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

by Elle Gray

  “I’m sure of it. You beat her to death. And now you’re going to do the same to me,” she presses me.

  I ball my fist up and have to physically keep myself from lashing out. It’s a close thing, though. I draw a deep, calming breath and let it out.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Cassie.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You don’t. You’re having a blue mood and I’m trying to understand, but－”

  “Where is Brad?” she wails. “Where is my fiancé? Where is the man I love?”

  Leaning down, my nose hovering inches from hers, I stare into her eyes, letting her see the anger she’s causing in me.

  “He’s dead,” I hiss. “I cut him up into little bitty pieces and disposed of his body like the garbage he was. You will never see him again, Cassie. I’m all you have in the world now. You better get used to it and start behaving like the lovely woman I know you to be.”

  I shove her back down to her hands and knees, and she sobs. The waves of disgust wash over me as I stalk away from her. I grab hold of the shackle and bring it back, the rattling of the chain making her sobbing grow even louder. She doesn’t move as I lock the shackle around her ankle again. She just wails and cries, her entire body shaking with the effort.

  “We’re back to square one, Cassie. No trust. Now learn how to behave yourself again, and be the warm, loving woman I know you are, and maybe we can rebuild that trust between us,” I say. “Now, clean up this mess that you made.”

  I walk away and pound my way up the stairs, every hard step an expression of my displeasure. Tonight was supposed to be beautiful. Enjoyable. And now it’s ruined. She ruined it. Damn her.

  I get to the landing and pause. “I hate that you made me do this tonight,” I call. “And I hate the thought that maybe you’re not the one even more. I want you to be the one, Cassie. I don’t want to have to break up with you.”

  I slam the door behind me and engage all of the locks before going out for dinner on my own. I hate dining alone. Damn her for forcing me into this.

  Twenty-Eight

  Ito’s Teppanyaki and Sushi House; Downtown Seattle

  After a long but productive day at the shop, I sent everybody home. I stayed and read reports until my eyes were crossed. Thankfully, Mark texted and asked if I was free for dinner. If he hadn’t, I’d probably be eating crap food and guzzling bad coffee from the machines. It’s been a few days since we’ve seen each other, so I justified it to myself that I can afford to take the night off.

  Things with the case seem like they’re picking up speed now. I want to keep going, but even I know I need to rest and unplug every now and then. It’s what I’ve been stressing to my team, even though I apparently suck at taking my own advice. The whole work-life balance thing just continues to elude me. But I’m trying to get better at it.

  “You seem distracted.”

  Mark’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts and I look up, giving him a warm smile. Thank God for him, otherwise I really wouldn’t step away from my work. He serves as a good distraction when I need one.

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “Just a lot on my mind.”

  “So talk to me about it.”

  I laugh softly. “I thought you said no shop talk while we’re out.”

  He shrugs and pops a California roll into his mouth. I take a sip of my beer, then follow suit and eat a piece of sashimi.

  “Even though I said no shop talk, I can see your head is still stuck at work,” he says. “Maybe, if you vomit it all up now, we have a chance at a work-free evening.”

  “That’s a very nice visual,” I comment with a laugh.

  “Hey, I’m not known for my delicate nature.”

  “That is true. You are a very practical man though.”

  He flashes me that heart-stopping grin again. “I’m also a very selfish man. I fully intend to make the most of my night with you, and I would prefer it if you didn’t have images of murderers and bloody bodies in your mind.”

  “Well, no matter what, there will be images of murderers and bloody bodies in my mind. It’s a hazard of the job,” I sigh. “But I will try to clear my mind so I can solely focus on you.”

  “That sounds like a good plan to me.”

  I eat another piece of sushi and try to put some order to my thoughts. It’s is a relatively new place. It went up just before I left for New York, so I never had a chance to try it. And I’m glad we came here tonight. It’s divine. The restaurant itself is cute, decorated with a lot of bamboo and rice paper, and faux paper lanterns overhead. One side of the restaurant is dominated by several large teppan tables, and the side we’re on has a long sushi bar. We opted for a booth near the back just for some privacy.

  “I just keep thinking of our unsub. Trying to get the profile right in my head,” I start. “And I keep thinking about this twisted courtship thing he has going.”

  “Courtship?”

  I nod as I take a swallow of beer, then explain to him what’s going on and where we’re at with the case. He listens, aghast, and when I finish, he whistles low and takes a long swallow of his beer.

  “Sometimes I don’t know how you can do the job and manage to keep yourself sane,” he comments.

  “Who says I’m sane?”

  “Good point,” he acknowledges, then his smile fades. “I mean, you see the worst in humanity every single day, and yet you’re not bitter. Or cold. You somehow remain this warm, caring woman. In your shoes, I don’t know that I could do it. I don’t know that I could keep my sense of humor the way you have. Hell, I don’t even think I’d be able to be around people. I’m sure I’d assume they’re all killers just waiting for their moment to murder me.”

  I laugh softly and look at the dark brown Asahi bottle in my hand. I, too, sometimes wonder how I’ve managed to keep my sense of humor and general belief in the good in people through all I’ve seen. Through all I’ve experienced and endured in life. But then I remind myself that for every atrocity I’ve seen and every act of evil I’ve witnessed, I’ve seen ten more acts of courage and compassion, of kindness and humanity.

  “I truly believe there are more good people than bad in this world,” I tell him. “I’ve seen it in action. Look at you for instance.”

  “What about me?”

  “What you do. You help people. You save lives,” I say.

  “That’s my job.”

  “It’s a job you didn’t have to take. I seem to recall you once telling me you went into medicine because you wanted to help people,” I reply.

  He laughs softly. “I thought I was the only one allowed to throw your words back in your face.”

  “Yeah, that’s not how it works.”

  “The big difference though is that I don’t have to see the things you do. I get somebody who needs to be patched up, I do it. You actually have to get into the minds of these monsters. You have to marinate in that evil,” he says. “How can that not leave a lasting stain on you? And after what you went through as a kid? I’m surprised you’re not one of those creeps out there offing other people left and right.”

  I frown and look down at the table, doing my best to keep my emotions in check. He’s not wrong in that what I endured as a kid, combined with this job and the things I see daily, takes a toll. It sometimes puts me in a really dark place and there are times I sometimes wonder if I can keep doing it.

  “What is that old saying? When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you?” he asks. “What you do… it doesn’t get much more abyss-like than that.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t take life advice from an old dead guy like Friedrich Nietzsche,” I say with a laugh.

  As bad as the things I see and as horrible as the monsters who do them are, I think about the people we’ve saved. About the evil we’ve taken off the streets. I think about the fact that the job we do… really makes a difference in the world. And when I think about that, any hesitation or regret evaporates almost instantly. There is n
othing in this world that I’d rather be doing than what I’m doing right now.

  “Have you looked into your parents’ murder lately?” he asks.

  The question hits me out of the blue. It seems like a really strange thing to ask. I cock my head and stare at him for a moment.

  “Where did that come from?” I reply.

  “I was just thinking about things. You joined the FBI because of what happened to your folks, right?”

  I nod. “Pretty much.”

  “I guess I was kind of wondering what was going to happen if you solved their murders?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just… there’s some part of me that wonders if once you solved their murders if you would lose your taste for what you’re doing,” he goes on. “And if you did, if you’d find something else to do with your life. Something less… bloody. And definitely something less dangerous.”

  I sit back in my seat and drain the last of my beer. It’s a strange thought to have, but I guess I can see why he’d have it. If my parent’s murder is what fueled me to join the Bureau, is the fact that it remains unsolved what keeps me going? It almost feels like he’s asking if I’m actually trying to solve it. Would that fire inside of me burn out if I did? I don’t think so. As if I need that to keep me going.

  Like I said, it’s a really strange thought to have, but I guess it makes sense from a certain perspective. And It makes me wonder why he’s asking about it. Or why he’s been asking about the state of my investigation into my parents’ deaths more lately. As I listen to him now, openly wondering about the toll it takes on my soul, and the danger of my job, I can’t help but wonder if it’s because he’s back-door asking about the state of our relationship.

  Which－because I tend to overthink everything－leads me to wonder if he’s thinking about something more permanent between us, where that would be a concern. It’s almost like he wants to know how much of a mess I am now, and how much of a mess I’ll be in the future if I keep doing this job. It’s almost as if he’s putting out feelers for something way more serious than this… whatever this is right now.

  It’s a thought that sends a current of fear running through me as thick as any unsub I’ve ever faced. The idea of something more permanent isn’t something I’ve ever really considered before. And to be honest, I don’t know what I think of that. I don’t know how it fits into my life. Or if it even does.

  But the answer to the question is simple. I’m not open to giving up my job. I look at him, a wan smile on my lips, not knowing what the answer I’m about to give will do to him, or to whatever it is that we have between us right now. But I owe it to him, to be honest.

  “This is who I am, Mark. I am the job,” I tell him. “And there isn’t anything I would rather be doing with my life.”

  He drains his bottle and nods. “I somehow knew you were going to say that.”

  The silence that descends over us all of a sudden is deafening.

  Twenty-Nine

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “What? Are you serious?” Astra gasps. “You think he was talking about marriage?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. It just seemed really odd that he’d ask about my parents and whether solving their murder would make me think about leaving the job,” I reply. “Maybe I’m reading too much into things. I mean, I’ve been known to do that now and again.”

  She gets up and quickly closes the door to my office, then retakes her seat across from me. Astra leans forward, her elbows on her knees, staring me in the eye. A small smile shadows her lips.

  “Now and again? Try all the time.”

  “Not helping,” I say with a laugh. “But isn’t it weird?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird. But your instincts are usually pretty spot-on,” she points out. “If you think he was kind of low key asking about marriage, I’d say he probably was.”

  “That’s what scares me.”

  “Why does it scare you? He’s gorgeous. He’s a doctor. You like him,” Astra says. “Why would you even hesitate?”

  I lean back in my chair and let out a long breath. “I just don’t think I’m the marrying type, Astra. I don’t think that’s in the cards for me.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “It’s complicated,” I reply. “But the fact that he is feeling me out about leaving the Bureau to marry him is bothering me. It bothers me a lot.”

  “Did he actually say leave the Bureau? Did those words actually come out of his mouth?” she presses.

  “Well… no,” I admit. “But the suggestion seemed to be implicit in his words and his questions. I mean, doing something else with my life? What else could that possibly mean other than that?”

  She frowns and shakes her head. “I don’t know, to be honest. But he’s a good guy, Blake. Genuinely good guys don’t grow on trees.”

  “They must since you managed to snag one,” I crack with a grin.

  “Shut up,” she laughs. “I’m serious, though. Mark is a good guy. And he seems to care about you a lot.”

  I lean forward in my seat again. “Tell me this: would you give up this job if Benjamin asked you to?”

  Astra opens her mouth to reply but then bites back whatever words were sitting on the tip of her tongue. She sits back in her seat and folds her hands in her lap.

  “That’s what I thought. You’d no more give this up than I can,” I tell her. “I’m not the housewife type. Every square inch of me is married to this job. Just like you.”

  She sighs. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. First, he hasn’t asked you to marry him.”

  “This is true.”

  “And he hasn’t asked you to leave the job… even as a condition of marrying him,” she goes on.

  “This is also true.”

  “And even if he did, it’s not necessarily that he’d expect you to be a housewife, either. Maybe he just thinks you might want a career change.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.”

  “So stop overthinking things that may or may not actually come to pass.”

  I laugh. “That’s fair.”

  “Until then, just enjoy being with him, doing that thing you do, and we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she says.

  “I can do that.”

  She looks at me and smiles. “I swear to God, tracking down serial killers is so much easier than dealing with your love life.”

  I laugh. “Speaking of which, let’s get out there and do our jobs.”

  “Do we have to? Can’t we just go for mani-pedis and mimosas instead?”

  “As tempting as that is, I’d like to catch this guy before he kills again.”

  “If he sticks to his timeline, we’ve got almost a year,” she offers with a smile.

  “Do you want to roll the dice that he’s going to stick to his timeline?”

  “You’re such a wet blanket.”

  “That’s me,” I say.

  We both get to our feet and head out into the bullpen where Mo and Rick both look up from their computers. Astra drops into the chair at her workstation and spins around. I look over at Rick.

  “Where are we on the nexus?” I ask. “Have you found any commonalities between our victims?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing so far. I’m digging deeper, but these women did not run in the same social circles.”

  “Okay, keep digging. There has to be overlap somewhere,” I tell him. “Our unsub ran across them somewhere.”

  “It could just be that he’s picking them at random,” Astra offers.

  “I hope not. If that turns out to be the case, it’s going to be almost impossible to catch him,” I say, then turn to Mo. “Mo, I want you to run another search. I want you to see if there is anybody common to our victims. Anybody whose name appears in all of their lives.”

  “On it,” she says.

  I walk over to the whiteboard and grab the black marker, deciding it’s time to start pu
tting things in writing. I wipe the board clean and pause to consider it for a moment. The first thing I do is write down the names of all of the victims in the order they were found and some basic information on one half of the board.

  Sara Masters - abducted from Seattle, body found in Tukwila.

  Holly Brown - abducted from Renton, dumped outside of Algona.

  Brianna Sheridan - abducted from Maple Valley, dumped outside of Issaquah.

  Maggie Neighbors - abducted from Seattle, dumped outside of Milton.

  Hilary Jacobs - abducted from Enumclaw, dumped outside of Tacoma.

  Deanna Spiller - abducted from Duvall, dumped in Seattle.

  Sylvia Benoit - abducted from Seattle, dumped outside Bothell.

  And below that list, I write the name Cassie Cooper - abducted from Seattle, followed by a question mark. Then, at the bottom of the board, I write the name Brad Sunderland - abducted from Seattle, dumped in Caribou Pass. He’s the outlier in the group. But he’s the reason we have a case at all.

  When I’m done writing, I step back and look at the board. Astra whistles, a frown crossing her lips. I have to agree with her unspoken sentiment. Knowing our unsub killed seven women is one thing. Seeing it written out in black and white is something else entirely. I can’t explain it adequately, but it somehow makes it all the more real. It always does.

  I draw a line down the middle of the board, separating the names from the clean half. I stare at the other half, empty for now, and order my thoughts. I turn to Astra and purse my lips, considering. From the corner of my eye, I see Mo looking at us, watching. Absorbing. Learning.

  “Seven different victims. Seven different dump locations,” Astra says. “Our guy certainly gets around.”

  “I’ve got to think it’s a forensic countermeasure,” I say. “Some of those bodies end up in the Seattle ME’s office, others in the King County ME’s office. With bodies crossing all those town lines, it’s going to foul things up.”

  “He’s smart. Methodical,” Astra notes.