by Elle Gray
She purses her lips and looks down, nodding. “I see your point.” She takes another sip of her drink, then looks up again. “But I’m not following something—what do the three Justices who died have to do with any of this?”
“First, they didn’t die. They were murdered,” I tell her. “Second, they cast votes in certain cases that wound up costing some big corporations a lot of money. We’re talking billions—”
“So, those Justices are replaced by ones who have a more corporate-friendly reputation,” she finishes.
“Exactly. Those three Justices give them the votes necessary to push through some radical ideas that will benefit very few people. I mean, there may be other objectives, but Gina told me it was mainly for money and power,” I say. “That’s what I have Mo working on—collecting the cases they’ve decided and finding out who was behind them. If we can figure that part out, we’ll have a suspect pool.”
“This is—complicated,” she says. “And you think your folks stumbled onto the idea and they were killed for looking into it?”
I nod. “Definitely. Between what I learned from Mr. Corden and from Gina Aoki, I have no doubt that’s why they were killed. None whatsoever.”
“And it’s this group, this—”
“The Thirteen.”
“Right. The Thirteen planted Mark in your life to keep tabs on you?”
I nod. “That’s the working theory. Who in the hell else would insert somebody into my life like that?” I ask. “And I’m convinced the woman who broke into my place and beat the hell out of me was sent by him—not Torres—after all. I guess you were right about that.”
“Well, I was wrong about who sent her,” she mumbles.
She looks away and drains her own drink, then signals for a fresh round. It arrives a couple of minutes later, but all the while, I’ve watched her. The wheels are spinning in her brain. And I hate that they are. The last thing I wanted was for Astra to become involved in this. And simply knowing about what’s happening—or what I believe is happening—is enough to get her killed. It’s why I haven’t wanted to tell her.
“So, you have no idea who Mark really is?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t even know if he’s a real doctor,” I reply. “Brody gave me a file that shows me that all of his personal information was faked. Ten years ago, Dr. Mark Walton didn’t exist.”
“Jesus,” she says again, starting to look pale and stricken. “Does he know you know?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. But he knows I’ve been pulling away from him,” I reply. “I just don’t think he knows why. Every time he brings it up, I change the subject. And I don’t see him often.”
“If he was put into your life to watch you, I’m worried about what happens when he finds out that you know. Or even if you just want to break up with him,” she says. “I mean, does he have orders to kill you?”
I shake my head. “I really hope not. But I have no idea.”
“We need to get you out of there. Away from him,” she says. “The Bureau has safe houses—”
“Absolutely not. For all I know, there are members of this Thirteen inside the Bureau,” I cut her off. “If they get wind that I’m onto them, it wouldn’t be very difficult for them to find out where I am, then come for me. Or even worse, come for the people I love most.”
She runs a hand over her face and looks at me with genuine fear in her eyes. I give her a wan smile and a shrug.
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you. We’re playing some high-stakes poker right now,” I tell her. “But I have no choice. I have to play out the hand I’ve been dealt.”
“To be honest, I’d rather know than be left in the dark,” she says. “If somebody’s coming for you and possibly me, I’d rather have a heads-up so I can be ready.”
“It’s going to make you paranoid.”
“A little paranoia isn’t a bad thing,” she shrugs.
“I suppose not.”
We sit in silence for a couple of minutes as the sounds of Coleman Hawkins’ saxophone wash over us. I watch Astra as she tries to wrap her mind around the enormity of it all. She’s struggling with it, which is something I can relate to. I still have difficulty with it, sometimes.
“That’s a lot,” she finally says.
“Yes, it is,” I reply. “So how about we talk about something else? Give you a chance to process it all.”
“Good idea,” she responds. “Do you really think Selene Hedlund was trafficked?”
I laugh out loud, not expecting her to go there. “Not one for light, cheery, vapid conversation tonight, are you?”
Astra grins. “After doing this job for as long as I have, I’m not sure I even know how to do that anymore. I mean, it’s not as though I watch reality TV or anything, so that’s out.”
“I think we suffer from the same disease.”
She nods. “We do. But at the same time, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing,” she says. “And I know you feel the exact same way.”
“I do,” I reply. “And to answer your question, I think there’s a very strong possibility that Selena was snatched and trafficked. She’s a very pretty girl. I’m sure somebody else noticed that, too. But I take it you’re not convinced.”
She shrugs. “Honestly, there’s part of me that thinks she simply walked away. Yeah, given what we have to work with right now, it looks like a trafficking situation,” she says. “But if you change your vantage point of the situation, it can also look as if she simply got tired of her life and decided to cut ties with it. I think Spencer helped her see just how toxic her life was, and there’s part of me that thinks she wanted a fresh start somewhere else—somewhere she isn’t Selene Hedlund. She was just Selene. Even if she couldn’t have that life with Spencer, I think she wanted it all the same.”
I nod. “That is entirely possible. And you’re right. From a different perspective, it can definitely be that. I think we’re going to know more once we track down the bleeder. We get him, we can get to Hoodie, and from there—I hope we’ll have the answers.”
She raises her glass. “Then let’s nail these guys.”
“Hear, hear,” I say and tap my nearly empty glass against hers.
Sixteen
Emerald City Trust Bank, Capitol Hill District; Seattle, WA
We’re standing on the sidewalk just outside the bank, looking at the crowd flowing by. There’s some small part of me that hopes the bleeder just stumbles into our arms, but I know it’s not going to be that simple. Nothing ever is.
“Does your head hurt this morning?” Astra asks.
“Not anymore,” I reply. “I had half a dozen Advils in my coffee this morning.”
“Smart,” she groans. “When did we get so old, Blake? I can’t put ’em away like I used to.”
“I think you’ve lost your pro card,” I tell her. “You are officially relegated back down to the rank amateur drinking league.”
She puts her sunglasses on and nods. “Yeah, sounds fair.”
“This is what happens when you get all happy and cozy in a relationship,” I go on. “You’re not out at the bars pounding every night. You lose your stamina.”
She laughs softly. “I think it’s a fair trade-off. I’ll trade the hangovers and Advil coffee for what I have with Benjamin.”
“That’s so sweet, I think I’m about to slip into a diabetic coma,” I say.
“We need to find you a good man, Blake Wilder.”
“Given my recent history, I’m going to pass,” I reply. “But when I’m ready to brave those piranha-infested waters again, I’ll settle for a guy who’s not a spy for an organization that wants to murder me.”
“That’s a pretty high bar. But I’ll see what kind of magic I can work.”
“Deal,” I reply and point to a pizza shop across the street. “Over there.”
We cross the street and walk over to the pizza shop. Incredibly loud and fast punk rock is blasting through the speakers at such volume that
I wonder how anybody can hear over the music. When we get to the counter, we flash our badges to the kid behind the counter. He pales as he looks at us.
“Wh-what can I do for you?” he asks.
“We need to speak with your manager,” I say.
“And we need for you to turn the music down as well,” Astra adds.
I give him a smile as he turns and dashes through the swinging doors that lead to the back of the shop. A moment later, the music is turned off. The air in here is thick with the smell of garlic and cheese. It smells delicious, actually. There are half a dozen small tables against the wall behind us, but other than that, the rest of the seating is outside. The glass case on the counter in front of us displays several different pizzas under the heating lamps. My stomach rumbles and I’m just about to order a couple slices of pepperoni and pineapple when a tall, heavy-set man walks out of the back room.
Yeah, I like pineapple on pizza. Sue me.
The manager is roughly six-and-a-half feet tall, with one stripe of blue hair down the center of his otherwise clean-shaven head. He’s got so many tattoos that I can’t actually see the skin on his arms and neck. He’s got a black goatee and a nose ring that’s connected to his ear by a gold chain.
“He’s pretty,” Astra says quietly.
“That’s—that’s a look,” I whisper back. “But I gotta say, not exactly my type.”
“Take a walk on the wild side, Blake,” she grins furtively.
“I’m Devin Wilkes. I’m the manager here,” he announces. “What can I do for you, Agents…”
“Wilder and Russo,” I introduce us. “And we’d like to ask you about those security cameras outside the shop.”
He nods. “Yeah, we had them installed a few months back. Kids kept breaking the windows,” he says. “Vandalism’s gone down since we installed them.”
“That’s good,” I say. “And how long do you store your footage?”
“Indefinitely.”
“Excellent,” I nod. “Then may I ask for you to show us the footage from a certain time and day?”
“Uhhh….don’t you need a warrant or something?” he asks.
“The whole world watches Law & Order and now they’re freaking experts,” Astra mutters. I have to suppress a grin.
“We can certainly come back with a warrant, Mr. Wilkes,” I tell him. “But we’re not interested in anything happening in this shop. I notice a couple of your cameras are pointed across the street—those the ones I need the footage from.”
He shifts on his feet. “So, that’s all you need?” he asks. “You’re not interested in anything here?”
I give him a smile. “I have absolutely no interest in whatever side business you’re running here, Mr. Wilkes. And because, as you so astutely pointed out, I don’t have a warrant, nothing I happen to see—assuming there is something to see—would be inadmissible, anyway,” I tell him. “But I assure you, all I want is the footage from those cameras pointed toward the bank.”
“Somebody rob it or something? The bank, I mean,” he asks.
“Something like that,” I say. “So, will you help? Or will I need to get a warrant?”
He hesitates a moment and I can see he’s torn. Which tells me he’s got something really cooking in the back of his shop. Something he doesn’t want us to see. I guess I’m going to have to give him a nudge.
“Mr. Wilkes, if you’re more comfortable, I can go get a warrant,” I start. “But when I do, I will have to leave Agent Russo behind to keep an eye on things to make sure nothing—goes missing. And when I come back with a warrant, anything and everything we see will be very much admissible in court.”
“Please, come on back,” he says almost immediately. “Just—excuse the mess.”
“Of course.”
We follow him behind the counter and to the back of the shop, where we find somebody weighing out weed and putting it into various sized baggies. There are different tubs for the different weights sitting on a table against the wall.
“Weed is legal here, you know,” I point out.
“Yeah, but some folks don’t want to go out,” Wilkes shrugs. “So, we deliver it to them with a piping hot pie. You get your weed and something to munch on when the craving strikes. We’re like a one-stop-shop.”
I laugh. “You know, for a punk rocker, that’s quite a brilliant capitalist invention.”
“I prefer to think of it as providing a service for the community. Cutting out the middleman.”
I laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
We step into a small room in the back. A flat-screen computer monitor is mounted to the wall above a desk, and the lone office chair groans in protest as Wilkes drops down into it. Astra and I are practically standing shoulder to shoulder behind him as he logs in.
“So, what was the date you wanted?”
I give him the time and date, telling him to run it five minutes before the allotted time. He does and blows up the first screen, giving us a clear look.
“This camera is so much better than the city’s cams,” Astra notes, and I nod.
“There. Freeze it, please,” I say.
On the screen are Hoodie and Bleeder. Hoodie’s back is to the camera, so he’s a total loss. But the bleeder is perfectly visible.
“That’s got to be good enough for facial rec, right?” Astra asks.
“You don’t need facial rec,” Wilkes pipes up. “That’s Crackhead Burton. He’s a homeless vet who’s usually high on smack or meth—whatever he can get his hands on. Sad story, really. He’s always rummaging around looking for food and stuff. I usually float him a pie when he comes around every few days.”
I have to say, I’m surprised by the kind and generous gesture. It’s a really nice thing to do for a guy who can’t take care of himself.
“Burton—is that his first or last name?” Astra asks.
He shrugs. “Not sure. He’s got an Army jacket that has the name Burton on the patch. That’s just what everybody calls him,” Wilkes replies. “Well, that and Crackhead Burton, of course.”
A patch on a military jacket makes it his last name. “Can you print out a few copies of that frame for me, please?”
He nods. “Comin’ right up.”
There’s a high-pitched whirr as copies of the still picture slide into the printer tray. Wilkes hands them to me. I take one and hand the rest to Astra, then study the man’s face for a moment, committing it to memory.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where we can find him, would you?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not for sure, no. He did mention once that he crashes at the shelter over on Westinghouse. You know that one?”
“No, but I will,” I reply. “We appreciate your help, Mr. Wilkes.”
“So, you know, about—you know,” he stammers. “I mean, I helped you out, so we’re cool and all, right? I mean—”
I give him a devious grin. “Give us a couple slices of that pepperoni and pineapple pie up front and we’ll call it even.”
“Comin’ right up,” he says with a wide grin.
Seventeen
Hope Harbor Shelter, Capitol Hill District; Seattle, WA
“I’m not seeing a lot of hope in Hope Harbor,” Astra remarks.
A frayed and faded banner hangs on the façade of the building bearing the name Hope Harbor Shelter. One of the corners has come loose, flapping wildly in the soft breeze.
“You’re not kidding,” I reply.
Sitting behind the wheel, I look at the shelter and finish off my slice of pizza. I wipe my hands on a napkin, dropping the refuse into a brown paper bag on the seat beside me. The building itself is a converted church. The outside of it, once white and pristine, is now a dull, dingy gray. The paint is peeling in plenty of spots, revealing the cinderblocks underneath. The grass and bushes along the front are all overgrown, most of them already dried and dead.
“Shall we go?” I ask.
“Let’s,” she replies. “Maybe it gets better on the inside
.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”
We get out and walk across the street. I can feel the eyes on us as we walk toward the front doors. As we mount the cracked brick steps, a few men who were sitting off to the side of the porch turn and look at us, sizing us up. They’re hard-looking men, wearing clothing that’s little better than rags at this point. They’re dirty and grimy, with long, bushy beards, unkempt hair, and looks of pure desperation about them. Unfortunately, the last few years have seen an uptick in people living on the streets in Seattle, due to a combination of rising housing costs and the city government’s utter lack of care. I feel for them.
It’s especially a shame when the homeless person is a vet like Burton. Thousands of men risked their lives to serve their country and were left disabled—physically or mentally—with crippling PTSD or addiction, and all the slimy politicians who claim to support them simply see fit to just sweep them under the rug. Congresswoman Hedlund included.
We step through the doors of the former church and find ourselves in a large room that’s been sectioned off by large rolling and retractable walls. Three-fourths of the room is dedicated to sleeping quarters. Cots are lined up in rows that remind me of a military barracks. It looks as if they can hold about a hundred people or so in here. The space is currently empty. A large sign plastered on the wall says that nighttime accommodations will begin at eight o’clock.
The remaining quarter of the room is the soup kitchen. A long row of folding banquet tables fronts a small kitchen. Tables have been set up in front of the food line. A quarter of them are already occupied with people talking, playing cards, or just sitting there staring off into space as they wait for food to be served. Through the pass-through window, I can see people cooking in the kitchens. The air is saturated with the smell of baking bread and other spices.
“Smells like chili night,” Astra says.
“Good nose.”
“Good afternoon, may I help you?”
We both turn quickly and find a man in black pants, a black, short-sleeved shirt, and a white clerical collar. He’s about five-ten, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a kind, friendly face. He looks youthful, but his eyes tell a different story. He’s a man who’s been around and has seen some things, but he still exudes an air of calm, peace, and warmth.
