Lack of Jurisdiction

by G. K. Parks

  Flipping to the next folder, I perused the information on Alvin Hodge. The ME didn’t list a TOD. The cause of death was strangulation, but the bruising and ligature marks around his neck didn’t match the pattern left by the cable he was hung from. Apparently he was killed elsewhere and left to hang in the hotel, maybe to cover up the crime. Too bad the killer didn’t bother to match the gauge of cord he used. There was a note about the petechial hemorrhaging, and from the photos of Hodge’s eyes, I squinted and scowled out of sheer reflex. It looked like something out of a horror film when saints bleed from their eyes. That couldn’t be good. Forensics was analyzing his clothing and wound tracks for fibers or trace elements that could lead to a murder weapon or possible location prior to his posed hanging.

  Lastly, I opened Eastman’s file. It was sparse. Basic information, his mug shot, list of potential charges, and for some reason, someone ordered a blood test. Not surprisingly, there were trace amounts of alcohol in his system and an abnormally high reading of fluoride when they arrested him.

  “He’s probably more than just a social drinker,” Jacobs said, returning from his confidential errand. “Wednesday morning, it appeared he was going through the DTs. Sweaty, shaking, and a little green. He was complaining of nausea and stomach cramps. When I asked him about it, he said he was coming down with something.”

  “Or coming off of something.”

  “That’s why I ordered the tox screening when we booked him, but no drugs. Just alcohol. Maybe he was drinking mouthwash. It would explain his affinity for fluoride.” He shrugged. “The guy’s been holding down a job for four years though. He doesn’t even have a DUI. It’s weird. Normally, there’s something. A drunken disorderly, disturbing the peace, indecent exposure, a DUI, but no indication he has a problem. But he does. He has to.”

  “Maybe he’s been taking some very strong cough syrup to combat the flu or whatever it is he claims to have.”

  “Right, that must be it.” The cynicism wasn’t lost on me. “Look, if you want to chat with him for a few minutes, he’s downstairs in holding. He looks good for Hodge’s murder, and the DA’s scheduled his arraignment. But they’re pretty sure he’ll be released on bail. So there’s no reason you can’t ask a few things before he’s free to go.” Jacobs narrowed his eyes. “Y’know, whatever is said inside a police station that isn’t considered privileged is fair game once a suspect has been Mirandized.”

  “I’m not doing your job for you, Detective. I was hired to clear the guy, not sell him out, but if he’s innocent, then there’s no reason why I can’t inform you of his alibi ahead of time and save everyone some paperwork.”

  “Thanks, Parker. You’re one of the good ones.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

  Sixteen

  “How’s the food here?” I asked, startling Eastman who looked rather green.

  “Alexis,” he closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles, “what did you do?”

  “This isn’t on me. Whatever shit you’re involved in is the reason you’re being held. What are they charging you with?”

  “Hell if I know.” He shook his head. “This is bullshit. They bring me in for additional questioning concerning Alvin’s death and someone else they found dead at the hotel, and then they asked if I’d consent to a blood test. I figured what the hell. It’s not like I have anything to hide, and now these fucking pigs are trumping up charges against me. It was a fishing expedition, and I need to find an attorney that will hang them out to dry.” He sneered. “I hired you to clear my name from any suspicion on the murder rap, not get my ass arrested for some shit they made up.”

  “Do you know Frank Costan?”

  The look of alarm on his face was unmistakable. “The embezzler, Ponzi scheme guy?”

  “Uh-huh.” I waited, leaning in to the bars, aware that no one was paying a bit of attention, except for maybe the other degenerates in surrounding holding cells.

  “What do you think?” he retorted, but I stared blankly at him. “Is he dead?” he asked after a time.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “That’s not an answer.” Paul came closer, lowering his voice. “There are two possibilities here. Either he’s in custody and has mentioned my name in relationship to Alvin or he’s dead and these assholes want to blame that on me too.”

  “Answer my question. Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Unbelievable.” I shook my head, took a deep breath, and stared at the ceiling. “I’m walking. I said if you lied to me again, we were done. And now, we’re done.”

  “I’m not lying.” He reached through the bars and grabbed my wrist. His palm was clammy, and I pulled free before the nearest officer could intervene. “Hodge said there was a rumor circulating that Frank Costan was at the conference incognito, but I never met him. I don’t know him, and I never spoke to him.” He gritted his teeth, furious and betrayed.

  “You’ll put any spin on things that you possibly can. I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth. You have to give me something to work with. I’m fumbling around in the dark. Bodies are turning up left and right, and the next person that’s gets arrested for these crimes sure as hell better not be me. So if you want me to figure out who the fuck is doing this, then give me something,” I bellowed.

  My volume and the argument were enough to draw the attention of some nearby LEOs who realized there was no reason for a civilian to be questioning a suspect who was currently in holding. One of them came up behind me. “Ma’am, please step aside.”

  “Right now, Paul. Right now,” I warned as the officer addressed me again.

  “Talk to Jason Oster. Tell him it’s a favor for his pal at PDN,” Paul insisted as the officer dragged me away from the bars.

  “All right, I’m going,” I said to both Paul and the cop equally. The cop let go, and I went straight to the stairwell. Mark and I already spoke with Jason Oster, and that conversation had been anything but helpful. I didn’t see how going another round with Mr. Head of Security would result in anything useful.

  * * *

  “Marty called while you were gone. It sounds like he had a shitty day. Between the traveling and nonstop business meetings, I can see why. However, he was relieved you’ve actually been phoning every day. I don’t think he expected that to happen. Hell, I was surprised. Since when do you let anyone put you on a leash?” Mark asked as I stepped into my office and slammed the door.

  “Damn. I’m going to have to give him the clingy speech again.” I slumped into the chair and pressed my palms over my eyes. After a moment to regroup, I glanced at my cell which had no missed calls, and then I checked the answering machine which was also lacking in messages.

  “When he found out you were busy, he decided it was best that you didn’t know he was calling,” Mark added. “So pretend I didn’t tell you that.” He picked up a sticky note. “Next on the agenda, Interpol sent over the files you requested on Bernard Muller and Klaus Manufacturing. There isn’t much. It’s a fairly new company that’s still getting off the ground, and Muller doesn’t have any ties to international crime or known terrorist organizations.”

  “What about to Frank Costan?”

  “Nothing that I can find. Also,” he picked up a manila envelope and handed it to me, “that’s the financial information on Costan’s known accounts. There hasn’t been any movement in or out, but Kate and the other forensic accountants at the OIO believe that this is a fraction of his net worth, and the rest must be in offshore accounts that we can’t access. I did some digging on Costan’s hotel reservation and how he paid. He’s not listed anywhere on the guest registry, and none of his accounts were used to pay for the room. He probably has a few established fake identities, or he greased some palms to look the other way. Unfortunately, that makes it insanely difficult to determine which room was his or what items were in his possession. Mr. Russell only gave us the security footage for t
he lobby and the basement, so we can’t track Costan through the hotel until he lets himself into a room.” Skimming through the pages, Mark found nothing else of interest. “Why the hell do I feel like I’m a glorified secretary?”

  “I believe the term you’re looking for is personal assistant. And I appreciate the help, but I’m done.”

  “Really?” He sounded skeptical. “You’re done. Just like that.”

  “Eastman’s a liar. I asked if he knew Costan, and he started spouting out way too much information for someone who says he doesn’t. His excuse was Hodge mentioned it was a rumor that Frank was around. Some rumor.” Rolling my eyes, I put the papers back into the envelope and toyed with the tiny metal clasp. “Paul said to talk to Oster, and Jason would straighten this out.” I tossed the envelope down with a resounding thwack. “But we already spoke to Oster. Paul’s lying. I know he’s lying, at least about knowing Costan.” Wondering what else Eastman was lying about, I dialed the courthouse to find out what official charges were being heard at the arraignment.

  “That information has been redacted and isn’t included in the public record,” the clerk responded. How could it already be confidential when the hearing didn’t even happen yet? What the hell was going on?

  “Do me a huge favor and find out what Eastman is being charged with,” I begged Mark after hanging up the phone. “The court said it’s confidential. Eastman said he didn’t even know what the cops had on him. And Detective Jacobs didn’t explicitly state anything, but he led me to believe it was related to Hodge’s murder.”

  “How could that be?” Mark asked, surprised by that announcement. “They’re still investigating. Eastman might be a suspect, but he can’t be the only one they have. None of that makes any sense.”

  And it didn’t. The case wasn’t solved. The culprit wasn’t caught. So why was Eastman being detained and what charge was the prosecutor in such a rush to get excluded from the record?

  “Holy shit,” the possibilities hit like a ton of bricks, “they want to turn him and use him against someone. I’d say Costan’s the only player big enough for this type of maneuver, but he’s dead.”

  “But there were plenty of influential people at the conference. Any one of them could theoretically be worse than Costan, and the FBI just hasn’t made a case against them yet.” Mark’s words held an ominous feel. “And since Paul’s in the corporate espionage biz, he might have stumbled onto their radar. I’ll access the guest registry and run everyone’s name to see who might be the subject of a current ongoing investigation. White collar division at the Bureau ought to know, and if not, I’ll check with my friends at Homeland.”

  “This isn’t about Eastman anymore, is it?”

  “No, it’s about whoever’s taking Costan’s place on the top ten list.”

  “What the hell was Alvin Hodge involved in?” I blew out a breath and bit my lip. “All right, if there is an official ongoing investigation, I need to know. In the meantime, Paul hired me to find Alvin’s killer. So I plan to do just that.”

  “Two seconds ago, you claimed you were done.”

  “You ever hear of a woman’s prerogative?”

  “Yep. Three divorces later, and it’s still giving me whiplash.” He grabbed his phone and put his jacket on. “C’mon, I’ll go with you. Gotta love technology. When I started out, the only way to make calls was by sitting at a desk. Now I can make calls while you drive me crazy.”

  The trip to the hotel didn’t take too long, and from Mark’s side of the conversation, I could tell that he was getting the runaround. No one wanted to admit to having a large-scale op on the books when two homicides took place in the immediate vicinity. As a general rule, intervention was sometimes necessary to ensure everyone remains breathing, even if it would sacrifice months or even years’ worth of work.

  Leaving my car in line at the valet stand and giving Mark strict instructions to prevent anyone from moving it, I went inside to speak to Jason Oster. Maybe he’d be more forthcoming without my federal agent escort. Meandering through the hallways, I knocked on the security office door and found a few of the lower level guards taking a break.

  “Is Jason around?” I asked.

  “Yeah, hang on, I’ll get a location.” One of them picked up the walkie-talkie and spoke into it. “Oster, what’s your twenty?” Wow, these guys really wanted to be more than rent-a-cops.

  “Seventh floor, investigating a broken window in room 709.”

  “Roger.” He turned to me. “He’s in room 709.”

  “Great. Thanks,” I replied, pretending that his relaying the message was the first time I heard the news. Clearly, it would have been impossible for me to hear that over the walkie-talkie.

  Taking the elevator up, I narrowed my eyes at the security cam and studied the buttons, wondering vaguely how these elevators behaved in the event of a fire emergency. Shouldn’t that have been one of the things PDN examined? I thought about the emergency procedures we went through, but I was certain the elevators remained completely functional at all times. Even in the event of a power outage, power was rerouted to backup generators.

  Making a mental note to see about a follow-up with Guillot at the MT building, I stepped out when the doors opened and went down the hallway. My eyes were drawn to the cables near the elevator, the exact same cable that Alvin Hodge had been left hanging from on this very floor. Who would have imagined the number seven would be so unlucky?

  “I didn’t realize broken windows were something only the head of security could handle,” I quipped. Jason spun, surprised by my words, and I stepped into the room. The place was trashed. The bathroom mirror was broken, the pictures were askew on the walls, and the television had a shoe protruding out of it. “Domestic disturbance or maybe a tornado?”

  “Get out.”

  “I’m not here about the excellent job you’re doing as head of security.” He glared at my words, but I pushed on. “Paul Eastman asked that I speak with you about one of Alvin Hodge’s acquaintances.” He visibly stiffened and looked nervously into the hallway, so I shut the door to give us a bit more privacy. “I’m not here to make your life a living hell, but I need to know what Hodge was involved in and if it’s possible Eastman is to blame.”

  He snorted and rubbed his nose. “Paul’s a jackass.” He shook his head. “He paid off my guys to feed him tips on the attendees at the conference. He always has a scheme going, and Al felt bad for him. He’d throw him a bone every once in a while, but it was never anything major.”

  “Do you know whose body was discovered in the tunnels?”

  “I’ve heard rumors. And I can guarantee if Al knew who was staying here, he wouldn’t have shared that with Paul. There’s not a chance in hell he’d risk a score like that on a pissant like Paul Eastman.” Something about Oster’s tone made me suspicious.

  “Who would Al have shared that kind of news with?”

  “How would I know? Al knew some heavy hitters and could make things happen or disappear for the right price, but I’m not sure what he was planning with the guy they found in the tunnels. And I don’t know who did it. Nothing was caught on any of the security cams. It’s below the hotel. My job is to protect the hotel, not the surrounding area. I believe that’s what the police are supposed to do.” He looked disgusted. “You’d think with the way they’ve been lurking around for the last two weeks, shit like this wouldn’t happen. And people like that would get caught before making bogus room reservations under the name John Smith.”

  “So why didn’t you take some initiative?”

  “I did.” He glanced around the room. “I reported it to Mr. Russell, and he said he informed the FBI agent stationed in the lobby.”

  “Did he tell you what FBI agent?”

  “Yeah. SAC Walton.” He read the shocked look on my face. “Mr. Russell told me they were aware of the situation, and I was to keep my distance so they could handle it.” He rolled his eyes. “This was how they handled it.”

  �
�What do you mean?”

  “They used this room to maintain surveillance on Mr. Smith, and the next thing I know, the entire hotel is turned upside down because of Al’s body, then Smith’s body, and investigators are still crawling all over the place. Things finally start to get back to normal, and housekeeping calls down to my office this morning to let me know whoever was staying here trashed the room.”

  Subconsciously, I shoved my hands into my pockets, not wanting to contaminate a possible crime scene. “Did you call the authorities?”

  “Why? They’re the ones that trashed the place.”

  “Don’t touch anything. Just,” I put my hands up in a stay still gesture, “don’t touch anything else. This might be an active crime scene.”

  He sighed, annoyed. “My day’s just getting better and better.”

  Seventeen

  Jacobs was my current dial-a-detective, and he seemed less than pleased by this fact. He slowly surveyed the entire room while shaking his head. This wasn’t what he wanted to be doing with his afternoon. It wasn’t what I wanted to be doing either.

  “Let me make sure I have this right.” He shot a glance at Oster. “FBI agents did this?” He lifted the shoe out of the shattered television screen with the tip of his pen. The crime scene guys already photographed the room, so it didn’t matter.

  “I assume so. According to hotel records, they rented the room.”

  “Who was the room registered to? Uncle Sam?” I let out an appreciative chortle at Jacobs’ remark and earned myself a sly grin.

  “Christopher Walton,” Oster replied. “Are we done yet?”

  “We’re done when I say we’re done,” Jacobs growled. He shifted his focus to me. “Parker, you’re done. Your presence here isn’t making my job any easier.”

  “Okay.” I went to the door and stepped into the hallway. “Hey, Jason,” I called, “are you positive Eastman wasn’t in contact with Mr. Smith?”