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

by Elle Gray

A shot of adrenaline courses through me and that cynical voice in the back of my mind starts to speak louder, becoming a shout in an instant.

  “Unlock your shackle? I don’t know, Cassie－”

  “Just long enough for me to get dressed for a proper dinner,” she says. “You can lock me back up when I finish dressing. I only want to prove myself to you. Prove to you that I’m worthy of the love and care you’ve shown me.”

  My heart is thundering in my chest. My every nerve ending feels like it’s on fire. Debbie is whispering in my ear, telling me that love is about taking chances. Taking risks. She’s telling me that when it comes to matters of the heart, sometimes you need to take a leap of faith. After all, I never would have gotten Debbie if I hadn’t taken that leap of faith.

  “All right,” I say. “Would you like dinner from Francelli’s? Have the meal we didn’t get to eat before?”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she smiles. “I’ll be sure to put on something really nice for our special night together.”

  She lays a hand against my cheek, her eyes locked onto mine, and I lean into her touch. Savoring it. She’s so perfect. So special. Pulling the keys out of my pocket, I lean down and unlock her shackle, then sit up again, my gaze still fixed on hers.

  “I’ll go and order dinner,” I say.

  Her smile melts my heart.

  “Then I’ll get dressed,” I say as I get to my feet. “I have a really good feeling about tonight.”

  She gives me a playful grin. “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  I laugh to myself as I walk up the stairs, suddenly feeling a lot better about things than I have in a few days.

  Thirty-Two

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “You are going to want to kiss me,” Rick announces as he bursts into the shop.

  “I think I speak for everybody when I say, it’s pretty safe to say that’s probably never going to happen,” Astra teases.

  Rick hustles over to his workstation and drops his bag on the ground, then flips on his computers, waiting for them to boot up. There is a manic tension radiating off of him as he sits there, tapping his foot on the floor and drumming his fingers on the desktop of his workstation.

  “So, I couldn’t sleep last night. I battle insomnia sometimes, it’s not unusual,” he starts. “My brain was just running, running, running like a hamster on a wheel－”

  “Dude. Did you forget to take your meds this morning?” Astra asks sarcastically.

  “No, in fact, I did not,” he replies, very seriously.

  “Okay, so then how many espressos have you had this morning?” Mo asks.

  “Four. No, five,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re way more spastic than usual,” Astra says.

  “Entirely possible. But the espressos were necessary since I didn’t get any sleep last night,” he replies. “Anyway, the way I settle my mind down when I get hit with insomnia is by doing something tedious, and/or monotonous. And in this case, doing my deep dive into the victims and looking for that nexus you asked me to find was both tedious and monotonous. It’s funny, you wouldn’t expect this stuff to feel monotonous but after a while you start to recognize patterns. Like little pieces of puzzles you can throw together in different ways. More like a Rubik’s Cube I guess than a puzzle. Because there are lots of ways to look at it from different angles.”

  He’s talking so fast, I honestly don’t know how I’m keeping up with him. I’ve never seen him this hyper or manic before. Frankly, it’s a little disturbing. He’s just all over the board and yet, he’s still managing to make some sense. I don’t know how, but he is. I’d be impressed if he wasn’t freaking me out so much.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t finding anything in the traditional way. I hit all of their socials, dug through their credit card receipts, and was searching for some common denominator between them all,” he goes on.

  “And did you find one?” I ask.

  “No, not that way,” he says. “So I asked myself, what would Blake Wilder do?”

  “Well, there’s your first mistake,” Astra says, flashing me a grin.

  “It’s entirely possible. I mean, if anybody finds out what I did, I could be in trouble. Like jail time trouble,” he says. “But I was so cracked out of my mind last night that it seemed like a good idea－”

  “Rick,” I cut him off. He looks over at me. “Relax. Take a deep breath. In fact, take two or three. Calm yourself down. You’re talking a thousand miles a minute.”

  He does as I say, closing his eyes and takes several deep breaths, letting them out slowly. But when he opens his eyes, I can still see they’re dilated and he’s still completely amped up. But he makes an effort to slow down as he speaks.

  “So, in keeping with the spirit of this unit and our looser approach to the rules, I had an idea last night,” he says.

  “There’s your second mistake,” Astra adds.

  “Since I wasn’t finding anything through the usual channels, I decided to hack into their cell phones,” he goes on as if Astra hadn’t said anything. “All phones have GPS, so I used their geotags to construct a map. I was only able to get the information for the last five. I couldn’t get the data for the first three victims. But I think five gives us a good picture of what we’re looking for.”

  “Anyway, I overlaid the geotag data for the last five victims and it turns out that all five of them had visited the University of Washington Medical Center about a month prior to their abduction. And I’d be willing to bet if we had access to their medical records, we’d find the same pattern held true for the first three victims.”

  Astra and I exchange a look as a stunned silence falls over the bullpen. Even Rick seems to have run out of steam as he slumps back in his chair, looking worn out. I guess the espressos are already wearing off. I can’t help but be impressed with him, though. Not only did he do tremendous work, but he actually bent the rules, which was something I never thought he’d do. For his rebellious spirit, he’s very much a color-inside-the-lines kind of guy.

  “That’s too big of a coincidence to ignore,” Astra says. I can’t help but hear the excitement in her voice.

  “You know how I feel about coincidences,” I reply.

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “The first thing we need to do is find out if the first three victims were at that hospital,” I say.

  I want to kick myself for not thinking of it earlier and am glad that Rick had the idea. He very well may have found the missing piece to the puzzle. If the pattern holds with the first three victims, then that is the link between them all. And that is pretty compelling evidence that our unsub is an employee at the hospital. That fits with our profile.

  My body is humming with electricity and my belly is churning with excitement. I want to believe that we’re closing in on our unsub. Hopefully soon we can bring his reign of terror to a crashing halt and get him off the streets. For good. But first things first. We need to verify that the pattern holds. If it doesn’t, we may find ourselves back at square one.

  “Rick, that is fantastic work. Really, really good stuff,” I tell him.

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “Go home. Take the day and get some sleep,” I say. “If we need you, we’ll call you. But seriously, go get some rest.”

  “On it,” he replies.

  “Mo, I’d like you to start compiling a list of employees at the hospital,” I say. “Limit the scope of the files to the parameters in our profile only.”

  “You got it.”

  I turn to Astra. “Let’s go cross our t’s and dot our i’s.”

  Astra grins. “Let’s do it.”

  Thirty-Three

  Residence of Mike & Stacy Masters; Roosevelt District, Seattle

  “Let me just say again that we’re so very sorry for your loss, Mr. And Mrs. Masters,” I say. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve gone through.”

&nb
sp; “Thank you,” Mrs. Masters murmurs.

  Even now, years after her daughter’s disappearance and murder, the pain on her face is as fresh and excruciating today as I’m sure it was back then. She’s still in absolute agony.

  “I don’t understand,” Mr. Masters frowns. “What is this all about?”

  We’re sitting in the living room of Mike and Stacy Masters, parents of Sara Masters, the first victim of our unsub. Their home is a spacious three-story Victorian design with high gables, peaks, and plenty of wrought iron. It sits in a nice, upper middle-class neighborhood. The decor is tasteful, and the walls are filled with black and white photographs shot by local artists. I recognize some of the shots as framed photos I have on my own walls at home.

  “The man who took your daughter,” I start, “we believe we’ve had a break in the case and we just need to confirm a few pieces of information to be sure.”

  “What kind of information?” Mr. Masters asks.

  Mike and Stacy are sitting side by side on the loveseat, their knees touching, their hands clasped together as if they’re drawing strength from one another. And perhaps they are. I can’t possibly begin to guess the pain of losing a child, nor the toll it takes on a couple, but if the expressions are their faces are any indication, it’s immense. Even after all these years, it seems to be overwhelming to them. Which makes me feel like a schmuck for having to do what we’re doing right now.

  I think this might be part of the reason I’m so hesitant when it comes to settling down and starting a family. Talk about things getting real. But I know the horrors in this world, and the depravity of humanity, better than almost anybody. I admit that because of what I do, my view of people is incredibly jaded. I see killers everywhere. It’s one of the hazards of the job.

  Maybe Mark was right. Maybe I am gazing too much into the abyss.

  “Specifically, we need to know if your daughter was a patient at the UW Medical Center about a month before she was taken,” Astra says.

  Mr. and Mrs. Masters share a look, then turn back to us. She buries her face against his shoulder, and I can see the tears tracking down her cheeks. Mr. Masters remains stoic. His jaw is clenched but his eyes are haunted. There is an anger simmering beneath the surface that’s not hard to see.

  I can’t imagine what it’s like to have that wound ripped open again after all these years. If there were any other way to get the information, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But with the cell phone data purged, and our inability to get to any relevant medical files, there’s no other way to get it than by going to the source.

  “No, Sara wasn’t in the hospital,” he says, his voice carrying a tone of dejection. “She was a healthy girl. She didn’t spend a day in the hospital in her life.”

  And just like that, the balloon of excitement that had been forming inside of me pops. If Sara was never in the hospital, then the unsub obviously didn’t cross paths with her there, meaning it’s not the nexus point we’ve been looking for.

  “What information do you have?”

  I look up to see Mrs. Masters looking at me, her eyes shining with hope. She’s obviously never going to get her daughter back, so the next best thing she can hope for is that Sara’s killer is caught and punished. That’s about the only thing she can cling to anymore. And I hate to steal that away from her.

  “We believed that the man who took your daughter crossed paths with her at the med center. Several of the victims were there about a month prior to their－”

  Mr. Masters cocks his head and looks hard at me. “Wait a minute, several of the victims? You mean, there’s more than Sara?”

  Astra and I exchange a look, her expression saying clearly that this question is mine to field. Sometimes, being the one in charge sucks.

  “Yes, sir,” I nod. “Sara was the first, but seven more have come after. We’re investigating now because he currently has another girl.”

  Mr. Masters’ face grows dark and tight. Mrs. Masters leans forward, buries her face in her hands, and begins to sob. I can tell this is obviously news to them. It seems that the SPD has not kept them abreast of the investigation at all. Surprise, surprise.

  I suppose it could be argued that given the numerous statements from Mr. and Mrs. Masters on file already, along with all of the investigative notes in the murder books, the task force didn’t actually need to speak with them. But I would think that out of professional courtesy, and also to let them know that Sara has not been forgotten and that they are continuing to pursue justice for her, that they would have given them a call, just to update them.

  I clear my throat. “So, am I to understand that nobody from the Seattle police department has spoken with you?”

  “No. Nobody has said anything to us,” he says, his voice hard. “And you’re sitting here telling me that seven other girls were taken after our Sara?”

  “It appears that way, Mr. Masters,” I say. “We received the case recently and are going back through everything with fresh eyes.”

  “This is unbelievable,” he snaps. “Our daughter is the first victim of a serial killer and she’s just… discarded. Thrown away. Nobody thought it important to give us a call and tell us about any of this.”

  Technically speaking, the SPD wasn’t under any obligation to keep them up to speed when they formed the task force. But, as far as I’m concerned, it would have been the right thing to do, if for no other reason than to let them know that Sara hasn’t been forgotten. I’m not going to say that though, since I’m not here trying to open old wounds any more than I have to, nor am I here to make the department look bad. They’re doing that just fine on their own on that count.

  “Well, I’m here to tell you that we are looking into this, Mr. and Mrs. Masters. Your daughter has not been forgotten and we are still seeking justice for her,” I say softly.

  Mr. Masters’ expression softens slightly, but he still looks angry. And I don’t necessarily blame him.

  “So, you’re sure that Sara wasn’t at the med center prior to her abduction?” Astra asks one last time.

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m certain. She never had to be hospitalized.”

  Just as that crushing weight of disappointment started to descend on me, Mrs. Masters sits up, a flicker of something on her face. I lean forward, my eyes locked onto hers. I can see her struggling to recall something and I silently will the memory to come to her.

  “What is it, Mrs. Masters?” I ask.

  “I was just trying to recall… her best friend Nadia was in the hospital around the time our Sara disappeared. She’d been in a car accident,” she says. “And I’m pretty certain it was in early October.”

  “You’re certain of that time frame?” Astra asks.

  Mrs. Masters screws up her face. It’s such a small detail and it was so long ago, I would understand if she couldn’t remember, but I’m really hoping she can tease the memory out of herself.

  “No, I’m sure of it,” she finally says. “The accident was just after Nadia’s birthday, which is in late September. She was in the hospital right after that, which would have been early October.”

  Mr. Masters is looking off into the distance for a moment, but then he seems to come back to himself, the light of a recognized memory shining in his eyes too.

  “She’s right,” he says. “I remember Sara was so shaken up about it. She and Nadia grew up together. They were practically sisters. Nadia’s accident had her more rattled than I’ve ever seen her before. I totally forgot about that until now.”

  And just like that, the balloon of excitement starts to re-inflate. Just when I thought the momentum of our case was about to peter out, it’s back on track and flying along like a bullet train.

  “Does that help, you Agent Wilder?”

  “More than you know. Thank you both for your help,” I tell him. “And I’m sorry to dredge up such painful memories. Please believe me when I say, I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

 
“Just take this bastard down, Agents,” Mr. Masters says. “Please get justice for our daughter.”

  “We’re going to do just that, Mr. Masters,” I say.

  And I hope against all hope that I can keep that promise.

  Thirty-Four

  University of Washington Medical Center; Seattle, WA

  Before heading back to the shop, Astra and I decide to swing by the med center to have a look around. We want to get a feel for the place, and also to discreetly deliver our profile to a couple of the nurses, hoping that maybe they’ll recognize somebody and will be able to point us in the right direction. I know it’s a long shot, but if we can put an end to this right here and now, I’d much rather do that. A long shot is better than no shot.

  We walk through the main doors of the med center and make our way to the duty nurse’s desk. They’re currently being harried by a flock of people who seem content to shout over each other.

  “It’s going to take us forever if we wait for that to clear up,” Astra notes.

  I nod. “Agreed. Let’s start somewhere else.”

  We head to the elevators and step into the car. I look at the list of departments by floor and shrug.

  “Pick a floor,” I say.

  “Let’s try pediatrics.”

  I look over at her. “Is that a subtle hint? Are you trying to tell me something?”

  She cocks her head, comprehension only dawning belatedly. She cackles with laughter and shakes her head.

  “Oh my God, no,” she says with a laugh. “No, I’m not pregnant.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Bite your heathen tongue.”

  I laugh as I push the button for the fifth floor. “Next stop, pediatrics,” I say, “where we will be listening to the sound of Astra’s maternal clock ticking away.”

  She laughs. “God, you suck.”

  The car stops and the bell chimes as the doors slide open. We step out onto the floor and find it far less chaotic than the main floor. We walk down the corridor and make our way over to the nurse’s station. There’s only one nurse there, and she’s in the middle of talking to a very nervous looking man, so we stand back and wait.