by G. K. Parks
“Why does that matter?” Being more baffled than usual wasn’t fun, but after today, I could follow through on a few basic orders. The sooner I got out of here and back to the safety and comfort of home, the better. My nerves were shot, but at least I wasn’t.
“It will. But that’s not important now. Answer questions, give your statement, and keep the question-asking to a minimum. I’ll give you a ride home when Walton is finished with you.”
“Thanks, Mark. For everything. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see you in my entire life.”
“That’s what your assistant is for.” He winked and went to the door just as Walton was coming inside.
“Parker,” Walton took a seat, “sorry about the arrest.” It sounded like he changed his tune in the last few minutes. Maybe Kendall had a talk with him. Walton checked his watch. “You probably want to get out of here as quickly as possible.” I’d been waiting inside the interrogation room for over six hours, so that was definitely an understatement. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and we’ll take it from there?”
After telling him about the situation inside the hotel, the information I gleaned from Oster, Eastman, Wheeler, Russell, and the henchman known only as Sven, a thought crossed my mind. “Is Jason Oster still alive?”
“He’s in surgery. His odds aren’t great. He took two to the stomach.” Walton finished making a few notations, asked for clarification on the elevators, the stairwell, and the makeshift barricade that blocked my path to level eight. Then he asked for a recount that led to my frantic message to Torre that signaled the breach and Wheeler’s final moments. When it was all said and done, he stood up, extending his hand, and we shook. “Look, you’ve accused me of some serious shit. I’ve brought you in for questioning a couple of times. And you vomited in my backseat. Can we call a truce before things get further out of hand?”
“That sounds good.” I smiled at him.
“You’re free to go. If I have any more questions, I’ll phone. If not, do me a favor and try to stay as far from my investigation as you can.”
“Deal.” He reached for the door handle, but another thought crossed my mind. “Except, I’m consulting for the PD, so–”
“Yeah.” He sighed and held the door for me to exit. “Like I said, try.”
Mark drove me home, surprisingly not asking any questions about why I acted the way I did or what happened. Maybe the fact that I was still a little green kept him from wanting to further traumatize me. He parked outside my apartment building and turned off the engine.
“Do you want someone to keep you company?” he asked.
“No. I just want to wash the ick of the day off, decompress, and get some sleep. You told me not to ask any questions, but where’s Paul?”
“The police have him. Everyone is stuck answering questions for the next forty-eight hours. You’re lucky Walton brought you in, or else you’d probably be at the precinct for the next two days.” I nodded, reaching for the door handle. “You sure you don’t want me to come up?”
“I’m okay.” I thought about my smashed cell phone and confiscated handgun. “That creep, Sven, took my nine millimeter. Do you think he used it to kill anyone?”
“Probably not. I’d bet it’s somewhere in evidence. You’ll find out tomorrow.” He watched me curiously since I had yet to open the car door.
“What time is it in Milan?”
“Go call him,” Mark insisted. “It doesn’t matter what time it is. He’ll want to hear from you.”
Trudging up the six flights of stairs, I barely noticed the sticky note on my front door while I dug around in my pocket for my keys. Pulling it off the door, I was puzzled by the words. Was this a sick prank? I’m inside. Don’t shoot. – J.M.
Cautiously opening the door, I poked my head inside. Martin was standing with his back to me, gazing out my fire escape. His suit was wrinkled. An untouched glass of scotch was on the table, sweating and looking like it had been poured hours ago with a layer of water at the top from the melted ice.
“Martin?” I asked, stepping inside. His body remained facing the window, but he turned his head.
“I’ll take it from the lack of firearm that you found my note. Are you okay?” His voice was tired and pained.
“I’m fine. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be somewhere. Italy? I don’t know. I can’t keep up with the happenings in my own life, let alone your travel itinerary.”
He pressed a few buttons on his phone before putting it down on the table next to the forgotten scotch. “You didn’t call. And you didn’t answer. Do you have any idea how many times I tried to call you in the last twelve hours?” He sounded annoyed, frustrated, and relieved all at the same time.
“Would it be enough to officially qualify you as a stalker?” I quipped.
“Don’t you dare pick a fight right now.” He turned completely around, looking exhausted, and crossed the room. He kissed me and pulled me tightly against his chest. “Even when I travel, I still get local news updates on my phone. I saw what happened. The news coverage was astronomical. What the fuck were you thinking, running inside that hotel? Are you insane? Do you have a death wish? Are you trying to scare me to death?”
“I was assisting in the negotiation. It wasn’t what it looked like,” I mumbled, not wanting to think or talk about it. Tomorrow, I would deal, but for now, I wanted to forget.
“Then why didn’t you answer or call me back? How could you possibly expect me to stay in Europe when I had no way of knowing if you were okay?”
“God, you’re shaking. Take it easy. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“I thought you were shaking,” he said, and I wasn’t positive that I wasn’t. “Then again, I spent eight hours on a plane, and I don’t know how many just standing in front of your window, hoping you’d come home. That you were okay.” He inhaled, his body starting to relax. “So maybe it’s both of us.” He let out a sigh. “The things you put me through, sweetheart.”
“You shouldn’t have dropped everything. Even if something did happen, there wouldn’t have been anything you could do. You shouldn’t derail your business trip because of some idiotic news reporter who probably blew the situation completely out of proportion.” He seemed about to protest, so I continued explaining, hoping he’d take it as an apology. “My phone was destroyed, and I just got home. But I planned on calling you.” I gave him a final squeeze and pulled away. “When do you have to leave? Are you flying back tonight?”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” He ran his thumb across my cheek.
The only thing I wanted was to curl up next to him and bask in the comfort he provided, but the violence and death were clinging to me. “I need to wash off the remnants of today.” He knew my routine and my symbolic need to scour away the horror. “But you should join me.” And he followed me into the bathroom, shedding clothing on the way.
* * *
The next morning, I woke up. It was early, and I was sore from the physical exertion of prying open the elevator and moving the sleeper sofa, not to mention all the stress of yesterday. Maybe I could persuade a certain someone to rub my back. Keeping my eyes closed, I reached for Martin. Coming up empty, I turned over and ran my hand across the mattress, finding nothing but cold sheets. Did I hallucinate last night? I opened my eyes; the bed was empty. I sat up and looked around the room for some sign that I wasn’t crazy.
“I don’t care. Give her what she wants.” I heard his voice from the next room. “We’re selling that line anyway.” He paused. “It doesn’t matter how much it costs the company. I don’t give a shit.” Okay, so at least I wasn’t crazy. “We’re dissolving our partnership with Hover Designs. I made the deal yesterday. Let Francesca handle the sale,” he huffed. “Fine. Talk to the Board and call me back this afternoon.” He hung up and returned to the bedroom. His eyes were dark and puffy. It was apparent he was exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He climbed back into bed. “I’m so
rry if my conference call woke you. I didn’t mean to be so loud.”
“It’s okay,” I murmured, snuggling against the pillow. He kissed me and wrapped an arm around my waist. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I felt responsible for whatever business decision he made yesterday in order to come home two weeks early.
“Yes. Promise me we can sleep until noon.” He buried his nose in my hair and kissed the nape of my neck. “And when we wake up, I want to revisit the idea of never leaving your apartment again.”
“Sounds good.”
Forty-two
It was always a strange turn of events when I was awake before James Martin. He was one of those rare breeds of morning people who tended to rise with the sun, cheery and prepared to meet the day head-on. However, it seemed we were trading places today. Not that I was rising with the sun or particularly cheery, but it was eleven o’clock, and a million things needed handling. Mark called, informing me he would be by at one to pick me up. My car was in police impound after being left at the hotel unattended. With my luck, they probably decided it was evidence in the hostage situation. Ugh. I would have been better off if yesterday had been a bad dream instead of the mess it turned out to be. I still didn’t know exactly what happened or why it happened. I didn’t know the final body count, the motive, the impetus, or even who all of the players were. And yet, the police thought I would be instrumental in helping to figure it out, or so Lt. Moretti claimed in order to keep me out of jail. Orange really wasn’t my color.
I let out a sigh, slipping carefully out of Martin’s grasp. That was another mess. He shouldn’t be here. He should be in some foreign country, having business meetings, or dinner and drinks, or whatever the hell he’d be doing at this moment. Arguing with board members and selling off assets wasn’t a solution. It was a sign of a problem, and that problem was me. I didn’t want to fight. Furthermore, I didn’t necessarily want to get out of bed, but there was work to do.
After preparing for the day, I made a quick trip to the grocery store down the street, picked up some basic supplies after dumping everything out of my fridge not too long ago, and began making brunch. I was putting the final touches on an egg white frittata when Martin came out of my bedroom. His hair was unkempt, but he looked rested and relieved.
“Since when did you become domesticated?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me and kissing my neck. “That smells great, but we can eat later. Come back to bed.”
“I can’t. Mark’s gonna be here in twenty minutes.” I swallowed. “The police department requires my presence.”
“Hmm,” he trailed kisses along my shoulder, “so do I. And I’m calling dibs.”
“You aren’t making this any easier.” Reluctantly, I pulled away from him, resisting the urge to respond with the sentiment we both knew was true. He shouldn’t have returned early just because of some stupid news story. “Did you eat yesterday? I know I didn’t.” I grabbed a few pieces of bread and popped them in the toaster.
“Alex,” he grabbed the plates from my hand and put them on the counter, “are we going to talk about this? When I left last week, you were annoyed that you lost a job. Then on the phone, you said you were investigating for the guy that fired you. Neither of those things is indicative of what I witnessed on the news yesterday.”
“I think we’re going to fight about it. And I don’t want to fight with you. Not at the moment. We’ll talk about this later. Tonight, maybe. Are you positive you don’t need to fly back to wherever you were? Because I think you should go.” That comment earned an angry, defiant look. “How much did this cost you?” He didn’t say anything. “Hundreds of thousands?” I waited. “Millions?” Still nothing. “Tens of millions?” He pressed his lips together. “I have no idea what you’re worth or what your company is worth, so I’ll just assume it was astronomical. So go. Fix it. I don’t want you to resent me for some botched business trip. I didn’t ask you to come home.”
“No. You never do.” He grimaced. “Since you have to leave soon, we won’t talk about this now.” He picked up the plates and put them on the table. “But I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I refuse to leave your apartment. I was an idiot for not taking you up on your offer a week ago.” He pulled some flatware from the drawer. “I just have one question.”
“All right.” I poured two cups of coffee and brought them to the table, and we both sat down. “What is it?”
“Do you honestly believe that my business trip is more important to me than you?”
“No.”
He nodded, and the anger dissipated. We were silent while he wolfed down the food. My appetite had gone to crap after that question, and I nibbled on some toast.
“You didn’t have to make me breakfast,” he said around a mouthful. “I would have cooked.” He wiped his mouth. “But this is fantastic.”
“Surprised?” I retorted, hoping for light, pointless banter.
“You’ve cooked for me before, and it’s always good. But this was amazing.” His flattery was meant to smooth the waters, so I offered a smile. “Since you made brunch, I’ll make dinner tonight. What time do you think you’ll be back?”
“I don’t know. Probably late. Don’t worry about it. I can pick something up at the station.” He looked ready to protest, so I decided to ask for his help on a different project. Since he wanted to stay and appear useful, then I could play along. “Actually, if you get the chance, can you pick up a decent bottle of scotch for Mark? You know what he likes. Just keep the receipt, and I’ll pay you back.”
“It’s not his birthday.” Martin searched his mind. “And as far as I know, he didn’t get married and divorced again. So what’s the scotch for?”
“I owe him. He pulled some strings in order to keep me from getting arrested yesterday. If he didn’t, I’d still be in lockup.” I pressed my lips together, thinking about the hours I spent handcuffed to the table in the interrogation room.
Martin noticed the involuntary shudder and came around the table and pulled me into his arms. “You have no idea how relieved I was when you walked through that door last night,” he whispered in my ear.
“I can imagine. It was probably somewhere close to how I felt when I found you waiting inside my apartment.” I rested my cheek against his shoulder. “I am glad you’re here. But that’s selfish and ridiculous on my part. And I know rationally you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have jumped to those conclusions, and you shouldn’t have dropped everything. If,” I focused on the windows, refusing to pull away, “I didn’t make it out of that building yesterday, there would have been nothing you could have done. So you didn’t need to rush home.”
“Alex,” his voice sounded hoarse. We weren’t doing a good job about not talking about the elephant in the room. Thankfully, before things could get any mushier and nauseating, Mark knocked on the door.
I ran a hand through his hair, taming down some of the wayward spikes, and kissed him before stepping away and opening the door. Mark came inside, carrying a bag of donuts and a couple of coffees.
“Where’s mine?” Martin asked.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you. Alex said she wanted to call you, but I didn’t realize she’d ask you to come home,” Mark replied, caught off guard. Martin smirked, apparently realizing exactly how much I wanted him here after my comments and Mark’s affirmation. Shifting his gaze to me, Mark asked, “Can you cut this love fest short? We’ve got a lot to sort out.”
“Yep.” I took my back-up handgun from my gun safe and slipped into my shoulder holster and jacket. Mark watched, wondering why I needed the heavy artillery. “It should just be paperwork, but y’never know,” I mumbled in response to the confused glances.
Kissing Martin goodbye, I followed Mark out of my apartment and down the steps. He waited until we were inside his car before he asked the question that was on his mind. “How come Marty’s here? Wasn’t he supposed to be gone another t
wo weeks?”
“Local news feed was sent to his phone.”
“See, I said you made the news,” Mark retorted. Thankfully, he changed the conversation topic to Oster’s condition, which was still alive but barely. Detective Jacobs was sorting through the mess, and there were numerous breaks on the case based upon the information Mark received and various statements made by the affected parties. “I’m still wondering if your client is clean.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” I said as he parked the car. “What about Rachel Romanski?”
“One step at a time.” He grabbed his coffee cup from the drink holder. “It’s gonna be a long day. They want to question you about what happened yesterday.”
“Well, it’s nice to know I have immunity.” I smirked. “What do we know so far?”
Apparently while I was getting myself into trouble at the hotel, Mark and Detective O’Connell were hard at work at the precinct. The caterer who lost his I.D. was identified and questioned. The day before the conference, the catering crew came to the hotel to set up for the next day. And when the caterer left that evening, he had an altercation with a man in the hotel parking lot. The caterer thought the guy was drunk and didn’t realize until later that night that his wallet was lifted. And then it didn’t occur to him until the following morning that his hotel I.D. was also gone.
“We showed him pictures of our persons of interest, both living and dead, but he didn’t spot anyone,” Mark said, building to that ‘ah ha’ moment. “But just as he was about to leave, the sketch artist finished with Romanski. O’Connell figured it was worth a shot, and the caterer said it was the same guy.”