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

by Elle Gray

  “I’ll ask you again, Chloe. Why lie about the relationship?”

  “Was it because your father didn’t approve?” Astra asks. “Did he force you to break up with him?”

  She shakes her head. “I told you. I broke up with him months ago—”

  “Yeah, and we know that’s a lie,” Astra says. “Did the suit here feed you those lines, Chloe? Is he making you say these things? Or is it your father?”

  Her eyes widen for a moment and she pulls back, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks away, unable to meet our eyes.

  “Unless you have any specific evidence tying Mr. Petrosyan to this despicable crime, I would suggest you refrain from attempting to sully his good name.”

  “Good name,” Astra says with a snort. “That’s cute, Counselor.”

  “I would remind you that we’re here as a courtesy,” Tinsley says.

  “Actually, you’re not. You’re here because Chloe is a suspect in a gruesome murder, and we need some answers. So, Mr. Tinsley, if you want us to cut your client loose, I would suggest instructing her to give us some answers.”

  “Were you keeping your relationship with Ben a secret because you feared your father would find out, Chloe?” I press. “And did he find out anyway? Is that what happened?”

  “No, I—I mean, I broke up with Ben weeks ago. We weren’t together,” she says, her voice tinged with desperation.

  “Weeks ago, Chloe?” Astra asks. “A moment ago, you said months ago. So, which is it? Did you break up with him weeks or months ago?”

  “Agents, I would ask you to stop badgering my client. She’s obviously in a fragile emotional state and—”

  “I would be, too, if my secret boyfriend was found cut to pieces and stuffed in a barrel,” I snap. “I’d be in a very fragile emotional state. Especially if I knew my father—”

  “Once again, Agents, if you continue attempting to tarnish Mr. Petrosyan’s name, this interview will be over,” he says. “We are here doing all we can to assist your investigation and to prove that Chloe had nothing to do with it. However, if you continue with this absurd witch hunt, I’ll have no choice but to pull the plug. We’re trying to be fully transparent.”

  “Is that so?” I ask. “Then why has Mr. Petrosyan refused to return our calls? Why will he not sit down with us?”

  “Because he had nothing to do with this crime,” he replies smoothly. “Therefore, there is no reason for him to come in for an interview.”

  Chloe is looking down at her hands, refusing to even acknowledge us. I can see she’s pretending that none of this is happening. She’s probably somewhere else in her mind—somewhere with Ben. She’s content to repeat the lines she was coached to say and let Tinsley do the rest of the talking. She’s just going to run out the clock—probably as she was instructed to do by her lawyer. Or her father. Or more likely, by both.

  Which means if I want to get anything out of her, I’m going to have to shock it out of her. My eyes flick to the folder, and although I really don’t want to use it, I’m starting to think there’s no way around it. The last thing I want to do is further traumatize this girl who’s obviously been traumatized her entire life. But I need to do something to shake her out of this. I glance at Astra and she gives me a subtle shake of the head, silently telling me, not yet.

  “You loved Ben a lot, didn’t you, Chloe?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer and starts to chew on a nail. She’s so beaten down and worn out that she’s reverting back to some of her childhood behaviors. She doesn’t look anything like the confident girl some of her friends said she is. She looks like a scared little child. And she probably has good reason.

  “I know he loved you a lot. He kept your pictures and all of your keepsakes locked away in his special room,” I go on. “It was his way of keeping you safe. Protected. But you knew that, didn’t you? He did that because of how much he loved you.”

  She looks up at me for a moment and nods. It’s not much, but it’s enough of an acknowledgment for now. At least she knows what I’m talking about.

  “I know you can’t keep him safe or protect Ben anymore, but don’t you want justice for him?” I ask. “Don’t you want the people who did this to pay?”

  “I thought you suspected her of doing this?” Tinsley asks.

  I look over at him. “How about you do your job your way and I’ll do my job my way?”

  “In other words, unless you have something to add to the conversation, zip it,” Astra says.

  “Did you do this, Chloe?” I ask. “Or did somebody else murder Ben?”

  “Now is the time to get ahead of this,” Astra presses. “We know you’ve been lying about your relationship with him, so to us, you’re looking good for this. If it wasn’t you who murdered him and stuffed him into a barrel, now’s the time to tell us.”

  “Are these graphic details cleverly phrased in the form of questions necessary, Agents? Do you need to traumatize this poor girl any more than she already is?”

  Ignoring Tinsley, I lean forward and tap the file on the table. “Do you know what’s in here, Chloe?” I ask, and I see her eyes flick to the folder again. “There are photos in here of what was done to Ben. The man you love. Do you want to see them?”

  “SSA Wilder, that is gratuitous. There is no need—”

  “I’ll conduct my interrogation any way I see fit,” I snap at him.

  “No, that’s it. I’m taking my client home.”

  He shoots to his feet and takes hold of Chloe’s arm. She looks at me, her eyes wild, as if she’s even more terrified than before. She obviously doesn’t want to go with him, so I get to my feet and stare at him.

  “Actually, you’re not going anywhere,” I say. “Or at least, Chloe’s not. We can hold her for seventy-two hours and we intend to do just that. Now, take your hands off her and you can see yourself out.”

  Tinsley stares at me as if I’ve gone mad. “Do you have any comprehension of what you’re doing right now?”

  “Yeah. Trying to solve a murder,” I say.

  “You have no idea the can of worms you’re opening.”

  I shrug. “Not the first can I’ve opened. Won’t be the last, I’m sure. Tell your client—your other client—where to find me if he wants to talk.”

  Thirty-Two

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “I did not see that coming,” Astra comments as we walk back into the shop.

  “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean to sandbag you like that,” I say. “But I feared that if she left that interrogation room, we were never going to see her again. She looked absolutely terrified.”

  “You don’t think Petrosyan would—”

  “No, nothing like that,” I reply. “But given how close she seemed to cracking, I wouldn’t put it past him to stick her on a plane and sending her back to Armenia. Or maybe some boarding school in Switzerland.”

  She nods as she drops down into her chair. “Smart thinking. Except that we can’t talk to her without that walking snail trail present.”

  “Officially, no. But I’ve got an idea,” I say.

  “Oh, I like it when you get that twinkle in your eye. It’s so—devious.”

  “Welcome back, boss,” Mo chirps. “Glad to see you upright again.”

  “Thanks. Glad to be upright again.”

  “Wow, somebody really did a number on you,” Rick says.

  “Yeah, thanks, Rick.”

  He chuckles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just kinda like seeing Superman with bruises on his face. It’s just one of those things you never expect to happen.”

  “Yeah,” I shrug. “Well, I’m not a daughter of Krypton after all. The bruises will fade. Now, can we get to work?”

  I hate being reminded of my own frailty. The fact that somebody got the drop on me. I hate being reminded that I’m not a superhero after all and can be hurt and killed like any mortal. That brush with mortality has had a lasting effect on me, as m
uch as I hate to admit it. Just one more trauma to add to a life filled with them.

  But I’m going to channel that into something good. Something positive. I’ve got a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, but it’s been a long while since I’ve actively trained. And judging by the beating I took, I’ve obviously forgotten much of my training. Which means I need to keep trained and in shape. I’ve already scheduled my sessions at the local dojo and am going to get back on that train. I’ll never allow myself to be caught unaware and defenseless again.

  As good as I think I am, there’s always somebody better. And the woman who jumped me was excellent. The next time I see her—and I am sure I’m going to see her again—I’m going to have a surprise for her. Vengeance and humiliation are always solid motivational tools, I’ve found. If nothing else, this beatdown I took is going to make me more physically fit and better able to fend off an attack I never saw coming.

  “Actually, I have to go,” Mo says. “I’m meeting with Hastings and his lawyer for some follow-up questioning.”

  “He causing you problems?” I ask.

  “Nothing I can’t handle. I just need to reiterate that we’ve got him cold, and his best play is to confess.”

  I nod. “Excellent. Well, go get him, then.”

  Mo gives me a smile, and as she hustles out of the shop, I see the stacks of boxes on a cart in the corner by the door I didn’t notice when we walked in. Good thing it wasn’t a masked woman, or she would have beaten me down again. It would have been nice if CSU had told me they were done processing, but whatever. I push the cart to the tables, grab the first box, and set it down. Astra gets up and takes another one. I take the lid off and start pulling out and sorting the evidence that’s been gathered.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention that Rosie was by earlier. She said the file on your girl is with OC. They’re not down to give it up because they’re working on a RICO case against her daddy,” Rick says. “But Rosie said she saw it and there’s nothing that relates to the case you’re working on, so it’s moot.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think it would yield much, but it was worth a shot,” I shrug. “Thanks, Rick. Have you been able to come up with anything on her?”

  “Negative, boss. She’s clean as a whistle. By all accounts, she’s just a normal kid,” he says. “She gets good grades, has excellent credit, does a lot of volunteer charity work.”

  “Obviously trying to atone for the sins of her father,” Astra mutters.

  I nod. “Could be. If what Fish said is true, I imagine that girl has seen some things,” I say. “With no son and heir to his empire, I’ve got to think Petrosyan has been grooming her to take over for him once he’s dead.”

  “Sure would be a shame if that happened sooner, rather than later.”

  I grin. “Now, now, let’s not wish ill upon him,” I protest. “Not until I have him in cuffs and looking at the needle for his laundry list of crimes.”

  “If OC is building a RICO case against Petrosyan, you know this is going to create some blowback. He’s not going to be happy about our targeting him,” she says.

  I shrug. “It shouldn’t matter who collars him, so long as he gets collared,” I say. “And statistically speaking, going away for murder will keep him in a cage longer than if they manage to make a RICO case stick. And that should be our goal—to get and keep this animal off the streets.”

  “I don’t disagree at all,” she says. “But you know better than anybody how alpha dog Hobbs can get when you step on his toes.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I’ll give him a heads up. But there’s no way in hell I’m backing down from this case. If we can send Petrosyan to prison for murdering Ben Davis, then that’s what’s going to happen. Period.”

  “That’s my girl. Balls of steel,” she says.We sift through the boxes of evidence but don’t find anything of much value. Nothing that definitively ties Petrosyan to Ben. Not that I expected anything, really. Ben was obsessively careful, and Petrosyan is so careful, he borders on paranoid. It’s how he’s managed to avoid prison all these years. But still.

  “Is it too much to ask for a signed confession every once in a while?” I ask. I look among the evidence, but don’t see Ben’s laptop. “Rick,” I ask, “have you seen the laptop CSU brought from Ben’s apartment?”

  “Yeah, I got it a few days ago. I cracked the password right away, and sifted through everything on the machine. Nada, boss. All I saw were files related to his studies, just term papers and class notes. I couldn’t make heads or tails of most of it, with all the medical jargon, but there was nothing suspicious. Nothing that would seem to relate to his murder.”

  “What about online activity and social media?” I ask.

  “Again, boss, no dice. His search history involved mostly stuff tied in with his lab work. On social media, he was a ghost. No presence, which is almost unique for someone his age. There were a few photos of Chloe in his Pictures folder, but nothing else of a personal nature.”

  Another dead end, but it’s that due diligence thing. Ben was exceedingly careful.

  The doors to the shop open and a twenty-something Asian man comes in with a manila envelope. I recognize him as one of the clerks who works in the mailroom. He gives me a smile and hands me the envelope. I immediately look at the postmark and see that it’s from the King County Medical Examiner’s Office.

  “Thank you,” I tell him.

  He nods. “Not a problem.”

  I show it to Astra, who groans. “Are you even kidding me right now?”

  “This has Torres written all over it.”

  “Yeah, it really does.”

  I shake my head as I tear the envelope open. The fact that they mailed copies of the reports rather than simply emailing them over to us, ensuring they spent at least a few days in transit, is just Torres’ latest double-middle-finger salute to me. We could have had this information a week ago. Should have had this information a week ago. The fact that we didn’t infuriates me, because as I scan the reports, I see things that could have altered the course of this investigation earlier.

  “Something really needs to be done about Torres,” I say.

  “Uh-huh. Something really bad,” Astra adds.

  I hold up the page I’m reviewing and look at Astra pointedly as I start to read.

  “The contents of Ben’s final meal: grape leaves and pork, lamb meat, ghapama, and manti,” I say. “Also, there were still traces of oghi in his stomach.”

  Astra stares at me with disbelief on her face. “Armenian food?”

  I nod. “Armenian food.”

  “Son of a—”

  “His last meal was Armenian food. If we’d known that a week ago, we would have been able to pivot from the Kings to Petrosyan sooner,” I say. “If nothing else, we might have been able to get to him before he had a chance to terrorize his own daughter into silence or destroy any potential evidence.”

  “Torres needs to go down for this,” she says.

  “Yeah, but how are we going to prove it?” I ask. “We can’t prove he slow-walked this. We can’t prove anything. He’s too careful to leave his fingerprints on anything.”

  “Hey, boss,” Rick calls.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m looking at Ben’s credit card statements that we finally got. The night he went missing, or at least, three days before his body was found, he used his card at a restaurant called Rose of Armenia. It’s in the Capitol Hill district,” he says. “But get this, the charge is for two dollars and twenty-five cents—an iced tea.”

  “And yet, he had a full meal in his belly,” Astra says.

  “Sounds to me as if he was invited to dinner on somebody else’s dime,” I say. “And Ben wanted to make sure anybody looking could trace him back to that restaurant.”

  “It’s almost as though he knew what was going to happen to him,” Astra says.

  “Why would he even go, then?” Rick wonders.

  “Hope,” I say. “I think he had hope he could talk Petrosyan
into letting him see his daughter. Hope that Petrosyan might see how much he’s changed. Wanted to show him that he wasn’t the same gang member he used to be. Maybe he wanted to show Petrosyan that he genuinely loved Chloe.”

  “That’s sad,” Astra says. “Really sad.”

  “Not to mention that it’s eerie as hell,” Rick adds. “Knowingly going to your death like that but leaving breadcrumbs for other people to follow? Sad and eerie.”

  “For maybe the first time ever, I agree with the nerd,” Astra shrugs.

  “Do I need to guess who owns Rose of Armenia?” I ask.

  “If you were going to guess Stephen Petrosyan, you would be correct.”

  “That’s our nexus,” Astra says. “That’s where they crossed paths.”

  “Yeah, but we need to put them there together,” I say. “It’s a popular restaurant. Ben’s having dinner there doesn’t prove that he saw, let alone spoke to, Petrosyan.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “Good work, Rick. Keep digging. See if you can find anything that puts Ben and Petrosyan together,” I say.

  “Not to state the obvious, but can’t the girl you have in a cell do that?” he asks.

  “She’s not going to talk just yet. I think part of her is trying to convince herself that her father didn’t do it,” I say. “No, we need something to prove to her that her father killed her boyfriend,” I say, then look at Astra. “Up for some Armenian food?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s do it.”

  As we head out of the shop, Rick calls after us. “Hey, can you bring me back a couple of kabobs? I’m kind of hungry.”

  Thirty-Three

  Rose of Armenia, Capitol Hill District, Seattle, WA

  With a vaulted ceiling, high arches, red brick, and polished light wood, the Rose of Armenia has an old-world charm to it. There are curtains and room dividers made of plum-colored velvet cloth, sheer pink silk swags, and mosaic tile on the floor. All the tables are made of the same light wood as the arches, and recessed lighting lines the entire dining room. It’s dim and atmospheric, and the air is redolent with the aromas of spices and cooking meats. Soft Middle Eastern music issues from speakers discreetly tucked around the dining room.