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

by Elle Gray

  Even dressed in scrubs, with no makeup, and her red hair pulled back into a plain ponytail, she’s a very pretty woman. No more than twenty-five or so, she’s got a milky complexion, wide blue doe eyes, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I can’t help but wonder if the unsub has secretly fantasized about locking her away in whatever torture dungeon he has set up.

  When the nervous man finally leaves, we step forward and badge the nurse. Her eyes grow wide and she looks at us like she’s suddenly terrified.

  “Is there a problem, Agents?” she asks.

  “We’re actually looking for somebody and we thought you might be able to help,” I say and glance at her ID badge, clocking her name. “How long have you worked here, Penny?”

  “Oh, a year, maybe a year and a half now.”

  “We want to give you a description of somebody we’re looking for to see if you recognize him. Are you up for that?” Astra asks.

  “Oh. Ummm… sure. I guess?”

  “Good. The man we’re looking for is probably in his early-to-mid forties. He’s white. He’s probably very well educated and has surgical experience,” I say.

  “He’s not going to be overly social. In fact, some might think him cold or aloof. Or just plain odd. Probably has a bit of a superiority complex,” Astra adds.

  A smile crosses Penny’s face as she looks at us. “You just described pretty much every doctor who works here.”

  “Okay well, this man would have suffered a loss, almost a decade ago. The death of a wife or girlfriend, perhaps,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “To be honest, I don’t interact with the doctors much. And I don’t get into their personal lives, so I wouldn’t know about anybody whose wife died or anything like that. I’m really sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” I say. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Strike one,” Astra says as we head back to the elevator.

  We step into the car, and I hit the button for the emergency room.

  “Why there?” she asks.

  “Where else would be better for somebody with a God complex to operate? All those life and death decisions that have to be made,” I offer.

  “Not a bad thought,” she nods. “I think neurosurgery probably fits that bill too.”

  “We’ll go there next,” I say.

  We hit the emergency room floor and manage to corner a woman who looks to be in her forties. She’s got dark, lustrous hair, tawny skin, and dark eyes. Her badge identifies her as Elvia Munoz. And when we badge her, she gives us a look that says she’s unimpressed.

  “How long have you worked here, Ms. Munoz?” I ask.

  “Oh, about fifteen years now.”

  “Excellent.”

  Astra and I deliver the profile and I watch her expressions closely, looking for the slightest hint of recognition. But when we’re done, I see nothing. She just shakes her head.

  “I’m sorry, but that could be almost anybody,” she says. “Hospitals are breeding grounds for arrogant, narcissistic men with God complexes.”

  I laugh softly. “Thank you for your time.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  She bustles off, leaving Astra and I standing there alone. We’re quiet for a few moments, each of us contemplating our next move. I’m realizing that both Elvia and Penny are right. Hospitals do tend to foster that sort of personality. It’s probably hard for somebody not trained to profile the way we are to recognize the traits and signs our unsub would be exhibiting. One narcissistic white guy probably seems like any other to most people. What they don’t see are the pathologies beneath the surface. Not like we do.

  Undeterred though, we set off again and spend the next couple of hours cornering nurses, delivering our profile, and coming up empty. It’s tedious and frustrating work.

  “Well that was time wasted,” Astra sighs.

  “Somebody knows this guy,” I say.

  “Yeah, but they don’t know they know the guy,” she replies.

  “He’s here. I can almost feel it.”

  “Going with the mystical arts now, are we?”

  I shrug. “Hey, whatever works. I’m open to taking these creeps out by any means necessary. Even casting a spell on them.”

  “You and me both, sister,” she says. “Anyway, I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere going at it like this. Let’s head back to the shop and call it a night.”

  “Got a date with Benjamin, huh?”

  She gives me a sly smile. “You are quite the profiler.”

  “Damn straight I am.”

  We head to the elevator back to the main floor to find that there’s still a crowd around the nurse’s station. It’s a different group of people, but like the ones before them, they think the best way to go about things is to shout over one another. I just shake my head. People sometimes make no sense to me.

  I knew this was a long shot, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed that we got no hits. Not even the flicker of recognition. Somebody does know this guy. It’s just a matter of finding that person. I start the car and head back to the shop, quietly pondering what our next move is going to be.

  Thirty-Five

  University of Washington Medical Center; Seattle, WA

  I watch the two women walk away, curious. There’s something about them that set off the warning bells in my head. I don’t know what it is just yet, or why, but they seemed dangerous to me. There was something predatory about them. It stands out because it’s such a striking contrast.

  They’re both striking, elegant, and beautiful women. They seem soft and delicate on the outside. But there is a hardness underlying their beauty. A toughness that speaks to me of somebody that you don’t want to get on the bad side of. They both look like they could handle themselves if it came down to it. I certainly have no desire to test that. But that doesn’t stop my curiosity from boiling over.

  So, to sate my curiosity, I follow Nurse Righetti into the staff lounge. She’s nestled back into the plush couch, getting off her feet for a while. Thankfully we’re the only two people in the lounge at the moment so I can quietly question her. I walk over and pour myself a cup of coffee, then dress it with some cream and sugar. I lean back against the counter with a sigh and give Nurse Righetti a charming smile.

  “How are things out there for you today?” I ask.

  “Brutal,” she replies. “People are acting like bigger babies today than normal. They’re complaining about everything, and it’s all I can do to not just slap some of these people sometimes.”

  “I hear you. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that. I sometimes don’t know how you do it. You deserve a medal or something.”

  She laughs. “I’ll settle for a raise.”

  “What were those two women you were talking to complaining about?” I ask, patting myself on the back for working it in so seamlessly.

  “Oh, they weren’t complaining,” she says. “They were FBI agents.”

  “FBI agents?” I ask, feeling a rush of adrenaline flow through me. “What in heavens did they want?”

  “They’re looking for somebody,” she says, then with a laugh, adds, “their description kinda sounded like you, exactly.”

  I join in with her laughter, hoping it doesn’t sound as wooden as it feels coming out of her mouth. But the fact that the FBI is here and is looking for me is absolutely disturbing to me. That’s not good at all. Immediately, I begin to review my history and figure out where I made the mistake that led them here. They never should have been here. Never should have been able to find me.

  And yet, they have.

  I am always so careful. I spend copious amounts of time researching my girls. Preparing for their arrival. I never take shortcuts. Ever. Doing something half-heartedly is a recipe for disaster, so I make sure to go the extra mile when bringing a new companion home. There should have been no way they could have traced me here. What did I do wrong?

  “Huh. That�
�s interesting,” I say.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Did you happen to catch their names?” I ask.

  “Yeah, the blonde was Wilder, I think. “The brunette was Astra Russo,” she says. “Gorgeous, the both of them. Definitely not what I would have expected an FBI agent to look like, that’s for sure.”

  I laugh politely. “That makes two of us,” I say. “Anyway, I suppose I should be heading back to my basement. Have a good rest of your day.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  I leave the lounge and practically sprint down the corridor, heading for the elevators. I have to force myself to slow down. Running will draw eyes and that’s the last thing I want right now.

  “Calm down,” I mutter to myself.

  Logically speaking, if they knew they were looking for me, I would be in cuffs already. But that makes me curious about this description they have. And how could it possibly sound like me when I’ve never been charged, let alone arrested, for a crime. Ever. I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket.

  The doors slide open and I walk quickly to my suite of workrooms, pushing through the swinging doors, then go to my desk and sit down. My mind is racing and I’m doing everything I can to remain as calm as I can. The FBI showing up here can only mean one thing: they found Cassie’s ex and connected him to her. But have they connected them to me yet? That’s the million-dollar question.

  I stand up and start to pace the room, my heart racing as fast as my mind. I’ve been so careful. Never leaving any traces of anything. I’ve gotten very good at that over the years. I had to. I am always in control and I am always careful. I know exactly how to destroy forensic evidence and foul up a criminal investigation. And I’ve gotten quite good at it.

  Not that I’ve had to do it often. I’ve been sloppy and out of control exactly once. But that was a decade ago. To clean that up, I had to falsify a report and make what I’d done look like the work of another. Once I’d falsified the report, framing a non-existent person, the die was cast. I had to sweat it out, always worried that somebody would know. I spent many sleepless nights terrified that someone would see through me. That eventually, the police would come for me.

  But nobody ever came. Oh, I was investigated, of course. I was the husband of a homicide victim, so it was standard operating procedure. But knowing the SPD as I do, I was able to use their shoddy, lazy police work against them. When the investigation was over, nobody questioned my story or my findings. Nobody thought I did anything wrong.

  As far as everybody around here is concerned, I’m a good guy. I’m thorough and dedicated to my job. A job I do well. Nobody ever once suspected that I was responsible for the death of my wife. That my regrettable, but momentary lapse in control is what made me a widower.

  Of course I regretted what I did to Debbie in the immediate aftermath. But she had pushed me to the breaking point one night, and I finally snapped. In a blind rage, I punched her. And then kept punching her until there was nothing left. But, so far as the world knows, my Debbie was the victim of a horrible murder. And nobody has ever suspected that it was me who beat her to death with my bare hands.

  Over the years, I’ve become certain that Debbie has forgiven me for what I did that night. I’ve become certain that she has been looking out for me. I really believe she’s part of the reason I’ve never been caught. She protects me. Looks out for me. But now… now, I’m not sure what’s going to happen. Not sure what I’m going to do. The FBI is good at what they do. And if they suspect that Brad’s killer is here in this hospital, it’s only a matter of time before they figure out it’s me.

  Back and forth I pace, my arms crossed over my chest, my heart thundering inside of me. Am I just being paranoid? Or were they really letting me see them out there, just to taunt me? To let me know the FBI was closing in on me. Was that it? Was that what they were doing?

  The prudent thing to do would be to get rid of Cassie now. No body, no crime. But I’m loath to do that, simply because she has really turned a corner. She’s becoming the woman I want her to be. The woman I need. We have been enjoying each other’s company. We’ve been sharing meals and sharing ourselves with one other. We’ve laughed together. We’ve made love. We’re becoming a couple, and she is becoming a true companion to me.

  The thought of giving her up now breaks my heart. We’ve come so far and the road ahead is looking a lot better. A lot smoother. They can’t take her away from me. But what good will I do her or anybody else in prison?

  “This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair at all,” I say to the empty room.

  I make the decision then and there that I will hold onto Cassie as long as I can. She’s mine. I’ve spent time with her. I’ve put in the effort needed to make her what she is today: a wonderful companion. No, I need to weather this storm. I need to dig my feet in and not do anything rash until I know what’s coming next for certain.

  And when I know what’s coming, I’m going to have to make a decision. I’ll have to decide whether to protect what’s mine or discard it, no matter how hurtful that might be. An image of Cassie’s face floats through my mind; my insides quiver. She is the one. I just know it. And how can I get rid of the one? The one I’ve been searching for for so long? How can I even contemplate that?

  The short answer is that I can’t. And as I stand here, among the stainless steel and white tile of my personal little fiefdom, I make a fateful decision. I can’t give Cassie up. She means too much to me. And I to her. I won’t give her up. Which only leaves me with one course of action.

  The FBI agents have to die.

  Thirty-Six

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “Okay, so what do we have?” I ask.

  “A lot of names,” Mo answers. “Do you know how many white, forty-something doctors work in that hospital?”

  “Yeah, we got the impression there is a lot when we ran the profile by some of the nurses,” Astra says.

  “I have sixty-three names,” Mo says.

  “That’s a healthy amount,” I say.

  “Is there any way we can narrow the criteria even more?” she asks.

  I sit back in the seat and think about it for a moment. Surely there’s a way to whittle the number down.

  “Okay, filter out lefties,” I say. “The cut across the neck was made by a right-hander.”

  “Or a leftie trying to make it look like a rightie,” Astra points out.

  I shrug. “Fair. But for now, let’s see what we get.”

  Mo punches in a few keys and her screen refreshes. She turns back to us with a smile on her face.

  “Good one. We’re down to forty-six,” she says.

  “Maybe specify for surgeons?” Risk asks. “Not all doctors would necessarily be so practiced in those kinds of surgical techniques.”

  “Good point,” I say. “Mo, try it.”

  “That brings us down to twenty-nine.”

  “Filter out the married ones,” Astra says. “If we’re profiling that this whole rampage is predicated on his traumatic loss, he’s not going to be married.”

  I nod. “That’s a great point. I hate you for thinking of it first.”

  “Hey, I’m not just a pretty face.”

  “We’re down to fourteen,” Mo reports. “We’re getting there.”

  Fourteen is better. But it’s still a lot of names to sort through. That’s a lot of backgrounds to investigate and a lot of lives to tear apart. And while we’re busy tearing apart the life of one person, the actual killer may see the opening and slip away. No, we need to cut that list down even more. And then the obvious hits me and I feel like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner.

  “Can you filter out everybody who is not a widower?” I ask.

  Mo punches it in, and three pictures pop up onto the monitors. Mo turns back to us with a smile.

  “We are down to three names,” she announces.

  “That’s better. Much better,” Astra says. “That is a manage
able list.”

  I get to my feet and walk to the monitors, carefully looking at the three men on the screen before us. I study their features as if just looking at them will allow me to intuit the real killer or something. But my eyes are continually drawn back to the picture of, according to the name, Dr. Neal Stavitz.

  I don’t know what it is, because there’s nothing remarkable about him, but something about him just seems… off to me. It’s like a sixth sense or something, but there are red flags waving and bells going off in my head. There’s something in his eyes that gives me the creeps. I tap his face on the screen and turn to Mo.

  “What’s his story?” I ask.

  Mo reads from her screen. “Dr. Neal Stavitz. Forty-four years old. Widower. Right-handed－”

  “Tell me about his wife,” I say. “Or rather, his former wife.”

  “One sec,” says Rick, typing away furiously. “Found a police report. Her name was Debbie Neally Stavitz. Thirty-one years old when she died. Debbie was the victim of a carjacking gone bad. Fought back and was bludgeoned to death.”

  “Where was Stavitz?”

  “According to the report, he was attending a conference that night.”

  “And what does he do?” Astra asks, turning back to Mo.

  “Oh, he works for the office of the Seattle Medical Examiner,” she says.

  Astra and I immediately turn to each other, our eyes wide, our mouths hanging open as we realize what this suggests.

  “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before,” I say. “How did we not think of this?”

  Astra is shaking her head. “I have no idea. I’m kicking myself as hard as you are right now.”

  “Mind filling in the newbie?” Mo asks.

  I turn to her. “The debate we keep going back to about the unsub having a background in medicine or law enforcement?” I ask. “The ME will have a working knowledge of both.”