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

by Elle Gray

  I laugh. “What makes you think I did anything?”

  “Because Rosie doesn’t call you into her office unless she’s about to take a bite out of your backside,” she cracks.

  “Now, I’d pay to watch that,” Rick calls over.

  “Rick, do I need to send you to the sexual harassment seminars again?” I ask.

  “No ma’am,” he shakes his head. “I’m pretty confident in my abilities to properly sexually harass anybody. I don’t need a seminar to teach me.”

  Astra and I burst into laughter. That was about the last thing I expected to hear come out of his mouth. But maybe it shouldn’t have been. His ability to avoid taking anything seriously and instead come out with something snarky is about on par with Astra’s.

  “Funny,” I say. “That’s funny.”

  “So what was it Rosie wanted?” Astra asks again.

  “Torres came in. He wanted a sit-down,” I explain.

  “Yeah? And how’d that go?”

  “Let’s just say Rosie might have taken a nibble of my backside, but she took a whole chunk out of Torres’. It was a thing of beauty to behold,” I say.

  “That’s our girl,” Astra crows. “But to be honest, I’m getting a little bit worried about Torres. The guy has a special kind of hate for you. I would’ve thought he’d have let this whole thing go by now.”

  “Yeah, that makes two of us,” I tell her. “And yet, here we are.”

  “Well, just make sure to watch your back.”

  “Plan on it,” I respond. “And thanks.”

  “Of course.”

  I clear my throat and look around, having been so preoccupied that I’m only just now realizing for the first time that we’re a man down.

  “Where’s Mo?” I frown.

  “Bremerton,” Rick says. “Said she was going to follow up on some of the doctors she thought were overprescribing opioids in the city. Said you told her it was alright.”

  I nod. “That’s right. I forgot,” I tell him. “Thanks for that.”

  I like to see Mo taking a little more initiative like that. She identified a case and has been doing all the legwork on it. I can see her confidence building up a little more every day, and I think that’s a good thing. She’s smart and competent. Has solid instincts. She’s an effective agent. But stuck behind a desk up in White Collar, she never got a chance to show what she could bring to the table. Nor did she get a chance to show her skills in the field. I like what I’m seeing from her now that she’s getting a little more self-assured in her work.

  “So what’s on our agenda for the day, boss?” Astra asks.

  “You and I are going to have some fun.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” I nod. “We’re going to go talk to some of the Kings.”

  “As I’ve said a thousand times, you certainly know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “I thought you’d enjoy this.”

  Astra smirks at me. “Well, it could definitely be fun. I haven’t beaten anybody senseless in a while. I’m a little rusty, but I think I can manage.”

  “Don’t forget to limber up first,” I reply. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

  “Hey now, Benjamin keeps me plenty young,” she says. “And flexible.”

  “Oh, my God, I so didn’t need to hear that,” I gasp and then giggle.

  “I’m not opposed to hearing a little more,” Rick calls out. “Please continue.”

  “You’re such a pig,” Astra calls to him.

  “Oink oink,” he fires right back.

  I shake my head. “Rick, can you tap into OC’s database and pull up on what they have on the Eighth Street Kings? I want a leadership tree, known hangouts—the works.”

  “We going in with SWAT at our backs?” Astra asks.

  “Not yet. I’d rather not call them in unless it becomes necessary,” I tell her. “I’m planning to just go in, have a conversation. I think having a contingent of armed men behind us might put a damper on that chat. Get it started off on the wrong foot, you know?”

  Astra scoffs. “Yeah, well, usually it turns out that what you plan on happening ends up bearing very little resemblance to what actually happens,” she says. “Ever notice that?”

  “I have, actually. Damnedest thing, isn’t it?”

  She grins at me and shakes her head. On the wall-mounted monitors at the front of the bullpen, pictures and charts start going up. I look at them, trying to memorize the gang members’ faces.

  “The guy running the Kings right now is Eric Demone. Otherwise just known as Demon,” Rick reads from his screen. “Mr. Demone is forty-three years old and has done bids for aggravated assault, attempted murder, and rape. He was also suspected of a home invasion triple homicide, but the case fell apart when two key eyewitnesses turned up dead—also something they could never pin on him. Collectively, he’s spent twenty of his forty-three years on this planet in prison.”

  “He seems nice,” Astra comments.

  The man on the screen looks hardened. Tough. His skin is a dark umber, his eyes are the color of coffee, but they’re dull and lifeless, and he seems to have a permanent sneer on his face. A scar runs from his right temple down to the middle of his cheek, and he’s got a full, James Harden-style beard.

  “His right-hand man is Mack Robinson. He’s either a Marvel or Wesley Snipes fan because he goes by the name of Blade. He’s thirty-eight years old and did ten years for manslaughter. He was also suspected in that triple homicide, and according to reports, is almost assuredly the one who offed the two witnesses against Demone,” Rick announces. “He’s the Johnny Ringo to Demone’s Curly Bill Brosius. And on paper, he appears to be a lot smarter than his boss. Probably won’t be long before Ringo there is running the Kings.”

  Mack is smooth-skinned and clean-cut. His skin is a warm russet color and he’s got milk chocolate-colored eyes. The smile on his face in his mugshot is disarming. It’s confident and warm, yet still kind of boyish. You definitely wouldn’t think a vicious killer is hiding behind it. Robinson looks far younger than thirty-eight and doesn’t have that hardened look about him that Demone does. The ten years inside didn’t seem to age him the way it does most people.

  “Or it could be that if he’s a lot smarter than Demone, he just enjoys being the power behind the throne,” I note. “Some people prefer being Machiavelli, operating behind the scenes and in the shadows.”

  “If I were in Blade’s shoes, I’d definitely prefer being Machiavelli. Demone is going to take all the slings and arrows. He’ll be the first guy others shoot at,” Astra adds. “Meanwhile, he’s still reaping the rewards of leadership, I’m sure. If he’s Johnny Ringo and is that much smarter, he’s no doubt manipulating Demone and getting whatever he wants.”

  “Either way, be careful, guys,” Rick says. “Something tells me that they won’t exactly just broadcast whichever theory is true to a couple of FBI agents.”

  “So those are our dates for the day, huh?” Astra asks.

  “Sure are. You ready for this?”

  “I’m always ready,” she says with a snort.

  “Alright, then,” I nod. “Rick, do me a favor and send their usual haunts and addresses to my phone, if you would, please.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Astra and I head out for our date with a couple of killers. All the while, I feel an itch between my shoulder blades. The hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. And I can’t escape the feeling that I’m being watched. My first thought is that Torres has somebody surveilling me. And the thought that follows that one is that Torres has hired somebody to murder me.

  Clearly, I’m going to need to find a way to keep my head on a constant swivel.

  Eighteen

  Splits & Strikes Bowling Alley, Beacon Hill District; Seattle, WA

  The moment we step through the door and walk into the bowling alley, I feel the eyes on us. And the deeper we go, the more intense that feeling gets. We obviously don�
��t belong here and stand out like a pair of sore thumbs. All around us, I see people casting furtive glances our way, while others are just staring openly. We draw so much attention that even the sounds of balls rolling down the alleys and the crash of the pins is absent.

  “I suddenly know how Custer must have felt,” Astra whispers.

  I stifle my laugh as we walk through the alley. It only takes us a minute to spot Demone and Blade. They’re posted up at a table just outside the bowling alley bar, watching us as we approach. And as we get close to them, two men who look like they should be playing middle linebackers in the NFL step between us and our quarry.

  I look up at the man in front of me—and as he’s close to six-five or six-six, I do have to look up—and give him my best smile.

  “How are we today, gentlemen?” I ask.

  He grins, showing off a freshly jeweled grill over his teeth, but doesn’t say a word. He’s dressed in white tennis shoes, black pants, and a black t-shirt that’s stretched to the limit over his muscles, one wrong flex away from bursting into atoms. The black skull cap on his head completes the outfit. The man standing next to him, dressed almost exactly the same way, could easily pass for his twin.

  “I like the way your grill matches your chain,” I say, pointing to the thick gold rope around his neck. “They really bring out your eyes.”

  The man in front of me turns to his partner and chuckles. “She got jokes.”

  His partner turns to me, completely stone-faced and unamused. There’s a glint of malice in his eyes that sends a cold shiver down my spine, and for the first time, I wonder if coming here was the right thing to do. We’re outnumbered—and I have no doubt, completely outgunned. I cast a glance over at Astra and see that she’s got an amused twinkle in her eye, which I totally don’t get. But she’s got a smile curling the corners of her mouth upward.

  The man in front of me turns his eyes back to mine. “You two don’t belong here,” he says. “You’d best get steppin’.”

  “Trey,” comes a deep, raspy voice behind him. “Show these two officers some respect and get out the way.”

  The two men hesitate for a moment, then grudgingly step aside. They retake their positions on stools that flank the table with Demone and Blade—who I keep thinking of as Ringo. Demone is dressed in a black track suit with red stripes down the sides of his legs and arms and sneakers that are blindingly white—sneakers that no doubt cost a small fortune. Blade is in black jeans and a red and black checkered button-down, long-sleeved shirt. The shirt is buttoned up to his neck, the sleeves are all the way down, and he, too, has white sneakers I’m sure cost almost as much as the one pair of Louboutins I splurged on a few years back.

  Demone snaps his fingers and points to us. Trey gets off his stool and fetches us a couple of chairs. When he sets them down, he returns to his stool and stares at us with about as much emotion in his face as the Sphinx.

  “I’ve never seen a mountain move before,” I start. “That was interesting.”

  Demone chuckles and looks over at Trey. “You’re right. She got jokes.”

  Trey grunts, making a sound like two boulders rubbing together, but doesn’t say a word. Demone turns back to us and smiles warmly.

  “Can I offer you ladies a drink?” he asks, the tone of his voice just skirting the edge between respect and derision. “The bartender here can make you a mai tai? Or maybe a cranberry sour, if you prefer?”

  “Shot of Bushmills. Neat, please,” Astra replies.

  I have to keep myself from turning to her or betraying any emotion on my face. I know she’s trying to establish a little credibility with them. If we’ve got credibility, they’re more likely to trust us. If they trust us, they’re more likely to talk to us. And since we have nothing tying them to Ben’s murder, we’re going to need them to talk to us if we hope to make the case.

  “Make it two,” I add.

  Demone gives us a small nod of respect. It’s a little thing that’s stupid, really. But showing that we’re not the types who’d drink a mai tai—though I do love one every now and then—earns a mark of credibility. For some reason, these guys are more apt to trust somebody who can drink like they do, rather than drink something that comes with an umbrella in it. I don’t know why. It’s never made all that much sense to me. I imagine it’s some macho, alpha-male bullcrap. But if you work the streets long enough, you get to know these little cheat codes.

  Trey’s clone disappears through the door and into the bar. While he’s gone, none of us says a word. We just sit at the table staring at each other as if in some silent battle of wills. It’s all part of the ritual—and I’ve learned that when you’re in enemy territory, it’s always best to observe the rituals if you want to make it out with your skin intact. I cast a glance over at Blade, who’s said nothing this whole time. All he’s doing is sitting back, arms folded over his chest, watching us. I can tell he’s trying to visually dissect us, and I get the impression this is a man who does not miss much. He hasn’t said a thing, but I already know he’s sharper than a—well—blade.

  The man comes back with a tray that’s got fresh drinks for everybody. He sets the glasses of Bushmills down in front of Astra and me, then the other pair in front of Demone and Blade. We all reach for them at the same time and raise our shot glasses. No words are spoken, but we all quaff the Irish whiskey in one swallow and set our glasses back down. I grimace as the amber liquid burns its way down my throat, settling into my stomach and sending tendrils of heat through my entire body. Yeah, I’m not much of a drinker.

  But the ritual is done. We’ve all now broken bread together—figuratively, of course—and have established some sort of rapport. Now, the real conversation can begin.

  “I didn’t figure that you’d be running your empire from a bowling alley,” I start.

  Demone shrugs. “I like bowling. It’s a great American pastime.”

  “It was first developed in Egypt,” Astra corrects him. “Like five thousand years ago.”

  “Well, like so many other things we value in this country, we appropriated it, repackaged it, made it our own, then took credit for it,” Blade speaks up for the first time, drawing a forced laugh from Demone, who clearly had no idea of the history of the game.

  Blade’s eyes are sparkling with amusement and his voice is rich and buttery smooth. It’s almost hypnotic. He could easily be a DJ on one of the jazz stations I listen to. Also, I can’t really argue with his point, as it’s pretty much spot-on.

  “Well, it don’t matter how it got here, anyway. It’s here now,” Demone shrugs. “But the question is, what can we do for you, Officers?”

  “It’s actually Agents,” I say as we badge them. “SSA Wilder, Special Agent Russo from the Seattle Field Office.”

  “Oh, we must be movin’ up into the big time if we got the feebs up in here now,” Demone chuckles, nudging Blade with his elbow. “My bad. What can we do for y’all—Agents.”

  “We found one of your—associates—recently,” I tell them. “Ben Davis. He was stuffed into a barrel and sent down the Green River. He was in pretty rough shape—”

  “In pieces, actually,” Astra jumps in. “Lots of little pieces. And I’m not being figurative.”

  “Right. And we were curious what you might know about that,” I finish. “We saw his ink and know he was part of your organization. Or at least, he was at one time.”

  Demone looks over at Blade, and I can see some silent bit of communication pass between them. I don’t know what it is precisely, but it looks to me as if both of them were taken aback. My gut tells me they have no idea what I’m talking about.

  “What do you mean, ‘in pieces’?” Demone frowns.

  “Dismembered,” Astra explains. “Literally taken apart piece by piece, then stuffed in a barrel and sent down the river.”

  “Are you both being serious right now?” Blade asks.

  I nod. “We are.”

  “Damn,” Demone mutters, then looks up at us
, his eyes hard. “Who did it?”

  Astra and I fall silent for a moment and exchange a look. Blade obviously doesn’t miss it, because he stares at us. The frost coming off his glare could freeze the entire city solid.

  “They think we did it,” he announces.

  Demone looks from Blade to us, his entire body tensing and his eyes narrowing. “That right? You think we killed Benny?”

  “We’re not making any assumptions about anything just yet,” I say diplomatically. “Right now, we’re gathering information. It’s just part of the investigative process.”

  “But it wouldn’t be the first time somebody was killed for leaving an—organization—such as yours,” Astra adds, less than diplomatically.

  And just like that, the air between us grows cold and crackles with tension. Demone and Blade stare at us hard, as if they find the mere suggestion they were involved in somebody’s death offensive.

  “We’re just asking questions right now,” I tell them, trying to cool the tempers before they get out of control. “We really aren’t making assumptions. I prefer to make my cases based on facts. And the truth is, Agent Russo is right—people looking to get out of a gang haven’t always made it out successfully.”

  Blade stares at me for another moment, but then his expression softens. “Nah. It wasn’t like that. Benny was a good kid. We’d never do him like that,” he says, then with a smirk adds, “I assume everything we say right here is off the record, since you’re just fact findin’. Right?”

  “We’re completely off the record,” I nod. “I give you my word. Nothing said here will come back on you.”

  Astra cuts a glance at me and I shake my head. It’s probably dumb to make that sort of guarantee when you’re dealing with career criminals, but I’m fairly certain that they aren’t going to say anything too incriminating. I’m also fairly certain they had nothing to do with the death of Ben Davis. When they speak of him, I can see a genuine sense of affection in their eyes. It’s as Grace said—he apparently just had a way with people to make them love him.

  “I knew he wasn’t gonna be a King for life when he first joined up,” Demone tells us. “Always had one foot in, one foot out. And in this life, you can’t straddle that line. You gotta commit one hundred percent.”