by G. K. Parks
“There has to be something else you can do.”
“The ME is reexamining Santos’ remains, but the district attorney doesn’t feel that a murder charge will stick. And he’s not pushing for it. Santos played a contributory role in his own demise.”
“Did you watch the video? The DA was probably at the fight and doesn’t want to risk letting those facts come to light.”
“Yeah, and the police commissioner might have been there to. The point is I can’t do anything about it. I can investigate and make an arrest. They have my recommendation, but it’s out of my hands.”
“What about the two courthouse murders? Shouldn’t they get justice?”
“Tie them together,” O’Connell growled, losing his patience. He took another breath. “Look, we’re working different sides of the same street. You have to bring me something solid if you want me to meet you in the middle.”
“I wish I had something for you, Detective.” I licked my lips. “The shooter can’t be identified through facial rec. He left his weapon at the crime scene, and every lead we’ve followed has turned into a wild goose chase. The gym is the only connection.”
“Then you’ll have to get someone to cooperate.” I heard the doubt in his voice. “Alex, are you sure the crimes are connected?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
After disconnecting, I went in search of the man who some might consider my partner. Eddie Lucca was in the conference room, tearing down the notes and photos we had posted over the course of the investigation. When I entered, he didn’t even bother to turn around. He was starting over. Once the boards were clear and the conference table was covered in the various items, he hung photos of Stan Weaver and William Briscoe in the center of the board.
“Pick a target,” he said.
“Briscoe.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Pick again.”
“I don’t think Weaver—”
“How would you kill him?” Lucca asked, interrupting before I could perform another rendition of a broken record. “You have a sniper rifle. You went to the courthouse during jury selection and discovered what trial he was assigned. You determined which courtroom. You scoped out different vantage points.”
“Did we ever identify our shooter prior to the open house?”
“No. He was probably there, but if he wasn’t wearing the cap and glasses, we won’t see him.”
“What about our possible suspects? Have the techs run facial rec for one of them in the vicinity for the times and dates.”
“They’re working on it.” He tapped Weaver’s photo. “Don’t get distracted. You decide to kill him in court. Why?”
“To make a statement, cover my tracks, or because I don’t have anything else to do at that time of the morning.” Grabbing my phone, I sent a text to O’Connell to check alibis of the three men for the time of the courthouse shooting, if he hadn’t already.
“You take one shot. The mark goes down. You must know how to shoot.”
“I trained. Practiced. And since I don’t plan to take the weapon with me, I don’t care about bullet striations or it being traced back to me.”
“The gun isn’t registered. You bought it hot or stole it.” Lucca made a face, grabbing his own phone and dialing a number. After he asked for a full list of weapon thefts, he disconnected and continued with the theorizing. “It’s done. You don’t linger. You leave the building and hail a cab, but now you’re getting nervous. You’re afraid someone will catch on, so you run counter-maneuvers.”
“Or I planned my escape ahead of time and knew how to avoid being tracked.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home. Possibly work. Maybe out to meet a friend for lunch.”
“If you were a professional, you’d be meeting your client to say the job’s done and collect your fee,” Lucca suggested.
“Except there’s no indication that this was a contracted hit,” I said, blowing another hole in his theory.
“So it’s personal.” He picked up a collection of pages and slammed them down. “Shit. We’ve come full circle.” The stack of potential threats to Weaver slid across the desk. “Dammit.” He met my eyes. “Don’t say it.”
“That’s why I think Briscoe’s the target.”
“Jesus.” He rubbed his face and slumped into a chair. “Run it.”
“Everything still holds true, except for the fact that targeting Briscoe at the courthouse makes no sense.”
“I mentioned that,” Lucca muttered.
“That’s what makes it brilliant. That’s the piece of the puzzle that says whoever did this is smart. The killing was meticulously planned. The location was scouted. Our shooter was careful, almost professional. He must be trained and aware of how investigations work.”
“Facini.” He nodded. “Okay, I’ll bite. Facini’s our shooter. He trains on the range with the military equivalent of the Remington. He doesn’t own a gun, so we can’t track weapon sales back to him. He went through most of the training at the police academy, and he falls within the physical parameters of our unsub.” He met my eyes. “Why the fuck did he want to kill William Briscoe?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
“Stop for a second,” Lucca said, putting his hand on my wrist before I could leave the conference room. “How would Facini know that Briscoe was serving jury duty? The only people who would be aware would be Briscoe’s employers and his family and friends. We still have no connection between the two of them.”
“Hector Santos.”
“Why would Santos want to harm Briscoe? The two were pals. Briscoe was helping Santos train.”
“Santos is dead too.” The buzz reverberated inside my brain. “They were killed weeks apart, and I’ll bet it was for the exact same reason.” I scribbled our timeline back onto the whiteboard. “The shooter planned to eliminate Briscoe for at least a week prior to his death, but Santos’ fight was already scheduled. So why would someone want to silence both of them?” I asked. We were getting closer, I could feel it.
“It has to do with the fights,” Lucca surmised. He flipped through some paperwork, but the angles we had investigated didn’t focus too heavily on Santos. “Briscoe must have been around quite a few of the fighters. His son recognized the men in the photos.”
“Will Jr. said he was to blame, and that’s why he wanted to kill himself. Why the hell did you pass him off to the PD yesterday? We could have asked him a few questions before they took him away.”
“It was out of our hands. The scene yesterday was a circus,” Lucca snapped, “and just so you know, we were denied clearance to asking him questions. Medical professional trumps federal agent every time.”
“Not if you do it right.” I pushed the door open. “Come on, we aren’t going to solve anything by sitting inside this room.”
“I will not be a part of some illegal questioning.”
“We’re not going to talk to Will. We need the police file on Hector Santos. Since Briscoe’s family is familiar with the fighters, Santos’ family should know a little something about Hector’s assistant coach.”
* * *
“Mrs. Santos, do you recognize this man?” Lucca asked, passing a photo of William Briscoe across the kitchen table to the grieving mother.
“That’s Coach Willie,” she replied, barely glancing at the photo. “He should have protected my son.” She spat on the photo. “Trained him better. Made sure he was ready. If he had, Hector would still be alive.”
“What can you tell us about Hector’s training sessions?” O’Connell asked. Since this was considered official police business, I let him tag along as a courtesy. This was our middle ground.
“Hector trained every day. He worked at the rec center and used their equipment Monday through Friday, and on Sunday he used to go for a six mile run.” Abruptly, she stood from the table, collecting a few items and bustling around the kitchen. “I never wanted him to fight. He was such a sweet little boy. H
e wouldn’t hurt a fly, but then he made the wrong kinds of friends.”
“Was Hector involved with a gang?” O’Connell asked.
“No.” The look in her eyes would have killed a weaker man. “He wasn’t in trouble. He wasn’t involved with anyone in trouble. He straightened out, but it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.” She walked out of the room, leaving the three of us in her wake.
“Ma’am,” Lucca called, following her into the living room, “we have a few more questions.”
“Hector’s dead. I can’t bury my son until you finish your investigation, and I’m late for work. So go screw yourselves.” A door slammed shut, and I imagined she must have closed herself inside the bedroom to change.
“Looks like that’s our cue to leave,” Lucca said from the doorway.
“Let me know when she comes back,” I hissed, ignoring the warning look on his face.
Lucca rolled his eyes and stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Mrs. Santos’ apartment was tiny. The kitchen held a table with three chairs and an opened ironing board. Other than that, there was barely enough room to walk from the doorway to the counter. However, on the wall were a few framed photos of her son. One, in particular, caught my eye.
Hector looked to be about fourteen and was surrounded by a group of six other boys. Removing my phone, I photographed the photo. O’Connell followed suit before going into the living room. Since Mrs. Santos didn’t bother to throw us out, we were taking a few liberties with the items that were clearly in plain sight. Nick found something of interest on the coffee table, and I joined him, pretending not to hear the gruff exhale from Lucca.
“Is that a yearbook?” I asked as Nick flipped through a few pages.
“No. Well, maybe.” He held it out for me to see. “It’s not from a school.” The item was spiral-bound and appeared to be printed from one of those online photo services. “These are recent. It looks like something from the rec center.” O’Connell flipped to the back, looking for some type of identifying information. “Recognize anyone?” He opened to the center page that had a group shot of eight men.
“Facini, Levere, Briscoe, Santos, Coker, Greenwood,” I scanned the bottom caption, unable to identify the other two men in the picture when Mrs. Santos returned.
“How dare you,” she shrieked. “Get out.”
“Ma’am,” O’Connell began, but she practically pushed us toward the door, snatching the photobook from his hands, “we didn’t mean to upset you. We’re just looking for clues to help solve Hector’s murder.”
“Hector wasn’t murdered. He died from getting hit in the head.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she opened the front door. “This is harassment. Get out.”
Lucca muttered an apology and followed Nick and me out of the apartment. “Is that how the two of you normally work?” he asked once we were away from the apartment.
“No, our lookout normally does a better job of looking out,” I replied.
“Do you want to take a crack at my suspects and ask about their connection with William Briscoe?” O’Connell asked.
“Absolutely. I’d say we have more than adequate reasons to question them,” I said. “Care to give me a ride, Nick?”
“Does that mean you’re not planning to take custody?” O’Connell asked.
“Not yet.” I smiled, a devious gleam developing in my eye.
“Parker,” Lucca growled, “what the hell are you doing?”
“My job. Go ask Laura Briscoe about her father in connection with the other fighters. Ask her about her brother. Run names, profiles, whatever it takes. They seem like a tight-knit family, so she must know something. If anything, she might have some sixth sense about why her brother planned to take a dive off the building. You can ask if he has a history of depression, and while you’re at it, get names and addresses of his buddies that he uses for couch surfing and follow up with them,” I said, deciding that would keep him busy for the rest of the afternoon.
“You can’t just tell me what to do,” Lucca protested.
O’Connell snorted and clapped him on the shoulder. “I believe she just did.”
Twenty-two
“Mr. Facini,” O’Connell said, “this is Agent Parker. Your name has surfaced in connection with an investigation she’s working, and instead of making your life more difficult, we thought we’d save everyone some time and paperwork and partake in a joint interrogation. I trust you won’t have any objections.”
“Are you charging him with something?” Facini’s attorney, Thomas Harper, asked.
“Not at the present,” I replied.
“Then you have no right to question him,” Harper replied.
“Well, I do,” O’Connell said, taking a seat at the table while I hovered in the corner of the room, watching the exchange. “What can you tell me about William Briscoe?”
“He’s a trainer. He helps out at the rec center,” Facini said, squinting at O’Connell.
“Did he ever train you?”
“No, but he used to come around from time to time. He worked exclusively with Hector,” Facini replied.
“What does this have to do with my client’s assault charges?” Harper asked.
“Why did you assault Jack Fletcher?” I piped up, moving to the table and taking a seat next to O’Connell.
“Don’t answer that,” Harper hissed. He looked at me. “We are contesting those facts.”
I snorted. “Assault is the least of your client’s worries. He’s looking at blackmail, conspiracy, and probably murder.”
“What?” Facini’s eyes widened. “That lawyer guy is dead?”
“Shut up,” Harper hissed. He shifted his gaze to O’Connell. “I’d like to speak to my client alone, and I’d like her removed from this interview.”
“Fine.” O’Connell went to the door. I gave Facini and his counsel a final hard glare before making my way out of the room. “I’d say that counts as an admission of his guilt for assaulting Fletcher,” O’Connell said as we went back to his desk.
“Too many lawyers.” I sucked in a breath. “Do you think we could twist it and make it sound like he was asking about the well-being of AUSA Weaver?”
“That’s a stretch, even for you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel. Are there any reasons you can think of why Harper wouldn’t want me to sit in on the interrogation?”
“He must not be a fan of your glowing personality. Realistically, it doesn’t matter what he wants. As long as you keep quiet, you can stay in the room. It’s my interrogation, and he should be smart enough to know that it’s my prerogative what information is passed along to other members of the law enforcement community.”
“Someone’s been reading the regulation book again. Have you been spending time with Lucca behind my back?”
The detective scoffed and read through the sticky notes that were left on his desk. Pretending to mind my own business, I went to the coffeepot and poured a cup, returning to a position behind Nick so I could surreptitiously read over his shoulder. Fletcher had phoned to reschedule a follow-up for later in the afternoon. The ME’s office found extensive internal damage on Santos’ body, but it was unclear if the damage was due to the match or injuries sustained afterward. While I waited, Nick phoned the crime lab to ask what progress they were making.
When he disconnected, I smiled sweetly. “If you ask nicely, I’m sure our forensic experts could take a look at Santos’ autopsy and compare it to the video shot of the fight and help make a determination.”
“You just want to get a hold of our evidence,” he accused, “which would be one less thing on my plate, and if you happened to discover a crime or evidence related to another crime that just so happens to fall under federal jurisdiction, that would be purely coincidental.”
“Precisely.”
“Fine. I’ll call Jablonsky and ask if your office can help us out.” He glanced at his partner who had just entered the bullpen. “H
ey, do me a favor and see if Mr. Harper is ready for us to continue our conversation.”
“With which suspect?” Thompson asked.
“Facini,” O’Connell replied, already dialing.
“Okay, sure.” Thompson made a face, and something about his attitude made me wonder what provoked that question.
“I’ll walk with you,” I offered, following after the detective. “Is Harper representing someone else?”
“He’s representing all of them,” Thompson replied. He poked his head into the observation room, making sure Harper was still inside before continuing down the hall in order to provide the attorney with privacy. “Facini, Levere, and Coker. It’s privileged who’s footing the bill, but my guess is that Tim Coker or his gym is paying the fee.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“Not my problem. These are grown men. They ought to know they’re entitled to fire their counsel or seek new counsel if they choose. My guess would be they can’t afford someone of Harper’s caliber.” He knocked on the door to the interrogation room, waited a polite five seconds, and then turned the doorknob. “Let us know when you’re ready to continue, sir,” Thompson said, doing that respectful thing required of police officers. After he shut the door, he leaned against the wall. “How is it that we got roped into helping you on another investigation?”
“You’re just lucky, I guess. Have you made any progress identifying the blackmailer?”
“Not yet. We’ve been trying to determine the motivation for the blackmail. Is Fletcher on the level? He seems like small fries compared to a few of the faces I spotted in the crowd at that fight. I’d bet he saw something or did something else that night and that’s why he’s being targeted.”
“He had to leave the fight to meet a client.”
“Does the client have a name?” Thompson asked.
“It’s privileged, so he didn’t share it.”