by Elle Gray
“Like I told you, we were in love,” he says. “We were going to get married when she finished with school.”
“Yeah, that’s what you told us,” I nod. “Unfortunately, Summer’s not here to confirm that.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he snaps.
“You told us that too,” Astra says.
“Hey, I came in here voluntarily,” he fires back. “If I were guilty, would I have done that?”
“I’m not saying you did it. But you’d be surprised at what murderers think they can get away with. Granted, coming in here would take some serious stones,” I say with a laugh.
But Dylan doesn’t laugh. His expression darkens and he glowers at us from his side of the table. He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.
“You weren’t invited to the birthday party she was at the night she was taken,” I say. “Is that right?”
He shrugs. “Even if I had been invited, I couldn’t have gone. I was working.”
“At the bar?”
“Until about eight,” he says. “After that, I was working my second job.”
“That’s right,” Astra says. “You’re a musician, right?”
“I am,” he says with a cocky smile that quickly fades. “But that night, I was working my other second job.”
“And what is your other second job?”
He frowns and runs a hand over his face. “I work for a ride-hailing service.”
“A ride-hailing service?” Astra asks.
“Yeah, it’s like Uber,” he tells us.
“Okay, and what is the company called?” I ask.
“It’s called e-Ride.”
I nod and jot it down in the file. “And what hours did you work there?”
“From around eight until two or two-thirty. I’d have to go back and check,” he says. “But that’s my usual Friday night schedule.”
“So, you weren’t pissed about not being invited to the party?” Astra asks.
“Nah. Hanging out with college kids isn’t really my thing.”
“Except for the fact that Summer was a college kid,” I point out.
He frowns. “That’s different.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” I say. “But I have to say that you’re handling her death pretty well.”
“Just because I’m not sitting in here bawling my eyes out to you doesn’t mean I’m not hurting,” he growls. “Not everybody processes grief the same way.”
“And how are you processing it?” Astra asks.
He stares at her in stony silence for a long moment. “I’m channeling my grief into my music. I’ve already written two songs about her.”
“That’s pretty fast,” Astra says.
He shrugs. “A lot of the greats like Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain used their grief as motivation. Their grief fueled their music and they turned out some classic hits practically overnight.”
“Yeah, I think Taylor Swift does that too,” Astra notes.
“Did you really just compare yourself to Kurt Cobain?” I raise an eyebrow.
“No,” he snaps. “I was talking about using music and creativity to process one’s grief. That’s all I was saying.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. “How did you find out about Summer’s death?”
“I don’t know. I think I read it online,” he replies.
“Online?”
“It was getting passed around on Facebook or some local crime blog or something. I don’t remember,” he says. “I’d been trying to get ahold of her since Friday night but hadn’t heard back.”
“Did she do that a lot? Not return your calls?” Astra asks.
“Not all the time. But there were times she dropped off the radar for a few days. It wasn’t a big deal. She was a college girl,” he says. “I usually figured she was studying and had her phone off so she wouldn’t get distracted.”
I nod and make a note to check the crime blogs from the morning after she was killed. In today’s online world, hearing about the death of a loved one online isn’t all that surprising. Most of the time these days, word of somebody’s death is getting passed around on Facebook and Twitter long before local news or sometimes, even the authorities know what’s going on. It’s just the nature of today’s world of instant news for those needing instant gratification.
“You read the local crime blogs a lot?” Astra asks.
“Sometimes when I have nothing better to do, yeah. It’s interesting reading.”
We take him through a few more questions just to nail down his timeline and get him to commit to a few more facts that we’ll check his story against. We’ll see if he’s lying or if we can eliminate him as a suspect. All in all, we question him for a little more than an hour before we kick him loose with the ominous-sounding, but totally unenforceable admonishment to stay around town.
“Do you believe him?” Astra asks.
I shake my head. “I just don’t know right now. Part of me does. He seems pretty shaken up about her death,” I say. “Maybe I’m naïve, but I actually believe he loved her.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to not think about that. I mean, she was nineteen and he’s thirty-one. No matter which way you slice it, that’s kind of creepy,” she points out.
“Agreed—and his initial reaction wasn’t exactly heartening. But I don’t think he would have given us all this information freely if he really had too much to hide. I’m not ready to cross him off just yet, but if our unsub is a serial, I just don’t see it lining up.”
We head out of the interrogation suite and make our way back to the shop. And all the while, I can’t stop thinking that Dylan’s not our guy and we’re going to see more bodies dropping soon.
Twelve
Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
“Mo, how are we doing with the ATM bandits?” I ask as we come through the doors and into the shop.
“Still working on it. I’m starting to see a pattern in how they’re picked, but it’s far from complete just yet,” she replies.
“Good, good,” I tell her. “Keep working it.”
The case is one I’ve been tracking on and off for about a year. Somebody with some serious ingenuity has figured out a way to actually break into ATMs and clean them out. It’s impressive but frustrating, because I haven’t been able to get out in front of these guys yet. They’re good. They’re organized and highly efficient. But sooner or later, we’re going to catch a break. And when they do, we’re going to get these clowns.
“Rick, have you been able to track the serial numbers on the cash being stolen?” I ask.
I know it’s a long shot, but at this point, I’m grasping at straws with this case. It’s been making me want to tear my hair out for months, and I’m hoping and praying for just one break. Just one little break. That’s not too much to ask for, is it?
“Sorry, boss,” Rick says. “Nothing yet. Whoever’s stealing it is cleaning it really well.”
“Yeah, I figured we weren’t going to get that lucky.”
“What are you guys working on?” Mo asks.
“Caught a body,” I answer.
“And Veronica Mars here thinks it’s part of a string,” Astra says, tipping me a wink.
“I wouldn’t be against her,” Mo replies. “She’s right more often than she’s wrong.”
“Don’t encourage her, new girl,” Astra cracks.
I laugh and pace the floor at the front of the room, thinking about everything that’s transpired over the last few days. There are things we know, but so much more that we don’t. All I have are bits and pieces. Scraps that are suggestive of bigger things, but are far from definite. All I know right now is that I don’t have enough information yet to build a proper profile. I need more information.
“Rick, I need you to run a search for similar cases in the state,” I say. “Look for cases that involve Caucasian college-aged women. Look for manual strangulation with acts of torture. In particular, I want you to search for ciga
rette burns.”
“Check, check, and check,” he says. “But you don’t want me to run it through any of the national databases?”
“Not yet. We’ll expand the search if we need to,” I say. “I just have a feeling this is a local thing. The killer was way too familiar with the area he dumped Summer Kennedy in for him to not be from around here.”
“That much I can agree with,” Astra nods. “You don’t stumble onto McGeary Park by accident.”
“Oh man, they found the body in birdwatcher heaven?” Mo asks. “There are going to be some upset blue hairs if they don’t get to feed their birds.”
I laugh. “Hopefully, the scene’s already been processed, and they released the park.”
“The way the SPD works, they’ll be lucky if it’s opened before next week,” Mo says.
Mo used to work for the Seattle PD and came away with as bad a taste in her mouth about them as my friend Paxton, who was summarily dismissed after clashing with the brass one too many times a few years back. Mo couldn’t deal with the garbage there anymore and left voluntarily, then jumped to the Bureau. And although she’s still a little green when it comes to murder cases, she’s got a keen mind and is starting to come out of her shell and into her own here. She’s a terrific asset to the team and I couldn’t be happier to have her.
“So, the guy you were in there interrogating. He good for it?” Mo asks.
“The boyfriend? Not sure yet. But I honestly have my doubts,” I say. “What did you think, Astra?”
“My honest two cents are that the guy is a creep and is bordering on being a pedophile,” she says. “But he didn’t do this. And he’s definitely not a serial.”
I nod, agreeing with her sentiment. “But we still need to do our due diligence,” I say. “Sociopaths are adept at imitating emotion. So, it’s entirely possible he’s just pullin’ one over on the both of us.”
She grins at me ruefully. “Don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.”
“Are there any other parameters you want me to run?” Rick calls from his station.
I shake my head. “Not yet. We just don’t have enough information,” I admit. “The torture is the only thing that stands out to me right now.”
“Probably going to be a few of those,” Mo remarks. “There are a lot of sadistic people in the world.”
“Yeah, but I’m thinking we can always narrow it down as we get more information. I’m waiting for the ME’s report. That might give us a little more to work with,” I say.
I think it over, going over all of the information we’ve gathered so far, and the thought occurs to me.
“Hey Mo, I also need to see if you can get some information from a ride-hailing company called e-Taxi,” I tell him. “The boyfriend says he was driving the night Summer Kennedy went missing and I just want to verify that. I want his routes, fares, whatever you can scrounge up.”
“I might need a warrant for that,” she says.
“Right. I’ll get one in the works,” I nod. “In the meantime, can you contact them and see if they’re willing to volunteer the data?”
“I’m on it,” she replies.
I turn to Astra. “We’ve got to run down some of Summer’s friends and see if there’s anything they can tell us. Somebody had to have seen her leave.”
“I’m not going to hold my breath, but let’s do it,” she says.
We head out of the CDAU and back to UW to see if we can find some of her friends, which I already know is going to be like herding cats. But that’s part of running a tight, thorough investigation—doing the garbage work. I like to think that’s what separates me from some of the other agents who resent me—I’m willing to roll up my sleeves and do the work they’re not willing to do.
But man, sometimes it’s really tedious.
Thirteen
Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle
I close the door behind me and drop my bag next to the small table next to the door and my keys into the bowl on top of it. After that, I strip off my boots and drop them next to my bag, then untuck my shirt. I’d strip out of my shirt and bra, but the familiar trumpet of Miles Davis’, “So What,” is playing, alerting me to his presence.
And when I step into the main room of my apartment, I find Mark sitting at the dining room table with the lights all dimmed. He’s got two glasses of wine poured, places set, and candles lit. His eyes glitter in the candlelight as he looks at me.
“What’s all this?” I frown.
He gets to his feet and moves around to the other chair, silently pulling it out for me. I walk over and sit down, and he pushes the chair back in, then returns to his own seat. Mark picks up his wine glass and holds it up as if to make a toast. I oblige him by picking up my own glass and look at him.
“And what are we drinking to?” I ask, a little more apprehension in my voice than I intend for there to be. I still haven’t fully forgiven Mark for what went down the other night, but I’m willing to at least hear him out.
“To me being an ass,” he replies. “To me trying to make amends.”
“I think I can drink to that,” I reply, then tap my glass against his.
The cool chardonnay hits my tongue, and the flavors explode in my mouth. I nod as I set the glass back down on the table.
“That’s a really nice wine,” I say.
“I thought you might like it.”
I take another swallow of it, just to confirm it’s as good as I thought after the first sip. It is. I inhale and the heavenly aroma of food fills my nose. I turn and look at him, surprised.
“You cooked?” I ask.
“Of course not. I wanted to impress you, not poison you,” he says. “I picked up the Thai food we didn’t get to eat the other night.”
A small smile touches my lips. “Yeah, about that,” I say. “I ate it.”
He looks at me for a moment, then laughs. “Well, at least it didn’t go to waste.”
I take a sip of my wine and stare at him over the rim of the glass. I’d expected that we’d talk at some point. I didn’t think he’d show up here with wine, food, and what looks like an expression of genuine contrition on his face.
“Listen, I needed to apologize for the other night. I was just worried about you. Scared for you, actually,” he starts. “The thought of you being hurt tears me up inside. I mean, I know I don’t express myself well, though. And I know I crossed a line.”
“And?” I gesture for him to continue. He probably expected me to just smile and say ‘apology accepted’, but I want more than that.
“And I acted like an idiot, and all I can ask for is your forgiveness. I’m really sorry, Blake. I just care a lot about you, and… I should never have freaked out on you like that.”
“And?”
“And?” he frowns.
“And, you’re sorry for trying to center yourself in the conversation about my life and my family,” I explain. “You’re sorry for trying to guilt-trip me about my own feelings."
He takes a sigh and looks up at me with clear eyes. “And I’m sorry for that too. I shouldn’t have prioritized how I feel about it when it’s clearly your life that you have to worry about.”
“That’s what I was looking for. Apology accepted.”
It’s like the room just exhaled. I smile at him and really mean it.
“And you’re sorry you acted like an idiot,” I crack, winking at him to soften the blow.
He laughs and nods. “I know it. Trust me, I’ve been beating myself up about it more than you ever could.”
I take a sip of wine and set the glass back down, considering my words. Mark is looking at me with that intense green-eyed gaze that never fails to get my heart racing. With high cheekbones and a square, chiseled jawline, he’s rugged-looking, but still somehow also has a sweet baby face at the same time. Regardless, he’s a beautiful man that I’ve found utterly intoxicating from the day I met him, which seems like a lifetime ago now.
“I know you were just worried about me. And I appreciate that. I really do,” I tell him.
“You sure could have fooled me.”
I laugh softly. “It may not seem like it, but I do. I just—my parents’ case is very personal to me. I lost everything that day and in large part, it’s why I joined the Bureau. I know you think I’m obsessed, and maybe I am. But I know I’m never going to be able to let it go until I know who killed my folks and took my sister.”
“Even if the cost of finding out is your life?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“It scares me to hear you say that.”
“I understand, Mark. You come from an entirely different world,” I reply. “But my world was shaped by violence. I’m used to it. It doesn’t scare me.”
He sits back in his chair and takes a drink of his wine. I don’t know if his goal in coming here tonight was just to apologize or if he’s trying to subtly get me to stop with my investigation. I don’t like thinking he came to this with an ulterior motive and not simply put our argument to rest. I want to believe he’s here because he misses me and wants to make up. Not because he’s trying to manipulate me into doing what he wants me to do.
“I know you think I need to drop this investigation. But I need you to understand that I can’t,” I continue. “You don’t know what it’s like to feel like a piece of your soul has been ripped out.”
“But getting yourself killed trying to find out who did it isn’t going to fix that feeling, Blake,” he replies. “Do you think your parents or your sister would want that? Do you think they’d want to see you get yourself killed trying to avenge them?”
“No, of course not.”
“No, they’d want to see you move forward with your life,” he presses. “They’d want to see you happy. And isn’t that what we are? Happy?”
“Yes, of course, we are. But don’t you want me to be happy? Don’t you want me to feel settled and at ease?”
“I really do.”
“Then you should know I won’t ever truly be at ease until I figure out who killed my folks and abducted my sister. Until I solve the case, I’m always going to feel tormented.”
