Camels and Corpses

by G. K. Parks

  “You just listed three new possible identities for our deranged hitman. Most people would consider this progress.”

  “It’s not them.” He was back to being a defeatist. Maybe he needed a prescription for an antidepressant. “Mallick was serving the last few months of a five year sentence in Denmark during the first two contract killings, and according to Devereaux’s passport records, he was in Canada until Barlow hit Paris.”

  “What about Hu?”

  “Do you honestly believe a woman is responsible for this?” He pointed to the photos, agitated.

  “Since when did you become a sexist? Are you saying I couldn’t be a fucking contract killer if I wanted to?” Where that comment came from, I wasn’t entirely sure, and I rubbed my eyes. Maybe I was losing it. Exasperated, he mumbled some long rant in French. “English, s’il te plait.”

  “Stop being so bleeding ridiculous. Look at the statistics. The majority of serial killers are men.”

  “Maybe it’s not probable, but it is possible. What do you know about her?” Something flashed across his face, and I wished I hadn’t seen it. My gut said he liked her. Maybe he wanted to save her, or maybe he was screwing her on the side. Regardless, it was making clear, level-headed judgment unlikely.

  “It’s not her,” he insisted.

  “Then tell me what you know so I can reach that conclusion on my own, and we can get back to business.”

  “Fantastic.” He shuffled through the files and handed one to me. As I read, he stared out the window. From the photographs, she was a slight woman. Given that the Camel drugged his victims, tortured them, and dumped what was left of their remains, she wouldn’t have the physical capabilities herself. When I flipped to a few close-up surveillance photos, I also saw the extensive scarring on her shoulder blade. She probably didn’t have much use out of her right arm. “See,” he didn’t sound smug; he sounded protective, “it can’t be her.”

  “Why is she with Barlow?”

  “He made some kind of deal to get her out of her home country. They were torturing her, using her for all kinds of,” he swallowed, “unsavory things. He promised to keep her safe. She loves him because she believes he saved her.”

  “Maybe he did,” I added quietly. Was Barlow a contract killer with a heart of gold? Stranger things had happened, but human soup and rescuing some poor woman didn’t coalesce.

  He let out a horrible sounding snort. “First, you insist Barlow’s the Camel, and then you have the audacity to say he’s some wonderful hero. Incroyable.”

  “How long has she been traveling with him?” A redirect might be in order.

  “Not long. They met in different hotels when we were still in the EU, but she hasn’t left Europe. She didn’t make this trip with us. She doesn’t have legal documentation, and any overseas travel would come under too much scrutiny. Instead, he established an apartment and a couple of bank accounts for her to use while he’s away. He keeps her comfortable, but don’t be fooled, she’s still his prisoner.” He was livid.

  “Calm down.” The warning bells blared in my brain. “You just hit on something.” I studied him. “How emotionally compromised are you when it comes to her?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.” If anyone knew what emotionally compromised looked like, it’d be me. “Don’t deny it, but can you work past it?” He considered my point and nodded. “All right, let’s get a full workup on Wendi Hu. Every alias she’s ever used, and everything Barlow’s set up for her. We need access to every account, property, travel arrangements, everything she has. I don’t believe she’s the killer, but maybe the Camel is filtering his funding through her. She probably doesn’t even know it.”

  “Interpol’s already checked her out. They didn’t find anything.”

  “We can check again. It doesn’t hurt to be thorough. It’s not like we have anything better to do in the meantime.”

  I typed in her name and began conducting a search. Ryan remained motionless in front of my fire escape window. Without looking up, I grabbed the pad of paper and pen off the corner of my desk and flung them in his direction. He knelt down and picked up the thrown items.

  “She’s not involved. If we dig too deep, it might raise some red flags and result in her deportation. Or it could tip off Barlow that there’s a rat on his crew.”

  “Newsflash,” I stopped typing, “Barlow’s not in charge anymore, and if what you said about her history is true, I’m sure some nation will grant her asylum.” He looked skeptical. “You’re working with the ICC. Pull some strings.” His actions were irritating, and I still wasn’t sure why he was covering for her. I went back to focusing on the computer, asking offhandedly, “Are you sleeping with her?”

  “How can you ask that?” He sounded betrayed, and I dropped the topic. At least he was scribbling information on the notepad. We remained working in the hostile, tense atmosphere of my apartment as I hit dead end after dead end. Every name, alias, and address he provided led nowhere. There has to be an angle or some piece of information we were missing. “It’s not me. I was always suspicious of every person Reggie interacted with,” he swallowed, “but Grenauldo fell for her.” My head shot up, and I stared at him. “My partner, Interpol Agent Josef Grenauldo, fell in love with her. The night before he died, he made me promise to keep her safe. Safe from Barlow, the authorities, all of it.”

  “Ryan,” my mouth was dry from the implications his words held, “did Grenauldo break cover? He told her who he was, didn’t he?”

  “He wanted to get her away from Barlow. Josef had a plan to take her somewhere safe, so she could be free, not caged in some paid for apartment with monetary shackles.” He rubbed his eyes. “The day after he tells her his true identity, he was gunned down in the street like a dog. I should have been there. I should have stopped it.”

  “He broke cover.” I tried to reinforce the obvious, but Ryan shook my comment away.

  “The investigation into his death ruled it a coincidence. His murder was unrelated. They didn’t want to admit he botched the operation. Hell, maybe it was just a mugging. We’ve been to some seedy hellholes.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re protecting a woman who might be to blame for an agent’s death.”

  “Because he made me promise,” Ryan spat. “She didn’t kill him. There was no talk of such matters within Barlow’s crew. No one ever mentioned a snitch or payback or making an example. Hell, she was surprised when she heard Josef was killed. She cried hysterically for days.”

  “Do you think Barlow killed him or had him killed because he was screwing his girlfriend?” Ryan was all over the place, and he was spinning himself into the ground. He collapsed on my couch and buried his head in his hands, grasping for something tangible. I sat down next to him, unsure of how to proceed. “You need to take a break before you have a breakdown.” He nodded but didn’t speak.

  Going into my bedroom, I pulled an extra set of sheets, pillows, and blankets out of my closet and brought them into the living room. I knew the toll losing your partner could take. When I lost Michael and Sam, I never recovered. Not really. And my recent nightmares proved that. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like during an undercover assignment when the only people to lean on for support were those responsible for your partner’s death. I collected all the notations, the files, and put everything into my messenger bag.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, observing me and the bedding.

  “You need to decompress, and that shitty hotel isn’t the place to do it. There are clean towels under the cabinet in the bathroom and brand new travel-sized toiletries in the vanity just in case you want to shower or get cleaned up. I’ll meet O’Connell elsewhere, and we’ll work on some leads. I’ll be back sometime tonight but make yourself at home. Whatever’s in the fridge or liquor cabinet is fair game.” I put on my shoulder holster. “If you need anything, you have my cell number.”

  “Alex, I don’t want to chase you out of your own ap
artment.”

  “You’re not. But you haven’t had a moment to breathe, let alone grieve, or remember that you’re Ryan Donough, Police Nationale Inspector, not Hoyt, some lowlife car thief.” He pressed his lips together, nodding at my assessment. “Consider this your sanctuary. It’s not much, but it makes a great hideaway from the rest of the world.” I slung the bag across my chest and opened my front door. “You can stay as long as you like. If you go out for whatever reason, there’s a set of keys in the drawer next to the kitchen sink.”

  “Thank you.” He cracked a slight smile as I pulled the door shut behind me.

  Ryan was on the verge of losing it, and people thought that I couldn’t handle the stress of this situation. Ha. As I descended the six flights of stairs, I called O’Connell. We were meeting at his place to go over the case. I just hoped the brief reprieve would be enough to steady Ryan.

  * * *

  Before coming off shift, O’Connell took another crack at Robert Gregson, and even though Gregson refused to incriminate Reggie, it was apparent there was a long-standing relationship between the two men. Gregson owned a reputable garage, but on the side, he dealt extensively with car thieves. Over the years, his name had surfaced with every major auto theft ring, but until now, the police never had enough evidence to charge him.

  My consulting work with APS and the sting operation I helped orchestrate provided enough evidence and corroboration to have the charges stick to Robert. It was about damn time. If only he would connect his operation to Barlow, then we’d be set.

  “Since Gregson’s been doing this for years,” I glanced at his jacket and burglary’s suspicions over the last five years, “maybe he’s dealt with Barlow before.”

  “That’d be my guess,” Nick replied. “For an international traveler and broker,” he raised an eyebrow, repeating the term I used for Barlow as if it were an inside joke, “it’d be difficult to make the proper connections for such a long laundry list of vehicles. He’s not asking for run-of-the-mill cars that can quickly be scrapped or resold. He only deals in rare finds and insanely expensive new vehicles. I’d say they’ve known each other a while.”

  “Do you think Robert knows about the contract killings?” I paused, considering other possibilities. “Could he be funneling money or passing messages to the Camel?”

  “Search warrants have been issued for his property, and Moretti’s sent Gregson’s financials and phone logs to be analyzed by IT. Hell, we’re even scanning his internet usage and checking his browser history.” The first known hit was arranged via a message board. Browser history might shed some light on the situation. “So far, we’ve found a lot of car sites and your basic porn addiction. Nothing that screams out hitman for hire.”

  “Any information on the overseas accounts that Barlow was supposed to establish as payment for Gregson, Claxton, and me?”

  “Nothing, but we’re hoping Interpol will pass along that information as soon as they convince Barlow to turn it over.” Before I could ask my next question, he read my mind. “The same is true of the client list or buyer list. Frankly, without Barlow, we’re missing vast amounts of information. All we have is the garage owner and some knucklehead.”

  “Can you lean harder on Robert? Maybe I can take a crack at him.”

  “You or Riley?” he asked.

  “Whichever gets the job done. At this point, probably Riley since I have to keep my cover intact for Donough’s operation.” Then I filled him in on everything Ryan and I discussed concerning Wendi Hu, Virgil Mallick, and Chase Devereaux.

  “I’ll dig up what I can on Wendi Hu,” Nick said, making a note for himself. “But our best bet is getting something conclusive out of Gregson. Moretti already handed Barlow over to Interpol, but they aren’t releasing him to ICE until we have a handle on the murders. Just because Barlow wasn’t there doesn’t mean he can’t tell us who was, especially if he’s working for a serial contract killer.”

  “I’d love to take a run at him. Maybe Tommy too,” I cajoled.

  “Parker, you’re assisting Interpol. You have no jurisdiction.”

  “Actually, I’m mostly assisting Donough.” I pressed my lips together and glanced at my phone in case I missed a call. “He’s in bad shape. He wants to fulfill his dead partner’s wishes, but the reason his partner is dead might be because of the woman that he broke cover for.” I let out an exhale. “And I’m not completely convinced Ryan doesn’t have a thing for her either. Maybe not a romantic thing, but she has one hell of a sob story, and all you men are alike.”

  “Amen to that,” Jen replied from the front door. She just came home from work and found us at the kitchen table with a pile of paperwork between us. She kissed her husband and smiled at me. “Are you staying for dinner, Alex?”

  “No, I should give the two of you some privacy.” I closed the folders.

  “Don’t leave on my account. I’m going to take a shower anyway.” She cringed and looked down at her nurse’s scrubs. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been puked on today. I’ve changed three times.” She left the room, adding, “I hate flu season. Plus, it’s Nick’s turn to cook.”

  “I make a mean steak,” he offered.

  “Well, in that case.” I smiled. Once the water turned on, we got back to the topic at hand. “Donough believes it’s his responsibility to save Wendi from Barlow, the authorities, and the freaking boogeyman since Grenauldo can’t do it. Meanwhile, it simply comes down to basic math. Her relationship with Grenauldo most likely resulted in his death. It might have blown Ryan’s cover out of the water and done irreparable damage to determining the Camel’s identity and next target.”

  “Where’s the inspector now?” O’Connell asked, opening the fridge and taking out the marinated steaks.

  “Just call me Victor Hugo.” He tossed a puzzled glance over the fridge door. “The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Sanctuary. Sanctuary,” I elaborated, and he let out a slight snort at my theatrics and found a broiling pan. “I told him to stay holed up at my place while he gets his head on straight.”

  “Speaking of which, you actually seem good. On top of things. Dare I say it? Calm, even.”

  “Strangely enough, I am. Maybe after spending so much time with Ryan, I’ve been desensitized to my triggers. Or there are more important matters to deal with.”

  “I’ll pass everything along to the guys at the precinct, and I’ll dig into the names and connections you’ve given me.” He stopped the food prep and found Ryan’s scribbles on the table. “Are all of these aliases and connections for Hu, or is he still holding back in some misguided attempt to protect this woman?”

  Pondering the question, I hated to think Ryan wasn’t being truthful. He was one of the good guys. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

  I cleared the table while Nick made dinner. It didn’t matter that it was almost eleven when the three of us sat down to eat. He was a cop. Jen was a nurse. And I was glad to have an excuse to stay out of my apartment. After dinner, I washed and dried the dishes. It was the least I could do.

  Jen took the final stack of plates and put them in the cupboard. “How’s James? It’s been a while since the four of us have gotten together for a date night,” she wheedled. Maybe O’Connell picked up some pointers on interrogation techniques from his wife.

  “He’s okay. Busy with work. Y’know, the usual.” I shrugged. “We haven’t been talking much lately, so I’m not certain what his schedule looks like. Although, I don’t know what my schedule looks like either.”

  “Oh, please,” she rolled her eyes, “the two of you are a broken record. You work and avoid him, and he gets annoyed. What do you think is going to happen?” I opened my mouth to respond, but she shushed me. “Remember, I’m married to a cop, and I work at a hospital. Anything you come up with, I’ve seen or heard before.” She sighed dramatically. “He loves you. You love him. Stop making everything life or death, give him a call, and let’s get something arranged for this coming weekend.”<
br />
  “But…” I looked to O’Connell for help, but he ducked out of the room.

  “If you don’t, James and I will come up with extensive plans for Saturday. Maybe we’ll start with a matinee, a stroll in the park, an early dinner, then on to dancing, and finish up with a nightcap at one of those swanky hotspots that will only let us in because he has a black card in his wallet,” she threatened.

  “So the two of you are going out, and Nick and I are off the hook?” I joked.

  “Call him, Parker,” he yelled from the other room. “I’m not leaving my wife alone with your boyfriend.”

  Thirteen

  I stopped at a twenty-four hour supermarket on the way home and picked up some basic supplies. Since I had company, I needed to act like a decent host and provide more than just an old jar of mustard and a few bottles of beer as nourishment. When I arrived home, Ryan was asleep on the couch. His posture was rigid, and his body was pressed firmly against the backrest. Silently, I put the groceries away and went into my bedroom. After spending the next few hours performing my due diligence, I mapped out all of Barlow’s movements for the past year, his encounters with Wendi Hu, and the reported auto thefts and murders that took place in each location. It wasn’t much, but it was the building blocks for the entire investigation. Sure, Interpol and the ICC were already aware of these facts, but it helped to build my own theory from the ground up. Glancing at the clock, it was nearing five a.m. Ryan was snoring and letting out random whines throughout the night, so I left him to battle his own demons as I drifted off to sleep.

  I woke suddenly to a loud clang. Instinctively reaching for my nine millimeter, I saw my bedroom door was closed and remembered I had a houseguest. Ryan was in the kitchen, arguing with the frying pan. He smiled, looking slightly better than yesterday.