Outcomes and Perspective- The Complete Alexis Parker Prequel

by G. K. Parks

  “Hospital?” She jerked her arm again, rattling the bed’s railing. “Why am I in handcuffs?”

  “See, I guess you must have missed the part where we placed you under arrest on account of you being higher than a kite,” I added.

  “Federal agents, ma’am.” Carver showed his credentials. He probably practiced that in the mirror when no one was around. He reminded her of her rights and got back to business. “You assaulted an agent. You were positively identified as an accomplice in a robbery, and we found you in possession of narcotics.”

  “And also under the influence,” I chimed in. “Not to mention the tons of evidence in your apartment. At this point, it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

  Roxie looked flummoxed. She tugged one final time against the restraint, apparently believing if she could get her wrist free, she could somehow escape the hospital after getting the slip on both Michael and me. It didn’t budge. “You don’t know anything. You don’t have anything on me. It’s all lies. You’re fucking liars.”

  “Okay.”

  It was morning, and I had been up all night. I had no patience for playing games. Michael, on the other hand, wasn’t ready to throw in the towel.

  “Ms. Henderson,” he paused, “Roxie, can I call you Roxie?”

  “Whatever.” She didn’t trust him.

  “Roxie, you need to be aware of what’s going on right now. There was a search warrant issued for your house, your car, and your office. The police and the FBI are tearing through your life to figure out what other ATMs your friends are planning to rob, who your friends are, and what you’ve done with all of your ill-gotten gains. You were caught red-handed with enough evidence to put you away for the next couple of decades. How do you think your life is going to end up when you’re spending the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary?”

  She shuddered, her defiance weakening. “Liars,” she hissed.

  “We aren’t,” I piped up. “You know we aren’t. You know exactly what was inside your apartment. The man you clocked with that bottle yesterday afternoon, he’s our boss. Things aren’t looking good for you. Do you have a family? A mother? Father? Anyone? Because the harder you make us work to find the rest of your team, the worse it’s going to be for everyone you know. There will be questions, searches, tons of embarrassment. Maybe they’re involved. Maybe they’re helping you or covering for you. Who knows? Maybe we’ll bring them up on accessory charges or interfering in an investigation.”

  “Don’t,” she pleaded. She looked miserable, largely due to the low following her high, but maybe because of what we were threatening.

  “Tell us something,” Michael insisted. “Anything you say can only help you.”

  “How?”

  “We can speak to the prosecutor, the judge, testify about your helpfulness,” I offered. “Hell, maybe you were keeping everything at your apartment for someone else. Maybe we can mitigate your involvement.”

  “The drugs aren’t a common thing. Not anymore. I cleaned myself up. I have a job now, a life, but,” she faltered as tears threatened to spill, “it was supposed to be something small and simple. It wasn’t supposed to be this.” She took an unsteady breath, and Carver cautioned a glance at me. She would break since it wasn’t hard to see she was already broken.

  I went to the door and dragged the police officer, who was standing watch, inside. We wanted someone else present to corroborate her statement. The officer stood in the corner, flipped on a tape recorder, and relayed the pertinent information. Carver informed her we were taping this for official reasons as she continued her story.

  She worked as a receptionist at an auto body shop. Every day, she answered the phones, made appointments, and filled out work orders and bills. After working there for almost two years, she got involved with David Slidle. He was a charismatic, adventure-seeking mechanic. One day, he introduced her to some of his friends, none of which had a name she was willing to share. They talked fast cars and daredevil stunts. She never expected all this talk to turn into anything illegal.

  “What did you think was going to happen?” Carver asked. “You’re telling me conversation went from skydiving and bungee jumping to bank robbery.”

  “Not bank robbery,” she attempted to correct him, “knocking over vending machines.”

  “So they were knocking over vending machines first?” I asked, trying to clarify the situation.

  “I don’t know. I guess.” She covered her face with a hand. Her head was probably throbbing. “I never saw it happen. I thought they were just fooling around. Shooting the shit. You know how guys are.” She peeked at me with one eye, hoping for some support. Just because we shared the same type of reproductive organs didn’t mean I was on her side. “Then last week, David calls. He’s in a bind, and he needs me to meet him near the pier.” Carver looked about to interrupt, and I put my hand on his forearm, wanting to see what she was going to say first. Derailing her now didn’t seem ideal. “I find him and his two asshole friends with a fucking ATM, ripped open, under a bridge. They get in the car, laughing and congratulating one another. I had no idea.” She moved her hand away and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. “No goddamn idea.”

  “Why didn’t you report it?” Carver and I asked simultaneously.

  “How could I? I drove the fucking getaway car,” she practically screeched. “I was an accomplice.” There was no point in arguing about should have, could have, would have, so I waited for her to continue. “Then they said they had another couple of scores mapped out. They knew how to do it now. They could break into the ATMs with no problem. Just get in and out, but they needed a distraction.”

  “Why did you agree?”

  She looked ashamed. “Because it was more money than I would make in a year.” I didn’t see how that was true. ATMs didn’t hold that much cash. Either they had a bigger score in mind, or they clearly misrepresented what could be gained from their dumbass thievery. “No one was supposed to get hurt. It was supposed to be simple. The government and the banks have been screwing all of us over for years now. It didn’t seem that wrong.”

  It always annoyed me how people could justify illegal behavior. It was like speeders who were infuriated for getting pulled over for going ten above the limit as if that was acceptable, even though it clearly violated the stated law.

  “Tell us what happened,” I ordered.

  “You know what happened.” She was irritated. “I go inside the convenience store and talk to the clerk. David’s two friends go inside to break into the ATM while he waits in the car, but the clerk sees what’s going on and comes around the counter. I didn’t know he was a cop. You gotta believe me,” she pleaded. “But I didn’t know what to do, so I picked up one of the glass soda bottles and hit him over the head. We ran out of there, and that was it.” She looked pensive. “Is that guy okay?”

  “He’ll live,” Carver retorted. “What happened afterward?”

  “David dropped me off at home. I was scared shitless. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. I had my life back on track. I’m a good person.” Yet another of the things people say that was incredibly irksome. “But I didn’t want this life. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I don’t want to steal. I just wanted things to go back to normal.” She sniffled loudly and tugged at her wrist again. “But normal was over.”

  “What’d you do?” I asked, knowing where the story was going.

  “I had my cut and David’s. All of his notes were in my car. I wanted to burn them, but I was afraid he’d get mad. His friends would do something to me. So I found the only out I ever remembered.” She glanced at her arm. “Three years clean and sober down the drain because of some guy and his friends. That was who I was. Not who I wanted to be. Not anymore. It was all for nothing, wasn’t it?” She searched my eyes for an answer, but I didn’t have one. She turned to Carver, but he backed away.

  “Thanks for your help, ma’am. If we have any other questions, we’ll be back.” He stepped toward t
he door.

  “Wait. What’s going to happen to me now?”

  “We’ll do what we can to have your charges reduced,” I promised. “Until then, you’ll remain in police custody, pending a hearing.”

  Seven

  “Buy you breakfast?” Carver asked.

  We just finished the paperwork on Roxie Henderson. The evidence from her apartment was bagged, cataloged, and being evaluated as we spoke. Jablonsky called to check our progress. He was on his way to the office and suggested Carver and I take a couple of hours to get some rest before continuing with our day. Boyle had gotten word on the current situation and took a team to David Slidle’s apartment. There wasn’t any news on that front, and if we wanted to step out, now might be our only opportunity.

  “C’mon, you’ve been going nonstop for the last twenty-four hours. Jablonsky will ream you a new one if you don’t take a break.”

  “It’s not that.” I rubbed the grit out of the corner of my eye. “I can’t determine if I’d rather sleep or eat.”

  “Fair enough,” Carver said, leading me to the elevator. “Go home and get some sleep. You can always grab a sandwich at your desk.” I yawned, perhaps due to his suggestion. “Are you going to stay awake long enough to drive home?”

  I thought about it, knowing once I was home my brain would start churning around Roxie and David. “Changed my mind,” I responded. “Breakfast sounds great, especially if you’re buying.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Added bonus, you can drive.”

  We went to a nearby diner and took a seat at an empty booth. I ordered an espresso and scrambled eggs with toast. Carver requested steak and eggs with a black coffee. We both stared into nothingness, zombified by the long hours. After our meals arrived and the caffeine kicked in, conversation didn’t seem quite as challenging as it previously had.

  “Do you believe her?” he asked, skewering the last piece of steak with his fork. “Henderson,” he elaborated as he chewed.

  “I don’t know.” I motioned to the waitress for a refill. “Her place didn’t match the heroin, but she has priors for possession and B&E. It would make sense why she’d be afraid to call the cops. Who believes a former addict with a rap sheet?”

  “You do.” He finished his coffee and wiped his mouth.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrugged. “Some things still don’t fit. Everything incriminating was at her apartment. Maps, blueprints, schematics,” I sighed, “cash. Hell, she could be running the show.” I glanced out the window into the bright morning light. “There wasn’t a single item in that apartment that indicated a man had been there. If it’s all her boyfriend’s fault, like she insists, why aren’t there any pictures of the two of them? There’s no razor, extra toothbrush, t-shirt, jacket, whatever. There should be something.”

  “Do you think he removed everything from her apartment in case she got caught? Frankly, she cold-cocked Sam, so of course, she was going to get caught.”

  “I guess we wait and see what turns up at Slidle’s place and take it from there.” I took a final sip of my espresso. “Do you think they’ll scatter now that we have Roxie and David?”

  “They might not know. Or the three men might be together.” Carver dropped some cash on the table and stood up. “Where do you think Jablonsky went last night?”

  “Maybe he had a meeting with someone from another agency. He’ll tell us if we need to know.”

  Michael gave me a strange look as if to say when the hell did you become so patient, but the question never formed into actual words because both of our phones rang. That was never a good sign.

  “Parker,” I answered as we went outside to Michael’s car. The team was at Slidle’s apartment, but there was no sign of our suspect. Either he happened to be out when we came knocking, or he somehow got wind of what happened at Roxie’s and took off.

  “All right, we’re on our way,” Carver said, disconnecting his call. We exchanged glances. “No rest for the wicked,” he said to me.

  Entering the address into the GPS, we arrived at Slidle’s in less than twenty minutes. The tactical team had done a decent job hiding the van, so hopefully, if David returned, we wouldn’t spook him.

  We went upstairs and located apartment 419. The door was slightly ajar, and Carver announced himself as he went in. I followed and glanced around. The place was a mess. Empty bottles were scattered around the room. There were papers, some maps, and a rumpled unmade bed in the center of the studio apartment.

  “Any cash or signs of his involvement in the thefts?” I asked.

  “Nothing conclusive yet, but we just started,” one of the other agents offered. “Don’t you have eyes? Have you seen this place?”

  “Any evidence of Roxie Henderson?” Carver asked, opening the fridge and checking the contents inside. As he shut the door, he spotted a photo of the two of them in a magnetic frame. “Never mind.” He tapped the photo with his pointer finger. “At least we know they’re dating.”

  Wanting nothing more than to start in one corner and search every inch of the apartment, I knew it wasn’t my job. We had a search team to do this. What Michael and I needed to figure out was where David Slidle might be hiding. Pulling on a pair of gloves and trying not to disturb anything more than necessary, I began at one end of the apartment, and Michael began on the other. We worked around the techs as we tried to find a receipt, appointment book, or calendar, anything that would lead to our suspect.

  I heard footsteps in the hallway outside the apartment, and I cocked my head up. Everyone else heard it too. Michael took point, and resting his hand on the butt of his gun, he slowly approached the door. I came around on the other side to provide cover if necessary.

  “What are you doing in my apartment?” a voice asked from the hallway, sounding uncertain and a bit threatening.

  “Mr. Slidle?” Carver asked, keeping his gun and badge out of view.

  “Who are you?”

  I was next to Carver now, out of sight of Slidle.

  “Why don’t you come inside? We can discuss this in person.” Carver was hoping to get Slidle closer before announcing he was a federal agent in case the man decided to run. They tended to run far more often than they should. Slidle wasn’t budging, so Carver took his credentials from his jacket pocket. “Federal agent, Mr. Slidle. Don’t move.” Of course, he moved. In fact, he went running in the opposite direction back to the staircase. “Shit.”

  Carver was out the door, and I was behind him. I didn’t know if anyone else from the team was going to follow pursuit or if they were going to call it in, ask for reinforcements, or simply go back to cataloging all the crap in Slidle’s apartment. Since Carver and I were the two newest agents, we always had the fun job of chasing down the runners.

  Michael was in front of me and a flight of stairs behind Slidle. We were coming up on the second floor landing when Slidle put a hand on the banister and leapt over, landing in a crouch on the ground floor and taking off out the front door. Shit. Carver continued pursuit, jumping over the last four steps and repeating this process on the final flight of stairs. I continued running down the steps as quickly as possible. Slidle was out the door and out of sight, followed half a minute later by Carver.

  When I broke through the front door, I came to a dead stop, searching in all directions for the two men. Catching a glimpse of Michael far away and to my right, I took off as fast as my legs could carry me in that direction. Slidle was zigzagging across traffic in the hopes of losing Michael. I crossed from where I was, hoping not to be splattered against someone’s windshield like a bug.

  The screech of tires and the blare of a horn made my already pounding heart leap into my throat. The sound wasn’t for me, and since Slidle was on the other side of the street, I hoped Michael was okay. After crossing, I glanced down the street to the last location I had seen him. He was still up and running.

  My attention returned to Slidle, who was clearly a total moron. Not that I was complaini
ng since he was still running from Michael but had reversed course and was heading back in my general direction.

  “Slidle, freeze,” I ordered, but the man kept running.

  Apparently, he had been a bulldozer in a past life and hurtled toward me. I grabbed the back of his shirt, landing on top of him and bringing him down hard on the pavement with a resounding oomph. He tried to roll me off of him as we struggled on the ground. He wasn’t willing to give up without a fight, and I was in no mood to let our suspect get away. As I kneed him hard in the ribs and managed to flip him onto his stomach, Michael came up behind me.

  “You got him?” he asked.

  “Just about,” I growled, clicking the handcuffs in place and hitting him in the kidney on my way up for good measure. He pissed me off for running and for thinking he was going to get away. Not to mention, the two espressos before sprinting through the streets threatened to cause cardiac arrest. “Do you mind dragging his sorry ass back to the apartment building?”

  “It’d be my pleasure,” Carver retorted, sounding menacing as he hauled Slidle to his feet. “If you try anything else, one of us will shoot you.” He cautioned a glance at me.

  I took a few deep breaths and tried to walk off the pounding in my chest. I nodded that I was okay, and we went back to the apartment to turn over another piece of crap.

  Eight

  “If you’re innocent, why did you run?” Mark Jablonsky asked David Slidle. We brought Slidle in for questioning, and despite his protests that he was brutally assaulted, his scrapes and bruises weren’t life-threatening.

  “Some guys were ransacking my apartment. I didn’t want to mess with any psychopaths.”

  I chuckled, glad to be in the observation room and not in interrogation.