by G. K. Parks
It began with Jablonsky and Boyle being dressed down for assigning two junior agents to monitor a volatile situation without back-up or a senior agent to provide guidance. From the way the argument went, I was surprised when neither of them was forced to relinquish their badges; although, there was the threat of a demotion. No matter what kind of explanation Mark or Sam provided, Kendall wasn’t buying it. There was no excuse he would accept that would make their decision seem rational. Since things were already going this poorly, I felt almost positive Michael and I would be reading the classified section of the newspaper by the end of the day, searching for a new career.
When the Director turned his tirade on us, I sat completely motionless, steeling my nerves and determined to show no sign of emotion. Sometime during the yelling and screaming, his outburst stopped. Maybe I was experiencing a break from reality because it sounded like he was complimenting our quick thinking and dogged investigation tactics. What the hell did everyone else write in their reports? My recollection of Monday evening didn’t involve heroics and superior deductive reasoning skills but rather a balls to the wall, fly by the seat of your pants, bend over and kiss your ass goodbye, holy shit, we’re so screwed retelling of the events.
“Agent Parker?” Kendall was commanding my attention, and I looked up from the spot on his desk I had stared at since the yelling started. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, sir.” I sat up straighter and made eye contact. “We overstepped our position.”
“No.” He cast an angry glare first at Boyle then Jablonsky. “You and Carver showed initiative. You discovered a key piece of evidence, and by interceding, you might have prevented Mr. Spilano from suffering a tragedy. You are both junior agents,” he settled his gaze on the space between Carver and me, “and you shouldn’t have been expected to make that call. But you both exhibited a great deal of promise. You’re dismissed.” Carver stood, and I followed suit. “It’s nothing personal, but you’re riding a desk for the next two weeks, Parker. And you won’t have your firearm returned until after you pass the psych eval and re-qualify.”
“Yes, sir.” We left the office, leaving Jablonsky and Boyle to deal with the rest of the fallout alone.
Thirteen
In the last three days, the investigation had come a long way. The pile of paperwork on my desk promised another long night, but it was a welcome relief. This was what I spent years trying to achieve, and if it were all over in just a matter of months, that would have been devastating. Starting at the top, I only cracked open the evidence file concerning the diamond and other items found in the alley before being summoned downstairs.
“Agent Parker,” Dr. Weiler stood and extended his hand, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” When the Director said I had to undergo a psychological evaluation, I didn’t realize that was happening today.
“Sure.” I shook his hand and sat in the offered seat. The incident report and my personnel file were both sitting on top of his desk. “I assume this is in regards to Monday evening.”
“Yes.” He was quiet, but I had been through enough interrogation courses at Quantico to know what to expect. Silence was often enough pressure to force a suspect to open up. Needless to say, I remained tight-lipped. After a few minutes of listening to the whir of the white noise machine, he began again. “Why did you want to become an agent?”
“Why not?” I shrugged. At this rate, we were going to be here all day. Maybe I could get him to fast track this whole thing. There was a lot of paperwork I needed to get a jump on. “Government job provides great benefits, a certain level of job security, and preferential experience in the event I ever make the leap to the private sector.” At least that was the argument Kate had made many nights in our apartment.
“Good.” He picked up my personnel file. “Is there a reason your emergency contact is Agent Jablonsky?”
“He’s a federal agent. Seems like a decent choice for an emergency contact, don’t you think?”
“You’re being evasive.”
“I don’t see what any of this has to do with getting my gun back and going back to work.”
“So you just want me to sign this form and send you on your way?” It was a trick question. I knew it, but I couldn’t help myself.
“That would be great.”
He picked up the pen and held it over the paper. “You ever shoot anyone before?”
“No.”
“Now you have. How’s that? Any nightmares, trouble sleeping, images of the event, reconsidering the things you did and hoping it would change the outcome?”
“I’m dealing with it.”
“How? Alcohol? Drugs? Talking to someone about it?” That explained the sudden interest in my emergency contact.
“Unpacking. I moved into an apartment, and I unpacked. This is where I am. This is my life and where I belong.”
“Okay,” he signed the form and held it out, “but you’re going to stop by a few times in the next couple of weeks and let me know how you’re handling things. If it becomes too overbearing, we’ll talk about it.” He forced his card into my palm as I reached for the form.
“Fine.” I snatched the paper and headed for the door.
“Parker,” he called, “whatever it is you have outside the job, you need to use it as your fallback. It’s the only way anyone remains sane when they’re forced to do what you did.”
Mumbling some type of agreement, I was just happy to be free from the Jungian, Freudian, or some other obscure psychological babble he might want to instill upon me.
My desk upstairs was comforting. The paperwork was something I knew how to handle. A few hours later, I had familiarized myself with the evidence and who the current players were. I just picked up the transcript for Victor Spilano’s interrogation when Mark came out of his office.
“It’s five o’clock,” he announced. “You’re done for the rest of the weekend. Monday, you can continue catching up.”
“But,” I gestured to the stack of files, “I’m just getting started.”
“Monday,” he insisted. “Carver,” he yelled across the room, “finish up and meet us.” I gave Michael a confused look, and he smiled like a Cheshire cat.
“Are you planning to take me somewhere to kill me?”
“No, now let’s go.”
* * *
“I don’t drink tequila,” I said, pushing the shot away. “You do realize how they make that, don’t you?”
Michael picked it up and downed it. Clearly, fermentation inside a worm didn’t bother him.
“Fine, anything you want,” Jablonsky offered, motioning the bartender over. “Fair warning, if you order something girly, you will be teased mercilessly.”
“Belfast car bomb,” I requested. The bartender smiled and poured. Dropping the shot into the pint, I took a sip. “Now would you like to explain how this is a mandatory part of the job?”
“You’ve been working your ass off. You went through hell Monday, and we’ve still got a lot of shit left to deal with concerning this investigation. Blow off some steam, get your head on straight, and Monday, we’ll all start over. Plus, I’m buying.”
“Well, when you put it that way.”
An hour later, there was the very strong possibility I was drunk. Not so drunk to do anything stupid, like take Carver home, but drunk enough that talking about the shooting seemed like a decent conversation topic. Carver was at a table, talking to a couple of agents who were regular frequenters at the bar. Only Mark and I sat alone at a corner booth. When my babbling on the shooting ebbed, he laughed.
“You got some brass balls, Alex.” He looked toward Carver’s table to make sure he was out of earshot. “I screwed up letting the two of you run things. It was stupid. Carver’s green, much greener than you. He got lucky.”
“Did Boris get lucky?”
“He’s still in the ICU. The docs think he’ll pull through.”
I blinked back tears. Drinking made me emotional. Damn Irish whiskey. Knowi
ng a would-be killer was going to live shouldn’t make me this happy, but it was the fact that I didn’t kill someone that made me overjoyed. I could go another day knowing I hadn’t taken a life, justified or not.
“Another thing,” Mark stood up and motioned to the bartender for another round, but I shook my head, “you were right.”
“About?” I spotted Kate in the corner, chatting up some attractive guy. I blinked, trying to remember what we were talking about.
“Spilano’s not an arms dealer. I know you didn’t get far enough into the transcripts, but apparently his business associate, Henry Rubin, cut a deal with Sarskov. We have one hell of a mess to sort through.”
“So that’s why people aren’t treating me like a complete moron anymore,” I slurred. It was time to go home. “Good to know.” Locating my phone, I dialed a cab. It would be arriving in a few minutes, and I wanted nothing but to sleep off this entire week.
“I’ll wait with you.”
As I walked past Carver and his pals, he smiled. “To Alex.” Michael held up a shot glass, and they all drank. My guess was half of them didn’t even know who I was. Then again, it probably didn’t make a damn bit of difference.
“Y’know, you shouldn’t ride me so hard about working late when you’re camping out in your office day in and day out,” I remarked to Jablonsky. The cool breeze had a sobering effect, and since we were off duty, this might be the only opportunity I had to chastise my superior.
“You noticed?”
“Hard to miss.”
Mark was quiet for a time as I waited for an explanation. “My wife served me with divorce papers a week ago. Maybe it’s had more of an impact on my job performance and professional relationships than I wanted to admit. Might be why I came down so hard on you when you brought up the possibility of Spilano’s innocence. It’s just so frustrating being wrong all the time.”
“I’m sorry.” There wasn’t much else to say. Smirking, I dug through my purse until I found Dr. Weiler’s card. “Maybe you should talk to a professional.”
“Goddamn.” Mark burst into a contagious fit of laughter, and by the time the cab rolled up, we both had tears streaming down our faces from the joviality. Stress and alcohol could cause some crazy side effects. As the cab drove away, I caught sight of him, wiping his eyes and snickering. We’d all be just fine.
Fourteen
By Monday afternoon, my gun was returned. I no longer felt like an incompetent joke. Although I was still chained to a desk, the investigation was taking off and there was plenty to do. Victor Spilano requested protective custody until the lunatics who ransacked his restaurant were identified and captured. The last I heard, he was in an undisclosed location and guarded by a team of agents. Boris Romanski was still in the hospital under lock and key, and since it had been a week since the shooting, there was some teasing concerning my failure to use the proper double tap or three to center mass firing methods. The guy was lucky I wasn’t a stickler for rules, or he’d be six feet under.
The second enforcer, Dmitri Porchankov, sang like a canary. This was particularly easy to do when you didn’t know a damn thing. The only thing we had him on was assault and destruction of property. He hadn’t been armed and surrendered. It would be hard to get any serious charges to stick to him, and he’d been through the system enough times to realize it was best to give up whatever he had, cut a deal for a reduced sentence, and get the hell out as soon as possible.
This left the still unidentified third man and the Sarskov brothers. The local PD was assisting in the search, but the Sarskovs weren’t at any of the strip joints or in any of their usual hangouts. They had gone underground. A couple of agents from organized crime were meeting with their father to see if some type of arrangement could be reached, but blood was thicker than water. The only one left to break was Henry Rubin.
“Mr. Rubin,” Jablonsky began. We were inside one of the interrogation rooms, and Mark was taking point while I learned the finer skills of conducting a successful interview. “Things aren’t looking so good.” Rubin’s representation sat next to him, but neither said a word. “Selling explosives is a serious offense. It’s even worse when you’re involved in international trafficking.” Mark made a sound as if he were trying to suck something loose from between his teeth. “The way I see it, you’re stuck holding the bag.”
No one said anything as I leaned against the back wall, watching for hints of micro-expressions or a shift in Rubin’s eyes. He swallowed but didn’t move. Maybe his hearing was impaired.
“What proof do you have of my client’s involvement?” the lawyer asked.
Smiling, Jablonsky lifted the case file off the table. “His fingerprint is on the diamond recovered from the alleyway. Did I mention it’s the same alley where some hired guns almost killed two of my agents? By the way, those men are in custody now.” He let this fact sink in as he leaned his hip against the side of the table. “They’re looking for a break and are willing to deal.”
“What can you promise me?” Rubin asked. This was the first time he looked up from the table.
“Nothing until I know what you have to offer.” Mark was playing hardball, and the lawyer cast a stern look at Jablonsky.
“I would like to confer with my client alone.”
“That won’t make him any less guilty,” Mark muttered, heading for the door. I opened it, and he walked through.
“Are you paying attention, Parker?” he asked as we went down the hallway in search of coffee.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then drop the sir.” He filled a mug and handed it to me as he reached for another one for himself. “His attorney is worried. Right now, he’s probably asking what happened at the restaurant, who was there, and what exactly Rubin is involved with. At some point, a decision will be made based on his degree of involvement and how much damning evidence we might have.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Not as much as I’d like. Mostly, we get threats and suggestions to go screw ourselves.”
“Well, there’s that.”
“Yep.” Jablonsky glanced at his watch. Was Rubin more afraid of Ivan and Sergei than us? By the time I was down half a mug, the door to interrogation opened, and the agent posted outside gestured to Mark. “Now we see what’s going to happen.”
Back inside, Rubin was trying to work out a deal. After some negotiation, he explained in vast detail how purchases made from the California vineyards had been altered on scene by a team of locals the Sarskovs hired. The team would intercept the crates in transit, switch casks of fermenting wine for a stockpile of weapons, detonator cords, and incendiary materials, and then replace the shipment before anyone was the wiser. Victor Spilano was a puppet. He had no idea what was going on, but when these disguised business ventures and profit margins were made so appealing by his business manager, Spilano had no choice but to sign the orders. He never knew what happened to the shipments because Rubin would claim there was a shipping mishap.
The weapons being shipped from California arrived by boat and were trucked to the locations, loaded up, and sent across country. Or at least that had been the plan before TSA confiscated some of the suspicious crates. Rubin insisted he didn’t know who the source was overseas. The Sarskovs had come to him with this proposition. For his trouble, he was given a percentage of the profits and told to keep his mouth shut. The latest payment had been in diamonds.
“We need the rest of them,” Jablonsky mentioned. He cast a look at Rubin. “Any idea where the Sarskovs might be?” Rubin shook his head emphatically; even if he knew, he wasn’t going to say. “Want to tell me who the third guy is?” Again, the headshake. “How ‘bout we try what the hell the three of you were looking for inside the restaurant?”
That question caught Rubin unprepared. I saw the flash of fear in his eyes and the reflexive tightening of his jaw. “I don’t know,” he lied.
Mark let out a breath and came over to me. He whispered some orders and went ba
ck to the table. I left the room to tell Boyle to send a team to tear the place apart. Whatever they were looking for might still be there.
By the time I returned, Rubin’s lawyer was halfway down the hall, and Rubin was being escorted back to a temporary holding cell. The OIO wasn’t equipped for holding prisoners the same way a police station was, but there was some extra space allocated just for him.
“What happened?” I asked as I fell into step beside Jablonsky.
“He said all he’s going to. We need to find whatever they wanted, or we need to find them. My guess is there’s one remaining shipment to uncover. Either it’s somewhere in the vicinity of Specialty Vineyard, or it’s still out there. Either way, we need to get it off the streets.”
As the crime scene investigators tore Specialty Vineyard apart, I remained at the OIO building, researching every known fact about Rubin and the Russians. It sounded like a name for a rock band from the sixties. The discrepancies in the restaurant’s financial records had been explained, and like I thought, Spilano was clean. Sure, he had been duped by his business manager, but being gullible wasn’t a crime. Phoning his protection detail, I asked if they could question him again about the third man inside the restaurant. Upon our initial interview, he claimed he didn’t know the man, but he had been flustered. Maybe having a couple days to calm down jogged his memory.
Boyle grabbed a chair and pulled it up to my desk. “Agent Parker,” his tone was hushed as if he thought he might wake a sleeping baby, “any progress?”
“None to report. The team’s still at the restaurant, and I asked the guys to go over the facts with Spilano once more.” I was out of ideas. “Did you need me to do something, sir?”
“Would you mind going through the seizure information and see if there is something we missed?” Although posed as a question, it was not.