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

by Elle Gray

  I’m sure it’s only my guilt over her death weighing down on me as it has from the start. But that burden is getting heavier by the day. On those long, sleepless nights, I’ve had some time to think and reflect on why her death seems to be hitting me on a more personal level than Mr. Corden’s. And what I’ve realized is that although, yeah, I feel guilty about Mr. Corden’s being murdered, he was coming to me. He contacted me out of the blue, wanting to set up a meet. That was his choice, and given what he knew and was trying to tell me, Mr. Corden was well aware of the risks involved with what he was doing. He accepted those risks.

  Gina, on the other hand, is on me. She had a good idea of the danger, and she did everything she could to avoid the risks. But I dragged her into this. She would have been content to live out her days without ever seeing my face or hearing my name. But I badgered and guilted her into talking to me and she finally relented. Now she’s dead. And try to rationalize it in as many different ways as I have, I can’t. It’s my fault Gina’s dead. She’d lived for twenty years in peace, but one hour of talking to me and she ended up on a slab in the morgue.

  I push all those thoughts to the back of my mind. I’m sure I’ll have more than enough time for further self-recrimination tonight when I’m not sleeping again. I’m sluggish and want nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep for the next decade or so. Maybe when I wake up, things will have magically sorted themselves out. Or at least they’ll start to make sense. Barring that, though, I’m going to need to push through both the mental and physical fatigue. There’s work to be done and killers to catch.

  “Okay, so where are we?” I ask. “Have we gotten any of the reports back from—well—anybody yet?”

  “We got some preliminary findings from the King County ME,” Mo announces. “And by preliminary, I mean the basics.”

  “Well, what do we have?”

  “His estimated height and weight. Which is six-three, one hundred and eighty-five pounds, if you’re interested,” she replies. “They can’t pin down an exact TOD but they’re estimating he was in the barrel for at least a day.”

  I look at her, waiting for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “That’s it? That’s all there is?”

  She shrugs. “Aside from the crime scene photos, evidence list, and preliminary chronology, that’s all they sent along. They’re still waiting for results from the tox screen.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to fight off the wave of irritation washing over me. Maybe this whole thing with my parents has seeing conspiracies where they don’t exist, but I’m about positive we’re being slow-walked by the ME’s office. And if that’s true, then the hand behind the slowdown has to be Torres. Something’s going to have to be done about him sooner, rather than later. I just don’t know what that is yet.

  I turn to Astra. “Anything from Quantico?”

  She beams at me. “I thought you’d never ask,” she chirps. “I got the results back this morning and they were able to run the tox screen. He’s one hundred percent clean. No alcohol, no drugs. Nothing.”

  I nod as I absorb the information. That he had nothing in his system is surprising to me and it puts a crack in the lens through which I’ve been viewing the case. From the start, I’ve assumed that drugs were involved with this whole thing—that they were the root of this man’s murder. I try to remind myself that not all dealers use their own product. There are plenty of dealers who don’t use at all. They’re totally fine with poisoning other people but would never deign to poison themselves. For them, it’s all about the money.

  But as the thought crosses my mind, I have to admit that it feels wrong. It feels like trying to force myself into jeans that are four sizes too small—they just don’t fit no matter how hard I try to wriggle and jam myself into them. There is no rational basis for that feeling. No logical reason for it. There is certainly no evidence that contradicts the idea that this was a drug deal gone bad or had drugs at the root of it—yet the thought has persisted.

  Although, as I let all the information bounce around in my mind, I also have to admit that there is no rational basis or actual evidence that supports the idea that this has anything to do with drugs in the first place. There was nothing found on the body. Nothing at the scene. Nothing to indicate that this was drug-related other than the gang ink and my own personal bias. The only thing making me think this is drug-related is the fact that the victim is in a gang and slinging dope is usually their biggest—and most times, only—revenue stream.

  “Did Quantico run the DNA?” I ask.

  Astra nods, her smile still wide and a light of excitement in her eyes. “They did and there was no match in CODIS.”

  “Then why in the hell are you grinning like a kid on Christmas morning?”

  “Because I’m already looking forward to the moment when you tell me just how utterly brilliant I am,” she chimes.

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because your girl here, in a stroke of genius and foresight, had the lab rats in Quantico run the DNA through the genealogical database as well as CODIS.”

  My eyes widen as I look at her. The only reason she’s practically bouncing in her seat is that we got a match. Which means we’re going to be able to ID our victim.

  “Tell me,” I say.

  “We have a mitochondrial match,” she says.

  “You’re kidding me,” I reply, feeling a spark of hope ignite inside of me.

  The use of genealogical databases to hunt down criminals has been a controversial subject. Many argue it violates the Fourth Amendment against illegal search and seizure. In a case like the one that caught Joseph DeAngelo—the Golden State Killer or the original Night Stalker, depending on your preference—opponents of genealogical searches fought his arrest, saying he never consented to have his DNA taken, thus it was a violation of the Fourth Amendment. Proponents argue that there is no expectation of privacy in a genealogical database, and it isn’t sacrosanct, like doctor-patient or clergy-penitent privileges are.

  I tend to stay out of such debates, because that sort of thing is well above my paygrade. At heart, I’m a cop and I welcome any and all tools that will help us put bad guys away forever. Genealogical profiling has helped us do that, and until the use of those databases is ruled illegal by the Supreme Court, I’ll keep using them. They can often lead to massive breaks in a case. Such as this one. So now, instead of being back at square one, we’re jumping ahead on the board.

  “No, ma’am, I’m most certainly not kidding you,” she says. “The mother of our victim is named Grace Davis.”

  “Wow. Talk about burying the lede,” Mo says dryly.

  “Uh oh. Sounds like somebody’s a little salty that I’m taking that gold star back from her,” Astra teases.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get it back again soon,” Mo fires back.

  “And the result is conclusive?” I ask, bracing myself for disappointment.

  “One hundred percent,” she tells me.

  “Grace Davis, age forty-one, unmarried, is the mother to Ben Davis, age twenty-five—her only child. She’s a lifelong resident of Seattle and has worked as a CPA at a small firm for fifteen years,” Rick calls from his station. “Ben Davis is a pre-med student at Washington State. Has a juvie record for vandalism and simple assault—both charged as misdemeanors.”

  I feel that spark inside of me begin to grow, filling my belly with the warmth of excitement I get when a case starts to build some momentum. Now that we have the name of our vic, we have a solid direction to run in, and the sluggishness that had gripped me earlier is being quickly melted away.

  “This is good. Good stuff,” I say. “Guys, do me a favor and put your other case on hold for a minute. I need you guys to do a deep dive on Ben Davis for me. I need to know everything there is to know about him. Also, send the DNA profile Astra got from Quantico over to the King County ME’s office. We at least need to appear to play ball with them. And Rick, s
end the address for Grace Davis to my phone, please.”

  “You got it, boss,” they chime almost in unison.

  I turn to Astra and grin. “Gold star for you today. Excellent work,” I say. “Let’s go meet Grace Davis and see if we can figure out what’s going on.”

  Fifteen

  Davis Residence, Highland Park Neighborhood; Seattle, WA

  “It occurred to me that Grace never filed a missing persons report. She may not even know her son was murdered,” Astra notes as we get out of the car.

  “Yeah, I had the same thought.”

  “So, how should we play this?”

  “Carefully,” I tell her. “And gently.”

  We walk across the street as I take a look around the neighborhood. Tall trees line the street, filling the gutters with clots of leaves. It’s working-class for sure—neither rich nor poor. The cars in the driveways all look nice, but not too nice. Not a Mercedes or a Tesla to be found anywhere. The cars reflect the houses—functional without being fancy. The homes and the yards are all fairly clean and well-squared-away for the most part, but they’re all simple.

  This is the kind of blue-collar neighborhood where people come out and hold community cookouts in the street on the Fourth of July. The sort of neighborhood where people know their neighbors and look out for one another. This isn’t like some of the socially and financially elite neighborhoods where that sort of familiarity with your neighbors is considered gauche, and the only interaction you have with them is during “social season”—meaning gatherings at art galleries, fund raisers, and the like. You’d never catch a neighborhood in Laurelhurst or Denny-Blaine hosting a cookout in the street. They’d consider it beneath them.

  Like every other house on the street, the Davis home is nice, but not fancy. It’s made of white clapboard and red brick, with dark green shutters and trim. Up close, it’s easy to see that the house hasn’t been painted in a good long while. There are cracks in places and the paint is peeling in others. The yard is in good order, though, with everything tidy and neatly trimmed. I suspect every other home in this neighborhood is a lot like the Davis home—nicer from a distance than up close. Home repair and upkeep is expensive. I doubt most of the people in this neighborhood have the financial flexibility to sink money into something like painting the whole house or updating their roofs.

  We mount the three steps and walk across a wooden porch that’s painted the same shade of green as the shutters and trim, but is faded and dull. Scratches and scuff marks crisscross the wood, adding to the impression of a home slowly falling into decay. I glance at Astra, then raise my hand and knock on the door. From deeper in the house, I hear footsteps, and a moment later, the door opens a little bit, and we find ourselves looking at our victim’s mother.

  “Grace Davis?” I ask.

  “That’s right,” she replies. “And you are?”

  We both badge her. “I’m Special Agent Russo,” Astra says. “This is SSA Wilder. May we come in and talk for a moment?”

  “What is this about?” she frowns.

  “Please, Ms. Davis, I think it would be better if we discussed this inside,” I say.

  An expression of fear crosses her face, and she looks from me to Astra and back again. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but it has no effect. I’m sure it doesn’t help that my smile probably looks as wooden as it feels, given the news we’re about to drop on her. Despite her reservations, she purses her lips and straightens her spine, then opens the door to us. Astra and I murmur our thanks and step inside.

  Grace Davis is a small woman. She’s thin, standing five-four at the most. And yet despite that, she’s got a presence about her that makes her seem larger somehow. Her skin is a rich sepia tone, and her eyes are like warm coffee. She’s got a smattering of white in dark hair that’s cut short, almost buzzed really, and there are soft lines around the corners of her eyes and mouth. She’s only forty-one, but you can see that she’s lived some life. Yet despite whatever trials she’s gone through, she’s endured and has a strength that radiates from her, maybe because of them. Probably because of them.

  The interior of the house is a reflection of the woman herself. It’s neat and orderly. There’s the usual clutter that comes with a house that’s well lived in, but everything has a place and everything’s in that place. The décor is tasteful but somewhat conservative, and everything is done in soft earth tones. She has a few pieces of religious iconography—there’s a crucifix on the wall just above the door and a small figurine of the Virgin Mary on the mantel above the fireplace. There is no television in the living room, but classical music is playing from a stereo that’s tucked into the corner. The furniture doesn’t all match, but everything looks comfortable. You can see that this is a family home.

  Ms. Davis leads us to the living room and offers us a seat on the sofa, then sits down on the loveseat just perpendicular to it. She folds her hands in her lap, nervously wringing them together as she faces us. The wall behind the loveseat where Grace sits is covered in photographs—mostly of her son, Ben. Same with the wall behind the sofa. There are pictures of him in a basketball uniform. High school graduation. Pictures of him from when he was a child to some more recent ones. It’s obvious she takes great pride in him. Which makes the news I have to deliver even more heart-wrenching.

  “Wh-what is this about?” she asks again. “Why is the FBI at my door?”

  “Ms. Davis, we’re here about your son, Ben,” I start.

  “What about him?” she asks with a tremor in her voice. “He’s up at school. I know he didn’t get into any trouble down here.”

  If only that were true. “Ms. Davis—”

  “Please, call me Grace.”

  “Very well… Grace,” I say. “I’m Blake and this is Astra.”

  I realize I’m stalling right now, but I’ve never been very good about death notifications. It doesn’t help that Grace is already looking at me with wide eyes that are filled with fear. It’s as though she already knows what I’m about to tell her and is praying that she’s wrong.

  “Ms. Da—Grace,” I tell her. “I’m truly sorry to say that your son’s body was discovered near the Green—”

  I don’t even fully get the words out when a keening wail shatters the air around us. It’s a sound filled with the sharpest note of pain I’ve ever heard. Grace buries her face in her hands and howls in her agony. I shift on my seat and glance at Astra, who looks every bit as uncomfortable as I do. We remain as we are, though, letting Grace feel her emotions without interruption. I know exactly what it’s like to feel the bitter sting of loss, and it tears my heart to pieces to see and hear this woman going through it.

  It takes a little time, but she manages to pull herself together. As she does, I get up and run into the bathroom, quickly returning with a box of tissues. She accepts them with a murmur of thanks and pulls one out, drying her eyes and nose. The look of grief on the woman’s face is piercing. It’s haunting and I know I’ll never forget it.

  “A—are you sure it’s my baby? Are you sure it’s my Ben?” she asks.

  “Unfortunately so, Grace,” Astra says delicately. “We were able to match him to you through mitochondrial DNA. It’s—conclusive. I’m so sorry.”

  Grace shakes her head and dabs at the fresh tears that are flowing down her face. She takes a couple of beats and looks at us. I can see her battling her emotions, but I can also see that strength I sensed earlier asserting itself. Her jaw is clenched and she’s fighting to keep more tears from falling. I admire her grit and the control she has over her emotions. That’s an attribute I wish I had sometimes.

  “Where was he found?” she asks.

  “He was pulled out of the Green River near Tukwila,” I explain. “Do you know what he might have been doing down that way?”

  She shakes her head again. “He was in Pullman. At school,” she says with a slight quaver in her voice. “I didn’t know he’d come back this way. He shouldn’t have been. Not with cla
sses still in session.”

  I get to my feet and go to the mantel, looking at the photo of Ben set there. He’s in a purple and white basketball uniform, down on one knee, one arm resting on his leg, the other hand on top of the ball. He looks so young. So innocent. He was a baby-faced kid who, as the later pictures show, grew into a handsome man. In the picture I’m looking at, I can see the hope and optimism in his eyes and in his smile.

  It’s not hard to see that this was a kid who loved the game and had big plans for his future. It’s a thought that brings Antoine Booker to mind again. They’re like two sides of the same coin.

  “My boy—he loved the game. It was his biggest passion in life,” she says quietly. “He was already being scouted. Was invited to join an AAU team, and the college scouts were already thicker than ants on honey when he was playing in high school. They said he had what it took to make it to the next level.”

  I recall the scar on the side of his knee we found and just know that surgery altered the trajectory of his life. And it’s potentially what ultimately ended it.

  “What happened?” I ask. “I saw the scar on his knee. It was surgical.”

  She sniffs loudly. “He tore the ligaments in his knee during one of his games. It was bad. Doctors said even if he did play again—which they doubted—he’d never be the same kind of player. The injury would rob him of his explosiveness, they said,” she tells us. “After that, the scouts stopped coming around and the scholarship offers dried up. Ben was lost without basketball. Adrift. He had no focus and felt he had no purpose. I told him that God had bigger plans for him, but he couldn’t hear me.”

  “Is that when—is that when he joined the Eighth Street Kings?” Astra asks, a bit more indelicately than I’d hoped she would.

  Grace looks at Astra as if she’d been expecting the question, and nods. “Yes. That’s when he joined the gang and started to get into some trouble. Nothing major. He got caught spray painting on a wall, then was charged in a fight with another boy,” she sighs. “He was just so angry. So hateful. He felt as if his entire reason for being was taken away from him when he hurt his knee, and he hated the world for it.”