by G. K. Parks
The incessant pounding at my door roused me, and I climbed out of bed to answer. Thompson met my eyes and, without waiting for an invitation, briskly walked to my table, dropped a thick tome of file folders on top, and pulled out a chair.
“You’re not supposed to be on this. Word leaked, no thanks to the fucking numbnut agents at the Cales’ place. They’ve thrown all of us out, especially you. O’Connell got word. He went there to salvage whatever’s left of the situation. I’ve never seen him so fucking pissed before. Jen wants to shoot him up with elephant tranquilizers.” He opened a large manila folder and spread the paperwork over my table. “None of this came from me. Moretti’d be so far down my throat that he’d pop out my ass.”
I continued to stand at my front door, frozen as the words swam around in my brain. “Has it become official?” I squeaked.
“Nothing yet. They’re testing the evidence now. Blood type matches,” he kept talking as if it were just another case and not his partner’s niece, “but the blood specialist thinks there might be something off. They’re running tests now, and you know how long DNA takes to verify. Without a body, the department’s not considering it a homicide.”
“But you are.”
“So are you,” he snapped. My jaw clenched, and I remained silent. “Look, Parker, we don’t always see eye to eye on things. O’Connell doesn’t want you anywhere near this, and normally, I’d defer to my partner. But these are special circumstances. The feds are looking into whatever they can, but you’ve been blacklisted everywhere. We want to run this off the books and out of your apartment.” He met my eyes. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“We?”
“Heathcliff and I.” He still had the same defiant look. “Between the three of us, there’s no chance these assholes are getting away with it. So are you in or not?”
“Tell me where to start.”
Nineteen
I sat with my head in my hand, staring at the pages in front of me. We had exploited all of our resources and still had little to show for our hard work. Interpol files and police reports were translated from half a dozen different languages and three different continents, but we still weren’t any closer to determining who the kidnappers were. Heathcliff showed up after midnight, and the three of us went over everything with a fine tooth comb. Julian Mercer had yet to return or acknowledge any of the dozen phone calls I placed to him. The USB drive he provided did little except cast doubts on the Seasons’ current whereabouts, all of which proved to be dead ends.
“The two of you got this?” Thompson asked, standing and stretching. None of us had moved in hours. “I have to be back at work in four hours, and maybe I can fit in a couple hours of sleep before then.”
“Go,” Heathcliff told him, still clicking through the files on the USB drive. “If you hear the investigation is moving, give us a call.”
“Night, Thompson,” I called as he let himself out. Leaning back in my chair, I stared at the ceiling and blew out a breath.
“We’re chasing ghosts,” Heathcliff announced. He was fed up with the search and so was I. “Whoever took the briefcase at the bus stop was invisible. He must be Harry fucking Houdini. The surveillance from the school and the museum fail to show anyone suspicious. How did they dodge all the cameras?”
“They cased the place.”
“We have footage from two weeks before the abduction, and there isn’t any indication of that either.”
“Inside job?”
“Okay,” he picked up a pen and scribbled some notes, “who?”
“Don’t you think we’d be kicking in some doors right now if I knew?” Bitchy and surly were vying for top position in my vocal chords.
“Just take a minute, regroup, and think.” This was not the time for him to be at peace with the universe. It further irritated me, and I got up from the kitchen table and stomped across the expanse to my living room and flopped onto the couch. “Gut instincts, Parker. Let’s hear ‘em.”
“Field trips have chaperones. How’d they not notice losing three of their charges?” This fact frustrated me since the beginning. “The museum curator or director or whoever the hell he is, Jeremy something, was very accommodating. Too accommodating?”
“Tolbert, Jeremy, museum director,” he read from the compiled information.
“When I questioned him, he said a detective had been there earlier.”
“Who?”
“Stop impersonating a freakin’ owl,” I snapped.
“Who? Who?” I glared, getting up from the couch to pace, but he let out a chuckle and defused the tension.
“My guess is it was Mercer. Do you want to take a ride to his apartment and see if we can get the bastard to talk to us in person?”
“We have eyes on the rental. He’s not there. Taylor said she’d let me know as soon as there are signs of movement.” Heathcliff paused and dropped his pen. “Could it be Mercer? Maybe he could conduct a perfect kidnapping. What do we actually know about him?”
“I don’t know. He responded to the hostage calls the Estes family received, but that doesn’t mean he’s not one of the men responsible. The two men I saw at the hangar might be part of his team.” I slammed my palm against the countertop. “Why the hell didn’t I do something when I had the chance?”
“You couldn’t risk Catherine’s safety. Compromising the situation is the first major no-no in hostage negotiation.”
“Because losing your cool and threatening the abductor is perfectly acceptable.” I kicked the base of the island in my kitchen. “Dammit.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes.
“Mercer,” he spoke forcefully to make me focus, “do we have a file on him?”
“It’s a bunch of redacted bullshit.” I picked it out of the Interpol files and handed it to him. “Ex-military. Private kidnapping and negotiation specialist, meaning a professional cleaner.”
“Probably. Why would a resolution specialist get involved in kidnapping schemes? He’s already getting enough work, negotiating problems away or sweeping the remnants of the problems under the rug.”
“You’re right. He’s too controlled to get involved in such an uncertain business venture.”
Picking up my phone, I dialed my contact at Interpol, Agent Farrell, and requested all information pertaining to Bastian, Donovan, and Hans be sent over to my apartment. Farrell would have preferred to have a first and last name, instead of just three names which could theoretically be either or nothing more than nicknames, but he promised to do his best. Why he was still at work in the middle of the night was beyond me, but I wasn’t complaining.
“Four Seasons. Four team members.” Heathcliff tapped his pointer fingers against the table to a slow drumming rhythm. “Think they could be the B-team. Maybe another ex-SAS group who didn’t find the K&R industry as lucrative as Mercer?”
“Maybe. Or they’re the Four Horsemen or the Four Tenors. Somehow, I don’t think the number is worthy of speculation in and of itself. We need a break. The speculation is getting the best of us.”
“You’re right. I’ve been going nonstop for more than twenty-four hours.”
“Derek, if word comes in, give me a call. If not, come back whenever you’re rested and refreshed.” I dug the spare key out of my kitchen drawer and handed it to him. “In case I’m not here, let yourself in.”
“Where else would you be?”
“Who knows? Maybe trying to get out of my head by working some corporate espionage thing.”
“Only you would find work a valid means to calm your panic.” He shook his head. “Damn workaholics. Is it something for Martin?”
“No,” I snorted cynically, “his ex-fiancée.”
“Ouch.” I walked Heathcliff to the door. “That can’t be good.”
“I’ve already made a complete ass of myself, so at this point, I doubt I could do much more harm.”
“That’s the spirit. I’ll be back in a few hours. If you need anything between now and
then, I’ll keep my phone on.”
Tossing a disgusted look at the paperwork littering my kitchen table, I went into the bedroom and planned to sleep until the sun came up. Instead, I stared at the ceiling and ran through ever detail since the initial phone call O’Connell made while I was at the conference. No matter how I looked at it, it read like an inside job. Either someone from the school or someone from the museum must have orchestrated the abductions. We needed financial records and phone records in order to narrow our suspect list, but obviously, this would be a fishing expedition. No judge would grant such a sweeping warrant. When Thompson said we were operating off the books, he wasn’t kidding.
Giving up on sleep, I played the security cam footage from the school and re-watched the museum feed to see who surfaced on both tapes. Faces without names wasn’t helping matters either. Everything was overwhelmingly daunting. Resisting the urge to hide under the bed, I froze the feed, enhanced the image, and printed out everyone’s face. With my pile of photos, I searched through all the illegally obtained school information I had and eventually ended up on the school’s website. Every employee had a photo on the website, and I began adding names to faces.
It was noon by the time I finished. Utilizing the largest empty wall in my living room, I pinned everything up. It would be more easily accessible, spread out and organized, instead of sitting in uncategorized piles on my table. Whenever we located these rat bastards, I’d have to spackle and repaint my wall, but that was a small price to pay for getting retribution for Catherine. Maybe it was revenge or justice. Words like this were in the eye of the beholder. The realization that I wasn’t sure what I would do or what Thompson or Heathcliff would do once we found them sent chills down my spine. We weren’t murderers. I had taken lives in the line of duty, but to kill someone in cold-blood was always unimaginable. But was it really cold-blooded when these kidnappers killed an innocent little girl, maybe two?
“Knock, knock,” Heathcliff called from my front door, shaking the moral issues from my brain. “I brought breakfast.” Looking at the time, I lost over six hours on my project and still felt as if I wasn’t any closer to a real lead.
“It’s about damn time,” I teased, grabbing the bag of donuts from his hand. “Wow, real cop food. What more could I ask for?”
“Goddamn, Parker, have you been at this since I left?” He gestured to the wall. “Make any headway?”
“No.” I poured two cups of coffee and stood next to him as he scanned the material. “All I’ve done is match some names with faces, and they’re probably all squeaky clean, upstanding members of the community.”
“Let’s hope not.” He dug into the donut bag and pulled out a jelly, biting into it as thoughts worked their way through his mind. “We’re doing this wrong.”
“No shit, but what’s right?”
“We need O’Connell. He’s bound to know more than any of us. He was around from the beginning. His sis would have told him a lot more than she told any of us.”
“Except he’s in no condition to work, and he isn’t speaking to me.”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?” Heathcliff picked up his phone and dialed O’Connell. I made an excuse that I needed a break and pulled out some clean clothes and locked myself in the bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, I emerged with my hair still wet and makeup covering the dark circles under my eyes. Heathcliff added additional information to my wall and pulled down a few people he didn’t believe could be involved. How he made those judgment calls, I didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. He was good at his job, and whatever sound reasoning he had was good enough for me.
“Did you talk to Nick?” I asked.
“He’s on his way.” He was at my kitchen table, sifting through all the possible links to the Four Seasons. “He wants to talk to you.” The way Heathcliff said it made me consider leaving and not coming back. Ten minutes later, my doorbell rang.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, opening the door.
Twenty
“What the hell were you thinking?” O’Connell screamed as soon as the door opened. “What the hell was I thinking?”
“Good morning to you too.” Flippant wasn’t the way to go, but then again, most of the things that came out of my mouth didn’t need to be said.
“I never should have trusted you. I must have hit my head on the fucking concrete or had a goddamn aneurysm to think asking for your help was a good idea.” He continued to yell as he stormed into my apartment and forced me back against the far wall.
“Hey, man, take it easy,” Heathcliff was standing close by, prepared to intercede if O’Connell tried to physically harm me.
“Take it easy?” He spun toward Heathcliff. “Did you hear the recording?” He turned back to me, slamming his fist into the wall for emphasis. “Why the hell didn’t you just tell the bastard to go fuck himself while you were at it?”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, resisting the urge to argue. This was my fault, and Nick was justifiably angry. There was no reason to add fuel to the fire. “But I’m not a negotiator. I never was a negotiator. I tried,” my voice shook with fury and sorrow, “but he wouldn’t budge. There was no two million. What did you want me to do?”
“Anything else,” he snarled. “How could you do this? How could you let this happen?”
“C’mon, O’Connell, you know this isn’t on Parker.” Heathcliff must have decided someone needed to defend me since I was letting the endless barrage continue.
“Stay away. Stay away from me. Stay away from my family. We’re done. You got that?” he growled before taking a step back. He stalked toward my door before turning the confrontation to Heathcliff. “Don’t worry. Parker’s far too fond of herself to become suicidal like your last partner. It’s a perk of being a heartless bitch. It doesn’t matter to her if a child gets killed or not. My suggestion, stay the hell away. Everyone close to her gets hurt or worse.” My front door slammed shut, and I locked my jaw. I was torn between two obvious courses of action, property destruction and crying. Instead, I inhaled and counted to ten.
“Are you okay?” Heathcliff asked. I nodded but remained silent. “The things he said, this isn’t your fault.”
“Eh,” I shrugged my shoulders, having put my game face on, “no skin off my nose. All perks of being a heartless bitch. Sticks and stones, my friend. Sticks and stones.” I smirked, but he wasn’t convinced by my bravado. “Y’know, considering how helpful that little encounter was, Nick could have just called and left an ugly voicemail, instead of wasting gas on the drive here. Someone should teach him to have more respect for the planet and carbon emissions.” Cracking jokes was my go-to response, but every word he uttered cut deeper than I thought imaginable. He was right, maybe about everything.
“Well, that lead turned into a complete bust,” Heathcliff muttered. He held up the half empty bottle of bourbon that was still on my counter. “Do you want to drink to another dead end?”
“No, I’m okay.”
He turned his attention to the digital clock on my stove. “Weren’t you supposed to be digging yourself into a hole on a corporate gig?”
“But that would mean I’d have to dig myself out of this one first.” My eyes narrowed. “Are you kicking me out of my own apartment, Detective?”
“Yes.” He held my gaze. “I know you well enough to know you’ll let all that bullshit O’Connell was spewing get into your head, and it will impair your deductive skills. Get out of here for an hour or two and do something else.”
“Fine.” I picked up my jacket, wanting to be away from the reverberating accusations that were bouncing off my skull. “I’ll just take out some of this pent-up anguish on Francesca.”
“Hell of a name.”
“With a personality to match. When I get locked up, you might as well leave me there to rot. It’d be the best thing for everyone concerned.”
“Alexis,” he looked apologetic, “when Nick cools down, he’s going to regret ever
ything he said. Hell, I’m sorry for him.”
“Yeah, yeah. If you hear something between now and the time I get back, call me.”
Grabbing the bare minimum, I left my apartment. I really didn’t want to meet with Francesca again, but everything I wanted to do led straight back to O’Connell. Unfortunately, Heathcliff was right. I needed to distance myself from the accusations.
* * *
“Ms. Pirelli,” I knocked on the door to her suite. Thirty seconds later, the door opened.
“Ms. Parker, do come in,” she stepped into the room, and I shut the door behind me. “I wasn’t sure if you would be willing to look into the matter for Hover Designs or if you were simply going to let my issues fall to the wayside.”
“To be honest, ma’am,” calling her ma’am was business appropriate, but in my mind, it was a total insult, “I’m spread a little thin right now. If you want this resolved imminently, it would be best for you to go elsewhere.”
Francesca stretched out on the couch and tapped her perfectly manicured fingernails on the end table. “Jamie’s only had the nicest things to say about you.” Her eyes narrowed, and the statement seemed like a challenge or possibly a threat. “Clearly, his business sense and professional opinions should not be ignored. He has an empire after all.” Her expression betrayed her, and I could see the regret she felt for letting him get away. It seemed best to remain silent unless an actual question was posed. “How old are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Fine, I’ll ask it another way. How much experience do you have as a security consultant?”
“I’ve been employed by Martin Technologies for a year and a half. Prior to that, I was a federal agent for close to five.” She gestured to the chair across from her. Apparently, my responses warranted the privilege of sitting in the same room as the amazing Francesca Pirelli, COO of Hover Designs.