Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  The background checks proved useless. No one had a record except Tim Coker, the owner, and I wondered if the same was true of the men who trained at the gym. Surely, whoever assaulted Fletcher must have done something similar in the past, and more than likely, he was arrested for it. Unfortunately, Jack Fletcher was proving to be one of the least helpful clients I ever had. It was a good thing I was getting out of the private investigator business. Hours later, I was still struggling to piece the case together.

  “Follow the money,” I mumbled to myself. It was late. I didn’t even know how late. I’d been revising my theory, starting over and revamping, only to trash everything and begin again once I hit a dead end. The money that I was attempting to follow was the winnings from the illegal betting. “Cash is liquid. No paper trail.” I shoved everything off the desk and onto the floor in a fit of frustration.

  Drumming my fingers against the cleared desktop, I wanted to scream. Instead, I left my room in dire need of a distraction. It was two a.m., so running a few miles didn’t hold that much appeal when I was this exhausted. Instead, I opened and closed every cabinet in the kitchen, starting and ending with the fridge.

  “Think, Parker, just stop and fucking think.” I rubbed my eyes and sat at the kitchen table with a piece of paper and pen. Two murders. One extortionist. Countless numbers of bets placed. A dead fighter. Something pinged on the last part, and I struggled to grasp a hold of it. Where did Santos train before Briscoe took him under his wing? How did he afford it? Did he owe someone money? Fighters sometimes get trained on contingency, according to what Linka said. “Stupid.” I shoved the paper away, wanting nothing more than to cry. If I were working angles on the Santos’ case, I’d be doing great, but technically, that wasn’t my case.

  Inhaling, I read through my scribbles. William Briscoe helped train Santos. He died soon after Santos did. Maybe the only way to solve the courthouse shooting was to solve the Santos murder. But was Santos murdered? He died as the result of complications from the match. Making a note to speak to Laura and Will Jr. about their father and anything he might have known about Hector Santos, I considered calling Lucca to ask what he thought. He wanted to be in the loop, but I wasn’t going to phone in the middle of the night with nothing other than conjecture. One of us should have manners. Unfortunately, this also meant that I shouldn’t call Nick and ask him the million questions that were coursing through my brain.

  Unsure of what else I could possibly do and still feeling utterly incompetent, I went up the steps. Martin was in his office, speaking with the London branch of Martin Technologies. He sounded about as frustrated as I felt, and I returned to the second floor, deciding that if I wasn’t going to sleep, I might as well determine everything I could about Santos’ last fight.

  An hour into the research, I had the specifics concerning the fight. Gavin Levere was the final opponent Hector Santos fought inside the ring. The match was brutal. Levere was fast and vicious. Santos had decent technique, but from the way the hits were delivered, one would think Gavin was a mind reader. Each time Santos dropped his guard, Levere pummeled him, and he always seemed to know what combinations Santos would use. It was like they’d been trained together or had the same trainer.

  Pausing the video, I opened the databases and started a search for Levere’s records. Then I shot a text to O’Connell, providing him with information on Santos’ final match. He didn’t respond, which meant he’d deal with it sometime after the sun came up.

  As the database search ran in the background, I resumed the fight, marking down names of individuals I recognized. The only time Jack Fletcher was caught in the video was before the first bell, and when the camera panned again to that vicinity two minutes later, he was gone. Other notable characters were a federal judge that I’d testified in front of, Alan Ackerman, a partner at Fletcher’s firm, and enough Armani and Versace to ensure the spectators were prosperous moguls of some sort.

  After rewinding and hitting pause, I recognized Tim Coker standing ringside. Ron Greenwood might have been next to him, but the shot only provided the bottom portion of his face, which wasn’t enough to make a positive identification. Coker was shouting something, and upon closer inspection, it seemed apparent he was instructing the fighters what to do. Then again, almost every spectator was doing the same thing. Scanning through the footage again, I hoped to determine if Coker was Levere’s coach, but the video was limited.

  The internet search on the Santos vs. Levere fight resulted in a few pages of images and quite a few video clips. I bookmarked the data, forwarded the information to the IT department at the OIO, and e-mailed the same thing to O’Connell’s work address. Then I compiled the videos into a single playlist and stared at the computer screen. By the end, the only relevant piece of information I gained was that Tim Coker was at the fight, and Gavin Levere was his fighter.

  Picking up the phone, I dialed Lucca. He answered, sounding too awake for the hour, and I said, “I might have a lead. His name’s Tim Coker. He owns the gym.”

  “No shit. That was in yesterday’s briefing.”

  “He coaches the fighter that was at least partially responsible for Hector Santos’ death. From the way the fight played out, I’m guessing he also coached Santos at some point because Levere knew exactly what Santos’ weaknesses were, and in case he forgot, it looks like Coker was calling out combinations.”

  “That’s called a stellar strategy,” Lucca replied. “What does this have to do with the courthouse shooting or finding the gun?”

  “Just check out Coker and see if he’s a gun aficionado or had access to that type of firepower.”

  “The gym’s your angle. Shouldn’t you be looking into it?”

  “We’re sharing intel, remember? Plus, you’re all about the gun, so I’m offering up what I know.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “There isn’t one. You can look into it or not. That’s your prerogative, Agent Lucca. I’m simply being a team player.”

  “Did you share this with anyone else?”

  “I sent it along to our computer savvy buddies.”

  “If they make any progress on it and they happen to tell you first, then let me know.”

  Resisting the urge to say I wasn’t his assistant either, I forced a smile onto my face in case that nonsense about being able to hear a person’s smile was true and said, “Sure. No problem. I’ll see you later,” and disconnected before he’d say something that would lead to an unfriendly response.

  The kitchen clock read 6:15, so I stretched and made a pot of coffee. Then I found some eggs, separated out the yolks, chopped some fresh spinach and tomatoes, and made breakfast for two. Martin stepped into the kitchen looking almost as good as I felt and poured a cup of coffee.

  “Did you sleep last night?” he asked.

  “No. Did you?”

  “I didn’t finish with London until four, and then I wanted to get a jump on the notes while everything was fresh on my mind, and by the time e-mails were sent, the freaking alarm clock was going off. What’d you do all night?”

  “Watched a boxing match.”

  “Fun.” He put the cup down and hugged me. “You didn’t have to cook.”

  “I owe you a few breakfasts.” The toast popped, and he put it on a plate. “Did you work out this morning?”

  “Yeah. It gets the blood pumping and helps with the energy levels.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “I didn’t hear you hitting the heavy bag.”

  “That’s because I put in five miles on the treadmill instead.” He studied me for a moment. “I know that look. You’re on to something.”

  “I need to call my client.”

  “After breakfast,” Martin insisted, grabbing my cell phone off the counter and slipping it into his pants pocket.

  “Fine,” I scooped the scrambled eggs onto the plates, “but you know I’m not afraid to dig through your pockets. I bet I could get your blood pumping faster.”

 
Before he could respond, my phone rang. He held it up, examining the caller ID. “It’s O’Connell.”

  “I need to take that,” I said. He handed it to me without comment. “Oh, can you call Jen this afternoon and cancel date night? If you have to reschedule, make sure she runs the dates by Nick first.” Martin raised an eyebrow, but I stepped into the other room and shut the door so I could talk in private.

  “Good morning, Parker. It looks like you’ve been busy working on my case. You do understand that you aren’t a homicide cop or assisting the police department, right?” O’Connell asked, stifling a yawn.

  “Your case was in my way. It needs to be cleared before I can do my job, and you’re taking too long.”

  “God, you’re incorrigible. What do you need me to do?”

  “Run through the leads I found, send a copy of whatever information you obtain over to my office, and meet for drinks later to determine who’s going to take credit for the collar.”

  “You’re that confident something will pan out?” Nick asked, but before I could answer, he snorted. “For a moment, I forgot who I was talking to.” Someone in the background called his name. “I have to go. If you don’t hear from me by lunchtime, give me a call back.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “And don’t forget about that other agreement we made.”

  “Martin’s supposed to call her this afternoon.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

  We disconnected, and I returned to the kitchen. I placed my phone on the table, remembered I wanted to ask Fletcher about the fighters who had been at the gym the night he went to investigate the locker, and shot him a quick text. Then I drank my weight in coffee and ate a few pieces of toast with some eggs.

  “It’s Sunday morning. Shouldn’t we be tangled in the sheets?” Martin asked, finishing his second cup of coffee.

  “I hate to break it to you, but the honeymoon’s over.”

  “How about we spend all next weekend in bed? We’ll have breakfast in bed, champagne, strawberries, whatever you want.” He gave me his most disarming smile, a confident, sexy look that always made my heart flutter.

  “Pizza out of the box and TV,” I intoned.

  “Only if you agree to no cell phones, no computers, and no work.” He could drive a hard bargain, but I doubted he’d be able to agree to those terms either.

  “The same goes for you?” I asked, and he nodded. “Okay, you have a deal.”

  “Are we packing up your apartment and moving your TV in today?”

  “Probably not. I emptied my fridge, pantry, and liquor cabinet. Plus, my shoes are here, so the necessities have been taken care of. My furniture can stay there, so whenever I do stay at my place, I’ll still have somewhere to sit and sleep. Most of my clothes are already here, so I don’t think there’s anything left to move except the TV.” I shifted my gaze toward his living room. “How do you have a ridiculously large four story estate with only two televisions? Hell, I’ll splurge and buy one for the bedroom. It’s the least I can do to contribute.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I have four televisions, one on the first floor near the home gym, the big screen in the living room, and one in the upstairs and downstairs offices. That’s plenty. My tablet is practically a portable TV, and frankly, I don’t have the time or patience to waste when I could be doing something much more fulfilling.”

  “Pretentious snob,” I teased. “So since you offered, is that your way of telling me you’re free today?”

  “No, but I could carve out some time for you.” My phone beeped, indicating Fletcher actually responded in a timely fashion. “Or not.” Martin cleared the plates while I texted a time to meet at my P.I. office. “I’ll be at the MT building if you realize you need someone to help you pack the rest of your belongings that you’ve clearly overlooked.”

  He went up the stairs to change, and I went into the second floor suite, grabbed whatever I thought I’d need for the day, and headed out. Hopefully, next weekend would be less chaotic.

  Sixteen

  After catching Fletcher up to speed on his case, which turned out to also be the OIO’s case and the PD’s case, he pulled out a few business cards. “Copy the information I’ve given you, staple my card to the top,” he dug through his wallet, “and that’s my attorney. Please let whatever investigator has a question speak to him first.”

  “Jack, I’m not telling you that you shouldn’t protect yourself, but time is of the essence. You’re supposed to make the drop Wednesday evening. That’s three days from now. By making the authorities jump through additional hoops, you’ll slow down their work and the chance to catch this guy in the act.”

  “We’ll see. In the meantime, why don’t you show me those snapshots? I’ll see if I recognize any of them from Thursday night.”

  I turned my computer monitor at an angle that we could both see and clicked through a few photos of fighters and coaches from Tim Coker’s gym. He identified Coker as the man he spoke to, but Fletcher didn’t remember him from the fight circuit. Then again, I doubted he paid much attention to anyone except the fighters. He also pointed out Gavin Levere and another fighter, Elias Facini.

  “Those two men put you in the emergency room? How severe were your injuries?”

  “Mostly bruises. Nothing substantial enough to report.”

  “It’s still assault, and we’re reporting now. Were you aware that Levere was the other fighter on the ticket the night Santos died?” I asked, and Fletcher nodded. “That’s important. That’s called a clue. That…,” I paused, my brain narrowing in on the possibility that Coker and Levere both had motive for blackmailing Fletcher, “might be our guy.” I dialed O’Connell’s number. As soon as he answered, I asked, “Do you have Levere in custody yet?”

  “A couple of uniforms are bringing him in now. Do you want to drop by to watch the interview?” O’Connell asked.

  “Yes, but more importantly, I’m with someone who would like to file assault charges against Levere and another boxer by the name of Elias Facini. Plus, my client has additional information to share, and since I’m being so generous, I need a guarantee that you’ll work with the OIO and share your intel and copies of your interviews and evidence lists. Can I count on that?”

  “The LT isn’t going to like it.”

  “Tell Lieutenant Moretti to duke it out with Jablonsky. Our bosses can fight their own battles. You and I are on the same page, right?”

  “Yeah, okay. It’s not like you’d take no for an answer anyway,” O’Connell said. “Be here in an hour.”

  Putting the phone back in its cradle, I eyed Fletcher. “Detective O’Connell is a good cop. He’ll get to the bottom of this, and he won’t do anything to unnecessarily jeopardize your career or standing in the legal community. But if you want your attorney around, call him and have him meet us at the precinct within the hour. They’re moving on this now.”

  “Now?” Fletcher seemed surprised.

  “Yes. Do you really believe law enforcement spends Sunday afternoons golfing at the country club?” I picked up my keys and led him to the door, locking up my P.I. office. “I trust you will meet me there.”

  “Of course, Ms. Parker.” He went to his car and drove away while I dialed Lucca to update him on what was going on.

  When I arrived at the precinct, Lucca was waiting. He nodded in my direction and held the door for me. I led the way up the steps to the major crimes unit. Even though it was Sunday, he was dressed in regulation attire. Hell, maybe he didn’t own anything besides dark suits, white shirts, and skinny black ties.

  O’Connell was speaking to Fletcher, and I didn’t want to interrupt. Instead, I took a seat at Heathcliff’s vacant desk and kicked a chair out for Lucca. He sat without a word, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

  “How’d you get here so fast?” I asked, my eyes darting across the room to see if any of our suspects had been brought in.

  “I was in the neighborhood. H
e spun in the chair, watching O’Connell. “I have a friend who works for ESU,” he admitted. “I was asking him about the weapon you found, and we checked out a dozen shooting clubs and ranges this morning. Sunday’s a popular day. He asked a few of his owner pals to voluntarily turn over their surveillance footage,” Lucca patted his breast pocket, “but before I could take this back to the federal building, you called and said you were on your way here.”

  “Does any of that look promising?” I jerked my chin at the disks in his pocket.

  “I don’t know yet.” He cocked his head to the side. “Weren’t you wearing that yesterday?”

  “So?”

  He went to the coffeepot in the corner, filled a paper cup, and put it on the desk in front of me. “How many all-nighters do you pull in a typical month?”

  “A couple. It depends on how intricate a case is or how many cases we might be working at any given time,” I replied, noticing Nick standing behind Lucca.

  “Parker,” O’Connell said, having heard Lucca’s random question, “shit, she’s practically a vampire. After all, she has the same degree as most bloodsuckers.” Glaring, I raised my middle finger. “And the personality to match.” Nick extended his hand to Lucca. “Nick O’Connell, her favorite detective.”

  “Eddie Lucca, her least favorite partner,” he replied, shaking Nick’s hand.

  “We are not partners,” I spat.

  “I see what you mean,” Nick said, offering a shrug. “Now if the two of you would be kind enough to follow me, I’d like a few words in private before I have to interview possible murder suspects.”

  O’Connell led us into the observation room that was connected to the interrogation room and closed the door. He cocked a questioning eyebrow in my direction, unsure of how much information Lucca possessed on my extracurricular activities. I shook my head, hoping he’d understand that my P.I. business was indeed private.