by Elle Gray
He uses my title derisively and with a sneer on his face. He’s clearly enjoying this. Even worse, it seems like he thinks he actually has something to use against me, and that concerns me quite a bit. It is easy to get an indictment. The case would fall apart in court, but being indicted would be a bad look for me.
“If you were indicted, I think the Bureau brass might suspend you?” he muses aloud. “Think they might dissolve that little team you’re so proud of? I think they might.”
It takes all my will to keep myself calm and to keep the anger bubbling up inside of me off my face. I usually don’t let Torres get under my skin this bad. And maybe my emotions are running high because of everything going on with Kit, because all I want to do is tear his face off right now. The worst part of it all is that he’s right. The Bureau is really conscious of its public image and doesn’t take getting a black eye—real or perceived—well at all. They’re reactionary and often take extreme measures to avoid the merest whiff of impropriety. So yeah, I could see them suspending me and blowing up my team if I were to be indicted.
“What is your problem with me, Torres?” I snap. “Is it because I’m friends with Paxton? Is it because I do my job better than you and make you look bad? What is it exactly?”
He shrugs. “You’re arrogant. You think you’re better than me,” he says. “I don’t like your attitude and I don’t like that you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. You have this superiority complex that seems to make you think you can butt into business that’s got nothing to do with you. And I think it’s well past time somebody puts you in check.”
He glares at me, his face dark with anger and his jaw clenched so tight he could probably crack stone. There’s something not just in his voice but in his words that sets the red flags waving in my head. To me, it seems like there’s more in play here than just me making him look bad. Or his feeling that I’ve bigfooted my way onto one of his cases. It’s clearly personal, but it’s more than that. I just don’t know what it is. It’s more than a little worrisome.
Of course, this all might just be a bluff. This might be him just trying to wind me up and scare me. It could simply be that Torres wants to distract me and have me looking over my shoulder just to rattle me and knock me off my game. But to what end? What would that accomplish? What would knocking me off my game do for him? What benefit would he derive from rattling me?
As I study him closely, I realize it’s none of those things. It makes no sense. He wouldn’t gain anything from it—not that I can see anyway. Aside from that, there’s a certain smugness about him that’s unsettling. Don’t get me wrong, Torres is always arrogant—it’s just his natural state of being. The guy really does think he’s superior to everybody and he’s most definitely not afraid to let people know that. But he seems even more hubristic than he normally does. And to me, that’s cause for concern.
I push all my worry aside and focus on the here and now rather than a bunch of hypotheticals. There’s no sense in getting myself all wound up about things I can’t control. Rosie is right. All I can do is focus on what’s in front of me rather than stress about things that may or may not ever come to pass.
“You know, Torres, if you had anything on me, I’d be in bracelets already,” I grit, my voice low and hard. “You would have already taken me in and thrown me into a cell. But you know damn well I didn’t kill Gina Aoki or Mark Walton.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort right now.”
“You’re a liar,” I growl. “Like I said, if you had anything against me, I’d be sitting in a cell right now.”
He grins. “Well, maybe I just enjoy drawing things out,” he replies. “Maybe I like the thought of you walking around, never knowing when you’re going to take a hit, or from where, but knowing that hit is coming all the same.”
“You’re only deluding yourself. You’re not going to get an indictment against me,” I reply. “I know that and deep down you know that.”
He shrugs again. “If you say so.”
He opens the car door and starts to get in, but pauses and looks back at me. The arrogance in his gaze as he stares at me sends a cold chill down my spine.
“I’ll be seeing you again real soon, Blake,” he says with a smile. “And who knows, maybe next time I do, I’ll be perp walking you out of your field office here. When that happens, I’ll make sure to have plenty of cameras out here to capture the moment for posterity.”
“Get the hell out of here, Torres. And the next time you even look at me wrong, I’m going to file harassment charges against you,” I tell him. “I’m done screwing around with you. Come with charges or don’t come at all. You got me?”
He laughs softly. “You have a nice day, Agent Wilder.”
I watch him climb into his car and drive off, leaving me standing there with a numbing cold in my belly that spreads outward. As much as I hate to say it, the extra hubris in his demeanor has left me feeling unsettled. He got what he wanted—I’m already tensed up and waiting for the hit to come. And with the way things have been going lately, I’m sure it’s coming.
Seven
Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
“All right, so where are we at with the Angel of Mercy case?” I ask as I step to the front of the bullpen.
An ID photo pops up on the monitors on the wall behind me. The woman in the photo has dark hair that falls to her shoulders and warm, dark eyes. Her face is long and angular with high cheekbones, a patrician nose, and a sharp chin. She doesn’t wear much in the way of makeup, but she doesn’t really seem to need it. She’s pretty, and not the sort of person you’d think was a cold-blooded murderer at first blush.
Frankly, after the hearing in DC, everything with Kit, and now my confrontation with Torres in the parking lot, I’m glad to be getting back to something normal. Maybe normal isn’t the right word—we don’t usually broker in normal here. But at least, something I’m familiar with. After all, this is what we do: track down actual bad guys. There are no schemes, plots, or politics involved here. We see a crime, we build a case, we take down the offender. It’s that simple.
Falling back into the routine of chasing a normal case is good. It allows me to turn my focus from all the things going on outside to what’s right in front of me—a serial killer. Chasing murderers is what I’m good at. It’s what I know best. I admit that I’m absolute garbage when it comes to playing politics, but when it comes to taking down killers, my team and I are the absolute best.
“Nurse Misty Crane, age fifty-two, graduate of Florida State University,” Astra reads from her file. “Worked as an ER nurse for almost fifteen years before transitioning into her current role on staff at a number of different nursing homes.”
Astra found this case when she was reviewing what she felt was a significantly higher number of deaths in nursing homes than normal averages. She dug deep on it and found that wherever Crane worked, they experienced a spike in deaths among their elderly residents. The spike wasn’t so egregious that it drew any official attention, but the executives of the facilities she worked at recognized they had a problem. And rather than the scandal and headlines that came with an investigation—thus cutting into their profits and damaging their brand—they simply parted ways with Crane with a healthy severance package and a glowing letter of recommendation in hand.
“Nurse Crane is currently employed by Tender Hearts, a hospice care facility here in Seattle,” Astra goes on. “They’ve had a higher-than-average number of deaths this year, but Crane is smart. She’s keeping it within the tolerated range of deaths, albeit at the high end.”
“It seems pretty callous to have a tolerated range of deaths,” Rick notes grimly from his workstation.
“It’s a hospice facility,” Mo points out. “It’s not like anybody’s getting up and walking out of there again.”
“That’s just cold,” Rick admits with a chuckle.
“She’s right though. It’s all a numbers game for thes
e facilities. But their interest is in keeping their residents alive inside as long as possible,” Astra says. “Places like Tender Hearts make money the longer they keep their residents alive. A dead resident means they’re not earning, so having somebody like Crane running around offing those residents is bad for their bottom line.”
“That’s right. It all comes down to money. Everything comes down to money. Always does,” I comment, my thoughts drifting to the Thirteen. “So, what do we have in the way of evidence?”
“Not much,” Astra admits. “I got hold of the inventory logs of their meds and everything checks out. She’s not snitching from their stash.”
“All right, so she’s bringing her own drugs in,” I say.
“Looks like it,” Astra confirms.
“Just to play devil’s advocate,” Rick chimes in. “How do we know she’s even doing this? Isn’t it possible that people are just—dying? I mean, they’re old and sick. That’s not exactly an optimal recipe for longevity.”
“We’ve got three victims at this facility alone that showed traces of barbiturates in their system,” Astra tells him. “The families of the other four victims didn’t have autopsies done, so we’ll never know for certain. But there is a trail of bodies behind her—one that warrants a closer look.”
“Agreed,” I say. “So, let’s get into her life. Rick, I want you digging deep into her online purchases. If she’s not using the logged meds, she’s got to be buying them from somewhere. I want to know where she’s doing her shopping.”
“On it,” he says.
“Astra, you’re going to run point,” I tell her. “This is your baby. Nurture it.”
She snaps me a salute and grins. “I shall do just that.”
The doors to the shop open and I look up to see Rosie walk through. She’s got a head of steam and a look on her face that says this isn’t a social call, which puts a frown on my face. Astra glances back, then turns to me. She gestures to my office as she walks in and sits down in one of the chairs in front of my desk.
“It’s never good when you’re called to the principal’s office,” Astra remarks. “It’s worse when the principal comes to your office.”
“Especially when the principal looks like she’s ready to wrestle a grizzly bear,” Mo adds.
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “All right, you guys start putting together a game plan to build a case against Nurse Crane. I’ll be back when Rosie’s done skinning me.”
“Good luck,” Astra says.
“Thanks. Looks like I’m going to need it.”
I walk into my office and close the door behind me then drop into the chair behind my desk. Rosie is on her phone tapping out a text, not even bothering to look up at me as I come in. She doesn’t say anything right away, but it’s impossible to avoid seeing the dark thundercloud hanging over her head. She finishes her text and slides her phone back into her jacket pocket. She looks at me with the frown of a disapproving parent.
“So, were you ever going to tell me that Torres was harassing you out in the parking lot this morning?” she finally asks.
A rueful smile crosses my lips. Of course she knows. Rosie knows everything that happens around the field office. The fact that she’s aware of everything and has her fingers in all the pies is both a blessing and a curse. It keeps anybody from getting away with anything—but it keeps anybody from getting away with anything.
“It was no big deal, Rosie. He was just trying to rattle me and—”
“Yeah, it kind of is a big deal. He’s trying to build a murder case against you,” she snaps. “You need to report any contact with him to me. We’ve talked about this already, Blake. You told me you would report any more harassment.”
I sit back in my chair but don’t respond. She’s right. I did tell her I would report any contact with him. After the day he pulled me over and tried his best to manufacture a scenario that justified him shooting me, Rosie had extracted that promise from me. I nod to her, conceding the point.
“I honestly didn’t think it was a big deal. I should have, you’re right,” I tell her. “But he was just trying to get under my skin is all.”
“He’s harassing a federal agent on federal property,” Rosie points out. “It’s something that I should be bringing up with his superiors.”
“I don’t want to make a federal case out of this,” I tell her as a small smile curls the corner of my mouth upward.
She arches an eyebrow and looks at me. “Your puns are neither helpful nor appreciated at the moment.”
“Right,” I nod. “Sorry.”
She sighs. “I’m just trying to have your back, Blake. You’re taking hits from all sides right now and I’m doing my best to put all the fires out,” she tells me. “But I can’t do that if you’re keeping things from me. We need to be on the same page here.”
I purse my lips. “And I appreciate that you do,” I tell her. “I honestly didn’t mean to keep things from you. It wasn’t intentional.”
“I know it wasn’t. But with so many different balls in the air, you need to let me help you,” she responds. “You can’t handle this all on your own and you shouldn’t even be trying. It’s too much on your shoulders at once.”
“You’re right,” I acknowledge. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Idle threats. The usual.”
I take her through everything Torres said to me during our brief conversation. Rosie listens, her look of disapproval deepening with every word. She’s far more upset about this and seems to be taking it even more personally than I am. But I truly do appreciate that she has my back and is willing to go to the mat for me. Not many bosses—especially in the Bureau—are willing to put their necks on the line for their people the way Rosie is. Especially when it looks like that person is going down in flames no matter what. I’m fortunate that Rosie is one of those rare ones, and I think that I sometimes take her for granted.
“All right, let me handle things on this end. I’m going to have a sit down with Commissioner Gray,” she says. “Maybe he can get Torres to back off this whole thing. At the very least, he needs to know what his deputy chief is up to.”
“Thank you, Rosie.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. There’s no guarantee he can or will do anything. SPD protects their own,” she tells me. “You know that better than most.”
“Well, I do know there’s no love lost between those two,” I reply. “If there’s anybody who can rein him in, it’s going to be Gray.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do. Just manage your expectations,” she says. “But this whole mess isn’t the only reason I needed to talk to you.”
“Uh oh. That sounds ominous,” I say. “Why do I have a feeling I’m going to like what you’re about to say even less than what you just said?”
“Probably because you’re a hell of an agent,” she replies.
“Okay, let’s have it,” I roll my eyes, dispensing her attempt to soften the blow. “What bomb are you about to drop on me?”
“You’re going back to DC,” she says. “Senator Graham wants to meet with you.”
Her words make my stomach lurch and send a river of irritation washing through me. I scrub my face with my hands and shake my head.
“Already?” I ask. “I mean, I figured I was going to get hauled before the committee again, but I didn’t think it would be for a while yet.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not going before the committee this time. Senator Graham asked for a one-on-one with you. Says he wants to clear some things up—just the two of you.”
“When am I going?”
“Tomorrow,” she says. “Book a flight as soon as you can.”
“Rosie, we’re knee-deep in this Angel of Mercy case right now and—”
“And Astra is more than capable of running point on it while you’re gone. The CDAU isn’t going to fall apart if you’re gone for a day or two,” she interrupts me. “On
the contrary, if you can make nice with Graham and convince him that you had no part in the planning or execution of the raid on Haven, it may go a long way toward taking you and your team off that precarious ledge Hedlund’s put you all on.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. She’s right. Again. But that is still a pretty big “if.” Graham is looking for scalps and I’ve gotten the idea that he doesn’t care where they come from. So long as heads roll for the bloody debacle out at Haven—anyone’s heads—he’ll be happy.
“Remember Blake, you need to play nice.”
“What? I can play nice when I need to,” I protest.
“Yeah well, believe me when I say this is one of those times you really need to.”
I groan. “God, I hate politics.”
Rosie spreads her hands out. “Love it or hate it, that’s what makes the world go ‘round.”
“Maybe that’s why the world sucks right now.”
Eight
Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle
When I walk into my apartment, there’s music playing and the place is lit up, which is unusual. Kit prefers the apartment to be dark—she calls it moody and atmospheric, I say it’s gloomy and dim. She’s curled up on the couch with a book in her hand and looks up at me when I step into the living room, a wide smile crossing her face.
“Hey,” she greets me. “How was your day?”
“It was a day,” I reply. “I have to go back to DC tomorrow.”
“For what?”
“A sit down with Senator Graham.”
She nods. “Head of the Oversight Committee.”
“One and the same.”
“What does he want?” she asks.
“Probably for me to bow and scrape before him,” I shrug. “I guess he needs his ego stroked or something.”
“But he has the power to clear you and your team of any wrongdoing, yeah?” she presses. “He can take all the pressure off you?”
