Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  “What about Stan Weaver?” I asked, my mind reeling from the repeated beatings and remodeled injuries that William Briscoe had sustained in the last six months, according to the ME’s report.

  “What about him?” She raised a confused eyebrow. “He died from a high velocity bullet to the head. His autopsy was simple. No surprises,” she flipped through his chart to be thorough, “unless you’re worried about his high cholesterol, but frankly, it’s a little late in the game to worry about that now.”

  I was appalled by the humor, even though I’d been known to crack dark, scathing jokes at the worst times imaginable. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

  “No, I’m not worried about his high cholesterol. Does he have any previous injuries or anything that could hint why someone wanted him dead?”

  She shrugged, sliding the drawer closed on William Briscoe. “I only report what I find, and there was nothing to find on Weaver. Now, with your other vic, the bruises, hairline fractures, and slight remodeling on his intercostal, clavicle, and ulna bones indicate whoever beat him had done it before.” She pulled the films off the screen and put up another set of x-rays of Briscoe’s hands and arms. “It looks like he fought back.” She pointed to his knuckles and wrists. “We typically see injuries like this when people first learn to box and aren’t used to maintaining the proper form.”

  “Or he fought back, and those are defensive wounds.”

  “Also possible.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  Now I was more confused than before. What did any of this have to do with our shooter and Weaver? One thought came to mind — jury tampering. But Lucca already determined that the current defendant, Jeremy Hunter, wasn’t involved. So who would want to beat up one of our jurors and execute the prosecutor? I signed out of the morgue and took a copy of the two autopsy files back to the federal building to add this confusing new piece to our puzzle.

  After making copies for the rest of the team assigned to the case, I went into the conference room, placing the autopsy reports in front of each chair at the table before tacking the photos of William Briscoe’s extensive injuries to the board. As I flipped through the files for additional information on Briscoe, it quickly became apparent that aside from name and stats, no other information was available. Why didn’t anyone look into the sniper’s second victim?

  Storming out of the room, I returned to my desk, keying in William Briscoe’s name and social security number. In his lifetime, he’d received two dozen traffic violations, one drunk and disorderly charge that was dropped, and had reported his car stolen three years ago. Other than that, the government didn’t spend much time worrying about him. He paid his taxes on time and generally played by the rules. Hell, if he had been more of a firebrand, he might have failed to report for jury duty and dodged a bullet. Then again, given his recent beatings, maybe he thought he’d be safer reporting to the courthouse every day. Boy, was he mistaken.

  “Alex,” Mark’s voice sounded behind my shoulder, and I ran my hands through my hair, collecting my thoughts and sitting up straight, “what happened at the ME’s office?”

  “Briscoe’s been enduring frequent beatings, and no one bothered to dig too deep into his history,” I snapped. “He looks like the intended target.”

  “Briscoe was a juror. The selection process is complicated, to say the least. The identities of the jury pool are concealed. It’s difficult for anyone to determine who served on what jury. You know this. It’s not quite anonymous, but it’s supposed to be. What you’re suggesting is that someone gained access and used this as an opportunity to kill William Briscoe.” Mark spun my chair around, so I was facing him. “Shake off the cobwebs. Those aren’t reasonable conclusions. Briscoe’s death was accidental. The bullet tore through his aorta. From what the techs have determined, he must have stood up for whatever the reason and ended up in front of Weaver. It’s the only thing that explained the height differentiation involved in the trajectory of the shot, first through Briscoe’s back before entering Weaver’s skull. It was purely coincidental. If Briscoe was the intended target, the bullet would have been aimed at his head, not Weaver’s.”

  “You’ve always said there are no such things as coincidences.”

  “This is the exception to the rule.”

  “C’mon, Jablonsky, look at the autopsy photos. Someone had an axe to grind. And this,” I grabbed the list of suspects for Weaver’s murder, “has yet to pan out. Sure, Weaver had a ton of enemies, but none of them are responsible.”

  “That list only deals with his professional life, not his personal one. There are still a million stones to overturn.”

  “You said a personal vendetta would have been carried out elsewhere.”

  “And whoever’s been using Briscoe as a punching bag would have killed him elsewhere too. Think about it,” Mark insisted, ever the voice of reason. Taking a deep breath, I blinked a few times and pinched the bridge of my nose. “We have the murder weapon. The location. Techs are scrubbing the footage from that office building and the courthouse. We’ll get an ID, and we’ll find him.” His eyes narrowed. “You found that weapon today. Somehow, we missed checking the maintenance room. So why’s a rain cloud hanging over your head?”

  “Because the facts don’t fit,” I toyed with the hem of my jacket, “and no one else seems to notice the giant elephant in the room.”

  “So let me hear your theory.”

  “Briscoe pissed someone off. His wife died five years ago, so maybe he was having an affair with a married woman or a younger woman. Or he could have owed someone a lot of money. We don’t have his financials that I know of, but it’s possible. Whoever it is found him and made their point. Maybe they planned to kill him then, but he escaped. His wounds could have been defensive. Hell, he might have witnessed a crime, and the perpetrator threatened him. His frequent appearances at the courthouse this week for the case might have spooked the culprit, and he decided to permanently silence Briscoe.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of conjecture. When you hear hoofbeats, you’re supposed to think horses.”

  “Occam’s razor. Assume the simplest solution. But it hasn’t provided any real leads. So maybe we’re wrong.”

  “And you want to go on a safari.”

  “It couldn’t hurt to explore the possibilities. Plus, Lucca’s got it covered. I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of analyzing Weaver’s other threats, running backgrounds, and checking into alibis.”

  “You’re not sticking him with that much work, even though he tried to do the same thing to you. Didn’t we discuss how childish you are being earlier today?”

  “Fine. I’ll continue on this course, but for the record, I believe we’re looking at this wrong.”

  After voicing my disagreement with the current investigation, I returned to the conference room, forcing myself to focus on Stan Weaver as the intended target. During my earlier field trip, a couple of agents had spoken with the Department of Corrections and crossed a dozen names off the list. A few phone calls were made, and alibis had been checked. Whoever murdered Weaver wasn’t on the list.

  Eddie Lucca returned from the crime scene and was compiling a new list of suspects. Now that we had the murder weapon, he was searching for individuals who purchased ammunition or sniper rifles in the past that also had a strong connection to Weaver. A few names overlapped, and Lucca believed we were getting closer.

  “Nice job, locating our murder weapon, Agent Parker,” Lucca said to the otherwise empty conference room. “Our crime scene techs just sent verification that the slug that went through Weaver matched the striations of the bullets test fired from that Remington 700.” He squinted. “What made you look in the maintenance room?”

  “I was being thorough.” My bad mood was seeping into my words, and despite my promise to be nicer to Lucca, I was too drained to care. The smell of the morgue was still present in my nasal cavity, making the day that much worse. “Do you think you can manage this o
n your own?”

  “Do you have something more pressing to do?”

  “I want to follow up with the real estate agency that hosted the open house. Maybe the realtor can give us the names of the people who showed up. After all, jury selection began a month ago, and the court had Hunter’s case scheduled for some time. The killer might have been planning this just as long.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, but if you make any headway, call immediately. I don’t care what time it is.”

  “Thanks.” I collected my paperwork and went to the door.

  “No quip about me being a boy scout?” Lucca asked, trying to goad me. “Shouldn’t I be earning a kindness merit badge for letting you beg off the grunt work or something?”

  “Good night, Lucca.”

  “Hey, Parker,” he glanced out the open conference room door, “about earlier, are you okay?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. I just turned and walked out of the room. That was none of his business, and he should have listened to the advice I gave him to stay away.

  It was after five when I arrived at the real estate office. The receptionist was packing up for the day, and a few of the realtors were bustling around or making last minute phone calls, probably planning to meet with prospective buyers that were getting off work. Studying the closest print ad featuring a blown-up photo of Sylvia Britt, the top realtor for ten years running, I debated how to play this.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” the receptionist asked. “We’re just about to close. Did you have an appointment?”

  “I’m in the market for some office space. There was an open house last week.” I bit my lip and dug through my purse. “No, it was the week before. It was inside that high-rise near the federal courthouse. Dammit,” I flipped my bag upside down on top of the counter, glad that my gun and credentials were concealed, “I know I have that card somewhere.” Offering a conciliatory smile, I tried to appear frazzled. “It’s been a long day. I can’t even remember my name, let alone the realtor’s name. I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries.” She smiled and handed back my chapstick that had fallen onto the floor. “I know which property you’re talking about. Mrs. Britt hosted the open house.” She glanced at the large office behind her. “She has an appointment this evening, but if you give me your name and number, I’ll have her call you first thing in the morning about that property.”

  “That sounds great, assuming no one is about to swoop in and steal it. There was some guy lingering around that day that seemed particularly interested. You wouldn’t happen to know if anyone has inquired or made an offer, would you?”

  The receptionist looked torn between helping and getting into trouble. Her shifty-eyed gaze landed on the closed office door. “I can check for you.”

  “Thanks so much.” Letting out a dramatic sigh of relief, I continued to stuff the few remaining items back inside my bag. I always packed light, and aside from a minimal amount of makeup to cover up any dark circles or injuries, my bag contained chapstick, my wallet, car keys, a knife, a few hair ties, and zip ties. Just the essentials. Luckily, she didn’t scrutinize the questionable items. “Today’s been insane. My boss has been nagging the hell out of me. I’m so ready to quit and start out on my own.”

  “Oh, tell me about,” she muttered before she could stop herself. She blushed slightly and tried to hide the faux pas. “Promise not to let anyone know I showed you this.” She handed over a sticky note with three names scrawled in barely legible writing. “They expressed an interest, and those are their bid amounts.”

  Quickly memorizing the three names, I nodded and added my own and my phone number to the bottom of the list with an amount a few thousand over the highest bidder. “Thanks. Have Mrs. Britt call as soon as she gets a chance. If I have to deal with too many days like today, I might need that office space sooner than I thought.”

  She smiled, dropping the note on top of the desk before ushering me out the door. Once I was back inside the confines of my car, I pulled out my phone and passed the names off to Lucca. He was getting ready to call it quits for the night too, but he said they were devising a new list, and the three names I passed along could be added as potential leads.

  I doubted that our killer would have been that sloppy, but maybe someone would remember seeing him at the open house. A few sketches had been made of the assailant based on the surveillance feed. Possibly one of the renditions would be close enough to his actual appearance to jog some memories. But I was off-the-clock, and those agents unlucky enough to be working nights would continue to work the rifle angle. Lucca was confident that we’d be knocking on our suspect’s door in the morning, and who was I to shit in his Cheerios?

  Five

  Driving home, I didn’t bother taking as many precautions as usual. I wasn’t coming from the federal building, and after conducting numerous turns, it was apparent no one was following me. Once I pulled into the garage, I parked my subcompact on the end, next to the dozen high-end sports cars. Martin’s town car wasn’t present, and I suspected he wasn’t home yet. As usual, it was a tossup to see who would work later.

  Going up the stairs, I went to the master suite, dug out something clean to wear, and headed for the shower, stripping and leaving a trail of my clothing strewn across the bathroom floor. Maybe I should burn it. It might be the only way to get the smell of the morgue out. After washing my hair three times and scrubbing my skin raw, I leaned against the shower wall, letting the water cascade down my body. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been in there when I heard a faint knocking at the door.

  “Alex?” Martin called. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” I replied, inhaling deeply and struggling to pull myself together. The door opened, and he glanced down at my clothes, picking them up and tossing them into the hamper. “Don’t put them in there. They need to be incinerated or thrown out.”

  “Why?” He undid his tie and shed his suit jacket, leaving them bunched on the bathroom vanity. He pulled his belt free and kicked off his shoes and socks. Then he opened the glass shower door. “What’s wrong?” His green eyes were clouded with a mix of concern and lust.

  “They smell like death.” Resisting the urge to reach for the shampoo again, I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling naked and exposed. “I had to make a trip to the morgue today. God, I keep smelling it on everything.”

  “Hey,” he stepped underneath the water still in his dress shirt and suit pants, “what’s going on?”

  “Martin, you’re getting all wet,” I said, but he pulled me into his arms, even as the water soaked through his clothing.

  He chuckled into my hair, running his fingers through my tangled locks. “It’s a bit of a role reversal,” he teased. “And the only thing I smell is coconut and vanilla.” He kissed me, his thumb trailing across my cheek. “The water’s getting cold. How long have you been in here?” He lifted my hand, examining the waterlogged flesh on my fingertips.

  “I don’t know. I’m having a bad day.”

  “Then give me a chance to improve it.” He kissed down the column of my neck. “It feels like we’ve been missing each other for the last two weeks.” He reached behind me, turning the faucet farther to hot while I unbuttoned his shirt, skimming my hands up his washboard abs. He kept in incredible shape, and right now, I wasn’t opposed to a sexy distraction. “Have you even come home this week? By the time I get up in the morning, you’re already gone, unless you were never even here.”

  “My days don’t seem to end. This case is a mess.” I shook my head, unable to talk about the specifics of an ongoing investigation. “We’re looking in the wrong direction, but Jablonsky doesn’t agree.”

  Martin growled, brushing his dark brown hair backward to stop the water from dripping into his face. Mark was Martin’s best friend, so I didn’t understand why mentioning him had earned that type of response. But it didn’t matter. The water was growing increasingly colder, and Martin shut it off. Leaving the shower, I wrapped myself
in a towel while he shed his soaking wet clothes and left them near the drain.

  “So much for dry clean only,” he mused. “So since my plans for showering turned into a bust, can I offer to warm you up instead?”

  “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  I pressed my palms against the bullet wound, hoping to slow the bleeding. This couldn’t be happening. Screaming for help, I frantically glanced around the room, but no one else was there. The shooter was dead. I killed him, but Martin was bleeding out. Pressing my hands more fervently against his shoulder, I begged him to live.

  “Alex.” His voice sounded thick with sleep.

  “Stay with me.”

  “Alex,” he repeated, hissing in pain. “Ouch. Sweetheart, let go.” I clung tighter. “Shit, I’m sorry. I hate to do this.” Suddenly, the world pitched backward, and I felt like I was falling. I dug my fingers in deeper to anchor myself, and my eyes shot open. My heart was pounding in my ears, and I was clinging to Martin’s shoulder with everything I had. We were upright in bed, and the world made little sense to my sleep-addled brain. “It was a nightmare,” he said soothingly, prying my hands off of him. My fingers were cramped into gnarled claws, and once I steadied myself, he rubbed them between his hands until my locked muscles released and I could once again straighten my fingers. Scooting backward, he sat with his back pressed against the headboard. “And you thought I splurged on a padded headboard for only sordid reasons,” he said, stroking my back while my pulse and breathing stabilized. I buried my face in his neck, and he pulled the blankets up around my trembling body, not bothering to remove me from his lap. “I didn’t mean to startle you awake, but you seemed pretty adamant about remaining trapped in that dream.”