A Perfect Wife (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 2)

by Elle Gray

  I clear my throat. This is going to be a lot stickier than I imagined. She doesn’t know about Brad’s death.

  “Mrs. Walsh, I’m not sure how to break this to you, but Mr. Sunderland was murdered,” I say. “His body was discovered several days ago, and we just confirmed his identification today.”

  Her face falls and she grows several shades paler as she processes the information. She looks at me, her mouth opening and closing like she is trying to speak but can’t seem to force the words out of her mouth. She shakes her head as if trying to deny my words.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Walsh,” I continue. “I know this must come as a shock.”

  “Are you sure it was him? I mean, could you have made a mistake?”

  “I don’t think so. We’re fairly certain it’s him.”

  “Fairly certain. But that means you could be wrong.”

  I frown. “We identified him by a unique custom tattoo he has,” I explain. “There are certain difficulties with establishing a one hundred percent match.”

  “Difficulties?”

  “I would rather not get into the specifics, but our lab is running DNA comparisons between the body and samples collected from his home,” I say. “We’ll know for absolute certain once that’s done. But I can tell you right now, I don’t think there’s any doubt. I’m fairly certain the body we discovered was Mr. Sunderland.”

  She looks like a woman clinging to that tiny shred of doubt in my words like somebody lost at sea clings to a piece of driftwood. She doesn’t want to believe it simply because it’s a step closer to confirming her worst fear: that her sister is dead too. She seems to pale even more and shrink into herself.

  “As far as we know, your sister hasn’t been found, Mrs. Walsh,” I break the silence. “She wasn’t with Mr. Sunderland when he was found.”

  “None of this makes sense to me,” she whispers, shaking her head. “No sense at all. We just had dinner with them a week or so ago.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with your sister, Mrs. Walsh?”

  “It was when we had dinner with them,” she says, sounding numb.

  “That was the last time?”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “Did anything seem off? Anything amiss at all?”

  She looks at me like I’ve gone mad. “No. Nothing at all. What kind of question is that?”

  “I’m just trying to be thorough,” I say. “So she never mentioned any trouble with anybody? Didn’t mention anybody following her around or anything?”

  As she looks at me, her eyes widen, and fear steals across her face. “Are you saying that somebody killed Brad and kidnapped her?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Mrs. Walsh. The truth is, we don’t know what’s going on yet. We’re still early in the investigation,” I say. “Right now, we’re just collecting facts.”

  She seems to be racking her brain, thinking back to her last talk with her sister. But then she shakes her head miserably, and the tears start to flow again.

  “No, she never mentioned anything like that,” she says.

  “What about Mr. Sunderland?” I ask. “Did he mention having trouble with anybody? Problems at work? Anything?”

  “No, he didn’t mention anything like that either,” she says. “Why would they kill him and take her?”

  “I’m not saying that’s what happened, Mrs. Walsh. Please don’t jump to any conclusions just yet.”

  Astra leans forward, the impatience on her face more than clear. I shoot her a look, trying to dissuade her from going on the offensive. But she either doesn’t see me or more likely, is avoiding my eyes, knowing I’m not going to cause a scene in front of the sister of a victim.

  “How was the relationship between your sister and Brad?” Astra asks.

  Mrs. Walsh cocks her head. “As far as I know it was fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you said he was arrogant. And that you didn’t like him,” she presses.

  “He was very arrogant, yes. But he always treated Cassie well. He was never that way with her. Everybody else in the world, but he treated her like a queen.”

  Astra frowns. “So you never got any sense there was trouble in the relationship?”

  “I think I just answered that.”

  “You never suspected that perhaps he was abusing her?”

  “What? No,” she gasps. “I may have had my differences with him, but one thing I can say for certain is that Brad Sunderland never raised a hand to my sister. He would have never hit her. Never in a million years.”

  “Was your sister ever violent, Mrs. Walsh?”

  “What? No! How dare you,” she spits, her face filling with sudden color. “I know what you’re suggesting, and you can go to hell. My sister wouldn’t hurt anybody, let alone her fiancé.”

  The tone in Mrs. Walsh’s voice is growing more heated, and I can tell by the look on her face that she’s getting upset. I cut a glance at Astra and nudge her with my foot. When she finally looks over, I use my eyes to tell her to back off. Grudgingly, she sits back, though I can tell she is quietly seething.

  “Mrs. Walsh, do you know if Cassie had anywhere she liked to go? If she wanted to get off the grid, was there somewhere she’d go?” I ask gently.

  She looks hard at Astra for another moment, then turns to me. It’s as if my words are taking a moment to sink into her brain and when they do, she shakes her head.

  “No. Not that I know of,” she says, her tone still plenty hard. “But I think I’d like you both to leave now. I’m done answering your questions, and I’m done listening to you suggest that my sister is a murderer.”

  “Mrs. Walsh－”

  “I said get out. Please.”

  With a sigh, I get to my feet and Astra follows suit. Mrs. Walsh moves quickly to the front door and holds it open. I start to turn around to apologize just in time to see her slam it in my face. I glare at Astra as I walk back to the car. And when we’re both inside, I round on her.

  “I told you not to bring that stuff up,” I say.

  “We weren’t getting anywhere talking around the issue.”

  “We were getting a lot further until you shut her down by accusing her sister of being a murderer,” I growl.

  “The question needed to be asked, Blake.”

  “Not that way. I told you to not go there with her.”

  “Blake, come on－”

  “No, I gave you an order and you blew me off.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me and looks like I just slapped her across the face. I suddenly realize this is the first time I’ve had to be her boss. Which I am. But I never realized until this moment just what that meant. Just what that looked like. And I have to admit, it doesn’t feel good. This isn’t pretty. I wish we could have avoided this altogether.

  Intellectually, I knew there would come a time when I had to pull rank on her. But some small part of me hoped it would never come to that. Now that it has, I have to say, it’s not a lot of fun. Already, some small part of me is wondering if I made a mistake putting my best friend on my team. In a position subordinate to me, only because I can’t play favorites. I can’t cut her any slack I wouldn’t cut anybody else. If she disobeys my orders, there have to be the same consequences for Astra that there would be for Mo or Rick.

  “An order, huh?” she asks.

  “Yes. An order. I’m in charge of this unit, Astra,” I say. “And when I give one, I expect it to be followed.”

  “Huh,” is all she says.

  She turns in her seat and faces forward, staring through the windshield. The wall of ice between us couldn’t be more obvious unless it was physically there. But I’m not wrong. This is my unit and I’m in charge. I don’t often issue direct orders, but when I do, I expect them to be followed.

  Without another word, I start the car and pull away from the curb and start the long, quiet drive back to the shop.

  Sixteen

  Residence of Blake Wilder; Downtown Seattle
r />   “Who is this?”

  “Only the greatest jazz pianist of all time,” I say. “Thelonious Monk.”

  I snuggle up closer to him, laying my head on his chest as the music of one of jazz’s greatest musicians washes over us. After a tough day, this is exactly what I needed… good wine, good music, and better company. It seemed fortuitous that Mark texted me earlier today, asking to see me tonight. Sometimes, it’s like he can read my mind or something.

  “Where did you get your love of jazz?” he asks.

  “My dad. He loved it. He loved everything. The old jazz masters, and the newer stuff too. He was always listening to it. I guess I just kind of fell in love with it by osmosis or something,” I say. “Now, when I listen to it, not only does it relax me, it kind of makes me feel closer to him.”

  “I get that,” he replies softly. “Did you find out anything new? About your folks and your sister, I mean.”

  I shake my head. “Nothing new. I haven’t looked at those files for months, to be honest. I haven’t had the time. Or the heart, I guess.”

  “Oh. I guess I just assumed you were always looking into them.”

  I shrug. “Sometimes it feels so hopeless that I can’t bear to even open them. I mean, I can probably recite what’s in those files to you word for word by now. But nothing new ever seems to stick out to me. Every avenue of investigation I’ve tried has been a dead end. It’s frustrating. And it breaks my heart when I can’t find something new to crack it open. It makes me feel like I’m failing them or something.”

  Mark gently strokes my hair and I lean into him, savoring his touch. “You’re not failing them by abandoning an investigation that’s not going anywhere, Blake. You can’t blame yourself for it.”

  “And yet, I do.”

  We lapse into a comfortable silence for a few moments. He continues to gently stroke my hair and I savor the easy comfort between us. The music plays on, but it’s not having its usual salving effect on me.

  “You do that a lot, you know. Blame yourself for things that aren’t your fault,” he goes on. “You put way too much on your shoulders. That’s a really bad habit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your parents. This thing with Astra,” he says.

  “Well, I did kind of jump down her throat today.”

  “But that’s understandable. You’re in charge and you gave her an order. She defied it,” he says. “You were well within your right to call her out on it.”

  “So why do I feel like such crap about it?”

  “Because you’ve got a big heart and you love her,” he offers. “That, too, is understandable.”

  I sit up and reach for my glass of wine. I take a swallow of the Chardonnay, savoring the taste of it on my tongue. Something else about Mark that I like is that his taste in wine is exquisite. I lean back on the couch, cradling the glass in my hands and staring at the flatscreen TV sitting on top of my brand-new entertainment credenza. It’s tuned to a station that plays a fake fire on a continuous feed. I thought it was funny and turned it on when Mark came over but sitting here watching the faux flames flicker and writhe on the screen, I find it’s kind of hypnotic and soothing in its own strange way.

  It’s the one thing I wish my new condo had that it doesn’t… a fireplace. I regret not finding one that does. But I was pressed for time and needed a place to live, so I jumped at the first place I found. I really didn’t want to spend my first few weeks back in Seattle living in a hotel, and I sure as heck didn’t want to go stay with Annie. I love her, but I love her more from a distance sometimes.

  “It’s creepy how realistic the fire looks,” I say.

  “The wonder of technology,” he replies with a quiet laugh.

  Monk’s song “Ruby, My Dear” gives way to “Pannonica”. I settle back into the couch, leaning against Mark’s strong, firm body. Taking comfort in him. I listen to the music for a few minutes, trying to quiet the tempest raging in my mind.

  “So what do I do about it? About Astra, I mean.”

  “Talk to her. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. You two are too good of friends to let one little blowout get in the way. But you should also remember that this is all probably really strange for her too. I’m sure it’s strange for her to think of you as her boss now,” he says. “So you need to cut her a little slack for that. It’s probably going to take her a little time to adjust to this new dynamic in your relationship.”

  “Did I make a mistake asking her to join my squad?”

  “I don’t know. Did you ask her to join your squad because she’s your friend? Or because you respect her as an investigator?”

  “My friend or not, I wouldn’t have asked her if I didn’t respect her as an investigator,” I say. “She’s one of the best I’ve ever known.”

  “Then there’s your answer.”

  Mark’s words echo through my mind, and finally, I get the calming effect I’ve been needing tonight. I take another drink of my wine, then turn to him and offer him a warm smile.

  “When did you get to be so wise?” I ask.

  “I’ve always been this wise,” he winks. “You just never realized it until now.”

  I laugh softly. “That must be it.”

  “So what is this case, anyway? And what caused this dust-up between you and Astra?”

  I give him a broad overview of the case, starting with the discovery of the body, and finishing with the conversation with Mrs. Walsh. I explain the difference in our theories and why I so vehemently disagreed with the way she conducted herself with Mrs. Walsh. As I speak, Mark just listens. He doesn’t interrupt, he just takes in everything I’m saying. And when I’m done, he nods.

  “Well, why do you think she’s wrong?” he asks. “I mean, isn’t it at least possible that this woman, or a boyfriend, murdered her fiancé and then skipped town? Isn’t it at least possible that she had a secret boyfriend? Or that her fiancé was abusive?”

  “It’s possible, but not likely. The facts we have, as scant as they are, don’t seem to match that narrative. Not for me anyway,” I say. “And more to the point, there were ways we could have gotten that information out of the sister without full-on making a scene as she did.”

  “Maybe not to you, but it obviously fits the narrative she’s creating,” he said.

  “But I think she’s on the wrong track.”

  “Well, I guess it comes down to what sort of a leader you want to be, Blake. Do you want to be the kind of leader who demands blind obedience from your subordinates? Do you want them to adhere to your every theory? Or do you want to be the sort of leader who encourages free thought? Wasn’t it you who once told me that cases are solved when everybody chips in? And when everybody contributes to the whole?”

  I give him a wry smile. “I hate it when you throw my own words back at me.”

  “Well, that’s a danger you face when you date me.”

  I laugh softly. “I admit that her theory is possible. But there are still things that bother me about it.”

  “Like what?”

  “History shows that typically, women don’t kill with blades,” I explain. “Sure, there are some outliers, but the vast majority of women who kill, don’t cut somebody’s throat. They don’t tend to get that up close and personal.”

  “Well that seems fairly sexist,” Mark notes with a laugh.

  “It’s just statistical history,” I respond with a shrug. “And there’s also the condition of the body. I’m sorry, but you’ll never convince me that woman did that. She’s tiny, and I just don’t think she’s got the strength.”

  “Then that bolsters the idea that she had a boyfriend. Somebody who perhaps killed for her,” he says.

  “It’s possible. Maybe. Doubtful, but possible, I suppose.”

  “So, would it hurt your case to let Astra run with her theory? I would imagine if she’s wrong, it’ll peter out pretty quickly and she’ll be satisfied that she was wrong.”

  “I guess not,” I s
ay after thinking about it for a moment.

  “And I think you should talk to her. Clear the air, you know?”

  I smile at him. “You have wisdom beyond your years.”

  “Yes, yes I do. I’m glad you are finally seeing that. It’s well past time.”

  “But if you were really wise, you’d stop talking and take me to bed.”

  He smiles at me. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  He gets to his feet, then pulls me to mine. He presses his mouth to mine, giving me a long, lingering kiss that sets the blood in my veins on fire. Mark pulls back and looks at me, his eyes smoldering. And in that moment, I understand what Astra was talking about. There’s something wonderful about having somebody to come home to after a long, rough day. Somebody to spill to. And somebody who will listen.

  Mark picks me up as if I weigh nothing at all, cradling me in his arms, making me giggle. He smiles down at me and as he carries me to the bedroom one of my favorite Monk tracks, “April in Paris”, starts to play.

  Seventeen

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “Astra, can I see you?” I call from my office doorway.

  It’s been a quiet morning in the bullpen so far. The tension hovering in the air is thicker than the fog that rolls in off the Sound. Everybody seems affected by it. Not even Rick is chattering away with his usual sarcasm and wisecracks. It’s a bad atmosphere and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

  Astra gets up from her workstation and walks back to my office. I close the door after her, then walk back to my desk and drop down into my chair as she takes a seat across from me. Her face is cool and impassive. We both sit in silence for a moment.

  I woke up this morning determined to take Mark’s advice and clear the air with her. But now that she’s sitting here in front of me, I find my powers of speech failing me.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, my mind spinning as I try to figure out exactly what to say. This tension between us sucks.

  “Listen, about yesterday… I want to apologize－”