Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  “We all make mistakes.” I glanced at the time, realizing if I didn’t leave in the next twenty minutes, I would be making one of my own. “I’ll get started on this tonight,” I promised, escorting Fletcher to the door.

  Once he was gone, I resisted the urge to dig through the databases and lay the groundwork for a profile on Hector Santos, the dead fighter. Instead, I found an empty folder, tucked the information inside, and locked up. If Martin worked late, as was his norm, I’d be right on time for our dinner date.

  When I arrived home, Martin’s town car was parked in its usual spot in the garage, and there was no sign of Marcal or Bruiser. Obviously, Martin had been home for at least ten minutes. It was that type of incredible deductive capability that made the OIO beg for my return. Snorting, at the ludicrous notion, I went up the steps, balancing the Weaver case file, the information I’d received from Sylvia Britt, the facts on William Briscoe, and Fletcher’s file in my arms.

  I cursed, dropping half of it onto the floor as I manipulated the doorknob with my full hands. I knelt down, shoving everything into a messy heap only to trip on the top step and drop everything again before managing to make it inside and kick the door closed behind me.

  “It sounds like you’re having another bad day,” Martin called from the kitchen. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Yes. One for each hand. Or a straw might be better since my hands are full.”

  He laughed, and I went past him into the guestroom, divesting myself of the job related paraphernalia before returning to the kitchen. On the counter, he placed a lemon drop martini and a mostly full shaker. A few empty takeout containers were in the recycle bin, and the oven beeped, indicating that it was preheated.

  “I ordered from Giovanni’s since I wasn’t sure how late I’d be working.”

  “So it’s not because you thought I’d miss dinner?” I asked.

  “Perhaps that thought crossed my mind.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know if I’d make it either.” I took a sip, enjoying the crisp, tart bite. “Damn, that’s good.”

  “Rough day?”

  “What else is new?”

  “Do you want to talk about last night?” he asked, but I remained silent. “You haven’t slept through the night since moving in. Your nightmares are getting worse. I was under the impression it was because of the job, but you’re dreaming about the shooting that happened upstairs. Should we move our bedroom to another floor? Would that help?”

  Busying myself with setting the table, I ran through a few different responses in my head before opening my mouth. I wanted to be diplomatic. “Nothing helps. I’m not adjusting very well to this cohabitation thing. I’m used to late nights, takeout, and spending my downtime pacing the confines of my apartment, scribbling notes, tacking things to the wall, and tearing my hair out.”

  “I’ve never noticed any bald spots.” He stepped away from the stove and ran his hands through my hair. “Nope. You’re still gorgeous, but you’d be breathtaking regardless.”

  “I wasn’t being literal on that last part.” I surveyed the room. It was ridiculous to think I missed my one bedroom apartment, but I didn’t have to hide my nightmares or work from anyone in my own apartment. “Thanks for moving the desk and hanging the boards on the wall in the guestroom,” I said, hoping to change the subject.

  “It’s your room. Your office. Whatever you want it to be. Hell, we can try sleeping in there for a while to see if it makes a difference.”

  “Your bedroom is fine. I have bad dreams. Really, it’s nothing.”

  “It didn’t seem like nothing.” He removed another takeout container from the fridge and emptied the large salad into a serving bowl, pouring some dressing on top and tossing the mixture. “Should I leave the bed in the guest suite now that it’s your home office? There’s still plenty of room to walk around, even with the furniture, but if you’d prefer a more practical workspace, just say the word and it’s gone.”

  “Stop being so accommodating. I am not flipping your house upside down.”

  “It’s your house too.”

  “Martin, I can’t even offer to pay half the rent for this place.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, seeing as how I own it and have no plans to sublet.” He held up his pointer finger. “And I don’t want to hear you mention anything about property taxes either. You’re already paying rent for an apartment that you don’t live in anymore.” The timer sounded, and he grabbed the oven mitts and pulled out the baking pan that contained our dinner. “Are you working this weekend? I figured if we both had some time, I’d help you pack up whatever’s left and we can rearrange the bedroom.”

  “The bedroom’s fine.”

  “Really? Then how come most of your belongings are downstairs? We’ll pick up another dresser and reorganize the walk-in closet. My suits don’t need that much space.”

  I gulped down the rest of my martini and poured another. “Can we table this discussion for another day when I’m not bogged down with work and exhausted?”

  “Okay.” He stabbed at the food on his plate. “Would you mind giving me a ballpark figure for when you think that might be? I’m hoping for a date sometime this century, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  Eight

  Despite the fact that I had wanted to speak with Laura and Will Briscoe yesterday, a million other things had gotten in the way, or I let them. I hated being around bereaved families. I understood grief and pain, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to make it hurt any less. Truth be told, the questions I asked were likely to cause more pain, so I hated this part.

  “When’s the last time you spoke to your father?” I asked.

  I was sitting in Laura’s apartment. Will didn’t have a place. He stayed with his sister whenever he couldn’t find a friend’s couch to sleep on.

  “I talked to Daddy a week and a half ago,” Laura said. She brushed her hair behind her ear and stared at the rug. “I called to tell him I was being considered for permanent placement at my job.” She bit her lip. “He was happy. Relieved, really.” She rapidly blinked, fighting back tears. “Money’s been a little tight. I have student loans, and an unpaid internship doesn’t help with those.”

  “Well, you can use his life insurance to pay them,” Will choked out.

  He was standing in the kitchen. He hadn’t stopped fidgeting since I arrived, and I watched his fist clench around an apple. He was angry.

  “Stop it, Will,” she screamed. “I love Dad. I’d live in a cardboard box for the rest of my life if it would bring him back.”

  “Yeah, and then he’d be just as disappointed in you as he was in me.”

  “Mr. Briscoe,” I interjected, hoping to defuse the family argument, “when did you last see your father?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a while.” He opened the fridge, white-knuckling the handle before slamming the door shut and rattling everything inside. “Are we done? I have more important things to do.”

  “Will, Agent Parker is trying to help. She wants to find the man responsible,” she squeaked, and the tears started to fall again.

  “No,” his dark eyes burned, “she wants to find the person who killed that federal prosecutor. That’s her job. She couldn’t care less about Dad or us.” He stormed out of the apartment and slammed the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Laura said, but I waved her apology away.

  “No. I’m sorry for your loss and for asking you these things. Did your dad have any enemies?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I don’t know anything anymore.” She got up from the couch and went across the room to a lockbox. “These are my dad’s records. Old tax returns, car titles, stuff like that. Anything important, he kept in this box.” A brief smile crossed her face, followed by sobs. I got up and hugged her, unsure what else to do. When she was able to speak again, she handed me the key to the box. “I found some old family photos in there too. There are quite a few odds
and ends. You can look through it, if you think it might help.”

  “Thank you.”

  I would have liked to take the box with me, but she wouldn’t part with it. So I sat at her dining room table while she made phone calls and prepared for her father’s funeral. Most of the information was irrelevant, but for the sake of being thorough, I quickly photographed any information that we wouldn’t be able to obtain through official channels, paying close attention to handwritten notes and photographs.

  Thirty minutes later, I closed the box and handed her the key. “I will find who did this,” I promised. “In the event you remember something or you just need to talk, you have my card.” She nodded, and I let myself out.

  When I returned to the car, Agent Lucca was leaning against the door. “How’d it go?” he asked. “Did you make a break in the case?”

  Glaring, I threw the keys at him. They bounced off his chest and landed on the pavement. “Just drive the damn car.”

  “Someone’s bitchy again.”

  He went around the front while I climbed into the passenger’s seat, fastening the belt and pulling my legs to my chest. Will Briscoe’s words had cut deep. It was true. There were two reasons why the OIO was investigating these murders. One, they occurred on federal property. Two, an AUSA was dead. If William Briscoe had been killed an inch from the courthouse steps, this would be a police matter, and the PD was better equipped to deal with homicides. They would investigate, and even if the percentage of closed cases wasn’t particularly encouraging, it was a task they dealt with on a daily basis. They wouldn’t leave a stone unturned or write William Briscoe off as collateral damage. It was probably why I refused to either. I’d consulted too often with the major crimes division to maintain the professional aloofness some of my fellow agents exhibited.

  “Have we made any progress identifying who might have purchased the rifle?” I asked.

  “It’s being narrowed. All we know for certain is that the sale did not occur within the last two months. We’re digging deeper, and that partial serial number might just come in handy.”

  “It could have been purchased out of state or in a private sale or from a pawn shop. The possibilities are endless.”

  “Is that a side of pessimism to go with the bitchy?” He glanced at me. “You were in Laura Briscoe’s apartment for over an hour. You must have discovered something. Do you want to fill me in?” I bit my lip and stared out the windshield. “We’re on the same team. It might help if you have more eyes reviewing the info.”

  “The son is mad at the world. It sounds like he and his father had a few unresolved issues. The daughter is beside herself.” I sighed. “And we aren’t any closer to providing either of them with answers or finding justice for their dad. So what do you want me to say?”

  “We’ll figure it out.” He offered a determined smile. “Trust me.”

  “I’m letting you drive. Don’t push it.”

  He laughed, and we returned to the OIO building. Once inside, Lucca disappeared to check on the progress that had been made concerning his leads, and I went to my desk to check my messages and e-mail to see if perhaps something had panned out. Nothing new had surfaced, so I logged into my private e-mail account and sent a message to Sylvia Britt, asking about one of the properties. I needed to get her on the hook in the hopes of plying her for more information on the open house. I pondered if flashing my credentials wouldn’t gain compliance faster, but I was afraid she’d clam up. And since she had nothing to do with this investigation, it’d be hard to find a lenient judge who would grant a court order to access most of her records. The open house was such a minor event, and it was unlikely our shooter signed in. So I doubted a judge would grant a sweeping search warrant or subpoena to gain access to every person she encountered in the past month.

  Returning to the conference room that housed our information on the shooting, I scanned the information for updates from our crime techs and accountants, found nothing to be worthwhile, and came up with another idea. Dialing Marshal Dobson’s number, I waited for him to answer. When his voicemail kicked on, I left my name and number and asked for a call back. He was free from suspicion as far as the OIO was concerned, so that meant he might be able to shed some light on the double homicide.

  With no other distractions present, I returned to my desk, downloaded the photos I’d taken inside Laura Briscoe’s apartment, and printed hard copies. Then I cleared my desk, spread them across the top, and sorted them from earliest to latest. The only helpful item inside the box was William Briscoe’s weekly planner, and I had spent the majority of the time photographing the fifty-two pages. Arranging them in order, I outlined his routine, noting the standing appointments and places he frequented, and typed the information and locations into the criminal databases. Twenty minutes later, I got a hit.

  “Bingo,” I said, circling the information. This might be our first and only solid lead, and it was all mine. Performing a quick internet search, I scribbled down the address and put my jacket on over my shoulder holster.

  When I arrived at the recreational center, I scanned the area. It was in a less gentrified part of the city. A few skateboarders were performing tricks half a block away, and from the hard looks I got from a few of the neighborhood kids, I suspected the government-issued black SUV stuck out as much as my suit and sunglasses. So much for keeping a low profile.

  “Can I help you?” a man asked from behind the desk. He bit off the end of a piece of beef jerky and chewed with his mouth open while he waited for me to say something.

  “Special Agent Parker.” I held out my credentials, and he stared at the insignia. “I just have a few questions to ask.”

  “Shoot.” He smirked, narrowing his eyes. “And for the record, I didn’t mean that literally.”

  “Do you know William Briscoe?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know.” He was hoping to shake me down. The police probably came here often enough, looking for information, that he knew what the going rate for his helpfulness was. “A lot of people come through here.”

  Pulling out my wallet, I removed a twenty. “He was in his mid-forties. He came here a few times a week.”

  He scooped the money off the counter without even looking at it and shoved it into his pocket. “Willie hangs around in the late afternoons on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He helps out with one of the youth boxing classes.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Like what?” He eyed my wallet.

  “When was the last time you saw him? Are you aware of any problems he might have had? Did he piss someone off recently?” I took another twenty out of my wallet and placed it on the counter, holding it down with my pointer finger so the helpful greeter couldn’t snatch it away.

  “It’s been a couple of weeks. He said he had something to take care of and he’d be gone the rest of the month.”

  “Did he say what it was?”

  “Nope.” He grabbed the end of the bill and slid it out from underneath my finger. “He came straight from work, changed in the locker rooms, coached the class, packed up his crap, and left. So why are you trying to jam him up for doing a nice thing?”

  “I’m not.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, that’s what the cops always say, and then they arrest the person they come here looking for.”

  “I won’t be arresting Mr. Briscoe.”

  “Yeah?” He jerked his chin up. “Then why are you asking about him?”

  “Because he’s dead.”

  “No way.” He sat up straight, and his eyes darted around the room. “Do you think someone here did it? Because he never had a problem with nobody that I could tell.”

  “Can you show me his locker?”

  “Sure.” He stood, suddenly much more compliant than he had been. “Willie was always one of the nice ones. Brought the staff coffee or snacks when he came from work. Never had a negative thing to say about anyone. I can’t imagine who would want to hurt him.”

  �
��I never said someone hurt him.”

  “Look, lady, this isn’t the best neighborhood. When a cop comes sniffing around, asking about a dead guy, it’s because someone killed him. That’s just how it goes.”

  He led the way into the locker room, and a few men quickly covered themselves when I entered. One whistled, but after meeting my cold stare, he decided to secure his towel and mind his business. The staff member led me to locker 312. There was no lock, and he opened it to reveal empty space.

  “He carried his stuff in a gym bag. I don’t know that he ever left anything here overnight.”

  “Not even a lock?”

  The guy shrugged, and my neck and shoulder muscled bunched due to the frustration of hitting another dead end. I resisted the urge to start questioning the naked men inside the locker room, instead following the staff member back to the desk. It was obvious he liked William Briscoe, and upon finding out that Briscoe was dead, his helpfulness had increased tenfold. He gave me the class roster and the name of the instructor, H. Santos. Given that it was a Thursday, I didn’t see any reason to hang around longer than necessary, particularly since there was a good chance someone would jack my vehicle if I stayed here for another five minutes.

  While en route to the federal building, my phone rang. Sylvia Britt had received my message and was hoping we could rendezvous. The property I asked about was in escrow, but she had another five similarly priced locations she thought I would love. Detouring to her office, I decided to make the most out of my outing. When I arrived, I performed another presto-chango inside the car.

  “Ms. Parker, please come inside,” Sylvia greeted, and I cast a glance around the rest of the empty office. “Don’t be shy. The other realtors are showing properties, and I sent our receptionist home for the night. Let me show you the other properties,” she flicked off the overhead light, and a projection of one of the offices lit up the wall. “As you can see, this has an ample waiting area, three separate offices, and—”