by G. K. Parks
“It’s all a day in the life,” Thompson said as we turned Stephens’ house over to the crime scene techs for evidence collection and drove Mark’s SUV back to HQ.
When I arrived at the office, the members of the team were scattered throughout the building. Cooper, Moretti, and Jablonsky were conducting the interview, and the rest of us had paperwork to fill out and incident reports to file. Since I was in another room with Mrs. Stephens at the time, my paperwork was completed quickly.
I found myself hiding in Mark’s office, rattled by Ernie’s suicide and Stephens’ attempt. Ernie’s death was on me, but Stephens did this to himself. I didn’t have any sympathy for him, but my mind kept wandering back to Ernie. Leaving the sanctity of the office, I went in search of the preliminary report on Ernesto Papadakis.
Ernie had received a text message from a throwaway cell phone that couldn’t be traced. The message gave him two options. For bringing these problems upon himself, he could end it all in a comfortable manner or someone would end it for him in a slow, painful way before going after everyone he loved. What choice did he have? Ernie had been naïve, self-aggrandized, and a bit of an idiot, but for all his faults, he seemed kind, funny, and genuinely a good man. It wasn’t fair. He hired me to protect his club, and instead, I brought nothing but pain to him.
“Parker,” Thompson was standing in the doorway of the file room, “I was on my way out and wondered if you wanted to grab a drink.” Thompson and I were friendly, but we weren’t friends. The offer was uncharacteristic, and I figured it must have been because of the shit day we both had.
“Thanks, but I’m not leaving anytime soon.”
“Okay.” He turned to go but reconsidered. “Do you think Mrs. Stephens had any idea who she was married to?”
“Do you think Moretti had any idea who he was reporting to every day? Who all of you were reporting to every day?”
“Touché.”
After Thompson left and I reread the Papadakis folder a half dozen times, I left the file room and hid in Mark’s office. The place was still empty, and the men would be working throughout the night to get answers from Stephens. No one was around to tell me what to do, so I stared into nothingness while being plagued by guilt.
Picking up Mark’s desk phone, I dialed a number I knew by heart. On the third ring, Martin answered. “Hey, stranger. I’m glad you called.” He sounded pleased by the turn of events; if only he knew what transpired, then he wouldn’t be so cheery.
I couldn’t think of anything to say since I just wanted to hear his voice, and I sat listening to the awkward silence fill the void. After a time, I managed to come up with something. “Is Bruiser still earning overtime?”
“Yes, but I don’t really,” he began, but I interjected.
“The vans outside are still keeping you constant company too, right?”
“Alex, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. You know how paranoid I can be sometimes. It helps when everyone else is just as coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.”
“Alex?”
“I’m fine. Are my things still taking up space at your house? Whenever I get a chance, I should probably come by and pick them up. It wasn’t my best plan to just run out and not come back to clean up.”
“Alex,” he tried again.
I was in rambling mode and knew I needed to hang up soon or else the prattling could go on indefinitely. “Okay, well, I should go. Nose to the grindstone and all. If anything,” I swallowed, “just be safe. If you see or hear anything strange, call for help, okay?”
“Of course, but–” he was still trying to get a word in edgewise. Honestly, the man needed to learn how to accept defeat gracefully.
“Good night.” I hung up the receiver and found Mark standing in the doorway. There was no way of determining how long he had been there or what he had witnessed. His facial expression looked grim, and I got out of his chair, intending to brush past him and go back to the conference room where we had been sequestered for the duration of this case. Instead, he shut his door and took me hostage.
“Do you need to take some time?” he asked as I stalked the minute space of his office.
“I’m fine. What’d you get from Stephens? Did he have anything on Vito? What about Gates?”
“I’m not worried about Stephens at the moment. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine minus the fact I keep fucking up every single time I turn around.”
He looked like he was about to say something, but before he got a chance, Darli knocked on the door and summoned him to the interrogation room. “Go home, get some sleep, get a change of clothes, and I’ll see you back here in the morning,” he ordered.
Begrudgingly, I agreed, even though the last thing I wanted was to be alone with my thoughts. The drive to my apartment was uneventful, and I stopped at a fast food place on the way. Might as well sublimate some of the guilt with fatty fries and greasy burgers, I reasoned. Unlocking my apartment, I did a quick check for signs of intruders, ate my dinner, and took a shower. I just changed into some sweats when my phone rang. Sullivan informed me the commissioner called, and we were working through the night on Stephens’ information.
Throwing on a different outfit, I packed my overnight bag with a couple of days’ worth of clothes, some basic toiletries, and makeup. It didn’t matter what Mark ordered because I wasn’t in the right mindset to be relegated to the solitude of my apartment just to drive myself crazier than I already was.
Thirty-one
“Coffees all around.” I entered the conference room with two full drink carriers worth of espresso-infused beverages. “Thought we could use a boost.” There was a round of thanks as everyone took a cup and went back to work. Sullivan handed me a list of names and dates which were all linked to police corruption cover-ups under Stephens’ reign. By the time I finished running names and compiling all the facts needed for each of the incidents, it was almost three a.m.
“Why are we doing this?” Webster whined from across the table. “I finished researching my list of names, and they’re all dead or long gone. Why does the DA’s office even care? Are they planning on serving warrants on people who haven’t even stepped foot inside the state for the last decade?”
“It’s just more busy work for us,” Darli responded bitterly. “It’s so they can call witnesses and have tons of evidence to use against Stephens in court.”
“Anyone find any connection to Antonio Vincenzo?” I asked the group. No one replied in the affirmative. “Then why is Stephens singing like a caged bird about everything else? He honestly can’t expect to get a plea-bargain with the useless shit he’s giving us.” Stopping, I had a feeling I knew what he was hoping to accomplish.
“His lawyer’s been present all night,” Sullivan said, easing away from the table. “Jablonsky and Cooper have been going at him, trying to determine how he originally got involved, who his partners were, how far back this goes, but he just keeps spouting out more incident reports with either dead, retired, or removed cops.”
Stephens figured the best way to stay breathing was to keep his mouth shut on things that really mattered. It was a good plan. Maybe he also surmised, by providing names and events so far in the past, the case would be dismissed either due to statute of limitation issues or just because it was too difficult to compile the evidence. As it was, the DA was hard-pressed to prosecute the head of a police precinct for fear all closed cases for the last decade might become suspect.
“I’m getting coffee. Anyone else?” No one took me up on the offer, probably believing they were just minutes away from being sent home to bed. Down the corridor, I measured the coffee and added water to brew a fresh pot. Mark was in the hallway, having a conversation with Agent Cooper when he spotted me standing near the interrogation room.
“You’re still here? I told you to go home hours ago.”
“Sullivan called. Are you still taking a stab at him?” I gestured at the closed door.
“DA’s
office wants him at the courthouse first thing in the morning for an arraignment. They want a head start before the media gets wind. Thank god, it’s Sunday, and no one will be the wiser when Monday morning rolls around,” he confided.
“You do realize everything he’s given us has been total bullshit, right?”
“Oh yeah. He had a private conference with his attorney and then started giving us dozens of names and dates. It’s an information overload, so anything important or injurious gets overlooked. It’s fucking brilliant.”
After pouring the coffee into my mug, I leaned against the wall. “How did some stupid dance clubs getting knocked over turn into a decade long mafia-orchestrated police corruption scandal?”
“Face it, Parker, you’re just that good,” Mark teased, eyeing me suspiciously again. “Did you talk to the shrink before they reinstated you?”
“Don’t start. I’m fine.”
“You’re just as full of shit as Stephens.” He looked annoyed. “This thing is coming to a close. We’re federal agents, not the local PD. Vito’s off your ass, and whatever’s going to happen to the ‘ol Cap is going to happen. Not much left for you to concern yourself with.”
“We still haven’t located Gates, and Vito might still be gunning for me. So don’t start planning my going away party this early.”
“Go tell everyone to call it a night and take Cooper up on his offer to sleep in his office. You’re ruining the fluffiness of my chair cushion.”
* * *
A few hours later or what some might consider the next morning, depending on perspective, I was hard at work in the conference room. No one had shown up yet, probably since it had only been four hours since they were sent home. Stephens just left HQ and was being escorted to the courthouse under armed guard. It looked like a parade with the number of agents and police involved in his departure.
Apparently, the light of day didn’t scare away the demons lurking in the shadows and instead reinforced the possibility that any of the dozens of people Stephens could rat on, Vito included, may think silencing him permanently would be a good idea. With the tranquility in the office, I was reading through the original reports related to the club heists, reviewing my notes on Ernie, and trying to figure out when it all went sideways.
Gates was the missing piece that connected one half of the puzzle to the other. He alone could explain the connection between police corruption and Vito’s crime syndicate. Someone, maybe Ernie, Mary, or Gretchen, narced on me to Vito, who in turn called his friends in uniform to solve the pest problem. Since Det. Carl Hoskins had been exploring a similar angle, they probably believed the easiest way to nip the problem in the bud was to kill me and pin the murder on Hoskins, thus solving the police corruption issue while keeping Vito’s name in the clear. That’s probably when Vito called Gates to do some wet work.
Given what a brain trust I was, evidence could have been planted implicating me as the burglar because of the knowledge I possessed and having enough law enforcement connections to conduct the heists unimpeded. After all, my own office was full of notes on how to break-in and commit the robberies. With twenty-twenty hindsight, choreographing ways to conduct the crimes was a bad idea. Maybe Hoskins and I would have gone down for all of it since a dead woman can’t talk, except I escaped Gates and to everyone’s surprise didn’t immediately surrender myself to the authorities.
Now, with the failed plan, Ernie was dead. Harrigan had been shot. Hoskins was whisked away in protective custody, maybe to never be heard from again, and I was sitting alone in the conference room from hell. Jen, Nick’s wife, had been threatened, Martin had been threatened, and Gates was still out there somewhere. How could Mark be so confident things were done?
My phone rang, and I jumped. Too much caffeine and not enough sleep made me edgy. Answering, I wasn’t surprised to discover Martin was calling with a follow-up to yesterday’s phone conversation.
“Since I initiated the call today, does that mean I actually get to say more than two words?”
“You just said more than two words.”
“Luc wants to know when you plan to analyze some security devices. You’ve failed to put anything on the books with him.”
“It’ll get done before deadline,” I hissed.
“Great,” he sounded passive-aggressive. “On a similar note, I was wondering when you were planning to see me. We haven’t put anything on the books either.”
“I’m busy.”
“Alex,” he said sharply, “I know you. You called last night because something was wrong. Something is wrong.” He must be psychic because, as soon as he said those three words, the office went abuzz in activity. The few agents in attendance were rushing around, and the television was turned on.
“I can’t talk about this right now. Pencil me in for Friday night, okay?” I disconnected before he could say another word.
On the screen, a live news feed was airing in regards to the murder of a police captain on the steps of the courthouse. As the news reporter droned on, I heard phone calls being made. No one else was injured, but a sniper killed Stephens. So much for testifying. Assistants and secretaries were calling in Darli, Webster, and Sullivan. I remained frozen, trying to figure out which way was up. I grabbed a hold of one of the assistants and learned Jablonsky was on his way back. At least he’d be here to fill me in.
While I waited for Mark and the other agents to return to HQ, I fielded calls from the boys in major crimes. Heathcliff’s suspension was over, and he just reported to work when the news broke over the wire. I gave him a summary of yesterday since Thompson and O’Connell were otherwise occupied and Moretti was at the courthouse with Stephens.
“Just stay there unless you hear something official. I have no idea what’s going on now. We’re federal agents. We don’t usually deal with local crimes, and protecting prisoners and witnesses is a job for the Marshal Service.” Biting my top lip, I felt like an outsider for the first time since being back in the OIO/FBI building.
“If you need something from us, let me know.” Heathcliff hung up as Mark exited the elevator, striding purposefully in my direction.
“ESU’s on scene. The locals are canvassing the area for witnesses. Moretti’s coordinating the investigation. We’re done,” Mark declared as I fell in step beside him, and he continued toward Director Kendall’s office. “The commissioner is cleaning up this mess. Stephens, dirty or not, was one of theirs.”
“Any idea who the shooter is?”
“Flip a coin.” He looked glum. “Maybe it was one of Vito’s guys or even Gates.”
“But there has to be something more for us to do,” I protested, grabbing his shoulder and halting his procession.
“What?” he bellowed. “The only reason we were asked to investigate this case was because of the police corruption. Last night, Stephens gave us every tidbit of information on the scandal he could muster, or at least that’s what we have to believe. The precinct’s been cleaned up. Our only solid connection is dead. Sure, Gates, or whatever the hell he’s calling himself, is still out there, but he’s not a cop. So it’s not our problem.”
“But–” I didn’t know when to step away.
“Back off, Parker. Unless the Director says otherwise, everyone else has said to back off. Cooper just got word from the governor. The police commissioner agreed. If we keep on this, more harm than good is going to be done. You already feel responsible for Papadakis’ death, so are you gonna take responsibility for every single crime that these lowlifes commit if solid cases start getting overturned because they could have been tainted?”
“No, sir.” This wasn’t an argument I was going to win, nor one I should be making. The problem was the guy who shot me and who shot Harrigan was still out there somewhere.
Thirty-two
Stephens’ murder was being investigated by the locals. Over the course of the next three days, the case was closed or relinquished, whatever the proper terminology was, and Director Kendall wasn�
��t going to intercede. This was out of our hands and beyond our jurisdictional line. It was over. With Stephens gone, the only thing connecting any of the police corruption to Antonio Vincenzo was unsubstantiated claims and hearsay supposition. Of course, I embodied the only living, breathing reminder that not all the loose ends had been cut.
The precinct was back in normal working order, and homicide was knee-deep in evidence and tracking leads. The sniper had been careful to take his shell casings with him. There was nary a hair or print to be found. He was good. My money was on a professional hitman or someone who had a lot of experience being a ghost, namely Gates.
“There’s nothing left for you to do here,” Cooper said as we boxed up the last of the files. “The bartender is being released from protective custody since there is no case.”
“Can you keep some guys on him for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side?” He analyzed me for a few minutes before acquiescing.
“Do you still want a team on Martin? And maybe one to cover you? I can give you through next week if you want.”
“Can I dismiss Martin’s team myself? My move from the hospital back to my apartment somehow resulted in his place turning into storage.”
“Sure, I’ll radio them to follow your instructions.”
“Good. And I’ll be fine. I have my own team, Smith and Wesson.”
“Parker, you need to get some sleep and lose the cheesy lines,” he snickered.
Signing the chain of custody form, I picked up the box and went to my car. For all the schlepping back and forth the major crimes boys had done, I thought it was the least I could do to deliver the files to them personally.
Back at the precinct, I received quite a few dirty looks. The loathing and disdain were at the surface for most of the officers I encountered, but luckily, the aggression was well hidden. Dropping the box on Lt. Moretti’s desk, I handed him the evidence form to sign. Everything was in triplicate, and I folded my copy to return to Cooper.