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

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The Lost Girls (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 6) Page 9

by Elle Gray


  “Older guy?” I raise an eyebrow. “Do you know who it was?”

  He shook his head. “No idea. I didn’t ask.”

  Astra holds up her phone, showing him a picture of Professor Crawford. “Was that him?”

  He nods. “Yeah, that was him,” he says, his eyes widening. “Do you think he did it? Do you think he abducted her?”

  “We don’t know yet, Spencer,” I say calmly. “We’re still trying to get all of the background right now. Trying to figure out who the players are.”

  I hand him a card. “If you can think of anything else, or remember anything, just give me a call. Please.”

  He nods. “I will.”

  Astra and I leave him sitting there, wallowing in his misery. It’s hard not to feel bad for the kid. I’d like to say I can’t imagine falling in love with somebody only to find out that person isn’t the one you know. But that’s a story that’s all too familiar and hits way too close to home for me right now.

  We head across the parking lot and get into the car as a million different thoughts swirl around in my head.

  “Interesting that Crawford didn’t mention that incident,” Astra mentions.

  “It is. But it also could simply be that it didn’t come up in our chat.”

  She shrugs. “He was quick to point the finger at Spencer when he knew it was Selene doing the stalking.”

  “Maybe. But it also could be that he misinterpreted the situation. Or that Selene told him something completely different,” I offer.

  She sighs and runs a hand through her hair, but concedes my point with a nod. As I drive away from the aquarium, I can’t help but see that haunted look of grief in Spencer’s eyes and wonder if it’s also in mine. The things that are easiest to see in other people are often the most difficult to see in ourselves.

  Fourteen

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “Please tell me you’ve worked some magic for me,” I call out as we enter the doors.

  “I’ve pulled street cam footage around the bank from the last withdrawal from Selene’s account and have something interesting,” Rick tells me. “I’ll put it up on screen.”

  I turn to the screens and fold my arms over my chest as I watch the grainy footage. In it, I see the bleeder who’s been draining Selene’s account stepping out of the bank’s vestibule. He walks over to a man leaning against a car parked at the curb. The car looks like an older Lincoln Towncar, a pretty nondescript, anonymous vehicle that can be had cheap for the most part. From the distance of the camera, I unfortunately can’t see any distinctive markings or anything that makes it stand out.

  The man leaning against the car is tall and thick. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie with the hood pulled down over his head. I can see the brim of a ballcap sticking out from under it, but can’t make out his face. The distance and his natural camouflage make it impossible. I let out a grunt of frustration. The bleeder walks over and hands him what could be the cash he withdrew. It’s too grainy and far away to make out for sure, but it’s a safe bet that’s what it is.

  “Can you zoom in on that?” I ask. “Can we see what’s being handed off?”

  “Unfortunately, no. This isn’t like how they do it on TV. I zoom in, the images just get more pixelated,” he says. “There’s something over the license plate—mud maybe—that’s obscuring it. Keeping me from getting the tag numbers. Crooks who know about the street cams do that.”

  “I’d say it’s the cash he took out of the ATM,” Mo adds.

  “So would I. But I’d like to have some actual proof,” I tell them. “Any defense attorney is going to argue that because we can’t see it, it could be anything. Drugs. Tickets to the Mariners game. The Hope Diamond.”

  In the video, we see Hoodie hand Bleeder something that he quickly tucks into his pocket. Probably his cut. They seem to exchange a few words before Hoodie jumps into the car and drives off. Bleeder walks away, seeming to be in a chipper, upbeat mood all of a sudden—no doubt off to get his next fix.

  “Okay, so we’ve got a widening scheme,” I announce. “We have somebody running the bleeder for a cut of the proceeds.”

  “Looks that way,” Astra says. “I can also guarantee the dude in the hoodie is not our dreamy philosophy professor.”

  “You guys met a dreamy professor?” Mo raises an eyebrow.

  “Very dreamy. Even Blake was into him.”

  “I was not,” I protest.

  “She totally was,” Astra grins.

  “Why don’t I ever get to meet guys like that? All I ever seem to get are killers and crackheads,” Mo complains, drawing a laugh from me.

  “How about I take you out there if we get to arrest him?” Astra asks. “I’ll even let you frisk him.”

  “Deal,” Mo says with a grin.

  “Okay, so, if you guys are done violating about every word of the sexual harassment section of our HR handbook, I have something to share,” Rick says.

  I turn to him. “Please. Share with the class.”

  “So, I pulled the phone records from Tony’s Auto the way you asked. I narrowed it down to three days—one day before and one day after that day you asked me to run,” he says. “Then I filtered out all of the legitimate numbers—businesses, known associates, the works.”

  “You know you don’t have to go through these long, tedious explanations every single time,” Astra quips. “We can all stipulate that you’re the smartest guy in the room if it makes you feel better.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Mo says.

  “Anyway,” Rick goes on, “I’ve got a list of numbers that have not been accounted for. But on the day in question, during that nine-to-ten hour you specified, I’ve got six numbers that are not accounted for—all of them burners.”

  “Makes sense, given the business they run out of the shop,” I nod.

  “This is true. But I then cross-referenced the numbers against previous calls—you said the call to drop off Selene’s Tesla was a one-time event, right?” he asks.

  “That’s what I said, yes,” I reply.

  “Then applying that filter, we now have just one number. Also, a burner,” he says proudly.

  “And? Do we have a name to go with the burner yet?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s a burner, so no. I’m trying to track down the location it was purchased from,” he says.

  “So, you actually have nothing new to share, right?” Astra asks dryly.

  He gives her a smile. “I will. I just wanted you all to know I’ve been putting in some work, too.”

  I laugh softly and shake my head. “I work with clowns,” I mutter, then look up. “That’s good work, Rick. Stay on it and let me know when you have the purchase location.”

  “I knew this degree from Clown College would come in handy someday,” he cracks. “I’ll get right on it, boss.”

  “Okay, so where are we with theories?” I ask. “Let’s start throwing them out. Nothing’s too outlandish at this point—unless you’re going to pitch that Selene was abducted by aliens. Do that and I’ll slap you stupid.”

  “Well, I’m out, then,” Rick says.

  “I think we’re looking at a girl who is desperately seeking love. And validation,” Astra pipes up. “It explains her behavior—she’s trying to find her value in others. In men.”

  “And from what you’ve said so far, her value to them seems to only be in bed,” Mo adds.

  “But the one guy who breaks that trend is Spencer,” I note. “He was actually repelled by her behavior and obviously didn’t value her in that way. Or at least, valued her for more than that. He valued her as a person, whole and complete.”

  “Which could explain why she was so desperate to win him back,” Astra says. “He gave her a taste of a different life and she wanted more.”

  “But then we have Crawford,” I say. “What’s his role in all of this?”

  “Maybe, as you said, he doesn’t have one. Maybe he just misread the situati
on between her and Spencer that night,” Astra offers. “Maybe he’s nothing more than he seems to be—a horny, middle-aged teacher who is enjoying his endless buffet of entirely snackable co-eds.”

  “That’s just living the dream,” Rick calls from over his shoulder as he types away.

  Astra arches an eyebrow at me. “See?”

  I give her a grin. “I’m thinking that’s right. Unless we can find a connection between Crawford and the bleeder.”

  “We already know the hoodie isn’t Crawford. At least, it’s a solid educated guess,” Astra says. “Hoodie doesn’t look as if he’s more than five-seven or five-eight.”

  I nod. “And Crawford is at least six feet.”

  I look at the whiteboard and see the notes I’ve jotted down as I think about Selene’s psychological makeup. She’s fiercely intelligent but is a party girl. Promiscuous. Issues with authority stemming from lack of a father figure and friction with her mother. Seeks acceptance and attention, even when it’s unhealthy. But then I factor in what we learned from Spencer. She’s got a serious side. Has a desire for stability and settling down—at least, that’s what I take from her dogged pursuit of him.

  It seems that Spencer may have brought that out in her. Maybe she realized that there was a better way because of him. He loved her for who she was and not for what she could do for him. He didn’t value her simply as a sex object, but for the person she was. That had to be a massive paradigm shift for her. Coming to that understanding made her want to cling to him even harder—hence her almost stalkerish behavior.

  I realize I’m relying on Spencer’s account of things and that it could be faulty. It could skew the whole profile and invalidate it. But I saw a sincerity in him that made it difficult for me to believe he was making it all up. I believe him. But as I ponder it, that nagging voice in the back of my head still won’t let me totally take his side.

  “Rick, I need you to crack into Spencer Paul’s phone. I need his text messaging history with Selene,” I say.

  “On it,” he calls.

  “What are you thinking?” Astra asks.

  I flash back to Selene’s apartment. We didn’t find anything useful, but some things were suggestive. At least from a certain point of view. The fact that her party kit was left behind, along with the clean-living books she had, could suggest a woman who wants a fresh start, the party kit a symbolic gesture of leaving her past behind. It’s suggestive of a woman who could be seeking a simpler life than she’s lived—one that might line up more with the life Spencer Paul lives.

  It’s a huge leap of logic. I’m making a whole lot of assumptions, I know. And not a lot of it is lining up for me. There are massive plot holes everywhere I look. How do all these different pieces connect? Do they actually connect, or am I simply trying to jam square pegs into round holes?

  I shake my head. “There are just so many moving parts, but we seem to be trying to put a puzzle together using two different sets,” I say. “There are so many things that just aren’t adding up. Nothing about this is making any sense.”

  “To be completely honest, we don’t even know if she was abducted or if she left on her own,” Mo offers. “I mean, the fact that Hedlund said her daughter was abducted doesn’t make it so.”

  “She’s right,” Astra adds. “It could be that Selene got tired of all the pressure her mother was piling on and decided to walk away—and not for a booze-soaked bender on a tropical beach somewhere.”

  Astra throws my first assumption back in my face and flashes me a grin. She knows how much I love that. I follow Mo’s and Astra’s words and nod along with them, though. It’s all technically true, but it still doesn’t quite fit right. It’s like trying to squeeze myself into a sweater that’s a few sizes too small.

  “But why not just go withdraw all of her money at once?” I ask. “Why have a bleeder come in and do it piecemeal? And then add another layer with the guy who’s running the bleeder? Why not just take it all at once and disappear?”

  “Given how much is in her bank account, she could afford to live in style for a while,” Rick notes. “Speaking of which, the account got hit again today. I ran the cams and the picture’s no better. Nothing good enough for facial rec.”

  Astra nods. “That’s a hole in the theory.”

  “A big one,” Mo concurs. “I didn’t even think about it.”

  I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I let myself see all the disparate parts in my mind, struggling to see a connection among all of them. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to find one. There isn’t one bright line that runs through all the different points, connecting them all.

  I grit my teeth in frustration, but quickly force myself to relax. At times like this, when nothing is making sense or adding up, I have to remind myself to think simply. To shut out all the background noise and focus on the basics. Focus on the things that do make sense and build out from there. My first impulse may not be the right one, but it feels closer to pointing us in the right direction than anything else we’ve come up with so far. It makes sense in ways everything else hasn’t.

  “Okay, let’s cut out all the noise and background chatter. Just shut it all out,” I say. “When I tell you we have a missing girl, a bleeder who’s draining her account, that her car wound up in a chop shop, and she’s completely off the grid, what would be your first thought?”

  Astra puzzles over for a moment but nods, seeming to pick up what I’m putting down. “My first thought would be that she was snatched and possibly trafficked.”

  “Not to be a wet blanket, but we haven’t seen any evidence of trafficking,” Mo says.

  “You usually don’t,” Astra tells her. “Girls who go missing are trafficked all the time. And they usually leave no trace behind. But a lot of them have those same characteristics.”

  “Okay, we need to find the bleeder,” I say. “And from there, we find the hoodie. That should give us all the information we need.”

  It’s still a shot in the dark, but at least we have a direction to run in. It’s not much, but it’s something. And right now, with not a whole lot about this case making sense, I’ll take it.

  Fifteen

  The Emerald Lounge; Downtown Seattle

  The Emerald is a gem of a little bar a few blocks from the shop Astra and I discovered a little while ago. It’s a nice, quiet place to come to have a drink and a conversation. It’s built from red brick and light oak and has that charming, timeless feel of an old-fashioned speakeasy. The place is about half-full when we walk in, and soft instrumental jazz is drifting through the speakers hidden discreetly overhead, which doesn’t hurt, given my love of jazz.

  Tonya, the owner and head bartender, gives us a wave when we walk in and take a seat in a booth near the back of the place, giving us a view of the whole bar. One of her waitresses comes over and drops off our usual drinks—an old fashioned for me, a martini for Astra—then bustles off with a smile. I take a sip of my drink and sit back against the padded booth, trying to unwind from a long day.

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  Astra takes a sip of her drink, eyeballing me over the rim of her glass. She sets it down, then looks up at me again, concern etched into her features.

  “Something’s not right with you, Blake. You’ve been on edge for awhile now,” she says. “You hide it pretty well, but I can see through you. You’re my best friend. I know you inside and out. Hate to break it to you, but you’re not that big a mystery to me anymore, babe.”

  I laugh softly. “If I’m not that big a mystery to you anymore, then you tell me,” I reply. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “That’s a long, long list,” she replies. “But in this particular case, I don’t know because you won’t tell me. I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. Just say that. But don’t walk around thinking you’re fooling me. You’re definitely n
ot.”

  “Clearly,” I note.

  “So? Going to tell me?” she asks. “Or are you just going to keep pretending that I can’t see through you?”

  I sigh and drain my glass, then signal Tonya for another round. “We’re going to need more drinks.”

  The waitress brings our round over and I take another sip to fortify myself. Then I launch into my story, telling Astra everything that’s going on—including everything I’ve learned about Mark. Or whatever his name really is. She sits back and listens to me over the course of an hour and a couple more drinks. When I’m done, she lets out a loud breath, as if she’s been holding it in.

  “Jesus,” she mutters, then looks up at me. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You shouldn’t be trying to carry this all on your own.”

  I shake my head. “The fewer people I pull into this garbage, the better. The last thing I want is to see any of you hurt,” I reply. “I’m already feeling guilty as hell about asking Mo to look into all of it. I wouldn’t have, but she’s the best I know about detecting financial patterns. If anybody can connect all the dots, it’s going to be her. And I hate that it is. Dealing with a group who may have murdered not just my parents and their working group, but three sitting Supreme Court Justices, is no joke.”

  “No, it’s definitely not,” she replies, her voice serious. “This is big and nasty, Blake. You’re going to need help. Have you spoken with anybody about it?”

  “God, no,” I say. “Aside from you, Pax, Brody, and Mo, I have no idea who I can trust. I have no idea who’s running this thing.”

  “Huge slam on Rick,” she cracks, which draws a laugh from me. “But you have to trust somebody.”

  “I trust you. And the others I mentioned. And Rick, I guess. But that’s it,” I say. “I mean, if I can’t trust the man I’ve been sharing a bed with and confiding all my secrets in for awhile now, how am I supposed to trust anybody?”

 

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