by G. K. Parks
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” I interrupted. “The only space I have an interest in is across from the federal courthouse.” Before she could voice a protest, I said, “Mrs. Britt, I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone through to come up with alternatives, but why can’t I see that space?” She bit her lip, unable to come up with a lie quickly enough. “Did something happen there?”
“The authorities believe it might be useful to one of their investigations, so until further notice, the building manager has banned any realtor from showing the space.”
“Who owns the property?”
“It went back to the bank after the previous owner couldn’t make payments. Each office inside that building is privately owned or the property of a corporation or bank. We’re the premier real estate agency that deals with renting and selling the properties that this particular bank holds the notes to,” she sat on the edge of her desk, “and they’ve put us on a three month time crunch before it goes to auction. That’s why I held the open house a couple of weeks ago. It was a last-ditch effort, and that’s why I’m thrilled that you’re so adamant about taking it off my hands, especially with that offer you made. However, until the authorities clear out, I can’t touch it, and I’d hate for you to go elsewhere while I make you wait.”
“I see.” I knew most of this, but since she was being so open and honest, I thought now would be a good time to ask a few questions. “Do you know William Briscoe?”
She thought for a moment and shook her head. “The name doesn’t ring any bells.”
“What about Stan Weaver?”
Her brows knit together, and she frowned. “Who are you really, Ms. Parker?”
“I’m just a woman looking to rent an office.”
She continued to scrutinize me, probably smelling the federal agent scent pouring out of my skin and clothes. “Neither of those men were at the open house. Someone has already asked about them,” she narrowed her eyes, “and he didn’t try to deceive me by hiding his identity.” She pulled a card off the corner of her desk and handed it to me. “You should probably ask him whatever questions you want answered because I already told him everything I know.” She gestured to the door. “Good day, Ms. Parker.”
Nine
“I’m going to kill you,” I growled. “That was my lead, and you fucked it up.”
“I asked questions, and she answered them,” Lucca argued. “There was no reason to perpetrate any deception. We have an obligation to follow the evidence and a duty to question individuals who might possess valuable information. You weren’t doing either of those things.”
“You don’t know what I was doing. You weren’t there when I spoke to Britt.”
“That’s right. And the reason I wasn’t there was because you made me sit in the goddamn car, just like you did when you interviewed Briscoe’s relatives.”
“Don’t you dare go near them. They’ve been through enough without you kicking up more dust.”
“I’ll do whatever this job requires. Clearly, you don’t have a clue what that is. You’ve only been here for three months, and you were undercover for half that time,” Lucca snapped.
“You have no idea what I know about this job. I was here for almost five goddamn years. I’ve done and seen more things than you can ever imagine. You’ve been on the job for a little over two years. You only had the training wheels taken off in the last six months. You don’t know a thing, so stop acting like you have any clue what is going on.”
“I know exactly what’s going on.” He slapped his palm against the board. “You’re wasting time and resources while we should be focusing our efforts on finding the individual who purchased the rifle. You rather play house and dick around than perform any grunt work because that’s beneath you. Just because Kendall asked you to be reinstated does not make you god’s gift to the OIO. It just makes you a washed-up agent that couldn’t hack it in the private sector.” He was lucky the conference table separated us because I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t haul off and hit him. “I tried to be nice. I wanted to understand you. To show you some compassion. I’ve given you every opportunity to open up to me and to become a part of this team, but you refuse. So fuck it. I’ll just follow up with your leads because you’re incapable of doing it.”
“Watch yourself,” I warned, my voice low and deadly, “because when push comes to shove, you better hope that someone will still be standing in your corner because it damn well won’t be me.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”
“Screw you, Lucca.”
Storming back to my desk, I searched the drawers for my files. I had a few leads. Whether or not Agent Lucca believed they were leads was a different story. He was not in charge. Jablonsky was, and if Mark thought I was nothing more than a drain on our limited resources, then he could dress me down, not this freshly minted Special Agent that was stupid enough to believe he was a genius. After spending a few minutes composing myself, I collected my belongings, filed my paperwork for the day, and knocked on Jablonsky’s office door.
“Come in,” he called, not bothering to look up from his desk.
“Sir,” I began, and his eyes shot to me, knowing I typically didn’t do the ‘sir’ thing unless we were in a formal setting, I was being sarcastic, or I wanted something, “you gave me some leeway to investigate, so I was wondering if I could do that elsewhere.”
“Fine, but if you stumble into a situation that requires back-up, you will wait for them to arrive, and you will not do anything to jeopardize the veracity of this case, including collecting evidence or questioning witnesses or potential suspects. Is that clear?”
“Yep,” I fought to keep my tone neutral, “and just for the record, I didn’t do anything to jeopardize the investigation when I spoke with the realtor. In fact, I gave you the heads up, and I don’t appreciate someone else shitting where I’m eating.”
“Lucca can be overzealous. The same way you used to be. Cut the kid some slack. This is his first homicide investigation. He wants a shiny gold star.”
“Then he should have joined the U.S. Marshals instead of the FBI.”
I needed to get my priorities in order. I was aware that I was spinning out of control, but I couldn’t stop it. After leaving the federal building, I drove to my apartment, let myself in, and dropped my belongings on the floor near the door. Then I walked through the living room into the attached kitchen, opened the fridge, stared inside at the meager foodstuffs, shut the door, repeated the process with the pantry and liquor cabinet, and then curled onto the couch. My first priority had been to determine if Marshal Dobson was at fault. Mission accomplished. Second, since we conducted the preliminary investigation, we were tasked to identify the assailant. While some progress had been made, it wasn’t enough to satisfy any of us. And my personal priority was to determine who the intended target was. This was where lines blurred and the spinning began.
Since Jablonsky gave me enough rope to hang myself, I decided to focus my efforts on William Briscoe. I already made a few strides on that front, and since Agent Lucca was adamant that this was a waste of time and resources, he was less likely to swoop in and steal my thunder again. Or so I hoped. The only downside would be if I was wrong. Nothing in Briscoe’s history indicated he should be targeted, but despite Weaver’s numerous enemies, something just didn’t feel right.
Getting up, I pulled the crime scene photos and the technicians’ evaluations out of my bag, studying the scene again. Why did Briscoe stand up at that inopportune time, and what would have happened if he didn’t? The other jurors on the panel had been questioned, but no one remembered anything. The most helpful recollections focused on Weaver dropping to the ground. A few remembered hearing a crack of thunder, which was the report from the sniper rifle. Unfortunately, no one noticed Briscoe. Apparently, he had stood, been hit immediately, and slumped back into his chair. It took seconds, maybe even minutes, before anyone noticed that he was dead.
Thi
s was old information, but something was there. Shaking off the buzz that indicated the beginnings of a headache, I determined what it was. Regardless of anyone else’s conclusion, I was certain that if Briscoe hadn’t stood up, the bullet would have gone through his head instead of his back. He was our primary target, and even if I couldn’t quantitatively prove it, I knew it was true.
Phoning the forensic team, I asked that they run another simulation accounting for the height difference on my recent theory and pass the findings along to Jablonsky. Mark always trusted my gut instincts. With any luck, his faith in me wasn’t misplaced.
Deciding that I couldn’t hide out here the rest of the evening, I packed two boxes. One held as much food and liquor as I could shove inside, and the other contained my shoes. After loading them into my car, I returned to my new abode.
Martin wasn’t home, and I unpacked the edible items, finding a few spots in his pantry and on top of his well-stocked bar to house them. Lugging the box of shoes into the guestroom, I left them in the corner and plugged in my laptop, determined to make some progress on Jack Fletcher’s problem while I had the house to myself.
Starting with the information he had given me, I began searching for the underground fight scene. If these bouts were as popular as he made them out to be, they had to be publicized somewhere, and the best place to start was the internet. My first search resulted in hundreds of pages of entries. This was going to be more complicated than I imagined. Narrowing the results wasn’t too difficult, but most of what I found were related news stories dealing with the dead fighter. As I skimmed through the seventh story, I found mention of the gym where he trained. Making a note, I continued searching for venues.
An entire online community existed for the various circuits. There were scheduled matches for every martial art and boxing style imaginable. Some were sanctioned by the larger sports authorities. Those fighters were paid per match, often had sponsors, and occasionally advertising deals. They also had agents, trainers, and a team of handlers to deal with their issues. The lesser known matches were mostly coordinated through gyms and owners. After glimpsing an outdated schedule that was likely part of the same circuit Fletcher and his boss had frequented, I decided the easiest thing to do would be to pay the gym a visit during regular hours.
The fact that they were closed now did nothing to alleviate my natural curiosity, and I spent far too long stalking them through their social media channels. A few members had posted videos of matches, training sessions, and proper ways to execute a few techniques. The matches proved the most interesting, and I replayed one in particular a dozen times, focusing my attention on the crowd. It was one of the fights Fletcher had attended since I spotted him easily enough. I just didn’t know where the fight was held.
Picking up my phone, I dialed, hoping he would provide some additional information. “Mr. Fletcher, I have a few more questions,” I said.
“Ms. Parker, now’s not a good time. Can it wait until morning?”
“That’s fine.” He was the one on the time crunch.
“Great. Good night.”
He disconnected, and I rubbed my eyes, checking the time. It was after eleven, and Martin wasn’t home yet. Someone was a workaholic, and for once, it wasn’t me. Okay, maybe it was still me, but no one was around to point it out.
Dobson hadn’t returned my call. Fletcher was being evasive, and Lucca and I were no longer on speaking terms. With my current batting record, I phoned Mark’s work number and left a message on his voicemail, telling him I wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow. Due to my last undercover assignment, I had some personal time on the books, and there was no reason why I couldn’t perform my due diligence without the overbearing annoyance that was Eddie Lucca.
Resisting the urge to read the same information over and over again, I went up to the fourth floor, changed into one of Martin’s shirts, and crawled into bed. Then I stared at the ceiling for the next hour before the security system beeped, and I practically jumped out of bed, assuming the worst. That type of behavior was ridiculous since the red light blinked back to green a moment later when the security system reactivated, and Martin came up the steps. He flipped the light on, and I rolled over, shielding my eyes from the sudden brightness.
“Hey,” I said, sitting up, “you’re home late.”
“And you’re in bed early,” he replied, hanging his jacket on a hangar and placing his tie over the chair. “Did I wake you?”
“No. And for the record, this room is sorely devoid of entertainment, so when I move the rest of my crap in, we should stick my TV in here.”
“Don’t you think you have enough sleep problems without the added stimulus of flashing lights and action movies?”
“I sleep just fine. Actually, I sleep much better when there’s something to distract from the inner turmoil.”
“I can distract you from the inner turmoil.” He grinned, adding a swaying motion to his movements. “Experts say that the bedroom is only supposed to be for two things.” He continued to disrobe while I settled against the headboard, enjoying his mild striptease. “Sex and sleep.”
“Well, in that case, you need to slow down. Slower. Slower.”
He met my eyes, pulled his belt free, tossed it onto the chair, and went to work on the buttons of his shirt. “Is this better?”
“Y’know, if we had a TV in here, you could take lessons from those stripper workout videos.” He made a face at my suggestion. “Fine, I’m all about compromise. We can occasionally watch something from your dirty movie collection. Happy?”
“I don’t have a dirty movie collection, Alex.” He smiled, pulling the tails of his shirt free and becoming distracted with rearranging his pile of dry cleaning. “Do you have anything that needs to go to the cleaners? Marcal’s dropping my clothes off in the morning.”
“I am capable of taking care of my own dry cleaning.”
“It’s stupid to make separate trips.”
“Probably, but I’m not you. I don’t want to use your staff. Why do you even have staff?”
“You insisted on the bodyguard, and Marcal and Rosemarie are the only other staff that I have. It makes sense to have a driver that runs errands, particularly when I have seventy meetings scheduled for the week and eighteen hour workdays, which also explains the usefulness of a cleaning lady.”
“Damn, why the hell don’t I have staff?”
“You can borrow mine any time you want.”
He added his dress shirt to the pile, and something caught my eye. I scrutinized the dark blackish bruise that covered his shoulder. He turned away, entering the bathroom and closing the door. When he emerged, I was waiting on the other side of the door.
“How did that happen?” I asked, fearing that I already knew the answer.
“It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have startled you awake the other night. I’ll know better next time.”
“God,” I took a breath, resisting the urge to place my hands over the bruises that would perfectly outline my fingers, “it’s official. You’re in an abusive relationship, and you’re making the same excuses every battered woman makes. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”
“Alex, you had a nightmare. You got a little handsy. It’s nothing. Really.” He smirked. “I was hoping to persuade you to add some scratch marks to my back to complete the look.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It is a little.” He pulled me into his arms. “It’s okay. I promise.”
“What if I had gone for your throat? Or my gun?” Rubbing a hand down my face, I tried to pull away, but he held tight.
“Stop.” He stared into my eyes. “You weren’t dreaming about killing me. You were dreaming about saving me.”
“But—”
“You’ve never acted out any of your violent nightmares, so I’m not worried. You shouldn’t be either.” He walked us backward to the bed. “Where did we land on the scratch marks debate?”
Ten
“Alex?”
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I opened my eyes and pulled my head off my arms. The computer screen had gone dark, and I clicked a key while rubbing my neck. My session had expired, and I closed the browser before shutting down.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“A little after seven,” Martin said. He ran a hand through my hair, untangling the long brown strands and offering a kiss. “Did you sleep down here last night? You were gone when I got up, and I didn’t hear you leave in the middle of the night.” His lips curved into a sly smile. “You really wore me out.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get a jump on work.”
He narrowed his eyes, knowing the real reason I snuck out of bed after he fell asleep, but he didn’t voice his suspicions. Instead, he surveyed the room which was covered from floor to ceiling in paperwork and crime scene photos.
“You’ve been busy. I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t move the bed out of here after all,” he said, watching me wince while I moved my neck from side to side. “Sit up.” He gently massaged the crick out of my neck. “What time are you supposed to be at work?”
“I’m not going in today. I’m feeling off. I’ll probably just putter around and take care of a few things.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and get some sleep? I’ll be home late again tonight, so don’t wait on dinner.”
“Do I really strike you as the domesticated, doting partner? Just so you know, I’m not planning to fetch your slippers or wash your socks either.”
“That’s why I have staff,” he teased. “But you make a good point. No one would ever confuse you with being subservient.”
“Tell that to Lucca.” Rolling my eyes, I climbed off the bed and went into the kitchen in search of coffee. “That jackass really thinks he’s something. Mark doesn’t necessarily trust Lucca’s rationale either, but he still expects me to be nice to the boy scout.”
Something dark passed across Martin’s eyes. “Why do you call Lucca a boy scout?”