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

by Elle Gray

  “Ms. Burkett, would you mind if we looked at Stacy’s room?” Astra asks.

  “Help yourselves,” she replies. “Second door on the right.”

  We make our way to the bedroom and go inside. It’s messy—just the way Stacy left it—with piles of clothes on the floor, an unmade bed, and even an empty water bottle on the nightstand. I can’t count the number of rooms I’ve been in that have been sealed off from the world like this. They stand like a moment, frozen in time. As if all that’s needed is for somebody to hit play to un-pause this room and the life that once inhabited it.

  It’s love and hope that keep them sealed. And it’s that same love and hope that keep people like Ms. Burkett from moving on. But even more than that, it’s guilt that drives behavior like this. Guilt over the fact that they weren’t close to their children, or that they’d missed warning signs, or simply that they are still alive while their loved ones are not. Survivor’s guilt is a nasty beast that will tear you apart from the inside out if you let it.

  In truth, by sealing off Stacy’s room, Ms. Burkett is sealing herself away. This room might as well be the entire house. Nothing in this room has changed over the last year that Stacy’s been missing, just as nothing has changed with Ms. Burkett over that same period. She’s every bit as frozen in time as Stacy’s room. My only hope is that now she has her answer and knows that Stacy is never coming home, that she’ll be able to break free and unstick herself.

  I walk to the desk and start looking through the pile of books—mostly textbooks from school. But when I hit a familiar title, I freeze and feel a jolt of adrenaline rush through me. I pick it up and show Astra the copy of Living Clean, Living Free—the same book we found in Selene’s condo.

  “What are the odds?” she asks.

  It’s too early yet to be anything but a coincidence, but I am starting to have the feeling that the more we look into the rest of these girls, the more coincidences will start to pile up. I feel that churning in the pit of my stomach I get when the momentum of a case starts to move. There’s a long way to go yet, but we’re starting to pick up steam.

  Twenty-Six

  Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “All right, so I can confirm that all twenty-two of our missing girls came from broken homes,” Mo says. “Most of them lost their fathers either through death or divorce at a young age. There are a couple who don’t have their fathers listed on their birth certificates at all.”

  “That’s a whole lot of coincidences,” Astra replies.

  I nod. “And it gives us some insight into our trafficker,” I say. “He’s a predator. Knows how to spot the girls with absent fathers and then appeals to them. I think he’s able to gain their trust, get them alone somehow, then does his thing.”

  “What makes you think he can gain their trust, though?” Mo asks.

  “Because in none of the twenty-two cases have we run across a report of a violent abduction,” I reply. “This wasn’t a case of his rolling up in a van, throwing the women in the back, and speeding away. They all simply vanished without a trace. That can’t be a coincidence. That is a pattern. To me, that says they went with him willingly.”

  Mo nods, but I can see she’s still not entirely convinced. I don’t have the proof to back my theory up, of course, but it feels right. My gut tells me I’m on the right path.

  “What else do we know about the girls?” I ask. “Have we found the nexus yet?”

  Mo shakes her head. “Other than the fact that they were all students, I don’t see any common trends among them. I’ve gone through all their socials with a fine-toothed comb and I don’t see common friends, places they hung out, or anything like that.”

  “Okay, so they were all students,” I say. “That’s a start. That’s a big commonality.”

  “The perp could have been staff or faculty,” Astra offers.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “Except for the fact that there’s very little overlap among them,” Mo says. “I mean, there are only so many schools around here, but they didn’t all go to the same one. Stacy Burkett went to Evergreen Junior College, Selene Hedlund went to Marchmont—we’ve got some who went to UW, Washington State, and a few who went to different community colleges in the area.”

  “Huh,” I say, letting my mind work.

  “What about this book—Living Clean, Living Free,” Astra brings up. “Two of the missing girls had it, which seems like an odd coincidence.”

  “From what I’ve seen in online chatter, that book is popular with off-the-grid prepper types,” Rick offers. “They go on and on about traditional values and simpler living and decreasing reliance on technology. Probably half of them are flagrantly racist and sexist, of course. They literally want to go back to the 1800s, backwards social climate and all.”

  “Wait, and they have online communities?”

  Rick merely shrugs. “I don’t get it, either. You’d think social media and the Internet would be included in their whole, ‘no television, no computers’ thing. I’m pretty sure the nineteenth century didn’t have Twitter.”

  “Yeah, because that was such a great time to be alive,” Astra cracks. “Cholera, typhoid, a life expectancy of about thirty years. What’s not to like?”

  “What’s the point of living if it’s not to advance our society through better technology?” Rick adds. “Technology makes the world a better place for everybody. These guys are as freakish and bizarre as Flat Earthers.”

  “Forgive Rick,” Astra turns to me. “He can’t contemplate a world without Tinder.”

  “Are you still mad I didn’t swipe right on you?” he shoots back. “I told you it would just be awkward because we work together.”

  Astra laughs and throws her pen at him. “Oh, my God, I hate you so much right now.”

  I laugh along with them, but cross my arms over my chest and pace the front of the room, absorbing all the information. There are still too many disparate pieces to form a cohesive narrative right now. The answer is there, so close I can practically smell it. But it remains just out of my reach. There’s something I’m not seeing. Something I’m still missing, and it’s frustrating me to no end. This case has had more twists and turns than I’m used to. Even though I feel the pace of the investigation speeding up and we’re gaining that momentum I love so much, some pieces still won’t line up for me.

  The one thing that’s standing out to me for some reason is the book. It seems an odd title for both Selene Hedlund and Stacy Burkett—two women from completely different backgrounds and socioeconomic stations—to have in their possession. I don’t know what it is that’s flashing wrong about it for me, but my brain keeps circling back to it.

  “What do we know about this book—Living Clean, Living Free?” I ask.

  Mo turns back to her computer. “Written by Arnold Merrick, who was a leading member of an organization called the Natural Living Federation at the time. It was published in 1986 and advocated for a technology-free, vegan lifestylein which humans live in harmony with nature,” she reads off her screen. “The book has been highly influential and is still in wide circulation today. It’s even become a preferred textbook on a lot of college campuses.”

  “So, it was science fiction,” Astra says. “Got it.”

  “Without the science,” Rick chimes in. “I’d call it more pure fantasy.”

  “I’d call it a handbook for self-flagellation,” Mo says. “Who wants to live in a world where you can’t get a big, juicy steak?”

  “Not me,” I agree. “But with all these new vegan restaurants popping up around town these days, it seems there are more and more people who do want to live in that world.”

  I pace back and forth as I stare at the floor, trying to get these square pegs to somehow line up and fit into the round holes. I know there’s something there that will make them fit, but for the life of me, I can’t see it right now. But then a thought occurs to me, and I stop pacing.

  “Mo, ca
n you see if there were any common instructors at those schools?” I ask. “Did the same professor teach at the schools the girls disappeared from?”

  “Good thinking,” Astra adds. “You’ll also want to run the names of the staff, too. Janitors, admissions people—everybody.”

  “Go back six years,” I say. “The disappearances started five years ago, but it was going to take a little time for our guy to groom the first girl. Time to get his methodology down.”

  “On it,” she nods. “But that’s a lot of names, so it’s going to take me a minute.”

  I nod. “Copy that,” I say. “But just get to it as fast as you can.”

  “Roger,” she says.

  I resume my pacing, letting my mind keep working the problem. Walking and talking things out has always helped me work through a problem. I’ve always believed there’s something about being in motion that helps my brain function better.

  “It seems we have two different tracks to this investigation,” I state to nobody in particular. “We’ve got the girls and the trafficker. And we’ve got the man in the hoodie. They converge somewhere. We need to figure out where. We figure that out, we can solve this case.”

  “Here’s another factor,” Mo starts. “Why is Stacy Burkett the only one who was found? Where are the other twenty-one?”

  I shake my head. “That’s an excellent question,” I reply. “But the fact that she was alive, a year after she was taken—that gives me some small measure of hope the rest might still be out there.”

  “Be careful with that hope,” Astra tells me. “I don’t want to see you set yourself up to fall. I mean, even if they are alive, we don’t know what sort of condition they’ll be in.”

  “I know. But I need to hang onto it until it’s proven otherwise,” I say. “I mean, why feed and care for Stacy Burkett for more than a year?”

  “Why beat her so severely she dies of her internal injuries?” Astra counters.

  “Touché.” I nod, conceding her point.

  It’s just another one of those inconsistencies that aren’t adding up for me. One of those things that makes no sense. Trafficked girls are usually in pretty rough shape when they’re recovered. They’re used up and then thrown away like garbage, and the trafficker moves onto somebody else. But Stacy was cared for. Fed. Clothed. Those details are driving me up a wall.

  “Hey, boss,” Rick calls. “Prepare to tell me just how much you love me.”

  “If you have something good, it’ll be a lot.”

  “I have something great,” he says.

  He looks at me with a wide smile and a goofy expression on his face, but doesn’t say more. We stand there staring at each other for a long moment as I wait, but he remains silent.

  “Well, what is it?” I ask.

  “Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry,” he mutters. “I finally have the location for the store that sold the burner phone that called Tony’s Auto.”

  “Excellent. That is the first bit of good news we’ve had in forever. Great work, Rick,” I say. “Text the information to my phone. Astra, let’s roll.”

  “Right behind you.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Mickey’s Corner Market, Northgate District; Seattle, WA

  The Northgate District, like some of the others in the city, is a depressed and poor neighborhood where violent crime is simply a way of life. Gangs control the streets, drugs flow unchecked, and the violence is off the charts. According to the last study I read, you’re three times more likely to be the victim of a violent crime here than almost anywhere else in the country. It’s gotten so bad, the SPD has all but ceded the territory to the criminals, preferring to let them settle their own beefs than come in and put a stop to it.

  We get out of the car and walk toward a couple of twenty-something men standing against the wall of the convenience store; I’m sure they’re holding and dealing right there in the open. Such is the way in Northgate. I’m well aware of the way they’re looking at us—like lions on the savannah deciding whether to take a run at the gazelle or not. I fix them with a cold glare as we walk by, and they both turn away, snickering and speaking in low murmurs to one another. Score one for the gazelle.

  The electronic bell chimes as we step into the store, and I look around. Like most of the neighborhood that surrounds it, Mickey’s is a bit run-down and threadbare. The linoleum that covers the floor is cracked and pitted. There are a couple of sections completely missing, revealing the concrete slab underneath. One of the cooler doors is cracked and held together by duct tape, the acoustic tile overhead is a dull, dingy gray, and the whole place could use a power cleaning and a fresh coat of paint.

  Despite the disrepair, though, everything is tidy. Clean. There’s not a speck of dust I can see anywhere, and everything on the shelves is neat and orderly. Whoever owns this place obviously takes great pride in orderliness. It’s good to see that even though the area around the store is falling to pieces, the owner of the market is still holding onto his piece of the pie and is doing what he can to maintain his obviously high standards.

  The front counter is about chest high, and as in the ME’s office, is topped with an inch-thick piece of plexiglass that makes it a booth of its own. There’s a steel door in the booth, but it sits empty at the moment.

  “You two look as out of place as a fish walkin’ on land.”

  We both turn and find ourselves facing a tall black man with a warm smile and an even warmer demeanor. He’s got thick dark hair cropped close to his skull and is starting to turn silver, along witha neatly trimmed goatee with a silver patch. Although he’s lean, he’s getting that paunch around the middle that seems inevitable as we age. I’d put him in his mid-fifties, but he still looks like a man who can take care of himself. I suppose you’d have to be, to survive in a neighborhood like this one.

  We badge him and the smile on his face grows even wider. “Well, I didn’t know the FBI was hirin’ supermodels these days. Must be my lucky day. If I’m gonna get arrested for somethin’, I’d prefer you two over some sweaty, three-hundred-pound city cop who smells like fried food and doughnuts. Just be careful when you’re friskin’ me. I’m a bit ticklish.”

  I can’t stop the smile that touches my lips. The man has a disarming charm and a personality that just puts you at ease.

  Astra smiles at him. “We’re actually only here because we have a few questions.”

  He gives us a faux pout. “Well, that’s too bad. I ain’t had a good friskin’ in a long while,” he says, drawing laughter from both of us. “I’m Mickey Morris, by the way. Owner of this fine establishment.”

  He says it with a self-deprecating chuckle that brings a wan smile to my lips. He’s a man who’s doing the best he can in tough circumstances and seems to know it. But he just keeps plugging on. I can’t help but admire that sort of strength.

  “Blake,” I say. “This is Astra.”

  He nods. “Pleased to meet you both,” he says. “So, what can I help you with, Agents?”

  I point to the disposable phones on the pegboard in his plexiglass booth. “We actually have information about a phone that was purchased from here and need to see if there is a receipt to go with it.”

  He frowns as he looks at the phones. “I hate sellin’ ’em because I know what they’re used for,” he says. “But I sell a lot of ’em and I need to keep the lights on around here.”

  “Oh, absolutely. You’re not in any trouble,” I nod. “We just need to see if we can find out who purchased a phone on a particular day.”

  “They do somethin’ bad with it?”

  I shrug. “Unfortunately, we wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.”

  He shakes his head sadly. “I remember when this was a good neighborhood. I raised three kids here myself,” he says. “But over the last twenty years or so, it’s gone straight into the toilet. Pardon my language.”

  “Don’t worry, Mickey,” Astra says. “I say worse on a daily basis.”

  “Daily? More like hourly.�
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  That gets a chuckle out of him. “Well, come on to the back,” he says. “Let’s take a look at the receipts.”

  We follow him into a small office in the back. Like the front, it’s all perfectly organized and clean. On the wall hang photos of Mickey when he was in the military. There’s a photo of him and what I assume to be his unit in what looks like Afghanistan, judging by the tall, craggy mountains in the distance behind them.

  “How long were you in?” I ask, gesturing to the photos.

  “Twenty-five years,” he smiles. “Went in when I was eighteen, came home a little more than a decade ago. Seems like two very different lives.”

  “I bet.”

  He nods. “I tell you, though, I was never as scared over there as I am here sometimes,” he says. “At least there, we knew what the danger was. We knew who wanted to kill us. Here? Hell, could be anybody.”

  I frown and nod. It’s true. You just never know who’s going to kill you here. The line between good and bad gets so blurred as to be indistinguishable. I clear my throat and pull myself out of my head, then check my phone for the notes Rick texted to me.

  “We’re looking for somebody who bought a phone on August twelfth,” I say. “At six-forty in the evening.”

  Mickey scans his receipts log, and I’m grateful to the man for being so organized. After a couple of minutes, he nods.

  “Yeah, here’s the receipt for it,” he shows us. “But the guy paid cash.”

  I grimace. I thought that might be the case, but hoped it would be otherwise.

  “Did you recognize him, Mickey?” Astra asks. “Do you happen to know who he is?”

  He shakes his head. “Not by name. But yeah, I’ve seen him in here plenty of times. He buys a lot of them phones too,” he says. “He comes in often enough that I just assume he’s from the neighborhood. Don’t make much sense to drive in from somewhere else when these phones can be had anywhere.”