “Please don’t make me sleep down there tonight,” she says. “Let me stay up here… with you?”

  I give her a small smile. “I don’t think we’re quite at that level of trust yet, Cassie,” I say. “But I think we’ll get there. I truly do.”

  She slowly gets to her feet, her gaze on the floor beneath her feet. But she walks to the basement door and leads me down the stairs. She doesn’t fuss or complain as I lock the shackle around her ankle and she curls up on the bed. I give her a smile, then turn and walk up the stairs, stopping on the landing, and pause with my hand on the light switch.

  “Goodnight, Cassie,” I say.

  Twenty-Four

  King County Medical Examiner’s Office; Seattle, WA