The Secret She Kept (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 5)

by Elle Gray

  The screens at the front go blank for a moment then a picture of one of the missing men comes up. At twenty-four, he’s the oldest of the group, even though he’s got a baby face that makes him look a lot younger.

  “This is Anthony James. He’s been busted for possession, stealing a car, and assault,” Rick reads from his monitor. “His last arrest came when he was nineteen. Been clean ever since. Went missing a month ago, first reported by his sister.”

  “No known gang affiliation,” Mo adds.

  The next picture comes up on the next screen. “Antoine Booker, age nineteen,” Rick says. “His jacket starts when he was twelve and includes car theft, attempted rape, aggravated assault, and possession with intent to distribute. Reported missing two weeks ago by his aunt.”

  “He’s pretty accomplished for somebody that young,” Astra comments.

  “It says here that he managed to skate on some of his more serious charges,” Mo notes. “He’s also known to be a member of the Savage Playboys. They’re a small, little-thought-of street gang here in Seattle.”

  I don’t think this is our guy, but it definitely piques my interest. You don’t see guys change gang affiliations often. Usually never, to be honest. But it does make me wonder if Antoine tried to jump from the Playboys to the Kings, and maybe that’s what got him killed. I don’t think it’s likely, but it’s an interesting bread crumb that I’ll store away for later use.

  “And contestant number three is Eric Gathers. Twenty-two,” Rick says. “Jacket includes assault, theft, and vandalism. Reported missing by his father three weeks ago.”

  “Gathers is a member of the Forty-Five Boyz,” Mo tells us. “Apparently named for their weapon of choice.”

  “Charming,” Astra says.

  I look at his picture for a moment. He’s got high cheekbones and a strong jawline. But it’s his eyes that capture my attention. They’re a hazel, almost golden color, and have an intensity in them that can’t be denied—not even in a photograph. Even through a computer-enhanced image, he has a presence about him.

  “What about the one without a police record?” I ask.

  “Terrence Meadows. Age twenty, a student at U-Dub. Reported missing by his brother a week ago,” Rick reports.

  “Any of these four turn up at the morgue?” I ask.

  Mo’s fingers fly over the keys on her computer, and she looks at the screen as it processes the information. A moment later, she turns to me and shakes her head.

  “None of them has been reported dead by the ME,” she announces.

  “I’ve got no death certificates on file for any of them, either,” Rick offers.

  “If the ME’s office is as backlogged as they say, it could be that they haven’t been processed and no death certificates have been issued yet?” Astra attempts.

  “That’s possible,” I say, then turn and look at Astra. “Up for a field trip?”

  She smiles. “You know how much I love spending my day down at the meat locker.”

  “Have to do our due diligence,” I reply.

  “Yeah, so you keep saying,” she says and gets to her feet. “Well, let’s go cross our t’s and dot our i’s, then.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Eleven

  King County Medical Examiner’s Office; Seattle, WA

  “I love the smell of bleach and antiseptics in the morning,” Astra muses.

  The doors slide open and a rush of cool, acrid air washes over us as we step into the ME’s office. We walk across the tile floor and to the reception booth. The woman behind the thick plexiglass gives us a wooden smile, with boredom or perhaps irritation in her eyes. She presses the button on her side of the intercom.

  “What can I do for you?” she asks, her voice sounding tinny coming through the speaker.

  Astra and I badge her. “We need to speak with Dr. Rebekah Shafer.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, we don’t,” I reply. “But we just need a little information. If you could page her to the front, I’d appreciate it. Tell her it’s SSA Blake Wilder and Special Agent Astra Russo.”

  The woman looks thoroughly unimpressed with our creds, but she taps in a few commands on her computer, then turns back to us.

  “Go have a seat. She’ll be out when she has a chance,” the woman says.

  There’s an audible click when she cuts off the intercom—which seems like the equivalent of slamming the phone down on us.

  “She’s a charmer,” Astra mutters as we walk over to the waiting area.

  “I’m guessing personality isn’t a factor in their hiring process,” I add.

  We stand together at the far end of the waiting area for about twenty minutes before Rebekah comes out. She gives us a small, nervous smile and motions us forward. I know Rebekah is nervous about helping us with Deputy Chief Torres breathing down the back of her neck. The last time we talked, she made mention of some of his veiled threats to her job if he continued helping us—helping me.

  She shepherds us quickly down the corridors to her office, closing the door behind us as if she’s shutting out an approaching zombie horde. Only then, with the door closed and us safely out of sight, does she give me a genuine smile and a nervous laugh.

  “Sorry,” Rebekah says. “Things around here have been tense and…well…”

  “And being seen with me is detrimental to the health and well-being of your career,” I finish for her.

  “Honestly, yeah,” she replies. “He’s got eyes and ears everywhere. I’m sure he’s going to hear that I tried to smuggle you guys in here. The man is like an octopus—he’s got his fingers in pies everywhere.”

  “I’m sorry to bring this kind of heat down on you,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head. “I know it’s not you. I know it’s him,” she says softly. “But this little war you two have going on is making everybody jumpy. But it’s as you said, Blake, I can choose to do my job or play politics. I choose to do my job.”

  “Well, the good news is, we’re here on business that has nothing to do with the SPD, so Torres shouldn’t have room to give you any grief,” Astra chimes in brightly.

  “No?”

  I shake my head. “We got this case passed onto us directly from Tukwila PD.”

  “Excellent. That is good news,” Rebekah says. “So, how can I help?”

  “We’re looking to see if the ME’s office has processed any of these four men who’ve been reported missing within the last month,” I say and slide the slip of paper with the names across her desk.

  Rebekah picks up the paper and reads off the names, then sets it down and starts keying them into her computer. She works in silence for a minute, her face screwed up in concentration. When she’s done, she turns back to us.

  “Okay, Eric Gathers was just IDed last night,” she says. “But the other three aren’t in the database.”

  So that’s one down, but three still to go. Astra and I exchange a look, and I can see her wheels spinning, too. I turn back to Rebekah.

  “Do you have any John Does in the refrigerator?” I ask.

  “Of course. We always have at least a few of them.”

  “Great. Can we go down and take a look?” Astra asks.

  “Yeah, I don’t see why not.”

  Rebekah leads us through the warren of corridors until we reach a large, stainless steel door that’s wide enough to admit a gurney and has a white sign with black letters that reads, “Open Unidentified Room,” though it’s colloquially known around the ME’s office as the “Doe Room.” Rebekah punches in a code, and when there’s a soft beep and hard thunk of a lock disengaging, she opens the door and ushers us inside. On all three walls around us are rows of doors that open into the refrigerator trays housing the unidentified dead.

  “Okay, so what are we looking for?” Rebekah asks. “Or more precisely, who?”

  “Black male,” I tell her. “In the age range of nineteen to twenty-four.”

  Rebekah consults
her tablet and keys a few things in before looking back up. “We’ve got five John Does meeting that criteria.”

  I pull the photos of the three missing men who remain outstanding and hand them to Rebekah. She consults her tablet again, then starts moving along the rows of doors. She stops before one drawer and pulls it open. She seems to be comparing the face in the photo with the face on the slab in front of her. She drops the photo on top of the sheet and moves on to check the others. Not wanting to get underfoot, Astra and I stand back and just watch her work until she’s done. And when she is, Rebekah is still holding two of the photos—no matches.

  “At least we can take one more name off the list,” I mutter.

  “Two down, two to go,” Astra reminds me.

  We walk over to the tray where Rebekah is standing and look down at the body of twenty-four-year-old Anthony James. And judging by the five puncture wounds in his chest, I can see he didn’t die a particularly pain-free death.

  “Anthony James,” I say. “Twenty-four, resident of Seattle his entire life.”

  “I’m not sure what kind of a life you can put together in just twenty-four years,” Astra mutters.

  I shrug. “It’s what you make of those years, I guess.”

  Anthony James looks as if he lived a hard life. His body is crisscrossed with a lattice of scars and he has some gang ink he apparently tried to remove himself. The things you have to resort to when you can’t afford the expensive laser surgery, I guess.

  “He died of massive blood loss,” Rebekah reads off her pad. “One of those stab wounds nicked his aorta. He was dead long before the EMTs arrived on the scene. According to reports, the fight broke out over a gambling debt.”

  “I guess Anthony didn’t make very good use of his years,” Astra says.

  “I guess not,” I say.

  Rebekah looks at me. “What is it you guys are working on? I can keep my eyes peeled and let you know if I see anything.”

  “Body was pulled out of a barrel they found floating in the Green River,” I explain. “He was completely disarticulated, head and hands missing.”

  She nods. “I heard something about that. I wrote it off, though,” she says. “I had enough on my plate, so I didn’t really pay attention.”

  “That’s our guy. We’re looking for an ID,” I tell her. “After that, we can start piecing things together and figure out who killed him.”

  “Piecing things together. Because he was cut into pieces, right?” Astra says with a grin. “I see what you did there.”

  I chuckle. “You are a sick woman.”

  “I see why you two get along so well,” Rebekah adds.

  “This is all her,” I say. “She’s twisted.”

  “Pot? This is kettle,” Astra says.

  We all share a laugh that soon fades away. It’s kind of hard to keep up the good spirits in a room where you’re literally surrounded by death. But we got what we came for. We can cross two names off the list, which is leading me to think that although Mo’s idea was good, it’s ultimately going to be a dry hole. And that will land us back at square one. But still, making sure we’re doing our due diligence is part of the job.

  “Thanks, Rebekah,” I say. “I appreciate this. And don’t worry, we’ll be more discreet the next time we need to talk.”

  “I hate that it’s like this—I hate that politics is taking precedence over the work. But I appreciate you understanding,” she replies.

  “Have to play the game if you’re going to win,” I say.

  “Sadly, yeah.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out, so you’re not seen with us any more than you already have been,” I tell her.

  She gives us a grateful smile, then Astra and I make our way out of the Doe Room and back through the twisting labyrinth of corridors that leads us back out to the front. On our way through, we run a gauntlet of SPD detectives. It’s clear some of them are Torres loyalists by the way they’re eyeballing us.

  “Well, that was fun,” Astra mutters once we’re back out of the building.

  I pull out my phone and start keying in a quick text as we walk back to the car.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Giving Rebekah a heads up that some of Torres’ guys are in the building and spotted us,” I explain. “I’m really worried she’s going to be collateral damage in this stupid little war.”

  “Well, if she is, I’d be willing to bet you could pull some strings and get her a gig at the labs in Quantico.”

  I give her a smile. “You really do have the best ideas every now and then.”

  Though it’s a possible solution if Rebekah gets caught up in this fight brewing with Torres, I really hope it doesn’t come down to that. I’d hate for her to have to uproot her entire life because of me. Or actually, because of one man’s issues with me.

  Twelve

  Boogie’s Billiards Parlor; Downtown Seattle

  The sign out front says Boogie’s has been operating continuously in Seattle since 1985, and judging by the state of things inside, it hasn’t been cleaned since then, either. The odor of cigarette smoke is thick in the air; the establishment clearly defying state smoking bans. The stench of stale beer and body odor also saturate the air around us.

  “I’m going to need a scalding hot shower after this,” Astra comments as we walk through the billiards hall.

  “With bleach and scrub brushes,” I add.

  We’ve just come from Terrence Meadows’ house only to find that his brother’s report turned out to be erroneous. Turns out, Terrence wasn’t missing at all. He’d simply skipped town to go on a spontaneous weekend trip with his girlfriend. They apparently drove up to Vancouver to play in the casinos and get away from the pressures of school for a little while. They were all very apologetic about the mix-up and frankly, I’m glad to have gotten at least one sliver of good news out of this day.

  But after that, we hit Antoine Booker’s place and spoke to his aunt Florence—and got nowhere. She wasn’t quite altogether there. According to Antoine’s sister, May—who cares for the older woman—Florence suffers from dementia and put in the call to the police to report Antoine missing during one of her episodes. May said it had been some time since they’d seen him, but that it was nothing new. She said he was often gone for weeks at a time and that he didn’t really have much to do with their family—that his gang was his family.

  It was obvious that being there was a waste of time, and that Antoine may or may not even be missing. Heading back to our car though, we were approached by a kid who couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. He told us that Antoine came around often, bringing groceries and whatnot for Florence, but May would chase him off. She didn’t approve of Antoine’s being in a gang and didn’t want the trouble it brought anywhere near their aunt. I can’t say I really blame May for that. But I’m not too crazy about her not telling us that Antoine does comes around to help with Florence.

  But their family dynamics are neither my business nor concern. All that matters is running down Antoine to see if he’s the man in the barrel or not. And to that end, the kid who approached us said that the Playboys like to hang out at Boogie’s. Though for the life of me, I can’t figure out why anybody would willingly spend time here. The place is a dump. It’s filthy, my feet are sticking to the floor, and there’s garbage everywhere. The only clean things in this place are the pool tables. Those are somehow pristine.

  We approach a small group of men seated at the bar in the back. They’ve all got drinks in their hands and are speaking in low tones, then laughing in louder ones as they watch us. There are six of them seated at or behind the bar, and I’d peg all of them to be in their twenties. They all have hostile expressions on their faces and stare at us with open disdain.

  “You lost, cop?” starts the man seated closest to me.

  Even though he’s sitting down, I can tell he’s well over six feet tall. He’s got broad, sloping shoulders, a thick neck, and a
body that’s taut with corded muscle. He’s got braids in his hair that fall to his shoulders, a neatly trimmed goatee, and hands that are so large, they should probably be called paws. He’s a good-looking man who can no doubt appear downright terrifying if he wants to. Right now, he just looks amused.

  Astra and I badge him and the rest of the group. “SSA Wilder, Special Agent Russo,” I introduce us. “We’re looking for Antoine Booker. Seen him?”

  “Yeah, I seen him. About five-nine, five-ten. Long dreads, dark eyes. Squirrely little cat,” he cracks with a grin.

  The others chuckle and make comments under their breath to each other, clearly amused by his attempt to mock us. I give him a smile and a nod.

  “That’s great. Seen him lately?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Hard to say. People come and people go all the time,” he tells me. “It ain’t my job to be their keeper.”

  “No, of course not,” I reply. “But we got a report that he was missing. We needed to follow up just to make sure he’s alright.”

  The man scoffs. “Man, when you ever been worried about a black man who goes missin’? Get outta here with that crap. We know you’re just lookin’ to jam him up. We look stupid to you or somethin’? We know how this game is played.”

  “I’d never say you looked stupid,” Astra chimes in, taking a step forward. “But right now, you’re not looking all that bright. We’re trying to help here.”

  “Man, cops ain’t never helped us with anythin’ before. I don’t buy that you’d start now,” he fires back, his voice deep and gruff. “SPD ain’t never done sh—”

  “We’re not SPD,” I reply and hold my creds closer for him to see. “We’re FBI.”

  “Even worse,” one of the other guys mutters.

  “Look, honestly—I get that you’re not fans of SPD. We aren’t either,” Astra says. “But we really are trying to help. We just need to eliminate Antoine as a possible victim of the crime we’re investigating.”

  “Victim?” asks the large man, a sudden light of curiosity in his eyes.