by G. K. Parks
“Uh-huh.” He gave her a skeptical look. “Do you want me to intervene?”
“That’s okay. He can handle himself,” I replied.
Jen gave me an odd look. “How are the new living arrangements?”
“Brutal. It’s trench warfare. There might not be any survivors,” I joked, but she sensed some truth to my words. I cautioned another glance in Martin’s direction and leaned across the table. “You’re a nurse. What can you tell me about PTSD?”
“Alexis,” she looked wholly sympathetic, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just curious.”
“Trouble sleeping, nightmares, reliving the event, constantly thinking about it and the outcome, reimaging ways it could have been different, anxiety, depression, and sleep disturbances are just some of the symptoms.”
“What about violent outbursts?”
“Like anger issues?” she asked. “Sure, that could happen too.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Before I could clarify, Martin returned with a round of drinks, barely managing to balance the glasses.
“What did I miss?” he asked, sliding a drink in front of me.
“These two pretending they weren’t talking about a case while we were gone,” Jen replied, “and just now, Alex was telling us how great it is that the two of you are living together.”
“Should I grab a knife to cut the sarcasm?” Martin retorted, picking up his glass and putting an arm around my shoulders. “It’s been an adjustment.” He focused his full attention on me. “I haven’t asked if you like our new living arrangement.”
“What’s not to like?” I took a sip and snuggled closer in the hopes of distracting him from realizing I provided a non-answer. “Or are you hoping I’ll move out so the bartender can move in? She seems ready, willing, and able.”
“Probably, but she works weekends. I’m in the market for someone who will actually take a weekend off.”
“Well, if you’re gonna move out, do it by next week,” Nick interjected, “or I’m gonna owe Thompson.”
“Gee, thanks,” I growled. “I’m really feeling the love here.”
“Hey, I love the Mets, but I’m not putting money on them to stick it out until the end either,” Nick said, hoping to defuse the tension.
“Shush, Nick,” Jen snapped. “They’ll figure it out.” She turned to face us. “The two of you will be fine. I bet it’ll last, and I only pick winners.”
“That’s it. Maybe someone was making it difficult to pick a winner. That could be our motive.” I looked to Nick, hoping he’d agree with my assessment.
“You’d need to find a ledger to prove it. How do your victims even fit into that theory?”
“The shooter’s target was Santos’ coach, and the other was collateral damage.”
“Do you think the fighters were supposed to take a dive?”
“From what I know, our victim was a man of honor, so maybe he coached Santos too well. He must have refused to let his boy throw the fight. Since Hector died after the bout, I bet his coach would have wanted someone to investigate precisely how that happened. It could have brought the gambling and fixed matches to light and caused the entire fight circuit to shut down, and that’s why he had to be eliminated.”
“That sounds reasonable, but can you prove it?”
“I’ll find out tomorrow.”
* * *
“I didn’t think you’d be here this early,” Jablonsky said when he found me inside the conference room. “The Briscoes haven’t shown up yet, so you’ll have to make yourself scarce.” He glanced down at the photocopies of Dennison’s ledger. “What do you hope to find?”
“A connection. I’m working under the assumption that Philip Dennison is our shooter, and nothing contradicts that. Our ballistics expert matched the caliber of bullets to the gun. Dennison’s build is spot on, and he has motive, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of motive.”
“We need to put the gun in his hands,” Mark said, “and we have to make sure that he can’t alibi out either.”
“We’ve eliminated everyone else. It’s either Dennison or a random act of violence.”
“You sound certain.”
“Process of elimination and we have the proof.” I gestured at the paperwork. “We just have to pin it down.”
“All right. Keep at it.”
Four hours later, I pushed away from the table. Every joint in my body ached from sitting for so long. My legal pad was covered in notes that we could use when interrogating Dennison. Also, I’d placed enough phone calls to determine that Philip had been at the shooting range with Elias Facini on numerous occasions. If we could get Facini to flip, we’d be one step closer. Thomas Harper was the only remaining point of contention in my brain, and I made a note to drag Levere in for another interview.
“Hey, Lucca, do you have a minute?” I called into the bullpen. He dropped whatever he was doing and came inside. “Have you spoken to any of our suspects today?”
“Dennison’s not talking. Facini’s getting edgy. The last time I checked, he was searching for new legal representation and hoping to qualify for a public defender. Bellows sent me to fetch steak and eggs for his breakfast.”
“Dammit, you didn’t bring anything back for me. Some personal assistant you are.”
He ignored the dig. “Jablonsky plans to kick Brad loose by dinnertime. We have a unit prepared to keep watch on him, and he’ll be prohibited from returning to his apartment on account that it’s part of our investigation. Are you going to let him crash with you?”
“Ha ha.”
“Well, you spent yesterday with him. He’s the future Mr. Parker, right?”
“Don’t be jealous.” I flipped to a blank sheet. “How did your interview with the Briscoes turn out?”
“Will spoke extensively about his time with Facini, corroborating what Brad told you. We asked about Dennison, and he admitted to spilling his guts about his dad’s training methods to them. William Briscoe believed in Hector Santos and wanted the kid to succeed. Will Jr. hated him for that, and he thinks that his friends might have done something because of it. Unfortunately, he has no proof.”
“But Will believed that possibility so strongly that he was willing to throw himself off a roof because of it. That’ll speak volumes to a jury,” I insisted.
“It will, but unless we can put Dennison inside the office building at the time of the shooting or put the gun in his hand, I don’t know that there’s enough to prosecute for murder.”
“Then we better make damn sure that we have him for illegal gambling and every other thing we can come up with. He’s going down for something, and I don’t give a shit what it is.” I glanced at my watch. It was a little after twelve. I could easily spend the entire day reviewing the cataloged evidence, but it wouldn’t put us any closer to discovering the truth. Our best bet was convincing someone to cooperate. Bellows would tell me whatever I wanted to know, but he wasn’t privy to the information we needed. It would have to be Facini, and he wasn’t talking until he had independent representation. “Call me if something changes.” I pulled out my card and scribbled Martin’s home phone number on the back. “If I don’t answer my cell, use that number instead. If nothing else occurs, I’ll see you Monday.”
“What makes you think I’m working the weekend?”
“You owe me, Eddie.” I stood up, grabbing my files to take home. “I didn’t report you for misconduct, so isn’t this a better alternative?”
At the mention of his first name, he softened, swallowing whatever retort he planned to utter. “Did you pick up blackmailing tips from the men we have in holding?”
“It’s not blackmail. It’s a quid pro quo. If you didn’t owe me, then I’d be asking for a favor instead of demanding payback. That’s how things work around here. You should get used to it.”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to you, Parker.”
“It’s better if you don’t.”
; On my way home, I stopped at the precinct to have a word with Detective O’Connell. Since the police department had made the original arrest, I wanted to clue him in on what was happening on our end. After last night, I wanted to keep Nick in the loop. If for some reason we dropped the ball, the police department ought to be in a position to pick it up and run with it.
Then I detoured to my favorite pizza joint, hoping that Martin wasn’t planning to renege on his promise of pizza and TV since I carved out a chunk of our weekend together for work. Arriving back at his house, I parked in the garage and took the two pies out of my car. The blaring music was a dead giveaway that he was in the middle of a workout, so I brought the pizza upstairs and returned to the ground floor and entered his spacious home gym.
“Hey,” I yelled over the music, but he didn’t respond. I went to the stereo and turned the volume down. “Honey, I’m home.”
He finished a set of bench presses and secured the bar, pulling himself up. “Is it Sunday evening already?” he asked, beginning on a set of inverted crunches.
“I said I’d cut my workday short, and I meant it.”
“Amazing.” He continued his reps. “Jenny called this morning. She said you were asking about post-traumatic stress. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Can you stop doing that? Watching you is making me dizzy.”
Once he got to fifty, he moved on to the freestanding punching bag in the center of the ring. “It’s this house. You can’t stay here because of what happened two years ago.” He hit the bag hard. “But I don’t understand it. You’ve been staying here on and off for over a year, so I asked Jen what might be causing the problem.” He laughed bitterly. “She thought I was having issues, so I had to explain that you’ve been having nightmares more frequently.”
“What did she say? That I’m crazy?”
“Yes.” Martin stopped hitting the bag. “The last time you actually lived here, you were my bodyguard, which was one of the worst decisions I ever made, but Jen thinks that subconsciously it’s why you have the need to protect me in your sleep. Basically, stress adds up. Exhaustion doesn’t help. The less you sleep and the more stressed you are, the more it affects your nightmares. It’ll lead to these relapses. The fact that you went back to the OIO has a lot to do with it. You have a new job, a new living arrangement, more stress than you can handle, and you spent the week not sleeping. That’ll make anyone crazy.”
“And this hostility is supposed to make it better?” I asked, moving into the ring with him.
“No,” he hit the bag a few more times, “but I’m helpless to fix this for you, and it pisses me off.”
I had a feeling something else was pissing him off, but I let it go. Instead, I moved in front of him. “We need to have another lesson in self-defense.”
“Alex, we’ve gone through the basics. Bruiser and I spar once a week, and it’s not like I’m completely incompetent. I’m pretty certain I can protect myself against an attacker.”
“That’s great,” I peeled my shirt off and pressed my fingers against my side until I found that sore spot that Brad hit the other day when we were play-fighting, “but we’re not talking about someone random.” I reached for his hand and placed it against my ribs. “Right here. Do you feel that bump?”
“No, it feels the same.”
“Then you’ll just have to remember this spot. I don’t think it ever healed properly after the last time I was hurt. It gets sore whenever I sit too long or lift weights or when it rains, and it hurts like a bitch whenever I take a hit.” I saw the question on his face. “I want you to remember this,” I pressed his hand harder into my flesh, “because if I ever lose control or do something violent in my sleep, I have to know that you’ll stop me from hurting you again. So hit me as hard as you can, right here. It should put me down and wake me up if nothing else works. ”
He tugged his hand free. “I won’t do it. I refuse to hurt you. How can you even suggest such a thing? God,” he looked utterly appalled, “you know what you’re asking is insane.”
“Don’t you get it?” I looked away, putting my shirt back on and forcing my voice to remain even. “That disgusted feeling in the pit of your stomach is the same one I have every night we go to bed because I am scared to death that I will do something to you because I’m dreaming about some psycho. I’ve done things, Martin. I’ve seen so much, and I don’t trust myself around you.” I moved away from him. “The worst part is that I’ve realized the only way I can get a good night’s sleep is when I’m close enough to feel you breathing or hear your heart beating, and that’s too close. That’s close enough to strangle you or shoot you or,” I shrugged and stepped away, “I don’t even want to think of all the possibilities. So if I’m going to stay here, you have to promise me that you will not let that happen because I cannot bear to live with the thought that I hurt you.”
“That won’t happen,” he insisted.
“Then if you’re so sure that my violent nightmares will never turn physically violent, this will never be an issue. Therefore, promise me that you’ll incapacitate me before I hurt you.” He reached for me, but I stepped closer to the stairs. “Promise me, Martin.”
“This is pointless. Your dreams are just that — dreams. They aren’t real, and you won’t act on them.”
“Say it anyway.”
“I promise I won’t let you hurt me.”
Thirty-seven
“Morning, beautiful,” Martin whispered, running his fingers along my arm. “How did you sleep?”
“Great. How about you? Any contusions, bruises, scrapes, or gunshots to report?” I asked.
“None of the above, and it seems you haven’t shoved a knife in my back lately either.” He pressed his lips against my forehead. “How about I bring you breakfast in bed?”
“It’s a crime to bribe a federal agent.”
“It’s only a bribe if there is an agreed upon exchange. I don’t recall you offering to compensate me.” His cocked an eyebrow up suggestively, and I slapped his arm. “I thought you were afraid of hurting me.” It was obvious he intended to use our conversation and my ultimatum from yesterday as fodder for his rhetoric. “To be on the safe side, let’s call in a few attorneys and have a contract drafted, expressing exactly what types of physical contact are considered acceptable and what is unduly burdensome or unwanted and what forms of contact would warrant the reaction you so adamantly requested yesterday because I’m not happy with the terms and would like to renegotiate.”
“Don’t you think you already have enough lawsuits to worry about?” My words were scathing, but he wasn’t prepared to back down.
“I’d also argue that I was coerced to agree, thus nullifying our contract.”
“We don’t have a contract.” I rolled onto my back. “Nothing was bargained for. There’s no consideration.”
“That’s right.” He propped himself up on his elbow and stared at me. “You have absolutely no consideration for anyone except yourself.” Although his tone remained playful, truth resonated just below the surface.
I studied his features, searching his green eyes for some indication of his emotional barometer. “Talk to me.”
“Like you talk to me?”
“I suck at communicating. You don’t. You could sell ice to penguins in Antarctica. So what’s wrong?”
“The polar ice caps are melting. The penguins could use some additional ice.”
“You’re gonna make me work for it?”
“That sounds like a bribe. Could that be construed as entrapment?” he teased.
“Martin,” I whined, exasperated.
“I miss you. I miss this.” He sat up, collecting his thoughts. “Can you even remember the last time you talked to me?”
“I talk to you all the time. We live together.”
“We live together because you stopped talking to me. We live together because somewhere along the way, you stopped telling me what was happening in your life. You went bac
k to the OIO, and the only reason I even found out was because the guy you were investigating came to your apartment to get revenge. If I hadn’t been there, you’d be dead, and I would have never known why because you didn’t tell me.”
“I told you I wanted to go back. You encouraged it. You said you’d support that decision.”
“I would have, but you didn’t give me the chance. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”
“That’s not true. It happened so fast. Mark brought me back in.” I stopped mid-argument. “This is why you aren’t speaking to him. I’m the reason you lost your best friend.” I sat up. “It’s not his fault. Since you want to be angry with someone, be angry with me.”
“I can’t be angry with you.” Martin looked to be in utter agony. “Mark knew better than anyone how destroyed you were when you left the OIO. You spent months adamantly opposed to returning. Being inside that building is torture, at least that’s what you said. But he’s been wheedling his way inside your brain, manipulating you, slowly convincing you that you have to go back, and it worked because as soon as they rejected you, it was the only thing you wanted. And once you were back on the job, it damn near killed you.”
“I am not malleable. You make it sound like I’m a brain dead nincompoop. I’m not.” Now I was getting angry.
“No, you’re not. But there’s a reason you didn’t tell me, and it’s not because of some sworn to secrecy bullshit. It’s because deep down you know I’m right, and you don’t want to think about it because Mark is the closest thing you have to family. But he betrayed you by putting his needs above yours.” Before I could voice a protest, Martin made a final concluding point that I just couldn’t shake. “It’s painfully obvious how devastating you find the job by the physical manifestations that you’ve been experiencing ever since.”
“You arrogant bastard,” I snarled, fighting the urge to storm out of the room. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Because you don’t talk to me,” he said calmly. “Is this a mistake? Be honest. Do you want to live together, or did you agree to this because you didn’t want to fight anymore?”
