by G. K. Parks
Mark folded his hands over his stomach while he processed what I said. “Suggested course of action?”
I blew out a breath. “Continue surveillance, question employees, or perhaps place someone inside Specialty Vineyard to gain information on impending shipments.” He nodded, encouraging me to continue. “Without solid evidence or witness corroboration, everything we have is hearsay and not enough to get a search warrant signed.”
“Very good.” He glanced at his watch. “How would you like to go to dinner? I’m thinking someplace with a great wine menu. Go home, change into something not work appropriate, and I’ll pick you up in an hour and a half.”
“I’ve still got a dozen files to read and three to finalize.”
“You’d rather sit behind a desk than get out there and do the job?” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “What happened to the agent who is constantly nagging me for more responsibility?”
“Fine, but you’re picking up the tab.”
“God, you sound like my wife.” He smiled as I retreated from his office.
After going home, changing into one of the few things I owned that was elegant and not at all work-centric, I curled my straight brown hair and applied copious amounts of makeup. Twenty minutes later, my doorbell rang. Mark stood outside still dressed in his work attire.
“Did I interrupt your hot date?”
“No.” I stowed my gun and badge in my purse and ushered him out of my apartment before he could get comfortable and start commenting about my belongings still being stuffed inside boxes that I had never unpacked. Unpacking was something that took time and effort, and it could be done as needed. For example, the silverware was in the kitchen as were the mugs. The actual plates and bowls were still packed because I subsisted off takeout and frozen entrees.
“When was the last time you went on a date?” he asked as he drove across town in a haphazard fashion.
“Since when is this any of your business, Jablonsky?”
“Just some light conversation. I always did what I could to avoid having kids, like getting divorced twice, but you’re practically the daughter I never had, especially since I’m old enough to be your father. I’d like to know you do something besides work all the damn time.” He was fishing, but I didn’t know why. “In the last two months, has there even been a single occasion when you’ve gone home earlier than I have?”
“Possibly.” But the real answer was no. I spent most nights reading through open case files, finalizing reports, and familiarizing myself with procedures and protocols.
“Yeah, right.” He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. The rest of the ride was full of instruction on the proper methodology for being unobtrusive. We were going out to eat. We weren’t supposed to be federal agents attempting to get an inside view of a suspect’s business operation or monitoring his conduct. “Just remember to follow my lead,” he instructed, handing the keys to the valet.
“Absolutely.”
Three
The service at Specialty Vineyard was excellent, and the food wasn’t half bad either. My eyes constantly roved the interior, gauging the layout, the patrons, and the staff. There was no sign of Spilano. He was probably apt at delegation. Why work when you could have someone else do it for you? Then again, there was the possibility he might be partaking in illegal activities and had to have unknowing third parties act as his proxy or cover for him.
“Tell me what you see,” Jablonsky instructed in a hushed tone. I ran through everything I observed, watching as the smile brightened on his face. He was constantly in teacher mode which could be tedious and annoying. “So what do you make of the two guys in suits sitting at the corner of the bar?”
Observation 101, you don’t turn around to look. Peripheral vision, reflective surfaces, and some creativity were all necessary for inconspicuous surveillance. I turned to look out the window, catching a slight glimpse of the men. Unable to get a better angle, I dropped my fork and cautioned a glance as I returned to an upright position.
“What the hell is Carver doing here?” I angrily whispered.
Jablonsky tried to look innocent, but I saw the amusement crinkle the corners of his eyes. “We’ll discuss that later, Alex. It’s more of an outside matter.”
He went back to eating, and I shook off the surprise. This was work. It wasn’t an outing or some event. It also meant that Spilano might be a bigger fish to fry than I imagined.
After eating, I took the opportunity to go in search of the ladies room. It was an excellent excuse to snoop around the less accessible areas of the restaurant; however, there were no suspicious crates shoved in any abandoned corners labeled guns and bombs. That would have made my job easier, but I liked a challenge. Having nothing additional to report, I met Jablonsky in the foyer, and we left the restaurant.
We barely spoke until he stopped the car in the garage underneath the OIO building. Work was only beginning for the evening, and I regretted not having a change of clothes with me.
“Practicality dictates always having a go-bag within reach,” he chided. “Think of this as one of Mark’s life lessons.”
I filed the thought away for later consideration. Right now, I was focused on Spilano and the real reason we went to dinner.
“Why was Agent Carver at Specialty Vineyard? The last I heard, he was working out of Los Angeles.”
“Michael Carver,” he was playing dumb and failing miserably, “wasn’t he at the academy with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighed in exasperation. “One of the few recruits who actually outperformed you from what I recall.” I tried not to bristle at the dig. “We’re working together to bring down Spilano. The LA office confiscated a shipment of detonator cord. The sender claimed it was Spilano’s, but they’ve had trouble pinpointing the connection. Since Victor is a resident and business owner in our fine city, they sent over their crack team to assist.” He smiled, amused by some internal joke. “Do you think you can play nice?”
“I always play nice.”
“We’ll see. It’s harder than it looks when someone doesn’t seem to think you can find your own ass with both hands. It’s work politics. We’re on the same side, but they think they can do better.”
“Maybe they’re afraid it’s because you’re so damn old and out of touch,” I teased. If we had been upstairs, I never would have said something so callous and insubordinate, but in the garage, I had some leeway.
“Watch it, Parker.” He smiled. “If you start acting superior, I’ll ship you out to LA with the rest of the arrogant lot.” We stepped into the elevator and made our way upstairs.
“All right, people,” Jablonsky announced, “let’s get down to business.” There were three of us still in the office, and he must have told the others to stay late. There was an analyst, another agent, and me. “As you all know, we’ve been trying to get something to stick to Victor Spilano. Our associates from Los Angeles are here to assist.” I spotted Carver and the other man from the bar exiting the Director’s office. “Agents Sam Boyle and Michael Carver will brief you on the situation.”
Carver sauntered past, throwing a sly grin and a wink my way. So much for not having to see him ever again. Agent Boyle launched into an extensive briefing, complete with PowerPoint presentation and use of the Smart board.
Victor Spilano had been in California on winery business a month ago. Surveillance footage showed him in Napa and other parts of California’s wine country. None of these areas were close to Los Angeles, and I wondered how the LA office was involved. As if reading my mind, the images shifted to LAX airport. Cargo containers and manifests listed the same vineyards Spilano toured as the source of the contraband det cords.
“After extensive questioning,” Boyle continued, “the vineyard owners claim these were not their shipments but shipments made by Victor Spilano while on their property. Right now, we have nothing solid to link Spilano to these crates except for the word of the men we caught red-handed.”
>
“Convenient and controversial,” Carver interjected. “We’ve been given some breathing room, but it’s a short leash. The state department wants this sorted quickly and quietly. Your investigation into the business practices and black market ties of Mr. Spilano will expedite our investigation. By sharing information and resources, we’ll be able to get this bastard off the streets and out of the arms business.”
It sounded like a steaming pile of shit. Carver was feeding us the company line, and I understood Mark’s position on playing nice. The LA office wanted us to hand over months of hard work to make them look good.
“Any questions?” Boyle asked, scanning the room.
“Just one,” Jablonsky piped up. He was leaning against an empty desk as the story unfolded before us. “Who’s taking lead?”
Boyle shook his head slightly, playing the question off good-naturedly. “Age before beauty, right? You have rank, Supervisory Special Agent. We’ll assist your team. A bust is a bust, regardless of which coast makes it happen.”
“Wise move,” Jablonsky replied, immediately stepping away from the desk and taking point. “Tonight, I want all our records condensed, so we’ll have one usable file for reference on our good buddy, Victor.” He pointed to the analyst and the other agent. “The two of you, work with Agent Boyle.” There was a chorus of affirmatives, and the three agents headed into the nearest conference room. “Rookies,” he shifted his gaze from Carver to me, “or do you prefer the more appropriate term, probies?”
“I prefer when you’re not being cute,” I muttered under my breath. Luckily, he didn’t acknowledge my remark.
“Sir?” Carver questioned, waiting for whatever assignment we were about to be given as a child would wait to open a particularly large present on Christmas morning. The amusement on my supervisor’s face was disconcerting. “What do you have for us?”
“You’re both green.” This was a statement of fact. “But you also show exceptional promise. I’ve spoken to your supervisor, Boyle, and he assures me you can handle this.” Carver looked about ready to burst in anticipation, but something about the entire situation caused an uneasy feeling to settle in the pit of my stomach. Whatever was about to happen, I already didn’t like it. “The two of you are going undercover.” Without waiting for a response, he went into his office, pulled out two files, and returned. “These are your cover identities and backgrounds. Make sure you have every bit of this memorized by tomorrow morning. Undercover work requires you to live and breathe being these people. Do what you have to in order to make me believe it.”
“Yes, sir,” we responded in unison.
Mark tossed a key ring to Carver. “Motor pool’s lending you a vehicle for this op. Would you care to give Parker a ride home since I’m pulling an all-nighter with the boys?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Carver responded.
“No, it will not.” I needed to work on holding my tongue. “Jablonsky, I’d be more than happy to stay and assist on the paperwork.”
“If you want to be useful,” he was back in teacher mode, “then you and your partner need to get used to working with one another. He’s going to be the only one inside that will be there if something goes sideways.” He turned to Carver. “That goes double for you, kid.” We both remained silent, and Mark sighed. “Get out of here and get to know your cover identities and each other. You need to be a believable couple by tomorrow, so Alex, stop cringing every time he gets within five feet of you. This isn’t kindergarten. Boys don’t have cooties.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but if we were partnered together, it was time to act like a professional.
“No cooties here.” Carver smiled, his nose crinkling playfully.
“Carver,” Jablonsky’s tone had an edge, “unless absolutely necessary, don’t get within five feet of Parker. She might shoot you.”
I laughed, and the two of us headed for the elevator.
“Look who’s turned into a teacher’s pet,” Carver teased as the doors started to close.
“And look who’s still an ass-kisser,” I responded.
“I don’t think Jablonsky needs to worry. We already act like a married couple.”
I rolled my eyes, hoping being stuck alone would make him drop the macho attitude.
Four
There was an opened pizza box with two slices remaining on my coffee table. I leaned back against the couch and rubbed my eyes. It was two a.m. If I had to read my cover profile one more time, I would go insane.
“How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. We were both sitting on the floor. He was across the coffee table from me.
“Three years. I moved in the summer after graduating from Boston University with a degree in art history.”
“No,” he smiled, “not the fake you. The real you.”
“Four months, give or take.”
“I’m just amazed. It looks even less lived in than the apartment at Quantico. Why the hell haven’t you unpacked or at least hung a picture on the wall or something? Maybe put up some wallpaper or paint.”
“Is Michael Price a home decorator?” I asked, nudging his file with my index finger.
“No. He works at an art gallery, which is how we met.”
“Then shut up.”
“Classic Alex,” he reached for one of the remaining slices, “if you don’t want to deal with it, you bark at it until it goes away. Are you part Doberman? Because I’m okay with a little biting.”
“Unbelievable.” Being tired made me irritable. “All right, quiz me,” I saw where his thoughts were going, “on this.” I pointed to the folders.
“Name?”
“Alexandra Riley, but I go by Alex.”
He nodded and gestured that I continue running through the phony background. We were supposed to be engaged. My art history background and Michael Price’s position at the art gallery were how we met and supposedly fell in love. I was an up and coming artist, working at the gallery in the hopes of having my own show. While farfetched, the manufactured background provided ample opportunity to interact with Victor Spilano.
“How long have we been together?” I asked Michael, flipping the questions to him.
“Over a year. It was a year in,” his eyes darted back and forth as he tried to remember, “September. The fourteenth, no, fifteenth.” I gave him a warning look. “Come on, what’s more believable than a guy not remembering the exact date of his anniversary?”
“I’ll give you that one.” We continued running over our backgrounds for another hour. By then, the pizza was gone. I had every inch of my cover and Carver’s memorized. “I’m ready to call it a night.” I tilted my neck to the side and rubbed the kink in my shoulder. “Any objections?”
“None.” He looked tired too. “I’ll see you in the morning, Alex.” He got up, tossing the pizza box into my trashcan on his way to the door. “What do you call me?” he asked as I closed the folders and wiped the crumbs off the table.
“What?”
“I call you Alex, but what do I go by? Mike, Michael, Mikey, sweet-ums?”
Jackass, my mind responded, and I hid my amusement. There was a chance I might be a bit insane, more so when I was tired. “Whatever you want.”
“Michael or sweet-ums.” He winked. “The second is only acceptable postcoital.”
I glared, and he let himself out of my apartment, flipping the lock on the way.
* * *
The next morning, the four of us were uncomfortably situated in Jablonsky’s tiny office. Boyle and Jablonsky looked exhausted; neither of them had gone home, based on the clothing they were still wearing. They made copies of the pertinent information from the file and distributed it to everyone working this case. Our team was small, consisting of six people. The analyst and other agent from last night had already gone home, but they were going to deal with the paperwork and coordinating the operation between this office and the LA field office. At least I was free from the paperwork for once.
&nb
sp; “You two have your covers established?” Boyle asked, looking skeptical.
“Of course,” Michael responded. I was mentally referring to him as Michael for the duration just to avoid any accidental slips when we were in the field. Calling him Carver in front of Spilano would not be good.
“You really believe these two recruits can handle an operation of this magnitude?” Boyle asked Jablonsky. It was intentional, so we’d know to act particularly careful since we were already on thin ice.
“I can’t speak for yours, but mine’s shown a great deal of promise. I don’t expect to be disappointed.” He looked pointedly at me as if to say don’t fuck up.
“Then I’m gonna catch some z’s.” Boyle patted Michael on the back as he went out the door.
“Here’s what’s going to happen now.” Jablonsky turned his computer monitor to the side so we could see as he began explaining how things were going to work.
There was a small art gallery near Specialty Vineyard. The owners were willing to cooperate with the Bureau, and they would corroborate Alexandra Riley and Michael Price’s backgrounds. We were both going to be planted at the gallery and casually dine at Specialty Vineyard. At this point, the opportunities were endless.
“Question,” Michael interjected. “What excuse are we using to get close to Victor Spilano?”
“Whatever works. This isn’t the time for handholding. You get in, try something. If it doesn’t work, you try something else. You keep trying until you find an in and then you do whatever it takes not to lose it. Just remember, you cannot break cover.”
“What if we encounter problems?” I asked. Although months of training and study had dealt extensively with the proper methods to handle situations like this, words on a page were nothing like the real thing.