by G. K. Parks
“Paranoid much, Robert?” I glared daggers at him. “Tommy gave me the heads up on tonight’s assignment. We cased the car earlier, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to borrow a car than it is to steal one, which I can claim by lifting the keys. Maybe I just have sticky fingers, or I got into the wrong car by mistake. Plus, if I were stopped, joyriding doesn’t carry the years of prison time that GTA does.” Gregson smiled, and the steel barrel no longer pressed against my neck. “Frankly, proving myself to you isn’t worth my freedom.”
Gregson glanced around the area, waiting for something or someone. After a minute passed, he nodded again. The headlights switched off, and Tommy circled around. The gun was at his side.
“We had to make sure you weren’t a cop,” Tommy said, looking remorseful. “If you were, your back-up would have intervened by now.” Remaining in character, I slapped him.
“Don’t you ever fucking touch me again.” I snarled. “We’re done.” I spun toward Gregson. “I don’t need this shit.” I threw the keys at him. “Keep the car and the cut. I want nothing to do with sadists like you.”
“Babe,” Tommy protested, grabbing my elbow, which I jerked out of his grasp, “c’mon, don’tcha wanna meet the boss?”
“I don’t care.” Petulant was something I did well. “What were you going to do? Shoot me?” He reached for me again, and I batted his hand away. “Don’t touch me.” It was a fine line to walk, reacting as if all of this no longer mattered and wanting nothing to do with any of the drama while at the same time needing to get deeper and uncover more. An oversell was just as detrimental as an undersell.
From across the street, a man cleared his throat, and Robert shot Tommy a look. “If she wants to go, let her. We’ll find someone else.”
Tommy’s eyes pleaded that I reconsider, and audibly sighing and crossing my arms over my chest, I gave in. “Fine.”
“This is Reggie,” Gregson announced, indicating the man from last night. “He’s our benefactor.”
Reggie crossed the street and circled Martin’s car, scanning it for RF signals. “Very impressive. It’s a brand new model. Hell, we’ll make more selling the entire unit than breaking it down for parts.” His eyes met mine. “Young lady, you have a great eye.” At least Martin did. “Let’s get off the street and talk about this somewhere more secure.” Tommy headed for Gregson’s SUV, but I hedged, not certain how to play this off. “Why don’t you come with me?” Reggie offered.
“What about the car?” Why weren’t they concerned about moving it out of sight?
“Hoyt,” Reggie bellowed, and a man stepped out of the shadows, “take her to the garage.”
“Right away, sir,” Hoyt responded, and I caught the faintest of Irish accents.
There was something familiar about Hoyt, but I couldn’t place him. I only caught a glimpse of his silhouette in the dark alley. Maybe he’d been arrested or was a suspect on another case I worked. Trying to recall names, it didn’t ring any bells, and hopefully, I was mistaken. At this point, I couldn’t afford for my cover to be blown.
As Hoyt recovered the keys from the ground and unlocked Martin’s car, Reggie went back to the vehicle that minutes earlier had blinded me. “You coming?” he asked.
“Looks like it,” I replied, opening the passenger’s side door, and before it even shut, he hit the gas pedal.
Ten minutes later, we were at Gregson’s repair garage. Martin’s car was brought inside, and Hoyt and Gregson were shutting the garage doors. Obviously, they didn’t want to draw any undue attention to the bright blue sports car, and in this neighborhood, it would stick out like a sore thumb.
“What’s your name?” Reggie asked.
“Alexandra Riley.”
Narrowing my eyes, I hoped to get a first and last name for Reggie, but instead, he performed a quick search on his phone, finding my falsified background. He read through the people search, but my cover had no arrest record and nothing indicating who I was or what I could do. Riley was a blank slate. Thankfully, it was an old alias that the OIO established years ago when I was still getting a government paycheck.
“Doesn’t look like you’ve ever been on anyone’s radar,” he responded, sounding perplexed.
“I’m a good girl. I keep my nose clean.” He barely paid attention to my comment, tapping away at the screen. “Will I end up on America’s Most Wanted because of who you are, Reggie?”
He looked up and smiled like the cat that swallowed the canary but didn’t respond. At least in this light I had a decent chance of figuring out if he had a record. He was approximately 5’10, average build, late thirties, brown eyes, brown hair, and a tattoo of a pair of dice on his left wrist. How many criminals could that possibly describe?
“Alex,” Tommy called, trying to get my attention, and I threw an angry glare at him.
“Don’t,” I growled.
Gregson returned from locking the garage door, but Hoyt lingered in the shadows. Reggie shifted his gaze to the three of us, not looking particularly pleased with his options. Shutting his phone, he leaned against the hood of the car.
“Looks like you’re all capable of finishing this job,” Reggie stated. “Another three cars and I’m moving on. Like I told Robert, when this is over, you’ll get a cut of the profit. It’s nearly half a million for the entire job. Although you’ve already fulfilled most of the orders on my wish list,” he said, focusing on Gregson, “I need a coordinated team to nab the last few vehicles.” His eyes bore into me. “Ms. Riley, can you work with Mr. Claxton without further incident?”
Sighing audibly, I kicked the toe of my shoe into the ground. “I guess.” Obviously, my anger toward Tommy was incredibly convincing. It probably helped that I couldn’t stand him, and by pointing the gun at the back of my head, he thoroughly pissed me off.
“Don’t guess,” he chastised. “Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” His face erupted in a bright smile. “There are three vehicles being delivered to a dealership at the end of the week. Claxton, Hoyt, and Riley will retrieve them. Gregson and I will ensure they are untraceable and cleaned for transport. Your cuts will be left in private overseas accounts. The account information will be provided at the conclusion of our business transaction. After this, there will be no further contact.”
He had it down to a T, and I knew he had done this before. He was a professional. My guess was it was one city, then another, and another. He was a thief who couldn’t stop. It was an addiction for men like him. One score that became just one more score. There were only two ways they ever stopped, incarceration or incapacitation.
“How about some details?” Gregson asked.
“You’ll get them the day of and not before,” Reggie responded. “This isn’t my first rodeo, and while you all seem so trustworthy and genuine,” I noted the sarcasm, “that’s one risk I won’t take.”
He left, and Hoyt followed him out. Was Hoyt his personal bodyguard, or would he be dismissed at the conclusion of business too? The way they traveled together, it was obvious they had a strong familiarity with one another. How long was this auto theft ring in operation? Watching as they exited the side door, even Hoyt’s walk looked familiar, and it was making me crazy. As it was, my guard was already up, and I didn’t know if I could handle any additional surprises.
“You heard the man, nothing ‘til Friday,” Gregson said, dismissing us. “Stay out of trouble until then and keep your phones on in case of anything.” He focused on me. “In the event some idiot from the valet stand remembers you, don’t come crying to me. You made your own bed.”
“Whatever.” I marched to the door, hoping to get a better look at Hoyt, but he was long gone. Before I made it across the street, Tommy caught up.
“Alex, wait. Oh for fuck’s sake, quit being such a bitch.”
“Fuck you, Tommy,” I screamed. If the cops wanted to roll in on account of disorderly conduct, I wasn’t opposed. “You were two minutes away from blowing my brains
out, and you expect me to talk to you. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“I wouldn’t have,” he insisted.
“Bullshit,” I retorted. “If Robert told you to, you would. It’s that simple. And I don’t want someone in my life that I don’t trust, so stay away from me.” Keeping up this pointless argument was the only thing keeping Tommy off of me. If I accepted his apology, there would be other expectations that I had no desire to fulfill. “I’ll work with you Friday, and that’s it. If you’re looking to get laid, go find some whore at Franco’s.”
Muttering expletives and derogatory comments, he stalked down the street to his car, slammed the door, and sped away. Thank goodness that was over. Unfortunately, my rental was parked twenty blocks away, across the street from the hotel, and I was almost positive I’d never find a cab in this neighborhood. On the bright side, my nine millimeter was great company.
I passed some streetwalkers and the occasional drug dealer who offered to improve my mood. Despite the fact that I could have used a pick-me-up, I had no interest in what they were hocking. My mood would improve once this case was over and I figured out who Hoyt was and why he seemed so familiar.
After being catcalled and spooked more times than I’d ever admit, I made it to my car. Instead of going home, I went to the precinct. With it being this early in the morning, there was a decent chance I could get access to police records without too much hassle. Maybe I’d flip through the mug books and see if I could identify Reggie. There were three detectives in major crimes that I had worked many cases with, O’Connell, Thompson, and Heathcliff, and if one of them was assigned the graveyard shift, I could call in some favors, especially after promising to turn over evidence on an active auto theft ring.
“Holy crap,” Detective Nick O’Connell commented from his desk, glancing behind me, “where’s the arresting officer? I’d love to shake the hand of the person who finally got you off the street.” I glared at him. “Let me guess, solicitation?” He shook his head and made a tsk sound. “I know money’s tight for private investigators, but if Martin wouldn’t give you a loan, y’know Jen and I would have scraped something together to keep you from selling your body.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I took a seat at his partner’s desk. “I was hoping to proposition you, Detective.”
“Now what do you want?”
“Maybe I should take my clothes off first. Or is that what happens after we come to an arrangement?” I shrugged, hiding my devilish grin. All’s fair in love and war or when dealing with my police brethren, and Nick opened that can of worms by suggesting I looked like a hooker. It was fun watching him squirm with my harmless joking.
“There really isn’t a right answer to that question.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m just going to remind you I’m married, and you’re in a committed relationship and completely insane.”
“True.” I smiled. “I was wondering if you could run a search on some guy who goes by Reggie. He has a tattoo of some dice on his left wrist.” I described him while Nick typed some things into the computer. He hit enter and leaned back. “Anything?” I asked.
“Nada.” He spun the monitor so I could see the blank search results. “Do you want to go through the mug books?”
“Yes.”
After disappearing into the records room, he returned with half a dozen thick binders and dropped them on his partner’s desk. I flipped pages while he worked, or maybe he was playing solitaire. Whatever he was doing involved an astronomical amount of mouse clicking.
“Do you want to tell me what you’re working on or who this guy is?” he asked, clicking away. “Y’know, I’m a detective, so I will figure it out eventually.”
“I plead the fifth,” I replied, and he narrowed his eyes. “Did burglary get a tip the other night about a stolen ’67 Mustang?” He cocked an eyebrow up and stopped clicking the mouse. “Just wondered.” I went back to scanning the photographs.
He typed something into the computer and leaned back, picking up his pen and tapping it against the desk. “Is there a reason one of the perps fits your description?”
“No, she doesn’t.” I didn’t look up. “And I didn’t think you called them perps. Isn’t that just artistic licensing by TV writers?” He knew I was trying to derail his questioning and glared. “Do I look like a perp to you?”
“At the moment, a little bit.” He waited for an explanation, and after I couldn’t locate Reggie in the first binder, I met his eyes. “Well?”
“There’ve been some complaints about stolen vehicles within the last month. It seems the police aren’t handling the situation to everyone’s satisfaction. A dozen or so vehicles have gone missing that I know about, and all of the owners are customers of Auto Protection Services which installs security systems with the latest technology, meaning radio frequency transmitters that anyone can hack with the right program. Needless to say, APS wants the culprits caught before they get a bad reputation. So they hired someone who actually knows what she’s doing and isn’t limited by the city’s finite resources. Ultimately, they want the thieves identified, but if any of the vehicles can be recovered, that’s even better.”
“Uh-huh.” He wasn’t convinced that was the entire story. “So you’re dressed like a cross between a cat burglar and hooker in order to lurk in the shadows, waiting for the thieves to show up?”
“Not exactly.”
“Will the exactly require handcuffs and reminding you of your rights?”
“I’d hate to make you go through all that trouble.” He wouldn’t arrest me for conjecture. We’d had our tiffs in the past, but we were good now. Plus, Nick wasn’t one to harbor ill will. “Friday, I’ll present you with a case on a silver platter.”
“Joy.” He didn’t sound particularly pleased by this prospect, but he had been up all night. Perhaps he was just tired.
Four
A few minutes later, Nick was called to assist on a double homicide, which I took as my cue to leave. It was six a.m., and I detoured to my office, checked for messages, ran Reggie through all the criminal databases, and stopped at the rental car agency to return my vehicle. I didn’t need it anymore since my interaction with Tommy was over, and Alexandra Riley didn’t want anyone to trace her rental car back to Alexis Parker. I shook my head; sometimes, I was certain too many undercover assignments would lead to multiple personality disorder. Finally, I called a cab and went home.
As I tried to fall asleep, I ran through every case I’d worked at the Office of International Operations while serving as a federal agent and everything I had done as part of the private sector since, but there were no Hoyts in my past. Assuming Hoyt might be a nickname or false identity, I focused on the man’s build and voice, but he only spoke a few words. And in the shadows, he fit almost anyone’s description. Who was he? And why did he seem so familiar? The puzzle did nothing to squelch my occasional insomnia, and by the time I fell asleep, it was mid-afternoon. My dreams were a scattered haze of past cases and experiences that I tried very hard to forget.
When I woke up, it was nighttime. I made dinner and settled in front of the computer. I ran Reggie through Interpol’s criminal database, glad to still have access thanks to my former connections. The search was slow since thousands of different files were being accessed. Minimizing the window, I did some digging on Hoyt, but I lacked enough information to conduct a decent internet people search. Out of ideas, I left the Interpol search running and phoned Jeremy Islind’s private number.
“Ms. Parker, how is your investigation going?” he asked.
“I’m getting closer. From the intel I’ve gathered, three cars are being delivered to a dealership on Friday night, but they won’t arrive. Once I get the details, I’ll call the authorities. With any luck, they’ll catch the thieves in the act.”
“Very good. I’ve spoken to our legal counsel who has instilled upon the district attorney’s office our desire to find justice for our clients. As l
ong as we cooperate with whatever they decide to pursue, no criminal charges will be filed against you.”
“Do the cops know this?”
“They will when the time comes. Right now, your case isn’t solid,” he replied, and I understood the unspoken implications. If I couldn’t point the finger at the actual guilty parties, then the DA could pin all of this on me.
“It will be.” I filled him in on the use of James Martin’s personal vehicle as part of the venture, and Islind guaranteed as soon as the proper paperwork was filed he’d get the ball rolling on issuing a reimbursement check. “Thanks. Let me know if anyone else loses a car between now and Friday. Until then, I’m maintaining a low profile.”
“Good luck, Ms. Parker.”
“Thanks, but I hope I won’t need it.”
After hanging up, I dialed Martin, but he was in the middle of an international conference call, according to the assistant who answered his cell phone. God forbid he actually used his voicemail for its intended purpose. Without leaving my name, I told her to remind him to check his home phone for details concerning his car and hung up. How many other people could he have possibly lent a car to in the last few days? After leaving all the relevant information regarding filing the paperwork for reimbursement on his answering machine, I left a few wildly inappropriate suggestions about what we should do the next time we were together and hung up.
As predicted, Martin called a few hours later, proving Pavlov’s theory, even though I didn’t conduct my experiment using doorbells and meaty treats. Voicemail messages promising sexual favors worked just as well for the male half of the species. After making sure he had all the proper documentation necessary and telling him I would leave his car registration information on my countertop for Marcal to retrieve whenever he delivered my car, our conversation devolved into phone sex after which we made plans for a repeat performance on Saturday without the phone.