Muffled Echoes

by G. K. Parks

The medic gave me the quick once-over, but I insisted I was fine. The only thing that hurt worse than my bleeding injuries was my ego. The flashes of memory, or whatever the hell it was, had taken a toll, leaving me drained.

  “Another panic attack?” Lucca asked.

  “It wasn’t,” I snapped.

  “Whatever you say,” Lucca replied. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know, okay?” I gave Cooper an uncertain look, afraid he would mention my ties to Antonio ‘Vito’ Vincenzo in front of Lucca, or even worse, maybe he’d believe Lucca’s nonsense that I was mentally unstable and out me to Jablonsky or the higher powers which would result in more psychological evaluations, mandated therapy, and some other form of torment that should have been banned by the Geneva Convention. “It didn’t feel like a panic attack. It felt like a sharp jabbing pain in my side and back.”

  “Then why the hell were you shaking like a leaf?” Lucca challenged. “Did you remember something?”

  “Maybe, but it’s hard to say for certain. It was more like a memory of fear, muffled echoes of what happened.”

  “What does that mean?” Lucca asked.

  I shrugged. “Forget it.”

  “Hey, we’re here for you,” Cooper said. He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Aren’t you on medical leave? Maybe you just need more time to rest and recuperate.”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “Seriously, Parker, if you need anything, just holler. And I mean anything.” Cooper gave me a nod and headed for the elevator.

  After he left, Lucca offered me a hand up. “I can’t leave you alone for an hour without something happening. Honestly, this is getting ridiculous. What were you doing in the garage?”

  “Looking for clues. We are investigators. I was investigating.”

  “Did you find anything helpful? You said you had flashes or something.”

  “It’s hard to explain. It’s just a mess of images and feelings.” I shut my car door and removed my purse from the trunk before closing the lid. Nothing was inside except the usual items I carried. “How’d your outing go?”

  “I came up empty. No one remembers you, and your credentials and gun weren’t recovered. We’re right where we started.”

  “Great,” I said, unenthused. “For once, I’m actually ready to throw in the towel.”

  “We’re not supposed to make cases personal,” Lucca admonished.

  “This isn’t just a case. It’s my life.”

  “Yeah, which is why you aren’t actually allowed to do any investigating. You can answer questions and assist the actual investigators, but that’s about it.”

  “Why do you always have to be so damn by the book, boy scout?”

  “I’m not,” he tossed a conspiratorial smirk my way and pushed the button for the elevator, “but someone has to do something to keep you in line. Now let’s get you home and out of everyone’s hair. I have a threat assessment to complete, unless you want to have twenty-four hour bodyguards at your front door at all times. In which case, your boyfriend could probably afford to hire an entire army to protect you, and the two agents guarding you can get back to doing some real work.”

  “Ha. Ha.” I glared at him, knowing that Lucca would make my relationship with Martin another point of contention between us. “The best thing about medical leave is that I won’t have to see you every day.”

  “You will if you want updates on the case,” Lucca retorted, enjoying the ribbing.

  “Dammit, I really can’t catch a break, can I?”

  Seven

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and tried to force my mind to cooperate. I was safe at home. Nothing could hurt me, and there weren’t any sharp objects nearby that could randomly decide to attack without provocation, like my car door or that stupid no-parking pole. Why the hell did they even have those in the first place? Was someone really stupid enough to park directly in front of the elevator and block it? Probably. Shaking my head, I berated myself for letting my mind wander into another completely unproductive series of thoughts.

  “Focus, Parker,” I growled. I shut my eyes again, thinking about the irrational responses I’d had since waking up that horrible morning. I’d reacted badly to being strapped down and being crowded by other human beings, but that was typical. Moving on, I thought about my dream, the car ride to the OIO building, and the brief glimpses of memory that I had upon opening my trunk.

  Reaching for the pad of paper, I jotted everything down that might have been a memory. Then I made a second column of the facts that I knew for certain. My credentials, gun, and handcuffs were missing. I had sustained numerous injuries which weren’t considered the result of a fight, and my blood-alcohol content had been relatively high, especially since I hadn’t been imbibing, at least not that I could remember. The fact was, at some point after my conversation with Martin but before waking up outside, alcohol had entered my system.

  Glancing down at my casted arm, I looked at my bandaged fingers. Wood shards had been discovered underneath my fingernails. I must have been inside a bar or restaurant, probably drinking, but how did I end up with splinters like that? Maybe it was modern day torture. Instead of bamboo shoots, I had been subjected to table pieces. No, it didn’t make sense. If I’d been subjected to torture, there would be defensive wounds, marks from being bound, or something blatantly obvious.

  I looked at my left hand, turning it over to examine my palm and fingertips, but there were no marks. I checked the back, and aside from a slight scrape near my wrist, there was nothing remarkable about it. The other scars on my wrist were old, and no fresh marks or bruises indicated I’d been bound.

  What about my alleged meeting with a police informant? I wrote that on my sheet of paper with a large question mark. Who was I meeting? Why was I meeting them? What was it in regards to? No one at the OIO had any idea about this, or if they did, they didn’t share that information with me. I hated to think that the people I worked with were intentionally keeping me in the dark, but the little voice inside my head was having issues trusting them completely. These days, I was having trouble trusting just about everyone, including myself.

  Picking up the phone, I dialed Detective Nick O’Connell of the major crimes division. Whenever I needed a favor, he was my go-to guy. The fact that he was a first grade detective who was willing to tolerate my pestering didn’t hurt matters either. He and his wife, Jen, had become my close friends, and on more than one occasion, I’d confided in him with information that was probably considered privileged. Needless to say, if anyone knew why I was bugging one of the PD’s confidential informants, it’d be Nick.

  “Hey, stranger,” O’Connell greeted, “don’t tell me it’s been a month already since our last double-date night. I can’t take another jazz club.”

  “Neither can I,” I replied. “So I take it we haven’t spoken recently?” Sighing, I should have realized that, but I hoped I’d phoned from my landline or Martin’s house. Damn, so much for my wishful thinking.

  “No,” O’Connell said hesitantly, “did I miss a text or something?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, Parker, what the hell is going on now?”

  “I wish I knew.” After giving him the abbreviated version of the last few days, I asked, “Have you heard anything about some fed making a request to speak to a police informant?”

  “I’ll ask around, but I haven’t heard anything. If it had to do with major crimes or homicide, I’d know.”

  “Of course, you would. You’d be the person I asked for the favor,” I retorted.

  “Well, that narrows it down to a different department, unless you were busting balls at a different precinct. Are you sure the informant is in our jurisdiction?”

  “I don’t know anything at the moment.”

  “I’ll pass word to the LT. Moretti likes you for some unknown reason. He can ask around. He knows people.”

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  “I’ll add it to your tab,” he teased be
fore disconnecting.

  I was almost out of ideas. I turned on my computer and scanned through my recent files. Then I checked my search history. Most of the data dealt with the alleged terrorist cell that I’d been tracking. The group, roughly translated to Shade, functioned out of the Balkans. We had it on good authority that their funding came from the sale of counterfeit goods. While seemingly innocuous, that type of funding often promoted child labor and possibly human trafficking.

  Once they had the money, it wasn’t uncommon for terrorist cells to purchase military-grade weaponry. Shade hadn’t claimed credit for any terrorist attacks or plots yet, but intel suggested that they had ties to other more vocal organizations. The OIO, along with a few other intelligence gathering organizations, were monitoring Shade’s activities in the hopes of stopping them before they turned violent. So far, they’d done nothing more than rattle some sabers, but something about their recent behavior had worried me.

  My computer contained maps and satellite images of the area they occupied. The OIO had received intel and additional images that showed movement and shipments of some type. The last thing I remembered about the case was checking into overseas shipments that were destined for the United States. Cargo containers often carried contraband and, far too frequently, human cargo.

  The ten men thought to be in charge of the terrorist cell had been flagged. That must have been what my passport question for Jablonsky was about. Rubbing my eyes, I jotted down a reminder to ask about that and to pass this intel on to Lucca. He had been assisting on analyzing Shade’s movement and terrorist leanings, and since I was in dispose, Lucca should have been made primary on the case.

  Other than monitoring Shade’s activity and dealing with quite a few other open cases, I was a key witness in the DeAngelo Bard trial. He was the leader of a local gang that I had infiltrated with the help of Detective Derek Heathcliff, another one of my close cop buddies. My computer contained a few files on that case, personal information about Bard and his lieutenants, and my notes and reports. The prosecutor had copies of everything, and I knew Bard was no longer in a position to seek revenge. After his arrest, the gang crumbled. He didn’t have the power to make a play against me.

  The rest of the information on my computer proved useless, and I reconsidered the possibility that Agent Cooper might be correct. What if Vito realized I was a federal agent again? Would that be enough of an incentive to take a hit out on me? I knew the answer to that question, but Vito was aware that doing anything to me would result in his own destruction. The evidence I had against him would be released, and even if it might not be enough for a conviction, a note from a dead federal agent along with a lot of circumstantial evidence and corroborating accounts would surely bury him eventually. Plus, like I told Cooper, if Vito wanted me dead, I would be. Sure, the mafia boss might have contracted a hit. That would explain my lost credentials and gun, which could serve as verification of the kill, but I wasn’t dead. And again, I returned to the lack of defensive wounds.

  Tapping my fingers against the desk, I circled back through the possibilities. But aside from the normal amount of enemies a person in my line of work makes, I didn’t think that whatever happened was the result of an intended attack, which meant Lucca might be right. This could be an accident.

  Playing devil’s advocate with myself, I considered a different set of facts. My boyfriend was being sued by his ex-fiancée, and his sexual history and our relationship would be fodder for her attorneys. It was conceivable that a lesser woman might have gotten pissed off and then piss drunk in order to cope with that situation. It was also possible that said woman could have lied about having a work meeting just to have another excuse to stay out late, leave early, or otherwise conceal the fact that she had moved out because she couldn’t stomach staying alone in a place where she’d gunned down two assassins and nearly lost the love of her life. Wow, I was a cross between insane and a telenovela. It was no wonder Lucca thought I was unstable; I was beginning to think it was possible.

  The light bulb flicked on at my epiphany. If this were any other case, we’d figure out where our amnesiac-like victim had been based on credit card activity. Logging in to my account, I checked, but my last purchase had been at a coffee cart near the prosecutor’s office. Dinner at the OIO had been paid in cash. I checked my wallet, knowing that I normally didn’t carry more than fifty dollars at a time, and I had almost thirty left. There’s no way I could afford to drink to excess. Sure, men often offered to buy me drinks. It was a perk of being female, but I was positive that didn’t happen. I wouldn’t have let it, regardless of how pissed off I might have been.

  Something else about the situation was bothersome, and the familiar twinge circulated through my brain. A CI would want payment for intel. That usually required a hefty cash exchange or paperwork to be filed. I hadn’t filed any such documentation with the OIO which meant someone else was footing the bill for the intel.

  I dialed O’Connell again, asking if there was a way to see who had filed paperwork on paying CIs. That was a sensitive matter, and one that he doubted he could look into. But he promised to try. That would mean that the cop was with me when we met the confidential informant. I wouldn’t have been alone. Perhaps, I had been unexpectedly attacked by the CI or someone else. It would explain the lack of defensive wounds. Hell, it might even explain the drinking to a certain extent, if I needed to sell myself as a civilian. I needed to find the cop. He or she would have the answers.

  “Lucca,” I said when he answered, “check through the call logs for any PD numbers. I don’t think I was alone that night.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “I don’t know.” Talking to him could be exasperating. “I’m guessing one of our city’s finest.”

  “Don’t you have friends over there that can help?” I could hear the snotty tone in his voice, as if being a federal agent automatically meant we were too good to fraternize with the local police.

  “I do, but I’m asking you to help. Didn’t you mention some crap about being my partner?”

  “Sure, when you want something, then I’m your partner.”

  “Good, you’ve finally figured out how this works.” I sighed. “I have additional information on Shade.”

  “I’ll swing by after work, and you can brief me then, okay?”

  “Yep. Can you pass me off to Jablonsky? I need to ask him something?”

  “Hang on.”

  After transferring the call from his desk phone to Jablonsky’s office, I waited for the ringing to stop. Mark wasn’t one to sit behind a desk all day, but he’d return eventually. Half a second before the voicemail kicked on, he picked up the phone.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask if we ever discussed passport codes in relation to Shade. The men involved have been flagged, but what code are we using? Are they on the watchlist, or do we simply have a warning attached to their names?”

  “Parker, you are on sick leave,” Mark reminded me, ignoring the question. “That doesn’t mean you go home and work on a case.”

  “This wasn’t a case. It’s analysis, and I’m not working on it. I happened upon it while searching through my data for what happened to me.”

  “They have an alert attached to their identities,” he replied. “Notifications will be sent if they attempt to travel, and they’ll be stopped and questioned. Their bags will be searched.”

  “What if they travel under an alias or ship their contraband through an intermediary? Do we have a way of monitoring that?”

  “Talk me through what you’ve found,” Mark said, giving up on admonishing my behavior.

  “They were moving cargo in and out. Large containers. It could be for cargo ships or freight. I don’t know if or when they moved it, but the images we received from various other agencies indicate that something big was either shipped in or is getting shipped out. We need to get someone on it.”

  “You think that the cell members will be at the exchange?” Mark paused
, considering my words. “Or were at the exchange?”

  “I’m not even sure it is an exchange. They could have taken delivery of something heinous in order to enact some insidious plan. The intel we have doesn’t say much, but there was a lot of suspicious activity.”

  “Did you mention this to Lucca?”

  “Yeah, he’s stopping by later to discuss it. The last thing I remember from work that night was wanting to ask you about passports, so it must have been in relation to this.”

  “I’m on it. Now get some rest. I heard about your episode in the parking garage. You need to take better care of yourself.”

  “I’m clumsy. There’s not much I can do about it.” I disconnected before he could ask me anything else.

  Out of ideas and tired of feeling this frustrated, I sunk onto the couch and turned on the television. There was too much to think about and not enough facts for any of it to make sense. This must be what it felt like to be completely impotent, and I hated it.

  Eight

  The knock at my door roused me from my catnap, and I wondered why the protection detail would even allow someone to knock at the door. Did something happen to them? Just as I was lifting my recently reacquired back-up from the end table, Lucca announced his presence.

  “You shouldn’t bother to knock unless you’re Ed McMahon,” I said, tucking the gun into the waistband at the small of my back. “If you aren’t here to give me millions of dollars, let yourself in or go away.” I opened the door to see Lucca holding a grocery bag. “Great, you brought cash. Let’s not report this to the IRS.”

  Davis, one of the agents assigned to my detail, snickered, and Lucca gave him a dirty look. “Don’t encourage her,” Lucca said, pushing past me and into my apartment.

  I nodded to the two men, who appeared to have been bribed with fast food in order to allow Lucca to enter my home, and shut the door. My “partner” placed a covered casserole dish on my kitchen table and rummaged through the cabinets for plates. Raising a questioning eyebrow, I remained motionless to see exactly what he was planning on doing.