by Elle Gray
“That’s a little dramatic.”
“No. That’s just the truth.”
The EKG machine I’m strapped to starts to beep incessantly as my pulse races and I can’t do anything to stop it. We both look at it, then laugh together.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, his tone hopeful. “You’ll give me another shot?”
“That’s a yes.”
His smile stretches from ear to ear. “That’s a great answer.”
And as he leans down to kiss me, the EKG machine chimes wildly.
Thirty
Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle
Day four of my involuntary imprisonment starts the same way the previous three did—with nothing happening. I’ve put my house back together. Cleaned it from top to bottom. Tried to watch TV, only to lose interest in seeing supposedly real housewives behaving like real spoiled asses. And have tried at least half a dozen new juice smoothie recipes. To say I’m climbing the walls and going out of my mind would be a massive understatement.
The guards they posted out front aren’t even talking to me. Rosie must have specifically asked for the two surliest, straightest-laced sticks in the mud in the whole field office. Their heads kind of look like thumbs and their personalities do, too. Every few hours they call a cursory, “Switching shifts, Agent Griffin,”through the door, ., and those are about the only words they say to me.
I found out yesterday that Astra wasn’t kidding when she told me that Rosie had put a block on my ID, disallowing me from entering the field office. I went in and was told that I was temporarily restricted from access, then sent back home. I’ve tried calling Rosie more times than I can count. She could probably get a restraining order for stalking by now. But she’s not taking my calls.
It sucks because I’m feeling better and am ready to get back to work The longer I’m sitting on the bench, the colder my case is getting. Timing is everything in this game, and sitting on the sidelines is only letting the other team get that much further ahead of us. I can practically feel the case slipping away from me as I sit here twiddling my thumbs.
I take a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and wander into the war room. As I take a long swallow, I look at the wall before me, my eyes drifting to the photos of the dead Supreme Court Justices once more. I’d told myself the other night that I needed to get to work, delving into the replacement Justices.
I’ve done a light survey of their backgrounds and didn’t find anything that particularly popped with me. About all I can say is that none of the three is a political firebrand. They all avoid issuing controversial opinions, and unusually, none has an overwhelming amount of experience on the bench. But they were apparently centrist enough to garner support on both sides of the aisle and achieve confirmation.
In fact, all of them were confirmed with broad bipartisan support, which is really surprising, given the times we’re living in. And because I don’t think this conspiracy is that wide and far-reaching, I can’t say that every member of the Senate who confirmed these Justices is involved. Also, two were appointed by one Presidential Administration, the third by another, which makes it all the more unlikely there was an orchestrated conspiracy, unless there would be a way to get both sides of the aisle to go along with it. And that would mean a conspiracy that encompasses all the movers and shakers on Capitol Hill. Which is so far out there, I think the possibility is pretty much a non-starter.
So, why these three Justices? It just feels too significant that we lost the three previous Justices over the last few years. Too coincidental. I open up my laptop and start to look through some of the cases the SCOTUS has decided since Justices Karen Witkowski, Sherman Havers, and Benjamin Pearce ascended the bench. I’m not sure exactly what it is I’m looking for and I’m certainly no legal expert, but I’m hoping that something stands out to me. Something I can cling to and start to unravel this Gordian knot.
I’ve just gotten into it when my cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and see that it’s Astra, which brings a smile to my face. I answer the call and press the phone to my ear.
“Hey, what are you doing?” she asks.
“Reviewing Supreme Court decisions and trying to make conversation with those beef slabs outside.”
She groans. “Yeah, okay, I’ll talk to Rosie. See if she’ll lift the embargo and let you back into the building before we need to fit you for a padded room,” she replies with a laugh.
“I’d appreciate it. But I still need to review these cases.”
“They tie into your side project somehow?”
“They might. Hard to say just yet,” I tell her. “I’m only now getting into it.”
“Fair enough,” she says. “I just wanted to call and check on you. We miss you down here.”
“I miss you guys. I never got a chance to ask how Mo’s raid went.”
Astra laughs. “I’ll let her give you the details, but she did a good job. Guy tried to run, and she went full Terminator on him.”
“Good girl. I knew she had it in her.”
“Yeah, she’s riding pretty high right now,” she says. “Also, I brought Blade and Demone in for a formal sit-down yesterday. Got them on the record. They even waived their rights to a lawyer.”
“Yeah? How’d that go? They pissed?”
“Not at all. They had a good time in here,” she says, her voice tinged with amusement.
“What makes you say that?”
“They asked for applications.”
“Clowns.”
“Totally,” she says. “But as far as the case goes, they copped to buying weed from Ben from time to time, but it wasn’t a regular thing. They admitted that they don’t sell weed on the streets—no profit in it since it’s legal, you know?”
“That makes sense.”
“And I really don’t think these guys had anything to do with Ben’s death. When I pressed them on it, they got real upset,” she says. “They said when they find out who did it, they’re going to give whoever it is the same business. Said it on tape.”
“Yeah, that’s not smart.”
“But it kind of tells me they were being honest.”
“Unless it was an act,” I counter. “If whoever the killer is turns up jigsaw-puzzled like Ben, their lawyer can always argue that the tape means nothing, since no rational person would make that argument when he’s knowingly being filmed.”
I frown and tap my finger against my lips, thinking. I mean, it goes along with what I’ve been saying all along—that I don’t feel the Kings are involved in Ben’s death. They actually liked him, and I don’t see as the types to do what was done to Ben. But I know that was my opinion beforehand, so maybe this is simply a bit of confirmation bias.
“What do you think? What does your gut tell you?” I ask.
“My gut tells me these two are innocent,” she says. “Of this, anyway. I’m sure they’re guilty of a host of things we don’t know about. But I don’t think they murdered Ben. They don’t have any clue who did. Their story yesterday didn’t change from the one they told us in the bowling alley.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so, either,” I reply. “Which means we’re down to Petrosyan as our sole survivor.”
“Occam’s razor,” she sighs. “Looks as if you were right.”
“I certainly hope so. We’ve been jerked around so hard from the start, I’m taking nothing for granted,” I tell her. “I won’t be satisfied until we have somebody in custody. I’m hoping it’s Petrosyan, but at this point, I won’t be surprised if it’s somebody else entirely.”
“Your lips to God’s ears,” she says with a bitter chuckle.
I stand up and pace the room for a minute, trying to put a plan together. To draw Petrosyan out and get him to come in, we need bait. We need to make him want to sit down with us. The logical choice is his daughter. We need to use Chloe.
“Alright. As soon as I’m allowed back in the building, we’re going to bring Chloe in
for a nice little chat. That might be enough to rattle Petrosyan,” I say.
“Sounds good to me. The sooner we can put this to bed, the better. This case is giving me migraines,” she replies.
“Tell you what, I’ll take your migraine, you can take this broken rib.”
“Hardy har har. I’ll go talk to Rosie.”
“Please do; she’s not even taking my calls.”
“She’s pretty hardcore.”
“Yeah, she is,” I say. “Oh, and I meant to say thanks.”
“For what?”
“For telling Mark about what happened,” I reply. “He and I had a long talk and—”
“What are you talking about?” she cuts me off. “I didn’t talk to him. Remember? I was the head cheerleader for the ‘dump Mark’ campaign?”
“You didn’t tell him I was in the hospital?”
“Definitely not.”
“Huh. Okay, sorry.”
“So does that mean you two are back together?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure what it means yet. But we’re talking.”
“Well, as long as he lets you be your own woman, I’ll support you.”
“Thanks, Astra. Love you.”
“Love you back.”
I click off the call and set the phone down. My mind churns as I pace the room, a million different thoughts spinning through my head. If Astra didn’t call him to let him know I was in the hospital, who did? How did he know I was in the hospital at all? We weren’t at the hospital where he works, so he wouldn’t have heard through the grapevine there. And I doubt anybody else I know would have called him, either. So how in the hell did he know to come?
A creeping feeling of dread wraps its icy tendrils around me as I recall something Gina Aoki said to me during our meeting. It was something I brushed off at the time, thinking it was the sort of paranoia she’d had to cultivate over her lifetime. But all of a sudden, I’m second-guessing that. I think back to that meeting I had with her and replay what she said in my head:
You’ll never see them coming, Blake. They won’t be ham-handed about putting surveillance equipment in your home. They’ll insert people into your life to keep tabs on you. And these people will stay with you for years. That is how committed they are to their cause.”
I look around the room, wondering if there is any surveillance equipment in my house right now. Wondering if Mark is somebody inserted into my life to keep tabs on me. It would explain his near-obsession with getting me to drop this case. His job might have been to watch me and deter me from following this path. He’s been so insistent about it that I have to wonder about his motivations now.
Was it really because he’s afraid for me? Or because it’s his job to deter me? And that leads me to wonder what his orders are if I get too close. Would he hire somebody to rough me up so I’d think twice about pursuing this? Would he be ordered to kill me? Was that what the woman was doing in my place? Was she planting bugs? Cameras? Did I come home in the middle of her operation? But then, if she was hired to rough me up, why in the hell would she call the paramedics for me?
Nothing about this is making any sense, and it’s frustrating me. More than that, it’s starting to scare me. I hate the creeping feeling of paranoia stealing over me, but I can’t help it. I know I’m playing in some high-level political machinations right now, and I know it’s dangerous. But how dangerous is it really? Dangerous enough that I have to worry about the man I’m sleeping with?
There’s only one way to get the answers I need. I grab my phone, punch the button, and hold the phone to my ear. It’s picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, Brody, it’s me,” I start. “Got a minute?”
“For you, I have two,” he replies. “I heard about what happened and I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks,” I say, casting a wary eye around the room. “I’m doing better and I’m ready to go back to work.”
“Of course you are. You’re just like Pax that way,” he says with a chuckle. “Anyway, what can I do for you?
“Actually, can you do me a favor and meet me somewhere?”
Thirty-One
Interrogation Suite Alpha-4; Seattle Field Office
A couple days later, once I was finally allowed back into the field office, Astra and I made our plans. The following morning, we executed our search warrant on Chloe’s place and brought her down to the interrogation room. Now, we’re letting her cool her heels for a little bit. She’s sketchy and jumpy as it is. Letting her stew in there might make her more likely to say something she probably shouldn’t, before her father’s mouthpiece can stop her.
Astra and I are standing behind the glass in the control pod, watching her and her father’s attorney, Palmer Tinsley. She’s huddled down and sunken into herself, playing with the ends of her hair, looking like a young girl, rather than the twenty-something woman she is. Tinsley, on the other hand, exudes his smarmy arrogance even just sitting there. He looks at his nails, no doubt thinking about scheduling his next mani-pedi.
“I really hate that guy,” I mutter. “He’s just so—”
“Cocky. Greasy. He makes a used car salesman look ethical in comparison.”
“Yeah. All of the above.”
“So, are you ready?” I ask.
“You know I am.”
“Good. Let’s go shake the trees and see what falls out.”
We walk through the door in the control pod that lets us into the interrogation suite. I close the door behind me and we take our seats across the table from Chloe and Tinsley. I set down the folder I’m carrying and watch as her eyes flick to it, concern crossing her face. Tinsley looks at me with a smile that makes me want to go shower.
“Lovely to see you again, SSA Wilder,” he starts. “And you as well, Special Agent Russo. Fine weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “I’ve always enjoyed the rain.”
“Well, let’s go ahead and wrap this up quickly so you can go outside and play in the puddles, shall we?”
I smirk at him. “As much as I’d like to, I don’t think this will be wrapped up that quickly. We’ve got quite a few questions that your client is going to need to answer before she’s allowed to go home.”
“And just to make it official, this is your notice that this interview is being recorded, both audially and visually,” Astra says, then adds gently. “Have you been read your Miranda rights, Chloe?”
Tinsley interjects. “She doesn’t need—”
“Actually, she does need to be Mirandized,” I cut him off. “As a suspect in the murder of Benjamin Davis, Chloe has rights. So I need you to affirm that you’ve been properly Mirandized.”
Her eyes flit from mine to Tinsley’s then back again. She looks around the interrogation suite in silence and I can see her fear growing. It’s as if she’s only just now understanding where she is and what’s happening—and is terrified. Her lips tremble and she’s growing paler by the minute. The interrogation suites are designed to be uncomfortable and build anxiety within a subject, and it seems to be working on Chloe.
I feel bad for her. She’s just a pawn in this game, caught between us and her father. And on top of that, she no longer has Ben to turn to. He’ll never again be able to comfort her. I feel terrible for having to use her like this, to get at her father, but these are the cards I was dealt, and I have no choice but to play them.
“Chloe?” Astra asks. “Were you properly Mirandized, or do you need me to read you your rights again?”
She shakes her head. “No, I understand my rights. I was properly Mirandized.”
“Very good,” Astra says. “Thank you.”
“You think she murdered Mr. Davis?” Tinsley asks. “You’ve lost your mind, haven’t you? Look at her. Does this look like somebody who’s capable of murder?”
“Mr. Tinsley, I’ve been doing this for a while now, and let me just say, anybody is capable of murder given the right circumstances. Anybody at all.”
“Even you?” he asks, arching an eyebrow as if he thinks he’s scoring a point.
“Even me. Even you. If the right—or wrong—things coalesce, it can make for one deadly and toxic stew. It can make people do the most horrible things,” I say.
“Nobody is immune to anger,” Astra adds. “We’re all human and have human emotions. We’re all capable of snapping.”
He frowns and leans back in his chair. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s get this over with. What do you want to know?”
“Chloe, why did you keep your relationship with Ben a secret?” I ask.
She looks at me and I see her eyes shimmer with tears. The mere mention of his name can make her cry. I hate that we’re going to have to go hard at her, but we have no choice. I know she knows something, and until we can shake it out of her, we can’t treat her with kid gloves. A man was murdered—a man she loved—and we need to know who did it and why.
“I told you. We broke up—”
“I know what you told us, but we know you’re lying,” I interrupt. “We have a witness who put you at his apartment in Pullman less than a week before Ben’s murder.”
“You know how unreliable eyewitness testimony can be,” Tinsley counters.
“Not in this case. Our witness actually spoke with her,” Astra says. “And given that he’d known Chloe for more than a year, I’d say that makes him pretty reliable.”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, looking like a wounded girl. I can see her silently pleading with me to stop this. To let it go. But I’m sure that,even though she’s grieving and scared—and apparently terrified to grieve openly—she knows I can’t let it go.
“Did you kill Ben Davis, Chloe?” Astra asks.
“That’s preposterous,” Tinsley cuts in.
“Is it?” Astra presses. “Because right now, what we know is that your client was seen with our victim and she was having a secret relationship with him. That makes her a viable suspect in any book, Counselor.”
