Camels and Corpses

by G. K. Parks

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know. We grabbed him at the dealership last night. He wouldn’t say a word. He didn’t even acknowledge that he understood his rights. The officers thought he might be a mute or deaf. Then after spending the last four hours sitting alone in interview, I walk in, introduce myself, and he says get me Agent Parker.” O’Connell snorted. “I didn’t realize I was your personal assistant.”

  “That’s because you forgot my coffee this morning, and I might have to fire you,” I teased as he opened the door to the room. The officer inside stepped out, and I entered.

  “Alexis,” the Irish accent was unmistakable, “I need to get out of here.”

  “Ryan?” My breath hitched, and I barely managed to choke out his name. “My god, Ryan.” Memories of working with the Paris police flooded my thoughts, followed by being tortured by a crime lord that had fled France only to come to the United States in the hopes of finishing what he started in that Parisian warehouse. “What are you doing here?”

  “I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I didn’t want you to get involved, but I didn’t see any other way, and since you were working undercover, you must already be involved.”

  I turned to O’Connell who was standing behind me, perplexed. “Take the cuffs off.” He looked at me like I lost my mind. “Nick, this is Inspector Ryan Donough of the Police Nationale. Take the cuffs off.”

  “Donough,” the name rang a bell for O’Connell, but he hedged, “we’ve spoken on the phone before.”

  “Indeed,” Ryan replied. “You put down the sadistic animal that tortured Alex.”

  O’Connell nodded, and then giving me a final uncertain look, he unlocked Ryan’s handcuffs. No longer able to contain the emotional barrage, I launched myself into Ryan’s arms. He saved my life once, and with the exception of the occasional e-mails, we hadn’t seen each other in almost a year. Whatever was going on, he needed help.

  “I thought I was crazy thinking ‘Hoyt’ seemed so familiar,” I mumbled. He gave me a tight squeeze and released me.

  “Why didn’t you say something sooner, buddy?” O’Connell retorted, not liking any bit of the current situation. “Y’know, you’re not walking out of here until we verify who you are and what you’re doing with a group of car thieves.”

  “If you phone my captain, he can verify my involvement. I was assigned to assist the International Criminal Court in an investigation they were conducting.” The fact that Ryan had yet to divulge anything concrete piqued my interest, and O’Connell left us alone to consult with his supervisor over this new wrinkle.

  “Does Interpol know what you’re doing?” I asked. “Maybe I can phone some friends and get you out of here sooner instead of later.”

  “I’m not asking you for any other favors,” Ryan stated firmly. “I wasn’t even sure about asking to speak to you. After all, the last time we worked together, things didn’t turn out so well.”

  “You showed up in time. That’s all that mattered,” I insisted. “But honestly, asking for Agent Parker,” I laughed, “you’re years too late.”

  His brow furrowed. “When we spoke on the phone, you said you were going back to the OIO.”

  “It was temporary. Consulting only. I’ve done a couple of jobs for them. A few for the police department too. Ever since I quit my corporate gig, I’ve been trying to remain firmly planted in private investigations.”

  “Then what were you doing with Barlow?” He looked bewildered.

  “My client wanted to shut down the chop shop. No big deal.” He squinted, trying to determine if I was lying, and I shot him a questioning look. “Why would the ICC have any interest in a few internationally sold stolen vehicles?”

  “Who knows?” He stared at the table, and I sat across from him, determined to get a straight answer. Instead, his focus shifted to my wrists, looking for the faint scars from my botched Parisian assignment. “You heal well.” He rubbed his fingers against my skin, tracing the faint pink lines. “Thanks for getting me out of the cuffs, but you’ve done enough. I can take it from here.”

  “Actually, you can’t,” O’Connell responded, rejoining us. My bet was he had been observing from the other side of the glass while phone calls were made. “You are who you claim to be, but we’re having trouble getting a straight answer out of your superior. It turns out you have zero jurisdiction here. Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not police work.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Ryan insisted. O’Connell made a face and narrowed his eyes. “Try calling Interpol, please.” For someone who just said he didn’t want any favors, he was desperate to get out of lockup.

  “Parker, I need a minute,” O’Connell said, leading me into the hallway. After the door closed, he turned to me. “I remember your Paris case just as well as you do. Hell, I had your back for the entire week we spent tracking that psychopath. And yes, I remember all the phone calls back and forth to the Paris police. But are you sure Donough can be trusted? It’s been a while since you worked with him.”

  “What did they say when you called?”

  “His supervisor said he’s been undercover for the last six months, but three weeks ago, they lost track of him. He went to Belgium, Spain, and Germany, but communication ceased after his passport was stamped leaving Germany. He went dark, and Captain Reneaux of the Police Nationale hasn’t heard from him since.”

  “Ryan says he’s working with the ICC. Did you contact them?”

  “They say he’s assisting on building an international case, but you know they have no jurisdiction in our country without express permission. We scanned the printouts for pending federal and international operations, but the state department has no idea they’re here. I left a message with Agent Jablonsky for verification, but–” his words dropped off.

  “They probably don’t know what’s going on either,” I supplied.

  “What do you want me to do?” Nick asked. “The lieutenant says we can theoretically confiscate his passport and cut him loose since he won’t be going anywhere, or we can leave him in custody for the next thirty-six hours.”

  “You’re not bringing him up on charges?”

  “No.” He kicked the toe of his shoe into the molding. “The officer who arrested him said he wasn’t doing anything wrong at the time.” I stared incredulously. “Yeah, I know he handed the keys to you and that moron who won’t shut up for two seconds, but you were both dressed like employees. He could claim it was an honest mistake. None of the other guys are willing to roll on him. Hell, they aren’t even willing to roll on you or each other. There really is honor among thieves. Go figure.”

  “So he’s free to go?”

  “For now. Unless something changes. We planned to hold him the full forty-eight, until he asked for you,” O’Connell concluded. “So it’s your call.”

  “Set him free. Ryan’s a good cop. He ends up in these long-term undercover assignments with little to no support, but he’s one of the good guys.”

  “Okay.” He nodded to himself and studied me. “Are you okay? The entire Paris situation is something you avoid talking about like the plague. It almost destroyed you, and with this guy here, right in front of your face, I just don’t want to see you forced to endure anything else.”

  “I’m fine. It happened a year ago, and a lot has happened since.” I smiled reassuringly. “Hell, you were my knight in shining armor on that one, rushing in and shooting that sick, twisted bastard. Maybe I should be asking if you’re okay.”

  He scoffed at the question. “Not at all.” His eyes shifted toward the interview room. “I don’t like this. I don’t know him, and I don’t trust him.”

  “But you trust me?”

  “Yes, even if you are a car thief.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “But I’m sending a unit to keep him under surveillance until we get some straight answers. For all I know, he’s the ringleader of this car theft ring, and I’m not letting a collar like that walk out of this precinct
just because he used to be your friend.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Hey,” O’Connell grabbed my elbow before I could go back inside the interrogation room, “stay away from him until we verify his story.”

  Nodding, I turned to leave. Since I was up early, I might as well get everything straightened out with Islind, make some calls on Ryan’s behalf, perhaps meet with the attorneys, and hopefully make it to Martin’s by late this afternoon.

  Six

  I was thankful someone had the wherewithal to order coffee and donuts as Islind, the legal counsel for APS, and I sat in the conference room going over all the information from last night’s bust. Reginald Barlow, Robert Gregson, and Tommy Claxton all had charges pending against them. Barlow and Gregson’s fingerprints were on the car I delivered, along with on the discarded lowjack and transmitter wiring. It was nice to know criminals weren’t always smart enough to wear gloves.

  The rest of the evidence from the chop shop was not being divulged as of yet. If there was evidence from any of the missing vehicles that APS serviced, then maybe the police would pass along the information or just notify their clients directly. Claxton was nabbed in possession of a stolen vehicle after a long police chase. That, of course, pissed off the cops, who were trumping up as many charges as they could. Tommy was an idiot and an asshole; it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.

  Ryan “Hoyt” Donough was released. Perhaps it was all of his police training, but there was no actual evidence against him. He didn’t say a word to anyone, and unless Barlow or Gregson decided to point some fingers at him, he might appear even more innocent than I was. Not even the employees at the dealership were certain he wasn’t a temporary worker from the trucking company. Obviously, his years of undercover assignments paid off, and he picked up a few tricks of the trade.

  “No charges are pending against you, Ms. Parker,” the lawyer said, flipping to the next page. “The district attorney’s office has issued a statement thanking you for your service to the city.”

  “Hooray,” I replied, “does that mean I get a parade?”

  “No.” Clearly, he didn’t understand sarcasm. “It means you hold zero culpability for the thefts that occurred last night, and as far as I’m aware, they won’t be pressing charges on the ’67 Mustang or for James Martin’s vehicle.”

  “We’ve worked out restitution with the Mustang’s owner,” Islind affirmed. “We’ll replace his car as soon as we locate one in similar condition.”

  “Do we know what they did with the vehicles?” I asked. Were they chopped or already on their way out of the country?

  “The police department is working on that. It isn’t what we do,” Islind responded. “The PR department is writing a press release to reassure all our clients who suffered a theft that we’ve taken appropriate measures on their behalf and have upgraded our security standards so nothing like this will happen in the future.”

  “Nothing’s ever completely safe,” I warned, “but that’s neither here nor there, I suppose.” My mind was on the missing vehicles and Ryan.

  “We appreciate your hard work,” Islind said, commanding my attention as he slid an envelope across the table. “Should you encounter any issues, please don’t hesitate to contact us.”

  “Thanks.” I picked up the envelope and headed for the door.

  After dropping by the ATM to deposit my check, I went to my office and began making a slew of phone calls to corroborate Ryan’s story and to figure out what the hell was going on. But it was Saturday, so Agent Jablonsky, Farrell, and even Director Kendall were out of the office. I considered calling the Police Nationale to get an update from Capt. Reneaux but decided better of it. This was something O’Connell said he would handle, and until the truth was authenticated, I wanted to distance myself. Perhaps it was self-preservation or my desire to forget the past. Nick was right, seeing Ryan was my kryptonite. It opened the Pandora’s Box to some of my repressed traumas, and the problem was there was a hell of a lot more in that box than just some deranged Frenchman.

  Stopping at home, I changed into something a bit more casual and sexy, packed a bag for the weekend, and went to Martin’s. We had plans, and I didn’t particularly want to be alone. Although, I wasn’t sure which topic of conversation would be worse, locking lips with a mark or mentioning Ryan Donough was in town.

  * * *

  “For the last two weeks, you’ve been letting some guy slobber all over you?” Martin asked, exhaling and fighting to remain emotionless.

  We were in the living room, drinking a bottle of champagne since I finished a job which was usually reason enough to celebrate. However, under the circumstances, he probably would have preferred a fifth of scotch. I searched his eyes, but I couldn’t figure out if he was mad or hurt.

  “I’m sorry.” I sighed. “I feel like I’ve been cheating on you, but it wasn’t me. It was, but it wasn’t.” This was where undercover work got tricky.

  “Did you enjoy it? And how much slobbering was there?”

  “No, I didn’t enjoy it. Would you enjoy making out with a Saint Bernard?” Getting aggravated and defensive wasn’t the way to go. “Alexandra Riley had to be affectionate to Tommy, but it was nothing serious. Just kissing. Slobbering mostly. I draw the line at first base.”

  He considered what I said, mulling over my words and their implication. “Like when you went undercover as Lola?” At one point, I impersonated a model, and Martin had been part of that cover identity. It was what led to our getting together and staying together.

  “Yes, but without the fringe benefits of me turning back into me.” Wow, this conversation was becoming too convoluted to follow. Maybe it was because of the empty bottle of champagne. “Are you mad?”

  “No.” But he didn’t sound completely certain as he considered what I said and weighed his options. His brows scrunched together. “It wasn’t you. It’s like actors kissing on screen, right? Just a part you were playing.” He frowned, trying to wrap his mind around everything and struggling to decide what to make of these odd circumstances. Admittedly, he was taking this better than I imagined. “Honestly,” he put the glass down, “at least I understand why you didn’t want to kiss me the other morning. You felt guilty.” He smirked, pleased that I thought so highly of him.

  “You can be so arrogant sometimes.”

  “But I’m right.” He grinned. “Admit it.” He pinned me against the sofa cushion. “I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  “Aren’t you charming?” I teased.

  “I can charm the pants right off you.” He kissed me gently. All was forgiven. “And now we’re going upstairs, so I can remind you how lovely a slobber-free make out session can be.”

  “Aren’t we going to do more than just make out?” I quipped, giving him my best seductive look. There was no reason to broach the subject of Ryan now and ruin his good mood.

  “See, I knew I could charm the pants off you, and I was barely even trying.”

  * * *

  The nightmares were back. It had been months since my dreams were so terrifying to startle me awake, drenched in sweat, and screaming. Shaking as a result of the sudden adrenaline surge, I cautioned a glance at Martin who was sound asleep. At least the screaming was only in my dream and not for the rest of the world to hear. Getting out of bed, I stepped into the hallway and sat at the top of stairs, resting my head against the railing. Pull it together, Parker.

  The dreams were a result of Ryan and the Pandora’s Box he was unfortunately connected with. Reminding myself it was over, and the psychopath was dead and could never hurt me again, I took a few deep breaths. My heart rate slowed, and my breathing steadied. Only my hands held the slight tremors as the remainder of the nervous energy worked its way from my body.

  “Alex,” Martin said from behind, “are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” He sat on the step and put his arm around my shoulders. “For a m
inute, I thought you left to spend the rest of the night with the Saint Bernard.”

  “I thought about it, but he’s in jail.” I snuggled against him. “You were sleeping so peacefully. I didn’t want to bother you with this stupid shit that my subconscious decided to create.”

  “Wake me next time,” he insisted, leading me back into the bedroom. “Is it the house? We can stay at your place instead.”

  “Not the house. Just some old memories. Nothing important.” I laid my head against his chest, and no more nightmares disturbed my sleep for the rest of the night.

  * * *

  The next morning at breakfast, Martin’s phone rang. Despite the fact it was Sunday, the day of rest, he had to meet with his acquisitions manager concerning the impending product line. Although he promised it would only be for a few hours, I declined the offer to enjoy all the amenities his house provided while I awaited his return. Sure, he had a full-size swimming pool, boxing ring, a home gym, and all the premium channels on cable, but if he was spending Sunday working, I should too.

  “Maybe I’ll stay the week,” I mused. “Why don’t you call tomorrow after work, and depending on how busy your schedule is, maybe I’ll elect to stay here while I’m between jobs. Especially since your mattress is really starting to grow on me.”

  “Fine,” he wasn’t happy by my leaving, “but I can tell you right now, regardless of how busy this coming week is, I’d still like to wake up to you in the morning.” Rolling my eyes at his gushy, romantic side, I left my weekend bag at his house as a show of good faith and went home.

  Being alone in the car made me rethink everything about the auto thefts. No matter how I twisted the facts around, there was no reason for Ryan to be working undercover here. This job wasn’t big enough to warrant sending an inspector overseas. If it was simply about selling stolen property, Interpol could have kept an eye out, and the local law enforcement agencies should have gotten a memo. This left two possibilities. Either this situation was much grander than a simple GTA ring, or Ryan had been out in the cold too long and crossed the line.