by G. K. Parks
“It doesn’t matter. You’re a private citizen. You operate under a different set of rules, but for the record, the less I know, the better. I’m just surprised Cross is on board.”
“I’m not sure he is, but he’s cutting me slack. He and the police don’t mix.”
“I know. I’ve heard that about him. What about you? You toeing the company line and staying out of this?”
“Hell no. I’m a private contractor,” I repeated. “I do what I want. So I’m gonna be riding your ass for information and making a nuisance out of myself.”
Moretti snorted. “Paperwork’s on O’Connell’s desk. Fill it out. We could use a consultant with personal knowledge of the victim and important details concerning the crime.”
“You’re not worried I might be biased or more useful as a material witness?”
He glowered at me, and again, I saw the attack dog. “Go sign the damn papers. But this is a two-way street. I keep you updated on our progress, and you disclose everything to me. I don’t care how inconsequential you think something is. I want to know about it immediately if not sooner. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He rubbed his eyes, which were as red and bloodshot as mine. “Get going.”
I just made it to O’Connell’s desk when my phone rang. It was Martin. “Alex, you need to get back here. The surgeons encountered some complications.”
Five
“How long are they going to wait?” I asked, staring through the glass at Mark lying in a hospital bed. With the machines, tubes, and coverings, I could barely even tell it was him. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was a mistake. This was someone else, and Mark hadn’t been placed in an isolation unit in the ICU. But the two FBI agents stationed outside his room indicated otherwise. Their expressions grim as they stared straight ahead, making a point not to look in my direction. “He needs the surgery.”
“I know,” Martin said. “His vitals have to stabilize, and his stats need to go up.”
“So why did they stop? They got one bullet out. Did the doctor decide to break for lunch? Was that the complication?”
“Sweetheart, please.”
“No,” I spun, my volume increasing, “I don’t understand. He’s dying, so they stop? What is that? Dying doesn’t mean stop. It means work faster. It means help him. Save him.”
Martin touched my shoulder, and I shrugged away from him, knocking his hand off of me. “They can’t continue until he stabilizes. Right now, he isn’t strong enough to survive the surgery. As soon as he is, they’ll go back in to remove the second bullet and assess the damage. Until then, we have to wait.”
“Make them do something. Buy the damn hospital if you have to.”
“I would if that would make a difference, but it won’t. If they go back in too soon, they’ll kill him.”
“And this isn’t killing him?” I turned back to stare into the window. They packed the wound and put him in a clean room, but the longer the bullet remained, the greater the chances of infection or other complications. I knew that, even before the doctors went over the facts with us.
“The bleeding’s under control for now.” Martin took a step closer. His firm chest pressed against my back. “Sweetheart, he just needs to rest and regroup. He’ll get there. He has to.”
The tears started to fall, and my knees knocked together. Martin pulled me away from the glass, and I fought against him. But he held tight. Eventually, my arms stopped flailing, and I clung to him, my sobs muffled by his shirt. He led me away from the window to a row of chairs. He held me against him while I cried messy tears and silent wails. He shuddered beneath me but never let go.
Exhausted, I cried until my cheeks were sticky and my eyes were swollen. Ignoring the wet mess I made of Martin’s shirt, I swallowed only to find my throat sore. We sat in broken desperation. Finally, Martin pressed his lips against my forehead, causing a single tear to run down my face. At least that was the only one. At this point, I didn’t have anything else left to lose.
It had been almost two hours. I got up on weak legs and went back to the window to see how Mark was doing. A few unfamiliar men and women in lab coats huddled together outside Mark’s room. The protection detail checked each of their hospital IDs before allowing them entry.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice raspy.
The closest FBI agent turned to me. “His blood pressure and heart rate have leveled out. They’ve held steady long enough that they might try again.”
“Okay.” I wiped my eyes, hoping to get my eyelashes back into normal working order.
“Agent Parker?” the shorter man asked.
I blinked, now even more embarrassed than before about my emotional meltdown. I searched his face. “Agent Darli?”
He offered a tight smile and nod. “I haven’t seen you since you and Jablonsky invaded our conference room.” He glanced fondly at the ICU room behind him. “SSA Jablonsky’s a legend. Legends don’t go out like this.”
“I hope you’re right.”
His gaze swept the area, stopping briefly on Martin who was now speaking to Jen and Nick O’Connell. “If you don’t mind me asking, would your husband actually buy the hospital?” The real question Darli wanted answered was if Martin had enough money to buy a hospital. Darli and I only worked together once, and he had accused me of some pretty nasty things. But under current conditions, the past now had a lovely rose-tint.
“Martin?” I pointed. “He’s not my husband.”
“Oh,” Darli’s gaze dropped to the rings hanging from the chain around my neck, “I’m sorry. I just assumed. He’s wearing a ring like yours.”
“He likes shiny things. You should see him with a roll of aluminum foil.” The flock of lab coats inside Mark’s room made some notations and continued their discussion, but I couldn’t make out their words through the glass. “I don’t think he could buy the hospital, but he’d try if it would increase Jablonsky’s chances.” Martin had already offered to fly in an expert surgeon, but those efforts had been squelched when he’d been told Mark didn’t have that kind of time to waste, except we’d done nothing but waste time for the last two hours. I forced the lump down my throat as the doctors started unhooking things. “Martin. Jen,” I called, needing someone to explain what was happening. If they were pulling the plug, I’d go into the room and shoot every single one of them. I wouldn’t let Mark go out like this. If he couldn’t fight for himself, I’d fight for him.
“It’s okay, Alex,” Jen said. “They’re moving him back to the OR.”
“Mark,” I called as they wheeled him past, but he didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But I wished for a sign he was there, alive, and too stubborn to succumb.
Martin stood beside me, watching them take his friend away. “How long will it take?” Martin asked Jen.
“Probably another six hours. You look like hell. Nick,” she turned to her husband, “why don’t you get them something to eat?” Another nurse called to her, and Jen apologized, excused herself, and jogged down the hall.
“She’s supposed to be in the ER,” O’Connell said. His gaze came to rest on me. “I brought the preliminary case file. I figured you might want to take a look at it while we wait. Focusing on work might be good for you.” He glanced at Martin, who appeared distracted by something going on at the other end of the ICU wing. “Or we can wait. How about we grab some coffee? According to Jen, the new coffee cart in the lobby downstairs is pretty good. It’s my treat.”
“Yeah, okay.” I nudged Martin. “Do you want to come with us to get some coffee?”
“Go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I just need to take care of something.”
“What is it?” I asked.
Martin jerked his chin at a frosted blonde speaking to a nurse. “Renee.”
I turned, recognizing the woman from the photograph that used to sit atop Jablonsky’s desk when I was still a probationary agent. “Mark’s ex-wife?”
“Thir
d ex-wife,” Martin said. “I can’t believe she showed up.” He flicked a glance at O’Connell. “Any idea who’s listed as Jabber’s in case of emergency?”
“I’ll find out,” O’Connell said.
“You think the hospital called her?” I asked.
“I know I didn’t,” Martin said. “But I’ll find out who did. I’ll meet you guys downstairs.”
Sensing this might be important, O’Connell dragged me toward the elevator and out to his unmarked cruiser. He grabbed the files out of the car and flipped pages, handing them to me as he went. “Any chance Jablonsky’s ex could be behind the attack?”
“Anything’s possible. But it doesn’t fit. The caller was a guy.”
“Maybe she hired the shooter. She could have found his name in one of Jablonsky’s case files and figured he might want revenge on her ex as much as she did.”
“If she wanted to kill him, she should have done it when they were still married. She would have stood to gain a lot more back then. Now all she gets is alimony, like his two other ex-wives.”
“Motive doesn’t track. When did they get divorced?” O’Connell asked, taking the file from me and leading the way back inside.
“About a year before I became a full-fledged agent.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Not that I recall.”
“But Martin knows her?” O’Connell asked.
“He and Mark go way back. I guess you could say Mark’s like his older brother.”
“And Jablonsky’s like your father, which makes Martin your uncle,” O’Connell teased, attempting levity to cheer me up. “Who knew your relationship was so incestuous?”
“Eww.” I slapped his arm. “Bite your tongue. I don’t interfere in your sex life. So stay out of mine.”
“Yeah, yeah.” O’Connell stopped at the end of the long line in front of the coffee cart. “Why’d they get divorced?”
After the last twelve hours, I found myself even more protective of Mark. “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m not being nosy, Parker. I’m working. And since Moretti just hired you to consult on this case, I could use the help.” He let out a sigh. “I can always ask Moretti about it. He must know. They also go way back.”
“Renee cheated on him,” I said. “He worked too much and neglected her. When she threatened to find someone else, Mark promised he’d do better. He’d be home for dinner, that they’d do things together on the weekends, but the job got in the way.”
“Job always gets in the way,” O’Connell said. “It’s unavoidable.”
“Renee didn’t think so. I think she only did it to force his hand. She wanted him to pick her over everything else. I don’t know exactly what happened after that. Martin could probably tell you, but I think they tried couples counseling. It just didn’t take.” I remembered Mark having a few things to say about it when Martin insisted we give it a try. “But the job always came first, and so she served him with papers.” A night spent in a bar years ago came to mind. Mark drunk, sitting across from me, imparting his wisdom. It wasn’t until a few days later that I learned what prompted the introspection. “He didn’t love her enough,” I said. “Even he would tell you that. And a part of him always regretted it. He thought she deserved better.”
“That sounds like Jablonsky.” O’Connell turned to me. “He’s gonna be okay.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” I said.
“When have I ever let you down or misled you?” O’Connell asked.
I shrugged.
“Then trust me.”
“I’ll try.”
O’Connell snorted. “Renee Jablonsky,” he pointed to a copy of the Bureau’s personnel file, “she’s listed as closest relative. I’m surprised she kept his name.”
“Probably made it easier to cash the alimony checks.”
O’Connell skimmed the contents of the file, made sure everything was safely tucked away, and held it under his arm. We inched forward, and I looked around the lobby. The hospital looked like a law enforcement convention combined with a Brooks Brothers photoshoot. It was nothing but a sea of suits and uniforms, a testament to Jablonsky’s influence and impact.
“Do you want a cookie?” O’Connell asked as we got closer to the front of the line.
“No.”
“Muffin?”
I shook my head.
“Maybe Martin wants something,” O’Connell said.
“Probably not.”
The person in front of us stepped to the side to wait for the barista to prepare her beverage, so Nick stepped up to the counter. “Two vanilla lattes and a cappuccino, the biggest size you have. And one of each of those.” He pointed to the glass-encased pastry tray.
“You must be starving.” I watched him fork over a hefty stack of bills.
O’Connell took the brown bag containing a dozen different baked goods. I grabbed the drink carrier and followed him out the door to one of the benches. At least out here I felt like I could breathe again. Martin was right. Hospitals smelled like piss mixed with all the other horrible things I previously mentioned.
O’Connell placed the bag on the bench between us and took one of the lattes from the carrier. He popped the lid and took a sip. “I didn’t know if you wanted a latte or cappuccino, but something tells me Martin’s good with either.”
“Yeah.” I sipped the cappuccino, scalding my tongue in the process, but it barely registered.
Biting into a bear claw, O’Connell nudged the bag closer to me, but I didn’t make a move for it. “Jen told me to feed you. Do you want my wife to get mad at me? If you don’t eat something, she’ll make me sleep on the couch. And it has those springs that poke up. Then my back will hurt the next day, and I’ll be cranky.”
“Nick, stop,” I said.
But he didn’t listen. “Plus, Heathcliff said you like the big cookies. Are you telling me one of the major crimes detectives sucks at detecting?”
“You all suck at detecting,” I retorted, but I took the cookie out of the bag and nibbled on it. “Happy?”
“No.” He blew the rising steam from the top of his cup, took another sip, and placed it on the bench beside him.
“Where is Derek?” I asked, remembering he wanted to talk to me earlier. “Did he go home?”
“No, he went to check the crime scene. The techs finished their preliminary examination, but they’re going over it again. No one found anything. All the prints and trace were ruled out as contamination due to law enforcement on scene. Several detectives, including yours truly, have performed walkthroughs. Heathcliff wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
“He told me he worked last night. Now he’s working a double?”
O’Connell shoved the rest of the bear claw into his mouth and spoke around it. “We’re all working doubles, Parker. From the looks of you, I’m wondering when you last slept. Are you working a triple?”
“I got an hour or two before the call came in. I’ll sleep once I know Mark’s okay.”
“Any idea why the shooter called you?” O’Connell asked. “He could have called 9-1-1 or the FBI if he wanted to report his crime and rub it in our faces. How do you think he got your number?”
“Mark’s speed dial.”
O’Connell shook his head. “I checked. The phone didn’t have speed dial. And we didn’t find an address book or phone directory in Jablonsky’s house. You’re probably saved on his contacts list in his cell phone, but the device requires a fingerprint or PIN to access it. And the techs didn’t find any blood on the phone, and the only prints matched Jablonsky. I don’t think the shooter touched it.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you notice anything missing from the townhouse?” O’Connell asked. “Maybe you happened to pick something up and forgot to tell us about it.”
“I didn’t take evidence from the crime scene.”
O’Connell looked unconvinced.
“I’m serious, Nick. I didn
’t. No shell casing. Nothing. I wouldn’t compromise the scene. This is too important.”
“Yeah, I know,” he admitted. “The shooter got in and out clean. No prints. No fibers or hairs. Nothing.”
“You’re thinking he’s a professional.”
“I’m thinking he’s done this or something similar before.”
“Did anything come back on the slug?” I asked, remembering Heathcliff told me ballistics was analyzing it.
“Not yet. But soon.”
I blew out a breath. “FBI labs might have gotten it done faster.”
“Director Kendall didn’t think so. He gave it to us.”
“Cross Security could get it done faster,” I said.
“Are you offering? It’s not unheard of to farm work out to private labs. Cross has all the accreditation necessary.”
“I was stating a fact, but I could ask. I just worry about legal ramifications. Whenever we ID this bastard, I want him to go down hard. Nothing questionable. We need a slam dunk conviction. Private labs might be out of the question, depending on how this bastard’s attorney spins things.”
Before O’Connell could reply, Martin exited the hospital with Renee at his side. “Go home, Renee,” Martin said.
Her eyes met mine, and something ignited in them. She stormed over to the bench. “You’re Alexis Parker.”
“Yes,” I said uncertainly.
Unsure what to do, she stood, gawking at me. Finally, she sputtered, “Were you sleeping with him?”
“Who?” My gaze darted to Martin. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, ma’am.” Martin ran a hand through his hair and circled, something I only saw him do when extremely frustrated.
“Not James.” She threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “Mark. My husband,” she said, as if this should be obvious.
“Eww. No.”
“Yeah, right.” She gave me a cold, hard stare. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.” She waved a chewed fingernail in my face. “You’re all he ever talked about. This bright-eyed and bushy-tailed hotshot FBI agent. The last thing I remember him talking about when we were still married was how you shot a guy on your first assignment out. How well you handled it. How you would go places. What a bright future you had. You’re the reason he always worked late. That is, if you were even working. Or was that just a euphemism? I’m not stupid.”