Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  “We’ll get a court order.” He was already dialing, and I rolled my eyes. “What did she say exactly?”

  “That a guy in street clothes went inside, stared out the window for twenty minutes, and took a handful of cookies with him.”

  Lucca stared as if I were insane, hitting end call on his phone and shoving it into his pocket. “That’s not a lead. That’s circumstantial. It’s a high-rise with floor to ceiling windows. Everyone looks out the window.”

  “It was him.” There was no room to argue with my gut instinct. Unfortunately, gut instincts weren’t permissible in court. “It’ll just take some cajoling and creativity to get a name.”

  “If you’re so sure, put your money where your mouth is.”

  “You want to make a bet?”

  “Yeah,” he was arrogant and annoying, “if you’re right, I’ll leave you alone and ask that we aren’t assigned to work together in the future. But if you’re wrong, you’ll tell me the real reason you despise this arrangement.” He gestured at the space between the two of us. “Like I said, I’ll keep your secret safe.”

  “How ‘bout we put a hundred on the table and call it a day?”

  “I thought you were positive.” He was goading me, and it worked.

  “Fine. You can tell Director Kendall it wasn’t you, it’s me.”

  “You do know I’m married. I thought that meant I was done reciting that clichéd dating line.”

  “Goddammit.” Letting out an exasperated exhale, I tossed a scathing look at Lucca. “Keep your personal life personal. I don’t need or want to know what you do outside the walls of the office.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he assessed me but refrained from saying anything else. However, it was obvious the wheels in his head were turning. He had spent the last few weeks trying to figure me out, and after my breakdown in the office yesterday morning, I thought he had finally put that to rest. Obviously, I was wrong. That was starting to happen far too frequently.

  The dozen gun shops proved to be a bust, like I knew they would, and feeling like my instincts might be back on track, we returned to the federal building to see what progress Jablonsky had made.

  “Slater Christianson,” Lucca poked at the last name on the list of suspects, “do we have any idea where he might be?”

  Jablonsky glanced in my direction, resisting the urge to balk at Lucca’s question. “Go find out, Eddie. In the meantime, we’ll take another approach to solving Weaver’s murder.” He flicked his wrist, dismissing Lucca and swiveling in the chair to speak to a few members of the evidence collection team. When he was finished doling out a new set of assignments with updated parameters on how to proceed and orders to begin a thorough assessment of Weaver’s friends, family, co-workers, and any vices he might have had, Jablonsky spun to face me. “What do you have, Parker? I know that look, so it’s time you share your lead.”

  “You need to get surveillance footage from the office building a week prior to the shooting. The shooter planned his kills and took some time to set up. I can’t be sure, but he probably decided on that location the day the real estate agency hosted an open house for that office. Assuming he shopped around, you might be able to pull an ID from somewhere in that building or off one of the surrounding buildings. He would have been less careful that day.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a torn sheet of paper that contained the names and phone numbers of the bidders from the open house. “One of these people might recognize him.”

  Jablonsky picked up the list and read the names. “Nice work.” He glanced out the conference room door at Lucca, who was behind his desk, frantically typing things into the computer. “Have the two of you worked out your differences?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you want to try that again, but this time, make it sound convincing.”

  “You know what my issue is. It doesn’t matter who you pair me with because I don’t want to be assigned a partner. I’m back, but I don’t want anyone depending on me.”

  “You weren’t at fault. You promised me that you were done blaming yourself,” Mark said in a hushed tone. “Is this because the case hinges on the death of an attorney, just like the last case you and Carver worked?”

  “No.” Okay, maybe that had something to do with it, but regardless, I didn’t want someone else’s life to be my responsibility. “Put me behind a desk or whatever since I don’t want to be in the field with anyone. I can watch my own back. I’ve been doing it long enough.”

  “Everyone needs help. Even you.” He sighed. “Fine, I’ll give you a free pass on this one case because it hits close to home. Don’t deny it. I know it does because it’s too close for me too. Work on your own leads, but as soon as you have something solid, bring it to me. We are not cutting corners. Everything is going through official channels. Weaver’s office will fry our asses if we botch this, so don’t screw up and don’t play the hero.”

  “I’m not a hero. I’m just a working-class stiff.”

  “With creative ways of attacking problems.” He held up the sheet of paper. “If Lucca tracks down the culprit before you do, should I assign someone else to make the arrest?”

  “Do whatever you want, Jablonsky. You’re in charge. I’m just here to work the investigation and follow your orders.”

  “Yeah, you might need to take a refresher course on that one.” He jerked his chin at the door. “Dismissed.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Seven

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in the conference room, staring at the boards and twirling my pen. My actions didn’t look particularly productive, but it gave me time to think. I called in a few favors with members of IT, and the surveillance footage we had access to was being scrubbed from the date in question. It wasn’t considered a top priority, but the work was getting done. I requested a copy for my personal perusal, and it was delivered to my desk just as I was getting ready to call it a day.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. It was put on the backburner as soon as the gun shops sent over their records and surveillance footage. The accountants are going through the transaction history, and that’s added to the pile of information our computers have to process. Our best bet will likely be from comparing our composite sketch to the driver’s license photos of our gun buyers, but that’s just my guess. It’s normally how things like this work,” Agent Lawson, our resident technical expert, said.

  “All right. Keep me in the loop.”

  Collecting my files, I took the elevator down to the parking garage. Normally, I would have stayed in the building to review the footage, but I had a meeting with Jack Fletcher in an hour.

  “Where are you going?” Lucca asked, stepping into the elevator as I was getting off.

  “Home. This is nine to five. You should be more fiscally responsible, boy scout. The government is in enough debt without having to give us overtime.”

  “We’re salaried. There is no overtime.”

  “Details.” I continued to my car.

  “Parker,” he pushed the door open a second before it closed, “do you think the sniper was contracted to perform the hit?”

  It was the question that had been floating around my mind since I sat in the back of the courtroom, studying the scene. It was a good shot but not great. Great wouldn’t have resulted in collateral damage, and I was convinced that at least one of our victims was an accidental casualty. If the hit was contracted, then our killer could have been hired by anyone, thus making every alibi we’d checked completely pointless.

  “That would mean we have to start back at square one,” I called.

  “Shit.” He exhaled. “It’s the only conclusion I can reach. His enemies, professional and personal, have alibied out. There are probably others, but unless we get a hit on a gun buyer, that’s the most likely scenario.”

  “Start with the current wife’s financials and ask the guys in IT to scan the message boards and chat rooms. They know where to look
.” I opened my car door and placed my belongings inside. “Hey, Lucca, are you positive Weaver was the intended victim?”

  He rolled his eyes, letting the elevator doors close.

  * * *

  Meandering through the city streets, I let my mind process different possibilities and scenarios, and I dialed Kate Hartley, my longtime friend and one of the forensic accountants at the OIO, to have her check into the financial records for Stan Weaver and William Briscoe. There was no reason not to be thorough. Surprisingly, she said Lucca already asked her to do the same thing. Maybe he wasn’t as pigheaded and self-righteous as I thought. Shaking off the theory that there was an alternate reality in which the two of us would actually make a good team, I disconnected and drove to my P.I. office at the strip mall.

  When I arrived, I opened the door, scooping up the giant pile of mail that had collected over the last two months. After returning to the OIO, I closed my office. I hadn’t had time to freelance or deal with any additional dilemmas on account of an undercover assignment and a few investigations. Even now, the only reason I agreed to show up was because Fletcher was a business acquaintance, and it never hurt to have the junior member of one of the best law firms in the city in your corner.

  Jack Fletcher worked for Ackerman, Baze, and Clancy which specialized in corporate and civil law. They were Martin’s attorneys, and when he had been arrested, they had called me to investigate. That seemed like a lifetime ago. A lot had changed, but Jack Fletcher always seemed like a good guy. It wouldn’t hurt to hear about his problem and pass him off to a capable investigator who had ample time to deal with his issue.

  I finished discarding the junk mail just as the bell chimed and Fletcher stepped inside. He looked as exhausted as I felt, but he smiled, relieved to see me. Without invitation, he took a seat and opened his briefcase, extracting a legal sized envelope.

  “Thanks for doing this, Ms. Parker. How have you been?” he asked, attempting to be courteous even though it was obvious he wanted to get down to business.

  “I can’t complain. What’s going on?”

  “Someone’s blackmailing me.” He placed the envelope on the desk between us and sat back in the chair. For the most part, people in his position would be antsy, but he simply accepted this fact, resigned to dealing with it. “What should I do?”

  “You’re the lawyer.” I couldn’t help the quip, but I shot a smile at him to dull the blow. “Honestly, you should turn it over to the authorities and let them handle it. Blackmail is a punishable offense.”

  “Are you trying to lawyer the lawyer?” He held up his hand. “Before you start citing the state penal code, you should know this isn’t about money.”

  “What is it about?” I asked, the curiosity getting the best of me.

  “I have a problem.” He licked his lips. “One of the partners at the firm introduced me to the fight scene. Boxing, mixed martial arts, cage fights, things like that. There’s an underground circuit that’s particularly popular among the more affluent members of our community.”

  “That’s nothing new. Powerful men enjoy watching other men beat the shit out of each other.”

  “The fights are unsanctioned. They exist in the grey area of the sport. The fighters are on the cusp of getting sponsored and breaking into the main fight scene. It’s how a lot of them get noticed. The fights are scheduled and take place throughout the tri-state area, maybe even throughout the country. I’m not sure.”

  “Are you on the ticket or betting on the ticket?” I asked, wanting to cut through the explanation. “Tell me this isn’t your personal version of Ed Norton versus Brad Pitt.”

  “I’ve bet on a few of the fights, but it’s not what you think.” He held up his hand. “I’m not indebted to a bookie. I haven’t even wagered that much, less than a thousand dollars total.”

  “So someone caught on to your presence at these unsanctioned sporting events and is hoping to do something unsavory with this information?”

  “Ms. Parker,” he opened the envelope and placed a news article and a photo on my desk, “if I don’t pay, they’re threatening to report my involvement to the bar association and potentially have my license suspended.”

  Skimming through the article, I didn’t need to read the words to understand the gist. One of the fighters died in the emergency room from a brain bleed. It was most likely the result of an injury sustained at one of these events. Unfortunately for Fletcher, it was the same fighter that he had bet on, stupidly using a torn business card to scrawl his wager on the back. Illegal betting was a crime, and criminal activity was prohibited by professional rules and ethics.

  “Someone died, and you did nothing.” My tone was neutral. Most bystanders did nothing. That fact wouldn’t have surprised me.

  “Actually, I got called away before the first bell. That’s why I used my card to place the bet, so they’d have my phone number to get in touch if I won. It was stupid.”

  “The smart thing to do would be to turn in the people involved in the illegal gambling and admit you made a mistake.”

  “One of the partners is an avid fan. So is a judge. Do you see where this is going?”

  “You can pay off the blackmailer and sweep this under the rug, or you could potentially face criminal charges and ethics violations.”

  “Not to mention the fallout at the office and in the courtroom, if I’m not disbarred. The partners would either fire me or find some way to prevent future promotions. I’d hit a glass ceiling, which would be almost as bad as having the bar association review my standing and suspend my license. As you’re well aware, the moral standards I’m held to are a bit higher than the average citizen on account of my position as an officer of the court. Any illegal activity could jeopardize my career.”

  “Do you have any idea who’s behind this? You’ve recognized a few affluent figures at these fights. Are you sure one of them isn’t trying to scare you away?”

  “That’s precisely what is supposed to make these fights secure for the more affluent gamblers. We assume the same amount of risk because we all have something to lose.”

  “I find it hard to believe that no one else attends these fights when they serve as a backboard to future sporting careers.” I gave Jack a skeptical look. “And everyone loves to roll the dice.”

  “Let’s just say I was told it was fine, and I’d be a pussy not to get in on a piece of the action.” He blew out a breath. “This is not my finest hour.”

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s finest hour, particularly when Hector Santos died in an ER waiting room. Let me guess, a bunch of rich guys hang around and cheer while some struggling lower income individuals beat the crap out of each other, but it’s okay because everyone’s doing it.” The concept sickened me, and I didn’t bother to mask the disdain from my voice.

  “It wasn’t like that. These are the same men that pay thousands for ringside seats in Vegas and Atlantic City. They are the ones who pull strings and find agents and sponsors for these athletes. It’s how the system works. It’s no different than boxers getting scouted because their coach knows someone involved with the big-ticket fights.”

  “The difference is someone died and no one did anything about it. It’s unsanctioned. There is no sports association or league to determine if the match should have been called sooner or if this was just a fluke. You said these matches take place across state lines?”

  “Yeah, but what does that have to do with the blackmail letter I received?”

  I opened my credentials and placed them on top of my desk. “Did I mention the reason I wasn’t taking on any new clients was because of my reinstatement at the OIO?” The blood drained from his face. “The fact that it crossed state lines could make this a federal matter, but seeing as how you aren’t certain of most of these facts, I’ll look into it quietly. After all, I’d hate to take down the mayor and a few judges with unsubstantiated allegations.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Parker.” He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Agent Parker.”

  “Let’s just go with Alex for now.” I dug through my drawer for a pad of paper and a pen. “What were his demands?” I asked, nodding at the envelope.

  “Fifty thousand dollars. I have one week to get the cash and leave it inside a locker at a local gym.”

  “Okay.” I handed him the paper and pen. “Write down everything you remember from the night in question and the instructions you were given. Do you have the envelope and blackmail letter you received?”

  “The threat was sent via text. I had the number traced, but it linked back to a disposable cell phone. The article and photograph were delivered with the rest of the firm’s mail. By the time I realized what it was, I had shredded the envelope.”

  “What did you hope to accomplish by hiring me? Even if I identify the culprit, you can’t take further action against him without facing the same repercussions you would if you turned this over to the police right now.”

  “I’m prepared to pay,” he admitted, “but I thought if I knew who he was, then I could take steps to ensure this was a onetime thing so he couldn’t extort more money from me.”

  “I’ll look into it, but if this turns into something that requires an official investigation, you’ll most likely be implicated. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. It depends on the circumstances surrounding this fighter’s death,” I flicked the news article, “and if there have been other similar incidents in the past. But if this was just a freak occurrence and some asshole is hoping to take advantage of you because of it, perhaps we’ll find another way to stop it. I’d hate to have to look for a new attorney, but I can’t make any promises.”

  “That’s okay. I know you’re bound by a higher ethical standard too. I should have known better. It was a mistake, but I’ve always been more of a follower than a trendsetter. When one of the partners invited me out for a night of drinking and entertainment, I thought it would put me on the fast track for a corner office and my name on the front door.”