by Elle Gray
It’s a good starting point. An intriguing one. But ultimately, it’s rumor, innuendo, and conspiracy theory until I have something to back it up. Which I obviously don’t have right now. Like I said when we were grilling Dylan Betts… it’s all certainly suggestive, but nowhere near conclusive. Not yet anyway.
As I look at the whiteboard and all the papers I’ve hung on the wall beside it, I feel that tingling thrill start to course through my veins. The ball is finally in motion and things are starting to come together.
I might finally start to get some answers to questions that have haunted me my entire life. It’s exciting. At the same time, it’s terrifying. Because if Gina is right, opening these doors will put a target on my back.
And what’s worse, is I have no idea what will be stepping through them.
Thirty
SSA Wilder’s Office, Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
“Okay, breathe, girl,” Astra says. “Seriously, take a deep breath and let it out again slowly. Focus on your breathing.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “I’m not trying to give birth here.”
“No, women giving birth are generally a lot calmer than you are right now.”
A rueful smile crosses my lips and I shake my head. “How can you not be freaked out—even a little bit—by the idea that there’s a cabal inside our government doing heinous things and killing lots of people just to get rich and maintain power?”
She shrugs. “I suppose because I already figured that was the case,” she says with a small laugh. “I mean, I assume that’s basically what political parties are. So why is this different about this Thirteen Club or whatever it’s called?”
“It’s just called the Thirteen. As for what’s different, the last I checked, political parties weren’t out there assassinating sitting Supreme Court Justices.”
“Maybe not directly no, but…”
I laugh. “And you have the nerve to tell me I’m a tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist?”
Astra flashes me a mischievous grin. “Of course, I do. And that’s because we can smell our own, you know.”
“You’re such a jerk.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s part of my charm.”
I spent hours last night digitizing copies of everything I have. I printed out copies that will be put into a safe deposit box under a false identity. A copy has been sent to my cloud storage. And I’m giving a thumb drive to Astra. I’m also giving her a key to the safe deposit box and the password for the cloud storage.
Common sense would dictate that I spread those three copies among three different people. But I trust Astra and know she can take care of herself if they come for them. Besides, I am likely going to make more copies and spread them around a little bit wider. I just didn’t have the time to do it last night. I’ve still got a murderer to catch, after all.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re afraid that trained assassins will be coming for you and this treasure trove of documents to kill you to protect their secrets. That about right?” Astra asks.
I purse my lips and nod. “Yeah, pretty much.”
She holds up the thumb drive. “And you’re giving me a copy of all this trouble because… you want them to suicide me too? What a great friend you are.”
I laugh. “What, you didn’t think I was going to let them take me out without you coming with me, did you?”
“Uh-huh,” she mutters.
“Don’t worry, Paxton will be getting a set as well.”
“Oh, wonderful. So, when the assassins come, everybody closest to you is going down with you. Awesome.”
“I just didn’t want to be lonely in the afterlife.”
“You’re such a giver.”
I sigh and lean back in my chair, trying to get my churning mind and belly under control.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asks.
“For so many years, I’ve been floundering around, trying to solve their murder. And I’m still not close, don’t get me wrong, but it suddenly feels like everything is happening so fast. This thing seems so much bigger than I imagined it was going to be. I’m just overwhelmed and feel so far out of my depth right now,” I tell her honestly.
“Well, to be fair, you kind of are,” she says. “I mean, government conspiracies and this murderous cabal. Anybody would be out of their depth.”
I nod and run my fingers through my hair. She’s right. Anybody would be. But for some reason, I suddenly feel more ill-equipped to handle it than anybody. I feel like the last person in the world who should be investigating this. And that annoying voice in my head has been on me non-stop, telling me I should listen to Mark, and Astra, and Gina, and let this go. That this isn’t going to have a happy ending for anybody.
“But you know what else I know?” Astra adds.
“That you were right, and I need to get out of the deep end of the pool?”
“I’ve already conceded that you’re not going to do that,” she chuckles. “No, what I know is that you are the smartest, strongest, bravest, and most determined person I know. If there is anybody who can solve this case and bring this cabal down, it’s going to be you. And I know that because I’ve known you for a long while now. I’m comfortable saying that you don’t know how to quit. And you don’t know how to lose.”
Astra’s words touch something deep inside of me and stir my soul. They are the exact words I need to hear right now and somehow, she seems to know that. Though, that shouldn’t surprise me. She’s always had the best words for me whenever I needed to hear them. It’s one of the things I love her for.
“Thanks, Astra,” I say, fighting back the tears. “That really means a lot to me.”
“And you know I’ve always got your back, don’t you? I’m not letting you go into this fight alone. Whatever happens, I’ll be right by your side.”
I get to my feet and come around my desk then pull her to her feet. I throw my arms around her and pull her into a tight embrace. She laughs and hugs me back, and suddenly—even though I’m still feeling overwhelmed and terrified about what’s to come—I no longer feel so alone.
The sound of Rick clearing his throat draws my attention and I step back, discreetly wiping at my eyes.
“I didn’t realize it was hug it out therapy hour,” he cracks with a lopsided grin on his face. “Can I get in there and get one of those?”
“Not even if you paid me,” Astra quips.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Oh, nothin’. I mean, if you want to go back to your hug therapy, that’s cool,” he says. “I just thought you might want to catch a murderer.”
I feel that tingle of excitement in my belly I get when a case starts coming together. Astra and I exchange a quick smile and I know she’s feeling the same thing.
“You got the picture cleaned up?” I ask.
He nods. “Sure did. Come see.”
We follow Rick out to the bullpen and as he returns to his workstation, we walk to the screens on the wall at the front of the room. A moment later, a picture pops up. It’s not perfectly clear, but it’s a lot better than before. I can actually make out the logo on the sticker.
“Rick, this is amazing,” I tell him. “You did it. You actually did it.”
“Hey, don’t say that like you’re surprised. I mean, you did hire me to be your resident genius, didn’t you? Well, voila. Here’s your return on investment,” he chirps.
Astra turns to me. “I thought you hired me to be the resident genius.”
“I did. Just don’t tell Rick,” I fake-whisper to her. “It makes him happy to think he’s the one.”
“I heard that,” he calls over.
Smiling, I step to the monitor and take a closer look. There are two hands clasped in a handshake with what looks like it could be a sun behind it, and in the middle of the sun is a cross. Just below the hands are the words, “Helping Hands.” I frown and turn back to Rick to ask, but it’s Mo who steps up.
�
��Helping Hands is a faith-based women’s shelter and support group—”
“Women’s support group?” I frown.
She nods. “That’s what the website says.”
“So, what’s it doing on this dude’s car?” Astra asks.
I shake my head. “Maybe it was already on it when he bought it.”
“That car’s a 2019 model,” Astra points out. “That’s a pretty quick sale.”
“Maybe it’s his girlfriend’s car or something,” Mo offers.
“It’s possible. But the best way to find out is to go check out this support group ourselves,” I say. “Mo, do me a favor if you would and dig deep into this group. I want to know everything there is to know about them.”
“On it,” she says.
Astra looks at me. “Field trip?”
I nod. “Field trip.”
Thirty-One
Helping Hands Women’s Shelter, Riverview District; Seattle, WA
The Riverview district in Seattle is a very middle-class neighborhood. The houses are nice and somewhat well-kept, but they’re not sprawling estates or anything. It’s just south of South Seattle College, so a number of students live in the area, but they’re not the wild partiers UW students are. It’s also near the old Industrial District, which had its heyday decades ago.
It’s not necessarily a rough neighborhood, but it’s not exactly a gated community either. The overall vibe is of a community that was once fresh and vibrant maybe back in the ‘70s and ‘80s, but these days doesn’t amount to much. There are the occasional hipster tattoo parlors or craft brew places here, but nowhere near the amount you’ll find in trendy, affluent places like Capitol Hill or Belltown, which have been gentrified to hell and back.
What I can say about Riverview is that even if it’s not pristine by Seattle’s standards, it’s still light years better than a lot of other places in the country. Seattle’s idea of a “bad neighborhood” is sometimes skewed by places like Laureltown and Fremont.
“You get the feeling we’re being watched?” Astra asks.
I turn around in the street and see the curtains fall back into place in a house to our right—and on our left. Some people just love to be nosy.
“Pretty sure we are,” I mutter.
We cross the street and head for a large white house. Four pillars line the front, giving way a wide porch under a red door. Green shutters frame the windows on the New England-style clapboard house. It’s a cute place and looks well-tended to. A tall, sprawling oak tree sits in the front yard—or rather, takes up most of it—and there are planters of flowers that run along the entire front of the house, adding a riot of color to the yard. A small red brick staircase leads up to the porch, where a pair of oversized rockers sit with a small, round table between them, and a porch swing sits at the far end.
“This place is cute,” Astra notes. “Are you sure we’re in the right spot?”
Two tall, narrow windows sit on either side of the front door, and I point to the lower panel on the right window. It’s the same sticker we saw on the back of our unsub’s car. Astra nods. It’s placed in a low, discreet spot to help identify the shelter to women on the run, but in a place that most men wouldn’t tend to notice it.
“Well, I guess that clarifies that, then,” she says.
I raise my hand to knock, but the door opens before I get the chance and I find myself staring at a girl who can’t be more than sixteen. She’s tall and pencil-thin, with dark red hair, pale skin, and blue eyes—and is sporting a black eye and busted lip. Despite her injuries, she gives us a wide smile anyway.
“Hi,” she greets us, though her fat lip is giving her a bit of a lisp. “Can I help you?”
We show her our badges and she looks at them with wide eyes and an expression of awe on her face.
“You two are really FBI agents?” she gasps.
We nod. “We really are,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Sydney,” she replies.
“Nice to meet you, Sydney. I’m Blake and this is Astra,” I introduce us. “Is this the Helping Hands shelter?”
Sydney looks around furtively, then turns back to us, gnawing on her lower lip. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“Of course, I’m sorry,” I reply.
I’m mortified that I’d just asked this girl to violate the most important rule of the shelter—you don’t tell anybody about the shelter. It’s a common-sense rule, one I should have thought about before asking. The problem is that we need to speak to the shelter administrator, but I have no idea who’s in charge. I look over at Astra and see that she seems just as lost as me at the moment, so I try a different tack.
“It’s all right, Sydney,” I say. “We know what this place is, and we’d never tell anybody about it. But can you do me a favor and get whoever is in charge here? We really need to speak with her.”
“Sure,” she says slowly. “I’ll go get her.”
“Thanks,” I say.
She closes the door, so Astra and I take a step back. She follows me over to the railing that lines the porch and we lean against it. Shelters like these survive on secrecy. Women come to these shelters, cleverly camouflaged in residential neighborhoods because they feel safe. Because nobody is supposed to talk about it or mention where it is.
I recall seeing a magazine article once that focused on one of these shelters and the demand for secrecy was so great, the photographer wasn’t allowed to take pictures of any distinguishing features. It was such a strict rule, they couldn’t even photograph the fence or the trees in the yard.
And for good reason. These places exist so women and children have someplace to run. Someplace to feel safe and get away from the men who are beating on them. The men who threaten to hurt them worse, or even kill them. These shelters are a safe haven for so many. I love that abuse victims have a safe place to go. But I hate they have to exist at all.
The front door opens and a woman steps out, pulling it closed behind her. She’s a small woman, five-three, maybe five-four, but is stout and has a grandmotherly look about her. She’s got iron-gray hair that’s pulled back into a tight bun that sits atop her head. Her cheeks are ruddy, and she’s got a warm smile on her face.
“You must be the FBI agents Sydney was so excited about,” she says. “I’m Marjorie Bell.”
“SSA Blake Wilder,” I introduce myself. “This is Special Agent Russo.”
We all shake hands, expressing the usual pleasantries. Marjorie has a firm handshake and a steely glint in her eye. She seems warm and friendly, but I can tell she’s fierce when it comes to protecting her shelter and the women within its walls. This is a woman who does not take crap from anybody. Although she’s small, I have no doubt she’s willing to throw her body into the middle of a fight to save her girls. I have to respect that about her.
“So, what can I do for you, Agents?” she finally asks.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and call up the picture of the sticker. “This is one of yours, right?” I ask.
She nods. “Looks like it.”
“Do you have any men on staff? Janitorial? Security? Anything?” Astra asks.
Marjorie shakes her head. “We don’t have security. It’d be a dead giveaway, and we rely on keeping a very low profile,” she says. “As for men on staff, none. Not permitted.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
I call up the next picture—the one of the car in full—and let her have a look at it. She studies the photo for a minute, squinting at it.
“Sorry for the quality. This is an ATM photo. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to get a better one,” I say. “But do you happen to recognize the car?”
She nods. “Yeah, that looks like Helen Svboda’s car. She worked here for more than ten years,” she said.
“Worked?” Astra asks. “Past tense?”
Marjorie nods and an expression of grief touches her features. “Yeah, unfortunately, she passed away about a month ago. Maybe a little more now,” she s
ays. “She was the sweetest woman ever. She’s sorely missed.”
Astra and I exchange a glance. That somebody else is in possession of the car means it’s still in play as far as our suspect goes. That excited burbling inside of me is starting to build to a furious boil as I feel the momentum of the case picking up even more speed.
“Do you know who has the car now, Marjorie?” I ask.
“Of course. She left it to her son, Tony. She left everything to him,” she says. “Tony is a prince among men, I tell you. He’s such a good boy.”
Yeah sure, if you consider a triple rapist-slash-triple murderer a good boy. I guess the bar for a prince has been lowered. But I’m practically bouncing out of my shoes as we stand there. I feel like we’re closing in. But I know better than to put the cart before the horse. I’ve burned myself far too many times in the past to let myself say case closed, mission accomplished, or anything else. There is still a lot of work to do.
“So, what is this about, Agents?” Marjorie asks.
“Mrs. Svboda’s car was seen near the scene of a crime,” I say smoothly. “We’re just rounding up witnesses right now.”
“Oh my,” she gasps. “I hope it wasn’t serious.”
“We’re not sure just yet,” Astra chimes in. “We’re still gathering the facts.”
“Can you tell us where Mr. Svboda lives? We’ll need to speak with him,” I say.
“Of course,” Marjorie says. “Let me just go back inside. I have her old address in my office.”
“Thank you,” I say. “We appreciate it.”
Marjorie disappears inside again, leaving Astra and me on the porch doing our best to keep ourselves from getting too excited. The door opens and Sydney comes back out. She stands before us, a shy smile on her face.
“Do you think I can be an FBI agent too?” she asks.
