by G. K. Parks
“I snuck into a motel room in order to have a safe, dry place to stay at night. During the day, I ran errands. I might have gone to see O’Connell, stopped by to see you, threatened to shoot Martin, quit my job at Martin Technologies, took a lot of cab rides, talked to some witnesses, and that was about it.”
“Goddamn,” he grinned in amazement, “it must be nice to have luck and resources.” I needed to pay Martin back as soon as my credit cards and bank accounts were no longer frozen.
“It would be nice to have some things again, a place all my own, an office, and y’know, money.”
“It’ll be cleared up soon enough. Until then, you have everything you could possibly need.”
“Except my own space.” I got out of the car. “My own bed. My own car. Hell, even my own phone.” I bid him farewell and entered the security code to get inside the house. The federal agents keeping watch from their van were probably bored. At least they had their own van to sit in and homes to return to when the second shift came to relieve them.
Spending the rest of the day working on theories, I practically jumped out of my skin when the radio chirped again. Pondering the activity of known mob bosses tended to put me on edge, as did being in Martin’s home. The reason for the nerve-wracking radio call was to announce Heathcliff and Thompson were stopping by for a visit. Maybe a plan had been devised with SAC Cooper.
“Pizza delivery,” Thompson bellowed, carrying a few boxes of pizza. “Heathcliff sprung for the beers tonight. The last time you comped us, things didn’t turn out so well, and we didn’t want to risk it being an omen if you provided the beer,” he rambled. Honestly, I had never heard him speak so much at any one time before.
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Heathcliff supplied. “O’Connell went home after shift, and I figured you might want to hear about what went on today.”
“Do tell.” I got some plates, a few glasses filled with ice, and napkins. The detectives were in the converted living room, staring at the stacks of pages I had laying around. Once again, I was glad the whiteboard was flipped facing the wall.
“Nice job redecorating. If my girlfriend trashed my place like this, we’d so be over,” Thompson commented.
“Good thing you don’t have a girlfriend then,” snarky was my devoted friend, “especially one who is armed and was accused of murder within the last few weeks.” Giving Thompson my death glare, he shut up and poured a bottle of beer into the glass, remaining silent as Heathcliff and I talked.
“Seems you’ve been working harder than we have,” Heathcliff offered. “Today Special Agent in Charge Cooper came to see us. He and Moretti have made arrangements to pair an agent with a cop and stakeout all of the clubs on the strip tonight.”
“Saturday night, time to rock and roll.”
“Exactly. The only problem with this brilliant plan is if none of the clubs are knocked over, then how are we going to know it wasn’t because the corrupt guy was sitting in a car next to a federal agent?”
“At least it’ll be one less heist in the crime spree to process.”
“Less evidence and fewer leads, but hopefully, no one will get shot.”
“The burglary boys are being assigned feds to sit with?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t get the details. Thompson and I are both assigned to a member of the dream team.” He was referencing the group of federal agents Mark and I were working with. “O’Connell’s off this. He’s at home tonight and not going anywhere.” He shook his head. “We shouldn’t be turning on one another.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” I agreed, and we exchanged a meaningful glance. “I’m guessing I’m benched for this play.”
“Yep,” Thompson abandoned the silent act, “they want to double up on your protection detail in case the pissed off party makes a move on you. Although, we’re hoping if that happens, they’ll go to your apartment and not here.”
“Tactical support is set up across the street from your building,” Heathcliff chimed in. “Agent Navate’s inside, and there are agents undercover throughout the building.”
“Why me?” It was Saturday night. While I could be a lot of fun, I wasn’t a happening nightclub with thousands of dollars free for the taking.
“After Hoskins showed up at your place, asking for leads and details, we figured he might be upset you ruined his last big score, and if he thinks you’re the one standing in the way, then revenge makes a great motive,” Heathcliff stated matter-of-factly.
“Did you ever figure out why those particular clubs were targeted?” I wondered if they made the Vito connection like I did.
“Still working on it. Do you have anything?” Thompson asked, glancing at the papers on the desk.
“They all use the same liquor supplier. Maybe they have even more than that in common.” It never hurt to point the good guys in the right direction. It was all information they would uncover eventually, and in the meantime, I could still tell Vito I didn’t say a word about him.
“We’d better head out.” Heathcliff was all business. “Planning an op takes time, but if anything goes down tonight, Parker, give me a call.”
“Thanks, Derek.” I glanced at the five remaining beers in the six pack they brought. It was stupid they picked up beer when they were working, but maybe it was their way of contributing.
After they left, I straightened up the kitchen and made sure all the doors and windows were locked and the security system was functioning. The looming threat startled me, and once again, I found myself in Martin’s bedroom, staring at the backyard and wondering when the culprit or culprits would be caught.
Nineteen
My dream that night sent me back inside Infinity’s storeroom. I was pinned down as gunfire ripped through the doorjamb. The gold detective’s shield glowed in the mirror’s reflection. The grey and blue were muted compared to the hanging badge. Two, nine, four, I stared harder at the reflection, trying to read the reversed, backward numbers in the glass. The sound of a door being thrown open caught my attention, and scurrying up the secondary staircase and down again, I was at the double doors, staring out as I heard him announce he was responding to the 911 call. His voice was deep and slightly raspy, probably from years of smoking. He had short dark hair peeking out over the top of his upturned collar. Suddenly, I heard heavy footsteps and another door slamming shut.
“Parker, copy?” The staticky radio sputtered to life, rousing me from sleep. “Please respond.”
Fumbling with the buttons as I clung to the last remnants of my dream in order to determine if they were memories or imagination, I responded, “Say again.”
“Friendlies entering the house now.” Who the hell was showing up at four a.m.?
Dragging myself from Martin’s bed, I needed to stop sleeping here since it was a complete invasion of his privacy and an abuse of the privilege of staying in his home. I headed for the stairs, spotting Martin giving Bruiser last minute instructions to stay on the second floor and not to disturb me.
“Too late,” I intoned, smiling at him from the floor above.
“Jones, ignore that and make yourself comfortable,” Martin called before turning to me. “I never expected to find you up there,” his words were teasing, but his voice didn’t convey the sentiment. “My god, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He closed the distance between us in the blink of an eye, and he grabbed me in a tight embrace. His shirt was damp as was his hair, and I imagined it was still raining outside. My brain was foggy from sleep, but something felt wrong.
“You didn’t say when you were coming back. Why’d you fly home in the middle of the night?” He had yet to let go as he continued to crush me against him. His kiss tasted of stale alcohol, and I wondered if he was hungover.
“It’s late. Can we talk in the morning?” Releasing his grip, he entered the bedroom. I followed and watched him strip off his dress shirt and tie. “I’m glad you’ve made yourself at home.” He tossed a slight smile in my direction. “If I had known this was the
trick to getting you into my bed, I’d have left a long time ago.” Classic Martin.
For someone who wanted to talk in the morning, he had yet to shut up. His posture was unnaturally rigid as he climbed into his unmade bed, still wearing his suit pants. I retrieved a towel and found him sitting up in bed, having shifted my gun and handheld radio to the nightstand farthest from the bedroom door.
I quickly scribbled a note about the pertinent facts of my dream on a nearby sheet of paper for reconsideration in the morning and got into bed next to him. I ran the towel through his hair, and he immediately tossed it aside and enveloped me in his arms. His eyes were closed, but his jaw was clenched. Tension radiated from him.
“Martin,” I pushed against his chest, “a little space and the ability to breathe would be nice.” He loosened his vise-like grip only barely.
“Shit.” His green eyes flashed in concern. “How’s your back? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine as long as you don’t suffocate me. What’s wrong?” I tried again, running my fingers along the stubble on his jaw. He was never this clingy. Something was off, and I hated not knowing what it was. He went prone with both of his arms still around my waist, leaving me no choice but to lie down next to him.
“Tomorrow.” He shut his eyes and kissed my forehead. “Night, Alex.”
Lying in the semi-darkness of his bedroom, thanks to the bathroom light being left on, I was certain he was still awake. His posture was tense and rigid, and his breathing wasn’t slow and steady. The way he positioned himself and kept his arms wrapped around my body, I couldn’t help but feel he was acting like a human shield, my protector from some unforeseen danger. With the exception of arguments, he wasn’t one to put off conversation. That made his lack of discussion an unsettling harbinger. Letting out a sigh, I tried to relax, but the stress and intensity emanating from him put me further on edge.
Around dawn, I unhooked his fingers from the small of my back and managed to doze. My dreams were brief and horrific with mercenaries, blood, death, and torture haunting every image. I’d jerk awake each time, grateful not to be so sound asleep to wake myself screaming. Martin was still clutching me close to him with a single arm around my torso and didn’t acknowledge my panicked breathing or jolting sleep patterns. Maybe he actually conked out, or he still wanted to avoid conversation. The uneasiness grew as I waited impatiently for whatever was to come.
Sometime mid-morning Sunday, I opened my eyes to find him brushing a strand of hair from my face. He hadn’t slept; his eyes were dark and rimmed with red. He looked forlorn, and I returned his gaze with a questioning look.
“I called Mark last night after it happened. He didn’t think there was any reason you needed to know right away. You were supposed to have gotten at least one more night to sleep, but from all the jerking around you did,” there was no mirth; with him, there was always mirth at juvenile jokes, “that plan failed royally.”
“What are you talking about?” Being behind was one of my least favorite things.
“Alexis, please don’t have a knee-jerk reaction.”
I lay there, staring at him. What possibly could have happened? The anticipatory build-up was probably worse than whatever it was. Before I could respond, his phone buzzed, and he spun around to answer it. He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, still talking animatedly. Once the water turned on, I left the room. He deserved some peace, and I needed time to think about the shooter.
Downstairs in the guestroom, I showered and dressed, replaying the entire event multiple times. Maybe my imagination and reality had merged together, or maybe I had a partial badge number and slightly better description of the gunman. It was something else we could consider in the course of investigating.
When I emerged, I spotted Bruiser sitting at the kitchen table in the midst of a conversation with Martin. The unease returned when they both stopped speaking as soon as I entered the room. Bruiser excused himself, and Martin wished me a good morning.
“Spill,” I shot out.
“Looks like you’ve been busy.” He indicated the living room. “Make any progress?”
“I’m working on it. Why are you back?”
“I live here.” He smirked. The serious tone from the bedroom had abated. “The conference ended. Work resumes Monday. But it doesn’t look like you got the chance to clean me out. Should I leave and come back?”
“Sure, but I’ll need the code to your safe first. That’s why I was in your room, trying to perfect my safecracking skills.”
“Funny, I don’t have a safe in my room.” He was being infuriating and avoiding the question at all costs.
“Damn, that must be where I went wrong.” Narrowing my eyes, I waited for an explanation for his uncharacteristic behavior last night and again this morning.
“Alexis.” His tone shifted to serious, and he opened his mouth to speak but shut it again. He turned away and rummaged through the fridge for a time before turning back. Despite my impatience, I had conducted a few interrogations in my day. I could wait him out if I needed to. “Once you know,” he swallowed, “I honestly have no idea how you’ll react.”
“Try me.” Things were going from bad to worse.
“Just promise you won’t rush out of here half-cocked.” He winked in a failed attempt at levity, and I leaned against the wall and waited. “God, you’re really good at that.” Still, I waited silently. “We, being myself, my driver, and bodyguard, were stopped last night on our way home from the airport. Everything’s fine. Like I said, I already called Mark. Bruiser’s cool with hanging around here, and there are still nondescript vans parked outside.”
“Who was it? What did they want?” I pressed my lips into a hard line. My heart was pounding in my chest, but my breathing was slow and my speech resigned. It was the calm before the storm.
“Alex.”
“Who?” The intensity of my tone grew exponentially.
“Two police cars. One uniformed officer and one plainclothes. Plain clothed? A detective, maybe.” I swallowed. “They weren’t willing to divulge names or badge numbers. Not much happened really.”
“Define not much.” Martin is not your enemy, I reminded myself as I tried to rein in the hatred so it wouldn’t splatter onto him.
“They were just screwing around, wanting to search my car, reminding me assisting a fugitive and providing refuge to a criminal was a felony. They had some positively lovely things to say about federal agents and private investigators,” his tone seethed with bitterness. “But I was pleasant and told them they could search whatever they wanted if they had a warrant. And until then, I was calling my lawyer. They suggested I be careful because, with the wet roads, it’d be a shame if I had an accident.” My stomach twisted in knots, and I forced a long exhale. My hands were balled into fists to stop the obvious shaking. The message was clear; you fuck with us, and we’ll fuck with you and yours.
“Goddamn motherfuckers,” I snarled. “I have calls to make.” My insistence on getting back into my apartment just went from a deep-seated desire to a dire need. Maybe distancing myself would keep the bull’s eye off his back. “Are you sure there are no other business trips you need to take. Maybe leave now and stay away until…” My voice dropped as his face fell. We were back to our constant dilemma.
“Are you walking away again?”
“Right now, I don’t even know which way is up.”
“If things ever calm down, I’d be more than happy to show you.” His face brightened at the adolescent humor. “You just have to stick around until then.” Picking up the kitchen extension, I dialed Mark’s number. Last night, another robbery might have occurred, and if not, then maybe my newly remembered facts would help.
“Do you think you can identify the cops from last night if you saw them again?” I asked as I waited for Mark to answer.
“Pretty sure. Jones got a good look at them too.” Two eyewitnesses, I should be downright giddy, instead of homicidal.
“Parker
, hang on a minute,” Mark answered and immediately put me on hold.
“Why couldn’t you have just slept with a flight attendant, instead of this? You’re supposed to be a womanizing millionaire, not some schmuck who has cops harassing him.”
“My girlfriend has a gun.” He smiled sincerely. “Do you think I have a death wish?”
“I’d only graze you. You’d live.” This time his embrace was gentle and sensitive.
“Who’s to say I didn’t bang half of Los Angeles?” he teased.
“Did you?”
“No.” He let go and went back to the fridge to start making brunch. “How many of your friends are joining us today?”
“A few.”
Mark came back on the line and caught the tail end of the conversation. “Is Marty offering to make us brunch?” he asked. “If he is, the five of us will be over in thirty.”
“You know what happened?” I asked Mark.
“Got the call in the middle of the night. O’Connell’s on his way to the OIO now, and Heathcliff, Thompson, and Cooper have been going over debriefs since six a.m.”
“See you soon.”
Before I could hang up the receiver, Mark offered his patented unsolicited advice, “Parker, don’t do anything rash. You and split second decisions rarely work out in the long run.” Rolling my eyes, I disconnected the call.
“Maybe you should make the rest of those eggs,” I suggested, and Martin nodded but didn’t turn around as he continued to cook. I pulled out the coffee filters and coffee, brewing a pot. “Luckily for you, I’ve invested in an actual coffeemaker and not a ridiculous mechanical paperweight.”
“And here I thought I kept you around for your looks and wildcat bedroom antics.”
“Not because I carry a nine millimeter and have precision aim?”
“But you’re no longer my bodyguard, so my preference for your particular skill set has shifted.” He turned with a questioning look. Would I stay or would I go? Things were quickly devolving into a Clash song.
