Camels and Corpses

by G. K. Parks

  Heathcliff nodded and clicked through some images on his phone. “Ma’am, do you recognize any of these men?” He scanned through the pictures of Barlow, Mallick, and Devereaux.

  “I’m not sure.” Our questions were baffling to her.

  “Ms. Shepherd,” Ryan began, “are you scheduled to meet with any new clients sometime this week?” She nodded. “Would you happen to have their contact information or anything helpful nearby? It’s imperative to our investigation.”

  She flipped through a few pages on her calendar, wrote out a list of appointments, and opened the contacts tab on her computer. After scribbling a list of names and phone numbers, she handed it to him. “Is this what you wanted?” She swiveled, assessing the three of us. “I want to know what this is about.”

  “We have reason to believe someone conspired to have you murdered,” Heathcliff said with a calm, authoritarian voice. She gasped, horrified, and the look of panic etched her otherwise flawless skin. “Once again, have you received any threats or believe anyone is holding a grudge against you?” She shook her head, flummoxed.

  “Ma’am,” I tried a different tactic, “if something were to happen to you, who stands to profit from your death? I’m sure this is a highly lucrative business.”

  “It pays the bills,” she responded meekly, “but it’s not worth much. I’m not worth much,” she said as an afterthought. “I don’t even have life insurance. There never was a need since I don’t have children. Well, except for Nathan, but he’s Scott’s son. Scott always took care of him. Of us.” She shook her head, shocked and in utter disbelief. “This can’t be. You must have the wrong Nancy Shepherd.”

  “Always a possibility,” I said, hoping to reassure her. Denial could be just as calming as hope. “We can either take you in to protective custody or keep a unit on you to make sure you’re safe.” Heathcliff nodded at my statement, and she considered her options.

  We remained in her office while she changed her mind half a dozen times. Nancy was fairly sedate about the situation, not frantic or angry, but in utter disbelief that this was happening to her. When her assistant, Emily, returned, Nancy sent her home for the day. Thankfully, she gave us permission to search her entire office, snoop through her financial records, and delve into her private life. There were no current boyfriends or any significant scorned lovers within the last year. Her divorce was still fresh, less than two years old, and she didn’t feel the need to date.

  “Was it amicable?” Ryan asked. “Marriage is messy, and divorce can be a disaster.”

  “At the time, it was messy. Scott accused me of having an affair with one of Nathan’s friends.”

  “Were you?” I asked.

  She looked away, reddening. “Yes.”

  “Yeah, that counts as messy,” Heathcliff said, probably not intending to say it aloud. “But you’re still receiving alimony?”

  “Yes, he never had solid proof.” She wouldn’t meet our gaze. “He has family money, and I didn’t ask for half of it or anything like that. But there is a level of comfort I’ve grown accustomed to.” It sounded like key phrases from her divorce attorney were programmed into her brain. “He will continue to pay until either I make more than he does, which will never happen, or I remarry.”

  Ryan glanced smugly in my direction. Yeah, it probably was the ex-husband. It normally was the estranged spouse. “Did your husband collect cars?” Ryan asked.

  She scrunched her brow together, shocked. “How did you know?” She looked out the window at the classic muscle car. “That was part of the settlement.”

  “We’re going to need his address and other information,” Heathcliff insisted. “Also, we need to move on this, so what’s it going to be? Protective custody or a protection detail?”

  She focused on me. “What would you decide?”

  “Your chances are better in custody.” Although, I wouldn’t willingly agree to either of those things. Unfortunately, decisions like that were never left up to me, probably for that exact reason.

  “Custody it is then.” She nodded resolutely, and we let the unmarked car take her in.

  “I’m calling to get the paperwork started on Mr. Shepherd’s phone and financial records,” Heathcliff stated. While he did that, I phoned the OIO and gave Jablonsky an update. Regardless of my thoughts concerning Interpol, it was still a federal matter.

  Thirty-six

  “Have you been here all night?” O’Connell asked when he came in the next morning to find Ryan and me camped out at his desk.

  “You mean to tell me it’s morning?” I asked, and Ryan chuckled.

  “That’s normally what that bright yellow thing in the sky represents,” he responded, amused. He turned to Ryan. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “In a cup.”

  I burst into a hysterical fit of giggles. Clearly, it was morning, and we had been up all night. The lack of sleep made me slightly insane. While I got myself under control, O’Connell was nice enough to fill a few mugs and bring them out to us.

  “Merci,” Ryan replied, not bothering to look up from the report he was proofreading. He stuck the paper into a file and stretched in the chair. “I’ll call Farrell with an update,” he offered, disappearing into the empty roll call room with his phone and mug.

  “The Camel’s newest contracted hit is a woman named Nancy Shepherd. After extensive questioning, it seems apparent her ex-husband is the one who hired the Camel. Heathcliff brought him in yesterday afternoon. The guy’s a day trader, and his lawyer got him released late last night. I think they’re filing a harassment suit against the department.”

  “That’s nice,” O’Connell muttered. “Do we have hard evidence yet?”

  “Not yet. We subpoenaed his financial records and phone logs. After spending far too many hours reviewing every call this guy placed, nothing tracks to the Camel or any suspicious numbers. Heathcliff suggested he probably purchased a throwaway phone or used an online message board to hire the hitman. I don’t know how much progress has been made on tracking his internet history.” Taking a long sip, I rubbed my eyes.

  “What about the financials?”

  “Did I mention he’s a day trader? Every forensic accountant on staff here, at the OIO, and the local Interpol office is hard at work, crunching the numbers in search of the account connection. With any luck, one of those overseas accounts Devereaux or Barlow established will link to a transfer Scott Shepherd made, but until then, Moretti ordered we back off him.”

  “Where’s Heathcliff?” O’Connell asked, staring at the vacant desk.

  “He went home around three. We were all supposed to go home around three, but Ryan and I got sidetracked. For the last four hours, we’ve been searching for a connection between Devereaux and Mr. Shepherd. The guy was a car aficionado, and we’re assuming he must have crossed paths with Reginald Barlow at some point in the past. It’s the only way we’ve come up with to determine how he got in touch with the Camel.”

  Nick sat at Thompson’s desk, since I was still in his chair, and logged onto the computer. “If that’s true, he might have used a third party to get in contact with Barlow or Devereaux or whoever.”

  “Like Gregson?”

  “Maybe.” He met my eyes. “We have Gregson’s phone records somewhere around here. I know there were a few different calls from burner phones. Maybe one of them would trace back to Shepherd. Hell, if we can run through the numbers, we can determine where the phones were sold and pull security footage if it hasn’t been that long.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work,” Ryan said, returning from his call. “But that’s what we do after all.” He acknowledged O’Connell with a friendly grin. “Farrell and Jablonsky are moving forward on sticking all of the pieces together. The uncovered account numbers, Nancy Shepherd, Barlow, Devereaux, Mallick, even the car parts.”

  “Have they made any progress on finding the sniper?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “I can help on that,” Nick
offered. “We’ve identified the type of weapon. We’re tracking gun sales, but it probably isn’t registered. Instead, we’re looking for ammunition sales. Bullets like this aren’t too common. We might get lucky.”

  “Great.” I stood up, gasping at a sudden sharp pain. The two men watched cautiously, and Ryan hovered close in case I collapsed. “I’m okay. The damn ibuprofen wore off a few hours ago.”

  “Why don’t we take a break?” Ryan suggested. “I could use some sleep.” Nick nodded toward the door, and I patted his shoulder on my way out.

  “Call if something concrete surfaces.”

  “Absolutely,” he responded.

  I dropped Ryan off at his hotel. The threat of being followed or abducted a second time seemed particularly slim based on our assumption that the Camel was in custody, even though we didn’t have enough proof to file charges. At least one psychopath was off the streets. All we needed was to prove it and find the sniper. I was certain Scott Shepherd screwed up, and once we found out where or when, we’d have the evidence we needed. As I considered my options, I dialed Martin.

  “Do you mind if I crash at your place?” I asked. There was no reason why I couldn’t go home, but Martin should be at work now. And since O’Connell said he had been worried and calling for updates, maybe I could alleviate some of his worry.

  “Since when do you ask permission?”

  “Okay, well, I’m taking a break and need to get some sleep, so I’ll be there for a while. I’ll probably be gone by the time you get home, but if I leave a mess, I promise to come back later and clean up.”

  “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine, just sore from sitting behind a desk all night.” I put on my signal light and turned, heading for his house. “Maybe you can point me in the right direction to find that muscle rub from the other morning.”

  “It’s in the master bathroom next to the sink.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you sometime tonight, unless I stay at work all night again.”

  “I’ll see you later.” He hung up, and I pulled into the garage and went upstairs.

  * * *

  “Alex?” I opened an eye at the sound of Martin’s voice. He was crouched next to the couch, attempting to determine where I began and the layers of ultra plush blankets that I was using as a cocoon ended. “I thought you’d be in bed.”

  “This is the first comfortable position I’ve found.” Somewhere in this mess of blankets were a few ice packs which no longer felt cold. Either they worked, and I was numb, or they were no longer cold. Stretching, I realized it was one o’clock. “You’re home early.”

  “I came home for lunch.” He sat on the edge of the couch. “Forgive me, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He smirked.

  “Yeah, I heard. O’Connell said you’ve been asking for updates.” I sat up, realizing it would soon be time to go back to work. “Martin, now’s not the best time for this conversation, but I’ve been thinking about going back to work.” He looked puzzled. “For Mark. At the OIO. For good.”

  “What prompted this?” he asked, failing to keep the bitter tone out of his voice.

  “My nightmares. Ryan. The fact that I’m tired of running away from the one thing that I’ve always wanted.” I swallowed. “No matter how much I try to tell myself I don’t want that life, a part of me still does. That job is the only one I know how to do. Even you pointed out that I can’t stop myself from doing this.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s something that will happen, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I just thought I should share since you’ve been hounding me about what I’ve been thinking.” I winked, trying to make it sound playful.

  He ran his thumb across my cheek. “Do you want some breakfast?” He looked at his watch. “I’ll make you pancakes before I go, okay?”

  “Sure.” Obviously, he wasn’t ready to talk about this right now, but at least I put it out there. Whether or not it ever comes to fruition is beside the point.

  After breakfast, Martin covered my back and sides in muscle rub and left for the office. I changed clothes and picked up Ryan. On the way to the OIO building, Farrell called and informed us of a plan being set in motion. Detouring, we arrived in time for the briefing.

  “All right, people,” Jablonsky began, “as you know, we’ve discovered the apparent link between the Shepherds and our contract killer. The automotive part which was delivered to Chase Devereaux the night Parker went to his hotel suite matches the make and model of the vehicle Nancy Shepherd drives. Based upon her infidelity and the exorbitant alimony settlement she received, our prime suspect is her ex-husband, Scott Shepherd.”

  “Mr. Shepherd obviously claims he has nothing to do with the crime, and since we don’t have a body and slim evidence that a hit was ever ordered, it’s been difficult to ascertain enough clear-cut evidence for an arrest warrant,” Farrell added.

  “Furthermore, we’re assuming Chase Devereaux is our euphemistic dromedary killer, but he isn’t talking. Reginald Barlow and Virgil Mallick, his two associates, have been pandering.” Mark looked at me. “Yesterday, Parker convinced Mallick to open up. He drew this.” He held up a copy of Virgil’s doodle. “But it will be difficult to convince a judge this is legitimate.”

  “That’s probably why he did it,” Ryan muttered.

  “However, given the automotive parts and Barlow’s business, we’re threatening to pin the murders on him unless he gives us Devereaux,” Farrell concluded. “An AUSA is on the way.”

  “In the meantime,” Mark interrupted, “our biggest problem is the appearance of a yet to be identified sniper. We have to assume it’s someone Devereaux contracted. We’re still reviewing his financials, phone records, and searching through his contacts, but as of yet, we don’t know who this guy could be. Ideally, we locate the sniper and bring him in.”

  “How do we do that?” someone asked from the back of the room.

  “We send in a decoy. The real Nancy Shepherd is in protective custody, so we’ll send an agent in to impersonate her. We’ll keep tactical teams on standby and agents surrounding all the possible vantage points, and we wait,” Farrell insisted.

  It didn’t sound like a great plan, particularly since I thought the point of the sniper was to throw suspicion off Devereaux, not to actually partake in the hits. As soon as the room cleared, I voiced this to Mark.

  “It’s all we can do.”

  “Your time would be better spent surveilling the locations Devereaux used for his business,” I argued. “Maybe he made contact with someone about procuring drugs or finding a shooter to throw us off the scent.”

  “Then maybe you and Donough ought to do that,” Mark ordered, leaving the room.

  “I say we go back to the precinct,” Ryan suggested. “The detectives have a better handle on this than anyone.” He tossed a contemptuous glance at the other agents, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Sometimes, they really were a piece of work, and it seemed Ryan finally realized it.

  Thirty-seven

  “We’ve got the son of a bitch,” Heathcliff exclaimed, darting out of his chair and into Moretti’s office. A few minutes later, the lieutenant and Heathcliff emerged. “The sniper’s been identified as one of Robert Gregson’s associates.”

  “Big surprise,” Thompson muttered from his desk.

  “Do we have a name?” O’Connell asked, prepared to pull records.

  “Elmer Neville,” Moretti offered. “He was identified as buying the bullets used in the rifle. I’ll send a few uniforms to question the store owner, and I’ve already requested a transfer of Mr. Gregson for another round of questioning. Do you think you can break him this time?”

  “We’ll do our best, sir,” O’Connell muttered.

  The LT disappeared into his office, and Ryan spun to face us. “I’d like to try my hand at speaking with Gregson.” O’Connell nodded, and we went back to work.

  While we waited
for Gregson to be secured, the OIO called with an update of their own. One of the calls Devereaux received from a burner phone traced back to a purchase made at a convenience store a couple of blocks from Scott Shepherd’s office. And upon careful review of the footage, Shepherd was identified as purchasing the phone. Farrell and Mark took another crack at Devereaux, but he didn’t talk. Instead, they presented this information to Shepherd and his attorney, and in exchange for valuable cooperation, they would drop the conspiracy to commit and attempted murder charges.

  “We have the identity of the sniper,” I relayed, watching as O’Connell and Donough left for the interrogation room. “Elmer Neville. The PD’s bringing him in now. With any luck, we’ll have everything wrapped in a nice neat bow by dinnertime.”

  “Parker, it’s been nice having you on board, despite what I may have said earlier,” Mark admitted before disconnecting.

  Carefully stretching, I stood up from the desk and went down the hallway to the observation room. Just because I already questioned Robert Gregson once didn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy watching some actual cops do the job the proper way.

  “Care to explain why you’re the proud owner of German bearer bonds?” Nick asked, taking a seat and tossing a glance at Ryan. “It seems a strange way to get paid, especially when everyone else was handed overseas bank accounts.”

  “Does my deal still stand for full immunity?” Gregson asked, and Nick gave a curt nod.

  “Fine. Then I’ll tell you.” Robert leaned back in the chair. “Reggie and I had an arrangement. We’re comfortable with one another, but within the last two years, he’s dealt with internal strife. He needed more products, the names of certain locations that could provide safety away from prying eyes, establishments that could produce realistic documentation that wouldn’t come under scrutiny by Customs, and another six vehicles delivered immediately. Some major changes were taking place within his business, and it didn’t smell right to me.”