Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  The effects of the sedatives hadn’t completely worn off, and it made questioning Will Briscoe more difficult than necessary. On the plus side, he didn’t hesitate to answer any of Jablonsky’s or Lucca’s questions, but his answers were anything but concise. From their account, Will was angry at his father for always neglecting him. When he tried to become a boxer to show the old man he could hack it just like Hector Santos, Will’s efforts fell flat. He didn’t last too long at the gym before Coker kicked him out. Will never participated in a single match, and when his girlfriend had stopped by to watch him train the day he’d gotten popped in the eye, Coker saw the kid as a liability.

  During his time at the gym, Will had made several friends, and they were his buddies that let him sleep on their couches. Almost a month ago, Elias had a party at his apartment. He invited the other fighters from Coker’s gym, his roommates, and Will Briscoe. That was the night Will had gotten wasted and spent the evening telling every person there exactly how horrible his father was.

  “He told them about his dad having to serve jury duty,” Lucca interjected as I followed along with the briefing.

  “Is that why he thinks his father’s death is his fault?” I asked.

  Lucca nodded, and Jablonsky continued with the briefing. By the end, it was obvious that Will didn’t kill his dad, and based upon his actions in the last four days, I didn’t think he planned his father’s death either. However, Will’s story pointed to a few solid suspects, comprised of a group of men that we hadn’t considered or barely considered until this morning. Now we just had to determine who had opportunity, access to an unregistered, illegal sniper rifle, and why a buddy’s sob story was incentive to plan an almost perfect murder, execute it, and continue on as if nothing happened. It appeared we were dealing with a psychopath.

  “Bradley Bellows,” Jablonsky said, focusing his gaze on me, “tell us everything you know.”

  “He’s a fighter from Coker’s gym. He shares an apartment with Elias Facini and Philip Dennison. The lease is in Dennison’s name, and Philip has no record or ties to the underground fight scene that I’ve found. He’s a grad student at a nearby university.”

  “What’s his area of study?” Lucca asked, scribbling furiously on a pad of paper.

  “Accounting,” I replied. “He’s an economics TA or something like that. It’s on the university’s website if you do a student search.” Lucca nodded, and Jablonsky motioned that I get back to Bellows. “Brad was just one of the fighters. He didn’t involve himself in the fray that ensued when I confronted Tim Coker about Santos’ final match. Frankly, he was nothing but background noise. He never paid much attention to anything, kept to himself, and worked on the bags. I don’t even know if he had a sparring partner. Inside, there were a lot of half-naked guys knocking each other around. No one really stood out.”

  “Even though they were half-naked,” Lucca muttered. “Odd.”

  I glared at him. “He left the gym alone, which is why I targeted him for an approach.”

  “What was your first impression?” Jablonsky asked.

  “A bit cocky and self-assured. Probably a player. He had no problem inviting me to his place. He’s also a neat freak, but his roommates are pigs. It was very important that he made sure to tell me the mess was theirs. He probably smokes pot. There was a bong on the window sill.”

  “Then he can’t be a competitor. They drug test, or at least they do at the sanctioned matches,” Lucca mused.

  “It could be our way in. We’ve used less to bust a place,” Mark said, contemplating our options. “What else?”

  “We slapped each other around a bit. Literally.” Both men looked slightly frightened and completely confused. “We were play-fighting. It was part of my spiel about being kicked out of the gym. It made sense at the time. Then he took me to his room.”

  “And you thought I had some hidden kinks,” Lucca retorted. “I’d hate to see what you do with people you really like.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing that I really don’t like you,” I replied, and Mark slammed his palm on the table. “Anyway, he left me alone for five minutes, but I didn’t discover anything incriminating.”

  “Not that you were illegally searching through his belongings,” Mark added.

  “Of course not. Before I left, he gave me a few dozen business cards to various gyms that he supposedly tried out.”

  “Do you still have them?” Lucca asked.

  “They’re at my desk, along with his phone number.”

  “Get them. Then see what you can run down, Lucca. Parker, update the boys in blue on these recent developments. Normally, I’m not one to share, but you brought them in so make sure they don’t fuck up our bust while we’re busy making sure we aren’t screwing with theirs. In the meantime, I’ll get an update on where we stand with everything, and we’ll reconvene in TacOps.” He glanced at the two of us. “Really? I have to say dismissed? Jeez. Dismissed.”

  “Aye, sir.” I crinkled my nose playfully and went to get the business cards for Lucca to analyze. For once, Lucca was actually serving a purpose, and I was relieved to pass the research aspect of the job off to someone else.

  After Lucca was settled, I phoned O’Connell, who was out on a call. I tried Thompson’s desk phone, but since they were partners, it yielded the same results. Deciding that there was no point in remaining inside the federal building for the next few hours when there were endless opportunities beyond these walls just waiting to be discovered, I grabbed a set of keys and drove to the precinct. One of these days, they’d post my picture at the front desk in order to keep me out, but as of yet, that hadn’t happened.

  The squad room was bustling, and I took a seat at O’Connell’s desk and nonchalantly skimmed the sticky notes and files that he had left out in the open. Knowing Nick, the sensitive materials were secured inside his desk or in the filing cabinet, but it never hurt to make sure something hadn’t slipped past. It didn’t.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Lieutenant Moretti asked. “You already dragged two of my detectives into some extortion bullshit. Now what do you want us to do for you, Agent Parker?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see if there’s something the OIO can do for you. We’ve made some progress on our double homicide, and a few key players and locations might overlap. Jablonsky wanted to make sure we weren’t compromising any of your hard work.”

  “Tell Mark he owes me big for this one,” Moretti responded. They had been colleagues for years and had a general understanding on sharing intel and staying out of each other’s way. He narrowed his eyes. “How the hell did a resigned federal agent turned private investigator end up back on the government payroll?”

  “I’m not sure, but if you ever figure that one out, I’d love to hear it.”

  He chuckled. “You weren’t a half bad police consultant. Too bad you’re one of the idiots with the suits now. You had potential.”

  “Story of my life. Any idea when O’Connell or Thompson will be back?”

  “From the last radio call I heard, they should be on their way. Sit tight.” He watched the way I swiveled at the desk. “Don’t touch anything, and don’t look at anything either. This is a police station. Everything on that desk is relevant to official police business. You are not.” He walked away, leaving me alone and bored.

  “It’s about time you showed up. Do you really think that I have nothing better to do than wait for the two of you to come back from a call?” I asked when Thompson and O’Connell entered the bullpen.

  “Clearly, you don’t have anything better to do,” Thompson muttered. He turned to his partner. “I’ll get started on the paperwork and meet you in interrogation. Don’t waste too much time with this one.”

  “See ya, Thompson,” I called as he walked away. “He wasn’t cop enough for me anyway.”

  “What does that even mean?” O’Connell asked, shooing me out of his chair. “And what do you want now?”

  “Off-the-record
?”

  “Fine.”

  “Despite our current lack of evidence, it seems obvious our killer is one of the gym rats. He’s using a fake name, and we’re still working on motive. Suffice it to say, the wheels are turning, and while we haven’t discovered an irrefutable connection between the two homicides that occurred on federal property and a particular member of Coker’s gym, it seems apparent there might be some overlap in our investigations. So what’s your play tonight? We don’t want to botch it.”

  “Unbelievable.” He sat heavily in the chair. “You throw this extortion shit into my lap and beg that I help out one of Martin’s friends or whatever the hell Fletcher is, and now you want to know what we’re doing about it because you’re afraid you’re gonna step on our toes. Goddammit, Parker.”

  “Nick,” I began, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.

  “The police department will monitor the drop site. Fletcher is supposed to deliver the money to the locker promptly at five. He will be wired. The money will have a tracker. Undercovers will be stationed outside, prepared to move in as soon as the money changes hands, so stay away from the gym and the people inside until your office receives the all clear. Is that understood?”

  “Sure, whatever you say.”

  “Hey, you’re the one that asked for a favor,” O’Connell retorted, muttering some inappropriate things that I pretended not to hear.

  Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed, but on the bright side, at least I knew where and when the PD’s operation would commence. On the drive back to the federal building, I phoned Fletcher and wished him luck and ran through the basic tenets he needed to be aware of in order to avoid confrontation. The idea of dropping off the money didn’t freak him out. The only thing he was worried about was showing up after being chased off the last time. If Tim was behind the blackmail, it made no sense why he’d want to scare away the golden goose, so I marked Tim’s name off my mental list of potential extortionists and focused on tying our alleged killer to William Briscoe and Stan Weaver.

  Just as I exited the elevator on the OIO level, Lucca looked up and waved me over. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” he asked.

  “Surprise me.” I pulled a chair over and sat down next to him.

  “I know who Bradley Bellows is. I also know why he might have wanted to kill William Briscoe.”

  “I’m not getting any younger, so don’t ask me to guess.”

  “Bradley Bellows, formerly Brad Holmes, might possibly be Tim Coker’s bastard son, and since dear old dad was feuding with William Briscoe, maybe Brad decided to take matters into his own hands to earn some of his daddy’s love.”

  “Jesus Christ and I thought I had abandonment issues.” Clearing the cobwebs from my brain, I checked the copy of the birth certificate. No one was listed as being the father. No one had signed the birth certificate, and there was no paternity test to indicate if Lucca’s assumption was even true. “Did you talk to Brad’s mom? There must be a million Tim Coker’s out there.”

  “A few dozen in the area, but what are the odds Brad found the wrong one?”

  “It depends. That’s why you ought to speak to his mother.”

  “She died a year ago. It’s probably what made him seek out his father and change his name.”

  “So you think he found his father and then changed his name? Why the secrecy?” It didn’t make sense, and it definitely didn’t explain why Brad would shoot two men.

  “I checked with the various gyms listed on those business cards, and Brad was asking a lot of questions about the coaches and fighters. A few of the other owners thought he was trying to track someone down. He was asking about fighters from thirty years ago, and what happened to them. It makes sense. He lost his mom, who probably told him stories of his dad being a boxing coach or a fighter, so now he goes looking for the man he never knew.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of unsubstantiated conjecture for an analyst,” I accused. “Plus, he’s thirty-two. Who the hell would still care at this point?”

  Lucca cocked an eyebrow and looked concerned by what he perceived to be my break from reality. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious, but on the off chance that you are, it’s normal for a person to wonder where they came from and seek out those answers.”

  “It’s ridiculous, and we aren’t dealing with a normal person. We’re dealing with a cold-blooded killer. By definition, they aren’t normal.”

  “Hey, at least we have a name.” He scooped a file off his desk. “Here’s his profile. There’s not much to go on yet, but I’m working on it. Brad was arrested for aggravated assault and attempted murder three years ago, but the charges didn’t stick. Before that, he had a few other assault charges related to a bar brawl, a domestic abuse call from an ex-girlfriend that was also dropped, and a few instances of fighting as a kid which is part of his juvie record. Did he strike you as having anger issues?”

  “Not really. Unless he was hiding something with that neatness factor, he didn’t seem violent.” I thought back to our slap fight and how he immediately backed off when he thought I was hurt. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

  “Yeah. It’s right here in black and white. Perhaps you’re just unable to recognize anger issues.”

  “Or perhaps you screwed up somewhere, and these records belong to someone else.”

  “Then why would a non-violent man suddenly execute two people in cold-blood, assuming Brad is our shooter?” Lucca’s point resonated in my gut.

  “You’re right. I must have missed it.” I took the folder back to my desk, wondering why my radar was on the fritz.

  Thirty

  After reviewing the information Lucca had procured, it appeared Brad was involved. He had a history of violence, just like his alleged father, and it was obvious from the number of gyms he researched that he was intent on finding Coker. But my mind and body were not one over this fact. There was no evidence to support Tim Coker being Brad’s father. Just because he settled in at Coker’s gym didn’t mean he was searching for his dad. Didn’t we already have enough people involved in this double homicide that had daddy issues?

  At three, Lucca and I met Jablonsky in Tactical Operations where Mark proceeded to tell us that Brad hadn’t returned home from his morning outing. However, assuming Brad had a day job, that didn’t seem suspicious or surprising to me. Facini hadn’t left the apartment, and Philip had come and gone twice already. Will Briscoe’s statement was supposed to be the nail in our shooter’s coffin, but that didn’t work. Frankly, we were no closer now than when we started.

  Lucca shared his theory about Brad searching for his father, and when he was finished, Mark sent him to make copies of the information. Once we were alone, Mark’s face morphed into that knowing look.

  “You think it’s bullshit,” he said.

  “I’m not an analyst, and I already spent twenty minutes arguing with Lucca that Brad isn’t our shooter, even though he has a history of violence, a baseball cap that matches the one our shooter wore, and he’s the right build. So let’s not go with my gut instincts today.”

  “Eddie’s a brilliant analyst, or so everyone kept telling me when they forced him on me last year, but he still has a lot to learn. Hoofbeats aren’t always horses. Sometimes, they aren’t even from hooves.”

  “Wow, aren’t you insightful?” I rested my hips against the edge of the table. “Didn’t you warn me not to go on a safari? At this point, you can’t honestly believe we’re going to identify our shooter and have enough to charge him, so what’s the point? We should be focusing our efforts on the dozens of open cases and ongoing operations, not on something that will never be resolved.”

  Jablonsky’s jaw went slack, but before he could respond, Lucca returned with copies of the information. After skimming through the files and asking for a more thorough breakdown that would explain why Lucca thought Brad was searching for his unknown father, Mark eyed me.

  “Brad made
a few dozen inquiries to the hospital where he was born for information about his father prior to his gym search,” Mark said, committing to Lucca’s theory. “One plus one equals two, right?” He exhaled. “Okay, let’s see if we can put a gun in Brad’s hands. Then we’ll check into Philip Dennison and any other known acquaintances to see if anyone is on record as purchasing a Remington or ammunition. Someone has to question Brad and the rest of the fighters at Coker’s gym but not until the PD finishes dealing with the blackmailer.” Mark met my eyes. “Parker, go home for the night. You’ve been burning the candle from both ends, and it’s impairing your work.”

  “Mark,” I protested but clamped my mouth shut when I was met with a glower.

  “You’ve done an excellent job today, Lucca. Finish gathering that information and go home to your wife. She’s probably forgotten what you look like by now. I’ll see you both back here at seven a.m.”

  * * *

  “God, I need a drink.” I searched the wet bar, sighing. “Crap.”

  “What’s wrong?” Martin asked, continuing to prepare dinner. “You’re actually home early. Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “It would be if we had evidence to support our theory of who the shooter is. We’re not gonna find him. I know it, and when I said as much to Mark, he sent me home. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  “Mark’s an asshole.”

  I spun a few more bottles, not finding what I wanted. “I must have left the Stoli in my liquor cabinet at home. I mean at my apartment. My old apartment.”

  Thankfully, Martin let my verbal blunder go. “What’s a matter with Grey Goose?”

  “You’re out.”

  “It’s in the freezer. When you moved in, I started keeping it there since lemon drops are your drink of choice. I thought you’d prefer them cold.”