by G. K. Parks
“Parker, back off.”
“I can’t.” The emotion in my voice was evident, and I knew the nearby detectives were now eavesdropping. They were all a bunch of gossipy washwomen. “I just can’t. The last time I left an investigation involving an international criminal, things didn’t turn out so well.” I lowered my voice to something barely above a whisper. “The fact is, right now, the only way I’m keeping it together is by working. So unless you have a friend who needs someone to tail his cheating wife, I need access to this case.”
“Alexis,” his tone softened because when I quit my job at the OIO, he had seen firsthand how quickly I could spiral to rock bottom if I didn’t have a focus, “you don’t play fair.”
“Funny. You taught me that trick.”
“First of all, I don’t like it. Second, I know I can’t stop you. Meet me at my office in an hour, and we’ll talk then.” He hung up.
“Yo, Nick,” I called. He was standing near a filing cabinet, pathetically pretending he didn’t hear everything I just said. “Jablonsky’s willing to pass along some information. After I get an update, I’ll give you a ring.” He nodded, and I vacated his chair, heading for the door.
* * *
Riding in the elevator to the OIO floor, my mind immediately ran through the pros and cons of leaving this job behind. There was a time when my entire life was nothing but the job. Maybe if things hadn’t turned out the way they did, it still would be. No matter how much I insisted I was doing what I wanted, I missed it. Ached for it. And fought back the desire to concede that this was where I belonged. Shaking off the melancholia that wormed its way into my soul, I exited when the doors opened and strode to Mark’s office. I knocked and then opened the door without waiting for permission.
“What do you have for me?” I asked, sitting down.
He slid a folder across the desk but didn’t say a word. As I began reading, he left the office, shutting me inside. Maybe unfriendly was catching. The preliminary report didn’t provide any new information. As I began flipping through the pages, looking for something new, interesting, or damning, Mark returned with Patrick Farrell and Ryan Donough.
“Ms. Parker,” Farrell greeted, and I spun in my chair to see what all the fuss was about, “nice to see you again. You look well.”
“Thanks, you too.” I glanced at Ryan who looked completely uncomfortable before settling my gaze on Mark.
“Inspector Donough believes he made an incorrect assessment,” Mark began, agitated. “Our evidence against Barlow is circumstantial at best.” He reclaimed his chair, forcing the other two men to remain standing awkwardly in the tiny, cramped office. “The two men that the police department have in custody are taking the blame for the recent number of car thefts, and the two subsequent murders have no direct connection to either of our thieves. At least none that we’ve found, yet.”
“Interpol would like to further this investigation,” Farrell interjected, coming to stand at an angle where I could see him and Mark without swiveling back and forth. Ryan lingered closer but remained behind me, out of sight. “After discussing the matter at length with the ICC, they’ve turned the case over to us, and since Donough was originally assigned to an Interpol joint task force, he will remain here.”
I narrowed my eyes at Mark. Who the hell cares who’s working the case? All that matters is making progress and following up on leads.
“Donough’s brought it to our attention that a Ms. Riley,” Mark added, glowering for using a cover identity that I had been assigned half a decade ago while working for the OIO, “might be instrumental in assisting him.” Ryan touched my shoulder, and Mark’s eyes diverted to the physical connection. “Gentlemen, give us a minute.” Just as quickly, Ryan’s hand disappeared, and he and Farrell were out the door.
“So now you’ve changed your mind about letting me consult?” I muttered under my breath.
“I haven’t changed my goddamn mind, Parker.” His eyes smoldered. “This is coming from above my pay grade because if I had my way, you wouldn’t even be in the same time zone right now.”
“What the hell is your problem, Jablonsky?” This was far beyond the scope of overprotective. “You trained me. You know I have what it takes to get things done.”
“This is a dangerous assignment.” He fought to keep his anger in check. “This isn’t some insignificant local crime. We’re talking international contract killer with a penchant for inflicting pain and unnecessarily torturing his victims, and your head isn’t in the game. You’re emotional and raw. Every second you spend in Donough’s presence makes it worse. I see it. The way your posture shifts. The way you react to his touch. The person who thinks it’s a good idea to send you back to the car thieves is a fucking imbecile. Your shit’s all over the place. When’s the last time you even slept through the night?”
“Don’t you dare,” I hissed. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to walk away. Say ‘screw this, it’s not my problem’ and walk away.” He looked desperate.
“I can’t do that.” Walking away was unfathomable.
“Please, Alex.” He leaned forward, defeated. “I’ve lost a number of good people in the past. I have no desire to add any more names to that list, especially yours.” He chewed on his thumbnail. “This requires a hundred and ten percent, and you’re not there. Not even close. You’re not bulletproof.”
“Clearly, since I have scars to prove that.” I smirked, trying to lighten the morbidity, but he wouldn’t budge. “Thankfully, my eighty percent is equivalent to everyone else’s hundred and ten percent. I’ll be fine. Promise.” I stared until he willingly met my eyes. “The first time I sat in this chair, you offered to be my emergency contact and made me swear I would never need an emergency contact.” I smiled at the recollection. “Don’t worry, sir. I won’t need an emergency contact.”
“How about a psychological evaluation?”
“I’m batshit crazy. No reason to waste an expert’s time on reaching the same conclusion.” I winked. “Now, would you like to tell me who gets the thank you note for letting me on this case?”
“Director Kendall approved you as a valuable asset after some insistence from some of the higher-ups in Interpol who seem to hold the misguided belief you’re a capable investigator.” He rolled his eyes, grumbled to himself, and went into the hallway to drag Farrell and Donough back inside for a proper briefing. One way or another, I never strayed too far from my roots.
“Parker, are you ready to get to work?” Farrell asked from the doorway. “You have a lot to catch up on before we throw you to the wolves.” Mark let out an agitated exhale.
“Let’s get started.” I nodded curtly to Farrell, and Donough led the way down the hall. “I can handle it, Jablonsky,” I whispered. He didn’t believe it, or he was afraid of the consequences if I was wrong. Luckily, I was confident I wasn’t.
In Farrell’s office were dozens of printouts, international reports, and a world map with various marks and notations. He rolled a chair from an adjacent office into the room and indicated that I should take a seat. Once the three of us were situated, he passed a thick dossier across the desk.
Before I could pick it up, Ryan put his hand on top of the folder. “Alex,” he spoke softly, “are you sure this is what you want? I’m not dragging you into another one of my investigations if you don’t want to be here.”
“Too late.” I scooted the folder out from under his grasp and looked expectantly at Farrell.
“Welcome to the team, Ms. Parker,” Farrell began. “As you can see, we have extensive amounts of research, photos, and evidence pointing to an individual dubbed the Camel, but we’re still narrowing our leads.” I quickly flipped through the photos, witnessing the graphic nature of the murdered victims. Human soup, just like O’Connell described it. How anyone could be this sick and twisted was revolting. It was pure evil and completely sadistic. “Originally, we thought Reginald Barlow was our contract killer, but as I’m sure y
ou’re aware, there is no solid proof of this.”
“Hang on.” I held up a hand before he could get any further in his explanation. “What was the original impetus that led to Barlow?”
“We tracked passport stamps and travel itineraries throughout the EU in regions where bodies had turned up.”
“How were TODs established? The medical examiner is having difficulty pinpointing time of death since the remains are so badly,” I struggled to come up with an appropriate term, “damaged.”
“They used rough estimates,” Ryan replied. “Death was narrowed to within a week based upon when the bodies were discovered and when they were reported missing.”
“How do we know this is murder for hire and not some indiscriminate psychopath?” I asked.
“I was getting to that,” Farrell responded. “Maybe it would be best if I start at the beginning.” I nodded appreciatively, and he shifted into a more comfortable position in his chair. “Victim one was found a year ago inside a storage unit in Frankfurt, Germany. It took investigators almost two months to identify the remains. After running extensive searches, by some strange happenstance, they discovered an online message board containing a conversation between two individuals. Despite the fact that the majority of the conversation was deleted, they recovered most of the correspondence and discovered the victim’s spouse was searching for a hitman.”
My eyes brightened. “Then we must have some actual leads, right?”
“You would think,” Ryan snorted, disgusted. “The spouse was brought in, questioned extensively, and that led to a wire transfer. No matter how many experts examined the account, they all reached the same conclusion. It’s untraceable. The money went in and out so quickly it turned out to be another dead end.” He sighed. “We don’t even know how long the account was established prior to payment, but it was closed for almost three months by the time we found it.”
“The remains of a second victim were found before the first victim’s spouse was even in custody. Who knows how many hits he’s performed that we don’t even know about,” Farrell continued. “Every time any law enforcement agency got close, or thought they were close, the Camel was already four steps ahead.”
“It took five months before the ICC became involved. By then, there were seven victims,” Ryan declared. “Victims eight and nine were Parisians, and that’s when I became involved.”
“The ICC and Interpol searched for matching travel itineraries to the locations and estimated TODs, and the list was narrowed to a few dozen individuals. After closely monitoring their financial records, establishing surveillance, and installing listening devices, the list dwindled,” Farrell insisted. “When Inspector Donough was sent to infiltrate and monitor Reginald Barlow’s car business, we were almost certain he was the Camel or in direct contact with the Camel.”
Ryan cursed and rubbed his face. “It was a bloody miracle we even made it to that point,” he exhaled, angry for not having apprehended the sick bastard yet, “and we were wrong.”
“But guys,” they were forgetting the most important piece of information, “we’ve identified two local victims. You’re here because Barlow’s here, but so is the Camel. Clearly, he’s operating in this city, so you can’t be wrong.”
“But it’s not Barlow,” Ryan argued. “I’ve been with him constantly. He didn’t have time to abduct his mark and do this.” He pointed to the photos in the folder.
“What about the rest of Barlow’s team?” I asked. “Did he bring anyone else along for the ride?”
“He goes through people so quickly,” Ryan shook his head, “it isn’t likely. There’ve only been a couple of constants, and even they haven’t been that constant. None of this makes a damn bit of sense. We’ve run everything, looked into every one of them, and nothing. It’s a fucking coincidence because it bloody well can’t be anything other than that.” He stood, shoving the chair out of the way and stomping out of the office.
“Donough blames himself for the Interpol agent that was killed,” Farrell said quietly. “For him, this has become personal. I understand the point you’re making, Ms. Parker, but we’ve gone over it a hundred times and,” he shook his head, “none of it is panning out. It doesn’t make sense that these solid leads aren’t solid, but I don’t know how else to explain it other than coincidence.”
“You’re missing something. You have to be missing something. Give me the file, and I’ll talk to Ryan. He can help me play catch-up. I know this is Interpol’s case, international murder for hire shit, but I need to run some things by the local cops. Right now, two men are in custody at the precinct on a dozen counts of GTA, and they might be the only two people who can possibly provide some kind of insight into whatever piece of information we’re overlooking. If you want to end this, you’ll need local help in addition to your,” I gestured to the map and folder, “foreign surveillance.”
“Parker,” Farrell exhaled, “the only reason you’re assisting is because Donough wants to go back undercover with whatever’s left of Barlow’s gang, and since you have a pre-existing cover established as a car thief, he thought you might be able to excise some additional information due to your dealings with Robert Gregson. This doesn’t mean you’re investigating or that we expect you to go above and beyond to solve this case. You’re simply assisting Donough.” I stared, shocked by his words. “Jablonsky has given me constant reminders that you are not an agent, and no one expects you to act like one.”
“I won’t walk into a situation blind. I’ve done it before, and I almost didn’t walk away. So either you give me everything so I can make informed decisions before risking my neck, or I walk out that door and you risk letting this sick piece of shit continue to kill indiscriminately.”
He nudged the folder forward, providing the only answer I would accept. “Watch your back.”
“I always do,” I said, getting up and finding Donough standing behind me. I didn’t know how long he’d been there or how much he heard, but from his pallor, I suspected he heard every word I said. “Ryan, we have work to do.” I jerked my chin toward the door. “It’s your turn to buy dinner, but it better not be soup.”
Twelve
Ryan and I were camped out in my apartment. His hotel room was the size of Martin’s closet, and I had no desire to become a sardine. My burger remained untouched in its wrapper, seeing as how my appetite vanished after examining the graphic crime scene photos. All avenues led directly to Reginald Barlow, but Ryan insisted he was with Barlow nonstop. It wasn’t physically possible for Barlow to be in two places at once.
“But we don’t have a TOD,” I argued, frustrated and slamming my desk drawer. “How can you tell me you were with him when this happened when we don’t even know when it happened?”
“Because I’ve been with him all the bloody time, Alex,” he growled. “He’s only been out of my sight when he was with Gregson in the garage.”
“What about when he met with clients, when the two of you parted ways for the night, when you were in the shower or whatever?” He had to be overestimating his own skills.
“We have audio and video surveillance on him. Interpol and the ICC have agents monitoring the feeds and keeping tabs on his movements. I planted the bugs myself, and we’ve done countless checks. They’re all working. His only opportunity was when he was with Gregson, and he was with Gregson.” He ground his teeth in frustration.
“Maybe Gregson’s assisting,” I suggested.
“Bollocks.” He slammed the file down on my coffee table. “You would have noticed. Hell, even that twat, Claxton, would have noticed.” He turned his back to me and stared out the window. The situation was making us turn against each other. “I don’t know what we’re missing.”
“Neither do I.” I reconsidered my conversations with Tommy, my brief encounters with Robert, and tried to think if there was something glaringly obvious that I missed. “Robert’s afraid to roll on Barlow.”
“So?”
“Why not
snitch on Barlow? First of all, ICE wants to deport him. Second, if he’s the middleman, why not turn over the broker in hopes of a reduced sentence? It’s not like they know each other. This is a business transaction that failed. Wouldn’t it make more sense to cut your losses and move on?” I gnawed on my pen cap, trying to think of other reasonable explanations. “How did Barlow get in contact with Gregson anyway?”
Ryan folded his arms across his chest, considering the question. “I have no idea. He said he had a number of buyers lined up and needed a guy who could locate the items. The next thing I know, we show up at Gregson’s garage, and it’s like they’re old friends. Are you sure they didn’t know each other before?”
“Actually, I have no idea.” I picked up my phone and dialed O’Connell. When he answered, I asked, “Want to come over and join my super secret crime fighting club?”
“Parker?” O’Connell sounded perplexed. “Are you on the sauce?”
“No, but Inspector Donough and I have questions concerning the two gentlemen you have in holding and what the precise connection is between Robert Gregson and Reginald Barlow, and since you’re great at detecting things, you won’t mind pitching in on this determination.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up, and I’ll drop by after shift,” Nick promised.
“Thanks.” I hung up and met Ryan’s eyes. “He’ll get back to us, but in the meantime, you can read me in on your entire investigation and Barlow’s back-up players.”
“Frankly, there’s not much to tell. In the last six months, I’ve encountered over a dozen individuals. They come and go. Each location has a different team, like Gregson, Claxton, and you. I’ve been around for the last six months and so have three other people.” He snorted. “Well, two really. The third is Barlow’s concubine, who’s been in and out of the picture, Wendi Hu. She’s in Amsterdam, I believe.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Other than that, there are two men who transport the vehicles and parts over borders and across seas, Chase Devereaux and Virgil Mallick.”