by Elle Gray
Astra’s expression suddenly softens and her eyes glisten. It’s as if she’s been trying to hold back the tide of her emotions, but the dam crumbled and they’re all pouring out in a flood.
“No, I need to apologize,” she cuts me off. “You were right. You’re the boss and I need to respect that. And your orders.”
“I don’t like being in a position where I’m giving you orders,” I reply. “But even still, I shouldn’t have bitten your head off like I did. I should have found a better way to make my point. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t really yell. It was more like a strongly raised voice?”
I laugh softly. “Well then, I’m sorry I strongly raised my voice at you.”
“And I’m sorry I went in so hard on Mrs. Walsh after you told me not to.”
I lean back in my seat, feeling like a thousand-pound weight has been lifted off my shoulders. The tension that has saturated the air all morning has evaporated and we’re both smiling again. I call that a win.
“I guess we’re both going to have to learn to adapt to this new dynamic between us,” she says.
“I guess so. But it honestly shouldn’t change anything about the way we do things. I thought about it all night and I realize that how you played it with Mrs. Walsh wasn’t necessarily wrong. The questions were valid,” I say. “I think I was letting my own baggage interfere with a valid line of questions.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “Just that when I looked at Mrs. Walsh, I couldn’t help but see my aunt. The way she sat there, trying to cope with the loss of a sister and the murder of a brother-in-law,” I say. “It just struck a little too close to home, and I probably did try to coddle her more than I should have. I probably wouldn’t have reacted that way with another witness. That’s on me.”
“Well… I’m sorry I pushed you to that point,” she says softly. “This is really hard for me to admit, but I really am in awe of you, Blake. I’ve never known a better investigator. And I guess I want you to think I’m good at this job too.”
“Astra, I do. I think you’re an incredible investigator. You were the first person I said I wanted when they told me to pick my team, and not because you’re my best friend. Because as far as I’m concerned, you’re the best damn investigator in the entire SFO.”
She gnaws on her bottom lip and looks away. This is maybe the first time I’ve ever seen her insecurities. Honestly, I thought she didn’t have any. The woman exudes confidence from every pore and unlike some, she has the ability to back it up. Some consider her cocky or arrogant, but I’ve always thought it’s simply because they are envious of her confidence. I know I’ve felt envious of it from time to time. So seeing her looking so uncertain is a strange experience for me. And to be honest, I like it simply because I think it makes her more human and relatable.
“I guess I thought it was because we’re friends,” she says softly.
I shake my head. “No, it’s because I respect your mind. Your ability. You are one of the finest investigators I know, Astra. I picked you for this team because I know exactly how good you are at this job.”
Her eyes shimmer, but she blinks it away. “Thanks, Blake.”
“I mean it. I wouldn’t have picked you if you were a crap investigator. Ask Grant,” I tell her. “And again, I’m sorry I let my own emotional garbage leak out onto you. I should have handled it better, so we didn’t have to sit around blowing sunshine up each other’s backsides.”
Astra laughs. “Hey, we’ve all been there before. You remember that time where you had to pull me off that serial rapist?” she asks and screws up her face. “God, what was his name again?”
“Glenn Gonzalez.”
She snaps her fingers. “That’s him. Anyway, I swear to God I would have killed him if you hadn’t stepped in.”
A rueful grin crosses my lips. “I remember that. Believe me, I was really tempted to let you beat the guy to death. But I didn’t want to see you wind up in prison.”
“I appreciate that,” she laughs softly. “But that was a case of me bringing in my own baggage. I mean, you remember what happened with my sister.”
“Of course I do.”
“All that to say, I understand where you’re coming from about that,” she goes on. “I get it. We’re not perfect beings. We let our personal lives bleed over into our work from time to time.”
“Thanks, Astra.”
“Welcome.”
We sit in a companionable silence for a few moments. We’ve hit a plateau in the investigation for now. There’s no new information to work with. I stopped by Cassie’s workplace before coming into the shop today and interviewed her boss. But she knew even less than Mrs. Walsh. I got the picture of a well-liked woman who is smart, considerate, kind, efficient, dedicated to her job, and was always punctual. She was almost obsessive about it.
So when Cassie didn’t show up for work and didn’t call, her boss panicked, fearing the worst. She called Mrs. Walsh, everybody else she could think of, then finally the police to report her missing. But the unfortunate truth is that Cassie is a grown woman and is under no obligation to tell anybody if she decides to drop off the grid for a while. So I know for a fact that the SPD hasn’t－and isn’t going to－expend much in the way of resources in trying to find her. She’s an adult. If she wants to go away for a while on her own, without notifying her loved ones, that’s her right.
“Still thinking that Cassie is good for Brad’s murder?” I ask.
“I do.”
“Then run with it,” I tell her.
She cocks her head and looks at me strangely. “Even though you don’t buy it?”
I give her a small smile as Mark’s words－well, my words that he threw back in my face－echo through my mind again.
“Cases are solved when everybody chips in and contributes. When we lay out all the theories, as a team, and keep whittling them down until we get to the truth,” I tell her. “I’d be an idiot and a hypocrite if I discarded that belief now.”
“Thanks, B,” she says. “Maybe it pans out, and maybe it doesn’t.”
“Either way, it’ll help us find that truth of it. And that’s all that matters,” I reply. “Just keep me in the loop if you find anything. Oh, and go easy on Rick. I think you scare him a little bit.”
“That’s my plan. It pays to keep him on his toes. Makes him more eager to do what I say just to get me to go away,” she says, tipping me a wink.
She snaps me a salute, then gets up and heads back to her workstation, leaving me laughing and shaking my head, but feeling a thousand percent better than I did when I rolled in this morning. Except for our case. I feel pretty awful about that actually since we’re still stuck on square one. And we’re going to be stuck there until we find Cassie Cooper.
As I think about it further, something Astra mentioned clicks in my mind. I turn to my computer and call up my files on the Glenn Gonzalez case. I still pretty much know it by heart, like I do with all of my cases, but I’m always more reassured by seeing the words in black and white. It keeps me from thinking I’m misremembering something, or… letting my own baggage color my view of things.
I look at the files in the murder book we’ve got on Gonzalez, specifically honing in on his victims. I could probably be doing this with a good percentage of my case files, but Astra mentioned Gonzalez, so he was obviously first in my mind. Like a lot of the scum I’ve bagged over the years, Gonzalez was a preferential offender. He stalked and raped women who all bore striking physical similarities to one another. Creepily enough, most of them look like they could have been related.
A good portion of serial offenders, be they rapists, murderers, or pedophiles, are preferential. For reasons ranging from their victims reminding them of somebody they loved, to their victims reminding them of somebody they hated, most of them have a specific type. And their victims, who are merely surrogates for that person they’re remembering, never deviate from that t
ype.
In Gonzalez’s case, his type was young blondes. They were never older than twenty, all had blue eyes, and all had blonde hair that fell below their shoulders. That was his preference. We’d found out later after we’d captured him and had the chance to interview him, the blondes he raped all reminded him of the literal prom queen back in high school who mocked him when he asked her out. Even worse, she got all of her friends to join in the tormenting and teasing of him.
He obviously had some issues, or that particular violent pathology wouldn’t have taken root so deeply. And it definitely wouldn’t have turned him into a serial rapist if there weren’t some underlying mental and emotional disturbances already. But it was like the prom queen was the final piece that touched off a perfect storm inside of him. A storm that resulted in twenty-three rapes over three years.
The only reason I’m thinking about any of this at all is because of Astra’s mention of Gonzalez－and my mind doing its inevitable running down the rabbit hole thing that it does－gave me a thought. It made me wonder if Cassie Cooper fits somebody’s pathological preferences. What if she is just one in a line of other beautiful redheads who’ve gone missing, and Brad Sunderland is simply collateral damage?
It’s a theory that has some legs, I think. But there’s somebody I want to bounce if off first before I let myself get too hot and bothered by it. But it really is the first thing that’s passed through my mind about this case that’s stuck. That feels like I’m heading down the right path.
Eighteen
Outside the Emerald Rainbow Motel; Downtown Seattle
A light mist is falling and according to the weather reports, we’re in for a pisser of a storm here within the next couple of days. People－and by people, I mean the transplants and those who don’t even live here－grumble about the weather in Seattle, saying it’s always horrible, but I’ve always loved it. I’ve always found the thunder and rain to be soothing. I’m sure some people think that I’m really bizarre for it. But I think most hardened Seattleites don’t really take notice of the weather.
A gust of wind with a cold bite to it blows past, perhaps heralding the coming storm, as I walk down Cascadia Avenue looking for a car. I parked a block away or so, not knowing exactly where he’d be, so I’m forced to do a walking search for it. And then I spot his familiar SUV up ahead half a block or so.
Trying to keep the grin off my face, I sneak up behind the car and pull out my industrial grade flashlight. Moving slowly up the side of the car on the passenger side, I flip on the light and rap hard on the window.
“SPD. Step out of the car now, scumbag!” I shout.
In the glare of the flashlight, I watch a flurry of motion, first in alarm, then in irritation, then in amused recognition of my voice. He’s chuckling to himself as he unlocks the door. I turn off the light and laugh as I slip into the passenger’s seat and close the door.
“I got you, Pax,” I say.
“You did. This time,” he admits.
Paxton Arrington is one of the most unflappable people on the planet. It seems like nothing ever bothers or startles him, so I count this as a win. He and I have been friends for a long while now, and he’s become invaluable as an ally. Paxton and I met at an anti-terrorism conference some years back, when I was just starting out with the Bureau and he was still with the SPD. We really hit it off and have been close ever since. I was there with him when his wife died and he was fired by the SPD after that. Honestly, there was a time I was afraid that he was going to go off the rails.
But to his credit, he’s maintained an even keel. More than that, he’s doing some really great things and still living a life of service to others－something his late wife, Veronica, helped instill in him. He started his own private investigation firm, and his business has really blossomed. He’s quickly become one of the city’s most sought after PI’s – sure, he always needs my help to solve his toughest cases, but who’s counting? I just know that Veronica is looking down on him and smiling.
Veronica was an amazing woman. I’m proud to have called her a friend and still miss her a lot. I know Paxton does. He obsesses over her death the way I do over the murder of my folks. Over the years, we’ve bonded over our shared experiences with loss in life. We each have our own white whale to chase, so we can relate to one another on levels others just don’t get. We help each other both personally and professionally. In some ways, he’s been like a brother to me from day one. I know my life would look a lot different without him in it… for the worse.
“How are you, Pax?”
He nods. “I’m great. Living the glamorous life staked out in front of a seedy hotel, as you can see,” he says. “How are you?”
I laugh softly. “I’m good. It’s good to see you.”
He gives me that million-dollar smile I’m sure put a flutter into the hearts of many a girl back when he was younger. A child of extreme wealth－his family owns one of the largest media conglomerates in the world－Paxton never wanted for anything. Any material or physical desire he wanted, he had. To hear him tell it, he was one of those spoiled trust fund brats who lived the good life and looked down on others. Knowing him as I do, I still have a hard time seeing that.
But then Veronica came into his life and she changed him. For the better. It was she who instilled in him a desire to serve others. To use his power and influence to help people. It’s because of her that he opted to forgo his cushy seat at the CEO’s desk of his family’s company and join the SPD in the first place. She opened his eyes to his own privilege and the ability he had to impact the lives of others, changing them for the better. And in the process, it changed him for the better as well. It’s about the best redemption story I’ve ever heard.
“So who are we staking out tonight?” I ask.
“Mr. Richard McConnell. Lawyer to the stars,” he tells me. “It seems that Mrs. McConnell has tumbled onto his relationship with a girl who is younger than their own youngest daughter and is now looking for evidence to break the prenup and take the guy to the cleaners.”
“Creep. She should take him for everything,” I comment.
“She probably will. The prenup has a fidelity clause and Mr. McConnell is in breach of that,” he states and taps on his tablet. “The audio and video surveillance equipment I planted in the room will be very compelling evidence. Want to watch?”
“Hard pass,” I say with a grimace, making Paxton laugh.
“Why is it these rich, old creeps can’t seem to spring for a decent hotel?” I ask. “Why does it seem they always come to the cheap, seedy places?”
“That is a question I’ve asked myself a million times.”
“Come to any conclusions?”
“I think it’s either that they get some kind of a thrill out of the cheap motels, or that they know they’re not going to keep their girls long. They’d rather not give them a taste of the finer things in life, lest these girls cause problems for them when they inevitably get left on the side of the road.”
“That’s charming,” I note. “Men are pigs. Present company excluded, of course.”
He shrugs. “I’ve done some piggish things in my life.”
“I guess you’re a reformed pig then,” I offer.
“That’s fair. But I never stooped so low as to take a girl to a place that rents rooms by the hour. I’ve never gone that low.”
“Probably because you’re too prissy to be caught up in a place like that,” I say with a wry laugh. “I’m sure they don’t have the thousand thread-count sheets you’re used to. And you’d never stay in a place where you weren’t pampered.”
“That’s probably true. But I’ll have you know that my sheets only have a thread count of eight hundred.”
“Oh, forgive my ignorance. That’s much different.”
“Believe it or not, it is,” he replies with a smirk. “So how’d you know I was out here, anyway?”
“Brody,” I say. “Well, Brody by way of your receptionist, anyway. I’m pre
tty sure Amy has a better idea of what’s going on around that office of yours than you two clowns do put together.”
Pax chuckles. “You may very well be right about that. She’s a sharp one.”
“Things seem like they’re falling into place for you,” I say. “I’m really glad to see it. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, Blake. I think we’re getting there,” he replies. “Of course, taking down a serial killer like Alvin Perry helped raise our profile. And that’s something I couldn’t have done without you. So any success we have is owed a lot to you.”
“Great. So can I expect a royalty check or something soon?”
He laughs. “We can put you on the payroll. Dump the Bureau and come work for me instead.”
“And spend my nights camped out in front of seedy hotels watching old, gross men take advantage of young, impressionable girls?” I raise an eyebrow, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Tempting, Paxton. Really tempting.”
“You can’t beat the glamour of this job.”
We share a laugh and then lapse into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, both of us watching the motel across the street.
“You really are helping people though,” I say. “You know?”
“Sometimes, I think it’s negligible. Busting cheating spouses isn’t exactly the future I had in mind when I opened the firm,” he says.
“But you’re helping the people being cheated on. You’re giving them some clarity and even though I despise the word, a sense of closure,” I say. “You’re helping them and maybe their children. The point is, you’re doing good for some people.”
“I suppose so, yeah. Maybe not as much or as directly as I did with the SPD though,” he notes. “It’s still rich people dealing with rich people problems.”
“Maybe not. But to those people you do help, I’m sure it means the world,” I tell him. “Don’t underestimate what you’re doing for them or the impact it has. I’m sure once you report your findings to Mrs. McConnell, she’ll be forever grateful to you. And she’ll be able to move forward with her life.”
