The Lost Girls (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 6)

by Elle Gray

  “Hello. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “I’m Father Tobias. I oversee the shelter.”

  We both badge him, and I see a look of concern flash across his face. “Special Agent Russo and SSA Wilder,” Astra introduces us.

  “FBI,” he frowns. “Has something happened?”

  “We’re actually looking for somebody,” I say, unfolding the picture Wilkes printed out for us. “His last name is Burton?”

  Father Tobias nods, a frown touching his lips. “Yes, that’s Leonard Burton,” he says. “Former Army Sergeant Leonard Burton.”

  I pull out a pen and jot the name down on the back of the picture quickly, then tuck the page and the pen both back into my pocket.

  “Is Sergeant Burton in trouble?” the priest asks.

  “Unfortunately, he is, Father,” Astra says. “So, we’d like to find him before it gets any worse for him.”

  “May I ask what he’s done?”

  “I’m sorry, we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” I tell him. “But I can tell you it wasn’t anything violent. It’s something I’m hoping we can clear up with him.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?” Astra asks.

  Father Tobias shakes his head. “No, I don’t. Our unhoused population here is perhaps the literal definition of ‘transient’—they come, and they go,” he says. “And you never know where they are in between.”

  “When was the last time Sergeant Burton was here? Do you recall?” I ask.

  “Of course. He was here last night. He had a scuffle with one of our other guests. Unfortunately, we had to expel them both for the night,” he tells us. “Fighting and violence are not tolerated on Hope Harbor grounds. We have to have a zero-tolerance policy—you fight, you lose your bed for the night. And with so many people who need shelter, there is no shortage of people who will gladly take your spot.”

  “Do you know what Sergeant Burton’s story is, Father?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s a tragedy. After everything he sacrificed for our country…,” his voice trails off for a moment. He frowns but continues. “Anyway, my understanding is that he suffered a tremendous personal loss in Afghanistan. And when he came home, the only way he could cope with it was by turning to drugs. It’s an awful story.”

  I nod. “It really is.”

  “I’ve tried to get him to check into the VA’s rehab program. It will not only help wean him from his addiction, but it will also provide counseling, a roof over his head, and three squares a day. It’s a better deal than he can get out here on the streets,” he says sadly. “But he’s resistant. He won’t go in on his own.”

  “Father, does Sergeant Burton have any friends here? Anybody you see him talking to regularly?” Astra asks.

  “There are a few people he speaks with—I don’t see them right now—but for the most part, he keeps to himself,” he says. “After supper, he likes to sit somewhere quiet and read. He always manages to find books to read.”

  I nod. “What time does he usually come in to claim a bed, Father?”

  “We don’t allow line-ups until seven. He’s usually here right around then,” he says.

  I glance over at Astra and see her give me a nod. Father Tobias seems to catch on and he shakes his head, a worried expression on his face.

  “I would ask that you don’t do what you’re thinking about doing. Not on Hope Harbor grounds,” he pleads. “It will upset our guests, and we don’t need that sort of turmoil here, Agents. I’m sorry, but I have to insist that you don’t attempt to arrest him.”

  “We might not have a choice, Father. If we can’t find him by other means—”

  “I really don’t wish to quarrel with you,” he says. “But if you attempt to arrest him on Hope Harbor grounds, I will grant him sanctuary.”

  “You know that’s not legally binding, right?” Astra points out. “Sanctuary in a church might have worked in the Middle Ages, but it’s not really a thing in the twenty-first century.”

  “No, of course, it’s not legally binding,” he acknowledges. “But believe me when I say it will not go well for you or for the Bureau if you’re viewed as brutalizing or oppressing unhoused residents at a shelter. The church has an excellent legal and PR team, and we will make use of it if forced to.”

  “So, you’re blackmailing us?” Astra raises an eyebrow.

  “I hate the word—it’s so ugly and has such terrible connotations—but in essence, I suppose you could say that. Yes,” Father Tobias says firmly. “Who do you believe the public will side with? The downtrodden veteran taking shelter at the Church? Or the Bureau, trying to strong-arm him into a cell?”

  “I can’t believe we’re being blackmailed by a priest,” Astra mutters. “Isn’t there some passage in the Bible that forbids that?”

  “Actually, there’s not,” Tobias counters. “And I am very sorry. I mean no disrespect, but I will do whatever is required of me to protect my flock. And this flock needs more protection than most. I have no desire to see them disturbed.”

  I nod. “That’s all right, Father. I get it,” I say. “We’ll find other means.”

  “Sergeant Burton is a good man. He’s simply troubled,” Tobias tells us. “Troubled and has a terrible addiction. He can’t help himself.”

  “I understand. And we’ll do all we can to help him,” I say.

  I had him my business card. “If you can think of anything that might help us, please give me a call, Father Tobias.”

  “I will,” he replies.

  We watch him walk away and I turn to Astra, who’s laughing softly to herself.

  “I can’t believe a priest just hard-balled us,” she says. “It’s actually kind of hot. I never had bad-boy preacher fantasies until now.”

  “You are so going to hell.”

  “My ticket was booked long ago.”

  We share a laugh as we turn and walk out of the shelter. As we pass through the hard-eyed scrutiny of Father Tobias’ guests, an idea occurs to me. I walk over to the small knot of men who’d been eyeballing us when we came in. They all get to their feet as I approach them, their faces like stone—if stone could be angry, anyway.

  “Gentlemen,” I start. “Would anybody be willing to answer a couple of questions for me?”

  None of them says anything at first. They simply continue glaring at me as if they think they can shoot lasers from their eyes and burn me to a crisp on the spot.

  “I’ll give the one who talks to me twenty bucks,” I announce.

  “Make it fifty,” counters the man on my left.

  “Done.”

  He gives his friends a shrug, then walks off with me. Astra and I lead him across the street, and I lean against the car. His dirty blond hair is limp and greasy. It looks as though it hasn’t been washed in weeks. Same with his clothing. And I have to breathe through my nose—short, shallow breaths—to avoid taking in too much of his aroma at once.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Just call me Bobo,” he replies. “Everybody does.”

  “All right, Bobo,” I say, pulling the picture out of my pocket. “Do you know Sergeant Burton?”

  He shrugs. “A little. Ain’t like we ever talked much before.”

  “That’s fine. I have to ask you something very personal now,” I say. “Do you use drugs? Meth or heroin? Anything?”

  He shrugs again. I can see the wariness in his eyes. I hold my hands up in a half-surrender gesture to keep him from bolting.

  “I’m not looking to jam you up. What you do is your own concern. I’m not here for that or for you,” I tell him. “I just need a little general information.”

  He clears his throat. “Well….yeah. I sometimes need somethin’ to take the edge off. Sure. But it ain’t like I do it regular or anythin’. Just sometimes.”

  “Okay, that’s great. But was there any place special you might go to….partake?” I ask, doing my best to speak carefully. “Was there some place you’d
go after you scored where you felt safe enough to partake of your purchase?”

  “You mean like a flophouse, right?” he asks with a gap-toothed grin.

  I laugh softly. I guess maybe there was no need for all the carefully coded words.

  “Yes, Bobo. Is there a flophouse nearby?” I ask.

  He nods. “Sure. There’s an abandoned house over on Mulberry. Lots of us use it,” he says. “It’s safe as anywhere, I guess. That guy in the picture you showed me? He been there most of the last week or so.”

  “He has?”

  “I mean, he came for food here last night, but he’s been buyin’ a lot of stuff and hangin’ out at Mulberry for most of the last week like he came into some money or somethin’,” he tells us. “He floated me a bump the other day. Got me well. I appreciated it.”

  “And do you think he’s there now?” I ask.

  He nods. “Probably. Been higher than a kite for days.”

  “Do you know how he came into this money?”

  Bobo shakes his head. “Nah. Ain’t my business to ask,” he says. “Out here you learn to mind your own business. Askin’ too many questions is a good way to get dead.”

  “That’s fair.”

  Out of questions and with a solid lead now, I dig into my bag and pull out a hundred dollar bill then hand it to Bobo. He looks at it with wide eyes and looks at me.

  “I ain’t got change to break this,” he says.

  “I don’t want you to. What I want is for you to not put that in your veins, Bobo. I want you to go get a good meal,” I tell him. “You need some food.”

  He gives me an awkward smile. “Thank you. It’s been a while since I had a real good meal.”

  “Well, go have one,” I say. “And thank you for your help.”

  He turns and walks off as Astra and I get into the car. I start the engine and pull away from the curb. I feel the full weight of the human tragedy we just witnessed inside the shelter settle down over me—people with nothing to their names, nowhere to go, and despite the name of the shelter, no hope for anything better. It’s a feeling of crushing despair, knowing you can’t help everybody. But at least I might have been able to help somebody today.

  We ride in silence for a moment before she turns to me. “Think he’ll actually get food?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  Eighteen

  Outside 4387 Mulberry Street; Capitol Hill District; Seattle WA

  “You think we should call in a SWAT team?” Astra asks. “I’m kind of thinking we should call in a SWAT team.”

  I laugh softly. “By the time we get authorization for the team and take the time to plan a proper op, Burton might be long gone.”

  “If he’s even in there,” she says. “I mean, we’re relying on intel from somebody who likely wasn’t entirely sober.”

  I shrug. “He seemed pretty straight to me. But if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. Either way, I’m going in to have a look around and pull Burton out if I can,” I reply. “I mean, it’s a house full of people so strung out they probably can’t even get on their feet. I just think a SWAT team would be a little heavy-handed.”

  She sighed heavily. “Fine. You’re right.”

  “I’d think you’d be used to that by now,” I smile as I throw her words back at her.

  “Funny. She got jokes now.”

  We get out of the car, and I take a look at the neighborhood around us. It’s run down, and most of the buildings are dilapidated. Lights glow behind the steel bars and curtains that cover the windows in some of the houses, but the one we’re looking at is something out of a Halloween landscape. It’s a two-story structure that might have been Victorian in design at some point in its past. The windows have been boarded over—though most of the boards have been broken off. There are holes in the walls and the roof. There aren’t many, but the shingles that are left on the roof are all dried up and cracked.

  I slip my weapon out of its holster, but hold it down at my side as we cross the street. Astra does the same. The steps that lead to the porch creak and groan ominously as we climb them. It looks as though somebody went straight through a large hole in the center of one tread. We manage to make it to the porch without going through, and I say a silent word of thanks.

  We step to what’s left of the door and push it open. It swings inward with a sharp squeal and bumps against the wall behind it. I pull the flashlight out of my pocket and click it on. Even though night has not yet set in outside and the world is still clothed in the deep purple and blue hues of dusk, the interior of the house is black as pitch. Blankets, old sheets, clothes, and even newspapers have been plastered over the busted-out windows, blocking the light from outside and leaving the interior cloaked in shadows and gloom.

  “Jesus, it smells awful in here,” Astra whispers.

  I nod but don’t say anything, not wanting to take the stench into my mouth. It’s the smell of human waste combined with a powerful haze of body odor and the unmistakable miasma of drug smoke. It seems as if this place has been used as a flop house for a good long while, judging by how pungent the odor is. I’m suddenly wishing I’d thought to bring breathing equipment along. This can’t be good for us.

  There are three people in the living room, all of them doped to the gills. Or maybe they’re dead—I can’t really tell. We move from the living room deeper into the house. I sweep my flashlight back and forth, the bright beam of light cutting through the darkness. Trash is piled up against the walls everywhere and the floor is covered in food wrappers, old syringes, used condoms, newspapers, and more, all of it crunching beneath our boots. I shudder to think what’s sticking to the soles right now.

  “I’m burning these boots when we’re done here,” I comment.

  “You’re buying me a new pair.”

  “That’s fair.”

  In the first bedroom, we find half a dozen people scattered about on the floor. A couple of them are propped up against the wall, the others are sprawled out, all of them in the blissed-out daze of people who are stoned out of their minds. None of them is Leonard Burton, though. We continue through the bottom floor of the house, searching each room, but come up empty. A few of the people opened their eyes and groaned at us, but most of them didn’t even realize we were there. Yeah, a SWAT team would have been way too heavy-handed. I give a nod to Astra, and both of us holster our weapons.

  “That leaves the upstairs,” I say.

  “Awesome,” she replies.

  The air in the house is still. Fetid. It hangs heavy and is so silent, it’s as though we’re walking through a vacuum. Or a morgue. We walk gingerly up the stairs, sticking close to the wall rather than walking in the middle of the treads. The stairs groan and creak and several times, I’m sure we’re going through. But we make it to the second-floor landing without incident and continue our search. We check two of the four rooms upstairs and come up empty and I’m starting to get the sinking feeling that we’re not going to find Burton here after all.

  Astra checks out the third bedroom and I enter the last one. I sweep the light around the room and pause when the beam falls on his face. He’s wearing the green military jacket Wilkes described, and the name patch above the pocket reads Burton.

  “Jackpot,” I whisper.

  “Isn’t a jackpot usually something good?” Astra mutters.

  Burton’s eyes flutter and then open. I watch as he slowly starts becoming aware of himself and everything around him. His high looks is beginning to ebb. He stares at me, and I watch his eyes narrow and his jaw clench. Knowing that look well, I hold my hands up to show I’m unarmed.

  “Sergeant Burton, I don’t want to hurt you,” I start. “I just have a couple of questions, and I need you to come with me to answer them.”

  With a wordless howl of rage, he launches himself at me. I spin to the side and let him blow right by me. He turns back around and pulls a knife. The edge of the blade gleams coldly in the glow of my flashlight, and his face is twisted i
nto a mask of fury. Behind him, I see Astra slip out of the bedroom and into the hall. I raise my hands further, taking a step back.

  “Sergeant Burton, I don’t want to hurt you,” I repeat. “Please put the knife down.”

  “You want to kill me. You all want me dead,” he growls, tapping his head with his other hand. “I know you want me dead. I know too much.”

  “I assure you that I don’t want to kill you, Sergeant,” I say. “I don’t want to hurt you—”

  The floorboard squeaks loudly, revealing Astra creeping up behind him. Perhaps it’s his military training, but even cracked out like he is, Burton is fast. He spins and slashes with his knife and my heart drops into my stomach when I hear Astra cry out. He turns back to me, and as I see Astra crumple to the ground, I see the edge of his blade coated in red.

  I’m temporarily distracted by the sight of Astra’s blood, and he seizes the advantage, lunging at me with a wild, maniacal gleam in his eyes. But my own instincts and training take over. I deflect his arm, turn his blade aside, then drive my fist straight into his throat. He lets out a choked gasp and drops the knife, clutching his wounded throat. Grabbing the back of his head, I pull him down as I bring my knee up with force. The sound of the crunch echoes through the hall. Burton goes limp, crashing heavily to the ground.

  I let out a breath of relief when I see Astra sit up. She’s looking at the slice through the arm of her jacket and the spreading crimson stain. She looks up at me.

  “Add a new jacket and blouse to those boots you owe me,” she says, looking down at the ground she’s sitting on. “Scratch that. You’re buying me a whole new suit.”

  A laugh of relief bursts from me as I cuff Burton’s arms behind his back. That done, I scramble over to her and check out her arm, shaking my head.

  “It’s not horribly deep but you’re going to need some stitches,” I tell her.