Likely Suspects

by G. K. Parks

  Likely Suspects

  An Alexis Parker Novel

  G.K. Parks

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other concepts are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, establishments, events, and locations is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2013 G.K. Parks

  A Modus Operandi imprint

  All rights reserved.

  Print ISBN-13: 978-0-9891958-0-5

  Full-length Novels in the Alexis Parker Series:

  Likely Suspects

  The Warhol Incident

  Mimicry of Banshees

  Suspicion of Murder

  Racing Through Darkness

  Camels and Corpses

  Lack of Jurisdiction

  Dying for a Fix

  Intended Target

  Muffled Echoes

  Crisis of Conscience

  Misplaced Trust

  Whitewashed Lies

  On Tilt

  Purview of Flashbulbs

  The Long Game

  Prequel Alexis Parker Novellas:

  Outcomes and Perspective: The Complete Prequel Series

  Assignment Zero (Prequel series, #1)

  Agent Prerogative (Prequel series, #2)

  The Final Chapter (Prequel series, #3)

  Julian Mercer Novels

  Condemned

  Betrayal

  Subversion

  Reparation

  Retaliation

  Liv DeMarco Novels

  Dangerous Stakes

  Operation Stakeout

  Unforeseen Danger

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Check out this preview of The Warhol Incident

  About the Author

  One

  “Yes, I’m Alexis Parker. Pleased to meet you.” I extended my hand and watched my reflection in the mirror. To say I was nervous for my interview was an understatement. After turning in my letter of resignation to the Office of International Operations, I hadn’t been able to get so much as a call back from anywhere else, despite the dozens of applications I submitted. I wasn’t ready to admit my leaving the OIO was a bad idea; the job required too much bureaucracy and red-tape for my liking.

  I had spent four years of my life working investigations, chasing art thieves and smugglers, and I had nothing to show for it except a fairly sparse résumé and a meritorious service award. I sighed and continued to get ready, straightening my long brown hair and putting on the proper amount of makeup to look professional and serious without being over the top. I didn’t want the guys at the Martin Technologies security office to confuse me with either a clown or a call girl.

  I’m twenty-nine, single, and unemployed. Who wouldn’t want to hire me, I thought bitterly, especially when I’m such a great catch? The truth of the matter is I always had what one would have considered a bright future. I’m fairly intelligent, well-educated, and decent enough looking. The problem is I lost my focus and drive to stick with one thing, which would probably explain my current lack of employment.

  Before I could continue farther down the path of figuring out how my life had gotten so derailed and my internal thought processes could reach the combustible point, my cell phone vibrated across the vanity. I flipped off the flat iron and looked at the caller ID. Taking a deep breath, I hit answer, fearing my scheduled interview had been a clerical error.

  “Hello?” I said, fumbling with the now unplugged flat iron I was trying to wrestle into the bathroom cabinet.

  “Ms. Parker, please,” the woman on the other end sounded annoyed.

  “This is Alexis Parker.” Two could play at this game.

  “Ms. Parker, I am calling on behalf of the Board of Supervisors at Martin Technologies regarding your nine a.m. interview. Mr. Martin would like to be privy to the interviewing process, and he requests we move your interview to,” the voice paused, as if rereading a memo to make sure the details were accurate, “10:15 today.”

  “That’s fine.” I was relieved my interview had only been rescheduled and not canceled.

  “Okay. I will update the security office in the lobby to be prepared for your arrival at 10:15 instead of nine. Do be prompt. Mr. Martin does not like to be kept waiting.” And with that, she hung up.

  “Nice talking to you, too.” I hit end call, wishing this was a landline so I could have slammed the receiver down. I took another breath and looked in the mirror. I was an experienced and capable investigator. I should be able to handle some security consulting work for a corporation, I tried to reassure myself.

  At 9:30, I walked out my front door with my résumé and copies of my degrees in hand. What else would Mr. Martin of Martin Technologies need in order to properly assess my qualifications for the job? A certified copy of my birth certificate, a blood sample, and maybe my last will and testament? Perhaps these were just details the woman who called this morning had failed to mention during our brief conversation.

  During the drive, I thought about how I had come to apply for the job at Martin Technologies in the first place. Mark Jablonsky had put in a good word with Mr. Martin, the company’s founder and CEO. Mark had been my training officer at the OIO and insisted this potential opportunity would fit my personality and interests like a glove.

  Mark and Mr. Martin were friends or colleagues of some sort. The actual connection was still a mystery, but Mark assured me I would at least get a chance to interview based on his recommendation alone. Initially, I resisted, thinking this was just another sign of quasi-nepotism, or at the least favoritism, running rampant in the workplace. However, after several weeks and no other job offers, I figured what the hell. It was at least worth looking into.

  I pulled into the parking garage and checked my reflection once more in the rearview mirror. My nerves were getting the best of me. It was amusing to think I had been less anxious chasing armed thugs through the streets than I was going into an interview. There was something a little off inside my brain, and I suspected I was never properly socialized.

  “Here goes nothing.” I tried to bolster my confidence as I hurried to the MT building and pulled on the monogrammed brass door handle.

  Entering the lobby, I was amazed at how open and airy the room felt. Light was filtering in from all sides. The security office was a circular desk, set about twenty feet away from the front doors. There were a few couches throughout and a row of elevators at the back of the building. It looked like a classy hotel, but as I approached the security station, I noticed numerous survei
llance cameras, keypads, and other protocols in place.

  “Can I assist you, ma’am?” one of the security guards asked from behind the desk.

  “Miss Parker,” I corrected automatically. I hated being called ma’am. That one word triggered too many bad memories. “I’m here to interview for the consulting position with Mr. Martin.”

  The security guard smiled and asked to see my driver’s license, so I pulled out my wallet and handed it to him.

  “Right this way, please.”

  He went to a filing cabinet, pulled out a visitor’s pass, handed it to me, and led the way to the elevator banks. He swiped his security badge through a card reader and pressed the elevator call button. The elevator dinged, and the doors whooshed open. We stepped inside. He pushed seventeen, and up we went.

  We exited into a hallway lined with lavish offices and conference rooms. The guard escorted me to conference room three and gestured inside. “Please wait here.” Before I could say a word, he was gone.

  “Friendly group of people,” I muttered, taking a seat in one of the rolling office chairs surrounding the large rectangular table. I opened my bag, pulled out my documents, and placed them neatly on the table. I was fidgeting with the corner of the stack of papers when I heard footsteps.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice greeted. I spun around in my chair. “I’m Mrs. Griffin. I believe we spoke earlier on the telephone. You’re here for the consulting position, correct?” I nodded and bit my tongue, ignoring the urge to mention her rude hang up from earlier. “I see you arrived with no issues. That’s a good sign.” She appeared to be speaking to herself, so I continued to nod, unsure how to respond to her odd comments. “Mr. Martin shall be in momentarily. Can I get you anything while you wait? Tea? Coffee? Water?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.” I couldn’t get an accurate read on the woman, and before I could, she walked swiftly out of the room and closed the door behind her. I took a deep breath. The Martin Tech employees must be trying to perfect their disappearing acts.

  Before I could muse much further, the door opened again. This time, a man in a three-piece Armani suit and Rolex walked through the door. If given the opportunity, I would have bet his shoes were Italian leather. His dark brown hair was cut short and expertly styled. He had the lean athletic build of a runner, probably in his mid-thirties, and his green eyes sparkled, indicating the wheels were already turning inside his head.

  “James Martin.” He extended his hand.

  “Alexis Parker,” I responded. “Pleased to meet you.”

  He frowned slightly. “To be perfectly honest, Miss Parker, I expected you to be male.” I looked at him, unclear if this was an insult or flattery, but instead, it just seemed to be a comment. “My assistant wrote this appointment down as Alex Parker.”

  “Well, I don’t plan to have any gender reassignment surgeries in the near future, but feel free to call me Alex. Most people do.”

  He smirked slightly but remained professional. I was quickly beginning to feel like a child sitting in the principal’s office. “Miss Parker, you come highly recommended by Agent Jablonsky. He was your supervisor at the OIO, correct?”

  “That’s right.” I sat up a little straighter. Despite the fact I had only stayed at the Office of International Operations for four years, I had spent the first two being trained by Mark and the second two running operations for him.

  “Jablonsky claims you were one of the best and brightest agents he’s ever seen, but you only stayed at that job a few years. Why is that?”

  “Well,” I honestly didn’t know how to verbalize the answer succinctly, “I wanted to make more of a difference, and with an endless string of crime, things started to feel hopeless. The work became monotonous.” I struggled to find the proper terminology to explain my feelings.

  “So, you don’t like structure or rules?” He stood and began to pace, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “I’m okay with rules and following orders. To be perfectly honest, I’m not too fond of the red-tape, especially when I continued to see the same injustices day in and day out and knew my hands were tied. It made it difficult to accept the small wins in regards to the bigger picture.”

  “So you want to be a superhero out to save the world? A vigilante?”

  “No.” Was this a trial instead of an interview? “I want to step back and do something more impactful.” The voice in my head screamed kiss this job good-bye, working for a company isn’t what really counts, and Mr. Armani Suit should realize it by now.

  However, to my surprise, Martin clapped his hands together. “Exactly.” He was actually excited by my response, and I wondered if he had multiple personalities or suffered from an extreme mood swing disorder. He gave the briefest smile, or at least I thought he did because it appeared and disappeared so quickly I couldn’t be sure. He looked down at his watch. “It’s almost eleven. I have some business to attend to, but if you can have the assistant copy your documents,” he glanced at my pile of papers, “I’ll be in touch.” He left the room and disappeared down the hall.

  I sat there absolutely stunned. What just happened? I had the urge to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming, but before I could implement such actions, Mrs. Griffin appeared in the doorway.

  “Follow me this way.” She proceeded back into the corridor, and I hurried after her. Her office was situated next to the conference room, and inside, she copied my résumé and walked me to the elevator. “Someone from Martin Technologies will be in touch with you shortly.”

  “Thanks,” I said, still somewhat dazed by the whirlwind interview.

  The door to the elevator opened, and the security guard from earlier was waiting inside. We rode the elevator back to the lobby in silence, but as the doors whooshed open, he turned to me. “Badge, please,” he said politely, and I handed him the visitor’s pass. “I hope your interview went well.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once I got in my car, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed Mark’s home number. I knew he’d be at work right now, so I left a message on his answering machine. “What have you gotten me into this time?”

  Two

  What a strange day, I thought as I rifled through the freezer looking for something to make for dinner. I had gotten home so incredibly baffled by the interview at Martin Technologies that I had put on my sweats and gone for a nice long run to clear my head, followed by a second shower for the day, and a nap. When in doubt, nap. This had become my philosophy as of late and continued to work fairly well. Perhaps I should write a book on the art of napping since I didn’t see why anyone at Martin Technologies would actually want to hire me. Not to mention, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to work for someone who seemed to have a few screws loose.

  “Ah ha!” I exclaimed, pulling out a microwavable dinner which had been buried under a pint of chocolate ice cream and a bag of peas. “Dinner is served.”

  I scanned the carton for an expiration date and cooking directions and checked the time. It was almost eight. Napping had a habit of making the day fly by; maybe that should be the title of my first chapter. Just as I popped holes in the plastic wrap, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Get dressed,” a male voice I didn’t recognize responded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Semi-formal for dinner. There is a car downstairs to pick you up.”

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear to check the caller ID, but it only listed ‘private’ as the source of the call.

  “All part of the interviewing process, Alex.”

  “Mr. Martin?”

  “Of course.” He paused. “Why? Are you interviewing elsewhere?”

  “Can you ask the driver to wait? I’ll be ready in ten minutes, or I can drive myself if you tell me where to meet you.” I ignored his other question since jobs were like dates. I didn’t want to appear too eager or too available, but at the same time, I didn’t want to seem overly aloof or uninterested.

>   “Nonsense, why waste a perfectly good, chauffeured town car? The driver will wait until you are ready. No rush.”

  I tossed the frozen dinner into the trashcan and headed for the bedroom. Who uses a surprise dinner as an interviewing technique? I pondered this while rummaging through my closet, trying to find something semi-formal to wear. Settling on a black skirt, lavender blouse, and a black blazer, I put my hair in a ponytail and slipped on some open-toed pumps. This better suffice, I thought as I quickly put on some eyeliner and lip gloss, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

  As I exited my apartment building, I spotted a black town car parked in the fire zone. James Martin was leaning against the back door with his arms crossed, chatting with the driver.

  “Stunning.” Martin smiled, and I blushed, despite my better judgment. He glanced at his watch. “And accurate too. It’s only been eleven minutes.”

  “I try to be punctual.” The driver opened the rear door, and I got into the car. “I didn’t realize you were waiting outside my apartment, Mr. Martin,” I said, implying the creepy nature of his sudden appearance, but he didn’t seem to catch on.

  “Please, it’s no longer office hours, so it’s James.”

  “Okay, James. Pardon me for being so blunt, but why the surprise dinner? If you wanted to continue the interview, you could have said so this morning or had your assistant notify me.” Before I could continue explaining how his actions could seem a little stalker-like, he interjected.

  “I like to see how potential employees react under surprise conditions. Based on your previous employment with ol’ Jabber, I know you can handle stressful, volatile situations, so I wanted to see how you handle yourself during overly civilized functions.” He grimaced slightly at the overly civilized.

  “I see,” I said, even though I didn’t. “How am I doing so far?”

  “So far, so good, but the night is still young.” He might have winked, or it was just a trick of the lights.