Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  “Long.” He sighed. “I’m ready for the weekend.” He turned off the TV. “Are you working? I can’t remember what you said. Are we moving the rest of your stuff in this weekend? Or are we waiting? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m moonlighting, and who knows how the OIO investigation is going. An arrest warrant was issued, but it’s too easy.”

  “Everything doesn’t have to be complicated, sweetheart. A guy does something wrong. He messes up. He gets caught. See, it can be simple.”

  “Damn, I’ve been doing it wrong all these years. If things are that easy, how come you can’t simplify your job?”

  “Because I like complicated,” he smirked and brushed a tendril of hair out of my face, “in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed, but that probably just makes you a masochist.”

  He climbed off the couch and offered his hand. “Then let’s go to bed so you can abuse me some more.” His words weren’t funny, and I hesitated to move from my spot. “It’s too late to argue about the real reason you snuck out of bed last night, but I want to sleep with you. That’s not a euphemism. I’m exhausted, and you look beat.” He winked. “No pun intended.” He took my hand and led us up the stairs.

  I fought to remain awake. Regardless of what he wanted, I planned to sneak back downstairs as soon as he was in a deep sleep, but instead, my phone rang, jolting him upright.

  “I’m sorry. That’s for me,” I said, grabbing my cell phone from the nightstand and reading the display. Lucca. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, Parker, I hope I didn’t wake you,” Lucca said.

  “No. Why would I be asleep at,” I squinted at the clock, “3:20 in the morning?” I made a move to get out of bed, but Martin wrapped an arm around my middle, holding me in place and nuzzling my neck. “Speak, boy scout.”

  “Our lead didn’t pan out. Christianson showed us his rifle. I guess the partial serial number wasn’t enough for an accurate hit.” Lucca blew out a breath. “Needless to say, Jablonsky wants you back in the office in the morning to brainstorm on better ways to flush out our killer.” He paused, speaking to someone in the background before coming back on the line. “We’re going back through everything pertaining to both victims. It’s possible we missed something.”

  “You think?”

  “Shit, Parker,” he snapped, and I heard a whimper in the background. “Daddy’s sorry, baby.”

  “What?” I shook my head, confused by that statement.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” he replied, and another squeal sounded in the distance. “Shh…quiet, honey. Daddy’s talking on the phone. That’s my good girl.”

  “Lucca, are you doing something that I don’t want to know about?”

  “What? No. Forget it. We’ll talk in the morning. I just wanted to make sure you were planning on coming to work.”

  “I’ll see you in a few hours.” Hanging up, I rubbed a hand down my face, knowing that I needed to have a few suggestions on what to make of this investigation by our morning briefing.

  “Is everything okay?” Martin asked, snuggling closer while I tried to edge out of his grasp.

  “I think Lucca’s with a prostitute, and he called to let me know I have more work to do. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  “You’ll run out of excuses eventually,” Martin replied, rolling over.

  * * *

  During the morning briefing, I couldn’t shake the infernal mental buzzing. It was like a swarm of bees had taken up residence in my brain. What was I missing? Lucca profiled AUSA Stan Weaver, dismissing our previous suspect list, clearing Slater Christianson of any wrongdoing, and assessing the progress that had been made on the list of potential renters that the realtor, Sylvia Britt, had handed over to our agents yesterday.

  Next, Jablonsky stepped in to update the team on the other fatality, William Briscoe. The autopsy report listed the injuries sustained antemortem, and whatever wayward thought my subconscious had been chasing suddenly clicked into place. The rec center and youth boxing classes hadn’t meant anything until now, but that was the connection that explained Briscoe’s injuries. Pushing away from the table, I left the conference room and returned to my desk to research typical boxing injuries.

  “Now you’re too good to wait out the morning briefing?” Lucca asked, approaching my desk. “You’re the one who was so insistent that Briscoe was the target.”

  “Quiet.” Narrowing my eyes, I focused on the screen, committed to maintaining my train of thought. “Briscoe was a fighter. MMA, kickboxing, boxing, something. It explains his previous injuries.”

  “William Briscoe was a sales rep for a wholesale produce company,” Lucca stated, not listening to what I said. “He volunteered at some inner city recreational center and taught little kids to box. That doesn’t make him Evander Holyfield or Mike Tyson.”

  “Look at his injuries,” I snarled. Closing my eyes, Tim Coker’s words from yesterday rang through my head. The rec center teaches classes for free. “Out of my way.” I pushed past Lucca and barged into Mark’s office, closing the door behind me.

  “Parker?” He looked up, identifying the look on my face as a break in our case. “What is it?”

  “Briscoe might have been involved in an underground fight circuit.”

  “Okay, where’s your proof?” Jablonsky asked.

  “It’s speculative for now.” Inhaling, I sunk into a chair. “Hypothetically, the area gyms hold matches and tournaments to gain recognition for their fighters in the hopes of getting sponsorships and larger paydays. Some of the city’s elite enjoy watching these events and betting on the winners. It’s my understanding that they occasionally encourage sports agents and sponsors to give these fighters a chance to break out onto the main stage. These events aren’t sanctioned, and recently, Hector Santos died from complications due to injuries sustained while fighting in one of these matches.”

  “Santos.” Mark frowned and rifled through the pages on his desk. “That sounds familiar.” He continued searching, finally locating the piece of paper he was looking for. “He worked at the rec center with Briscoe, had a juvie record, was given community service instead of getting sent to a detention center, and turned it into a regular job after his state mandated hours were completed.” He dropped the paper on the desk and stared at me. “He’s dead?”

  “Yeah. It happened less than a month ago.”

  “A few weeks before Briscoe and Weaver were gunned down. Huh.” He chewed on a thumbnail and leaned back in his desk chair. “And you think the murders are related?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My brain was still reeling from the updated information concerning Santos. H. Santos – the boxing instructor that Briscoe assisted and that was tied to the impetus behind Fletcher’s blackmail. I skimmed through the information. The kid was eighteen. He should have had his whole life ahead of him. I stood, itching to see what I could find out.

  “Did I miss the hypothetical part?” Jablonsky asked, drawing me from my reverie before I could leave his office. “You said the matches were hypothetical, but this kid’s death wasn’t hypothetical. Where’d you get your information?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Is Marty involved in something illegal?”

  “God, no. He’s your best friend. Where the hell would you get an idea like that?”

  Mark shrugged. “Maybe I don’t know him that well.” He blinked. “It doesn’t matter. Who’s your source?”

  “Remember when I was reinstated and you mentioned I could hold onto my old job if I kept things under wraps?” I asked, and he nodded. “Well, a prominent client brought this to my attention.”

  “If your side project is related to our investigation, you need to divulge everything right now.”

  I thought about it for a moment, spinning the facts into different patterns, but I couldn’t determine how the blackmail and murders were connected. I just knew they were. “Hector Santos is the onl
y common factor. We don’t know enough about William Briscoe’s involvement in underground boxing to even connect the two outside of the rec center.”

  “They’re already connected, Alex. The two men worked together, and they’re both dead. Hell, look at Briscoe’s injuries.” Mark pushed the paperwork over. “Do you want to reconsider your earlier declaration?”

  “Not yet. Give me some time.”

  “You have until the end of the day, and then I’ll want to know everything.”

  Thirteen

  “Mr. Fletcher, it’s Alex. You need to call me back as soon as you get this. There have been complications that we need to discuss in person.” I hung up my desk phone.

  Fletcher wasn’t involved in the murders, but in the event his blackmailer was, we needed to figure this out now. Running through my limited resources, I’d perform my due diligence and turn it over to the team before the end of the day. I didn’t have the luxury to wait, and our victims’ families deserved answers. If this screwed Fletcher in the process, then so be it. I’d give him as much advanced notice as I could without compromising the murder investigation.

  I grabbed my keys, a copy of the updated information, and drove to the rec center. When in doubt, it was important to start at square one. Someone new was working the front desk, and she glanced at me. Unclipping my badge from my hip, I opened my credentials and laid them flat in front of her. She was an older woman, in her fifties, and from the way she took stock of the younger kids nearby, I suspected she was the motherly type.

  “Hector Santos. Did you know him?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” She looked around, maybe afraid someone would see her speaking to me.

  “Do you get a break? The labor board requires workers to be given breaks.”

  “Yeah, I get a break.” She sounded a bit uncertain, but hopefully, she’d comply with the proper amount of nudging.

  “Good. Meet me outside. I need a cup of coffee,” I insisted, walking out without giving her a chance to protest. If she didn’t appear in the next ten minutes, I’d go back inside and make a scene, but I didn’t think she wanted to risk drawing attention to my presence. At least, I was counting on it. I sat in the car, my gaze shifting from the entrance to the nearby foot traffic. Seven minutes later, she stepped out of the rec center, donning a baseball cap and slipping on a pair of sunglasses. I flashed my lights at her, and she climbed inside. “How well did you know Hector?”

  “He’s been coming here for years. He’d chat with me whenever he got the chance. He was always, ‘Mrs. Reed look at this’ or ‘Mrs. Reed what do you think about that’.” She stared pointedly out the windshield. “The kids that come here aren’t comfortable with the heat. I don’t want to discourage them from visiting. It’s a safe place, and it keeps them off the street.” I started the engine and pulled away. “Hector was a good guy. He turned his life around. He was a real inspiration to the younger kids. He showed them that even if you mess up, it was still possible to fix things.” She shook her head. “It’s a shame what happened to him.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Mr. Santos sounds like he was quite the role model. I hate to ask, but do you know what happened to him? Where he was? What or who he might have been involved with?”

  “Hector,” she smiled sadly, “he dreamed of being a prize fighter. He wanted to be champ. Y’know, pay-per-view fights and ring girls hanging all over him.” She chuckled. “He thought he was a lot more grandiose than he really was. He’s been training since he was fourteen, I think.” She shrugged. “He used to hang around the rec center and act like he was some tough street thug. The older boys used to knock him down a few pegs whenever he mouthed off, but as he got older, he got tougher. After he got himself into trouble, he changed for the better. I never thought that scared straight shit held any water, but it made him step up and become a man. He was a kind young man.” She shook her head a few times. “It’s a shame. He would have made something of himself. He would have made this world a better place.”

  “Do you know where he trained or who taught him to box?”

  “Willie would work with him after they finished with the youth class. Every other night, I’d be locking up and hear them pounding the bags or jumping rope.” She scrunched her face together, a thought hitting her. “I haven’t seen Willie in a while either. Someone said something happened to him, but I thought it was just a rumor.”

  “William Briscoe?” I asked, not wanting to tell her that he was also dead.

  “Yeah, that’s him.” She grasped my arm as I continued to drive in circles throughout the area. “Is he okay?”

  “Ma’am, let’s just focus on Mr. Santos for the moment.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand and rocked slightly in the seat, mumbling a few quiet prayers. I waited, wishing there was something more I could say or do. When she collected herself, she spoke again about Hector. Apparently, he had been boasting about working his way up the circuit. His final match was his tenth fight, and he had been told that a few scouts would be there to watch the bout.

  “Do you know what happened?” I asked.

  “No. I didn’t know anything about it. It was the weekend, and Hector wasn’t supposed to be coaching the youth until Monday. But when I saw Willie, I knew something horrible had happened. The man looked so distraught. He couldn’t even function. He showed up to work, asked one of the other volunteers to take over the class, and cleared out. I saw the newspaper article a few days later.” She swallowed. “Hector died because of that fight. Are you investigating his death? A few cops have stopped by to ask questions, but they never told us anything.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” I said, unwilling to tell her that I was tasked with investigating Briscoe’s death instead. “Do you think Mr. Briscoe was somehow responsible or at fault?”

  “God, no. Willie wouldn’t hurt a fly. Hector’s death hit him hard. I think that’s why he hasn’t been back since. Poor Willie, he must have felt responsible since he was training Hector.” She blinked, and a few silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Did Hector ever train anywhere else? Was Willie a professional boxer or something?”

  “Hector started training at some gym a year ago. I don’t know which one. He talked about it all the time, but I don’t remember him mentioning a name. It’s been six months or so since he talked about it. I remember it was expensive, and that’s why Willie was helping him out. Hector had the techniques down. He just needed someone to help maintain his discipline and spar with him. I wish I’d told him to pursue a more realistic goal, but I didn’t want him to get discouraged. From the things Willie said, I thought Hector really had a shot.” She sniffled loudly. “The cost wasn’t worth it. I should have said something.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I stopped the car in front of the rec center. “Are you okay? Do you want to call someone or something?”

  She laughed between the tears. “I’m fine. These kids will break your heart, but I gotta focus on the ones that can still be saved.” She opened the car door. “Thanks for respecting what this place is and how it works. Those cops don’t understand the importance of finesse.”

  “Hey,” I handed her my card, “if you remember anything else, give me a call.”

  “I will.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Geraldine Reed.” She closed the car door, wiped her eyes, slipped her sunglasses back on, and strode inside like she owned the place.

  On the drive back, I dialed Lucca. “Do you have the file on Hector Santos?”

  “No. It’s a police matter, but we have a copy of the coroner’s report.”

  “What about the progress that’s being made on the investigation?”

  “I just said we don’t.” He sounded annoyed by my repeated question. “Do you have a hearing problem? Or is it some type of comprehension issue?”

  “Tell Jablonsky I’m on my way to the precinct to gather some additional information, but everyone needs to stay late
tonight for an update on the courthouse shooting.”

  “For the record, I’m not your personal messaging service.”

  “Are you sure about that? Because one of the terms of my reinstatement included the promise of a personal assistant.” Before he could say anything else, I hung up.

  When I entered the precinct, I went straight to the major crimes division. I had spent a lot of time working with Detective Nick O’Connell in recent years. He and his wife, Jen, had become close friends, and one of the few couples that Martin and I spent time with. Emerging from the stairwell, I scanned the room, spotting O’Connell sharing a story with his partner, Thompson.

  “Boys,” I greeted, casting a questioning look at the empty desk nearby. “Is Heathcliff still on sick leave?”

  “He’s milking it for all it’s worth,” Thompson said, downplaying the severity of the injuries Detective Derek Heathcliff sustained the last time we worked together. “He’ll be back in a couple of weeks. He thought he’d use as many of those accumulated sick days as he could and enjoy a little vacation.”

  “Well, Derek deserves it,” I said, “which means you guys are lucky enough to work with me.”

  “Joy,” O’Connell deadpanned, tapping his pencil against the desk. “Let me start by asking in what capacity you are seeking our professional skills.”

  “Official OIO business,” I declared, flashing my credentials at him, “but in all seriousness, I need information on an ongoing homicide investigation and to speak with the detective in charge.”

  “Who’s the DB?” O’Connell asked, dropping the pen and clicking something on the computer.

  “Hector Santos. Eighteen years old.”

  Thompson rubbed a hand down his face. “That’s a tough one.” He jerked his chin at Heathcliff’s vacant desk. “You might as well get comfortable, Parker. You’re gonna be here a while.”

  “Who caught the case?”