The Chosen Girls (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 4)

by Elle Gray

  Copyright © 2021 by Elle Gray

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Note From Elle Gray

  Also by Elle Gray

  Prologue

  The shrill bleating of her cellphone jerked Paula Kennedy out of the deep grip of sleep. Still groggy, she rolled over and flipped on the lamp atop her nightstand, then put on her glasses. Paula picked up her phone and pulled out the charger, then looked at the screen. The call was coming from a number she didn’t recognize.

  Twin currents of annoyance and dread rippled through her. In her experience, when getting a call at two-thirty in the morning, it was either somebody drunk with a wrong number, or somebody with terrible news. Paula took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she connected the call, silently praying for the former.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Is this Paula Kennedy?”

  The voice was firm and official-sounding. And they knew her name, which dashed her hopes that it was some drunken idiot. That realization wrapped her heart in a fist of ice and squeezed so tight, she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

  “Y—yes,” she replied, wishing she could be anybody else in that moment.

  “Ma’am, this is Detective DeLeon with Seattle PD,” he said, his voice reluctant. “I know it’s late and I apologize, but would it be possible for you to come down to the station?”

  “I—I don’t understand. Why would you need me to come down to the station?”

  There was a pause on the line, and in that silence, Paula heard her own heart shattering. Every fear a mother has rose in her mind, and she felt herself trembling. Her stomach roiled and she tasted bile in the back of her throat.

  “I’ve already taken the liberty of sending a car to pick you up,” said the man on the other end of the line. “They’re outside your house already. If you can get dressed and let those officers bring you to the station—”

  Paula moved quickly to the window in her bedroom that faced the street outside. Her heart dropped into her stomach when she saw a police car parked in front of her house. A pair of officers leaned against the car, waiting. For her. She shook her head, covering her mouth with a hand, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Ms. Kennedy?”

  Wanting to deny that any of her fears could be proven true, Paula felt herself slipping into outrage. Indignation. It was as if Paula thought if she got angry enough, then none of the terrible thoughts that were rattling through her mind could be true. It was as if she felt that if she could just control the situation, her fears would prove unfounded.

  “I don’t understand. What is this about?” she asked, her tone icy cold.

  “Ms. Kennedy, it would be better if we spoke face to face. So please, I’d appreciate it if you got dressed and went with the officers—”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is all about,” she hissed.

  There was another brief pause on the line and Paula felt her anxiety swelling like a balloon. It grew bigger and bigger until it was so large, it felt ready to burst.

  “Ms. Kennedy, I’m truly sorry,” DeLeon said. “But we need you to come down to make an identification.”

  “An iden—identification?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to say this…”

  Paula closed her eyes, silently willing him to stop speaking. To not say the next words, she feared would come out of his mouth.

  “Ms. Kennedy, I’m sorry to say that we have a body here we believe is… that we believe is your daughter. That we believe is Summer.”

  A long, keening wail filled her ears, and it took her a moment to realize the sound was coming from her. She gripped the phone tightly, her teeth clenched.

  “H—how? How did it happen.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line and Paula’s mind immediately jumped to a million different scenarios, each one more horrendous than the last.

  “It would be better if we didn’t get into the particulars on the phone,” Detective Deleon said at last. “Please, just come down so we can talk about it.”

  Paula opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t force the words out. She shook her head and closed her mouth, silently wishing this would turn out to be nothing but a vivid nightmare. Silently wishing he would tell her this was nothing but some sick, terrible joke.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Kennedy. But I’m going to need you to come down to make the identification and answer a few questions,” DeLeon said, his voice sounding almost mournful.

  “I—I can’t,” she whispered.

  “I know this is difficult, and I’m so sorry,” Deleon responded. “But I’m going to need you to go with the officers I sent over.”

  Paula felt weightless; like her heart stopped dead in her chest. A cold chill swept through her and she trembled wildly. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  When Paula opened her eyes again, she saw the ground rushing up to meet her.

  One

  SSA Wilder’s Office, Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  Investigators are now saying the homicide at the Cascades Campground is linked to a series of robberies that run from California to the Canadian border, though this is the first reported homicide. The victim, now known to be retired high school teacher Steven Corden, is said to have been on a cross-country road trip…

  “What a bunch of crap,” I mutter.

  I turn the TV off and toss the remote onto my desk, disgusted by the news coverage of Mr. Corden’s murder. It’s been a few weeks since Paxton, Astra, and I found his body in the small lake at the RV park, and then were shot at by some unseen gunman hiding in the woods. The gunman took off on a motorcycle before we could gather ourselves enough to hit back at him. I can still hear the whining engine of the motorcycle echoing through the woods, taking the gunman and all the answers I was seeking along with him out into the night.

  “Robbery gone wrong, huh?” Astra asks, her voice wry as she pokes her head into my office.

  “Apparently so.”

  She drops down into the chair across from me and crosses her legs. She looks at me with a small smile curling a corner of her mouth upward.

  “Funny. I seem to recall it differently,” she says.

  “You and me both
,” I reply. “This robbery-gone-wrong story is totally shades of what happened with my parents all over again.”

  She obviously hadn’t drawn the same comparison, and the smile fades from her face. Astra clears her throat and sits up in her chair.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  “Nothing for you to be sorry about,” I reply, giving her a small smile. “I don’t expect you to know what I’m thinking all the time.”

  She takes a beat to gather herself, then points to the stack of files on my desk. “What’s all that?”

  “All of this,” I explain, “is me trying to figure out what Mr. Corden wanted to talk to me about. What it was that got him murdered.”

  “Any idea yet?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. Not a clue.”

  Astra leans forward and plucks a file off my desk. Sitting back in her seat, she flips through it, a frown on her face. The file is thin, so it only takes her a moment to finish, and when she does, Astra looks up at me.

  “What’s with the dossiers on the Supreme Court Justices?” she asks.

  “I haven’t the foggiest just yet. The only thing those three have in common is that they’re all dead,” I say. “Justice Sharp died most recently—heart attack. About eighteen months ago, Justice Boone had a stroke. And a year before that, Justice Kettering died in a car accident.”

  Astra nods. “Yeah, I seem to remember all of that at the time it happened,” she says. “But what does that have to do with anything—least of all with your parents?”

  “That’s an excellent question. And one I’ve got no answers for.”

  I pick a small notebook up off my desk and hold it up for her to see.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “Corden’s notebook. But all his notes are in his shorthand. I haven’t been able to figure it out yet,” I say. “The only thing I’ve been able to figure out is something called ‘The Thirteen’. It shows up in his notebook a few times.”

  She cocks her head. “The Thirteen? What in the hell is that?”

  “Because I can’t make heads or tails out of Mr. Corden’s shorthand, I don’t know if it’s a who, or what,” I tell her. “And because we’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t had a whole lot of time to devote to cracking his code.”

  “You gotten anything from the locals about the shooter?”

  “Nothing. I’m keeping an eye on the investigation, but I’m not feeling really optimistic about it bearing any fruit,” I sigh. “I think my best avenue to figuring anything out is following the leads from Mr. Corden. The trouble with that is, if he really was a CIA spook, I know he wouldn’t have put everything down in writing. He would have kept some of it in his head—and now it’s gone along with him.”

  “We’ll crack the code. We’ll figure all of this out,” Astra states with more confidence than I feel at the moment.

  “I hope so.”

  My cellphone rings and when I glance at the display, I see it’s a call from Marcy Bryant—the local crime blogger and podcaster who has really made a name for herself in the true crime genre, to go with her masterful investigative reporting. She’s a smart, intuitive, and driven woman who’s really got her finger on the pulse of the city.

  She’s also Brody Singer’s girlfriend. From what I hear, it’s even Facebook-official now. Between his technological wizardry and her tough-as-nails investigation skills, the two of them have proven incredibly valuable to both me in Paxton in solving all sorts of cases. They work for the PI firm Paxton founded after he was unceremoniously fired from the Seattle PD a few years back. My team with the BAU is pretty great, but it sure does help to have a link to some people not bound by some of the red tape we deal with within the Bureau.

  I connect the call and press the phone to my ear. “Marcy, hey,” I say for Astra’s benefit. “How are you?”

  “I’m keeping busy. I’ve got two production meetings, three deadlines, an editorial review, and an interview out all just today. Oh, and a tattoo touch-up appointment, too.”

  “Jesus, girl,” I chuckle. “Take a day off to relax, for once.”

  I can almost hear her eyes rolling through the phone. “Because you’re absolutely one to talk, Blake.”

  I laugh softly. “Touché,” I say. “So, what’s up?”

  “Just wanted to give you a heads up. They found a body floating in the duck pond in McGeary Park,” she tells me. “SPD’s doing their best to put the clamps on information—total media blackout. Sounds to me like there’s somethin’ big brewin’ out there.”

  “And I assume you’re telling me with the hope that after we go out there and check it out that I’ll give you the scoop?”

  “Would I do that?” Marcy replies. “I just thought of it as a favor to a friend.”

  I laugh softly. “You sure know how to charm a lady.”

  “You’re damn right,” she chuckles. “Let no one say that I’m not resourceful.”

  “I would never,” I tell her. “And besmirch the name of the best reporter in the Pacific Northwest?”

  “All right, all right,” Marcy replies. “Enough flattery.”

  “Hey, I know you’ve got eyes and ears everywhere,” I say. “You happen to hear anything about that murder out at the Cascades RV Park?”

  “I haven’t. At least, nothing but the official story that it’s a robbery gone wrong. You think there’s more to it than that?”

  “I know there is.”

  “Huh. Well, let me do some digging and see if I can turn anything up.”

  “I appreciate that. I also appreciate the heads up about the girl in the pond,” I tell her. “I’ll tell you what I can, when I can.”

  “Deal.”

  “Thanks, Marcy. Talk to you soon.”

  I click off the call and drop my phone onto my desk then look up at Astra. She flashes me a wide grin.

  “That girl is a real go-getter,” she says. “Honestly, Brody doesn’t deserve her.”

  I laugh. “To his credit, he seems to know that,” I reply. “So, feel like heading out to McGeary Park?”

  “Beats sitting around in the bullpen all day,” she shrugs. “Let’s go.”

  Two

  McGeary Public Park, Downtown Seattle

  The day is overcast; a light drizzle is falling as we pull into the parking lot. The SPD has set up a perimeter around the park, keeping the press and the gawkers about a hundred yards away from the action. And as if they’re trying to downplay what’s going on in the park, there are only a couple of patrol cars, a white van marked with the Medical Examiner’s logo emblazoned on the side, and a black SUV in the lot.

  Astra and I get out of the car and head for the secondary tape line that’s strung across the back end of the lot. It’s a bit of a strange addition to me, since they’ve got the front end of the lot blocked off as well. I guess they’re worried about people who slip through that first barrier.

  “Seems like a bit of overkill to me,” Astra notes.

  “I guess they really want to make sure nobody gets through.”

  “Keeping everybody a mile away, then setting up a double barrier kind of defeats the purpose of trying to look low key about everything, doesn’t it?” Astra says, gesturing to the scant police presence in the lot.

  I laugh. “I’d think so. But hey, we know the SPD’s stellar reputation for competence, don’t we?”

  We badge our way past the cop at the inner tape line and follow a long, winding concrete path from the parking lot that leads deeper into the park. Trees and bushes press close on either side. A hushed silence falls all around us. There isn’t an insect or a bird to be heard anywhere. We emerge into a large, round clearing, and in the middle of it is a pond. A concrete footpath winds along the edge of the water with benches spaced evenly around it as well.

  I look around at the space. Trees and bushes ring the pond, forming an effective screen, but footpaths lead in and out of the area at the four compass points. Large willows stand close to the pond in a few spots,
their long, leafy branches dangling into the water. Patches of reeds and lily pads are scattered around the quiet pool, providing sanctuary for some of the wildlife. This is a popular spot for birdwatchers, as this park apparently attracts some rare and beautiful birds. At least, that’s what it said online when I did a quick search after Marcy’s call.

  “Secluded. Quiet,” I observe. “Especially in the middle of the night.”

  “Perfect place to dump a body,” Astra notes.

  “Our guy is going to have to be pretty fit to haul a body this far though.”

  She nods. Distance-wise, it’s not a far trek from the parking lot to the pond. And the concrete footpath helps. Our guy wouldn’t have had to traverse bumpy, uneven ground. But no matter how you slice it, carrying dead weight requires fitness and strength. It also requires a familiarity with this place. He would have had to have known about it, since McGeary isn’t one of the more popular public green spaces in the city—which I’m sure suits the birdwatches just fine. That tells me our guy probably lives in or around Seattle.

  Astra and I walk to the edge of the pond and watch as they pull the girl out of the water. She’s laid on a stretched-out black body bag, her eyes open wide and staring at the sky. Her face is twisted and contorted, in an expression caught somewhere between agony and terror.

  “It never gets easier to see these things,” Astra says softly.

  I shake my head. “I doubt it ever will.”

  We make our way over to the body and squat down near the edge of the body bag. The girl was no more than twenty. She has blonde hair that falls to the middle of her back and cornflower blue eyes. She’s thin but has full breasts and hips, and cool, pale skin that looks almost waxy in death.