Thick Fog (Alexis Parker Book 18)

by G. K. Parks

  “I never said you were, but you’re wrong.” I stared at her. “Get off your high horse. You never gave a fuck about him. If you did, you wouldn’t have left him.”

  “You shot a guy?” O’Connell asked, more amused than he should have been.

  “Renee,” Martin slid onto the bench beside me and put a hand on my thigh to keep me from doing something I’d regret, “Mark would never cheat on you. You know that. And I suggest you refrain from making such allegations lest you want me to remind you who the cheater in your relationship was. Like I said before, you need to leave. When he’s feeling better, I’ll let him know you dropped by.”

  She turned her venomous gaze on Martin, but he just stared at her. Indifferent. Uncompromising. “I loved him, you know,” she insisted.

  “Is that why you’re here? Or were you just hoping you’d get the chance to tell them to pull the plug?” Martin asked.

  “How dare you?” she snapped.

  “He didn’t ask for you. The call you received was a mistake. You don’t have power of attorney or any legal rights when it comes to his healthcare decisions. I do. You aren’t his next of kin. You’re just someone who caused him a lot of pain. Please, don’t make this worse. Go home, Renee. Go about your life. Leave us all alone.”

  “It’s a free country. I can be here if I want.” She turned back to me. “The nurses said she called it in. She was probably in his bedroom when it happened.”

  Martin bristled. “Alex is my fiancée. Mark introduced us, so watch what you say.” He glanced at Nick, hoping the detective would forcibly remove the woman.

  “Ma’am,” O’Connell stood, placing his hand on his gun, his badge glistening in the afternoon sun, “I’m Detective O’Connell with the major crimes unit. I’m investigating last night’s shooting. I have a few questions for you.”

  “I…uh…I don’t know anything.” She backed up unsteadily.

  “When’s the last time you spoke to Mark Jablonsky?”

  She thought back. “A few weeks ago. He called, like he does on occasion. He checks-in to make sure I’m okay.”

  “Was he worried about anything?” O’Connell asked.

  Renee shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Did he mention anything to you?” I asked. “Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?”

  She looked at me, confused now that the tables had turned. “Wouldn’t you know? Don’t you work with him?”

  “Not anymore. I resigned,” I said.

  She let out an ugly laugh, her focus shifting from me to Martin. “Unbelievable.” She narrowed her eyes at O’Connell. “Shouldn’t you be asking them these questions?”

  “I already have. They’ve been cleared. You have not.” He gestured to a uniform standing watch at the door. “This is Officer Sarcone. He’ll take down your information. Where were you last night around three a.m.?”

  “Home in bed,” Renee said.

  “Can anyone verify that?” O’Connell asked, watching Sarcone hurriedly dig out his pen.

  “No.”

  “That could be a problem,” O’Connell said. “We might have to speak to you again. Officer, escort her to her vehicle and make sure we are able to get a hold of her should we need to bring her in for questioning.”

  “Sure thing, Nick.” Sarcone offered a tight nod. “Lead the way, ma’am.”

  O’Connell waited a moment for her to cross the parking lot and get into a luxury sedan. Sarcone copied down the info on her license and her vehicle registration. When she drove away, Nick scribbled the plate number on the top of the folder.

  “Hell hath no fury. It’s no wonder Jablonsky divorced her,” O’Connell said.

  “You okay?” Martin asked, giving my leg a squeeze.

  “Fine.” I met his eyes, seeing fire burning in the green depths. “She really got under your skin.”

  He removed the last cup in the drink carrier and took a sip. “She has no reason to be here. Jabber doesn’t need to see her. It’ll upset him, and he doesn’t need the added stress on top of everything else he’s facing.”

  “Still don’t think she’s involved?” O’Connell asked.

  “Honestly, I have no idea. But I forgot to mention one thing,” I said.

  “What?” O’Connell asked.

  “The spare key Mark had hidden out back was gone when I got there. The shooter must have found it and let himself in.”

  “Did Renee know about it?” Nick asked, and we both looked at Martin.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But from what I recall, Jabber kept a hidden key at his old house too, probably in the same place. Renee probably knew about it.”

  “I believe that’s called a clue,” Nick said.

  Or a coincidence, I thought, except Jablonsky doesn’t believe in coincidences.

  Six

  “Do you think Renee’s still holding a grudge?”

  “I don’t know.” Martin ran his fingertips against my cheek. “Divorce is ugly, but it’s been a long time. I don’t see why she’d want to kill her cash cow.”

  “You’re probably right, but we need a look at her financials, just to be certain,” I said.

  Nick nodded, his phone against his ear as he listened to Moretti. Renee wasn’t Jablonsky’s only ex-wife, so we had to investigate each of them. Though that hadn’t seemed like a priority until Renee confronted me. Now I didn’t know. She would have had access to the files Jablonsky brought home with him years ago. She could have gotten the name of someone we arrested from back then, when I was his protégé. Maybe that’s why I recognized the voice. But that sounded farfetched, even to me. She would have had to have planned this for years, and that just didn’t jibe.

  “How well do you know her?” I asked Martin. “It seemed like there’s a history between the two of you. What’s her story? What do you think?”

  “I don’t know her that well. We had dinner a few times. Double dates, mostly. She tried to set me up with several of her younger friends and a couple of her nieces. She always thought I just needed to find a nice girl to settle down with.”

  “I don’t think she approves of the one you chose.”

  “Good,” Martin said, but his brow furrowed. “I wish I knew why she showed up here. She hasn’t seen Mark in years, as far as I know. He doesn’t talk about her or his other ex-wives, except in the context that he wishes they’d get married and stop leaching off of him. At this rate, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to retire.”

  “That might not be a problem now,” I said bitterly. “Who gets his life insurance?”

  Martin gave me a funny look. “You.”

  “What?”

  “As far as I know, Jabber’s leaving everything to you,” Martin said.

  “He told you that?” I had no idea. Mark always teased me that I was the daughter he never had. And since he didn’t have any kids and no other family, I was it.

  “I thought it was obvious.” Martin pulled out a copy of the documentation the hospital needed. Among the advanced health directive, living will, power of attorney and other authorization forms was a copy of Mark’s will. It was short and to the point. I was the sole beneficiary.

  “Shit.” I got up to pace. My brain was foggy. I couldn’t think through it. Moving around might help.

  “How’d you get all that information?” O’Connell asked, covering the mouthpiece on his phone.

  “After things went south with Boyle and Carver, Jabber got serious about putting his affairs in order. One night, we got drunk, and he told me I was the only person he could trust. The next day, he had the paperwork drawn up. I have a copy of all his important documents, just in case of anything,” Martin said.

  “He put a lot on you,” I said.

  Martin shrugged. “I’d been through it twice before. First with my mom. Then my dad. I guess he figured I could take care of it.”

  “Still sucks, man.” O’Connell squeezed Martin’s shoulder. Finally, the person on the other end of the line answered, and
O’Connell stepped away.

  When he got off the phone, I pointed to the paper in Martin’s hand. “Looks like I should be your prime suspect.” And now I understood why Kendall and Davis had asked the questions they did.

  “I’m not worried about it. Your alibi checked out,” O’Connell said. “Right, Martin?”

  Martin nodded. “I can get you GPS tracking info to verify if need be.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” O’Connell studied the parked cars, as if one of them might hold the answers we needed. “I’m certain of two things. Whoever shot Jablonsky did so with one goal in mind – to inflict pain. And that person wants to make sure you hurt too, Parker.”

  “Mission accomplished,” I said.

  “It stands to reason this should track back to an OIO case,” Martin said.

  “But hell hath no fury,” O’Connell said. “I’ll admit it’s not very likely Renee orchestrated this, but it is an avenue that needs exploring. We can’t leave any rock or stone unturned. But I doubt she’d do it herself. She would have had to convince someone else to do it, and since Alex recognized the voice, that complicates matters.”

  “What did Moretti say?” I asked.

  “The LT will dig through Jablonsky’s personal life for anything hinky, but you and I should stay the course.” O’Connell glanced back at the hospital doors. “Right now, that means hanging out here until he comes out of surgery and the docs give us the good news.”

  “From your lips to god’s ears,” I said.

  And so the waiting continued. Heathcliff came through the doors and spotted us immediately. He nodded to a couple of LEOs and took a seat in the back corner of the waiting room beside O’Connell.

  “Any word?” Heathcliff asked.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  He nodded, but I knew the detective well enough to know something was eating at him. O’Connell noticed too and nudged his colleague with his elbow. “Find anything at Jablonsky’s townhouse?” O’Connell asked.

  Heathcliff shook his head. “CSU didn’t miss anything. I told them to double-check the back patio and the landscaping. They’re on the lookout for the missing key. They took the turtle in to examine.”

  “Frog,” I said.

  “It’s a turtle,” Martin corrected.

  “Are you sure?” But it didn’t matter. It just bothered me that I couldn’t even get that one detail right. If I couldn’t figure out what lawn ornament Mark used to hide his key, how would I ever figure out who shot him?

  “What else?” O’Connell asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. You work six feet away from me five days a week. What’s wrong?”

  My ears perked up, and I turned my attention to Heathcliff. Nick was right. Something was wrong.

  “It’s nothing. We got enough problems,” Heathcliff said.

  “Spill.” I stared at him until he answered.

  “I just dropped by my place to change clothes and some kid spray painted Die, Pig on my front door.” Heathcliff shrugged. “Like I said, it’s not important. It’s not even a blip on the radar.”

  “Did you call it in?” O’Connell asked.

  “No, I’ll handle it myself. No reason to divert resources.” Heathcliff wiped his palms on his thighs and leaned forward. “Thompson caught me up on the situation. Have you guys come up with any new leads?”

  “Not unless you count Mark’s ex-wives.” I got up, and Martin tugged gently on my hand. But with one look, he let go, and I continued across the room to stare out the window.

  Resting my forehead against the glass, I watched the traffic and pedestrians. For what felt like the millionth time today, I checked my phone, but I didn’t receive any messages from Cross Security. It felt like midnight, but it was only midday. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t sit here and wait while the shooter got further and further away. But I couldn’t leave. My heart jumped – the beginnings of a panic attack.

  Turning, I found a TV broadcasting a home improvement show and I focused on that. Or I tried to. A part of me wondered how I had ever been a federal agent when I was this emotionally unstable, but I knew the answer. It was because I understood how to take action. All right, Parker, pull it together. We got work to do. You can wallow and freak out later.

  Striding across the room, I took a seat beside Martin. “Heathcliff, did anything come back on ballistics yet?”

  “Nine millimeter hollow point. Striations don’t match any weapons in the system. But it’s the same type of ammo Jablonsky had in his carry piece.”

  “I checked his gun,” I said. “It was in the drawer.”

  “We know the shooter didn’t use Jablonsky’s gun against him, and that type of ammo is common enough,” Heathcliff said. “But that’s all we know so far.”

  O’Connell made a note on a blank piece of paper and tucked it into the file. “Most law enforcement agencies use hollow points. Did they check the bullet for prints? The shooter would have had to load the weapon. He might not have thought to wear gloves when he did it.”

  “Nothing on it,” Heathcliff said, “or what little was left of it. You’d have better luck getting something usable off the casings.”

  “Which we don’t have,” I said. “The shooter took the time to clean up the brass, probably before he called me.”

  “He could be trained,” O’Connell said. “Do you think that’s why you recognize the voice? Could it be someone else in law enforcement? Someone at the OIO or FBI field office? Or even another federal agency you two worked with?”

  “You think one of Jabber’s own people shot him?” Martin asked, joining the conversation.

  “No,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Heathcliff scrutinized me. “The OIO had no problem letting you take the fall for something you didn’t do. And from past experiences, we know at least one dirty agent worked in that office.”

  “We cleaned house,” I said. “Before I left, everything was in working order.”

  “Is it possible Jablonsky found something disturbing and was quietly looking into it?” O’Connell asked.

  “He never mentioned anything to me,” I said.

  “What about you?” O’Connell asked Martin, who shook his head.

  “Would he have mentioned it to you, Alex?” Heathcliff asked.

  “I don’t know, but Director Kendall would know. And he didn’t say a word to me about it.” I blew out a breath. “This is ridiculous. The shooter isn’t law enforcement.” But even as I said the words, I wondered if they were true. The shooter knew about Mark’s hidden key, had my phone number memorized, and used the same type of ammo as FBI agents. He could have been to Mark’s house before. He could have even been invited inside. “Someone give me a sheet of paper.”

  Martin handed me the clipboard, and O’Connell held out a pen. Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed this kind of special treatment. Taking the pen, I made a list of every OIO agent I could remember. None of them had made the call. Moving on, I listed the FBI techs we worked with and other office personnel. Still, none of their voices matched the caller. Turning the paper over, I started listing the regular FBI agents I encountered. But aside from coming up with a handful of names, my mind had gone blank. There were so many more men whose names I should be able to put on the list, but we never interacted enough for me to remember them or the way they sounded.

  “Is that a suspect list?” O’Connell asked.

  “No, the opposite. I know these men can’t be the shooter. But a lot more men work in the federal building. We can rule out several dozen potential suspects if it comes down to it,” I said, “but that’s about it.”

  “This will help.” O’Connell took the paper from me. “Let me call Moretti. I’ll have the hospital fax the list over to him.”

  “Good.” I leaned back and closed my eyes. This was progress. Ass-backward progress but still progress.

  “Alexis,” Martin’s tone sent a shot of adrenaline into my system, “that’
s the surgeon. He must have news.”

  On shaky legs, I followed Martin. The surgeon nodded to him, but I couldn’t tell anything from his facial expression. Did he have good news or bad? The doctor pushed the door open, holding it for us to follow. Once the door closed behind us, Martin introduced me.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “We removed the second bullet. He lost a few inches of intestine, but it shouldn’t be enough to cause long-term problems.”

  “So he’ll be okay,” Martin said, grasping my hand.

  But the surgeon didn’t immediately respond. I watched his expression and mannerisms, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “How is he?” I repeated, though my tone sounded a lot more threatening this time. “Is he okay?”

  “He lost a lot of blood which caused hypovolemic shock. We treated him. Honestly, he was lucky we got to him so quickly. He easily could have had a heart attack or stroke.”

  “So what’s the problem?” I took a step forward, and if Martin hadn’t wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me against his side, I would have thrown the doctor up against the wall until he answered my questions.

  The surgeon swallowed, possibly sensing the dangerous situation he found himself in. “You should prepare yourselves for the possibility he may have some brain damage. We don’t know how long or how deprived his brain was from getting enough blood and oxygen. Right now, our best course of treatment is to keep him sedated while he recovers from the surgery. He just underwent a serious trauma, and given his age, it might take him a little longer to bounce back. Once he wakes up, we’ll know more. But I don’t want to rush it.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Martin asked. “I donated blood, but if there’s something else, tell me now.”