by G. K. Parks
“So in other words, you’re working on it.”
“Yeah. When I know more, I’ll let you know.”
I blew out a breath and swiveled my chair around to face Lucca. He was staring at me again, but this time, it wasn’t nearly as disconcerting. He nodded at my phone, wanting to know what progress the police department had made.
“They’ll get back to us,” I said.
“And you’re positive that a dead fighter and a blackmailed corporate attorney are connected to the murders of an Assistant U.S. Attorney and a juror.” From his facial expression, I was uncertain if Lucca was asking a question, recapping what we’d been over a hundred times, or just busting my balls.
“Do you have a better theory?”
He stood from his desk, going across to the conference room. Not bothering to wait for a formal invitation, I followed him inside. Hopping onto the table, I kicked my heel against the leg while he reread the notes.
“We haven’t found any suspicious financial activity in the public record. Our court orders have been limited due to a lack of evidence, but it doesn’t appear that the shooter was hired. Facini looks good for the murders. The thing is,” Lucca spun to face me, “he didn’t have any reason to kill Stan Weaver. From what I’ve gathered, the two men have never met. Facini doesn’t have a criminal record. No ties to gangs or drugs. He grew up in the ‘burbs and wanted to be a cop.”
“That’s because Weaver wasn’t the target. How many times do I have to say it before it sinks into your brain? William Briscoe was the target.”
“Okay, so why the hell would a perfectly upstanding citizen want to kill another upstanding citizen? Did the two men even know each other? Because I don’t see a connection there either.”
“The gym. Briscoe coached the youth boxing class with Hector Santos and helped Santos train.”
“I know, but that doesn’t explain a relationship between Briscoe and Facini. It could just be a coincidence.”
“There is no such thing,” I retorted. Getting down from the table, I stared at the board again. “I have to talk to Laura and Will. They can tell us who their dad knew and who he crossed paths with.”
“Facini’s still our best bet. None of the surveillance footage I pulled showed anyone even closely resembling Tim Coker or Gavin Levere. None of the men have a registered weapon. No one has military training. And the partial serial number we pulled off the Remington doesn’t match sales to anyone. The experts were thinking it was a hot weapon that had a number re-etched over the previous one.”
“How the hell is that even possible?”
“Precision welding or metal works professionals could probably do the job. It requires patience and the proper equipment, and honestly, the gun could have quite a few years on it.” His gaze shifted to the door. “I don’t think it will lead to our killer, and I think that’s why the shooter left it behind. He knew it wouldn’t trace back to him.”
“So your plan to make a positive ID just went straight to the crapper?” I asked, and he shrugged. “Okay, so what’s plan B?”
“Forensics is still scrubbing footage. The accountants are analyzing financials. And I’m hoping you’ll let me assist on your lead since it’s now our only remaining course of action.”
“Unbelievable.” Considering my options, I sighed. “Fine, but you’ll do what I say, when I say it. And you won’t speak unless someone specifically asks you something, and even then, feel free to pretend you’re mute.”
“Any other rules?”
“Don’t get shot.”
He cocked his head to the side, a question forming on his lips, but I strode out of the room, grabbing my jacket and keys off of my desk and heading for the elevator. Surprisingly, Lucca managed to squeeze inside before the doors closed, and he remained silent while I drove to Laura Briscoe’s apartment. The poor girl had enough on her plate without having to answer our questions, but it was the only way to find a connection.
“You’re probably right,” Lucca said when I pulled the car to a stop a few blocks from the apartment building. “It wouldn’t make sense that two deaths weren’t connected when the two decedents knew each other, but Weaver died from a headshot. And the venue makes no sense.”
“Our killer’s brilliant and wants to distract and throw us off the scent,” I suggested, even though I lacked confidence in my own words.
“No,” Lucca thought for a few moments, squinting into the distance and rubbing the tips of his fingers together, “something else is going on here. Could Weaver have been blackmailed too? Does he have any connection to this underground fight scene? He was a federal prosecutor which makes him a lawyer by default.”
“Nothing supports it, and it makes our shooter seem like one of the best. If he was one of the best, I doubt two men would be dead. He would have taken a second shot and plugged Briscoe in the skull after he slumped back into his chair. It would have been too sloppy to walk away with a potential survivor.”
“Which still makes me think Weaver was the target,” Lucca said, and I fought the urge to strangle him with the seatbelt.
“The shooter panicked. He fired and took off. Did you check the timestamps at the office building? We can place him in the hallway at almost the same time the courthouse reports shots fired. He fired and freaked. He probably bolted down the stairs, dumped the bag, and took off out of the building.”
“How did he get home?” Lucca asked, already formulating a new thought and grabbing his phone. “Pull transit records for the nearest subway and bus stops in the immediate vicinity and find out what cab companies generally hang out near the courthouse. It’s a busy place, so see if you can find a hack that services the area. Our shooter had to escape somehow,” Lucca said into the phone and disconnected. “Thanks for helping with plan B, Parker.”
Eighteen
I sat next to Laura Briscoe on the couch. She lifted her teacup to her lips and stared at the ceiling, willing the tears not to fall. We had made little progress on account of her upset state. The funeral was postponed due to the fact that her father’s homicide was still being investigated. In the meantime, she and Will had picked out a plot, ordered a headstone, and contacted whatever friends and extended family they had.
“Will should be back any minute. He went to book a block of rooms at a hotel,” she said, sniffling. “He has my credit card, but it’s been almost impossible to explain that we need the rooms but we don’t know when we’ll need them. At least we worked that out this morning with one of the nicer chains.”
“It’s good you can depend on each other at times like these,” Lucca said, ignoring one of my rules.
“Would you mind telling us a bit more about your father’s friends and hobbies?” I asked, leading the conversation back in a more useful direction. “He volunteered at the rec center, right?”
“Yeah. Giving back was very important to him. He was helping this guy teach a class. I think they trained on the side too.” She shook her head. “I can’t remember what Daddy said.” She rubbed her eyes and gripped her teacup tighter. “I should have paid more attention to his stories, but it was always something.”
“Take your time,” I said. “Anything that you might remember about his routine or who your father saw on a regular basis could help us determine what happened.”
She fidgeted, sighing as her eyes darted back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match. “He traveled to a lot of grocery stores and supermarkets in the tri-state area as part of his job. Dad was a sales rep for a produce company. They prominently supported the area farmers with locally grown, organic items.”
“Did he get along with everyone at work?” Lucca asked.
“Yeah, they were great. His boss sent over that fruit basket.” She pointed to a large arrangement on the kitchen counter. “A couple of the ladies there called to find out when the service would be. They’re just as devastated as we are.”
“What about the people at the recreational center? Have any of them called
?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know that they are even aware of what happened. Dad was just a volunteer.” She sighed again and went into the kitchen. “Will might know more about that. Dad was always pestering him to volunteer somewhere. Since my brother couldn’t be bothered to commit to a job, Dad thought he might find his way by helping others.” A whimper escaped, and she blew her nose. “He was a really good father. But Will can be difficult at times, so Dad was trying a more tough love approach. He figured if Will saw how good he had it compared to a lot of less fortunate people, he’d go back to school and make something of himself.”
“I take it they didn’t see eye to eye,” I said.
“That’s why Will’s taking this so hard. I can’t even imagine what he’s thinking. He took Dad for granted, and now, he can’t fix it.” She trembled, excusing herself and dashing into the other room and closing the door.
“Great way to clear a room, Parker,” Lucca whispered.
“Shut it, boy scout. I told you not to say a word. Why don’t you actually do something helpful and get in contact with William Briscoe’s boss and co-workers and see what you can find out?”
“Are you sure you can handle this situation alone?”
“Go,” I snarled.
Lucca went to the door, opening it just as Will was attempting to unlock the door. They uttered a few cordial words, and then Will came inside. He took one look at me, and his face filled with anger.
“Where’s my sister?” he asked.
“Bedroom.” I jerked my chin toward the doorway. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? We didn’t exactly get off on the right foot the other day.”
“Did you find out who killed my dad?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I don’t have anything to say to you.” He heard a muffled sob from the back hallway. “Get the fuck out of here. Can’t you see that you are making this worse?”
“I apologize, but I promise that I want the person responsible to be caught just as badly as you do.” My attempt to reason with him appeared to be working, so I forged ahead before he could change his mind. “Laura said you might know something about your father’s volunteer work at the rec center. Maybe you can tell me if he had a problem with anyone there or what his schedule was like on a daily basis.”
Will dropped onto the other end of the couch and rubbed his eyes. “Dad never had any problems from what I know. He wanted me to help out. He introduced me to some boxer one time. Um…,” he frowned, thinking, “I don’t know what the guy’s name was. He was younger than me, but he and my dad were tight. Like best buds tight.” The anger burned in his eyes. “Maybe you should ask him about it. He knew my dad better than I did.”
Flipping through the stack of photos, I pulled out Hector Santos’ driver’s license photo and held it out to Will. “Is this the guy your father introduced you to?”
He looked at it, his fists clenching, and turned away. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Would you mind taking a look at a few other photographs? Perhaps you might recognize someone else.”
“If I do this, will you go away and leave us the hell alone?”
“Sure.” I handed him the photos, and he flipped through them. I studied his expression as he sifted through the prints. Suddenly, Will looked alarmed, and he swallowed, pulling himself unsteadily off the couch. “What is it?”
“Do you think one of these men killed my dad?”
“I don’t know. We’re following leads.”
“That means these are the suspects. One of them did this?” He dropped the stack of photos on the table. “One of them did this.” He repeated, bolting out the door.
“Will,” I called after him. He didn’t respond, and I grabbed my cell, dialing Lucca. “Will Briscoe took off. Don’t let him get past you.”
“Shit, Parker, you really are an expert at clearing a room. Why don’t you pull the fire alarm and clear the whole damn building while you’re at it?”
Disconnecting, I stared at the photo on the table. It was the same image that had shaken Will — the photo of Gavin Levere. While I collected the glossy prints, Laura returned from the bedroom. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks were blotchy.
“Where’s Will? I heard his voice.”
“He was upset. My…partner,” I practically choked on the word, “will bring him back here.” I shoved everything into the folder and tucked it underneath my arm. Laura had already reviewed the photos and had been unable to identify any of the men. “I’m sorry to put you both through this. Like I said last time, if you remember anything, please give me a call. I should go, so you can grieve in peace. I am sorry for your loss.”
She nodded, and I took the stairs down to the car. Slowing my pace as I opened the front door, I didn’t want to cause another scene with Will Briscoe. Hopefully, Lucca was able to calm him down. Maybe he even got the kid to open up about why that photo caused such a reaction, but instead, the only person I found outside the building was Lucca.
“Where’s Will? I thought you were going to stop him from leaving,” I said.
“He didn’t leave. He hasn’t gone past me. Maybe he snuck out the back or something.”
“And you call yourself an FBI agent.”
“I’m not the one that scared him off.” Lucca watched me shove the file into the back of the car. “Should we go find him?”
Will’s expression right before he bolted left an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. He knew more than he was letting on. “He might need to blow off some steam, but the kid’s going to get himself into trouble. I showed him the photos, and Levere’s mug freaked him out. He knows something, but he’s not talking.” Looking back at the building, I felt confident the side entrance and fire escapes both led to dead ends, but I wasn’t positive. “Check around back, and I’ll go inside and see if he’s hiding out somewhere in the building.”
“Okay.” Lucca gave the front door a final look and went around the side of the building.
As I went from floor to floor, my mind attempted to postulate the reason for Will Briscoe’s outburst and errant behavior. He must know Levere, but I wasn’t sure how. Will didn’t recall Santos’ name, and he didn’t mention his father introducing him to any of the other fighters. Perhaps he had gone to a few of the matches. My phone rang as I continued up the steps.
“Parker, get to the roof now,” Lucca said, “and whatever you do, don’t act like your normal pain in the ass self. The police and fire department are on the way. I’ll meet you up there.”
“Shit.” I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst out the roof exit. Will Briscoe was on the edge of the roof. We were eleven stories high, and he was too close to the edge for my comfort. Startling him wasn’t recommended, but I had to do something. “Hey, Will, nice view, huh?”
He looked over his shoulder at me but didn’t say anything. With any luck, he had no intention of jumping, and Lucca was making a mountain out of a molehill. Will took a deep breath and stepped closer to the edge. Slowly, I approached him, making the conscious effort not to look down. Heights weren’t my thing.
“Why shouldn’t I do it?” he asked, far too calmly for someone who was acting on nothing more than impulse.
“It would hurt your sister and ruin everyone’s day.” Negotiating wasn’t my forte either, and now I was negotiating on a rooftop. Clearly, I was the universe’s punching bag. “You don’t want to hurt Laura. She needs you. You’re all she has left.”
“I already hurt her,” he snapped. He turned sideways, stepping over the safety bar, so he could face me and be closer to the edge. “She’d be better off without me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Bullshit.” He leaned closer to the edge and peered down.
“Fine, let’s talk about what happens when you jump. I’m aware of three possibilities. One, you survive, but you’re a vegetable, dependent on her for the rest of your life because you didn’t pick a high enough roof
.”
“Really?” His eyes shot to mine, pondering the truth of that statement.
I had no idea if it was humanly possible to survive an eleven story drop, but it was working to buy time. “Stranger things happen all the time. The human body is resilient.” I shrugged, easing closer. “Is it really worth the risk?” He edged closer, and I resisted the urge to lunge for him. “Wait. At least tell me why you suddenly decided to do this.”
“What were those other two possibilities?” he asked. “You said there were three. What were the other two?”
“Look, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you the other two if you tell me why you want to do this. Then if you still want to jump, I’ll turn around and let you do it.”
“You first,” he insisted.
“Fine. Jumpers sometimes turn into human eggrolls. The outside looks fine, but your insides are pulverized into bloody, mangled pieces. The coroner will cut you open, and the gooey flows out. Your bones and organs and blood will pour right off the table and into the drain.” Okay, so I was embellishing for dramatic effect. “I guess they could stuff you like a taxidermy project if you want an open casket at the funeral.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Laura will have to plan that one too, won’t she?”
“Stop.” He rubbed his eyes and put both hands on top of his head, trying to think.
“Three. You go splat. On impact, your body explodes. Think of a water balloon filled with red paint. That would be you.” He looked queasy and teetered. I stepped closer, only ten feet away from him at this point. “Don’t do it,” I said gently.
“I should.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he swallowed, leaning his calves against the outer side of the safety bar, “I’m the reason my dad is dead.”
