Lack of Jurisdiction

by G. K. Parks

  “Do you have anything solid against Oster besides your gut instincts?”

  “Not yet.” I jerked my chin at the memory card. “But hopefully, we will soon.” I sighed. “Did Walton give you any other useful information?”

  “He said they were monitoring the hotel, but he didn’t mention additional surveillance cams. My guess would be they planted a couple of undercover agents, a unit or two outside, and some guys strategically placed throughout the lobby, the conference room, and the bar. Y’know, basic FBI tactics.”

  “So aside from break time or filling out reports after shift change, they wouldn’t have been using the hotel room.” Realization hit, and I shook my head. “Don’t you have the registry info?”

  “It’s in your office.”

  “We’ll double-check in the morning, but Oster said it was registered to the FBI.”

  “How would he have known they were FBI? Most ops are registered under a bogus name or some kind of operational phrase.” I smiled, and the light bulb clicked on. “Because that’s the room he had under surveillance,” Mark said, understanding the reasoning behind my hunch.

  “Bingo.”

  “It could be happenstance. Circumstantial.” He was deflating my happy balloon with these negative possibilities.

  “Unfortunately, it’s the only angle we have.”

  “The more complicated this gets, the more people seem to be involved. At this point, I’d bet they’re all in on it.” He shot a look toward Paul, who was buried under the blankets, asleep.

  “Okay.” I made an ‘it’s possible’ gesture. “Can I ask you one thing?” He nodded. “What is it? Because we have two dead bodies, half a dozen reasonable motives which may or may not pan out, and an attempted poisoning.

  “I don’t know. It looks like a double-cross. It probably started out financial and turned violent.” He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. “We need to figure out what the hell is going on.” He looked at Paul, who let out a slight whistling snore. “I thought the only thing you were interested in was protecting your client and clearing his name.”

  “It was, but my interest has been piqued.”

  “And there’s the linchpin.” Mark snorted. “You can never mind your own business.” He neatly stacked the files on the table. “I’m gonna get some sleep and run some things by the OIO in the morning.” He picked up the memory card and put it into his shirt pocket. “If you give me the keys to your office, I’ll stop by and grab the hotel registry.”

  “You could just break in.”

  “One of us needs to obey the law.” He gave me a pointed look and held out his hand, and I gave him the keys. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  After Mark left, I paced the room, turning the facts over in my head. Alvin Hodge was murdered and left hanging in the open. That seemed like a warning. Based on TODs, Frank Costan was killed sometime later. Assuming the two were inextricably linked, which was the only thing that made any real sense, Hodge was either killed as a warning to Costan or because he was a rat. Given Costan’s bloody, beaten remains, I was willing to venture out on a limb and say Costan failed to comply with his assailant’s would-be demands. Those few facts fit neatly into my theory, and the killer was probably a single individual or hired by a single individual to do the job. I’d wager the party responsible for the two murders was Costan’s alleged partner, Rodney Wheeler. The same partner the FBI had under surveillance. Too bad Agent Walton didn’t want to share leads. Although if Wheeler paid someone to do the wet work or slipped his surveillance and Secret Service protection detail, no one would want to admit they bumbled an op. It was easier to pass the blame than to take it.

  More than likely, someone in the hotel lured Costan into an unoccupied room, and a struggle ensued. Jason Oster might have orchestrated the entire thing, or he might have done the deed himself. If he offed Costan on Wheeler’s behalf, then it would explain why the memory card I illegally borrowed was blank. But there was one glaringly obvious flaw in my thinking. How did Costan’s body get into the subway tunnels below the hotel without anyone noticing if the struggle took place inside the trashed hotel room or even a different hotel room?

  Shit. I rubbed my eyes, scooped the files off the table, and spread them out on the extra bed. Maybe something would pop out at me. A clue would be nice. The truth would be better. Instead, the files, photos, and police reports bled into a sea of random musings that were less helpful than my own internal postulating. There had to be a better way of doing things.

  Stretching out, I grabbed a pen and sketched an outline of my hair-brained theory. Hodge and Costan were colluding, at least until Hodge decided to turn him in. Perhaps Wheeler found out and was pissed. Maybe he thought Costan was going to turn on him too for a reduced sentence or leniency. Either way, Wheeler needed to remove the problem. Given the Secret Service detail, he probably hired a third party to threaten Hodge. And since Hodge was dead, I’d wager that he probably failed to comply with the threats.

  My mind flashed to the caterer who was not allowed admittance to the hotel on Monday afternoon. The man didn’t have his security badge. Scribbling a note to check into his actual identity to see if the badge was ever located, I suspected that might have been the in for whatever hired gun Wheeler used. A quick look at Wheeler’s phone and bank records might also prove useful in determining how the attacker gained access to Alvin Hodge and the hotel.

  After Hodge was killed and discovered, Costan must have panicked. He had to be somewhere on the hotel security footage. The guy wasn’t a ghost, at least not at that point. Claxons blared in my brain, and I figured this might be precisely where Jason Oster fit into the mix. He could have maneuvered Costan around the security system and kept him in rooms not in use. Hell, he could have also been the one to move the body from the trashed hotel room to the tunnels below the subbasement if he wanted. He had the know-how, the access, and the ability to erase any incriminating evidence both in the room and on tape.

  Closing my eyes, I considered all the flaws with this theory. First, it was only a theory. Second, it didn’t explain why anyone would want to poison my client. Sure, it was possible Paul was involved in a lot more than he was letting on, but still, his dealings with Klaus Manufacturing, SMI, and even his job at PDN didn’t coalesce with any of these other things. It just didn’t fit. And third, it didn’t explain Rachel Romanski’s role in any of this. Granted, she might have simply been stopping by the hotel for a quick wham bam, thank you, ma’am, but Oster had gone through a lot of trouble to keep her identity a secret. There would be no point unless she was part of the underlying conspiracy and murders, unless of course he had nothing to do with any of that either.

  “Ugh,” I muttered, burying my face in the pillow. The only way to work through this mess was with actual evidence, and I was sorely lacking in that department. In the morning, I would handcuff myself to Jacobs’ desk until I got some answers, and I would suggest that Mark do the same with Agent Walton.

  Twenty-six

  “Alexis.” I let out a grunt. “Alexis, your phone. Answer it,” Paul insisted.

  Opening an eyelid, I picked up the device, wondering exactly what Det. Jacobs wanted at eight a.m. “Parker,” I answered.

  “There was a report of you skulking around the hotel late last night. I thought you weren’t sticking your nose into my business.”

  “I thought you were planning to share your findings. The files you sent are worthless. Some actual evidence, realistic leads, and possible suspects would be nice. Where’s the copy of the surveillance footage, your interview notes with witnesses and persons of interest, and the rest of the things cops are supposed to do?”

  “And what have you given me about Eastman and his involvement?” Jacobs countered. “Sure, he looks clean, but we both know that’s not the case. Be at the precinct by noon. Got it?”

  “Loud and clear.” I hung up and dropped the phone on the bed.

  “You like to burn the candle at both ends, don
’t you?” Eastman asked, sitting up and staring at me.

  “I don’t use candles. Fire hazard,” I remarked, shutting my eyes and shifting off my side and on to my back. Sleeping in a curled up position for an extended amount of time was a bad idea. The paper from the files crinkled as I stretched and winced.

  “When I hired you to protect me, I meant it as more of a joke to get that detective to back off about protective custody.” I turned and gave him an incredulous look. “While I appreciate this overzealous attitude of yours, get the hell out of here.”

  “Excuse me?” I sat up, stacking the papers and files into a more manageable heap.

  “Don’t forget, I get paid to do this exact job. You set up a room under a different name, got me some cash, the essentials, and I know better than to go out and get spotted. But that doesn’t mean I need some chick sleeping in my room. No offense.”

  “Just because you said no offense, it doesn’t make that statement any less offensive.” Mornings almost always made me bitchy. And after going round one with Det. Jacobs, I was ready for a K.O. with my second opponent. “First, you fired me from PDN. Then you beg for my help. And now you’re firing me again?”

  “I’m not firing you. And just so we’re clear, the only reason I fired you from PDN was because I was afraid that overzealousness you keep exhibiting would lead to discovering my extracurricular corporate dealings after our little spat.” I rolled my eyes, but he was undaunted. “Go home, Ms. Parker. I can take care of myself. I won’t do anything stupid. I’ll call if I need something, and right now, I’d like some peace and quiet and the chance to check out the continental breakfast in the motel lobby.”

  “Fine, but if you get yourself killed, I’m done working this case. I’ll be back this afternoon to check on you, and you better still be here. Alone.”

  “Roger that.” He mimicked a salute, and I pulled myself off the bed, collected everything of importance, and went to my car. Eight a.m. and already dealing with a couple of macho assholes, fuck me.

  Instead of going home and going back to bed, which was precisely what I wanted to do, I went home, showered, changed, brewed a pot of coffee with plenty of coffee and not much water, and considered my options. Mark was checking on the memory card and planned to have a chat with Walton, so I would work a different angle. Checking the yoga schedule for the week, I wasn’t scheduled to start class until Friday, but that didn’t mean Rachel wasn’t teaching classes between now and then. That gave me plenty of time to dig up some dirt on her.

  Driving slowly through her neighborhood, it was a quiet, pleasant area. Soccer moms jogged down the street in herds, and everyone’s yard was perfectly manicured. Welcome to suburbia hell. The houses were small but probably pricey on account of their location. It seemed a stretch for a yoga instructor to be able to afford a place like this on her salary, but maybe her great aunt left her a fortune.

  Since it was a bright and sunny day, my surveillance wasn’t going by unnoticed, so after ten minutes, I had no choice but to leave. It would be premature to arouse suspicion when there were no clear suspects, well at least as far as the police department was concerned. Stopping to pick up coffee that actually resembled coffee and not mud, I splurged on a bag of donuts and went to the precinct two hours ahead of schedule.

  “Did you bring me a present?” Det. O’Connell asked, eyeing the drink carrier.

  “Seems only fair since you dropped something off for me yesterday.” I put one of the cups down, handed his partner, Det. Thompson, another cup, and took one for myself. Leaving the last one in the carrier for whenever Jacobs appeared. “And I brought pastries.” Snagging the chocolate cake donut for myself, I handed the bag to O’Connell to do with as he saw fit.

  “Why do I get the feeling this is a bribe?” he asked.

  “Because you know how she is,” Thompson retorted, not looking up from his computer screen. “But I appreciate the predictability, Parker.” He cracked a slight smile. “Is there a cruller in there?”

  O’Connell passed the bag off to his partner. “What do you want?”

  “Complete access to Jacobs’ case. The files were basic. Lots of information by the ME and CSU, but not much in terms of persons of interest or interview notes. Care to point me in the right direction?”

  “Did you ask Jacobs?”

  “Yes. It seems there’s been some kind of miscommunication with our understanding.” I rested my hips against his desk. “C’mon, there’s bound to be something you can do.”

  “I told you I’m not working this. And I’m not about to dick around in someone else’s mess.” His gaze shifted around the precinct. “Talk to the LT. For whatever the reason, he likes you. If anyone can get you access, it’s him. After all, he’s the boss.”

  “That’s the last time I bring you coffee and donuts,” I teased, heading for Moretti’s office and knocking on the door.

  “Enter,” Lt. Moretti bellowed from inside. He looked up, surprised to find me in front of him. “No one said we were hiring you.”

  “That’s the story of my life.” I rolled my eyes, thinking of Eastman. “Fortunately for you, I must be psychic. It seems Detective Jacobs is in need of my brilliance and expertise, but for some reason, he hasn’t been very forthcoming in sharing suspects, motives, and leads.”

  “You were a suspect. Now you’re not. That prick we had in custody until two days ago, he was a suspect too. Turns out he hired some hotshot P.I. to clear his name and protect him. So now we’ve got nothing.” He leaned back in his chair. “Are you seeing the common denominator here?”

  “What about Jason Oster, head of security at the hotel?” I suggested. He shrugged, waiting to see if I’d divulge anything else. “Or Alvin Hodge’s ex-wife, Rachel Romanski?”

  “Oster has an alibi for the time of Frank Costan’s murder. He was in the security office. Hotel cameras caught him in the hallway two hours prior to the estimated TOD, and he didn’t leave until late that evening. He sat there the whole day. Between the cameras and the other guards, his alibi checks out, and we have no reason to suspect him.”

  “What if he altered the camera feed or bypassed the cameras?”

  “There’s no hard evidence to put him anywhere near Costan or the tunnels. You’re fishing. Tell me about the woman.” After sharing everything I knew, Moretti rubbed his temples. “We’ll look into it more thoroughly. What do you think her motivation was for seducing Eastman while she’s banging Oster on a regular basis?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit. You know a hell of a lot more than you’re letting on. Your client,” he uttered the word with loathing and disdain, “is involved in some complex, shady shit. Even if he didn’t off Hodge or Costan, he’s connected to this mess. Why won’t you tell me how?”

  “Because I don’t know.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I stood. “I’ve been up most of the night, trying to figure it out, but I can’t. The way it looks is that Costan, Hodge, and former Senator Wheeler were involved in some financial scheme, but Eastman wasn’t. And that’s why the attempted murder still doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Did you ever think maybe Eastman’s been orchestrating this the entire time, and the poisoning was to throw us off kilter?” Moretti asked.

  “I considered it, but I don’t think that’s it. He’s involved with Oster in some way, but I don’t know how.” My mind kept circling back to Paul’s plea to talk to Oster in order to get proof so he’d be released from holding.

  “Well, let us know if you discover something concrete. The lawyer you found for Eastman is a bear, and unless the department finds some irrefutable evidence, the DA doesn’t want to tango with the city’s top defense attorney over a whim.” He jerked his head toward the door, dismissing me. “You’ve really screwed us over this time, Parker.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Yeah.” Frowning, he shook his head. “Tell Jacobs I told him to read you in. And if Eastman’s dirty, you’re fucking cooperat
ing unless you want to be an accessory.”

  “Yes, sir.” He grumbled under his breath as I let myself out of the office and shut the door.

  “So, how’d it go?” O’Connell asked when I returned to his desk to retrieve my coffee.

  “Apparently I’ve screwed up.”

  “Happens.” He smirked. “Jacobs just came back. He went to drop something off in evidence.” He pushed the almost empty bag toward me. “We saved him the powdered sugar, so go earn some brownie points.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And try to be pleasant. Surly won’t get you very far,” O’Connell added, so I flipped him off. “See, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  Placing the cup of coffee and donut on Jacobs’ desk, I pulled up an extra chair and waited patiently. Unlike Moretti, he didn’t seem surprised to see me. Removing the plastic lid from the cup, he rummaged through his desk for non-dairy creamer and sugar. Once the coffee was to his liking, he sat down, opened the bag, and took a bite of the donut, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing.

  “Fine, I’ll overlook the fact you were traipsing through the hotel, even though you have an obvious lack of jurisdiction concerning this entire investigation,” he said.

  “Old habits die hard. Can we start over?”

  “Sure. You go first.” He took another bite of donut, forcing me to talk while he chewed.

  “Whatever happened in that hotel last week is much bigger than this precinct and local law enforcement. That’s not meant to be an insult, so don’t take it as one. The FBI has a big fish on the hook, and they were hoping to use Paul Eastman to get to Mr. Big Fish. That’s why they phoned the DA to trump up the charges. Paul worked with Hodge often enough that they probably assumed he has proof of Frank Costan’s illegal activities and could implicate his suspected business partner.”