Likely Suspects

by G. K. Parks

Martin was frustrated and walked out of the office. I needed to keep him on a leash, I thought as I got up to follow, but Mark stopped me.

  “Give him a few minutes.”

  I slumped into the now empty chair that Martin vacated. “Todd basically just rolled on Griffin for conspiring to plant a box in my office, and he alluded to some higher up conspiracy within the company. We’re really making progress now.” I rolled my eyes. “Is it me?” I asked. “I can’t do anything right. I never signed on to be consultant and bodyguard, yet I’m doing both or at least trying to. I’m trying to investigate and work the angles, but I have no access to the databases or software. I have to stay at the compound and make sure he’s safe, so I can’t stakeout anything. I…I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Mark studied me, unprepared for my unexpected meltdown. “Easy there.” He tried to sound soothing, but he might have been talking to a wild horse. “You’re doing the best you can.” He judged my face and overall appearance. “And on very little sleep, no doubt.” I sighed. Obviously, death-warmed-over was the look I was achieving these days. “Plus, you’re getting there. You know these things take time. How many investigations did we work that lasted for at least six months?”

  “True. It just seems slow since every minute of the day I’m there, and he’s there.” I saw Martin coming back and shut my mouth.

  Mark reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re doing just fine.” He gave me a genuine smile.

  “Ready to go?” Martin asked from the doorway, his demeanor once again completely neutral. I stood up, and Mark gave me a quick nod for encouragement.

  “Hey, if you’re going to be around tonight, I’ll come over. Alex could use a break,” Mark told Martin.

  Martin looked at me, somewhat skeptically, or at least I interpreted it as skeptical. Maybe he knew I was whining about my own incompetence. “Sure.”

  Twenty-seven

  The drive back had been quiet. Once we got to Martin’s, he made himself scarce, holing up on the fourth floor. He was trying his damnedest to track the money and figure out who authorized the move. I was less than helpful on this front, so I figured I would just stay out of his way. My head was pounding from sleep deprivation and frustration over not being able to piece together the puzzle. I needed a new perspective and to catch up on some much missed sleep in a real bed. Changing out of my work attire and crawling under the covers, I checked the alarm near the French doors, making sure it was still active and working, before I fell asleep.

  When I opened my eyes, my head still hurt, but I felt much more in control and capable of not melting down again. It was almost five. I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and ran a brush through my hair before stepping into the hallway. I had a feeling Martin hadn’t moved from the fourth floor, and I was right. Trudging up the stairs, I found him in his office with the door open. Leaving him alone, I went to the second floor and rummaged through the guest bathroom for aspirin. Suddenly, he appeared behind me.

  “Talk about unsociable,” he quipped. “You came all the way upstairs, and you didn’t even say hello.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked busy.” I was having no luck locating the aspirin.

  “I need a fresh set of eyes to double-check some things,” he was being intentionally vague, “if you’re up to it.”

  I shut the vanity drawers. “Sure. I’ll trade you aspirin for assistance.”

  “Are you okay?” That was the second time today he asked this.

  “I’m fine, just a headache.” I brushed it off and followed him up the stairs. After his drunken night, he kept the aspirin bottle hostage in his bedroom. He handed me the bottle and went into the bathroom to get a cup of water. “Thanks.” I popped two pills into my mouth and washed them down with the water.

  “You know, you can look at this stuff later. It’s not going anywhere.”

  “No, I can do it now. I’m okay, really.” I followed him into the office where he had mapped out the money transfers, complete with account numbers and fragmentation amounts. “How the hell did you manage to do all of this?”

  “I had some free time,” he replied, and I graced him with a slight smile.

  “So what am I looking at? Or for?” I was confused. I didn’t know what he possibly needed me to assess.

  He produced a stack of papers with account numbers, transfer authorization numbers, dates, and times. Maybe I should have taken him up on his offer to do this later.

  “First, can you make sure I transcribed these numbers properly?” He sounded like a kid asking if I could check his homework. I rubbed my temples and double-checked the numbers. Everything looked accurate. “Good.” He picked up the stack of paper. “That’s enough for now.”

  “No, let’s finish this. Now what do you want me to do?”

  He stared, unyielding. “We’ll get to it after dinner. It isn’t going anywhere.” I was going to protest, but he gave me a critical look. “You don’t feel good. You’re pale and in pain. You are not fine, and I don’t want you to pass out on the papers and make a mess.” He softened his accusation. “Why don’t you go lie down or something?”

  “I’m fine.” A little headache wasn’t a big deal. “I just got up from lying down. Just give the aspirin a few minutes to kick in, and I’ll be raring to go.”

  “Well, in the meantime, I’ll start on dinner.” I was going to object, but he tried a different tactic this time. “I’m hungry, and it’s my house. So I get to decide when I eat.” He winked, and I rolled my eyes, which didn’t help my head. “And you can watch me cook. I insist.”

  He ushered me into the kitchen and made me sit at the table. I rested my head in my hands and closed my eyes while he chopped and sautéed various ingredients. The aspirin began to take effect, and the pounding ebbed away. I got up and washed the dirty dishes in the sink.

  “I’m fine now, honest.”

  He finished preparing dinner. With almost perfect timing, Mark buzzed the intercom and announced he was outside.

  “I’ll let him in,” I offered and disarmed the security system.

  “Hope I didn’t miss dinner,” Mark said, holding out a bottle of wine as we went into the kitchen.

  “A nice red. Excellent.” Martin took the bottle and found some glasses.

  I stuck with water, and the three of us ate quickly. Martin was anxious to get back to the finances, and now, he was lucky enough to have two extra sets of eyes to help him out.

  “Any new developments?” Mark inquired. I shrugged, but Martin launched into a summary of what he had already shown me upstairs. “Sounds like you’ve made some progress.” Mark was impressed, and he looked at me.

  “I can’t take any of the credit.” I put my hands up. “I’m lucky if I can balance my checkbook.”

  Martin tried to herd us upstairs for whatever it was he wanted help with earlier, but Mark cut in. “Why don’t I look over this stuff with Marty and you can take a break?”

  I felt better now, rested and refreshed, but Martin looked concerned. “Take a break. You’ve been working nonstop for almost a week. Get out of here.” Martin jerked his head at the door. “We can manage for a few hours without you.”

  I remembered my lack of clothes and other necessities. “If you’re sure.” I waited for a response, but none came. “Fine, I’m going.” I looked at Mark. “You’ll be here until I get back, right?”

  “Yes, now go.”

  Grabbing my belongings, I went down the stairs to my car. Once I pulled onto the main highway, I felt free. Staying at Martin’s had made me tense from constantly checking and double-checking to make sure there were no immediate threats. Until today, I didn’t realize how worn out I was from only sleeping a few hours here or there and making myself crazy with the same few facts and limited surveillance footage. Mark was right; a break was exactly what I needed, even if it was only for a few hours.

  I was practically giddy, pulling up to my apartment building and parking my car. It started to rain, but
I barely even noticed. I was home. I walked up the six flights of stairs, not minding the smell of mildew or cabbage which permeated the building. Home sweet home. I was almost to my front door when I noticed something amiss. At first, I thought I was just imagining things, but as I got closer to my door, I could tell something was definitely wrong.

  Pulling my handgun from my purse, I slowly approached my apartment. There were tool marks on the lock. When I gave the door a good push, it sprang open. Clasping the cold steel in both hands, I carefully entered my apartment. The place was trashed. I walked through my apartment, careful not to touch anything except the doorknobs. My gun was pointed in front of me, and I made sure no one was waiting inside or hiding some place, planning to strike. Once I cleared the apartment, I noticed the white mystery box from the surveillance feed opened and scattered on top of my dining room table.

  From what I could tell, my résumé, address, and other personal information were laid out on the table, along with numerous photos of Martin from before we met. There were also more recent photos of the two of us in different public locations, both inside and out of the MT building. This was definitely a threat. Angry red Xs covered our faces, and I resisted touching the photos. There might be fingerprints or other forensic evidence I would contaminate. It was best to photograph as much as possible because once the police arrived, I might not get another opportunity to review the items. After using my camera phone to photograph everything visible, I dialed 911.

  “I’d like to report a break-in.” I gave the operator my address and information.

  Next, I called O’Connell and told him what happened. It seemed like relevant information for his case. He reminded me not to touch anything, and he promised he’d take lead on the scene. Once that was complete, I decided to get out of my apartment. My sofa and mattress had been slashed. All of my drawers were dumped out and overturned, and my television and microwave were smashed. If I stayed here a moment longer, I would lose it. Leaning against the wall in the hallway, I dialed Mark’s number.

  “Hey.” It sounded like they were having a good time. “What’s up?”

  “I’m not sure if I’ll get back tonight. I need you to stay there and keep an eye out, okay?” My voice shook slightly, and I hoped he didn’t notice.

  “What’s wrong?” Mark noticed.

  “Just stay there.” I hung up, trying to regain my composure, and slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor. I took a few deep breaths. I was irate. Whoever did this would pay. My home had been violated. My house destroyed. I was going to nail the son of a bitch to the fucking wall. I was resolute in this decision, and now, I fully understood what Martin had been going through. My phone rang.

  “What happened?” Mark asked patiently.

  “Someone broke into my apartment.” My voice was emotionless. “O’Connell’s on the way. It might be a while.”

  “I can be there,” he began, but I cut him off.

  “Stay with Martin. Do not leave him alone. If they can get to me,” I swallowed, making sure to remain detached, “who knows.”

  “Okay. I’ll stay on the phone with you until they show up.”

  I chuckled. “Fine. Just as long as we don’t have to watch some romantic comedy together until one of us falls asleep, clutching the receiver.” Sarcasm and bad jokes were my ingrained self-defense mechanisms.

  “Describe the scene.” He tried to keep me in a professional mindset, so I told him about the box, the photos, the documents, and the damage to my belongings as if I were speaking about a stranger’s residence.

  I could hear Martin in the background, and I wanted to insulate him from this, but that wouldn’t help anyone. He had a right to know. After all, he was the one in the crosshairs. Luckily, I heard sirens and knew the cops had arrived.

  “I gotta go. I’ll be back when I can.”

  Twenty-eight

  A couple of uniformed police officers came up the stairs and met me in the hallway. I waved them over and informed them of the situation. They entered my apartment to check for any intruders and put some crime scene tape around my door to secure the area until someone with more seniority could instruct them further. I paced the hallway in front of my apartment, waiting.

  “Why does trouble follow you around everywhere?” O’Connell asked, emerging onto the sixth floor.

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  He glanced at the two uniforms. “I’ll take it from here. When the crime scene guys get here, send them up.” He signed off on the scene, and the two officers went downstairs. “Touch anything?” he asked.

  “Just the doorknobs. The front door, bathroom, closets,” I paused thinking, “that was it.”

  “Has anyone else been in your house lately? Friend, boyfriend, family member?”

  “Just me.”

  He made some notes. “We’ll need your prints for reference to cross out as scene contamination. It’s your house, so they’ll be all over the place anyway, just like your DNA.” He was speaking more to himself than to me. “Shall we?” He held the yellow tape up, and I braced myself before re-entering my apartment.

  “Box and the contents on the table might be of some interest.” I pointed to my dining room.

  “I guess we know what was in the box. I assume this was left for you.” I nodded. “Great.” We continued walking through my apartment. “Anything else left behind?”

  “Not that I noticed, but I was a bit preoccupied.”

  “I can see what you mean.” He assessed my ruined furniture and stuffing covered floors, along with everything else that was discarded throughout my apartment. “Is anything missing?”

  “I don’t know.” I tried to slow my breathing; my anger was edging toward full-blown rage.

  “Anything James Martin related missing?” He tried again.

  “No,” I shook my head vehemently, “everything pertaining to that is elsewhere.”

  He considered my response. “Do you have insurance to cover the damages?”

  “I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Maybe.”

  “You should probably check into it. What time did you leave your residence?” he asked, back to business.

  “I haven’t been here since Friday night. I guess it was technically Saturday morning. It was around midnight.”

  He was surprised and made a note. “So you haven’t been here in three or four days?”

  “Correct.” I stared at my overturned dresser and piles of clothing lying on the floor in messy heaps.

  He noticed my gaze and escorted me into a more neutral environment. We went back into the hallway just as the crime scene guys arrived. He instructed them on the situation and what they needed to do.

  “I’ll get some officers to canvass the building, see if your neighbors have seen anything. You never know.” He pulled out the radio and passed along the orders. “We’ll see if anything turns up.” After he instructed everyone on what to do and how to do it, he turned back to me. “Do you mind coming down to the station, again?”

  “Why not? It’s not like I have any place else to be.”

  “You got your car?” I nodded. “Okay, follow me in. We’ll get this over with as quickly as possible.” He was trying to be helpful, and I appreciated the effort. But I just wanted to put my fist through the wall or cry, probably both. I got into my car and followed him to the police station.

  Once there, we went to his cubicle in the squad room. He pulled a chair up to his desk, and I sat down and began filling out the report. I was almost done when his desk phone rang.

  “O’Connell,” he answered. I leaned back in the chair, watching him animatedly talk on the phone. He frowned. “Where?” He waited briefly for a response. “Get the ME down there. Keep this quiet for now.” He hung up and met my eyes. “A body was found in the dumpster of your apartment building, wrapped in plastic sheeting and duct tape. Thompson recognized the victim.” He was watching for some sign of recognition perhaps, but I had no idea what he was t
alking about or how this even pertained to me. “No positive ID has been made yet, but he’s reasonably certain it’s Suzanne Griffin.”

  My hand flew to my mouth, and I stared at him. A million thoughts immediately came to my mind. I felt queasy and swallowed tentatively. “How?”

  “Gunshot.” He tapped his pen absently on the desk. He wasn’t considering me a suspect for the shooting, was he? “Are you carrying?” I nodded. “Good. Keep it that way.”

  I snorted despite myself and rubbed my face. “What’s going to happen now?”

  “I have to get back, but I’ll do my best to keep this out of the papers.” We locked eyes. “Whoever gunned her down doesn’t need to know we’re aware of this.” I concurred. Griffin’s murderer might be coming for either Martin or me next. “I’ll put a rush on your apartment. See if we can figure out who was inside. We might get lucky, and it’ll be the shooter.”

  “Yeah.” Everything was reaching a crescendo, and I needed to get ahead of the wave before it came crashing down on top of me. “What else do you need from me?”

  He considered this for a moment. “I’ve done some checking. You’re one of us, at least unofficially. Your prints are still on file, I assume, so I don’t need anything from you. If anything else occurs, let me know.”

  “Thanks, Detective.” I extended my hand.

  “It’s Nick.” He shook my hand. “Stay safe.”

  “That’s the plan.” I gave him a slight smile and left the police station.

  I thought about calling Mark to give him the heads up, but I didn’t want to relay the news over the phone. It didn’t seem right, not when Martin still had an attachment to the recently departed. I drove around the city in a haphazard fashion, watching for a tail or suspicious behavior. Maybe I was just avoiding giving Martin the bad news.

  Once I was positive no one was following me, I drove to the compound and entered through the garage. I turned off the engine and sat in my car for a few moments. The rage I felt at my apartment had faded while filling out paperwork and hearing the news about Griffin, but now that I was back in a relatively safe environment, it was building again. I did my best to compartmentalize the evening’s events. After all, not everything that happened tonight was about me.