Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Was it because of work? Did the morgue remind you of Michael?”

  “It wasn’t about him.” My fingers traced the scar on Martin’s shoulder from the shooting, and he took my hand in his and kissed my knuckles, understanding what my nightmare had been about.

  “Should we talk about moving our bedroom to the second floor? Is this too close for comfort now that you live here?” He swallowed, unsure if I wanted to talk about these things ever, let alone at four a.m. “I changed the flooring and moved the walls around when the house was restructured after the shootout, but it still makes you uneasy.”

  “It probably won’t make a difference where we sleep. I have nightmares. You know this.”

  “I also know that they get worse when you’re under a lot of stress or when you haven’t had much sleep. Your job makes them worse.” He attempted to maintain a neutral tone, but there was an undercurrent of hostility below the surface. “Your job is the cause of most of them.”

  Sighing, I kissed him and climbed out of bed. “It wasn’t about him,” I murmured, repeating what I’d said but finding a completely different meaning for the words.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I know you don’t like to talk about your late partner.” Frowning, he bit his lip, arching an eyebrow as I dressed. “Where are you going?”

  “To work on a lead. I’ll be downstairs. Maybe now you’ll actually be able to get some sleep, especially since you have to be up for work in two hours.”

  He blinked, obviously tired and knowing that now wasn’t the time for meaningful discussions or petty arguments. “I see you less than I did before you moved in. I’d be willing to give up a few hours of sleep if it meant we could spend that time together.”

  “I need to chase this down while it’s fresh on my mind. Go back to sleep. We’ll have breakfast before you leave for the office.”

  “I’m holding you to that. Am I cooking?”

  “Well, only if you want something more substantial than cold cereal.” Slipping out the door, I returned to the guestroom I was using as an office. There was nothing like an adrenaline rush to start the day.

  After ripping down all the hard work I’d pinned to the board the previous day, I started over. The victim was William Briscoe, forty-five years old with two children and a previously deceased wife. I sketched out the few facts I knew about him and his family, making a note to speak with his daughter, Laura, and his son, Will Jr. Laura was twenty-two, currently interning at an internet startup company; Will was twenty and seemed to be struggling to find his path in life. He had dropped out of college and had taken a slew of odd jobs. Losing their dad wouldn’t make life easier for either of them. Scribbling down the address and contact information, I would stop by and see them this afternoon. Surely, one of them could shed some light on who had an axe to grind with their father.

  Closing my eyes, I visualized the interior of the courtroom. Briscoe was juror number five. The bullet went through his back and continued on its path. The shot hit Weaver straight on, as if he had a target painted on the back of his head. He was also the prosecutor and the intended victim, according to my colleagues, but I failed to agree. The position of the gunshot wound on Briscoe’s body continued to nag at the recesses of my mind.

  Grabbing a marker, I sketched out the scene. Our forensic experts would be able to prove or disprove my theory using their computer programs, but if Briscoe hadn’t stood up, would the bullet have gone through his head instead? The shot seemed too high. It probably would have sailed over his head, meaning his death was accidental. Dammit. I threw the marker across the room. Why was I having so many issues accepting this fact as true?

  I paced the room, wondering when I reached this insane conclusion. Yesterday started wrong and just got worse as the day progressed. After my visit with the medical examiner, it was obvious we’d been turning over the wrong stones, but maybe it was just an excuse to explain why we hadn’t made much progress up until that point. Someone shouldn’t be able to shoot into a courtroom, kill two people, and walk away scot-free.

  The possibilities were endless when it came to suspects who wanted AUSA Weaver dead, and I didn’t want to think that someone was killed for doing his job. It made my own safety seem even more questionable, and that was obviously something I didn’t want to think about, even if that would explain my breakdown in the office concerning my last partner. Perhaps this case had nothing to do with Briscoe, and I had boarded the crazy train. The only problem with that assessment was the substantial amount of injuries present on William Briscoe’s body. Could they be unrelated?

  I was tired, frustrated, and annoyed by my own incompetence. Pulling a legal pad out of my desk drawer, I made a list of the things I needed to accomplish today. First was to follow up with the realtor about our suspect. Second, I would have a conversation with Laura and Will Briscoe, just to make sure it was purely a coincidence, and lastly, I’d pull it together and do whatever menial tasks Lucca and Jablonsky wanted. Sometimes, it was easier to take orders than to exercise free will and make decisions.

  My head was already aching, and I went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. It was 5:30, which gave me another hour and a half until Martin would be ready for breakfast. He always stuck to a similar schedule during the week, up at six, a forty-five minute workout, showering and dressing for the day, breakfast, and off to work. Instead of slaving over the stove to cook a fantastic meal, I grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and curled up on the couch. I’d get up just as soon as the coffee was ready.

  “Alex, what time do you have to be at work?” Martin asked.

  “Eight,” I replied, opening my eyes and lifting my head off the pillow. “Damn couch. It has powers over me.”

  He glanced at the time. “I left a plate for you in the microwave. So much for breakfast together.” He sounded agitated, but I wasn’t coherent enough to figure out why. “You should probably get ready if you don’t want to be late. Will I see you tonight?”

  “You can count on it.”

  “Like breakfast?”

  “Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” Rubbing my eyes, I stretched and got off the couch. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” He looked torn between leaving for work and leaving me.

  “Not now.” I kissed him and headed for the stairs. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “Stay safe, Alexis.”

  “Always.”

  He continued down the stairs, exchanging muffled greetings with his driver and bodyguard, Marcal and Bruiser. I’d have to remember to tell Rosemarie, his cleaning lady, that the second floor guestroom was off-limits since I was using it as an office and storage space. She’d always been great about tidying up, but the materials that covered the desk and corkboard were sensitive.

  Since the vast majority of my belongings were scattered throughout the master bedroom, the guest suite, and my apartment, I’d have to find time to organize and condense my crap into one workable space. While focusing on daily chores instead of the case, I prepared for the day, only to be torn from my musings by my ringing cell phone.

  “Parker,” I answered.

  “Ms. Parker, this is Jack Fletcher, the junior attorney at Ackerman, Baze, and Clancy.”

  “I remember you, Mr. Fletcher.” A smile crept onto my face. He worked for the firm that handled Martin’s personal business, and we’d crossed paths a time or two. “What can I do for you?”

  “I am in need of your investigative services. You didn’t seem too keen on working for the firm, but this is a personal matter, so I was hoping you might be open to hearing me out. Do you still have that P.I. office at the strip mall?”

  “I do, but I’m not in a position to take on any new clients.” Relenting on account of owing him a few favors, I said, “Actually, if you swing by around six, you can fill me in. Maybe I can recommend someone. How does that sound?�
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  “Great. Thanks so much, Ms. Parker. I’ll see you tonight.”

  After we disconnected, I remembered my promise to Martin and had the urge to slam my head into the wall in the hopes of knocking some sense into myself. I always had the habit of biting off more than I could chew. With any luck, it’d be a short meeting, and I’d be home at a decent hour.

  Returning downstairs, I scarfed down the heart-shaped pancakes Martin had made. He could be nauseatingly sweet at times, but this morning, I chose to find that annoyance endearing. Then I added the items from my mental list to my actual list, grabbed my belongings, and went down the stairs to my car. By the time I got behind the wheel, my phone was ringing again.

  “Parker, we’ve made some headway on identifying the shooter. Our suspect list is down to six possible subjects. Forensics is still working to clear up the camera angles, but I’m ready to knock on some doors if you’re game,” Lucca said.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Six

  “That was fun. What do you plan to do for your next trick? Accuse a dead man of the murders?” My sarcasm was even more prevalent when I was tired. “For an analyst, you’ve done a stellar job of ensuring your information is up-to-date. Did you even make it through training at Quantico?”

  “How was I supposed to know that two of the names on my list were otherwise detained? They weren’t processed into the system until this morning.” Lucca rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do my job.” He stared in my direction while I drove to Sylvia Britt’s office. “We haven’t finished fleshing out my leads.”

  “This is on the way.” Parking at a metered space, I shed my jacket and divested myself of my shoulder holster and credentials. I stowed my nine millimeter and badge in my purse. Then I undid my braid and let my hair fall in loose waves. I put on a layer of lip gloss and unbuttoned my top two buttons. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Do you have a hot date with this realtor lady?” he asked, eyeing my change in appearance.

  “Yes, seeing her face on every park bench has given me the hots for her.”

  Rolling my eyes and letting out an incredulous sigh, I opened the car door and headed for the office. Going inside while dressed like a federal agent might make her suspicious, and before I could gain any insight into who was interested in the office our shooter used, she was likely to lawyer up. Then we’d have to petition the court for access to her files, and that would take too long. This way, she would be in selling mode and far less likely to conceal key facts.

  “Good morning, Ms. Parker,” the receptionist from last night greeted. “Mrs. Britt was thrilled that you expressed an interest in that property. She’s on the phone right now, but if you’ll take a seat, she’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Thanks.” I offered a conspiratorial smile and lowered my voice. “Am I still the top bidder?”

  She nodded and went back to performing her duties while I took a seat in an armchair and picked up a magazine. Today started out as a big disappointment, so I hoped my meeting with the realtor would turn it around. The forensic team was unable to positively identify our shooter. The hat and glasses obscured too much of his face for facial recognition to match him with any statistical certainty to anyone in the database, and Lucca’s leads weren’t panning out either.

  Of the six possible suspects, we had already ruled out three, and it was barely eleven a.m. Two had been arrested approximately thirty hours ago for grand theft auto and armed robbery. The police had taken them into custody, but from the statements we’d read and the information we’d obtained from the arresting officers, it was obvious these two felons had an alibi since they were in the midst of a crime spree at the time of the shooting. The third suspect we’d gone to see was in the hospital and had been for the last five days. He was involved in a shootout and had sustained multiple gunshot wounds. The Remington 700 he purchased was in the trunk of his car, ruling him out. Three strikes and you’re out, so it was my turn to follow a lead, even though Lucca didn’t agree.

  “Ms. Parker?” a forty-something woman asked. She wore a red skirt and black silk blouse. Her platinum hair was short and glued in place with enough hairspray to tear another hole in the ozone layer. “I’m Sylvia Britt. Please step into my office.” I followed her inside and took a seat. She shut the door behind me and went around the desk, offering her hand as she sat down. Her grip was firm, and I suspected everything about her was part of the ‘sell, sell, sell’ mentality. “So you’re in the market for some office space?”

  “Absolutely.” I smiled, playing along. “I was hoping for something in a more upscale building. The other day, I happened to be visiting my chiropractor and noticed a few empty offices on the twentieth floor.”

  “I’d be happy to show you the property.” Her smile never faltered. “Unfortunately, that particular space is undergoing some minor cosmetic changes at the moment. If you can wait, I’m sure it’ll be ready sometime next week.” She was shrewd, skillfully leaving out the part about it being an active crime scene that was off-limits to the public. “However, there are plenty of properties on the market that are available to rent or buy. What size space were you considering?” Her smile remained as she tapped a few keys. “I can also narrow down locations by price range.” She gave me her undivided attention. “Why don’t you begin by telling me what business you’re in and what you’re looking for?”

  “I’m a security consultant.” I pulled out one of my old business cards from when I worked at Martin Technologies. “I’m hoping to branch out and start my own firm. At the present, I don’t need that much space, but I was hoping to rent in order to upgrade as my business grows.”

  “That’s fantastic.” Her eyes stared at the card, the money question floating just beneath the surface. “Did you have a specific neighborhood in mind? The business district has the most options, but the price goes up substantially.”

  “Price isn’t an issue. I have an investor willing to sink a substantial amount of money into this venture.” I nodded at the card, never saying anything specific but letting her draw her own conclusions.

  “Excellent.” She keyed in a few more things and popped up a dozen locations. “I’ll get you the information on a few other properties in the meantime. If something strikes your fancy, let me know, and we’ll schedule a visit.” She hit print and dug through her drawers for some pre-printed information.

  “Mrs. Britt,” I said, trying to get her back on track and knowing this was just the first step to getting information on the only property I had any interest in, “I really had my heart set on that one specific space.” Before she could come up with another feasible excuse, I continued. “Is it still available? Did anyone seem overly interested in it during the open house?”

  “It is available. A few people stopped by, but honestly, the fish weren’t biting that day.”

  “Please,” I held the smile, even though my mouth and cheeks were starting to hurt, “I’m sure you say that to all your clients, so no one gets disheartened.”

  “No, really.” Her look dropped for a moment. “In all truthfulness, a lot of space in that building is empty. It isn’t in a very good location. With the federal courthouse across the street and all the attorney offices nearby, parking is damn near impossible. It deters a lot of traffic and potential customers.”

  “What about the visitors at the open house?”

  “They were mostly attorneys and some sorry saps that must have smelled the freshly baked treats.”

  “Really?” Now we were getting somewhere. “Just some random schlubs wandered in off the street?”

  She snorted, covering her mouth and looking embarrassed by the unprofessional noise she just made. “One of them came into the room, stared out the window for twenty minutes, told me he was thinking about it, grabbed a handful of cookies, and left.”

  “Did he make a bid or leave his name?”

  My question caused an uneasy thought to enter her mind
based upon the odd look that flitted across her perfectly coifed features. “Don’t worry, Ms. Parker, I’m sure if that’s the spot you have your heart set on, then it’ll be yours, but one of these other buildings would be better suited for your needs.”

  Dammit. I held the fake smile, taking the papers she offered. Making one last-ditch effort as she showed me to the door, I said, “Are you afraid I’m going to scare away a potential buyer because I promise I won’t. I just want to maintain the top bid, and your window gazer sounds extremely interested.”

  “He wasn’t that interested. He never followed up.” She ushered me into the lobby. “Call if you have any questions.”

  Sighing, I went out the door. The next time I called, I’d have to step up my game or have my credentials in hand. When I got back to the car, Lucca raised an eyebrow. Before he could gloat that my lead was just as worthless as his, the phone rang.

  “Jablonsky checked into our remaining three suspects. He brought two of them in for questioning, but they’ve been cleared. The third has dropped off the grid,” Lucca said, relaying the message.

  “Do you think he’s our shooter?”

  “Perhaps.” Lucca wasn’t insisting on anything at this point. “Forensics used an acid wash on the rifle’s serial number, but they were only able to pull a partial. However, there aren’t that many retailers in the area that sell Remington 700s, so we were told to drop by the gun shops and see if anyone recognizes the sketch of our suspect.”

  “Right,” slamming my forehead into the steering wheel seemed like a better and better idea as the seconds ticked past, “because a white male, approximately five foot ten, a hundred and seventy pounds, with sunglasses and a baseball cap is going to stick out in anyone’s mind.”

  “We have our orders.” I snorted at his words. “Shut it, Parker. You hit a dead end faster than I did.”

  “No, I didn’t. Our shooter was at the open house. I just can’t prove it yet, and it’ll take a bit more effort to convince the realtor to give up a name.”