by G. K. Parks
“So be on the lookout for stupid?”
“BOLOS,” he joked. “The photograph of the man Carver took a few weeks ago pinged in Interpol’s database. His name is Ivan Sarskov. He has peripheral ties to the Russian mafia. His family is known for dealing weapons to small groups in Chechnya, the Baltics, and parts of the Mediterranean. We’re working under the assumption he’s buying from Spilano, but things aren’t always what they appear. Keep your eyes open and your ear to the ground.” He blew out a breath. “Goddamn bureaucracy,” he cursed quietly, “agents are raiding the restaurant tonight. We’re hoping to get a look around without Spilano being there, but who knows how that’s going to play out. Make sure you keep your cover intact. Don’t do anything too ostentatious tonight, and keep Carver on a tight leash.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a hierarchy regarding our undercover work.”
“Parker, it’s my op which means I’m putting you in charge of making sure Carver doesn’t act recklessly.”
“Can I have a taser instead?” I smirked.
“Get out of here.”
I left the office and was in the midst of speaking to the analyst concerning Sarskov and Spilano when Michael appeared behind me in a snazzy suit. The analyst started over, and once the briefing was concluded, we went downstairs to the garage and headed for the gallery. During the drive, I warned Michael to keep a lid on things and do his best to blend in.
“How the hell can I blend in when I’m dressed like this and with you on my arm?” he asked. He was attempting suave, but given the current pre-op jitters I couldn’t shake, the compliment fell on deaf ears.
We pretended to be in the know on all things art related as we worked the party, doing our best to remain in one another’s company most of the night. A guest had some questions on purchasing a particular photograph, and since I worked at P&P, I led him to one of the owners to begin the paperwork. By the time I returned, Michael was deep in conversation with Spilano. Shit, I thought as I hurried over, hoping it was nothing but casual conversation.
“Alex, you look stunning.” Victor smiled and hugged me. “Your beau was just telling me that you have yet to decide where to have your rehearsal dinner.”
I smiled brightly, wanting nothing more than to knock some sense into Michael.
“Honey,” he wrapped his arm tightly around my waist, “what do you think of having it at Specialty Vineyard? You absolutely raved about the food, and the restaurant is lovely.”
“So lovely.” I smiled at Victor. “Can you excuse us for just a moment?” He nodded and turned back to gaze at the art. I dragged Michael into the next room and angrily whispered to him, “What the hell are you doing?”
“He started it.” I didn’t believe a word he said. “Just follow my lead. It’ll be fine.” Without waiting for a response, he went back into the other room, leaving me no choice but to follow.
“Well?” Spilano looked at us expectantly.
“It’s decided.” Michael put his arm around me again and crushed me against his side. “It will be the third Thursday in April. We still have a million other plans to make. Cake and flowers and linens. You know how women are.” He gave me a squeeze as if this was all my idea. “But we can’t live without them, can we?”
“I’d like to see you try.” It was said in a kidding tone, but Michael got the point and backed off a little. “Since it’s still three months away, can we wait to decide menu choices? My mom’s a vegetarian and his sister is currently trying out Veganism. We’re hoping to get everyone to agree to chicken or beef by the time the wedding rolls around, but who knows how that’s going to work.”
“No rush.” Spilano gave us a questioning look, and without permission, Michael leaned in and kissed me passionately. I was fighting the urge to shove him away, when I heard Spilano quietly excuse himself. Making sure the coast was clear, I bit Michael’s lip, and he stepped back.
“Hey,” he exclaimed.
I gave him my most lethal drop dead look. “Don’t,” I quietly snarled.
This entire evening was going horribly wrong. Carver couldn’t follow orders, and there was a chance Spilano might be getting suspicious. There was the even more frightening possibility that if we were still undercover in three months, we’d have to fake a rehearsal dinner. God, if I had to spend three more months with Michael Carver, one of us was going to resign. Hopefully, his personal constitution was pliable or his pain threshold was low because I worked too hard to get here.
The next hour was fine. Spilano worked the party, talking to some guests and the owners. It seemed he was discussing the business angle, asking about the number of caterers, the liquor and wine choices, and whether they wanted to do a floating event that could begin at the restaurant and wind up at the gallery or vice versa. Just as I began to think Carver didn’t sabotage the op and it was all going to be okay, Spilano took a call. He turned crimson and then blanched. Hanging up the phone, he turned to the group he was speaking to and quickly extricated himself.
“Is everything okay?” Michael asked him as he rushed past.
“No. The goddamn FBI is raiding my restaurant.”
Seven
After Spilano left, I dialed Jablonsky and told him Victor was on his way. I was sure there would be the threat of lawsuits for harassment and the usual rigmarole of protests that went along with search warrants. Sighing, I wasn’t sure if we had to stay the rest of the night at P&P or if we were free to go.
“I can’t believe you bit me,” Michael muttered as I took to leaning in a secluded corner of the gallery. What I wanted was to go back to the office and get started cataloging whatever evidence they might be collecting. But since I was stuck here, I wanted time alone to think. The warrant had been for weapons and shipping manifests. At the very least, we would be able to go through the restaurant’s order forms for something sinister.
“You’re lucky that’s all I did. You try something again, and you’ll have a new career as a soprano.”
“Feisty,” he remarked, positioning himself next to me. “I did say I was okay with a little biting, but I never expected you to take it so literally.”
Ignoring him, we stood silently as the party died down, and the remaining guests started to trickle out. When there was no reason left to stay, we went back to the office. Not a single word was exchanged the rest of the night.
As Jablonsky predicted, the search was inconclusive. The records had been run and rerun, and although we were cross-referencing them with alleged weapons trafficking, it seemed more hit or miss. There was something here. There had to be. Surveillance still had eyes on Spilano and his restaurant, but now that he’d been tipped off, he would be more cautious. At least he would if he had half a brain. Boyle was adamant that criminals always trip themselves up, and we’d catch him red-handed. This seemed to be an unrealistic pipe dream, but he had years of experience dictating otherwise.
“Parker?” I looked up. The sun had risen without my noticing. “You’re in early,” Kate commented on her way to the coffeepot, “especially for a weekend.”
“I guess.” I wasn’t about to tell her I didn’t go home last night. “What are you doing here? I thought desk jockeys only work weekdays.” It was part of the back and forth we exchanged whenever we ran into each other in the halls or elevator.
“Tell that to my supervisor.” She continued down the hallway but brilliance struck, and I called her back.
“Can you do me a favor?” I held up the stack of shipping manifests. There had been a few account numbers listed. “If you get a chance, run down these accounts.” I explained the situation and how we obtained the information because I didn’t want to risk tainting the investigation with any illegal actions.
“Fine, but that means you owe me. And I’m cashing in the first night we both have off. Pub crawl and you’re buying,” she smiled evilly, “until I find an attractive gentleman to foot the bill.” Maybe the research was true. Kate was in her thirties and clearly at her sexual pea
k. I just wished she would grow out of this juvenile and semi-reckless behavior.
“A restaurant with a bar and we’ll split a bottle of wine.”
“Deal.” She copied the relevant account numbers and promised to call as soon as she had something solid.
Getting up, I stretched. The office was a ghost town. It should be easy to sneak out and go home without anyone making a fuss. As I made my way toward the elevator, I spotted the door cracked open to Mark’s office. What the hell was he doing here on a Sunday? Inside, he was asleep on the tiny couch in the corner. Tomorrow, I would give him hell for busting my chops for working such crazy hours when he was clearly doing the same.
Once home, I changed and crawled into bed. Everything I read blurred into a constant running thought wisp in my brain, and there was no off switch. My brain was gnawing on something. It was nonstop and frustrating as hell. Eventually, I dragged myself out of bed and found a blank notepad. Starting at the beginning, I listed all the facts I knew to be true about Victor Spilano, Specialty Vineyard, and the confiscated weapons. The one piece that didn’t fit was Sarskov. Why would one arms dealer have any interaction with another? It made no sense. Arms dealers weren’t card carrying members of an exclusive club, just like drug dealers didn’t go to a weekly gathering to exchange sales advice. The only reason competitors would meet would be to make threats.
Accessing the databases, Ivan Sarskov was a businessman. He owned half a dozen strip joints. His suspected ties to the Russian mafia were all unsubstantiated, at least from a legal standpoint. The guy didn’t have a jacket. He was clean, just like Spilano. The only difference was Sarskov’s two brothers had both been arrested for drugs, gambling, solicitation, and assault. Maybe being the black sheep in a family wasn’t always a bad thing. Either that or Ivan had gotten all the brains and managed to keep his illegal habits under wraps. My guess, he was running drugs and girls out of his clubs, maybe weapons too.
I stopped writing and began pacing my apartment. Strip joints were Petri dishes for crime, but Specialty Vineyard was an upscale restaurant. The facts didn’t fit the accusations. “What the hell am I missing?” I asked the empty room. No one answered which was probably a good thing because if I got an answer that would mean I was certifiable. Why was an investigation ever opened on Victor Spilano anyway?
Even before Boyle and Carver showed up, Jablonsky sent Spilano’s file across my desk. The investigation was in the works and had been for months, but no one told me what the impetus was. It never seemed important to ask until now.
“Carver,” Michael answered on the second ring.
“What made Victor Spilano a person of interest?”
“He’s selling and smuggling weapons. That violates dozens of federal and international laws.”
Before he could continue with the history lesson, I interjected, “Originally.”
“Huh,” he sounded puzzled. “Hang on.” I heard some papers being shuffled around. “Traces of plastic explosive were identified by TSA on one of his wine shipments four months ago.”
“Who was the seller?” Could we have been wrong all along?
“I don’t know. It’s in the official report. You mean to tell me you haven’t memorized the entire thing by now?”
“Ha. Ha.” My mind was racing, and everything I needed was at the office. The problem was I also needed some help to access all of it. It was a Sunday, and after the long hours we’d all been putting in, I didn’t think calling in an analyst was a good idea. I was still the newest agent and somewhat of a joke since I had yet to complete a case.
“Alex?” he asked. The phone had been forgotten as I considered my resources. “You can’t go through four months of research by yourself.”
“Sure I can.” I hung up, changed, and went back to the office.
When I got there, Michael was sitting at my desk. There were two boxes full of files, surveillance, and documents on the floor. He had the computer running a search as he leafed through the condensed file that Boyle and Jablonsky compiled at the beginning of the op.
“Okay, so from what I’ve read, Spilano was questioned at the time his property was confiscated by TSA. As predicted, he claimed to possess no knowledge of explosives, C4 or otherwise. And since there were no actual weapons within the shipment, the items were returned to him, minus the packaging.” I pulled up a chair and sat next to him. “We probably would have let it go, but less than a week later, Spilano traveled to Pakistan. He was gone for two weeks. According to his passport records, he went from Pakistan to India, then Dubai, Turkey, stopped at Greece, hit England, and then home.”
“Vacation?”
“He cited business for his reason to travel.”
We lived in tumultuous times, and many of the places in the Middle East and even Eastern Europe could be considered hotbeds for terrorism or other illegal activities. Even innocent travelers could come under scrutiny. The traces of explosive on his packing crates the week before had done nothing to alleviate his questionable travel itinerary. One plus one equals two, right?
“What did Boyle say about all of this?”
“We were keeping tabs on Spilano for obvious reasons, and when we uncovered actual weapons, it was the first solid lead we had. That’s when he ran through the database, found the files your division compiled, and we hopped a plane.”
I rubbed my face. It just didn’t feel right.
“You seriously can’t believe this guy is being set-up,” Michael said.
“Something doesn’t jive.” I pointed out the flaws in our reasoning, particularly concerning Sarskov, but Carver wasn’t dissuaded.
“Why the hell did he rush out of P&P last night if he isn’t doing anything wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the two separate parties that both pointed the finger at Spilano. He was on their property. He used their resources to make shipments, and lo and behold, the shipments are nothing but contraband. But he’s innocent, I forgot.” He was aggravated. “You’ve lost your damn mind.” He got up and slammed the chair against the desk.
“Did I ask for your goddamn help?” His comments pissed me off. “This is my gut instinct talking, so I’ll react the way I see fit. You can get the hell out of here.” I slid his chair out of my way and rolled in front of the computer, typing a search on Ivan Sarskov.
Having reconsidered his options and blown off enough steam with his minor temper tantrum, he came back to the desk. “If you’re right about this, I’m taking half the credit.” He scooted the chair back and opened the second box of files. “But if you’re wrong, I’m not taking half the heat.”
“Son of a bitch,” I caught his eye and winked, “all of the benefits and none of the consequences. I wish I had a partner like yours.”
Eight
“Don’t tell me Parker’s work ethic has rubbed off on the rest of the team,” Jablonsky sighed as he walked up to my desk and stared at the scattered files and notes.
“She can be persuasive,” Carver retorted, not bothering to glance up from the computer.
“I didn’t ask you to help,” I growled, dropping my pen on the paper and blinking a few times. My eyes were dry from spending so many hours reading. “What are you doing here, Jablonsky?”
He ignored my question and read over my shoulder. “Are you moonlighting for a defense attorney?”
“No.” My answer was succinct, but he wanted some elaboration because he nudged the back of my chair. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
Michael mumbled something derogatory about women and their intuition.
“My office, now.” Mark led the way and shut the door. “What do you mean it doesn’t feel right?”
“Sarskov and Spilano, they don’t fit. Not together.” I couldn’t verbalize it. “What if everything has been circumstantial and Spilano’s just been in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Jesus, Parker.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We’ve had corroboration. Evidence. Hell
, we even had enough to get a search warrant. How can you start doubting the entire operation? Why?” His volume was increasing with every syllable. “Are you spiraling into some kind of nervous breakdown? I thought you showed promise as an agent, but agents don’t do this. You’re wasting your time, Carver’s time, and now my time. Get out.”
“But sir,” it felt like I had just been punched in the gut, “why would one arms dealer be colluding with another?”
“Maybe they’re debating territory. Maybe they want to join forces and open Guns ‘R Us. Maybe they’re best friends from college. Who cares? Your job is to investigate Victor Spilano.” He paused, his face red from the constant yelling. “Actually, your job isn’t even to investigate; it’s to gather intel while undercover. How’s that going? So far, I’m not sure you’ve brought anything worthwhile to my attention. It seems Carver has to make all the moves, doesn’t he?”
“This is bullshit.” I turned and walked out of Jablonsky’s office, not waiting to be dismissed. Michael glanced up but remained speechless. “Go home.” I shook my head, trying to shake off the verbal barrage I just dealt with. “Spilano’s dirty. Our job is to nail scum to the wall, and he’s scum.”
To his credit, Michael didn’t waver. He remained at the computer, searching for additional information and connections between Sarskov and Spilano. Jablonsky stayed in his office, likely fuming over my insubordination. I wasn’t sure what to do. I was told to stop, but the little voice in my head was saying we were close to something. After my nerves regrouped, I continued at a faster pace than before, convinced any moment Mark would ask for my badge and resignation.
“Oh my god, Alex.” Kate interrupted my thoughts as she practically ran down the hallway toward us. “Do you have any idea what you’ve stumbled upon?”
“What?”
Michael turned in his chair, and Jablonsky came out of his office at the sound of Kate’s commotion.
“Agent Hartley,” Jablonsky gave her a skeptical look, “has Agent Parker dragged you into this cockamamie research project also?”
