by G. K. Parks
“Hell,” I pulled a few bills out of my pocket, “I’ll put ten down that Det. O’Connell would get it before any of us if he’d shave his legs and put on a dress.” There was a round of robust laughter that erupted throughout the women’s locker room.
“I like you, Parker,” Costas said, slapping my back on her way out. “You just made my day.”
“Tell your friends, I’ll be here all week.” I was playing up the stand-up comic routine since I didn’t want to deal with any more hazing, particularly from the female officers, after the guys had been making my life miserable since I started consulting for the police department.
Returning upstairs, we got back to business. I pinned my flow chart concerning Tate, Sanderson, and Spencer to the board. This led to a thorough analysis of public business records to determine how frequently Sanderson’s models were hired by Tate and photographed by Spencer. With their combined set of skills, the three of them could probably take over the modeling world if they put their minds to it.
“Maybe they’re all responsible for Skolnick’s murder. It’s insane how much overlap there is,” Thompson remarked. “If you look at the models employed by Tate, almost all of them are represented by Sanderson.”
“How does that make sense?” I questioned his reasoning. “Didn’t Sanderson and Tate lose money because of Caterina’s death?”
“I have Skolnick’s will and insurance policy here,” O’Connell offered, grabbing a few sheets from under the mountain of paperwork on his desk. “Her parents were the beneficiaries of her estate, but the insurance money is being paid to Tate’s agency.”
“Hang on,” Heathcliff scribbled a note about the insurance and tacked it to the board, “who took out the insurance policy?”
“Tate,” O’Connell replied, his brow furrowing.
I swiveled in my chair to study the latest tidbits of information we posted, but they made little sense. If Skolnick was scheduled for an upcoming, highly lucrative ad campaign, then now was the worst time to stage her death. Money wasn’t a clear motive for either Richard Sanderson or Yolanda Tate, unless the insurance policy was greater than the projected gains from the advertising.
“Is there any solid information on the big modeling campaign Caterina was supposed to do in the fall?” I asked.
Heathcliff flipped through some pages but came up empty. “Looks like someone might have to get that information from the inside,” he suggested, and I rubbed my eyes and stretched, ignoring the comment. It was no wonder we lacked leads; we didn’t have enough facts to work with. “I wanna bring Spencer in for a follow-up. Maybe, by now, he’s calm enough to answer questions instead of crying like a little bitch.” I cocked an eyebrow, tossing him a warning look.
“Dammit.” I noticed the time. I was supposed to meet Martin for lunch in twenty minutes. “I have an appointment. Call me if something surfaces.”
“Why do I feel like we’re working for you?” O’Connell asked as I picked up my purse and headed for the door.
“Oh, you will be soon enough,” I threatened. “Shall I stop by the drugstore for neon pink hair dye or would you prefer purple?”
Sixteen
I was not dressed for the high-class restaurant Martin selected. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to go home and change. The reason he requested this meeting was still a mystery. Maybe he wanted an update on the Skolnick situation or just needed an excuse not to eat alone.
I entered the restaurant and was immediately met with a glower. Luckily, it was an off-hour time to rendezvous, just after the lunchtime rush, so the hostess didn’t threaten me with the dress code. I gave her Martin’s name, and she instantly toned down the haughtiness. At least he was good for something.
Martin was at a table for two, gazing out the window. Bruiser was outside, monitoring the situation from a nearby bench, eating a pretzel, and pretending to be oblivious to his surroundings. Maybe the hostess thought he was violating the dress code too and refused to let him occupy one of the many empty tables.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I apologized.
Martin turned away from the window and focused on me. “Notice anything different?” His smile was infectious.
His arm was no longer in a sling, and his final doctor’s appointment must have been earlier today. The case of the mystery lunch meeting was resolved. If only everything else could be this simple.
“Um, you got a haircut?” I tried to keep my lips from curling up at the corners. “No, wait, you bought a new shirt. Am I getting closer?”
“Smartass.” He smirked.
“So, you’re okay?”
“I’m better than okay.” Classic egotistical Martin. “The scar tissue’s been removed, and the surgeon said the nerve damage has healed nicely. So my mobility won’t be impeded by any more inflammation. I just need to rebuild some muscle mass, and the scar itself is streamlined now, in case you want to see it.” He lowered his voice a little and added, “It shouldn’t freak you out as much in the future.” I caught his flirtatious tone.
“Looks like we’re celebrating.”
“Champagne?” He motioned to the server.
“No, this is just my lunch break. I have to get back to the precinct soon enough.”
“Anything you care to divulge on the case?” he asked, switching to a more professional mindset.
I relayed a minimal amount of detail concerning our three persons of interest. The only official suspect was Alvarez, and he was in the wind. When I concluded my rundown and gave him even stricter instructions not to mention anything I said concerning the case to anyone, including but not limited to Mark, he eyed my salad suspiciously.
“Since when do you consider leafy things food?” He looked contemplative. “I’ve seen you eat salads before but with other things like steak, burgers, or pizza. But never just salad. Come to think of it, I’ve seen you put lettuce and tomato on top of pizza and call that salad.”
“I was out of clean forks, so I had to get creative. And there’s nothing wrong with trying to keep my girlish figure in check,” I deadpanned, and he looked as if I just said the grass was made out of marshmallows. “By the way, that reminds me, what do models wear?”
“What?” He was clearly confused by my conversational skills. “Is this a trick question?”
“No.” I angrily stabbed at some lettuce that wasn’t cooperating with my fork. God, now I wanted a cheeseburger with fries and a shake. “You’ve dated like half a dozen models, or so you claim. How the hell do they dress?” I sighed. “It’s for the job.”
He put two and two together and leaned back in his chair, savoring the moment. The look on his face was disconcerting. “Oh, I so want pictures.”
“I am armed, and since you’re in perfect health, I’m not afraid to make you bleed.”
“Depends on the person. It’s about accentuating assets. I’d say stilettos, skintight pants, or short skirts, and something slim fitting with a plunging neckline but still slightly more conservative on the top.” I sat there motionless, gawking at his highly detailed analysis. He was visualizing all of these things into some ensemble he had already picked out, and if left to his own devices, his mind would end up in the gutter.
“Right, so I’m guessing raiding the stockpile of outfits reserved for vice isn’t the most effective plan.”
“Models aren’t hookers,” he turned back to serious, “regardless of what you might think.”
“If you say so. Any additional tips I can share with the other ladies?”
“What’s the goal?” I pressed my lips together. He was a civilian with no clearance to be privy to the inner workings of an impending sting operation. I hedged, and he noted my reticence. “How about I instill upon you the few tidbits of information I have on the industry?” he offered. “First, open calls are almost always filled by individuals with representation. Chelsea would harp about how these nobodies believed they had a shot. Secondly, the biggest challenge is getting an interview or audition or whatever.
” He was confused by the proper terminology, which made me feel better since I was clueless on all of it. “Sometimes being outlandish or classily provocative may stand out more than a nice,” we made eye contact, “cover story.”
I put my fork down and pulled out the small notepad and pen I kept in my purse and made a note of his two suggestions. I’d discuss this more thoroughly with Heathcliff to see if there was anything the police hadn’t already considered. Shutting my eyes, I shook my head slightly before opening them and letting out a small chuckle. I had come to the sudden realization I was a much more assiduous investigator than I ever realized because nothing else explained why I was trying so hard to give one of us, be it me, Taylor, Costas, or any of the other women in uniform, a realistic shot of infiltrating Tate’s agency. I was dogged in wanting to identify Skolnick’s assailant since someone had to do it, and Martin asked that I assist in this endeavor.
“I need to stop asking for your help,” I commented, giving up on the green and purple leaves still on my plate. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this.”
“That’s funny since I asked you to help, or at least Ackerman did,” he argued. “And I can’t remove myself from this. It came to me.” He reached for my hand, but I pulled away.
“I need to get back and run your helpful hints by the detectives, and then I have to tail a teenage boy to the park.”
He laid some cash on the table and stood up, slipping on his jacket. “I didn’t know you were into younger men.” He guided me out of the restaurant, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back. I didn’t say anything, but it felt awkward, just like most things with him.
“Separate case,” I mumbled. “I’m,” I paused, trying to determine the appropriate word, relieved, ecstatic, thankful, “glad you’re okay.” He brushed a strand of hair out of my face and rubbed his thumb across my cheek in the process. His faint touch served as a painful reminder of everything we lost.
“Think about where you thought we’d be, and let me know if we can ever get back there.” He smiled sadly and leaned in, placing a gentle, lingering kiss on my cheek. “Stay safe.”
“Always.”
Once inside my car, I watched Bruiser trail Martin into his chauffeured town car. I took a deep breath and pulled away. Crisis averted. Good job, Parker. I attempted to congratulate myself on navigating the muddied relationship waters, but I didn’t feel much like celebrating.
* * *
At the precinct, the dream team was tossing questions and theories around the room, along with rolled up scrap paper as they played a rather strange version of desk basketball.
“Working hard or hardly working?” I inquired, sitting across from Heathcliff.
“There’s still no word on the whereabouts of Mr. Raymond Alvarez,” O’Connell offered, tossing a paper wad into the trashcan beside me.
“Spencer claims to be in the middle of a job, but he’s offered to come in bright and early tomorrow morning. He even managed to contain the uncontrollable sobbing over the phone,” Heathcliff condescendingly added. “Funny, I’d imagine someone that distraught wouldn’t be able to work. How can he see through the viewfinder with all those tears cascading down his face?”
“Maybe it’s supposed to make the photos more artistic,” Thompson mocked.
“Okay, so I just came from a brief meeting with Martin.” I might as well let the cat out of the bag. “I thought he might be able to provide some tips on the modeling world.” The guys looked intrigued.
“Did he use to model? Is that how he started making his millions?” Thompson asked, but I disregarded his question.
“I’m guessing none of you have dated any models,” I continued. “Apparently, the chances of getting selected depend greatly on representation and a flair for the dramatic. Something needs to be done to get attention in a positive way.”
“And here I thought you were completely opposed to the possibility of this undercover assignment,” Heathcliff remarked. “But we aren’t as stupid as we look. Well, I guess I can only speak for myself.” He threw a glance at the other two guys. “Moretti has a team making calls to all the agents in town, looking for some assistance on this thing, but we can’t force them to play along. And there’s been no word yet if any of them will be promising.”
“How many officers are you sending undercover on Monday?”
“Eight. Nine if we count you,” Heathcliff replied. “It’s too many for one agent to accept, and all we can really do is threaten to look into their business practices. It’s a hard sell. They’re afraid of getting a bad reputation and losing their current clients or the willingness of agencies to hire the models they represent.”
“You know what I still don’t understand?” Thompson interrupted. “If it’s a modeling agency, why do the women need to have individual representation too?”
“Don’t ask me. I was just hired to sit around and look pretty,” I responded.
We spent the next hour spit-balling ideas and theories. Hopefully, Spencer would provide something useful during tomorrow’s interview. Skolnick was killed almost a week ago, give or take several hours, and the police still had no solid leads. Alvarez was our best bet but only if he could be found. For all any of us knew, he could be drinking mai tais in the Bahamas at this very moment.
“Let’s take a break,” Heathcliff ordered. “We’re not getting anywhere, and we’re two minutes away from someone suggesting she was suffocated by a UFO disguised as a pillow.”
“Shit.” I forgot to share Mark’s insight. “The pillow didn’t belong to Martin, but Agent Jablonsky did some digging into the marina’s records. Sanderson and Tate both have personal watercrafts docked at the same pier. Since the pillow had to come from somewhere, it could be one of theirs.”
“Yeah, we know,” O’Connell said, “but it’s too circumstantial to warrant a warrant.” He looked proud of his play on words. “Thompson and I are going to check into a couple other things that have found their way to my desk since we are taking a break, right?”
“Go ahead,” Heathcliff dismissed them. After they left, he let out a sigh. “You should take off too. Whenever Moretti gets a verdict on the modeling representatives, I’ll give you a call.” His brow knitted together. “Do you think Martin could use his influence to do us a favor?”
“The only connection he has to the modeling world besides some ex-girlfriends,” although I suspected they were more brief hook-ups than relationships, “is his passing acquaintanceship with Sanderson.” Something crossed Heathcliff’s eyes, but he didn’t speak. He only nodded, deep in thought. “But if you want to ask, I’m sure you have his number.”
“I doubt Martin has any exploitable resources,” he was lost in devising a plan, “but if that changes, it’d probably mean more coming from his company’s security consultant.”
The last thing I wanted to do was ask for a favor, but we were running out of time and options. “Keep me apprised.” I put my jacket on and left the building.
Seventeen
I was at the park, sitting in my car and staring at the picnic tables where the grungy chess players and a lonely teenage boy sat. I couldn’t solve Roger’s problems. Life had dealt him a shitty hand, full of loneliness and tragedy. The only compensation he had was his family’s wealth. Although, when it came down to it, we all had misery and hardships to face. Sadness and loss were the great equalizers everyone could relate to. I tried to ward off the melancholy as my mind returned to the task of disentangling the intricacies of the modeling world.
About an hour had passed, and no one approached Roger. I wondered why he would choose to sit outside for hours on end in the hopes of finding some type of human interaction. He had friends. I saw him eat breakfast with them. Why didn’t he just hang out at the mall or movies or whatever it was teenagers did nowadays. “God, you’re getting old and out of touch, Parker,” I said to myself. I was also becoming senile since I wasn’t only speaking to myself out loud but mocking my own age. Maybe I need
ed to make more friends and not the imaginary kind.
Slumping back against the headrest, I played with the radio for a while. The sun was preparing to set, and I wondered how much longer Roger would sit at the table before going home. I had gotten distracted making a list of potential model-appropriate clothing choices and completely missed the appearance of two dangerous looking men who were now seated on the bench in front of Roger.
As soon as I noticed them, I opened my car door and waited. The two clowns wore leather and chains, but the most troubling aspect was the shift in Roger’s body language. Instead of being outwardly open and friendly, he was cowering and leaning away from them. The change in his posture was foreboding, and I knew he’d run.
I just unzipped my jacket for easier access to my holstered weapon when Roger took off in the opposite direction of the men. He was moving fast, and the two goons gave chase. Fuck. I slammed my car door and pursued. Whatever was going on wasn’t good. As I attempted to follow through the wooded areas, the cause of the red scratches on his neck and arms became apparent. Damn low-lying tree branches, I cursed.
The two leather-clad men caught up to Roger and knocked him to the ground. They were some distance ahead of me, but Roger’s panicked cries carried through the park. Upon reaching a clearing, I stopped dead in my tracks. The three of them tussled as Roger attempted and failed to fight off his assailants. One of the men, probably not much older than Roger, had gotten a tight grasp while the other man, also a teenager, proceeded to hit him.
“Hey. Leave him alone,” I ordered, my voice deadly. The punk turned to face me, temporarily stopping the assault.
“This isn’t your problem, lady. Get out of here,” he sneered.
“I asked nicely. The next time I ask, it won’t be so nice.” On brute force alone, I was outmatched, so I pulled my gun and steadied it on the little twerp. He might come off as a badass, but he wasn’t bulletproof. “Let him go. Now,” I growled.