by Elle Gray
“Is it wrong that I’m suddenly really hungry?” Astra asks.
“I was thinking the same thing, actually.”
“Table for two, ladies?”
We turn and see a young woman who couldn’t be more than twenty-two or so standing behind us. She’s wearing flowing skirts that are burnt orange, with a white tunic top. She’s got silver chains around her waist that make me think of a belly dancer or agypsy . She’s got midnight-black hair and dark eyes set into a round face.
“Yes, please,” I say.
“Very good,” she nods, her voice colored slightly by a Middle Eastern accent.
She leads us to our table and sets the menus down in front of us before she smiles and turns in a swirl of skirts and walks away. A busboy is suddenly there, setting a pair of glasses filled with ice water on the table before he scampers off. I look around and see the dining room is half-filled with people casting furtive glances at us. The clientele looks primarily Armenian—and they don’t look exceptionally pleased to see us.
“I think we’ve been made,” I say.
“You think?” Astra replies with a grin.
I know that ethnic communities can sometimes be insular places that don’t trust outsiders. Especially when those outsiders come wearing badges. Trusting law enforcement isn’t something most of these folks are apt to do, and I can’t say I necessarily blame them. In a lot of cases, the countries some of these folks fled from are rotten to the core. The police, who were supposed to be there to protect them, were often their worst oppressors. In some Eastern European countries, the police are merely arms of the local warlord, who send them to beat, torture, and even kill the citizens. Little wonder that they have learned to distrust anybody who’sa cop.
The waitress stops by and takes our orders, and I remember to pick up a few kabobs for Rick. We sit back and chat idly as we wait. The whole time, though, I’m casing the place, looking around and seeing where the security cameras are set up. I see half a dozen that are visible—mostly near the bar area, with only a few covering the dining room. I have to believe there are other cameras that I can’t see, though. In this day and age, it pays to have hidden surveillance.
“Do you realize Ben might have eaten his very last meal right here at this table?”
I look up at Astra. “My God, you are morbid.”
“Like the thought didn’t cross your mind,” she says.
“It didn’t, actually.”
“Liar. I saw the way you looked at the table when we sat down.”
I shake my head. “Morbid. Twisted and morbid.”
“Two of my better qualities.”
We sit and talk for another ten minutes or so, then I see Petrosyan step out of the back of the restaurant. He walks out of the kitchen carrying a white plastic bag full of Styrofoam containers, his gaze locked onto mine.
“Yeah, we’ve definitely been made,” I mutter.
Astra says nothing but sits up in her seat a little straighter. I see her slip her hand beneath the table, obviously moving it closer to her weapon just in case things go sideways. Petrosyan stops at our table and sets the bag down. He takes a long moment to look at each of us, obviously not liking what he sees, judging by the sneer on his lips.
Petrosyan is slim and athletic, standing about six feet tall. He looks exactly like the photo Rick had pulled up for us in the shop. He’s a handsome man. What the photo didn’t convey was the fact that he has a presence about him. He’s not the largest man in the room, but he’s got such a gravitas about him you might think he was.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“On the house,” he says, in his accented voice. “But I think it best if you take this to go. Your presence is upsetting my customers.”
“I’m sorry, have we done something to offend you?”
A smirk curls a corner of his mouth upward. “I know who you are, SSA Blake Wilder,” he says then turns to Astra. “And I know who you are as well, Special Agent Astra Russo. Police are not warmly welcomed here.”
I give him a nod. “Well, I suppose we don’t need to waste time with introductions, then.”
“No, we do not,” he says. “And I know what you are doing to my daughter. She does not belong in a cage.”
“See, I don’t think so, either. But we’ve got a problem,” I tell him. “We’ve got one dead male, twenty-five years old. Was involved with your daughter—and she lied to us about it. That creates an issue we need to resolve.”
“She broke up with him months ago,” he repeats the same lie. “She has not seen him in a very long time.”
“See, but that’s a lie,” Astra says. “We know for a fact that Chloe was with him just days before he was killed.”
“This is not possible.”
“And yet, it is,” I shrug. “Tell me something, Mr. Petrosyan—those security cameras around the restaurant, do they work?”
He shrugs. “Of course.”
“Good. Then we’re going to need the tapes going back the last three weeks,” Astra says.
He shakes his head. “This is not possible. My system deletes the surveillance camera files every seven days.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” Astra notes.
He shrugs. “I know very little about technology. The installation man set it up for me. I trusted his word.”
“Uh-huh. You strike me more as a man who needs to control everything, Mr. Petrosyan,” I say. “As in, every single minute detail.”
He flashes me a grin. “Then I think you have a wrong impression of me.”
“Did you know Chloe’s boyfriend?” Astra asks. “Did you know Ben Davis?”
“No, we never met.”
“And yet, you didn’t like him,” she presses. “Did you?”
“I told you I never met him. How could I not like somebody I’ve never met?” he asks. “These are silly questions.”
“I think you didn’t like him because he was black,” I comment.
“This is not true. I am not racist,” he protests. “I did not like him with my daughter because he was in a gang. Because he does bad things. I did not like him for being lazy. But you know those people….all they do is be lazy and kill each other. That is not the way for my daughter.”
Astra gives me a dry look. “But remember, he’s not racist.”
“How dare you,” he snaps. “My lawyer said you two were crude and crass. That you were trying to smear my good name. I see now that he is right.”
“So, you really didn’t know Ben Davis?” I ask.
“This is what I have already said.”
“Well then, would it surprise you to know that the very last meal he had on this earth was right here at Rose of Armenia?” I ask.
He hesitates for a split second. He covers it well with a quick shrug, but not before I notice it. He hadn’t expected that we’d be able to trace it back to his restaurant.
“When are you going to release my daughter?” he growls. “You know she had nothing to do with that boy’s murder.”
“Do we?” I ask. “How would we know that? And how can we reconcile that with the fact that she’s already lied to us?”
“You have spoken with my daughter. You know she is not a killer,” he says, as if that ends the debate.
“You know what I think?” I ask.
“No, but I have a feeling you are going to tell me anyway.”
“She does that,” Astra says.
“I think that you met with Ben. Right here, in fact. Over dinner, you told him to stay away from Chloe. That you wouldn’t permit her to see him,” I say. “I think that Ben told you he loved her and had no intention of staying away from her. I think things went bad from there, and you killed him. Chopped him up and put him in a barrel, drove him out past Tukwila, and dumped him there. Except, you didn’t check the currents and didn’t realize the Green River flows back this way. How’d I do?”
He chuckles. “That is a good story. Almost as good as some of the stories my grandmother us
ed to tell me when I was a boy.”
“I’ll bet,” I say.
“And do you have any proof of this wild tale you are saying?”
“Not yet. But we’re getting there,” Astra says.
“Well, please be sure to tell me when you do have evidence,” he replies with a smirk. “I would not want to miss it.”
“Believe me, you’ll be the first to know,” I say.
“So, when will you be releasing my daughter?”
“When our investigation has concluded,” I tell him. “She knows more than she’s telling us, and I would prefer if she didn’t suddenly have a burning desire to go visit the old country before I’m done with my investigation.”
Petrosyan leans down, planting his large hands on the table. He leans close enough to me that I can smell his cologne, which I hate to admit has a pleasant aroma. Say what you will about the man, but he’s got good taste.
“Be careful, Agent Wilder,” he whispers. “You are playing a very dangerous game.”
I stare back at him unflinchingly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
His smirk darkens. He points at the bruises that are coloring my face and I feel my anger bubbling up inside of me.
“I can see that is true,” he says. “And it looks to me as if you lost the last time you played. Believe me when I tell you it can be much worse than that.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No. Just pointing out a fact.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “I’m coming for you, Petrosyan. I’m coming and I will bring you down, because it’s you who is playing a dangerous game. I’m not a woman to be trifled with.”
He shrugs and stands up straight again. “It looks to me as if you have been trifled with plenty,” he says. “Please, take your food and go. Have a good night.”
He turns and walks away, chatting amiably with his customers in their native tongue—no doubt talking about us. Astra grabs my hand.
“Come on. Let’s go,” she says. “The last thing I want to do is spend the rest of the night filling out paperwork because you shot the man in his own restaurant.”
Gritting my teeth, I get up and follow Astra to the door. Before I walk out, though, I turn back and find Petrosyan staring hard at me. Then he grins and turns away.
Thirty-Four
Field Office Holding Cell 22; Seattle Field Office
I carry the tray into the pen and set it down on the table against the wall across from the holding cell. I pull out the chair, set it next to the cell, and sit down. Chloe is sitting on the bunk, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her knees. She stares at me but says nothing. I turn and grab the fast-food bag and the soda I brought for her and set them on the pass-through tray in the bars.
“I thought you might be hungry,” I start.
She looks at the food but doesn’t move. Chloe just sits there staring at me, silently judging me. I know she’s angry and doesn’t understand what’s going on, but truthfully, I don’t think there’s anything I can say that’s going to change that. She’s got a lot of anger in her, and I’m sure most of it isn’t even directed at me. Having a father like Stephen Petrosyan is going to do that to you. But I’m a convenient outlet.
“Listen, I’m sorry this is happening,” I say.
“Then why am I in a cell? You know I didn’t kill Ben.”
She says it with such heat and force, I’m taken aback for a moment. It’s basically the first thing she’s said to me, and I’m going to take that as a good sign. She seems to have finally snapped out of her catatonia.
“Do you know who killed Ben?” I ask.
She gnaws on her bottom lip and looks away. Maybe that was too direct. I know I shouldn’t be in here talking to her without Tinsley present. Nothing that’s said in here is ever going to be admissible in court. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still glean some valuable information without tanking the case. I just need to tread delicately.
“You loved him a lot, didn’t you?” I ask.
Her eyes glisten and she wipes at them with the back of her hand. And though she doesn’t say it, she nods. The pain in her face is heartbreaking, and it makes me hate her father all the more. She shouldn’t be going through this. She’s young. She should be enjoying college life. She should be finding love and reveling in it. She shouldn’t have to mourn her dead boyfriend in secret for fear of her father.
“How long had you two been together?”
“A couple of years,” she says softly.
I open up the bag and pull out the burger, fries, and fried apple pie I’d picked up for her, then set the empty bag down at my feet.
“You really should eat something,” I tell her. “I know it’s not the best food around, but it’ll fill the void.”
She hesitates but finally gets off the bunk. She walks over to the pass-through tray and takes the food, then sits down on the ground because she has no chair. Not wanting her to feel excluded, and trying to build rapport with her, I slip off the chair so I can look her in the eye as we talk. We sit in silence for a few minutes while she eats.
“Thank you for the food,” she says.
“You’re welcome. I know it’s not as good as the food your dad serves, but as I said, it’ll fill the void in a pinch,” I say. “It’s also way better than the stuff they serve here. I’ve tried it before, and let me tell you, it’s like eating warm cardboard.”
She giggles and covers her mouth with her hand. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“I hate Armenian food. Always have,” she says.
That was so unexpected, it gets a genuine laugh out of me. She smiles and takes another bite of her burger. And in that moment, I can see the real girl underneath all the pain. I already know she’s compassionate and intelligent. But she’s also charming and sweet. I can see why Ben fell for her so hard that he was willing to change his entire life to keep her.
We chat about inconsequential things for a little while, just getting to know each other. I’m trying to loosen her up a bit and show her that she can trust me. That I’m not some bad, horrible person or a monster, regardless of the lies her lawyer tells her. I think, deep down, this girl is a fighter. But because her father truly is a monster, I can see why she chooses to stand down. I can see the spark in her, though. I can see that she’s got a little fire in her belly, and I like it. I like her. She’s a sweet girl, and away from her father and his mouthpiece, she’s completely different. She’s just a normal twenty-one-year-old.
“Ben was the love of my life,” she says quietly, picking at her burger. “I was going to marry him one day.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, and I see a dreamy look in her eyes. “Once we both got done with school, he was going to start his residency and everything, then we were going to get married.”
“What about you? What were you going to do?”
She smiles. “I was going to start teaching. Literature,” she says. “Eventually, I wanted to get my Ph.D. and teach at a university.”
“You say ‘was’ and ‘wanted,’ in the past tense. As if it can’t happen now,” I say gently.
She shrugs and her smile fades. “What’s the point anymore? Those dreams are over,” she sighs. “Ben’s gone and my dream died with him.”
I shake my head. “You can still be a professor of literature. If that’s what you always wanted to be, you can still do that, Chloe,” I press. “And I can’t think of a better way of honoring Ben’s memory than to chase your dream and live a full, happy life. I know that I didn’t know him, but I am positive that’s what he would want for you—to live a full life and be happy.”
“I don’t know if I can ever be happy again,” she says.
“I used to think that, too,” I tell her. “When I was young—a kid—I found my parents dead. Murdered. And I was so angry and hateful for so long. But the truth is, I was only in pain. And when that pain faded, so did the anger and the hate. And it turned into purpose.
It’s because of that purpose that I’m here right now.”
“I’m sorry you went through that,” she says quietly. “Nobody should have to endure that kind of loss.”
I meet her eyes and hold them. “No. Nobody should. But here’s the thing—we can either be held captive by our pain and grief, or we can channel them into something better. We can choose to take control of our lives—even if we’ve lived for a long time feeling that we have no control over our lives. That’s a choice we make every single day,” I tell her. “So, you can choose to let your grief, as entitled to it as you are, define you. You can choose to let it snuff out that fire I see in you. Or you can choose to harness it. You can choose to let it temper you and make you stronger than steel.”
“I wish it was that easy,” she says.
“It can be.”
She shakes her head miserably. “Not with my father. He controls everything,” she tells me. “As in, everything.”
“Is that why you took your mother’s maiden name?”
She nods. “I’m not naïve. I know who and what my father is,” she says. “And I didn’t want to go through life attached to that name. He thinks I’m going to take over for him when he steps down. But I won’t. I’m not like him. I’ll never be like him.”
I nod and find myself admiring the courage this girl has. It couldn’t have been easy to stand up to somebody like Petrosyan and declare even that bit of independence from him. To guys like him, family names and traditions are everything. So, knowing that his daughter, the only viable heir to his throne, didn’t want to be associated with that name or those traditions….it had to hurt. Had to make him angry. And probably made him double down on his control over the other areas of her life.
“Did he try to control your relationship with Ben?”
She hesitates for a moment then nods. “Yeah. That, too.”
“Did he tell you that you weren’t allowed to see Ben again?”
