Lack of Jurisdiction

by G. K. Parks

  “Whose number is it?” I asked, hoping for an answer. Paul dialed someone at the hotel and then took off. Whoever he called had something to do with his appearance, and I didn’t think he phoned Oster.

  “It was a hotel extension for the manager’s office,” Nick said. “Hang on, Jablonsky wants to talk to you.”

  “Alex?” Mark asked, sounding like a nervous father.

  “I’m okay. Walton might arrest me in the near future, but that’s beside the point. Oster and I had a brief chat before this happened. He needed some assurance Rachel was safe. She knows more than she’s letting on. We need her to talk if there’s any hope of getting everyone out of this mess alive.”

  “Yeah, I know. A few detectives are sorting through the details as we speak.”

  “What about the identity of the man who threatened her? When Jacobs and I left, she was working with a sketch artist.”

  “They’re working on an I.D. now. I’ll let you know what I hear. Be careful, and mind your own business.”

  “Too late.”

  Something gnawed at my thought process. Why did Eastman phone the manager’s office? Was he planning on reporting Jason Oster to his boss for allegedly murdering Alvin Hodge? That seemed stupid, and it wouldn’t explain why Paul rushed to the hotel. Before I could continue musing, Mark cleared his throat.

  “Were you with Eastman at all this morning, Alex?”

  “No. I thought you were watching him.”

  “Yeah, but we decided he didn’t need around-the-clock surveillance. I wasn’t with him the entire time.”

  “Do you think he made contact with someone using the motel phone? Can you get the phone records from his room?”

  “I’m on it.” And we disconnected.

  Maybe Paul was part of this. Maybe Walton was right, and Paul and Jason planned this out. Between the two of them, they probably would have been able to discover the location for Frank Costan’s funds and maybe even how to manipulate Rodney Wheeler into assisting them. And since Paul and Jason both worked in a security capacity at the hotel, officially and unofficially, they might know exactly how to escape.

  I took a seat on the hood of a police car and buried my head in my hands. If I screwed up again, I would quit my day job and mooch off of Martin for the rest of my life. Without instincts, this job was impossible.

  Why did Paul Eastman phone Gordon Russell’s office, and why was he inside the hotel? I didn’t have answers, but recalling the exchange between Oster and Eastman before the elevator doors closed, I still couldn’t believe Paul was working with Jason. He wasn’t that good of an actor. I’d called him out on his lies and his embellishments from the moment we met. He honestly believed Jason was responsible.

  “Does anyone have a workup on Alvin Hodge?” I asked, wandering back into the throng of LEOs. Practically no one paid a bit of attention to me. A bullhorn would have been nice. After failing to locate Jacobs, I spotted Commander Torre. “Eastman, the hostage, phoned someone in the manager’s office twenty minutes before showing up at the hotel to confront Jason Oster.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked, pulling the earpiece out of his ear so he could concentrate on our conversation without additional voices inside his head.

  “Because I had a friend keeping an eye on Eastman, and before he slipped away, he borrowed a phone.”

  “And how is this helpful?”

  A thought was formulating in my brain, and I latched onto the wisps before they could disintegrate. “I don’t know yet. But he accused Oster of killing Alvin Hodge.”

  “Who the fuck is Alvin Hodge?” Torre was a crisis solver, not an investigator. “Someone get me information on Alvin Hodge. Now.” Before he could focus any of that anger or rage on me, I took a page out of Eastman’s book and performed my own disappearing act.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t remember exactly what Paul was thinking the day before. He seemed happy enough just sitting in the car while we monitored Rachel’s movements. Sure, we discussed Oster’s possible involvement, and it seemed fairly obvious he was involved. But Rachel went to him for protection and comfort. Normally, people had slightly better instincts than canoodling with their ex-husband’s killer, unless they were in cahoots.

  Rachel thought Paul was working with the man that threatened her, and Paul thought Jason was behind it. Where were they getting these ideas? Despite the fact I had considered each of them a suspect for at least one of the murders, it was becoming painfully apparent that another party was involved. Goddammit, why didn’t Oster give us a name when we questioned him?

  Retrieving my phone and pulling out a piece of paper, I went back to the start of my initial suspect list from the poisoning – Paul Eastman’s social media pages. It only took a few moments before I found a page for Rachel Romanski. Apparently, Jason Oster was the only one smart enough to avoid the security threats the internet posed. Scanning the dozens of friend pages, I hoped to find some commonalities. There were two dozen matching names, all of which worked at the hotel. Scribbling all of the relevant names on to the paper, I was just about to go in search of the employee manifest when Torre bellowed my name. That couldn’t be good.

  Appearing next to him, I noted the HRT men were positioned nearby. Apparently the two crisis resolution teams had reached an understanding, or they wanted me to referee the upcoming fight. SAC Walton was ten feet away. He looked grim but nodded at me. Resisting the urge to turn around to determine if someone important was behind me, like a five-star general or the President of the United States, I returned the nod.

  “Contact has been established,” Torre said, turning so he could face me as well as his men. “We have trained negotiators on standby, as does the FBI, but he refuses to talk to any of them.” He shifted his gaze to the phone, wired to computers and recording devices. “He’s waiting for your call.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” Walton said, defeat etching his words. “I’ve skimmed your files. Negotiation isn’t your forte.” Which was obviously true. When forced to speak to kidnappers, I threatened to hunt them down and kill them, which was frowned upon by tried and true negotiation tactics with the main goal of deescalating a tense situation and finding a positive, blood-free resolution. “So be agreeable, buy time, and get as much information on the situation as you can.”

  “I can’t.” I shook my head. “I’m a fucking P.I., and I’m pretty sure that if I screw up and get my client killed, that’s gonna come back to bite me in the ass.”

  “Just make the call and see if you can get a list of demands or determine if he’s working alone and how many people are in danger.” Torre lifted the handset and handed it to me. “I’ll be here every step of the way.”

  Shifting my gaze around the group, I noticed one obvious asset was missing. “Where’s Jacobs? We’ve been working this from the beginning. He needs to be here.”

  One of the FBI agents disappeared, and a few seconds later, the two men returned. Jacobs looked annoyed, and I saw him stow his phone. He was still working on leads, just like me. Hopefully, one of us would realize something after my impending phone call with Oster.

  “Here goes nothing,” I muttered, taking the phone while Torre dialed the number.

  Thirty-eight

  “Were you telling the truth earlier?” Jason asked, his words guarded.

  “Everything I’ve said to you has been the truth or what I believe to be true. But they aren’t always the same thing.” Okay, so non-answers seemed to be part of negotiation tactics based upon the round of nods I was getting for my response.

  “Are they listening to this conversation?” Jason asked. Even though I was holding the handset, the conversation was being broadcast over numerous receivers.

  “Yes.” I heard him exhale. “Jason, what are you hoping to accomplish? What do you want?” Torre scribbled the word demands on a sheet of paper and handed me the pen to write out whatever Oster might say next.

  “You don’t have a damn clue.” He sl
ammed the receiver down.

  “Told you I wasn’t meant for negotiation,” I muttered, dropping the pen on the paper. “So what do we do now?”

  “We’ll wait ten minutes and see if he calls back,” Walton said, stepping closer and glancing uncertainly at Torre. “If he doesn’t, you’ll phone him again.”

  “He has three chances to answer, and then we’re set to move in,” Torre added, and Walton nodded.

  Something about the current dilemma brought the two sides closer together. Maybe they should send me to negotiate peace talks in the Middle East since clearly I was an expert, except when it came to getting the actual party to speak to me.

  “Dammit, the talking heads are here,” Walton muttered. Police officers set up a perimeter and tried to keep the press back, but reporters were parasites that appeared unfettered by being told no. “I’ll go issue an official statement. Maybe that will hold them off a little while longer.” He grimaced, disappearing into the crowd.

  Since I had ten minutes to kill, I pulled Jacobs aside to see if he made any progress on identifying whoever got to Oster. Based on our earlier conversation, someone threatened Oster, and it made sense for him to take action to stop it, especially now that things were so blatantly being blown out of proportion. But Jacobs didn’t come up with anything solid either. After sharing my information on the common friends Rachel and Paul had and my suspicions that someone else was feeding them misinformation, Jacobs phoned the IT department to do a thorough internet search for any activity that overlapped.

  “What did Oster mean when he asked if you told him the truth?” Jacobs asked while more of our crisis response group disappeared to handle the growing fleet of media that was salivating at the possibility of imminent bloodshed.

  “I don’t know. After you walked out, he asked about Rachel. Maybe he thought I was lying about her being at the precinct.”

  “Or maybe he was asking if you were a more important hostage than Eastman.” It was the last thing Oster said before disappearing inside the elevator, and it made sense to a certain degree. Obviously, the look in my eye must have been disconcerting, perhaps reckless, because Jacobs stepped closer and studied me carefully. “You’re not a part of this. No one would authorize an exchange like that. Don’t even think about it.”

  “No, they wouldn’t.”

  I bit my lip as my mind ran through the possibilities. There had to be some way of getting Paul out, safe and sound. That was my job, wasn’t it? Damn, I vowed against bodyguard work, and this was the thanks I get for reneging on my own word. Fuck me.

  I checked the time and scribbled some basic instructions on the sheet of paper, ripping it off and folding it before Jacobs could read what I wrote. Then I picked up the phone. Seven minutes, not ten like Torre insisted, but opportunity was knocking. The area was clear of official personnel, and it was my only chance to have a word with Oster without being overheard.

  Jacobs watched uneasily, grabbing my wrist before I hit the last digit. “What are you doing?”

  “We need answers, and he won’t give them to me with a dozen cops listening.”

  Jacobs released my hand, nodding, and we waited for Oster to answer. On the second ring, he picked up, not surprised to be receiving a call back. He wasn’t stupid, despite his current actions. Something else was happening, and I still didn’t know what it was.

  “I’m alone,” I clarified before he could ask. “What were you going to tell us earlier? Who were you going to give us? Rachel’s safe. I promise you that.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you anything earlier.” It sounded like a bald-faced lie, but I didn’t protest. “Thank you for keeping your word.”

  “Jason, who else is with you? Is it just Paul?”

  “No, there are others.” Other hostages or accomplices?

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “For now.”

  “You know the police plan to breach if you don’t cooperate. They’ll probably succumb to any demands you may have, but if you continue to stonewall, it won’t be pretty.” Jacobs glared at my words, but I wanted the direness of the situation to sink in for Oster. “Please tell me what you want?”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Try me,” I begged.

  “I’ll only discuss this in person. Face-to-face with you and no one else.” He hung up. He wasn’t willing to bend.

  How could we force him to play a game when he refused to accept the rules? Leaning my head back, I shut my eyes, thinking through my options. We were almost out of time, and from Oster’s tone, he wouldn’t change his mind.

  “Parker,” Jacobs said my name, and I opened my eyes and focused on him, “they’re professionals. They’ll find the safest method possible with the least amount of casualties. You tried. Frankly, you’ve done more than what most people in your situation would do.”

  “Most people don’t find themselves in these situations.” An abandoned handheld police radio sat on the table next to the phone I just used. “Channel four,” I said, picking up the radio and tucking it into my jacket pocket. I handed the sheet of paper with instructions on sending a tactical team through the subbasement to breach quietly, working their way up the building once the power was cut. Then I checked that my cell phone was in my pants pocket, and my gun was in my shoulder holster. This plan might get me shot before I even made it inside.

  “What?” Jacobs asked, confused.

  Without answering, I sprinted across the expanse from the police barricade to the hotel. Jacobs screamed my name, and a dozen police and FBI agents turned, some attempting to thwart my entrance. But since they weren’t expecting someone to burst into the hotel, the positions they occupied behind sawhorses and other temporary barricades allowed for a few extra seconds that I needed to clear the front door and enter the lobby. Once inside enemy territory, they couldn’t risk a breach to get me out. Now I was either a hostage or a hostile. Neither title was particularly pleasing.

  “You’ve lost your fucking mind,” I mumbled to myself, scanning the abandoned lobby. It was still empty. Should I go straight to Russell’s office and hope to find Oster? Before I could move an inch, voices came over the radio.

  “Parker, respond.”

  “Hi,” I said, holding the radio in my left and my gun in my right. “Looks like you might have to reconsider that breach.”

  “Get your ass out here. Now,” Torre growled.

  “Sorry, I can’t do that.” I heard a few random bursts of static as I began checking the lobby for potential enemies hiding among lots of rooms and plenty of locked doors. The security cameras weren’t helpful since their operational status was questionable.

  “Parker,” Walton must have won the arm wrestling match in order to have obtained the radio from Torre, “since you’re inside, we’re gonna use you.”

  “Great.” I opened the door to the security office, stepping inside. The monitors were off. The cameras were disabled, and I remembered Oster was outside the security office when he confronted Eastman. He must have switched off the cameras and the system before Paul arrived, which meant whatever he was planning had nothing to do with Paul. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Clear the building again, level by level. We’ll send back-up like you requested, but they’ll stay back. No one will know they are there. If you encounter unfriendlies, do not engage unless absolutely necessary. We are working under the assumption Oster is our only suspect with numerous hostages. Get us some numbers and locations for a full-scale breach.”

  “Affirmative,” I replied, leaving the security office and heading for the stairs.

  “We’re cutting building power. It’ll shut down the elevators, leaving the stairs as the only viable means between levels. It should decrease enemy mobility, so no one will be able to sneak up behind you. It’ll also disable the security system, which means even if Oster tries to access it, he won’t be able to use it to spot us.”

  “Okay. I’ll radio when I know something. Until then, going s
ilent.”

  I lowered the volume on the radio, tucked it securely back into my pocket and pulled out my phone to dial Jason. Thankfully, I had his number saved, but he didn’t pick up. This was seriously screwing with my plan to have a meet and greet.

  I continued working my way through the hotel slowly, level by level. The entire situation was reminiscent of the dozens of drills PDN ran. I was really starting to hate this hotel. The hallways were eerie, although no sign of life was better than encountering men with guns or hostages. It was like being in the wild with only two options, predator and prey. Those labels weren’t any better than hostage or hostile, but they meant the same.

  On the fourth floor, my phone vibrated. Glancing at the I.D., I answered, hoping Mark had a solid lead from earlier. “What did you find?” I asked, hoping for a solution. If he had one, I could still stroll out the front door with my hands in the air and probably not get shot. Hopefully.

  “You made the news.” His voice was low, not surprised but slightly amazed. “Care to explain what the hell you’re doing inside the hotel in the middle of a crisis situation?”

  “Negotiating.” Obviously, if I was on the phone, there was no imminent danger. “Jason Oster wanted to chat in person. I’m working my way through the building now, so I need to cut the small talk. Any leverage or helpful information could go a long way.”

  “Paul phoned the hotel manager’s office last night from his motel. He received a call from the same number early this morning, and that’s the number he phoned again from my cell. A few computer specialists are attempting to access the hotel’s security system remotely since the information is stored on two separate servers, one on-site and one off. If not, maybe we can get access to the employee schedule to figure out who was in Russell’s office at the time the calls were placed. Since they didn’t occur during normal business hours, we phoned Russell’s wife to ask if he was home last night, and she said he didn’t go to work until eight this morning. The call came in at 5:47 a.m., so it wasn’t Russell.”