Camels and Corpses

by G. K. Parks

  “Crepe?” he asked, attempting to hold up the pan as the thin pancake slid across the Teflon.

  Confused and bleary-eyed, I shook my head. “Did you need the bathroom?” I jerked my thumb at the room, and he shook his head. “I’m going to take a shower.” It was too early in the morning to be awake or cooking.

  Collecting some clean clothes, I shut the bathroom door. When I came out, it was a little after nine. No wonder I was barely functioning. I set the coffeemaker to brew and retrieved the work I did the night before. Ryan was at my kitchen table with a plate full of crepes and some type of fruit and cream cheese filling. When did I even buy cream cheese?

  “I didn’t hear you come home last night,” he said, taking a bite and nudging an empty plate toward me. “Did,” he searched his mind, “Detective O’Connell have anything insightful to add to my investigation?”

  “He’s looking into a couple of things. I’m sure by tonight he’ll have something to add.” I poured two cups of coffee and brought them over to the table. “How’d you sleep?” Rumpled bedding covered my couch.

  “It’s the first night I can say I actually slept.” He chewed thoughtfully. “I owe you an apology and a debt of gratitude.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” I reached for the crepes, skewered one, and put it on my empty plate, taking a tentative bite. “There’s no way I had ingredients for this in my kitchen.”

  “I found a can of fruit compote in the cupboard, along with some flour. Eggs and butter were in the fridge, and,” he was going to continue, but I held up my fork to stop his rambling.

  “I hope you checked the expiration dates on everything.” He smiled at my joke, even if it wasn’t a joke. Hopefully, neither of us would die from botulism. “Can we continue where we left off yesterday?” His posture shifted, and he sighed. “When is Barlow’s crew expecting you to resurface? Have you been in contact with them since your arrest?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to meet Virgil and Chase at a gentlemen’s club. We have to decide what to do with the vehicles we’ve already acquired and what our next step will be.”

  “Has Barlow found a way to get word out to any of you?”

  “Not to me, but I’ve been busy. Thankfully, Interpol has leaked that I’ve been in custody for the last few days. Before you agreed to assist, I made contact with Virgil about setting up a meet.”

  “I’m going with you.” I wasn’t sure if I meant it as a question or a command.

  He sat back and assessed me for a long time. The scrutiny was uncomfortable, and I focused on my breakfast instead of his eyes. When there was nothing remaining on my plate, I had no choice but to look up.

  “How do you want to do this?” he asked. “We need to be intimately aware of each other’s cover story, so do you want to go first?”

  “Sure.” I cleared the table while he grabbed a pen and paper to take notes. “My name is Alexandra Riley, but you can call me Alex.” He snickered, and I attempted to recall everything that I said to Tommy and Robert over the last few weeks. When I was finished, Ryan dropped the pen and reread his notes. “Any questions?”

  “Your cover has no priors, correct?” He was considering some kind of snag.

  “No priors. No history of any kind. Riley’s a clean slate.”

  “Then why would two known car thieves, both with significant past offenses, trust you?”

  “Because I make leather and eyeliner look good, and I didn’t approach Tommy with the intention of getting on the crew. I was looking for some action. Unfortunately for him, that turned out to be boosting cars instead of doing the horizontal mambo.” I considered my first two meetings with Barlow. “Did Reggie buy it?”

  “I’m not sure, but the blue sports car sold you as a thief. Most people don’t have access to two hundred thousand dollar cars, and when Claxton held the gun to the back of your head and no one came to the rescue, it was rather convincing that you weren’t a cop.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “Semantics.” Something dark passed behind his eyes. “As far as I know, Barlow never doubted your false identity. Therefore, Mallick and Devereaux shouldn’t have any reason to doubt whatever it is I tell them.”

  “So what are you planning to tell them, Mr. Hoyt?” It was his turn, and I took the pad of paper, ripped off the top two sheets he used, and grabbed the pen from his hand. “It’d be nice to start with a first name.”

  “Ryan.” He winked. “It’s so much easier when our fake identities have the same first name. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Ryan Hoyt,” I tested the name on my lips, “car thief extraordinaire.”

  “Nothing that sexy. Hoyt’s a wheelman. You steal it, and I can drive it.” He rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his forehead. “There’s a long history of misdemeanors and felonies in my past. Everything from joyriding to GTA, and if I’m not mistaken, there were three assault charges, one weapons charge, and one count of vehicular manslaughter.” He stopped rubbing his face and rested his head in his hands. Ryan was a pro; there was no mistaking the crimes his cover persona committed.

  “All around badass,” I offered.

  “Makes it easier to establish a background when you aren’t sure what the boss wants you to do or what skills you may need to possess.”

  “What did you do for Barlow?”

  “Whatever needed to be done.” He swallowed. This was never the easy part. “In Paris, he needed a couple of guys roughed up. It was his way of vetting me.”

  “Congratulations, you passed.” There was no mirth or teasing in my words. It was hard maintaining the line, especially when you had to do physical harm or break the law.

  “Lucky me. Aside from that, I’ve been his delivery driver.”

  “How have you stayed in contact with Interpol and the ICC?” I wondered aloud, even though it wasn’t part of his cover. After all, Capt. Reneaux had lost contact with his star inspector.

  “Dead drops, burner phones, the usual methods.” He looked up. “It’s unlikely Barlow has any idea who I am.” Before I could ask, he added, “Even though Grenauldo broke cover, he didn’t break mine.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Because I’m not dead.”

  “Dammit, Ryan,” I exhaled, “yesterday, you preached that your partner’s death was a coincidence, and Hu wasn’t behind it. Here we are twelve hours later, and you’re changing your goddamn story.” I slammed my palm against the table. “I need the truth.”

  “I don’t know.” He winced at my increased volume. “Alex, I don’t know what’s true anymore. Grenauldo’s dead; that’s true.” He blinked and looked away. “My superiors said it wasn’t related. Barlow didn’t let on that he knew or had anything to do with it, but,” he focused on my eyes and didn’t look away, “how likely is it?”

  “Fine, how long has it been since his death?” I read the file earlier this morning, but he was pissing me off. So double-checking his story wouldn’t hurt.

  “Seven weeks. Barlow never replaced him on the crew, but like I said, there’s not much stability with his team.”

  “Has he changed his attitude toward you?”

  “No. Everything’s still the same.”

  Mulling it over, he had to be right. If Grenauldo blew both their covers, Ryan would no longer be breathing. Needing space and something to do, I cleared the dishes and scrubbed the cookware. When I turned around, he was in the shower. Honestly, I wanted to scream, cry, and throw glass objects into brick walls. Instead, I dialed Mark.

  “Parker, what is it now?” he asked, not surprised I was calling.

  “Something’s off when it comes to the dead Interpol agent Donough was partnered with. Can you get a hold of his personnel file, the police report, and the autopsy records? Interpol said it was coincidental, but you’ve always told me coincidences don’t happen.”

  “Fine.” The drawer in his desk slammed shut. “What have they talked you into doing?”

  “I’m only pl
aying a minor supporting role in the film adaptation.”

  “Too bad you think you’re a leading lady,” he added bitterly. “Look, just be careful. I’ll pull those records and see what I can find. In the meantime, watch your back.”

  “Thanks. I will.” Hanging up, I noticed Ryan standing in the bathroom doorway, dressed in his clothes from yesterday with his hair dripping. “What?”

  “I just thought of something.” Whatever realization he reached wasn’t pleasant. His expression was grim, and he was plunging deeper into the melancholy abyss. “There wasn’t any surveillance in the bathroom, and often Barlow and Hu would lock themselves in there for hours. I assumed it was a romantic interlude.”

  “But it might have been when they were discussing other matters, such as contract killings.”

  “Goddammit. Bloody-fucking-hell.” He swore and slammed his fist into my bathroom door with a resounding thud and an awful crunch. Just what I needed, a partner with a broken hand. The impact didn’t have any effect as he continued his string of expletives. “Grenauldo falls for her bullshit story, convinces me it’s legitimate, and then she makes arrangements to have the lovesick moron killed. Either that bitch or Barlow is the contract killer, or they know exactly who is.”

  “Slow down.” Carefully, I approached him, fearing his anger would lash out at a moving target. “Grenauldo wasn’t killed by the Camel.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” he spat. It was a fair question. “Because he wasn’t left as a poor imitation of blood pudding?”

  “Did he tell Hu that he was pursuing a killer?” This detail was very important, and Ryan nodded. “Oh god.” If Hu knew, Barlow probably did too, and if he was in communication with the killer or if he was the killer, the entire situation just became insanely more complex.

  “I’m such a blind, imbecilic,” he was starting to unravel, and I hugged him, refusing to let go, “useless, washed-up, piece of shit.” His breath came in heaving gasps, and I held him tightly until he pulled himself together. “Alex,” he whispered as the self-loathing and anger ebbed, “how could I be so stupid? Why? Why didn’t I make the connection before?”

  “Shhh,” I soothed. “You were too close. Your partner made a mistake, and you didn’t want to believe he was wrong. It’s hard to think ill of the dead.” I released him from my grasp. “Not to be morbid, but this might lead to an actual break in the case.” Lifting his already swollen hand, I added, “And perhaps a few broken bones.”

  “It’s nothing.” He pulled his hand free. “I need to talk to Farrell. Interpol needs to be aware of my mistake. Maybe they can find something damning from the scene.”

  “Finish cleaning up,” I insisted. “I called Mark, and he’s looking into the matter for us. He’ll talk to Farrell. They both have level heads. Neither of them is compromised. Let them figure it out. He’ll get back to me. Besides, O’Connell is collecting information on Hu. This is about utilizing resources and outsourcing the investigating. You’re still an undercover operative,” I tried to give him a playful smile, not quite succeeding, “start acting like one.”

  He went back inside the bathroom and took advantage of the brand new, travel-sized toiletries Martin filled my drawer with in the event he ever forgot to bring something with him for one of our sleepovers while I paced my apartment, annoyed by his earlier deception and his insistence I was wrong about Hu. He had been wrong but too blind to see it. He saw it now. Actually, one night in a safe environment probably made him realize more than just that.

  When he came out, I plopped a bag of frozen peas on top of his hand while he went over all the other details about the crew, the jobs they’d pulled, and every tidbit of information surrounding his deceased partner. None of it was useful to the investigation, but at least we trusted one another again. By late that afternoon, we were making progress. At least Ryan was. The more we discussed things, the clearer the picture became. Maybe the only thing he needed was to bounce ideas off someone.

  “I’m sorry,” he concluded, ashamed. “I lashed out because of the accurate assessments you made. I’ve barely been keeping it together, and I’m sure that detective noticed.” My brow furrowed in confusion. “Stable people don’t remain silent in custody, and they don’t suddenly decide to call in favors from people they’re already indebted to.”

  “Apology accepted.” No wonder everyone warned me to avoid Ryan. Clearly, I was just as blind when it came to distancing myself from those I’ve worked with. “Funny story,” I passed along Mark, Nick, and even Martin’s assessment. We were rebuilding trust, and sharing something far less morbid might put us on a more even keel.

  “Then why are you assisting?”

  “Because you’re a friend in trouble. Face it, we’re both soft-hearted saps. One of these days, it will kill us. Let’s just make sure that day isn’t today or tomorrow.”

  “That’s it? Your high hopes are for the next forty-eight hours?”

  “Well, I’m a realist. So let’s take things one day at a time and see how it goes. Frankly, two is kinda pushing it.”

  Having recovered enough to work amicably, we began laying the groundwork for our meeting with Virgil Mallick and Chase Devereaux which was scheduled for tomorrow. The men didn’t know I was in the picture or tagging along, which meant we had to make Alexandra Riley an incredibly useful asset. Hu was our best bet for finding the connection between Barlow and the Camel, but first, Ryan had to get back in the team’s good graces.

  There had to be a way to get some uncompromised back-up to assist from the inside, and with any luck, that’s where I’d fit in. Since Jablonsky, Farrell, and O’Connell were capable of working the investigation and tracking leads, they just needed someone to deliver new information, additional proof, and irrefutable evidence, and the best place to get it was from the inside.

  “Parker, open up,” Jablonsky called from my front door. I didn’t hear a knock, and judging Ryan’s expression, neither did he. “C’mon, this thing is heavy.” Dashing to the door, I opened it to find Mark holding three file boxes of information. He brushed past me and into my apartment. “Nothing can ever be simple with you, can it?”

  Fourteen

  “I thought you were just going to read the reports, not raid all of Interpol’s files,” I remarked as Mark pulled file upon file from the boxes.

  “Shut up and give me a hand,” he griped. I opened a second box and began removing the contents, skimming the tabs as I placed the files on my coffee table. Ryan remained in the kitchen with his hand under the bag of peas. In the battle of the bathroom door versus Ryan’s fist, the bathroom door was victorious. When all three boxes were empty and my coffee table was no longer visible, Mark slumped down on the couch and took a deep breath. “You got any coffee?” He was being short with me, probably still miffed about the current circumstances.

  “Do we need oxygen to breathe?” I asked, dutifully pouring him a cup.

  After handing him the mug, he looked at the rumpled sheet and blanket on my sofa. “Are you sleeping on the couch again?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “No, that was me,” Ryan replied. Mark attempted to hide his shock by keeping the glare firmly in place. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to straighten up the mess I made.”

  “It’s fine,” I muttered, taking a seat on the floor next to the stacks of files. “Now can you tell me what all of this is?” I asked Mark.

  He scooped a thin file off the top of one of the piles. “This is the official report concerning the investigation into the death of Interpol Agent Josef Grenauldo.”

  “So what’s the rest?” Ryan asked.

  Mark met my eyes, communicating silently what I already suspected. “It’s the unofficial report,” I supplied, and Ryan threw a confused glance my way.

  “Not unofficial so much as everything Interpol has on Grenauldo and you. Your movements, everything on the current investigation, surveillance, suspicions, bank records, camera footage, profiles, possible suspects in Grenauldo
’s homicide, and the actual cause of death. Everything,” Mark corrected.

  “What?” Ryan asked, his brow furrowed. He didn’t understand how there could be so much information on his investigation that he didn’t even know about. “That can’t be. They told me what happened. It was ruled an unrelated event. And what do you mean bank records and suspicions? If they had information, they would have,” he shook his head, standing up from the table and coming toward us, “told me.”

  “It looks like you don’t need that blanket anymore,” I deadpanned. “Jablonsky’s bringing you in from the cold.”

  Hours later, there wasn’t a single file that wasn’t dissected. Ryan was up to speed. I was up to speed, and Mark was hoping he didn’t make a horrible mistake by giving me access to all of this new information. Silently, I replaced all the folders inside the boxes, so I could eavesdrop as Mark and Ryan discussed in graphic detail every aspect of his assignment. The version he recollected earlier was the censored, tamer account. The grittier truth involved violence, drugs, and women traipsing in and out of the picture.

  Reginald Barlow was a pig. He was smooth and calculating, a real businessman at heart. He wouldn’t risk his capital gains on something stupid, but after receiving a payoff for delivering a vehicle, he partied hard. Recreational drugs, prostitutes, whatever struck his fancy. And the next day, it was back to business as usual. I shut the lid on the third box and listened as Donough laid it all out.

  “Everyone or just Barlow?” Mark asked.

  “Just Barlow. Sometimes, Wendi would show up, and the rest of us would be excused for the evening. I’d return to my room and monitor the surveillance.” He looked at me. “The other guys probably went to the bars to find someone to celebrate with. I don’t really know.”

  “Why wasn’t surveillance on them?” Mark asked.

  We went through all the folders. Interpol was aware of the likelihood that Wendi’s accounts were transfer lines for the Camel. They also knew that someone on the crew was the Camel or in direct contact with him. There was far too much circumstantial evidence for it to be anything else, and it infuriated me to think they didn’t share this information with Ryan. What infuriated Mark was the lack of information they shared with their own agent, Farrell, after the case was dumped in his lap. If I didn’t ask them to investigate matters in such detail, we’d still be acting on the so-called official version that said Ryan’s investigation was a complete waste of time and resources.