Lack of Jurisdiction

by G. K. Parks

  “No. Paul pestered me practically the entire time he was here. He would have bragged about it.”

  “You do realize Mr. Smith isn’t really named Mr. Smith, right?” I double-checked, making sure Oster knew Smith was Frank Costan.

  “Yeah, I got that too,” Jason growled, annoyed with the constant questioning.

  “You hear that, Detective? You have the wrong guy in custody for murder. Well, at least one of the murders.” I sauntered off before any other unnecessary remarks could be made.

  Outside, Mark was still waiting in my car. The windows were rolled down, and he was on the phone. I climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. A minute later, he hung up.

  “What took so long? And why did two police cruisers and a crime scene van arrive while you were inside? Don’t tell me there’s another dead body.”

  “There isn’t. At least none they’ve found yet. One of the rooms was trashed, but I might have a lead.”

  “Really?” He mocked astonishment. “Me too.”

  “Have you ever heard anything negative about Special Agent in Charge Christopher Walton?”

  “That’s your lead?” Mark scoffed. “I thought you had an actual lead, like the FBI’s been conducting a sting operation for the last eight months. The reason for the added security and the constant presence by federal agencies was to ensure the protection of the mole and apprehension of the target. Or rather, targets.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Hodge was the mole. He’s been tipping off the Bureau for years on buys, dealers, and whatever else goes on inside the hotel. From what I’ve been told, the conference was big enough to lure Costan out of retirement, and they were confident he’d show since his presumed business partner was scheduled to make an appearance.” Glancing at Mark, I wondered if I should reroute to the OIO instead of my office. “Unfortunately, since it’s an ongoing op, I’m in the dark concerning who their only surviving target is.”

  “So Hodge was a CI.” Biting my lip, I considered his hanging. It was out in the open. It wasn’t as direct as cutting out the guy’s tongue, but still, the message was clearly construed and would serve as a warning to anyone else who might consider talking. “If they think Hodge was working with Eastman, then Paul could be the next victim.”

  “Not if he’s under arrest. As long as he’s in police custody, he’s safe. So if the charges are severe enough, he won’t be released on bail, and it’ll work just as well as protective custody but without anyone being the wiser.” Mark met my eyes. He still didn’t know what charges were being brought against Paul, but at least we knew why they were being filed so quickly.

  “But I don’t think Paul knows anything.” His actions made him look like he knew a hell of a lot. “Whatever he knows, he probably doesn’t even realize it.” My mind ran through other possibilities like Oster, the desk clerks, and the security guards, but jumping to conclusions was impractical. “One of the business tycoons is rumored to be Costan’s partner in crime. It shouldn’t take too much digging to determine who it is.”

  During the rest of the drive, I filled Mark in on the trashed hotel room and the few snippets of information that Jason provided. My lead led back to Agent Walton, and Mark promised to check into it quietly. But why would an FBI agent trash a hotel suite? A struggle definitely took place in the confines of that room, and although I didn’t want to consider the possibilities, my mind connected it to the condition in which they found Frank Costan’s body. He was badly beaten. That must have happened somewhere in the vicinity.

  “I can’t deal with more internal corruption,” I mumbled, parking outside my office.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. There are a million reasons the room could have looked like that. Maybe our unknown target tossed the room as soon as the FBI checked out, hoping to find out how much information they have on him.”

  “Mark,” I put my hand on his forearm, “see if you can find out where the surveillance teams were relocated. Since they checked out of the hotel, they must still have eyes on Costan’s partner.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “You’re going to owe me some major favors when this is all said and done. But on the bright side, it appears your client is innocent,” he paused before qualifying that remark by adding, “relatively speaking.”

  Leaving me to piece together the limited facts about Paul Eastman’s involvement with Hodge, Oster, and his ramblings to everyone that he was someone who was willing to sell secrets to the highest bidder, I wondered how the moron managed to maintain a job at PDN with that type of boastful attitude. I called the corporate office again to ask if there were any allegations of corruption, espionage, blackmail, or extortion, but the head honcho thought I was crazy. Although, now that I was asking these types of questions, Eastman might be facing a performance evaluation when and if he returned to work, especially after his arrest for murder or collusion or whatever charges the DA’s office was intending to use to keep him in custody.

  Deciding that remaining within the confines of my office wouldn’t clear Paul’s name any faster, I returned to the precinct. It was after shift change, so the current officer manning the desk outside of holding wasn’t the same one who so thoughtfully escorted me outside this morning.

  “Hey, I’m following up on something and wondered if I could have two minutes with Paul Eastman,” I said, offering my most alluring smile.

  “Ma’am,” he glanced up from the computer and grinned, “what are you following up on?”

  “It’s part of Detective Jacobs’ investigation.” I held the smile, batting my eyelashes, despite the ma’am comment. Ma’am was not appropriate for a thirty-one year old who liked to believe she could pass for a twenty-something.

  “Go on,” he jerked his chin down the corridor, “but make it quick. No one’s supposed to talk to the perps while they’re in holding.”

  “Thanks, Officer.” Finding the place practically empty, I wondered where all the criminals were. Maybe crime was declining like the papers said. “Hey, Paul,” I called. He was slumped in the corner of the cell, sweating and definitely green. He looked ten times worse now than he did this morning. “I need to know who’s representing you.” He squinted as if the light hurt his eyes and pulled himself off the ground, using the bar as support. “Your attorney, what’s his name?”

  “Um,” he swallowed uncertainly and stepped closer, “some public defender. I don’t remember.” He inhaled sharply and covered his mouth. On the bright side, he managed not to get sick. “Did you talk to Oster?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded, feeling sympathetic and somewhat guilty for his current plight and physical condition, even if I wasn’t responsible, “he mentioned the two of you were close, and you would have shared information about Frank Costan with him. Why didn’t you tell the police to talk to your friends and co-workers when they brought you in?”

  “I was worried about my side business. Alexis,” he slowly sunk back to the floor, too wobbly to stand, “why is this happening? Alvin’s dead.” He emitted a strange sound and swallowed uneasily. “I knew him for quite a while.” He blinked a couple of times. “And now I’m getting pinned for his murder and the murder of one of the most notorious crooks of the day. What’s the world coming to?”

  “I believe you’re innocent.” Pressing my lips together, I glanced down the corridor, expecting the cop to remove me any second. “You didn’t kill them. We’ll figure out who did. After all, you hired me to clear your name. Once this gets sorted out, it should be fine, but you need a real attorney. One that has time to devote to proving your innocence and keeping you safe. I know some people. Should I make a couple of calls on your behalf?”

  “What?”

  “Focus,” I insisted, kneeling on my side of the bars so we’d be closer, “do you want me to find an attorney to represent you? Do you know when the arraignment is scheduled?” He winced and clutched his stomach. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really.” He
found my eyes. “I’m nauseous beyond belief and dizzy as hell. Maybe it’s something I ate.”

  “Or it’s something you drank.”

  “I don’t have a drinking problem.” He clutched his stomach and made a face. “It’s probably just nerves. Go. Find an attorney and get me the hell out of this mess. I don’t think I can take this much longer.”

  “Okay.” I stood and took a deep breath. If whoever silenced Hodge and Costan was loose, Eastman could be next, but protective custody would be preferable to being under arrest. And from the looks of Paul, he wouldn’t hold up much longer inside a prison cell. “Has anyone mentioned anything about striking a deal or protective custody?”

  “No. They just stuck me in this hellhole and left me here to rot.”

  “Hang tight. I’ll do what I can.” On my way out, I stopped at the desk. “Officer, can you keep an eye on Mr. Eastman? He doesn’t look so good.” The cop smiled and agreed to check on him. In the meantime, I needed to track down a decent criminal defense attorney.

  In the stairwell, I brought my phone out and searched for a number that I rarely used. “Ackerman, Baze, and Clancy law offices, how may I direct your call?” the secretary asked politely.

  “Hi, is Jack Fletcher in?” Fletcher was a junior partner and one of the few attorneys who didn’t make my skin crawl.

  “He’s in a meeting, may I take a message?”

  “Tell him Alex Parker needs a favor.” I gave her my phone number and disconnected. Now the waiting could begin.

  Before I even made it out of the building, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Fletcher, and he promised to make some calls and find someone willing to take Eastman’s case since criminal law wasn’t his specialty. Instead of wasting another trip to the precinct in order to share the good news with Paul, I went back down the stairs.

  “Just one more minute and I promise not to interfere anymore with your prisoners, Officer,” I promised. He was no longer smiling, and I feared I lost my flirtatious edge.

  “Thirty seconds. No more.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I dashed down the corridor, the soles of my shoes squeaking when I stopped abruptly outside the cell door. “Paul.” He was lying on the bench, turned away from me. “Paul?” A quick glance demonstrated that no one else was inside the holding cell with him. “C’mon, stop being so stubborn. I have good news.” There was no response, and fear clutched my insides. “Paul,” I yelled loud enough to attract the attention of the few people in the other holding cells and the officer at the desk. “Eastman, answer me.”

  “Ma’am,” the officer was beside me, and I pointed frantically at the prone man in the cell, “step aside.” He pressed the radio clipped to his shirt and requested assistance in holding before unlocking the door and cautiously stepping inside. Under different circumstances, I would wonder if it was a trap to isolate and attack a single police officer in an attempt to escape, but Paul wasn’t that brilliant. And after the way he looked earlier, he probably wasn’t even conscious. Frankly, there was a chance he wasn’t even alive. “Shit.” He radioed for an ambulance and immediate medical assistance.

  Not bothering to stand on formality, I entered the opened cell. “Let me help.” We rolled Paul onto his back and checked his vitals. From the bubbly froth at the corners of his lips, it seemed obvious he had a seizure. If he wasn’t locked inside a cell, I would have suspected an overdose. Then again, who knew what someone might have snuck inside, except he was alone. “I have a pulse. It’s thready, but at least it’s there. Is he breathing?”

  “Yes,” the officer replied. At least we didn’t have to start chest compressions or flip a coin on who would perform mouth to mouth. “The bus should be here any second.”

  Another two officers ran down the steps and burst into the cell, an EMT at their heels. I was pushed out of the way while the EMT set to work. One of the officers began questioning me and the desk officer while the other one kept an eye on Eastman in case this was an elaborately staged attempt at escape. Soon a second EMT arrived with a stretcher. They placed Eastman on the board, handcuffed him to the cut-out circle in the wood, and carried him up the steps with the second officer in tow.

  “I found him like that,” I muttered.

  “Why were you near the holding cell, Miss?”

  “Parker. Alexis Parker. I’ve done some consulting work for major crimes. My current P.I. gig correlated with Mr. Eastman being charged and booked. I just stopped by to tell him to expect a call from his new attorney.”

  “But you were here earlier too,” the desk officer pointed out, but he blushed when he realized that I mentioned Eastman’s condition and that he was directly responsible for giving me access to the prisoner. “It doesn’t matter.” He redirected the conversation to something more appropriate, rather than insisting I slipped Eastman something that would kill him. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

  “I thought you were keeping an eye on him,” I accused. “I guess we’ll find out.” When the EMTs hauled him away, his lips were a bluish color, and as far as I knew, detoxing from alcohol abuse didn’t come with discoloration or froth. Something was seriously wrong. Was I too blinded by my preconceived notions to notice before it was too late?

  Eighteen

  “He’s lucky,” Jacobs said. After the incident with Paul, Jacobs reported to the hospital, waited for the diagnosis, stationed numerous officers throughout the building, and returned to the precinct. Obediently, I remained at his desk, waiting for him to reappear while the desk officer from downstairs maintained a visual confirmation that I wasn’t making a run for it. Apparently we were both in a lot of trouble. “Your pestering might have saved his life.” He pointed an accusatory finger at me. “But you should have gotten permission from someone in charge before speaking to him again this afternoon.”

  “You mean the guy at the desk isn’t running the show? Unbelievable. Apparently I learned something new today.”

  “You’re not stupid, Parker. So stop playing dumb. I could arrest you for obstruction.” It was a hollow threat, and we both knew it.

  “What happened to Paul?” I asked, getting back to the pressing matter at hand. “I’m guessing it wasn’t the DTs.”

  “Fluoride toxicity.”

  “Seriously? I didn’t realize that was even possible. How did it happen?”

  “The doctors believe an increased level of fluoride was introduced five days ago and has continued to build ever since. We’ll know more after they get the panels back and analyze whatever they found in his stomach.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “They think so. They pumped his stomach and ran preliminary blood tests.” I shuddered slightly, but he continued on. “Not that this is any of your business, but the current theory is the high dosage was in something he ingested regularly, so if he wasn’t in custody, he might not have made it.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “Yeah, but a word of advice, stop snooping around. There’s someone dangerous out there. We have two bodies. Almost three. You need to be careful.”

  “Can we talk in private for a sec?” Nodding, he led me into Lt. Moretti’s empty office and shut the door. “Was it your idea to charge Eastman with a laundry list of crimes in order to keep him locked up?”

  “The only thing I had on him was suspicion of murder. The feds claimed to have additional evidence, so the DA’s office was bringing additional charges based on their word. Why?”

  “Do you still believe Eastman’s guilty?”

  “No. Jason Oster updated me on the situation. Before the shit hit the fan, I was considering phoning the DA and seeing what the feds had so we could cut the guy loose. It’s a little scary how well you do this job.”

  “It’s mostly luck and being a pain in everyone’s ass.” I attempted a smile. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me, but Alvin Hodge was a confidential informant for the Bureau, and they’ve been keeping tabs on Frank Costan and his alleged partner. I’d assume this unknown partner i
s the assailant. He probably eliminated Hodge and Costan and thought Eastman might pose a threat. So since I’m sharing, I hope you’ll consider passing along the medical findings and any leads that might surface.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t see why you need any of that information. Eastman’s clear. Wasn’t that your job?”

  “I’m not the best at letting things go, Detective.” I stepped closer and slipped my business card into his breast pocket. “I would appreciate a call if it’s at all possible.”

  Leaving the precinct, I had a lot to think about. Fluoride poisoning? Who even used poison outside of contrived film and television plots? More importantly, what did Paul regularly ingest that could contain that much fluoride? And five days ago meant Wednesday, the day we were released from that horrible interrogation hell resulting from Hodge’s body being found hanging around the hotel. This didn’t bode well.

  Driving home, I unlocked my door, checked the entirety of my apartment for anything that seemed amiss, and opened my fridge and pantry, glanced at the few items inside, and threw everything into the trashcan. Yes, I was paranoid, but it never hurt to be cautious. After all the potentially contaminated items from my fridge were discarded, my eyes came to rest on the few liquor bottles on my counter. Martin would kill me if I poured twenty-five year old scotch down the drain. So I resisted, wondering just how expensive it would be to replace the bottle. If it were the fifty year old single malt he kept in a sacred place at his house that I was contemplating destroying, they would never find my body.

  Instead of doing anything brash, I dialed Mark. “I’m a paranoid lunatic.”

  “And what else is new?” he responded. “Is this a cry for help?”

  “I just spent the last five minutes contemplating pouring scotch down the drain.”

  “Well, if you’re afraid you’re becoming an alcoholic, I’m open to taking it off your hands. What’s the story? You spent so much time with your client that you think his more peculiar habits are contagious?”