by Elle Gray
“I know. You’ve got a busy job. And I promised that I wouldn’t get on you about it,” he says. “It’s just—I miss you, Blake. I miss you a lot. I’ve never enjoyed somebody’s company more than I do yours. And nobody has ever been able to make me laugh like you do. I miss that.”
I hear the sincerity in his voice. It pulls at my heartstrings, and I have to remind myself for the thousandth time that spies are trained to make you believe anything. They’re sociopathic in their abilities to mimic emotion.
“I know. Things have just been crazy,” I tell him.
“Are you sure that’s all it is?”
I cock my head. “What do you mean?”
He lets out a long breath. “I guess I’m just asking if this—thing—between us, this relationship has run its course for you?”
And there it is. We’ve finally come to that crossroads where I need to decide what’s going to happen here. Do I cut him loose and assume all the risk that comes with it? I mean, knowing what I know about him, I have to believe that if I cut things off, there will be repercussions. Maybe his employers will think I cut him loose because I know what he is. Maybe if they think they can’t keep tabs on, or control, me anymore, they’ll give him a green light to take care of me once and for all.
Like it or not, keeping him in my life might be the only thing keeping me alive. He’s in my life watching me every bit as much I’m watching him. And if I know where he is and what he’s doing, I have some assurances that neither he nor the Thirteen is making a final move on me. As much as I hate to say it, keeping Mark in my life might give me the chance to get all of my pieces on the board arranged, so that when I’m ready to make my play, I’ll be able to strike fast and hard.
“No, Mark, I don’t feel that it’s run its course,” I tell him. “Again, things have been—”
“Crazy at work. I know,” he interrupts me. “But even beyond that, it just feels as if there’s a chasm between us. It feels as though you’re holding me at arm’s length.”
I make a show of frowning and looking as if I’m thinking hard about what he said. After taking a few beats, I nod and look up at him.
“And I’m sorry for that. There’s just been—a lot going on in my head lately and I’m in a really weird space right now. I’m sorry you’re caught in that crossfire,” I tell him. “I’m getting nowhere with my parents’ murder investigation, so it’s been frustrating me and causing me a lot of pain. I guess I haven’t communicated that clearly with you, so I’m sorry for that. I hate to say it, but it’s not you, it’s me.”
He laughs quietly and the expression on his face softens. He looks at me again, but this time, I see something akin to compassion in his eyes and I know that he’s buying my story. Excellent.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” I tell him. “Once this case is over and I get the Congresswoman off my back—”
“There will be another case. There always is,” he says. “So, be careful with the promises you’re making.”
“That’s fair,” I chuckle. “All right, well I’ll simply promise you the best dinner at your favorite steakhouse. We’ll have a lovely evening out. Just the two of us.”
He purses his lips and looks at me for a long moment in silence. But then a slow smile spreads across his lips and he nods.
“That sounds pretty wonderful,” he says. “It’s a date.”
“Great,” I say. “I can’t wait.”
“Me, either.”
He stays and we chat for a little while longer before I feign exhaustion and tell him I need to go to bed. I tell him I have to get an early start on the day, which isn’t a lie. And it gives me an excuse to get him out of my house. But before he goes, he gives me a kiss that leaves me feeling dirty. Greasy. And I have to rinse my mouth out with mouthwash three times and brush my teeth twice before I can get that taste out.
When I’m done, I lean on the vanity and stare at myself in the mirror for a long minute. My eyes are red-rimmed and there are deep shadows underneath them. I pride myself on being fearless and taking anything and everything head-on. But right now, I look so scared I barely recognize myself. Things are in motion and are picking up steam. The train is rolling and there’s no way I can get off now. I know I can either steer the train or keep riding until it crashes.
And right now, I feel so out of control, I can’t even see the wheel—let alone grab hold of it well enough to steer it.
Twenty-One
Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
“Where are we, kids?” I ask as I step to the front of the room after a largely sleepless night. “Rick, have you had any luck with those phone numbers yet?”
He shakes his head. “Still running them, boss.”
“Mo, anything on our missing girls?”
She leans back in her seat and rubs her eyes, looking as if she got about as much sleep as I did last night. Cases like these haunt you. When you know there are twenty-two women out there in the wind, having God-knows-what done to them, it eats away at your soul. It nags at you. I have little doubt that Mo was up all night trying to find the nexus across all of the missing girls. But judging by the look on her face, she didn’t find one.
“Not yet, boss,” she says. “I’m still looking.”
I nod as the doors to the shop open with a pneumatic hiss. Astra walks through the door with a broad smile on her face.
“The prodigal daughter returns,” I say.
“Pretty sure you can’t say that when I’ve only been gone a day,” she remarks. “I don’t think I can be considered a prodigal anything unless I’ve been gone more than a couple of weeks.”
“So, I should throw out the welcome-back cake I made for you?” Mo asks with a grin.
“I never turn down cake,” Astra replies.
“I’ll remember that next time I make one,” Mo says.
Astra laughs as she drops down at her workstation and gets her computer booted up. She swivels in her seat to me.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“As good as I did before you told me to take a day,” she replies. “But I did enjoy a nice day off with Benjamin, so thank you for that.”
“I thought you might,” I reply.
“So, where are we with everything?” she asks. “You’ve surely solved the case by now and Selene Hedlund is back home safe and sound?”
“Oh, my god, you were only gone a day,” I say dryly. “And unfortunately, we’re still pretty much right where we were when you went home.”
“When you sent me home, you mean.”
“Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to,” I shrug.
“Burton still hasn’t said anything?” she asked.
I shake my head. “I’m going to take another run at him today, but he wasn’t exactly—lucid—the last time we spoke.”
“Not surprising. I mean, we did pull him straight out of a crack house.”
“Yeah, but I had high hopes,” I say and pick up the bag with all the debit cards and toss it to her. “There is one important thing we learned, though.”
She looks at the cards in the bag then up at us, looking for an explanation.
“Sergeant Burton had all of those in his possession,” Mo says.
“And those all belong to girls who’ve gone missing,” Rick adds.
I hand Astra the list Rick put together and watch as her eyes widen as the full scope of what’s happening sinks in.
“So, we are talking about a trafficking ring after all,” Astra says.
“It’s looking that way,” I reply.
“All right, so how do we play this?” Astra asks.
“Right now, Mo is trying to find the nexus among the missing girls. There has to be one,” I say. “And Rick is still trying to track down where that burner phone that called Tony’s Auto was purchased.”
Astra flashes me a grin. “Wow. I miss a day and this thing has gotten a lot more complicated than we even imagined.”
“Tell me about it,” I say. �
��It makes finding out who the man in the hoodie is that much more important. It’s critical, I’d say.”
“Yeah, I’d say so. So let’s go squeeze Burton,” she says.
“Thought you’d never ask,” I reply. “Mo, Rick, keep digging. We need to cast as wide a net as we can.”
Astra gets to her feet and follows me out of the shop and over to the wing of the building that houses the holding cells and interrogation suites. We stand in the pod watching Burton being brought into the room, his shackles attached to the bolt in the center of the table.
“He looks a little less like a corpse today,” I note. “That’s encouraging.”
“Maybe a good night’s sleep and a meal brought him back down to Earth.”
“Let’s hope.”
When the tech gives us the signal that everything is up and running, Astra and I go into the room and sit down across from him. Burton looks at us suspiciously from beneath his shaggy locks. The lines in his face are etched deep, and there are dark bags beneath his eyes, but he surprisingly has a little color in his cheeks. Looks as though Astra is right—a good night’s sleep and some hot food might have helped.
I quickly recite the date and time for the record and then give Burton his Miranda warning. When I’m finished I look at him.
“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“I need you to say out loud that you understand your rights as I read them,” I repeat.
“Yeah, I understand.”
“And would you like to have a lawyer present?” I ask. “I need you to say yes or no out loud for the record.”
“No, I don’t need no lawyer.”
“So, just to be clear, you are waiving your right to counsel,” Astra presses.
“Just said that, didn’t I?” he states. “No, I don’t want no lawyer.”
“All right, that’s good,” I say. “So, how are you feeling, Sergeant Burton?”
“Like hammered crap,” Burton grunts. “Who are you?”
“SSA Wilder and Special Agent Russo,” I reply. “We met yesterday.”
“Why am I in shackles?” he asks, jangling the chain that connects him to the table.
“Because I’m probably going to have a scar on my arm for the rest of my life thanks to that meeting,” Astra says.
Burton shakes his head. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” he says, his voice deep and gruff. “I don’t remember much of yesterday.”
“Well, that’s not surprising, given where we found you,” Astra says.
“I don’t know where you found me,” he says, shaking his head in confusion.
“The house on Mulberry Street,” I offer. “The flophouse.”
He nods as if he recognizes the street name. I guess he probably would if he spent enough time there. And looking as rough as he does, I have no doubt he’s spent a lot of time there.
“Sergeant Burton, you’re in some serious trouble,” I continue. “You were using a stolen ATM card to withdraw funds from Selene Hedlund’s account. We have you on camera doing it. Now, that’s not only state but federal charges that you’re facing.”
He looks away and starts to pick at his fingernails. He’s fidgeting in his seat, and I can hear the chains around his ankles rattling as he bounces his leg. I’m pretty sure it’s not because he’s nervous, though. I have a feeling he’s getting antsy because he needs a fix—something that might become problematic for us in the not-too-distant future.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he mutters.
“Sergeant Burton, you were in possession of twenty-two debit cards that were not yours,” I go on. “In fact, those twenty-two cards belonged to women who have gone missing over the last five years. I don’t think I have to tell you how that looks for you.”
“Missin’?” he gasps as his eyes grow wide. “I don’t know nothin’ about any missin’ girls.”
“We want to believe you, Sergeant Burton,” Astra says. “But you were in possession of those cards. You drained their accounts. That directly ties you to the missing girls.”
“And that means you’re not just looking at bank fraud charges, Sergeant,” I jump in. “You’re looking at kidnapping, human trafficking, maybe even murder charges.”
Burton shakes his head, an expression of genuine fear crossing his face. He looks away and remains silent for a beat, trying to wrap his mind around what we’re telling him. Burton looks authentically shocked by the news. I believe that he didn’t actually have any part in the disappearances of the girls. His role in this scheme was to simply act as a bleeder. To keep using those cards until the river ran dry.
“I—I was only doing my job,” he mutters.
“I believe you,” I tell him. “But do you see the pickle we’re in? The cards were in your possession, Sergeant.”
“So, if you really had nothing to do with this, we need to know who your boss is,” Astra says. “Who gave you the cards and the instructions to use them?”
He hesitates and looks down at the shackles on his hands, possibly weighing his options. On one side of the coin, he’s staring down the barrel of doing serious time in federal prison—likely the rest of his life. On the other side of that coin, he’s looking at possibly catching a bullet if he rolls on whoever it was who set him up on this side of the scheme.
“I know you’re in a tight spot, Sergeant. I know your options aren’t good either way you look at it. There are dangers in going down either path. I get that,” I tell him. “But you shouldn’t have to carry the full weight of what’s coming down. Somebody is going to answer for twenty-two missing women, Sergeant. Do you really want that somebody to be you? Especially if your part was limited to withdrawing money for someone else?”
Burton’s gaze is fixed on his hands; he’s struggling with his decision. He’s still bouncing in his seat and is obviously itching for a fix, but he’s managing to hold it together well enough to remain lucid and communicative. For that small favor, I’m thankful.
“I don’t know his name,” he starts.
“You’ve been working for him and you don’t know his name?” Astra asks.
He shrugs. “It’s not that kinda job.”
“Walk us through it, Sergeant,” I say.
He chews on his thumbnail, his hand trembling. He’s bouncing his leg harder, though, and I can feel his grip on himself and his cravings starting to slip. Burton is barely holding on to his self-control, his need for a fix growing by the second, making him desperate.
“About five years ago, I was livin’ in McIntosh Park. Well, I’m still livin’ in that park. But back then, this guy comes to me. He offers me a deal,” Burton stammers. “Says he’ll come to me with a card and I’m supposed to take out the max once a day until the card gets shut down. That’s it. I swear it. That’s all I did.”
“Why did he pick you out of the crowd?” I ask. “Why you, when several dozen people are living in McIntosh Park?”
“Said he had a soft spot for veterans,” Burton says. “So, we’ve been doin’ this for I guess five years now. He comes to me, gives me a card, and I do it. I get fifty bucks every time I withdraw the money for him.”
“And you don’t know his name?” I ask incredulously.
He shakes his head. “No. Like I said, it’s not like that kind of job,” he says. “His name is Bones to me. That’s all I know. I swear that’s all I know. And I didn’t do nothin’ to them girls you say are missin’. That wasn’t me.”
“Can you tell us anything about this guy, Bones?” Astra asks. “Any distinctive markings? Tattoos? Anything?”
“H—he’s got a tattoo on the back of his hand,” he says. “He’s got a skull on the back of his right hand, yeah.”
“That’s good,” I nod. “That helps.”
It’s not much but it’s more than we had a couple of minutes ago. It’s a bread crumb but I’m still not seeing the bigger trail it leads to. It’s frustrating, bu
t this is the job. We have to build a case brick by brick until an unassailable wall is built around the suspect. I’m just not used to cases moving so slowly. The momentum I usually feel when we start adding bricks to that wall is absent. The pace of our case is so slow we’re being lapped by turtles.
“So—can I go now? I helped you. Can I get out of here?” Burton asks.
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, not, Sergeant. We need to look into this before we do anything,” I tell him. “You need to understand that you will face some charges for the crimes you did commit. But if your information checks out, we’ll do all we can to help you. I give you my word.”
Twenty-Two
Office of SSA Wilder, Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
I drop into the chair behind my desk and have to keep myself from blowing out an irritated breath as Kathryn Hedlund takes the chair across from me. Seeing her standing in the shop when we got back from questioning Burton was about the worst surprise I could get today. We stare at each other in silence for a moment. I know the tactic is designed to trip me up. Tense silence is a classic power play, but I’m not in the mood and I don’t have time for these games.
“Representative Hedlund,” I start. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m told you have a suspect in custody.”
This time, I can’t keep the irritation out of my features. Leaks are the bane of any investigation, and they irritate me more than anything because all they do is complicate a situation. Oftentimes they make situations worse and jeopardize investigations. They never help. If I had my way, we’d be able to put leakers on the rack. Or break them on the wheel—or any of a hundred other medieval torture methods.
“And who told you this?” I raise an eyebrow.
“That doesn’t matter,” she snaps. “I’m more interested in why I wasn’t informed. I seem to recall telling you I wanted status reports and to be apprised if you had any breaks.”
