by G. K. Parks
“Whatever.” I opened my desk drawer and grabbed a notepad and pen. “But this is my desk.”
“C’mon, Alex, don’t you know how to share?”
“Nope.” I tried to hide my smile. “It is nice to see you again, Michael.” I walked away before he could come up with a cheeky response.
After going over all the information regarding the arrests, our time in Paris, and anything else the powers that be deemed pertinent, I found my way back to the parking garage. Jablonsky was upstairs, typing his report, and we were both scheduled tomorrow afternoon for the much more official debrief and meeting with the Interpol liaison. Right now, I just wanted to go home and crash. Even though it was around five, my body was on Paris time, and I was convinced it was getting close to bedtime.
Letting myself into my apartment, I found the place covered in a layer of dust. The air smelled stale, and the room was stuffy. I cracked open the fire escape, changed the thermostat, and ordered a pizza. While I waited for dinner to arrive, hoping it would be twenty minutes or less as promised, I changed the sheets on my bed, pulled out some clean towels, and unpacked my luggage. After eating, I took a shower and went to bed before eight. I woke up at four a.m. and cursed my screwed up sleep schedule. Having nothing better to do, I spent the rest of the night cleaning my apartment, writing out a grocery list, and running on the treadmill. By eight a.m., I was ready to go back to work.
When I arrived at the OIO building, Jablonsky wasn’t in yet, and I got reacquainted with my co-workers and friends. There were a dozen open cases on my desk that needed attention. As I perused the folders, it felt like I was starting over. Being gone for an extended amount of time must have that effect. It’s not like time stood still while I was away. Once again, I was behind.
“Playing catch up?” Michael asked from his desk, diagonally across the room from mine.
“Sucks,” I retorted. “Did you leave all of this for me yesterday? Or were you trying to figure out where I keep the good pens?”
“The good pens are in the top right drawer,” he teased, “and I thought you’d want everything waiting when you got back. You’re like a damn robot. Predictable as hell.” Letting the comment go, I glowered at the files as I began making personal notes on the current open cases. “If you want, we can get together this weekend, and I’ll catch you up to speed.” Judging his expression, I wondered if he was being sincere. “Dobbs did the same for me. I’m just paying it forward.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Two
After our meetings and conferences, the file on Paris was closed and no longer our concern. It was nice to be back in familiar territory where English was the only language spoken. Settling behind my desk with a soup cup filled with coffee, I read through my e-mails, office memoranda, statements that had been passed along by Homeland Security, and began again on the stack of files. It was Thursday, and although I was trying to adjust, the trip had left me exhausted and overwhelmed.
“Y’know, you could call in sick tomorrow,” Carver suggested, jerking his chin toward my blank notepad.
“I’m not sick.”
Jablonsky came down the hall and went into his office. He nodded to Michael. If my boss could do it, so could I.
“It’s just one more day, and then I’m off this weekend.” Or so I hoped.
“Maybe you need to change your batteries or plug into the wall or whatever it is robots do,” he quipped.
I gave him a death stare, and he went about his business.
The rest of the day and the next moved at a snail’s pace, or at least I did. Friday at four, I called it quits and went home. Curling up on the couch, I didn’t move unless it became absolutely necessary.
Saturday afternoon, there was annoying knocking at my door, and without looking, I knew it was Michael. He had a messenger bag slung across his chest, a six pack of beer in one hand, and a plastic bag with the logo from the deli down the street.
“I’ve come prepared for everything,” he announced, entering my apartment. “And I do mean everything.” The innuendo was not lost on me, but I chose to ignore it. Michael was a bit of a flirt, and sometimes, it was hard to tell when the teasing stopped and the serious began. My general approach was to take everything non-work related as a joke. “Was I wrong to assume your fridge is empty?”
“Not at all.” I grabbed the bag from his hand and poked my head inside as I carried it to the coffee table. “But I would have ordered in.”
He shrugged and put the beer in the fridge before coming back into the living room with all the necessary work documentation still inside his bag. “It was on my way.” He took a seat on the floor and began pulling out stacks of paper as I evaluated the sandwiches and got up to get some plates and flatware. “This feels like déjà vu,” he surmised.
“Are you here for good?” I asked, putting a paper plate and napkin in front of him. Grabbing a turkey and cheddar sandwich, I struggled with the incorrigible plastic wrap as Michael watched.
“It looks that way. Afraid I’m moving in on your territory and going to outperform you, again?” We were highly competitive sometimes.
“Ha.” I met his eyes. “But I thought you liked it in LA.”
“The OIO might be a better fit. Now, do you want to catch up with me or with the paperwork because frankly I’m good with either?”
“Maybe a bit of both.”
Carver spent hours going over leads and the current circumstances surrounding a dozen cases that made their way to our office. He didn’t complain once, despite the constant questions I posed. It had grown dark outside, and my notes were plentiful. Everything that I could glean from the files was instilled within my being. Anything else I should know could be picked up from investigating or observing.
“You think you have it all down?” he asked, packing everything back into his bag.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Well, the way I remember it, I owe you. This probably doesn’t quite make up for that, but it’s a start.”
I shook my head. “You don’t owe me. Let’s not talk about that. I didn’t get fired; you didn’t get killed. It’s all good.” He looked a little grim. “What’s it like working in my neck of the woods?” I rerouted the conversation to something more pleasant.
“Pretty good.” He smirked. “If you and Jablonsky weren’t shipped off to Paris, I might still be in LA. So if things go south, it’s your fault.” He looked mischievous. “Want to grab dinner and you can tell me about your trip?”
“Okay.”
I changed quickly out of my tank top and sweats and into something more appropriate and treated Carver to dinner. It was the least I could do. We ate and talked while we sat at a back booth in the neighborhood sports bar. It was Saturday, so with the exception of some college sports fans, the bar was rather subdued. Afterward, he walked me home and collected his belongings. Although I’d never admit this to him, I was glad to have another familiar face at the office. It was also nice not being the only probationary agent. Someone else could be picked on just as much as I was and forced to do the menial tasks and the shitty assignments.
* * *
Several weeks later, I was no longer a probationary agent. After the official paperwork was forwarded to the pertinent parties and I had some options concerning transferring to a different office, Jablonsky took me out to dinner. Apparently, the rest of the team had been invited. Seeing as how Carver and I graduated Quantico together and were both active agents now, everyone wanted an excuse to celebrate on the government’s dime.
“Welcome to being full-fledged members of the team,” Sam Boyle, Carver’s supervisor, toasted. If Mark told me this was a social outing, I would have declined. Crowds and parties weren’t my scene, and the dozen members of the OIO present counted as a party in my mind. “Any idea where you might want to go from here?”
I glanced up, wondering what Michael was going to say. He shrugged and picked up his bourbon. Maybe I c
ould learn a few tricks on keeping my mouth shut from him.
“Parker,” Mark commanded my attention, “are you planning to stick around?”
“That depends on how many more overseas assignments you want to drop in my lap,” I retorted, and he chuckled. “Are you counting the days until you’re rid of me?”
There was the briefest flicker of emotion across Mark’s face before he responded, “I’m counting the days until you stop being a huge pain in my ass.”
“In that case, I’m not going anywhere. Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”
“Watch it. I’m still your boss.”
The conversation found a focus which was no longer me, and I stared into nothingness as I considered what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. This was the first time I felt like I belonged. The first place I had an apartment and a real home with people I cared about, even if they were just curmudgeonly federal agents. Leaving it to start over somewhere else seemed counterproductive. Maybe I just hated change. Tomorrow, I’d ask Mark if there was a permanent position for me at the OIO or if a transfer was necessary, but tonight, I was determined to celebrate.
An hour later, the chorus of cell phones began with Jablonsky and ended with Carver. There was a recent development on a major case, so we were all summoned back to work. Boyle glanced at Carver, who by all accounts had one too many to go back to work. The problem with being in law enforcement, you were always on call. That meant being drunk was never allowed, but something that happened all too frequently.
“Parker,” Boyle directed his comment to me, “why don’t you and Carver take the rest of the night off. You’ve both earned it.” He didn’t want to point out Carver’s condition to the rest of the table. “Just make sure to show up first thing in the morning, and we’ll get you up to speed.”
“Aye, sir,” I responded.
Mark paid the check as the rest of the group left. “Congratulations, again,” he whispered, putting his jacket on. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
“Absolutely,” I paused, “sir.” He hated it when I called him that. Narrowing his eyes, he headed out the door as Michael and I stared at the empty table and the remainder of the bottle of champagne. “What the hell.” I picked up the bottle and refilled my glass and then poured the last few drops into his glass.
“Agent Parker.” He held up his glass, smiling like a kid in a candy store.
“Agent Carver.” I grinned. Tomorrow would be business as usual, but tonight, there was no reason to let perfectly good champagne go to waste.
Three
The next morning, I was happy to report I wasn’t hungover. Carver didn’t appear to be either, but maybe he found an EMT to hook him up to a banana bag between then and now. He was pretty wasted last night when I shoved him into a cab and gave the driver his address. Luckily, he pulled it together and showed up looking professional and ready to work.
Last night, a tip came in on an impending robbery. One of our cases, which we had made little headway on, involved a string of robberies. Most of them involved liquor and grocery stores, but each time, the ATM was the focus of the theft. Since ATM’s were considered bank property which fell under the jurisdiction of the federal government, we were assisting the FBI in tracking the robbers. While dozens of anonymous tips flooded the hotline over the last two weeks, none had shown any promise. An individual caller last week had given a location, and believing it to be a hoax, we didn’t do anything to safeguard against the robbery. Last night, confirmation came in on the tip.
The thieves were escalating, and our tipster had provided additional details, naming future locations including a bank. Phone records were pulled, but it was from one of the city’s few remaining payphones. Nearby CCTV footage was being compiled to see if we could identify the tipster based on timestamp. Once that was accomplished, facial recognition would run nonstop until we put a name to a face. Honestly, I was glad I wasn’t here last night, reading through the call logs. Every once in a while, the job was more tedious than fulfilling.
“In my office,” Jablonsky barked as I was leaving the conference room. I followed him down the hall and shut the door as instructed. “Are you ready for your first assignment?”
“I’m pretty sure we’ve been there done that.”
“True, but you’re not wet behind the ears anymore.” He was exuding apprehension, and given my track record with firsts, I understood why. “Until we can identify our tipster and find out how he knows what’s going to happen, the Director wants to send an agent inside the bank. The bank manager has agreed, and given the demographic of employees, you fit the bill.”
“Why? Because I can count without using my fingers?”
“Wow, you’re just full of positive attributes.” He outmatched my sarcasm. “Most of the bank tellers are women, early twenties, either starting a career or working while continuing their education. If we send you inside, no one will be suspicious.”
“Because I don’t look like a federal agent?” This was a sexist world we lived in.
“That and because you got carded last night at dinner. The waiter wasn’t even sure you were twenty-fucking-one.”
“He needed glasses, and he’s five years too late for that.” Sighing, I didn’t want to be insubordinate. “Fine, point me in the right direction, and I’ll assist on all your banking needs.” I adopted a mechanical voice.
“Excellent.” Mark led me down the hallway and into another conference room where a few seasoned agents counseled me on the proper methods for blending in and keeping an eye out for suspicious behavior.
Around lunchtime, I met with Mr. Brandon Sharpe, the bank manager of Mutual One. He ushered me into his office and told his assistant not to bother us while he conducted the interview. After we finished, he gave me a tour and announced he’d call in the next few days to let me know if I got the job. I was positive I was a shoo-in.
Arriving back at the OIO building, the techs were still trying to pinpoint the source of the tip. They had yet to find a usable angle from the city’s surveillance cameras. The two other locations mentioned in the tip were being scouted. One was an ATM on the street that was going to be monitored by a twenty-four hour surveillance van, and a tactical team would remain on standby. The second location was a convenience store with an in-store ATM machine. Agent Boyle was being sent inside to work the counter and keep an eye out. At least I wasn’t the only one getting an undercover assignment. Who knows, maybe before I started my bank job, the thieves would be arrested.
“How come you get to play dress-up?” Carver asked. He approached my desk and looked over my shoulder as I reread the robbery reports, the FBI’s memos, and what the OIO compiled on its own.
“It’s because my legs look great in a skirt.” I didn’t bother to look up.
“Okay.” He didn’t know if I was kidding or serious. That made two of us. “Boyle wanted to know when you’re starting at the bank.”
“Two days from now. I start training Thursday morning.” I shut the file. There was nothing else to learn. At least working as a bank teller didn’t require an elaborate planted background. “I’ll finish learning the ropes by end of business Friday, and by Monday, I’ll be stationed at the front counter.”
“Where’s the bank’s ATM?”
“Front foyer as soon as you walk inside.” I bit my lip, recalling the single bank security guard who had been chatting up one of the loan officers. The guy was probably sixty, not necessarily the best theft deterrent. “There’s going to be a team nearby. If the thieves make a run at the ATM, I’ll radio it in, and by the time they start to think they’re getting away scot-free, tactical will be pointing assault rifles in their faces. Should be simple.”
“Assuming you notice them jacking the machine,” Carver retorted. “You might be bogged down counting some old lady’s pennies.”
“I can multitask.”
“Great,” Jablonsky said from behind, “then you can go over the bank security systems
while you brief your back-up unit.”
“Right away, sir,” I said to annoy Mark as I stood and grabbed the relevant folder. Glaring at Carver for getting me in trouble, I brushed past him and into one of the conference rooms.
* * *
By Monday morning, the techs had given up trying to identify the tipster. There weren’t any good angles to locate him, and even when they tried to follow him from the phone booth, he looked and dressed in such a nondescript fashion that they lost him in a throng of people. Boyle was positioned at the convenience store, but aside from some punks who were more interested in stealing beer than cash, there hadn’t been a blip from any of the three locations. The tipster hadn’t called since, so without even a peep, we had no new developments or leads.
My heels clacked against the tile floor as I entered the bank in a mid-length skirt, a cute blouse, and my brown hair was down. I didn’t look like a federal agent. One of my co-workers offered a smile as I reached across and lifted the latch to get behind the front counter. Mr. Sharpe came out of his office to welcome his newest employee.
“Alex, welcome to the Mutual One family,” he gushed. I hoped he acted like this with everyone and not just me or else he’d blow my cover within my first ten minutes on the job.
“Thank you, sir.” I logged into the computer with my bank-provided access code. “I’m ready to get to work.” He nodded, understanding the double meaning and went back to his office.
As customers began filtering in, I scoped out the layout in between entering deposits and handing out cash for withdrawals. The entrance and exit were separate doors directly in front of me. The ATM machine was positioned between the two doors, against the wall. The left side of the room was comprised of loan offices, three separate cubicles, and a small waiting area with a couple of couches, a few tables, and a television. The right side contained a file room and Mr. Sharpe’s office with a door to the vault and safe deposit boxes that were nestled on the main floor but walled in so as not to be seen by your average customer. Upstairs contained more offices for other people with titles, two bathrooms, a break room, and a corridor that led down a back staircase to the vault and safe deposit boxes.
