by G. K. Parks
“Why don’t you go home?” I whispered to Michael. “You look beat.”
“I’m okay.” He searched my face, assessing my condition. “You look better.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I teased, sitting next to him and going over the information he finished reading.
There were dossiers on the three bank robbers, apparent links connecting Thompkins to Slidle, but as of yet, the fourth man, a getaway driver, hadn’t been found. Neither had our tipster. There was a lot of work that still needed to be done to connect these random individuals together. We had some long hours ahead of us.
A few hours passed before the phone rang, jilting Mark awake. I grabbed the cordless phone from the cradle and answered. They put a rush on the test results. Even though Thompkins never tested positive for anything they screened for, his two prison sentences, questionable background, and horrible decision-making abilities made everyone a little uneasy.
“Thanks,” I said into the receiver, hanging up the phone.
“Well?” Jablonsky asked, rubbing his face and getting off my couch. “What’s the verdict?”
“He’s clean,” I said, returning to the paperwork and doing my best to hide the rush of relief. Sometimes, even I didn’t know why I tried to act calm and collected all the damn time. “I’ll probably get tested in six months just to make sure, but nothing to worry about, which means I got all those damn shots for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” Jablonsky insisted, picking up his discarded gun and holster and putting his jacket on. “Take the morning off. I’ll see you at the OIO building after lunch. We still have more work to do,” he met my eyes, “especially since you’re healthy as a horse.”
“Sir?” Carver asked, making me giggle. Somehow, he missed the memo on Jablonsky’s irritation with the word sir.
“Fine, you can have the morning off too. Just don’t spread it around. I’d hate for everyone to think I was turning into some sentimental softie.” Mark shifted his gaze from Michael to me. “It’s getting late. You should head out and let Parker get some sleep. The reports can wait until tomorrow.”
“Aww, c’mon, just five more minutes,” I said in a whiny voice, attempting to be jocular. Clearly, I was in a very good mood. Jablonsky smiled and went to the door. “Thanks, Mark,” I added sincerely.
“No problem.” He nodded once and shut the door.
“Wow, you’re a total teacher’s pet. First, he shows up at your house, and then you get to call him Mark. No wonder you’re the favorite,” Michael teased.
“You’re just jealous because he got to crash on the couch while you had to sit at the counter and work.” I put my pen down and leaned back in my chair. There would be no more working tonight. I wanted to celebrate, although, quietly because I still had a lingering headache and some chills.
He looked at me, and the grin grew on his face. “Your ‘I’m too cool to give a shit’ façade has some obvious cracks in it. Quick, get the plaster.” He nudged my arm. “I’ve never seen you this happy before.”
“Just thinking about all that sex,” I snorted. Actually, I simply found a deeper appreciation for the status quo, glad that nothing changed in my world.
“Is that an invitation?” He tried seductive but missed the mark after all the kidding around.
“Absolutely not.” I laughed.
“Alex,” he sounded slightly more serious, “are you a clip’s half empty or clip’s half full kind of girl?”
“As in the magazine in my gun?”
“Uh-huh.”
I thought about it for a moment. “Neither. With half a clip I could take down two suspects, possibly three.” He rolled his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing. I was just trying to determine if you believed you have the worst luck or the best luck. Things tend to work out oddly when we’re together on an assignment. But it’s you, so you probably don’t believe in luck.”
“I believe in something. No clue what. But definitely something. And right now, I’m willing to say I have some fantastic luck. If you asked earlier when I was getting stuck with needles, I would have told you I had awful luck. It’s all about outcomes and perspective, isn’t it?”
“It is.” He squinted, trying to hide the smirk. “You’re either the most put together person I know or the most insane.” He shook his head. “Things are a lot more interesting here than they were in Los Angeles.” He got up and stacked the folders on top of my table, considering taking them with him or leaving them for me to read.
“Are you glad you transferred?”
“Yeah. And after a day like today, I’m going to ask to stay at the OIO.” I didn’t realize he was trying to make that decision. “That is, if you’re not going to add my lack of firing on Thompkins as another tally against me, even though I didn’t have a clear shot.”
“It only counts against you if I get shot or have to shoot someone for you.” That happened once before, and there was no need for a repeat performance. “Before you go, would you mind telling me what happened in the bank? My viewpoint on the matter is limited, and it’d be nice to be prepared for tomorrow.” I glanced at the time. “Later today,” I corrected.
Thirteen
Michael Carver was one hell of a storyteller. I never knew this until he began explaining in vivid detail what happened outside the bank, during the breach, and in subduing the two other robbers. His words had me enthralled as my mind created the situation he was explaining. Either that or the nurse forgot to mention hallucinations and delusions as possible side effects.
“Boyle and I were staked out across the street, drinking our coffee and waiting for everyone to clear out of the bank. The security guard locked the front entrance, and a few people were straggling out the exit. Frankly, we figured it was time to call it a day, and Boyle was just about to send the tactical units home, but I spotted you through the window, going upstairs with some guy in tow.”
“And you didn’t assume it was a customer or booty call?” I quipped.
“No. You take your job too seriously for shenanigans, and something just didn’t fit the bill. So we waited. A few minutes later, my phone starts ringing. Keep in mind, by this point, another three people have left the bank, and with the way the damn windows are, we aren’t certain how many people are still inside.”
“I’m glad you answered.”
He laughed. “I put the call on speaker, and at first, all we hear is static and fabric rustling around. Boyle’s thinking you pocket dialed me accidentally, but then your voice comes through, explaining the situation.” He shook his head, almost in disbelief. “You gave us the description, the number of suspects, their location, everything. It was fucking genius. I leave the line open while Boyle calls in our tactical support. Things sound a bit heated, and I decide to go in.”
“You decide to go in?” Boyle was in charge. He was Carver’s superior.
“Boyle and I decide to go in.” He raised an eyebrow as if to ask if I was happy with the correction, but I remained silent as he continued. “The tac team is on the way, so we go in the exit, trying not to make a scene. As we walk in, the security guard tries to tell us the bank is closed, and the two thieves make us. They were carrying fucking Uzis. Who carries an Uzi? We’re not in some noir gangster flick.”
“Did they say your money or your life?” I asked, but Carver wasn’t amused by my question.
“Mr. Big Shot security darts out the door, so I’m guessing he’s probably not cut out for security work.”
“You’re great at reading people.” I winked.
“The three tellers are still behind the counter, and one of them starts screaming like a goddamn banshee and hits the silent alarm which notified the manager. What’s his name?”
“Sharpe.”
“As in he isn’t very.” Michael sighed, probably to add to the theatrics and drama. “He comes out of his office. One of the two gunmen decides to spray the place in bullets. Boyle and I duck behind some of the furniture, and Sharp
e gets winged. It’s nothing serious. A flesh wound to the upper arm, but he’s howling like a werewolf during a full moon. We made the announcement and told the bastards to drop their guns.”
“Did they comply?” I knew they wouldn’t. No one that well-armed ever does.
“Fuck no. Boyle gets to Sharpe, and I’m considering taking one of them out when our tactical team bursts through both sets of doors. The sons of bitches flip out because of the dozen agents in full assault gear. The one who shot Sharpe tried to make a run for it, but he got hit by a beanbag round. The other one was on the ground without any of us even having to ask.”
“Accommodating.”
“Hardly.” Carver rolled his eyes. “They secured the main room, and that’s when I went up the stairs so I could go down the stairs to get to you. Has anyone else considered how moronic it is to have only one way to get to the vault and safe deposit boxes? Asinine to go up and then down.”
“There’s a back doorway from the manager’s office,” I added. It opened up into the safe deposit box room, and it was how actual clients got access to their property. The bank robber who attempted to take me hostage didn’t know this. No one did. And I didn’t offer to divulge this piece of information. It was need to know, and the dirtbag definitely didn’t need to know. “It’s a security measure to deter thieves, robbers, and gunmen from knocking over the bank.”
“Obviously, it works like a charm,” he muttered sarcastically. He met my eyes, wondering if he should continue the story since I knew the rest. “Then I come down the steps, and I’m confronted by you and the idiot with the gun.”
“Fun times.”
“Yep.”
“Just for the record, was I supposed to swoon and say something like my hero? Because there was a class taught at Quantico on how not to swoon in the face of danger.”
He chuckled. “It’s okay. I knew you were thinking it the entire time.” He stood up, getting ready to leave my apartment. “Honestly.” His tone was serious, but whatever he was going to say, he decided against. Instead, he pressed his lips together and went to my door. “Good night, Alexis.”
* * *
That weekend, we went through all of the information we had on our five currently incarcerated thieves. Most of them had records, but only Slidle and Henderson worked at the auto body shop. The local police department moved them to central booking and kept them segregated from one another. It made it easier to prevent them from corroborating one another’s story.
Jablonsky and Boyle dragged each of them to the OIO building, one by one, for questioning. The two Uzi-toting robbers, Robert Dunne and John Black, were hired for the job by Isaiah Thompkins. They were last minute replacements for Slidle and Henderson and had no previous knowledge of the ATM heists. They were only involved because of their connection to Thompkins, whose record indicated he met both Dunne and Black while in prison. They each had a laundry list of misdemeanors and felonies on their rap sheets which didn’t seem surprising given their artillery of choice. Other than being promised a percentage of the bank cut, they knew very little of what was going on. A job was a job. No questions asked.
The more interesting connection was figuring out who comprised the original four man team, or three man and one woman team. Roxie Henderson was romantically involved with David Slidle. They met at work, and at some point, the clothes had come off. The strange thing was instead of having a natural progression to their relationship, they went from romance to burglary. It made no sense to me. Maybe it was why dating anyone you work with was so strongly cautioned against. One minute, you’re in love, and the next, you’re taking a bank teller hostage or driving a getaway car. Still, it would be nice to believe normal people existed and didn’t one day wake up with the unshakeable desire to become felons.
For whatever the reason, Roxie went along with David’s plan or his friends, since we were still uncertain who the ringleader in all of this was. She wasn’t going to narc on her boyfriend, and even now, she remained adamantly silent on giving us any more information. David Slidle claimed I used unnecessary force, there was no legal basis for the warrant issued to search his apartment, and with the lack of evidence we found, he was trying hard to maintain he was innocent and this was a frame-up. None of those things were true, but his lack of cooperation was frustrating. Jablonsky and Boyle questioned him numerous times, but they might as well be slamming their heads into the wall. Maybe David’s instead, but that would be deemed brutality and a violation of his civil rights.
There was only one source left for us to exploit, and right now, he was still recovering from surgery. Whatever Mark did to ensure our access to his medical records made Mr. Thompkins particularly cooperative, but due to his unstable condition, the doctors were limiting our contact with him. Aside from the twenty-four hour police detail posted outside his room, we were stuck waiting until he was no longer in the ICU before we could question him further. I just hoped he’d be able to give us answers and not more questions.
Fourteen
“No,” Jablonsky said. Thankfully, we were in his office, away from the prying eyes of my fellow agents. “You’re not going to question Thompkins. In fact, that’s an order, Parker.”
“What do you think I’m going to do?” I rolled my eyes and sighed. “I’m not going to stab him again.”
“No.” Mark stood up and leaned forward across his desk. “Now get back to work.”
“Yes, sir,” I said through gritted teeth as I went back to my desk. It was Monday afternoon, and he was sending Boyle to talk to Thompkins. While I understood the need not to further agitate our one remaining chance at closing this case, from a creative standpoint, any threat I made would carry much more weight.
Sulking at my desk, I needed to stop acting like such a prima donna. Just the thought of Thompkins had my skin crawling. It had been three days since the situation at the bank, but instead of being relieved, I was angry. If anyone should get to throw accusations at the bastard, it should be me. Cool it, Parker, I reminded myself.
Taking a few deep breaths and making sure the logical thinking returned, ushering out all my emotional turmoil, I pulled out the dossiers we compiled on Dunne, Black, Thompkins, Slidle, and Henderson. We had their phone records, and although they were primarily used to determine the interconnectedness of our five detainees, we didn’t get the chance to thoroughly examine all the numbers listed. Someone had to do it, so it might as well be me.
After cross-referencing common numbers among the five different phone logs, accessing the billing information for the unknown numbers, and making a list of commonalities, the names on my notepad were the only possible leads we had on our getaway driver and perhaps the tipster. There was a slim chance they were one and the same. Honestly, it didn’t matter if they were or not. The tipster hadn’t done anything illegal. All he did was report the crimes. It was just the fact that he knew such intimate details that led us to believe he was either involved or closely related to someone who was. Putting things into perspective, I began narrowing our possibilities.
Hours later, we were all assembled in the conference room in order to go over our findings. I made some progress on identifying the fourth man, and our technical savvy brethren were comparing driver’s license photos to the grainy security cam footage from outside the bank and convenience store in the hopes of finding a match. Boyle returned from his outing with some additional information, so the four of us were taking turns catching the rest of the team up to speed.
After reading the dozen possible names off my sheet of paper, Boyle perked up. One name, in particular, Garrett Neville, brought a smile to his face. Glancing at Carver, who had been sent to interview Roxie again, he let out a snicker. Jablonsky and I seemed to be the only two in the dark.
“Garrett Neville,” Carver said, flipping through his notes, “is a nice guy. Quiet. Was always hanging out at David Slidle’s place, playing video games and drinking beer. Always kept to himself. He was the outcast of their group.
But he never caused any problems, so they let him hang around with them.”
“Unless he was playing GTA, I don’t think he’s our getaway driver,” Boyle surmised, flipping through the guy’s information. “He’s twenty-two. Enrolled in junior college. Probably the younger brother type. He wants to fit in but doesn’t. He used to work part-time at the auto body shop until he quit. That’s when they hired Roxie Henderson to replace him.”
“If anyone knows what’s going on with Slidle, he would,” Jablonsky declared. He tossed a glance my way. “Parker, why don’t you have a friendly chat with Neville? I’m sure he’s not used to beautiful women talking to him. Maybe you can turn on the charm and get him to open up.”
“On it,” I replied. Carver gave me an encouraging look, and I copied Neville’s address before exiting the conference room.
* * *
I knocked on Neville’s door. The apartment building he lived in was populated by co-eds, and the hallways were filled with loud, boisterous, and possibly drunk young adults. Sometimes, I was nostalgic for my college years, but this was a great reminder to be thankful that was in the past.
“Hang on,” a voice called from the other side of the door, “I just need to find my wallet.”
“Mr. Neville,” I responded, about to announce I was a federal agent, but instead, he opened the door wide, holding out a stack of dollars and clearly surprised to find me standing in front of him. “I’m not a prostitute. I’m a federal agent.” I flashed my badge as he turned crimson.
“So-sorry,” he stuttered. “I thought you were pizza.” He stepped back. “Not pizza but bringing pizza.” I continued to stare at the kid. He seemed flustered. “Co-come inside, please.” He gestured that I should enter. Stepping into his apartment, I made sure no one else was present. There were no obvious signs of drugs, stolen cash, or weapons with the exception of the light sabers hanging on the wall. Since I wasn’t a Sith lord, I wasn’t too worried about their implications. “What can I do for you, um, Agent?”