Lack of Jurisdiction

by G. K. Parks

  “Paul might have known Frank Costan was at the hotel. He was staying there at the same time, and it sounds like he and Hodge exchanged information like this all the time.” Rubbing my temples, I leaned back in the chair and shut my eyes. “But that doesn’t explain Paul’s sudden interest in Martin or his dealings with Muller.”

  “Focus. One step at a time. Work the Costan angle first.”

  “Alvin Hodge must be connected to Costan. It’s the only reason to assume they both ended up dead in the vicinity of the hotel.”

  “Hodge was left hanging out in the open. That reads like a threat,” Mark added. “Costan was found after Hodge, and we know he wasn’t dead on Sunday because that’s when you checked the subbasement doors and the tunnels.”

  “So we’re thinking Hodge was killed first as a message to Costan.” I studied the drawing. “Okay, I’ll go with that for now. Maybe it was a complicated deal, and Hodge was the middleman. After he was eliminated, Costan either failed to comply or someone couldn’t risk being implicated, so they ended him too.”

  “Sounds plausible. Let’s dig up everything we can possibly find on Hodge. He’s the single piece that holds it all together. Whatever his history is and whoever he encountered could be a part of this.”

  Concurring, I dug through my files and found the notes on Hodge. A few other pieces were still at my apartment, but since the information came from database searches, it didn’t seem necessary to relocate the party just yet. “He has two ex-wives. He lives in suburbia. Nothing pointed to him being this guy. He drives a fucking hybrid for god’s sakes. How many criminal masterminds drive hybrids?”

  “Parker,” he chortled, “even the evildoers sometimes care about the environment, and not all of them kick puppies either. Hell, Hitler liked dogs.”

  “Yeah, well, it seems to me if you’re perfectly fine enhancing your pocketbook through questionable means, you shouldn’t give a shit about much else.”

  As Mark read through the information on Hodge’s two ex-wives, his financial history, and the other pertinent facts, I paced my office space. There were a million questions I wanted to ask Eastman, but until Jacobs gave the all clear, I couldn’t go near him. Now there was an even smaller chance I’d get to talk to him if the FBI took over the investigation on account of Costan’s involvement.

  “Rachel Romanski,” Mark’s voice drew me out of my reverie, “she’s teaching an advanced yoga class in the morning. How are you feeling? Are you up for some downward dog?”

  Glowering and slightly grateful the question was asked by Mark and not Martin, I shook my head. “Maybe I’ll skip that one and just go with warrior pose.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “Since that’s not for another twelve hours, let’s drive past Hodge’s place and see if anything looks out of the ordinary.”

  The trip didn’t take very long, and of course, police tape covered most of the area. This wasn’t a crime scene, but it might provide some insight into who Hodge’s killer was or if the man really was just suicidal.

  “Could we be looking at this all wrong?” I asked out of the blue as Mark parked the car, and we stepped out of the vehicle.

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. My gut says this relates back to the business conference, but I didn’t pay much attention to the comings and goings.”

  “Hey, you’re not a tycoon or particularly business savvy. That’s probably why you’re dating Marty.” He cocked an eyebrow. “He delivers on the few aspects you aren’t well-versed in.”

  “Crude humor and business know-how?” I snorted. “He’ll love to hear that.” Following Mark’s lead, we went around the house, checked the garbage can, which was emptied, and attempted to see if any of the doors were left open. “I thought you liked following rules.”

  “What rules? I’m a private investigator’s assistant for the rest of the week. You mean to tell me there are rules? Since when? You never seem to have any.”

  “Yes, but that’s because I don’t have a badge that someone can take away. It’s already gone.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, you’re staying out of trouble SSA Jablonsky, especially when we need your official capacity to dig up everything you can on whatever the authorities already found in the house. And while you’re at it, get a list of items in Costan’s hotel room. I’m sure the techs have figured out which room was his by now. Oh, and a breakdown from the forensic accountants on whatever method he used to pay and wherever funds were being channeled would also be great.”

  “Oh, so now I’m following your orders?”

  “You’re my self-proclaimed assistant. The only requirement for that job title is to follow my orders.”

  “This is payback for years of research and paperwork, isn’t it?”

  “You bet your ass it is.”

  Fifteen

  “Very good,” Rachel said. “Take a final cleansing breath and relax.” The dozen women in the room began rolling up their mats, and various “Namastes” echoed throughout the room. What the hell does that even mean? “Alexis,” she called, and I forced my face into a neutral, at peace with the world, Zen position, “did you want to sign up for weekly classes?”

  “Maybe.” My biggest decision was determining if I wanted to admit my reason for being at the yoga studio in the first place. “I’m not really sure I’m cleared for physical activity just yet.” The best cover stories focused on aspects of the truth.

  “Back problems?” she asked, offering a sympathetic look. “From your stance and posture, it seems your back’s stiff.”

  “Wow, you figured that out just from my lack of flexibility?” I asked. “It’s not just my back. It’s my posterior ribs. Last month, I broke five of them in an accident.” Okay, so this was where lying met the truth. The accident wasn’t precisely an accident.

  She squinted, wiping sweat from her brow. Whoever thought stretching and holding ridiculous poses in insanely high temperatures was a good idea was a freaking idiot, or at least that was my take on the matter, mostly since hot weather and I rarely got along. “So why did you come for the introductory class when you’re still on the mend?”

  “It seemed like fun. Recently, I was at a business conference at one of the nearby hotels, and one of the night shift clerks was telling everyone how amazing your hot yoga class was.” Okay, so I had no way of knowing what Hodge’s opinion of yoga or Rachel was, but it was worth a shot.

  Something flitted across her face. “Alvin.”

  “And the Chipmunks?”

  She laughed. “No. My ex. He works at a hotel. Half the girls in my classes came here because of his recommendations. At least the dickhead did something nice.”

  “I guess that means things didn’t end quite so amicably. No Namaste?” Was she really that cold? Or did the police fail to notify her or ask her to identify the remains? Maybe Alvin had a different emergency contact listed on his employment forms. Still, it was common practice to question spouses, estranged and otherwise.

  “Oh, it definitely was Namaste.” She rolled her eyes. “In case you were curious, Namaste roughly translates to bowing to your true self which is why it’s a greeting and used in departing from class.”

  “Ah, good to know.” She glanced behind us, but the room was empty. “So his true self wasn’t the person you thought he was?” I asked.

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Hey, do you think we could go across the street and get something cold to drink while I pick your brain about classes and stuff?” Mainly, I just wanted to pick her brain about Alvin. “I’m about to pass out from the heat. How can you stand to do this all day?”

  “Come on,” she led me out of the room, “I’ll explain the differences in types of yoga and the class structure, and you can tell me about your injury and what you hope to achieve. From the looks of you, I’d wager you already have a great regimen. Your previous statement notwithstanding, you appear incredibly flexible and strong. Plus, I’d kill for your l
egs.”

  “I run,” I responded, but she looked skeptical, “a lot.” She still didn’t look convinced as we left the studio and went across the street to a sandwich shop. “Mix in some additional cardio, a little strength training, and well,” I saw a chance to get back to the topic of Alvin, “a very active boyfriend.”

  She snorted, her eyes lighting slightly at the comment. “Is he as flexible as you appear to be?”

  “Basically. Sometimes, it’s like living in Cirque du Soleil.” We made it through the line at the sandwich shop and sat at a table in the corner with our bottled waters. “So since Alvin’s boasting about your yoga classes, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “He dabbled, but he was more into the clean living, biofuels, organic foods, a million uses for hemp.”

  “Besides smoking it?” I asked.

  A giggle escaped her lips, and she covered her mouth, surprised by her own reaction. “Actually, despite his hippie tendencies and attitude, he was a straight shooter. Well, I thought he was, but I was wrong.”

  “I hate it when men turn back into toads.”

  “Tell me about it. He seemed so perfect. Honest, decent, he made me want to be a better person. And then one day, I discover he’s involved in lots of questionable stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Finally, some progress.

  She shook her head. “It was mostly because of his job. He’s the night manager or whatever, but guests would ask him for all kinds of things.” She glanced around the restaurant and leaned in, lowering her voice. “The kinds of things that could get someone arrested. You’d be amazed what people ask for when they stay at a classy hotel.” She kept referring to him in the present, so perhaps she didn’t know he was dead.

  “I’m guessing you’re not talking about a few dozen pillow mints.”

  “Not unless you can put them up your nose.” She leaned back and drank her water. “Whatever. I wasn’t down for that. He swore it was just a work thing, but some guys showed up at our house a few times, and it didn’t matter how in love we were. I couldn’t do it.” She blew out a breath. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s not a bad guy, and I’m sure you could tell his depiction of my class was pretty spot on.” She forced a bright, phony smile on her face. “So let’s get back to business. I’m sorry to talk your ear off. I’m sure you couldn’t care less about my failed fairy tale. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen or heard from him. I guess it just took me by surprise that he was still talking about me. Maybe in another life, he won’t be required to deal with such things, and we can be together.”

  Not wanting to push any harder, I politely sat there while she discussed the different types of yoga classes, the schedule, how expensive they are, and which would be the most beneficial for meditation. I didn’t have the heart to tell her after spending six months in a class a couple of years ago, I would rather gouge my eyes out than remain in any one position while searching for inner peace. Obviously, my personality was too volatile and impatient for the benefits yoga gave to so many others. It also reminded me of having to escape a sadist in a Parisian warehouse. Wow, was any aspect of my life not tainted with bad experiences? Probably not.

  On my way home, I left Martin a voicemail. The time difference was killing us, but under normal circumstances, we didn’t speak every day. We were both far too busy for idle chitchat. After showering, I phoned Mark, and we agreed to meet at my office. Upon arriving, I filled him in on what I learned from Rachel Romanski.

  “It sounds like Hodge was dealing drugs,” Mark surmised.

  “That’s what Rachel thought. But it’s possible he was brokering other types of deals, and she just assumed drugs.”

  “Well, it’s a reasonable assumption.” He picked up the phone and began dialing. “I’ll see if my pals at the DEA, ATF, or Customs had him in their sights for anything. If he was under surveillance or if they ran across him while they were surveilling someone else, then maybe we’ll know where to go from here.”

  While he made the calls, I skimmed through Costan’s records. Maybe there was a connection between the two deceased prior to the conference. If Costan and Hodge had a common connector or were somehow affiliated, then whatever led to their deaths might have been in the works for quite some time.

  When Mark hung up the phone, waiting for one of his friends to get back to him with the information, I asked, “What did you get on the financials and the items found in Costan’s hotel suite and at Hodge’s place?”

  “Financials are being investigated as we speak. It’s part of the FBI’s investigation, so it’s dependent on warrants and subpoenas. You gotta love court orders.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “The PD isn’t playing ball. I spoke with Lt. Moretti, but he said his detectives were handling it. Normally, Dom’s friendlier, but I think after I spoke so harshly to his rookies yesterday morning, he wants to remind me of my place. He’s being a cocky bastard.”

  “Wow, a guy being macho and cocky. Who would have thought?”

  “Shut up, Parker. I don’t need you to be cute.”

  “I’m always cute.” He exhaled, releasing a quiet guttural sound as I skimmed my notes for the next best course of action. “Romanski doesn’t know Hodge is dead,” I mused aloud.

  “Okay, so? Whenever I kick, I don’t expect my ex-wives to be the first to find out either.”

  “But wouldn’t next of kin have to be notified?” Flipping through the pages, Hodge didn’t have any children, his parents were deceased, and his only brother was listed as MIA from the Army. That ruled out family connections.

  “Someone will have to claim the body. Maybe he had an emergency contact on file with the hotel or written on one of those cards in his wallet.” He folded his hands over his gut and shook his head as if to himself. “Let’s refocus. Hodge won’t give us answers. Maybe we should take a stab at Costan.”

  “What’s the point?” I threw on my jacket and picked up my car keys. “There’s only one way I can prove Eastman isn’t responsible for Alvin Hodge’s murder, and that’s with an accurate TOD. I’ll have to convince Jacobs to give me the files on Hodge and Costan and access to Eastman. Do you want to stay here and dig up what you can while I’m gone?”

  “Sure.” He was buried in notes and barely aware of my departure.

  * * *

  When I sauntered over to Jacobs’ desk, he glanced up from making notes. The desk phone was pressed between his shoulder and ear, and he was writing something on a sheet of paper. Occasionally, he’d stop to type something into the computer. Apparently he was great at multitasking. He jerked his chin at the back of the room, near the filing cabinet, and mumbled a response into the receiver. Narrowing my eyes, I pointed at myself questioningly, and he nodded, almost losing the phone in the process.

  “Good enough for me,” I said, opening the drawer and scanning through the labels for something pertinent. Stopping at the label marked Costan, I pulled out the folder and flipped through a few pages. Maybe that’s not what I was supposed to be looking at, but Jacobs gave me free rein over the filing cabinet.

  Costan was found Thursday morning. The ME placed time of death between midnight and six a.m. I didn’t know what Paul Eastman was up to during that time. Making a mental note to ask what time he was released from questioning on Wednesday, I continued reading the information. The body was discovered by a police officer who was conducting a sweep of the area in light of Tuesday’s events. From the autopsy photos, Costan was badly beaten prior to death. Blunt force trauma to the skull and thoracic region were thought to have resulted in various bleeds in both the brain and chest cavity. Either of which could have been the cause of death.

  “Put it down,” Jacobs hissed. “We agreed that I’d share information on Eastman. That has nothing to do with Eastman.”

  “Oh, so you’re not considering charging him with a second homicide?” I spun, and Jacobs snatched the file from my hand and shut it, tucking it protectively und
er his arm. “In case you were curious, I actually have an alibi for Costan’s murder. I was with someone from the time I left you until eight a.m. on Thursday.”

  “I didn’t think you were responsible for either murder. Weren’t you paying attention the last time we chatted?”

  “Well, then what’s the problem? Can’t a girl be curious?” My eyes darted around the room, but no one else was close enough to hear. “I’m guessing Hodge and Costan are connected. Doesn’t that give you jurisdiction over both homicides?”

  “No.” He found Hodge’s file and Eastman’s and pulled them out, adding them to the growing collection he was holding. “It just means the goddamn feds want to confiscate all the hard work and long hours I’ve already put in on this case.”

  “Damn, they’re selfish. Who the hell do they think they are?” The smirk was unavoidable, and my sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on the detective.

  “Any helpful hints to hold off the dogs?”

  “First, let me see those files. Then I’ll pass along some tips of the trade.” He mumbled something about me being similar to the rest of the feds, but it was too low for me to provide a proper retort. “Fine, I’ll go first. You should point out Costan was on city property. There is no evidence to suggest his murder has anything to do with his wanted status, and you’ll be more than happy to turn over your findings once your investigation is concluded.”

  “Like that’ll work,” he huffed, leading the way back to his desk. “Fifteen minutes. That’s it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Y’know, I wish you were still on the job. You might have been the only reasonable fed I ever dealt with.” He walked away.

  “C’est la vie.” I opened Costan’s file. He was beaten to death, and it looked like a mugging gone wrong. All of his personal effects, even his shoes, were taken. Anything worth something was gone. “Well, it doesn’t look like Alvin killed you since he was already dead. But maybe it was Simon or Theodore.”