by G. K. Parks
I laughed and winced. Even though I felt better, I wasn’t back to one hundred percent. Maybe in another two or three days I’d be able to laugh and get out of chairs just like before. Damn, I really was turning into an old woman.
Thirty-seven
The next morning, O’Connell showed up at a rather ungodly hour. “Do you really have to knock so loudly?” I asked, opening the door.
“That’s the point of a knock, to be loud and get attention.”
“Martin’s asleep, so can you please just shh.” I went to the coffeepot and measured out the coffee and added water before turning on the machine. I flipped over two of the upside-down mugs. “Just give me a minute.” I went back to my room, found some clothes to change into, and hurried to make myself presentable. When I came out, O’Connell was sitting on the couch, drinking a cup of coffee.
“You should be a quick change artist,” he commented as I poured my own cup and joined him.
“What’s going on?” He didn’t come all this way for a lousy cup of coffee.
“How are you doing? Are you feeling any better?”
I took as deep a breath as I could, testing the waters. “Eh, getting there.” I looked at him suspiciously. “What do you want, Nick?” I asked, using his first name for the first time. It sounded strange.
“Forensics has been working on Martin’s house. We got the video footage off his home security feed and everything, but,” he paused, “I hate to ask.”
“What?” Either I was still half asleep, or I didn’t want this to be going where I thought it was going.
“If you’re up to it, can you take me through the house and give me a play-by-play? Who shot where, what weapons, all of it.”
“How badly do you need this?” I asked. “I thought you had two of the shooters in custody. Can’t they do it?”
He gave me an uncompromising look. Clearly, asking the bad guys, who were looking for a plea deal, to give a walkthrough would be a ridiculous notion. “It would make my life easier.”
I sighed. “Okay, fine.” We sat in silence, drinking our coffee for a few minutes. “Since I’m helping you out, you have to tell me something. Is this as simple as Denton, Griffin, Jackson, and some hired guns?”
“It looks that way. Denton’s financials are the real kicker. There are so many transfers in and out that it’s taking our guys a long time to track it all down. We don’t want to miss anything. That’s why we’re keeping the detail across the hallway, in case more than one team was hired to do the job.”
“You know what else I’d like, Detective?” I earned the right to be somewhat demanding this morning. “A piece.”
“Everything’s in evidence right now. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Worst case scenario, I’m still the last line of defense. What do you want me to do? Offer any would-be attacker some ghastly coffee?”
“I’ll see what I can arrange, but honestly, the coffee’s not half bad.”
I made O’Connell wait since I wasn’t willing to leave until Martin was awake and I got the chance to tell him what was going on. Since his surgery, I hadn’t been more than a few dozen feet away from him, and I was still paranoid. Also, I felt extremely guilty and grateful, and I couldn’t disappear without a word. O’Connell understood, and we spent the rest of the morning discussing the case.
The majority of my assumptions turned out to be pretty accurate. Denton was locked up without bail due to his monetary means and ample travel opportunities. All information relating to the shooting at Martin’s compound and his injuries had miraculously been kept secret. I was amazed there weren’t any leaks at the station house or hospital. This would be headline news if the press got wind of it.
When I heard the water running in Martin’s bathroom, I knew my departure time was fast approaching. I looked at O’Connell, hoping he had changed his mind. So much for wishful thinking. Once Martin was dressed, properly medicated, and bandaged, I told him what was going on. He didn’t seem particularly pleased by the prospect either, but he was lucky enough to be legitimately injured so he didn’t have to come along.
O’Connell drove to Martin’s compound, and we entered the house, ducking under the crime scene tape. We began in the living room and slowly made our way up the stairs, going from room to room and shadowing my actions from the day of the shooting. I moved methodically through the house. O’Connell took notes, and a ballistics guy followed us around, noting weapons and trajectories as friendly or unfriendly fire.
We were on the fourth floor, near the office or, more accurately, the room that once resembled Martin’s private office. The bloodstain from my second kill of the day left a discolored, damaged place on the wood floor, but it was nothing compared to the blood-soaked carpeting inside the office. My stomach twisted violently, and I covered my mouth and ran down the hallway to Martin’s bathroom, getting there just in time to throw-up repeatedly in the toilet. By the time O’Connell found me, I was dry heaving. He gently rubbed my back until my body gave up the fight to physically purge the memories from my system.
“I’ve got a pretty clear picture. We don’t need anything more. I’m sorry I brought you here,” he said quietly.
I made sure my stomach had settled before standing up and rinsing my mouth in the sink. My chest and ribs were on fire, and I wrapped my arms protectively around my body, hoping to ease the agony.
He drove back to the hotel and escorted me up to the presidential suite. I used the hotel key to get inside, and he followed me in.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, and I gave him a disgusted look.
“I’m fine,” I growled.
After brushing my teeth, I found my pill bottles and brought them to the kitchen. Martin, who had been in his room, came out to see what was going on.
“Get everything settled?” Martin asked.
“Yeah. Parker’s help will be instrumental in finalizing our reports,” O’Connell replied. My back was turned, but I could feel eyes staring as I headed for the mini-bar, looking for some ginger ale. “Can I get you anything?” He cut me off halfway to the mini-bar.
“Ginger ale.” I glared daggers at his back.
He pulled out the soda, opened it, and handed it to me. Reading the directions on my two pill bottles, I popped one of each and washed them down with the canned drink. I took a seat in the chair and leaned back, shutting my eyes and hoping to make everything disappear with the power of my mind. Martin remained on the couch, watching the entire exchange.
“Detective, if there’s nothing else.” Martin’s tone sounded off, perhaps even slightly threatening. I had heard that same tone the day he’d gotten the photos in his e-mail. At least I wasn’t on the receiving end of it this time.
“Okay,” O’Connell took the hint, “thanks for doing this, Ms. Parker.” He gave my shoulder a supportive squeeze. “If you need anything, call.” It wasn’t his fault. He was just doing his job, and now I felt guilty for my invidiousness.
“I’m fine. It’s just…difficult.” It took a moment to find the right word, but he understood, wished Martin a speedy recovery, and left.
“You look green.” Martin eyed the ginger ale suspiciously. He reached over with his left hand and picked up my pill bottles. “If you want some of the good stuff, feel free.” He jerked his head at the kitchen counter.
“I’m part Martian,” I replied, “and no, I don’t even like taking these.” I knew what his next question would be. “I got a little queasy at your house, and it didn’t agree with the ribs.”
He picked up the phone and ordered toast, soup, and more ginger ale. “What?” He smirked. “I suddenly had this insane desire for chicken soup and toast points.”
We ate our lunch, and I changed the dressing on his wound and brought him his pills. He was lying on the couch, dozing, so I grabbed a pillow from my room and sat in the chair. The next thing I knew, the room was dark, except for the flickering light from the television. Cautiously, I stretched and got out of
the chair, just to make sure I could. It was almost eight o’clock. I looked at Martin to make sure he was still breathing, which he was. Paranoid much, I thought as I sat back down, not wanting to wake him. Curling up on my side, I watched him sleep until I could no longer hold my eyes open.
When I finally opened my eyes again, the room was brightly lit, and he was flipping through the morning news channels. For a moment, I thought this last week had been a bad dream, and I was still at the compound. But I saw the sling on his arm and realized my nightmare was our reality. Carefully, I sat up. My neck was stiff, but my ribs didn’t protest as much. Maybe all I needed was some sleep.
“No narcolepsy jokes today?” I asked, yawning. Maybe I was high, but he even looked better. More color was in his face, and his green eyes seemed brighter than they had been in days.
“It didn’t seem fair since I started the trend yesterday.”
“You probably caught it from me.”
We went about our new daily routine, except he was much more awake and active than he had been since the surgery. He still napped, but he was getting antsy. He read the paper and caught up on the business world. He even suggested a game of strip poker, but I declined on account of my now greenish-brown torso and his inability to take off his own shirt.
O’Connell called and said the report was finalized, and Martin could start the process of repairing his residence sometime next week. Life was getting back on track. The forensic accountant was almost finished tracing Denton’s transactions, and hopefully, in a few more days, our need for the boys in blue would be nonexistent.
I went to sleep in my bedroom that night feeling as if matters were resolved. Unfortunately, my subconscious didn’t share my positive sentiments. I was back in Martin’s office. The mercenary stood above me, and Martin was to my right, unconscious and bleeding. The gun was poised, and the man’s trigger finger twitched. As I was looking at his face, the mercenary morphed into Blake Denton, and he fired.
“No!” I cried, jolting upright and gasping for breath.
Two men burst into the room, handguns raised. I screamed and reached for my own gun, which wasn’t next to me. My lungs weren’t getting enough air. I was hyperventilating. One hand wrapped around my battered ribcage, and the other clutched the side of the mattress. This was how I was going to die.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Martin’s voice mixed with my terrified confusion. I spun my head to the right. He wasn’t lying on the ground, and I wasn’t in his office. Where was I? The men lowered their guns. “She was dreaming. Leave before you give her a heart attack.” His words didn’t make sense, but I heard mumbled apologies as the armed men retreated from the bedroom.
Martin appeared in the doorway, but I couldn’t speak. I was still struggling to catch my breath, and my heart pounded so forcefully my entire body moved with every beat.
“Alex,” he said softly, probably afraid to spook me further, “it was just a dream. You were having a nightmare.”
I swallowed but couldn’t find my voice. I was still fighting to regain control of my breathing. I was fairly certain I was in the midst of a panic attack. Without a word, he climbed into my bed and wrapped his left arm around me, pulling me gently against his side.
“You’re okay. Just breathe. Slow, deep breaths,” he instructed.
I wrapped both of my arms around his waist and buried my head in the crook of his neck, trying to slow my gasps to match the steady rise and fall of his chest. He tried to move his right arm but realized it was still immobilized and cursed quietly.
Once my heart rate slowed and I managed to catch my breath, he carefully leaned back, bringing me with him, so we were lying against the pillows. “I thought they were here to kill me,” I squeaked, feeling the need to explain my hysterics, but he shushed me.
“No one is going to kill you. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. The cops are outside, where they will stay if they know what’s good for them.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized again, but he cut me off.
“Try to get some sleep.” He kissed my forehead. “It’s late.”
I shut my eyes and snuggled against him. I couldn’t argue, not tonight, not when I needed to know he was safe and I wasn’t alone.
Thirty-eight
The next morning, I woke up to find Martin holding me securely against his chest. Embarrassment flooded over me as I saw things in a much more rational light. It had all been a nightmare, likely brought about by my recent trip through Martin’s decimated residence. The armed men, who I thought wanted to kill me, had been the protection detail responding to my screams.
“Oh god,” I muttered, rolling onto my back and covering my face in my hands. This did not need to be happening.
“You know, it’s a lot more common to hear those words screamed out in ecstasy when I’m in bed with a woman. Not to mention, there is always a lot less clothing involved.” He rolled onto his side to face me.
“Oh my god,” I repeated. My face flushed, and I was certain I was bright red.
“It’s still missing a certain oomph,” he teased, “but we can work on it another time, when I can use both of my arms.”
“Shut up.” I slowly pulled my hands away from my face. “I am so sorry about last night. I just. I don’t. I…” Words were not cooperating. I climbed out of bed, trying to distance myself and regain some semblance of professionalism.
“Hey. Calm down.” He tried soothing since joking had clearly led to my currently frenzied state. “You had a nightmare. It’s not a big deal.” He gauged my reaction as I hastily flipped through the clothes hanging in my closet, just for something to do. “Plus, now we know the protection detail is actually doing more than watching football and eating pizza.”
“Oh god,” I repeated again. I’d have to apologize to them for the commotion last night too.
Martin laughed. At least someone found this whole thing amusing. “I’ll leave you alone now.” He unsuccessfully tried to hide his laughter as he got out of bed.
Once he was gone, I slumped onto the bed. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit,” I muttered. Get a grip, Parker. Nothing horrible happened, and given the nightmare, waking up in his arms completely embarrassed was definitely preferable to my subconscious alternative. Perhaps I was overreacting. It wasn’t like we slept together.
Selecting the most dignified outfit I could find, I spent as much time in the bathroom as possible, showering and dressing, just to avoid the situation a little longer. When I emerged perfectly coifed and looking the part of security consultant, he raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Job interview?” He gestured to an empty seat at the table. He had ordered breakfast and was already halfway through his.
“No,” I replied cautiously, “just hoping to keep the one I currently have.”
He shrugged away my comment with a wave of his fork. “I wouldn’t worry about it. The guy you’re working for isn’t too unreasonable.” He referred to himself in the third person. “It makes him feel better to know he’s not the only human in the room.” He dropped the joking. “Are you handling this okay?” he asked sincerely.
“Nightmares come with the territory, but usually, I’m in the privacy of my own home.”
He looked thoughtful. “I’m glad you weren’t this time.”
I didn’t know what to make of the comment, so I chose to ignore it and dove into my breakfast. Before I even made a sizable dent, there was a knock at the door. I checked the peephole. It was Thompson and O’Connell.
“Just in time for breakfast,” I said, opening the door and gesturing them inside.
Thompson glanced at his watch. “It’s almost lunchtime.”
“No breakfast for you then.” I went back to the table, and O’Connell helped himself to a cup of coffee. As I resumed eating, the two detectives sat down.
“What brings you here this fine morning, or should I say afternoon?” Martin asked. Despite his last conversation with O’Connell, he was trying to be f
riendlier.
“Was everything okay here last night?” O’Connell asked. “We got a call about a disturbance, which was promptly followed by another call saying it was a false alarm.” My cheeks heated up, and I ducked my head, staring intently at my plate as I continued eating.
“Just peachy.” Martin’s friendly tone turned venomous. “I’d prefer if, in the future, you didn’t traumatize my security.”
I sighed and put my fork down.
“Are you okay, Parker?” O’Connell asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I interjected. I didn’t need Martin fighting for me, especially when I had willingly agreed to go back to the house.
“It paid off though,” Thompson remarked, defusing the tension. “The information you provided was enough to encourage the two paramilitary types to concede on a few of the finer details. Needless to say, if you shake the tree hard enough, you might get more than a couple of coconuts.”
Intrigued, I alternated my glances from Thompson to O’Connell, waiting for one of them to elaborate.
“This is strictly need to know. We can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, which I’m sure you’re both well aware of,” O’Connell provided his disclaimer. “So I can’t tell you these freelance mercenaries were hired, not only for the hit at Martin’s, but also for the kidnapping, bombing, and subsequently, the not so accidental murder of Denton’s ex-girlfriend.” Martin looked shocked while I searched my memory for the missing puzzle pieces.
“Jill?” I asked, dumbfounded by the revelation.
“Jillian Monroe, the bombing casualty,” Thompson chimed in. “Obviously, not so casual. We ran a background on her. She used to strip under a different name, so we did some digging and found the connection between the two. Apparently, Denton had been a frequent visitor to the club where she worked. We ran with some photo IDs and verified she was Denton’s one and only. Her phone records indicated she received a text message from a burner cell earlier that morning asking her to meet Denton out front. Financials and corroborating testimony from our favorite paramilitary mercenary group and—”