The Lost Girls (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 6)

by Elle Gray

  “As we’re in the mood for blunt honesty, may I ask how it is you can advocate for the positions you do, all while sitting in the halls of Congress?” I ask. “How can you justify cutting the legs out from under other women who simply want an opportunity to make something of themselves? Who want to build better lives?”

  “Blake, we’re not here to have a policy debate,” Rosie warns. “We’re here for something far more serious.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I consider empowering women to be very serious,” I press. “Or, in this case, disempowering women.”

  “Not. Now,” Rosie growls again, her voice hard.

  I sit back in my chair and glower at the Congresswoman—and for the first time, see a tightness around her eyes. I didn’t notice it before, but there’s a hardness in her expression. She’s troubled by something, and given that they’re both sitting in my office, I assume it’s something she wants my help with. Which is also ironic, given the fact that in her perfect world, I’d be home making a meatloaf and preparing to perform my wifely duties right now.

  I glare hard at Rosie for a minute before turning to the other woman. “What can I do for you, Representative Hedlund?”

  “Please, call me Kathryn.”

  “I’d rather not, since that implies a level of familiarity I don’t aspire to. But thank you,” I reply. “As I asked, however, what can I do for you, Congresswoman?”

  Hedlund’s expression darkens, and I can see I’ve managed to get under her skin. Apparently, that much blunt honesty isn’t quite as refreshing. I’m sure there’s going to be a price to be paid with Rosie later, but at the moment, I can’t bring myself to care. I have no idea when or if I’ll ever get the chance to speak to her again, so I figure I might as well get in a few solid jabs and body blows while I have the chance.

  “All right, let me cut to the chase,” Hedlund says. “My daughter, Selene, has gone missing and I would like for you and your team to find her.”

  “Isn’t this a matter for local PD?” I ask.

  She arches an eyebrow at me. “I think you and I both know that SPD is sometimes—problematic.”

  “I’m sure they’d pull out all the stops for a VIP like you.”

  “Let me put this simply, SSA Wilder,” she says. “I don’t trust SPD to get the job done. There are some within the power structure who are more interested in chasing headlines than criminals. I know you know to whom I refer.”

  Wow. Common ground. There actually is something Representative Hedlund and I can agree on. Knock me over with a feather. I’m still not convinced this is a case for my team, though. I glance at Rosie and arch an eyebrow, but she remains blank and expressionless. Though I’m sure she’s upset with me for letting my temper get the better of me, I see something else in her eyes—she’s not thrilled with this ask, either. Maybe that will somehow mitigate the lashing she’s going to give me later.

  “I understand that abduction cases are outside your usual bailiwick, but I’ve been told that your team is one of the best in the Bureau. I’ve heard that your team gets real results,” she goes on. “And that’s what I need right now, SSA Wilder—results. I need you to find my little girl.”

  I frown and look down at my hands. The idea that I have to pull my team off an important case—one where real lives are at stake—to go chasing some socialite who’s likely drunk on a beach in Cancun, infuriates me. I look over at Rosie, hoping for a lifeline, but get nothing back from her. She stares back at me, her expression completely blank.

  “Representative Hedlund, while I appreciate your confidence in my team’s abilities, I think if you insist on Bureau involvement, missing persons would be better qualified,” I tell her. “As you said, this isn’t our usual bailiwick.”

  “I would feel more comfortable if your team handled this,” she replies.

  “SSA Wilder and her team will be glad to find your daughter, Kathryn,” Rosie says.

  “Yeah, no sweat. The folks in the hospice facility are on their way out, anyway. What’s a few more?” I grumble.

  “That’s enough, Blake.”

  I sigh and glare at Rosie resentfully as I take out a fresh notebook and grab a pen. I go through some basic questions with the Congresswoman, getting the names of friends, phone numbers, addresses, and any computer passwords she might know. It all seems so pointless to me to expend our resources on a girl who’s likely off on a bender. It’s all rudimentary, and I’m just going through everything by rote. When I’m done, I close my notebook.

  “Is it possible your daughter simply skipped town with some friends?” I ask. “That she’s on a beach somewhere living her best life?”

  “Selene has always been—troubled—but the one thing she has never done is skip town without telling me in advance,” Hedlund tells me. “As difficult as she can be, the one thing she’s always been is considerate of my feelings in that regard.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of her,” I say sardonically. “When you say she’s difficult and troubled, how do you mean that?”

  Hedlund sighs. “Her friends are not who or what I would hope they’d be. If you’re as thorough as they say, I suppose you’ll find out, anyway,” she says, as if she’s justifying something in her own mind. “Selene has had difficulties with alcohol and drugs. She’s been through rehab twice, and it doesn’t seem to stick. Not for long.”

  For just a second, the icy, iron-woman façade drops, and I see a real human being underneath Hedlund’s exterior. For just the briefest of moments, I see a mother worried for her child. The moment passes quickly, though, and the walls go right back up around her. She looks at me with dead, expressionless eyes. She’s defiant and is daring me to say something derogatory about her or her daughter.

  I don’t say anything, though. I simply frown as the pieces start to fall into place in my own mind. This case—if you can call it that—is starting to reek even worse. It makes me even more sure this wasn’t an abduction and that we’re going to find dear Selene Hedlund lounging on a beach somewhere, mai-tai in hand. Either that or in a flop house stoned out of her mind. Or the worst-case scenario—and the one I’m sure the Congresswoman would prefer to not consider—on a slab in the ME’s office after overdosing.

  “I see that look on your face, and let me assure you that Selene did not go willingly. She isn’t off on a bender, as you’d say,” Hedlund snaps. “She has her issues, but my daughter would not do that. She would not just up and disappear without so much as a text message.”

  I give Rosie another look, pleading with my eyes to kick this so-called case down to missing persons. And although I can see the frustration and understanding in Rosie’s gaze, I also see her resolve. She fully intends for my team to take our marching orders from the Congresswoman. I’m smart enough to know when I’ve been beaten—usually—and let out a quiet breath of frustration.

  “Fine. I’ll need a number where I can reach you if I have any follow-up questions,” I relent.

  “I would also like regular updates on the progress of your investigation,” Hedlund says, as she hands me a business card.

  Rosie cuts me a frosty glare and the sarcastic reply I had loaded up and ready to fire withers and dies on the tip of my tongue. I close my mouth and sit back in my chair. When I was young, my mother taught me that if I have nothing nice to say, to say nothing at all. I’ll admit, sometimes that’s really, really hard to do. But I manage.

  They both stand up and start to walk out of my office, but Hedlund stops and turns back to me. “I know you and I have our differences, Agent Wilder, but I hope you won’t let your personal feelings interfere with doing your job to the utmost of your abilities,” Hedlund says, her voice cold.

  I stare at her with disbelief on my face. That quickly morphs into a wave of anger that burns deep in my belly, spreading that heat to every corner of my body. I’m just about to lay into her when Rosie, apparently sensing the impending Krakatoa-like explosion, steps in.

  “That’s enough, Kathryn,” Ros
ie says, her voice equally as hard. “Blake is a professional and she’ll do her job to the utmost of her ability as she always does, regardless of her personal feelings. I won’t tolerate any suggestions that she would do otherwise. Not even from you.”

  Hedlund’s expression darkens, but she nods. “Please find my daughter, Agent Wilder.”

  And with that, they both sweep out of my office, leaving me to stew in my aggravation and pure dislike of the woman.

  “This is garbage,” I mutter.

  Three

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “Wait, she actually used the word ‘bailiwick’?” Astra says with a laugh.

  I nod. “Yeah, she really did.”

  “Sounds as if somebody got an A in Pretentious 101 in school. I mean, who in the hell says ‘bailiwick’?” she adds with a laugh. “Between that and her policy positions, I kind of feel as though I woke up in the Middle Ages this morning. What’s next? Repealing the Nineteenth Amendment? Claiming women as property again?”

  “I think that’s on next term’s agenda,” I quip.

  “Personally, I think ‘bailiwick’ is a great word,” Rick pipes up from his workstation. “It’s not used nearly enough anymore.”

  “Of course, you’d say that,” Astra groans.

  “So that was the infamous Kathryn Hedlund, huh?” Mo asks. “She looks different than she does on TV.”

  “They digitally alter the horns and forked tongue,” Astra tells her. “That’s probably why you didn’t recognize her.”

  “She’s definitely twice as mean without her handlers there to massage the conversation and smooth things over for her,” I add. “I mean, I get that she’s got to be hard to get by in that world she operates in, but I kind of think she just likes being that way.”

  “It certainly gives her an excuse to let her true personality shine,” Mo notes.

  “So, we really have to go looking for her daughter, huh?” Astra says.

  “Apparently,” I grumble. “Rosie volunteered us.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  I pace at the front of the room feeling agitated. Angry. “I just can’t believe Rosie is going to use our team, pulling us off a real case, just to do a solid for her old sorority sister.”

  “I can’t believe Rosie is friends with somebody like her,” Mo says. “I mean, the SAC always struck me as kind of—feminist—in her views.”

  “And Congresswoman Hedlund is more like Phyllis Schlafly on steroids,” Astra replies.

  Mo nods. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “Never underestimate the power of the sorority sisterhood,” Astra says dryly. “It unites people and makes them do some really dumb things.”

  “Hedlund has some strong views and isn’t afraid to speak her truth. Maybe Rosie respects that about her,” Rick states. “Just because they differ politically doesn’t mean they can’t be friends. I mean, I’m more of a Marvel guy and my best friend is all DC, all the time. If we can be friends, seems reasonable Rosie and Hedlund can be.”

  Astra looks over at him, a sneer curling her lips. “Okay. One, your comparison blows. And I’m going to do you a favor by ignoring the fact that you just equated women’s rights with comic books. I really should come over there and slap you stupid for that,” she tells him. “And two, until you have somebody trying to strip you of your agency and your rights, you don’t get to have an opinion. Got it?”

  “Fair enough,” Rick mutters, quickly turning back to his computers.

  “Rick, do me a favor and run Selene Hedlund’s financials,” I tell him. “Debit card, credit cards—the works. And when you find the plane ticket to the Caribbean or the Mayan Riviera, forward that to Congresswoman Hedlund with a note from me that says, ‘I told you so.’”

  “On it,” he calls back.

  “Mo, I want you to comb through her social media,” I say. “Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—whatever the kids are using these days. See where she’s posting.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mo says and turns to her computer.

  “What about me?” Astra asks. “Want me to stay on Nurse Crane?”

  “I’d much rather have you stay on her, but I need you with me on this,” I sigh. “The sooner we find Hedlund’s wayward daughter, the sooner we can get back to it.”

  “Not to go full tin-foil-hat on you, but have you ever stopped to ask yourself why, with the full power of the FBI and other law enforcement elements behind her, Hedlund demanded that we take on her case?” Astra asks.

  “Yeah, the thought crossed my mind,” I reply. “What better way to prove her point that women don’t have the same investigative prowess as men than to send us on a case that’s doomed to fail from the start?”

  “Wow. That’s really cynical,” Rick remarks. “Even for you, boss.”

  I turn to him. “I’m not a cynic.”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, you kind of are.”

  “Fine,” I admit. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong, though.”

  “We’re on the same page,” Astra says. “It feels as though we’re being set up here. We’re a successful, primarily female unit within the Bureau. That doesn’t fit with her narrative.”

  “Which could make her see us as a problem,” I add.

  “Not to be Little Miss Sunshine or anything. God knows I’m as cynical as you guys,” Mo starts, “but I don’t think Hedlund would come at us sideways like this. If she were going to take us on, she’d come straight at us. She’s always prided herself on being tough and taking people head-on. That’s the image she’s built, and perpetuating that image is all-important to somebody like her.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t trust her,” I say.

  “Nor should you. You’d be a fool to trust her,” Mo replies. “I’m just saying I think she’d do things in a more direct way.”

  I walk over to the whiteboard and use the blue dry erase marker to write down Selene’s name at the top, then underline it. If we’re going to work this case, might as well at least pretend it’s a normal case or I’ll go crazy with the irritation of it all.

  “Okay, so what do we know about Selene Hedlund so far?” I ask.

  “She’s twenty-three and is working on her Masters in child psychology at Marchmont University,” Mo reads from her computer screen. “That’s a private college for the one percent of the one percent, in case anybody was wondering.”

  “Of course, it is,” Astra says. “Mommy has more money than God. She inherited most of it—her family founded a tech empire. They make all kinds of expensive tech gadgets.”

  “According to Hedlund, Selene’s father died when she was six,” I say, as I jot some notes down on the whiteboard. “Brain aneurysm. Died in his sleep.”

  “So, she’s bound to have some daddy issues,” Astra notes.

  “Could kidnapping be a possibility?” Mo asks. “Could we be looking at a ransom situation?”

  I shake my head. “I doubt it. It’s been a little over a week, according to Hedlund, and there’s been no ransom demand.”

  “I think I may have a reason for that,” Rick announces.

  His fingers fly over the keys at his computer, and on the video screens on the wall behind me, what look like Selene Hedlund’s banking records pop up.

  “Once a day for the past nine days, the maximum amount was withdrawn from an ATM kiosk just outside the Emerald City Trust bank on the corner of Mercer and Fifteenth,” he says.

  “Excellent work, Rick. Sounds as if Selene’s on a big-time bender,” I say. “Can you tap into the security footage from that ATM?”

  “It’ll take me a minute, but yeah,” he says. “I can get it.”

  “Great. Start with the most recent withdrawal,” I reply. “Once we’re able to get the photo of Selene taking cash out of her account, we can show it to Hedlund and be done with this farce.”

  “But what if it’s not her?” Mo asks.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I just mean—what if it’s not Se
lene making those withdrawals?” she presses. “What if somebody grabbed her and now they’re draining Selene’s account but still plan on extorting a ransom from the Congresswoman?”

  “In most cases of abduction for profit, the kidnappers will usually make contact within twenty-four hours,” Astra says. “There’s no way they’d risk keeping her for nine days now, taking money out of her bank account, only to come back later to demand a ransom. That’s too much risk. Unless our kidnappers are absolute buffoons.”

  Mo shrugs. “It’s not as if we haven’t tracked down some buffoons in our time here.”

  “This is true,” Astra admits with a grin.

  “Astra’s right,” I add. “What they’re withdrawing from her account is peanuts compared to the big payday they could get from her mother.”

  “All right, I’ve got the security video,” Rick announces. “I’ve isolated the picture from the time-stamp when Selene’s card was used.”

  He puts the picture up on the screens behind me, and when I see it, I frown. On the screen is a man with long, shaggy brown hair. He’s wearing sunglasses and a hat that’s pulled down low. He keeps his hair in front of his face to obscure his image, making it impossible to run him through our facial recognition software. The only thing that’s clear is that this is definitely not Selene Hedlund withdrawing money from her account.

  “Damn,” I mutter. “I guess we’re actually going to have to put in some work on this.”

  Four

  Emerald City Trust Bank, Capitol Hill District; Seattle, WA

  “What can I do for you, Agents?”

  Astra and I are sitting across from the bank manager, who looks exceptionally nervous. He’s a tall, thin man with more salt than pepper in his hair these days, pale skin, and a neatly trimmed goatee. He’s wearing a three-piece suit that’s nice, but not too nice. Definitely not name-brand, nor professionally tailored. It’s an off-the-rack special for sure. Wire-rimmed glasses are perched on the end of his nose. To me, he looks more like an academic than a bank manager. I half-expect him to break out a pipe and start lecturing us on the psychological underpinnings of Holden Caufield.