Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  “Detective,” I began, “Elias Facini and Gavin Levere both took part in an assault. Furthermore, it’s my understanding that Tim Coker, the gym owner, instructed Facini and Levere to scare off Mr. Fletcher.”

  “And since Levere might be the fighter responsible for Hector Santos’ death, that further complicates matters. Not to mention the fact that the man he assaulted is also the victim of a blackmail scheme,” O’Connell said. “Do I have that straight, Parker?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” Nick shifted his gaze from Lucca back to me. “What I’m not entirely clear on is why the two of you are taking up space inside the precinct.”

  “Hector Santos has a direct connection to a murdered juror we’re investigating,” Lucca said, unwilling to reveal his cards.

  “William Briscoe is our dead juror, and from the intel I’ve gathered, he was training Hector Santos. But he wasn’t always Santos’ coach. Based upon the recording of Hector’s final match, I’m confident that Tim Coker coached Levere and Santos. It might go to motive for Levere being too aggressive, resulting in Santos’ unfortunate death,” I speculated.

  “And it gives Levere a reason to blackmail a spectator and rough him up,” O’Connell added, contemplating his own theory. “Or Coker could have been pissed that Santos abandoned ship. Do you think one of these three men is your shooter?”

  Lucca and I exchanged a look. “I hope so because we’re out of leads,” I admitted.

  “We need something solid on them,” Lucca insisted. “Right now, we don’t have enough to get a warrant. Our accountants have looked through the public records, and I’ve fought tooth and nail to pull gun licenses and purchase orders. If you can make some charge stick, it’ll open up a lot of information to further scrutiny, and it could be the break we’ve been waiting for.” I stared at Lucca, wondering how the hell he’d figured out precisely what my plan had been. He met my gaze. “Oh, come on, Parker, you basically said as much on the phone. I do know how to read between the lines.”

  “Do you want to sit in on the interrogation?” O’Connell asked.

  “I can’t. The guys at the gym might recognize me, and if this doesn’t pan out, I need to maintain another method of gathering evidence.”

  Lucca considered it for a moment before shaking his head. “It’ll make our investigation look like a fishing expedition. It’d probably be best if you pretended we weren’t even here.”

  O’Connell laughed. “Sure, I’ll give that a try.”

  Nick went into the interrogation room and stood in the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. A minute later, a uniformed officer brought Gavin Levere into the room. The man wasn’t even handcuffed since this was a courtesy visit before charges were actually filed. My guess was Fletcher was still on the fence about pressing charges.

  “Stay here and take some notes,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I returned to the bullpen to find Fletcher sitting at O’Connell’s desk, whispering to a man I assumed was his attorney. His eyes met mine, and he offered a slight smile, introducing us.

  “Are you waiting for an officer to come take your statement, or did you forget the reason we came to the precinct?” I asked.

  “Hopefully, none of that will be necessary,” Fletcher’s counsel responded. “The detective believes he can hold Mr. Levere on manslaughter charges, and as far as the other fighter, we’ll see how things play out.”

  “Mr. Fletcher,” I directed my comment to my client, “you know me. You know what we discussed, and you know exactly how many friends I have and who they are. Despite the fact that I can’t make any rock solid assurances, you know I’ll do whatever I can, but you need to cooperate.” I glanced at Fletcher’s attorney. “No offense,” I said to the other man before focusing my attention back to Fletcher, “but this guy’s an idiot.”

  “How is that not offensive, miss?”

  “Fine, I’m sorry you’re an idiot, but you don’t understand what’s going on or why this is important. Your priority is to your client, but there is more to the story.” I spoke again to Fletcher, blocking out his attorney. “Look, if you end up being blackballed, I’m sure someone could be persuaded to hire you, but we need to stop this blackmailer. Since he went after you, I’d bet my badge he’s doing the same thing to someone else.”

  “And you’re positive the only way you can stop him is by squeezing the men that assaulted me?” Fletcher asked, sounding resolved to this course of action.

  I nodded. “And the gym owner too.”

  “Fine.” Fletcher turned to his counsel. “Go find someone to take my statement. I have a lot of things to get off my chest.” The other man looked at him like he was crazy, met my eyes which were full of cold determination, shook his head, and went to speak to the desk sergeant down the hall. Once he was gone, Fletcher focused on me. “I’m sorry, Ms. Parker. I’ve jerked you around quite a bit. I just haven’t been able to figure out what the right move is, but since you say this is it, I’ll accept it. I’ve seen you pull off a miracle or two, so I’d appreciate it if you could do the same thing for me now.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  After an officer came to take Fletcher’s statement and I made sure to insist this information went straight to Det. O’Connell, I returned to the observation room. Lucca was watching through the two-way glass while he spoke on the phone to someone at the OIO. From his side of the conversation, it sounded like he wanted the forensic accountants to check Tim Coker’s gym for any drastic monetary fluctuations in the last two years.

  O’Connell was asking Levere about the fight, his training regimen, and why he didn’t come forward after news broke of Hector Santos’ death inside the ER waiting room. Levere, as expected, insisted he was afraid the police would blame him. It would permanently stall his chances of becoming a professional boxer, and his coach told him to keep his mouth shut. At least the guy wasn’t chivalrous enough to take the blame, probably since a voluntary manslaughter charge came with quite a few years, even if it was child’s play compared to murder.

  As soon as Levere admitted that Tim Coker was his coach, the police had enough to bring him in. That was our cue to leave. I focused on Lucca who just concluded his call, practically chuckling.

  “How the hell did you pull this off?” he asked.

  “I told you not to question my hunches or methods.” Now that the evidence indicated that I was no longer a raving lunatic, Lucca wanted to play nice again, and I was too tired to deal with him. “It’s Sunday. Go back to the office, send out a few e-mails to update the team, drop off those surveillance tapes, and go home. Don’t let this job consume you. The police are busy working on their own case and leads, and they won’t have anything concrete for us until tomorrow. So you should call it a day.”

  “Is that what you’re planning to do?”

  “What I do has no bearing on you, and frankly, it’s none of your business. Now go.”

  “Damn, Parker, you’re even more intolerable when you haven’t slept, and that’s really saying something.” He went to the door, finally obeying one of my commands.

  With Lucca gone, I returned to the bullpen, read through the information Fletcher provided the police, made a photocopy for myself while O’Connell was distracted with sending officers to find and arrest Tim Coker, and took a seat at his desk, propping my legs up. When Nick returned, he pushed me out of the way and clicked a few things on his computer.

  “I’ll put a rush on it, but until we get a handle on this situation and get a court order to search and confiscate some evidence, there’s nothing else I can do to help the investigation along,” O’Connell said.

  “That’s all right. You’re doing what you can, and I do appreciate it.”

  “So that’s your new partner?” O’Connell asked, resting his hips against the desk and facing me. “He doesn’t seem so bad.”

  “He’s not my partner. I don’t do partners. You know that, but apparently,
Jablonsky hasn’t gotten the memo.”

  “Just like he didn’t get the memo that you’re moonlighting on the side?”

  “No, he knows about that. Unofficially, anyway.” I blew out a breath. “Try to keep Fletcher insulated from as much of this as you can.” Reluctantly, I stood, feeling the fatigue setting in. “And feel free to work the blackmail angle in addition to Santos’ death, if you’re so inclined. As far as I know, those cases are out of my jurisdiction.”

  “I liked it better when you refused to share.”

  “Hell, I’ll share Lucca with you too. Shit, you can have him.” My eyes went to Detective Heathcliff’s desk. “At least you know how to keep your people safe. It’s when they get around me that they start having problems.”

  “Alex, it’s not you.” He noted the dark rings underneath my eyes. “We’ve talked about triggers and trauma before. Do you want to meet up for a drink and chat?”

  “You’re not my shrink. Now get back to work because I’d like to see some progress by tomorrow. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going home and straight to bed.”

  He looked at his watch. “It’s only two thirty.”

  “Damn. Now I have to come up with another plan, and that will probably involve packing and moving. Ugh.”

  Seventeen

  My brain was fried. Too many sleepless nights and long hours had finally taken a toll, and my concentration was shot to hell. After leaving the precinct, I stopped by my apartment, figuring I’d make some type of effort to pack something and make Martin happy, but instead, I took a seat at the island in my kitchen and stared at the wall. At some point, I must have brewed a pot of coffee because there was a steaming mug in front of me.

  Deciding that I was useless, I went into my bedroom and climbed into bed. I wasn’t much of a napper, but I hadn’t slept in far too long. My thoughts were random, shifting from the fighters to Stan Weaver to moving my clothes upstairs to Martin’s bedroom, but despite the fact that my mind was all over the place and I was physically and mentally exhausted, I couldn’t fall asleep. Blaming it on the time of day, I scanned the items in my closet and dresser, feeling disconnected from my own life. This was my apartment. My bed. My belongings. But I couldn’t find anything that I wanted to bring to Martin’s. In a last-ditch effort, I grabbed my pillow and coffee mug. Clearly, I was the least materialistic person in the world or the least adjusted.

  When I made it back to Martin’s that evening, I microwaved a frozen dinner that had come from my apartment on an earlier trip, stuck my now empty mug in the dishwasher, and went into the guestroom. Mentally, I tried to remind myself that it was now my home office, but I didn’t possess the brain power to retain the thought. Opening my laptop, I sprawled out on the bed and checked my e-mail, seeing messages from O’Connell and Lucca on the progress that had been made. I began a search on a list of names connected to Tim Coker and the gym and let my eyes close while the database search was conducted.

  At some point, I felt a presence in the room and opened my eyes. Martin had closed my laptop and was placing it back on the desk. He realized I was awake and made a shhh sound before I could voice a protest that I needed to get back to work. Deciding it wasn’t worth arguing, I rolled onto my side.

  “Alex, lift up for a second,” he insisted. When I complied, he tucked a pillow underneath my head.

  When I opened my eyes again, I was on my stomach. Martin’s hand was next to mine, and he had covered my body with his, trapping me between him and the mattress. We shared a single pillow, and our legs were tangled together. Someone had one hell of a learning curve. Lacing my fingers over his, I brought his hand to my lips and kissed his palm. He nuzzled against my neck as I shifted onto my side. He looped a leg over both of mine and tucked me tighter against his body.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, realizing we were sleeping with our heads at the bottom of the bed, practically diagonal and on top of the covers.

  “Making sure you can’t escape.” He kissed my temple, pulling me closer like a child with a favorite stuffed bear. “I’m tired of sleeping alone. If this is what it takes, then so be it.” He closed his eyes. “Go back to sleep. It’s five a.m., and neither of us needs to be at work before nine.” I flipped onto my back, but his grip remained firm.

  “What if I have another nightmare?”

  “Relax. The only way you can hurt me is by leaving this bed.” His green eyes opened, and he studied my expression. His uncertainty startled me, and I gave him a reassuring kiss.

  “Apparently, I’m not going anywhere.”

  We slept for another three hours until the obnoxious sound from his alarm clock ruined the peace and tranquility. He turned it off but didn’t make a move to get out of bed. Instead, he surveyed the random half-unpacked boxes from his prone position.

  “I’m clearing my schedule for this weekend. We’re meeting the O’Connells for date night this Friday instead of next Friday, but after that, you and I are spending the rest of the weekend together. I don’t care if it’s in this bed or upstairs. It doesn’t even have to be in bed. Hell, just this once, I’ll even settle for the couch.”

  “I don’t know if my case will be solved by then. We keep hitting dead ends.”

  “Then let someone else worry about it. I know your work is important, but I miss my girlfriend. If that makes me a selfish prick, I really don’t care. You moved in because you wanted to prove you were just as committed to me as you are to your job, but I’ve barely seen you since you took up permanent residence here. Hell, I saw you more before we started living together. Don’t deny it, Alex. You know it’s true. And now that you’re freaked out about sharing a bed, I’ve had to resort to some pretty drastic measures.”

  “Doubling as a blanket is pretty drastic,” I joked, running my fingers along the muscles of his arm. “Next, you’ll attempt to impersonate the throw pillows.”

  “You typically use me as a pillow anyway, so that wouldn’t be nearly as drastic. Stop worrying so much. I’m okay. There’s not a single doubt in my mind that we can cohabit without you killing me.”

  “That makes one of us.” I snorted. “Fine, I’ll see what progress O’Connell and Lucca have made, and if we haven’t made an arrest by Friday, I’ll leave it up to them,” I promised, climbing out of bed and opening my laptop. “You probably should have let me work last night.”

  “You needed sleep, and I needed you.” He left the room as I restarted my computer to see what progress had been made while I prepared for another day at the office.

  * * *

  When I arrived at the OIO building, the room was abuzz with activity. It had been a while since the perception of progress had permeated the walls of the federal building, and I couldn’t help but absorb the optimistic attitude too. The fact that I actually had a good night’s sleep didn’t hurt either.

  “Where are we on the gun clubs?” I asked Lucca. “I got your e-mail, and it sounds like things look rather promising.”

  “The ink is drying on a search warrant as we speak. Elias Facini has a membership to Stover’s Gun Club, and he trained at the police academy before getting bumped out on account of a busted eardrum. According to Mr. Stover, Facini spends hours on the exterior range every other week.”

  “What’s his weapon of choice?”

  “A M24.”

  “His own?”

  “No, according to Stover, he always rents a gun for the day, pays for a box of ammunition, and refills it with his empty casings. I’ve searched the registry, but he doesn’t have any legal firearms.”

  “So what do you hope to find with the search warrant?” I asked.

  “A box of ammunition, a scope or sight, a wind gauge, the realtor’s business card. At this point, anything that will put him in that office building or tie him to the gun used works for me.”

  “Did you ask Sylvia Britt if she recognized him?” I thought back, but Facini wasn’t one of the bidders. Flipping through the pages on Lucca’s desk, I found Facini’s driver’s
license photo. He could be the shooter, or he could be just an average Joe, if average Joe was in line to be the next big-time middleweight boxer.

  “Britt didn’t recall the name. After we conduct the search, I’ll drop by her office and run his photo past her.”

  “Is he still in police custody?”

  “I assume so,” Lucca said, looking at me expectantly.

  “Okay, I’ll call O’Connell and find out what happened with the fighters. If Facini’s still being held, we might be able to ask a few unofficial questions before we request a custody transfer.”

  “Wow, you sound certain we have the guy. Does that mean I actually did something right?”

  “Perhaps, but you should refrain from gloating until this is a slam dunk. We need to place Facini at the scene and come up with a motive.”

  Lucca gestured to the phone on my desk. “Then by all means, Parker, I’ll let you get started on that.”

  Sliding over to my desk, I dialed O’Connell’s work number. From the message he left last night, he had brought Coker, Facini, and Levere in for questioning, but the information that Jack Fletcher gave him wasn’t enough to hold Coker on anything. So once Tim decided that he was tired of answering questions, he walked out of the police station.

  Facini and Levere were another story. They were being held for assault and battery, and since they were brought in on a Sunday afternoon, the police had taken a creative license to avoid officially booking them until today. At the moment, they had legal counsel vying to get them an appearance before a judge and released on their own recognizance.

  “The best way to deal with blackmail is to lay every card on the table in order to take back power,” O’Connell said. “Fletcher’s an attorney for Christ’s sake. He should know this. Why in the world did he want to keep it quiet?”

  “So you think the blackmail and Santos’ death are related?”

  “Of course, they are. What we’re working on now is determining if Santos’ was allowed to continue the fight beyond a reasonable point in the hopes that something like this would happen. I watched the video of the fight, and I’m not positive that someone didn’t rough Santos up after the match ended. The kid got the shit knocked out of him quite a few times, but he seemed coherent. Detective Thompson is reconstructing what happened after the match, and I’m hopeful it might implicate at least one of the men we questioned.”