by G. K. Parks
Either the Farlows or Cline got wind of Haze’s investigation and decided to pull the plug. Going so far as to blow up the man’s car might be construed as a warning. However, if the explosion was a warning and not used to conceal the crime, then why the cover-up? Why put Haze’s body in the back of some van that might have only accidentally been blown sky high?
“Anyone have any information on the van they found Haze’s remains in?” I asked the room.
A couple agents shrugged, but one of the more astute members of our team responded, “It’s registered to a delivery service, Bates Movers.” She clicked a few buttons on her keyboard. “They’re a small independent service, but from their website, it seems obvious at least one of our suspects works there.” I leaned over her shoulder as she pointed to a picture with a caption listing their employees. Frank Farlow.
“I’ll be damned.” I smiled. Progress was actually being made. “How long was the van in impound?”
“According to police records,” she clicked to a different window, “since Sunday.”
Biting my lip as a thought gnawed at the edge of my mind, I accessed Haze’s phone records. A few calls came in over the course of the week, but based on duration alone, none of them had been answered since Saturday night. Had Douglas Haze been receiving threats? Running reverse lookups, I found seventeen calls, all lasting less than five minutes, from Bates Movers. Given that they were placed after the close of business, I didn’t think they were related to any moving needs. Aside from the frequency of Bates Movers, there was only one other number that called numerous times over the last month. It didn’t take long before it became apparent that the number originated from a prepaid, unregistered cell phone. It was also the last number that phoned Haze on Saturday night.
“Does anyone have any friends at the NSA who can tell us what was said for three minutes on Saturday night between Haze and the mystery caller?” I asked the room. Most of my co-workers ignored me, a couple shot me dirty looks, and Carver chuckled. “C’mon, you know they’re illegally wiretapping the entire nation.”
He laughed, but I saw Jablonsky and Boyle scowling at me. Apparently, I didn’t need to take my political commentary comedy tour on the road.
“Parker, give me the number, and I’ll see what turns up,” one of the IT guys offered.
I highlighted the number and brought the copy of the phone log to him. With any luck, we’d eventually identify the caller, determine the intention of the constant calling from Bates Movers, and figure out who murdered Haze.
Over the course of the next few hours, the IT department determined the location where most of the calls were placed from the burner phone. Although there was no way to narrow it down to a precise address, it was within the vicinity of Forrester Cline’s apartment building. There was a good chance Cline made some threats or lured Haze into a trap.
Even if the accomplishments for today were slight, I let out an exhale as some of the weight lifted off my chest. There was still much more that needed to be done, but there were at least four suspects who could be killers, bombers, or both. Going back inside the conference room, I wrote each of their names on our board and everything we knew about them. I stood staring at the words, hoping for answers and coming up with nothing more than plenty of additional questions. Finally, I created a web overlay detailing the connections which reinforced the conclusion that we were on the right track and called it a night.
Six
The next morning, I was ready to dive right into the investigation, but as I exited the elevator, I found Jablonsky standing at my desk. “Don’t get comfortable,” he warned. “Fill your thermos and let’s go.” Knowing better than to ask what was going on, I grabbed my travel cup from my bottom drawer, filled it with coffee, and met Jablonsky back at the elevator. “There’s an empty storefront across from Forrester Cline’s apartment. You and I are staking the place out. With any luck, this chucklehead will do something incriminating, and we can nab him.”
“What about the Farlows?” I inquired as I followed him to the car.
“Boyle and Carver are set up in a surveillance van outside Bates Movers. We have another mobile unit on standby prepared to follow if any of them leave. We’re going to divide and conquer.” He seemed certain that we were making progress.
“Have there been any additional threats from the bomber? Chatter? Anything?” Perhaps I was raining on our parade with my pessimistic attitude.
“Not a word.” We fell silent as he maneuvered through the city. “We’re trading off on eight hour shifts. Three teams,” he clarified. He glanced at me. “Cheer up. I brought cookies.” He grinned, and I laughed. “Plus, we’re lucky. There’s indoor plumbing.”
“Awesome.” Stakeouts typically meant calculated bathroom breaks and limiting the coffee and liquid intake. That wasn’t going to be a problem this time.
* * *
Three days in the drafty, dilapidated storefront and the indoor plumbing no longer seemed like such a great perk. Patience. Stakeouts were about patience. The radio chirped, and Jablonsky grabbed it from the card table we set up, along with a couple of folding chairs.
“Sir, we’ve received verification of a second bombing. Agents are en route now.” The location was a restaurant across the street from the municipal building. “First responders on scene found the explosion completely contained in the storage room. No injuries or fatalities to report,” declared the staticky voice over the radio.
“What the hell?” I muttered. Why plant a bomb where it couldn’t hurt anyone? Was this about making a statement or was the body not found yet, just like with Haze at the first scene?
“I’m on my way. Have the police cordon off the area, and don’t let anyone leave.” Mark ended the radio transmission. “Parker, you’re keeping eyes on this son of a bitch. He knows something. And I want to know exactly what that is.” He picked up the radio again. “Boyle, have there been any changes in the Farlows’ behavior?”
“Negative.”
“Have someone from the standby unit rendezvous with Parker at this location. I’m going to the explosion site, and I don’t want any of our agents to lack back-up when it comes to surveilling murderers.”
“Someone will be on the way,” Boyle promised.
“If something happens before your back-up arrives, radio for police assistance. Do you understand?” Mark was speaking as if I were a child. I nodded, and he threw one last look across the way to Cline’s apartment before exiting the back door.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened, and being overly jumpy, my hand went to my gun as I heard a familiar voice announce, “Pizza delivery.”
“You didn’t want to spend another six hours inside the surveillance van?” I asked Michael as he dropped a box on the table. At least he wasn’t kidding. Tossing a questioning look his way, I wondered where he found pizza at ten o’clock in the morning. Opening the box, I grabbed a slice, took a tentative bite, and made a face.
“Not good?” he asked, picking up a piece. “It came from a convenience store. Ready-to-eat, just microwave.”
“It tastes like soggy cardboard.”
He bit into it and put the rest of the slice back in the box. “Guess we can toss this.”
After spending another hour staring across the street into the curtainless windows of Forrester Cline’s apartment, Carver and I unknowingly managed to consume almost half of the pizza. Boredom always resulted in horrible decision-making, I decided. Michael rubbed his face and shifted in his seat.
“Do you want to get some shuteye? Because we can trade off on watching Cline. And if something occurs, I’ll wake you. Or trip over you on my way out.” I smirked.
“Nah,” he shook his head and picked up the Styrofoam cup of coffee, “I’m fine.” He inhaled and then sighed heavily, putting the cup down without drinking. “Can you believe there was another bombing? We got the threat. We assessed the situation. We’ve been investigating leads and motives and,” he gestured to the window, “
conducting surveillance, and there is still another explosion. This is fucking ridiculous.”
“Tell me about it.” My sarcasm was biting. “Don’t forget to address the elephant in the room. Since we’ve been keeping tabs on Cline and the Farlows, that means we have no leads on the bomber. None of them could have done it, unless we didn’t notice. And I’m sure we would have noticed.” I paced the space from the table to the window, my eyes never leaving Cline’s apartment. The guy was a goddamn homebody.
“No,” he said sharply, “there’s no way they aren’t connected. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”
“It could be a random lunatic. It happens.” Defeat didn’t look good on me, but I was tired, cranky, and ready to do something besides stare across the street at the flickering television lights.
“Or,” he leaned back and bit his thumbnail absently, “what about a delivery? Postal service or a package maybe. Couldn’t the bomb have been sent instead of being planted?”
“I guess.” The only thing I knew was the explosion occurred in the storeroom. If the device had a timer and was delivered to the restaurant, could it have been mistaken for another parcel and fortunately placed in the back? “But it’s just theory until we hear something concrete from Jablonsky.”
The silence was filled with frustration as we continued to hope something more substantial would occur at Cline’s apartment. Twenty minutes later, the bedroom light flipped on. Narrowing my eyes, I checked the time. Something was starting to seem off.
“This guy is like a fucking ghost,” Carver said. “I haven’t caught a glimpse of him once. No wonder you’re so bitchy. You must be bored out of your freaking mind being stuck here for days.”
“I don’t think he’s home,” I declared, standing up and stepping closer to the window. “We haven’t seen him at all.” I picked up the log sheet from the other two shifts. They had both seen the guy in person coming home or going out since there were requests for a mobile team to maintain visual contact with the subject.
“We have the only exit in our sights,” Carver replied, checking the building’s blueprints. “He can’t honestly be a ghost. From what I know, ghosts can’t kill, and Forrester Cline is definitely a killer.” He got up and stood next to me at the window, touching my arm gently. “Getting him off the streets is a priority, so we have to play this by the book. I know how you can get.”
I chuckled. “You’re one to talk.” Together, we bent the rules a couple of times, sometimes because of sheer ignorance and other times because something needed to be done. “But if he never does anything incriminating, what are we going to do? How can we just sit around drinking coffee and eating crappy food waiting for more bombs to explode?”
As if on cue, the radio chirped to life. “Parker, respond,” Boyle’s voice came through staticky. I picked up the radio and affirmed my presence. “Frank Farlow should be arriving at your location momentarily. The mobile unit has been following him, and he parked a block away from Cline’s apartment. Monitor the situation from your location. The mobile unit will continue to tail Farlow. If Cline exits the apartment, you and Carver will need to maintain a visual in the event the two subjects split up. Do you copy?”
“Aye, sir.” I tucked the radio inside my jacket pocket and checked the clip in my gun. “Looks like our stakeout might turn into something a bit more exciting.”
“It’s about damn time,” Carver remarked.
Watching from our perch, Farlow entered the building, and less than two minutes later, he and Cline exited through the front door. Apparently, he was home the entire time. Carver spotted one of our agents casually walking up the block in pursuit of the two men.
“Looks like it’s show time,” he said as we casually exited the back door and hovered nearby, waiting for the two men to pass.
Michael put his arm around my shoulders, and I turned into him so we wouldn’t seem as conspicuous. That was one of the few perks of being partnered with a male agent close to my own age. We had tons of practice selling ourselves as a couple, and as predicted, the men went past without any hesitation. After they were half a block ahead of us, we strolled after them, allowing the other team to leapfrog with us to prevent alerting our suspects.
Farlow and Cline entered a laundromat three blocks away, so Michael and I entered a boutique nearby and browsed the racks closest to the window to maintain our visual. One of the other agents went around to the back of the laundromat to make sure our suspects weren’t going to elude us by slipping out a back door and exiting into the alley.
“Can I help you?” the woman working inside asked.
“Federal agents, ma’am,” Carver said, covertly flashing his credentials. “Please step away.” She obliged, slightly frightened.
“I’m so going to use that the next time I go shopping,” I whispered, cracking a smile.
Five minutes later, Farlow and Cline exited with a medium-sized package. The radio in my pocket chirped, reminding me I forgot to silence it and thankful it didn’t go off when we were outside. The other agent radioed in the circumstances, and Boyle gave the go-ahead for a takedown. Maybe a decent defense attorney would argue this was circumstantial and we didn’t have enough proof to make an arrest, but considering the fact that only hours earlier a bomb detonated in the back of a restaurant, we weren’t going to wait around for another explosion.
The two agents keeping tabs on Farlow approached and announced themselves before Carver and I even exited the boutique. Both men ran, Farlow keeping a tight grip on the package. With any luck, the other team would stop him and secure whatever might be inside the brown cardboard box. My thoughts went to the possibility of a bomb, and I shuddered to think what would happen if it went off out in the open.
Carver, as usual, was slightly ahead of me as we chased after Cline. From our suspect’s trajectory, I felt confident he was going home. We continued after him, but he made it inside the building and up the stairs before we could apprehend him.
“Second floor, third from the right,” I shouted to Carver as we began our ascent.
Our guns were drawn, and we slowed our pace, not sure what to expect. Reaching Cline’s apartment, the door was wide open, but there was no sign of Cline.
“Mr. Cline, we’re federal agents. Come out slowly with your hands up,” Carver commanded, bracing himself against one side of the doorjamb, and I took up the other. “Mr. Cline, we know you’re in here.” Still nothing.
I cautioned a glance around the door. “Bedroom?” I mouthed to Carver. He shrugged and tried again. When we still got no response, I took a steadying breath. “Cover me,” I whispered and slowly entered the apartment. The bedroom door was open, and I approached silently. Leaning around the frame, no one was inside. I shook my head but went in to make sure he wasn’t hiding in a closet or under the bed. “Clear.”
Michael was outside the closed bathroom door. The rest of the apartment had been checked, and it was the only place left for Cline to be hiding. “Mr. Cline, come out. Now,” he growled.
I strained to listen, but there was no sound or movement. Leaning against the jamb, Michael held up his fingers for a countdown. When he got to one, I turned the doorknob as he raised his gun and stepped forward into the room. The only sound I heard was a loud click.
Seven
Against the bathroom wall was a motion sensor attached to an incendiary device. Right now, the sensor was green, but as Michael fidgeted, it let out clicking sounds and would briefly flash red.
“Alexis, get out of here,” he said, swallowing and slowly holstering his gun.
“I’m not leaving you. Let’s both just take a breath, and you need to stop moving,” I instructed as I crouched down to examine the sensor that Michael inadvertently tripped. “Listen to me.” I stood up and stared into his eyes through the mirror’s reflection. Since his back was to me, it was the only way we could see one another. “I’m going to radio for assistance and get someone from the bomb squad down here to deactivate t
hat thing. Until then, you aren’t going to move a muscle. I’ll be right back.”
Having a barely workable knowledge of detonators, I knew stray radio signals could cause a premature detonation, but leaving Carver standing on top of a bomb wasn’t something I wanted to do either.
“Okay. Call it in and then stay out there. No reason why we both need to be blown to bits.”
“My god, you’ll do anything to be a hero, won’t you?” I attempted to joke, but my heart hammered mercilessly in my chest as my hands shook uncontrollably. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Hey,” his tone stopped me in my tracks, “be careful. We don’t know where Cline went.”
“You’re one to talk.”
I went into the hallway of the apartment building and radioed Boyle, requesting immediate assistance. He was going to make sure they rushed to our location. In the meantime, I was going radio silent. After turning off the radio and steeling my nerves, I went back inside.
“I was just thinking,” Carver said as I stood behind him, “wouldn’t it suck if that piece of soggy cardboard, as you so eloquently put it, was my last meal. It really makes a guy reconsider the things he puts in his body.”
“Michael, as soon as we get out of here, I’ll treat you to anything you want.”
“Promises, promises.” He smirked, but then his jaw clenched. “Don’t stand so close.” He pressed his lips together in a tight line. “And make sure you watch where you step. Just because I found one booby-trap that doesn’t mean there aren’t more.”
“It’s going to be fine,” I insisted, hoping at least one of us would believe it. Serious wasn’t helping. All it did was make the situation seem that much more dire. “And just think, I was relieved not to have to apprehend the perp with the cardboard box for fear that could be a bomb. It’s ironic how things work out. How much do you want to bet the cardboard box held nothing but the guy’s laundry?”