Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  “You’re looking at him,” O’Connell replied, hitting print and searching through his desk drawers for his notepad. “Shouldn’t I be asking for a warrant or some kind of official statement signed by Jablonsky or someone in charge of the OIO field office?”

  “Jeez, you guys complain when I keep you in the dark, and you complain when I ask for help. Can you just cut the crap and get to it? I have to figure out if Santos’ death is related to a double homicide, and you aren’t making this easier.”

  “What double homicide?” Thompson inquired.

  “Did you hear about the federal prosecutor and juror that were gunned down inside the courthouse?” They nodded. “That double homicide.”

  “Damn,” O’Connell frowned and retrieved a thick folder from the filing cabinet, “then you’re not going to like what we’ve found or haven’t found.”

  I skimmed through the sheets, but the investigation was mainly inconclusive. Santos died from blunt force trauma, and the police were still in the midst of identifying the parties responsible. Scanning through the evidence manifest which mainly listed Santos’ personal effects at the time of his death, a memory card and recording device were listed.

  “What’s on the tape?” I asked.

  “The fight, but our IT guys are still piecing it together with online footage in order to put some names to the faces in the crowd,” O’Connell said.

  “I need to see it.”

  “Follow me.” He led the way down the corridor and into the A/V room. “Take a break, guys. Special Agent Parker needs her breathing room.” The few police officers snorted, muttering derogatory comments as they left the room.

  “Was that really necessary?” I queried as he dialed up the proper file.

  “You’re back on the job, so I have to get my kicks somehow. How are they treating you? Are they letting you keep your clothes on these days, or are you infiltrating another drug and prostitution ring?”

  “I’m investigating two murders, hence the need for your information.”

  “We’re the police. We don’t like to share with your kind.” His eyes twinkled, and I knew he was only kidding. His words weren’t meant to be malicious. We were practically family. “It would serve you right, after the last time your side failed to share with us, but I’m above that. And next time I need a favor, you’re gonna owe me big.”

  “Fine, Nick. Whatever you want.”

  He hesitated to hit play and glanced at the slightly open door. Stepping closer, he lowered his voice as if we were plotting to overthrow the government. “Our double date night is coming up in two weeks, and Jen has her heart set on a fancy dinner and clubbing. But I promised Jacobs that I’d cover for him, so I need you to cancel.”

  “Are you afraid of your own wife, Detective?”

  “Parker,” he hissed, “if you want my intel, you will cancel date night. Understand?”

  “What if I get Martin to cancel instead? Does that work for you?”

  He laughed. “Admit it. You’re scared of Jenny too.”

  “Damn straight. She’s a nurse. She knows exactly how to kill a person and get away with it. Now shut up and roll the film.”

  “It’s digital, so no film and nothing to roll.” He hit play on the computer, and the monitors lit up. “One of these days, you should update your references, and while you’re at it, scratch my name off your list of phone-a-friends.”

  Chuckling, I took a seat in front of the monitors and pulled the cap off my pen. O’Connell opened the case file and pointed out people as we went. Some of the faces in the crowd that he hadn’t placed, I recognized from the blackmail investigation. I shared what I knew without implicating Fletcher and alluded to handing over a potential witness soon. While I waited for a copy of the video and the police files, I dialed Jack again.

  Fourteen

  “Ms. Parker,” Fletcher sounded frustrated, “I’ve barely had a moment of peace. I don’t have time to talk right now. I was planning to call you at the end of business today.”

  “Listen to me, what I’m about to say is very important. There’s a chance that your current problem is related to a double homicide.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “We need to talk about this in person. I won’t impede the OIO’s investigation for the sake of your privacy, but I wanted to meet to discuss this before I share my findings with them. The best chance for you to run damage control is by meeting with me now. I’m sorry. I hate to put you on the spot, but I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “I’ll make it work. There’s a bar and lounge across the street from my office. Can you meet me there in thirty minutes?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Disconnecting, I hit the lights and sped through traffic, ignoring the various stoplights along the way. Once I was within a reasonable distance, I killed the lights and parked at a hydrant, hoping the government tags would ward off any overzealous meter maids.

  Jack Fletcher was sitting at a low table in the center of the room. The place was practically empty, but it was only three o’clock. A few businessmen were at the more scenic spots near the windows, and the functioning alcoholics were seated at the bar. Fletcher had a half-finished gin and tonic in front of him, and I waved off the waitress as I slid into the seat across from him.

  “Do you think the extortionist also killed that fighter?” Fletcher asked in lieu of a greeting.

  “The police department and medical examiner’s office will be checking into that.” I took a deep breath. “Before I say anything more, you better bill me for this meeting because every word I’m about to divulge must be considered privileged or else my career’s down the toilet.”

  “Should I mail the invoice to your P.I. office?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.” After taking a moment to organize my thoughts, I spoke briefly about the death of the AUSA and juror. Then I mentioned the police investigation into the fight scene, the OIO’s numerous failed attempts to identify a suspect, and my own inclination that Briscoe was the intended target. “The only common factor is the fight scene. It might not even play out, but that’s where the investigation is leading. We’ve hit so many dead ends. We can’t make heads or tails out of the AUSA’s murder. The possible motives for killing that particular juror seem more plausible at this juncture. If he was killed because of the fight or because the fighter he helped train was killed, then the blackmail scheme will come to light.”

  “Shit.” Fletcher picked up his glass and swallowed the remainder. “I get it. I do. But shit, I am so screwed.”

  “Look, if there’s any way to mitigate your involvement, I’ll do it. If I can leave your name out and still nail the asshole responsible, I will, but it doesn’t seem particularly likely at this point. When are you supposed to make the drop?”

  “In a few days.” He pulled another envelope out of his pocket. “I received this in my office mailbox this morning. Wednesday, ten a.m., same locker number.

  “This guy’s an idiot.” A thought crossed my mind. “How many ethics rules would you violate if you became a CI?”

  “I can’t speak out against a client.”

  “No, I know that. But you could identify quite a few people at that fight the day Santos died, right?”

  “Parker,” his voice held a warning, “that’s a fine line.” He looked at his watch. “I have to get back.”

  “Think about it, Jack. We might need an insider to assist.”

  He laid a twenty on the table and went to the door, not acknowledging my comment. Studying the room and the patrons, I figured this place and another dozen like it probably held plenty of secrets. Hell, the police should stick a few undercovers on the premises to bust tons of illegal activities. Shaking off the ingrained law enforcement mentality, I left the bar, no closer to coming up with a lead and unsure if sacrificing Fletcher was in anyone’s best interest.

  When I arrived at the OIO building, Jablonsky called me into his office. It was almost five o’clock, and m
y day was up. I took a seat on the couch in the corner instead of in the chair across from his desk. It felt less formal, as if what I was about to say was off-the-record even though it wasn’t.

  “An associate from one of the city’s high-powered law firms was present at the underground fight that resulted in Hector Santos’ death. The police department has determined his death was the result of blunt force trauma. They have a tape of the fight, but from what I’ve heard, Santos’ opponent hasn’t been identified or arrested. Although, that makes little sense, seeing as how easily they could stumble upon this knowledge. Regardless, that’s not our concern.”

  “You’re rambling, Parker,” Mark said, opening his bottom drawer and resting his foot against it. “Are you hoping I’ll die of old age before you get to the relevant part?”

  “Hector Santos trained at a gym, but it was too expensive. So William Briscoe would work with him after the youth boxing class they coached a few times a week at the rec center. My guess is Briscoe’s injuries can probably be explained by his sparring matches with Santos.”

  “That’s fascinating, but how does this lead back to a viable suspect in our two murders?”

  “I’m not sure that it does.” Hesitating, I knew pieces of the puzzle were missing. “The lawyer I mentioned earlier is being extorted for betting on these underground fights.” I fished out the custody form and the copy of the video recording from Santos’ belongings. “Here’s the video footage from the match. A lot of powerful people were there.”

  “So?”

  “So my guess is whoever’s responsible for organizing these shindigs wants to ensure everyone’s silence by using blackmail, which means the blackmailer probably has more to hide than illegal gambling and racketeering charges.”

  “Without proof, that’s just speculation.” Mark wasn’t buying it.

  “True,” I pulled out copies of the blackmail information that Fletcher had given me, “but the legal associate went to check out the drop site for the extortion and had to visit the ER for his troubles. Someone’s not fooling around.”

  “You think if they’re resorting to extortion and violence, murder isn’t beyond the scope of reason.”

  “It makes some sense. Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on. Unfortunately, this is the only connection I’ve found. Plus, Marshal Dobson showed me the footage from the jury selection process, and one guy sticks out like a sore thumb. He wasn’t there to keep tabs on Weaver, but he was paying a ton of attention to Briscoe.”

  “Okay. Who’s your source?”

  “Mark, don’t you think we should look into this before we damage someone’s reputation?”

  “Just tell me who it is, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Jack Fletcher.” I slid Fletcher’s business card across the desk. “He plans to pay the blackmailer because he believes his involvement would look poorly before the licensing board, and even if it doesn’t, he’s afraid the partners and other high-ranking public officials will get nervous and blackball his career.”

  “Powerful people always think they’re above the system.”

  “Fletcher’s not powerful. He’s only an associate. He went along because he was invited and tried to fit in. He just wanted to make partner and get a piece of the pie.”

  “Like I said, I’ll see what I can do.” He shifted his gaze to the exit. “Run the videos up to IT and tell them to focus on the courthouse tapes from a month ago. Their top priority should be coming up with the shooter’s identity or possible witnesses. Then check into the gym where this dead drop is, run a complete business profile, and get a background on every employee listed. Maybe you can come up with some creative way to get names of their clients and start compiling their profiles too.”

  “There’s one other thing,” I said, moving closer to the door. “I already went to the gym and signed up. Getting locker records for that particular dead drop is a bit tricky since the records aren’t exactly rock solid, but I have a few names that I can start with.”

  “Parker, what the hell were you thinking?”

  “That helping out Fletcher had nothing to do with our case.”

  “Fuck.” He rubbed a heavy hand down his face. “I don’t want to hear any more. Just go.” He gestured to the door, and I walked out before I could be hit by shrapnel from his head exploding.

  On my way to the IT department, I caught a glimpse of Lucca. His back was to me, and he was on the phone. Thankful to avoid dealing with him, I proceeded to follow the instructions I’d been given, returned to my desk, and was halfway through the business profile on Tim Coker’s gym when Mark called us into the conference room. Six agents had initially been tasked with processing the courthouse shooting, but once the Marshal Service was cleared of negligence and wrongdoing, two of our team members were diverted to another issue. That left Lucca, the two tech guys, and me.

  “All right, I want to start with progress reports from everyone. Where do we stand? Are we any closer to getting prints, DNA, or tracking who purchased the sniper rifle?” Mark asked, pacing in front of the blank monitor at the front of the room.

  A chorus of negatives echoed, and Lucca sputtered out some type of excuse. Jablonsky brushed it away, asking a few other questions about traffic cam footage, the building surveillance feeds from the courthouse, and footage from the office across the street that housed the sniper’s nest. There was nothing concrete, but the sketch artists had determined the man’s build, and a rough profile had gone out over the wire for any information.

  “Any other ideas?” Jablonsky asked, dropping into the chair.

  “I’ve spoken to Weaver’s friends, family, and colleagues. The few leads we’ve been given turned into dead ends. The gun is still our best bet. I’m conducting a search of weapon registries, checking into shooting ranges that have facilities for that type of weapon, and I think we’re getting closer. Monday, I’ll personally check them out and see if anyone recognizes our suspect,” Lucca declared.

  “Okay, Eddie, you keep following that weapon. As soon as we can put it in our shooter’s hand, this will be a slam dunk. In the meantime,” Mark glanced at the two techs, a forensic expert and an IT guy, “disassemble and check every inch of that weapon for something that will be admissible in court. I don’t care that you’ve done it three times, keep doing it until we have something. And you,” he pointed at Agent Lawson, our IT guy, “Parker brought you new footage. If you need additional help in order to make that a priority, pull someone off another project.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lawson replied.

  “Parker’s brought a few things to my attention.” Mark flipped open a manila folder and passed out the updated intel concerning Briscoe’s connection to Santos and the gym. The blackmail was mentioned as a side note, but Fletcher’s name wasn’t on the page. “She’s working that angle. If any of you stumble across a connection, we’ll reconvene and devise a new strategy. Until then, let’s divide and conquer, people.”

  “Rah, rah,” I mumbled under my breath. Jablonsky would have made a great coach.

  “Parker,” Lucca called before I could escape the conference room, “why didn’t you tell me about this last night when we spoke on the phone?”

  “I didn’t piece it together until this morning.”

  “You’re so full of shit.” He pointed to the page. “You signed up at that gym yesterday. What the hell’s going on? Are you covering something up?”

  “And I thought I was paranoid. Stop being such a boy scout, Lucca. Jablonsky’s in charge. You do what you have to, and I’ll do what I have to. What makes you think I’m supposed to report to you?”

  “You’re not, but we’re supposed to be working together since we’re the only two field agents still assigned to this.”

  “Fine,” I leaned back in the chair, “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Go ahead. Ask a question.”

  “How long did you know that the dead fighter was connected to one of our vics?”

  “I didn’t. It
just happened that another matter I was investigating ended up being connected.”

  “What other matter?”

  “It’s off-the-books, or it was. It doesn’t matter. That’s not relevant to you or what you’re supposed to be tracking.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t clue me in. Just forget it. It’s almost seven. I’m going home. We can continue this tomorrow.”

  “What? Daddy’s got a standing date?” I challenged.

  “What is your problem?”

  “Look, I don’t know what you were doing last night or who you were doing it with. Frankly, whatever kinks you have are your business, but don’t call me again in the middle of the night if you’re with an escort.”

  “Where the hell would you get an idea like that?” He looked incredulous. “I was with my daughter. She’s a year and a half and doesn’t believe in sleeping through the night.”

  “A lot of that going around,” I muttered. “Either way, don’t talk about open cases in front of civilians.”

  Dammit, now ensuring Lucca’s safety was more important than before. The last thing I wanted was to be in the field with him. I was a jinx, and he had a family depending on him. He had too much to lose to risk working with me.

  “You’re one crazy, complicated bitch.”

  “Yeah, but that was too long to fit on my business card, so I just went with Alexis Parker. They’re synonymous though.” Collecting my files, I grabbed my purse and keys. “Have a good night, Lucca.”

  “Friggin’ crazy,” he mumbled to my retreating back.

  Fifteen

  When I left the OIO, I dropped by the gym. I missed the training session for the evening, but I caught up with Ron and Linka as they were getting ready to leave. After apologizing profusely for my crazy work schedule, they said the weekends were optional anyway since that’s when most of the bouts occurred. Monday, they’d introduce me to a few coaches, and if no one wanted to take me on, Ron would. Agreeing to meet Monday evening, I placed my bag on the counter to search for my planner to write down the schedule while I studied the sign-in sheet from that night. The only males listed were the coaches, and once I returned to the car, I wrote down the names and headed home.