Burning Embers (Alexis Parker Book 17)

by G. K. Parks

  “Schmoozer,” O’Connell muttered.

  “You don’t think Mr. Lango is full of shit?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Voletek, but I let the ma’am comment slide. “That wasn’t Easton’s take on it. Did Easton offer you a reward?”

  “It’s a catered dinner. Some reward,” Voletek said.

  “That explains it.” O’Connell made a show of checking his watch. “I have to get back to work, Parker. I trust you can take it from here.”

  My eyes never left Voletek’s face. “Yeah, Nick, I got this.” After O’Connell stepped away, I said, “I don’t care what Easton offered you.” I lowered my voice. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is if you actually believe there’s a legitimate threat. Do you think someone intentionally set the fire?”

  “That’s what I told Chef Easton. I just can’t prove it, and the evidence says otherwise.”

  “What about his previous threats? Did Easton tell you anything helpful?”

  Without answering, Voletek turned and headed back into the bullpen. I followed him past his desk and to a conference room. “Shut the door,” he instructed as soon as I stepped inside. I kicked the door closed behind me. The detective pulled a rolling corkboard away from the back wall and flipped it around. “This is all I got out of him. I tried looking into it, but it’s a bunch of dead ends. That’s why I passed it off to Renner. I thought he might have other resources available. Y’know, less legal means of assessing potential threats.”

  I stood in front of the board and studied Easton Lango’s sloppy handwriting. The detective had photocopied Easton’s statement and dissected the various elements. Voletek highlighted a few key points, like the day, time, and place where the first threatening note was left. A string connected it to a photo taken outside Bouillon.

  “How did you get this?” I flicked the photograph.

  “Internet printout. I just wanted to see what the place looked like. That shot’s from their website. I tried to get footage from the night in question, but without hard proof and no allegations of property damage, I couldn’t convince the owner to turn over the security tapes. I think he’s hiding something.”

  “Did you speak to any potential witnesses?”

  “I spoke to some of Chef Easton’s former coworkers, but no one remembers anything odd from that night or any night. Restaurants get all kinds, but no one stood out as angry or vengeful enough to leave a threat on the chef’s car.”

  “You should see what they post online.”

  Voletek arched an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Never mind. What about the general manager?”

  “He was too busy for my questions and blew me off. He took my card and said he’d let me know if he remembered anything.”

  “He wouldn’t talk to us either.” I followed another string from the restaurant to a copy of the GM’s driver’s license photo. “Did you run a background check on Jensen Adler?”

  “Nothing popped up.” Voletek glanced at me. “Did you find something I missed?”

  “No. Renner performed the checks, but he would have mentioned if he found something. What about Bouillon’s owner?”

  “Which one?”

  “What do you mean which one? We only know about one.”

  “Micah Maston was sole owner of Bouillon when Easton worked there, but after his departure, he sold most of the business to Chef Strader. From what I gather, Maston intends to retire, probably figures he’ll sit back and collect dividends while Strader runs the show.”

  That was another strike against Galen Strader. The more I learned, the more I understood why Easton thought his culinary school rival was behind the threats. “Did Maston mention anything odd happening before Easton’s departure? Maybe the restaurant received some threats when Easton was manning the kitchen?”

  “I don’t know. Maston didn’t say much, but it’s obvious Easton’s departure left a bad taste in Maston’s mouth. He said he washed his hands of Easton the moment the chef walked out the door. As far as he’s concerned, Easton’s replacement is better anyway.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yep. Strader’s at the top of my list.”

  “Mine too. Easton said they’ve been rivals since culinary school.”

  “And since Bouillon received a scathing review in the paper after Easton left, that might have been enough for Strader to threaten Easton and sabotage his new restaurant. After all, it’s not just Strader’s reputation on the line. From what I hear, Galen Strader sunk everything he had into Bouillon. Most of Bouillon’s patrons were loyal to Chef Easton, not the restaurant. Sizzle’s success could have sunk Bouillon and bankrupted Strader.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Speculation wasn’t enough to get access to bank records.

  “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  “The fire happened while Easton was inside the restaurant. You really think Strader wants to kill him?”

  “People kill for a lot of reasons, Alex. That’s why I have a job. Plus, Strader has violent tendencies and anger issues.”

  “If that’s the case, Strader might have threatened Easton online.” We needed a peek at Strader’s internet history.

  “He didn’t.” Voletek made sure the door was closed and no one could hear us. “I had someone check his online footprint. The ugly messages and veiled threats Easton received didn’t come from Strader, or if they did, Strader was careful enough to conceal his identity.”

  “Do you know who sent them?”

  “No. The messages came from different IP addresses and accounts registered in foreign countries. Whoever sent them covered his tracks. I just know Strader never visited any of Easton’s social media profiles with a device we can link back to him.”

  “Unless he got someone else to do it or he knows more about computers than we think.”

  “That is always a possibility. What does Renner think? Did Cross Security find anything I missed?”

  “He doesn’t know enough to speculate. We just started digging.”

  “I’m sorry he sent you to do his dirty work. Bennett promised me he’d handle this himself. I don’t know why he involved you.”

  “It’s better than the shit Cross wanted me to do,” I mumbled under my breath. I examined the rest of the detective’s notes. “Do you mind if I take these with me?”

  “Actually, I do. I sent copies to Cross Security. Didn’t you get them?”

  “I did, just not your notes.” This wasn’t an open investigation. Hell, it wasn’t any kind of investigation. Renner was right about one thing. Voletek had that ingrained desire to help people or possibly help himself to a reward. I didn’t know the man well enough to judge. Maybe I’d ask O’Connell about it. They obviously had a history.

  “I can have them copied and sent to you,” Voletek offered.

  “How about I just snap a few photos?” I held up my cell phone. “I can recreate whatever I need back at the office, and it won’t inconvenience you. Plus, it’ll save me time from having to do this research myself, and it’ll get us one step closer to putting Chef Easton’s mind at ease and this lunatic behind bars, assuming there is a lunatic.”

  “Go ahead.”

  When I was finished, Voletek escorted me downstairs and asked that someone from Cross Security keep him updated on the case. I told him this was Renner’s case, and if he had any questions, he should contact his old pal. There was no reason to tell Voletek I was in charge. If he had a hero complex, like Renner said, he’d be all over my ass for progress reports, and I already had far too many men breathing down my neck.

  Before I left the precinct, I detoured upstairs to major crimes, but O’Connell had left for the day. I spoke to the desk sergeant, but Chambliss’ shift ended two hours ago. No wonder O’Connell didn’t make the introduction when I first arrived. Maybe I’d let Renner handle that in the morning. I already had several meetings on the books, including a crash course in fire investigation. But that was tomorro
w’s problem. Right now, I had a dinner date with some moving boxes.

  Eight

  I stood in my bedroom, leafing through the papers I kept in my gun safe. I tossed my rental agreement on the bed. I wouldn’t need that anymore. My hands stopped on a familiar creased and tear-stained envelope. My jaw clenched as I held the yellowing paper against my chest and closed my eyes.

  My thoughts went to sitting on the floor, splitting takeout, and going over OIO case files with my late partner. After he was killed in the line of duty several years ago, my life had never been the same, but too much had happened since for me to hold on to this apartment as a tether to the past, to the person I used to be, or out of some misplaced or misguided sense of loyalty. It was finally time to leave this apartment and those events and others behind. Or so I told myself.

  Truthfully, I didn’t want that life anymore, not since I met Martin. I liked being a P.I. I just didn’t know if I wanted to do it at Cross Security. Maybe now wasn’t the right time to move with so many other big, life decisions looming in the not too distant future.

  “Alex,” Martin called, “the movers are here to take some of your things. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine.” I looked around my bedroom. The place was a mess. “The living room’s ready to go.”

  “Do you want them to take the TV now?”

  I put the letter from Michael down. “Whatever.”

  Martin entered the bedroom, picked up the rental agreement, and checked the circled dates. “You don’t have to do this. This is your apartment. If you want to keep it, you should. I don’t want to pressure you into something you aren’t sure about.”

  How did he always manage to read my mind? “I have to let it go, unless you’re having second thoughts about letting me move back into your house.”

  “Our house. It’s our house,” he said firmly. “Like our apartment. And no, I’m not.” He stared into my eyes through the reflection in the mirror. “It won’t be like last time. I won’t ask you to leave again. I promise.”

  “I know.” But I couldn’t shake the fear and heartbreak, reminders of the last time we intentionally tried living together. Granted, we lived together now in an apartment that was meant to be our weekend place, but it just happened. We didn’t plan it. Most of the time, our plans failed. Maybe I was afraid this would be another one of those times.

  “We tried being apart, and that didn’t work for me.”

  “Me neither.”

  “For better or worse, things are different now,” Martin said.

  As usual, he was right. I’d just never tell him that. The dark circles beneath my eyes weren’t new, but the ones beneath his were. I picked up an envelope from the edge of my dresser and handed it to him. “Here.”

  He took it and looked inside. “What’s this? I’m not taking rent money from you.”

  “It’s not rent. I want to pay you back, but it’ll take some time. That’s just the first installment.”

  He put the envelope down. “Is this why you decided to give up your apartment? If it is, I swear I’ll tell the movers to turn around and put everything back where they found it. I don’t want you to move in because of this. I don’t want you to feel indebted to me.”

  “I do, but,” I spun to face him, “that’s not why I’m moving in. I’m moving in because I love you and I want to. But this,” I nodded at the envelope, “is something I have to do. Think of it as a side benefit. You get me and your money back. What more could a guy want?”

  “Alex, no.”

  “You lost a quarter of a million dollars because of me.”

  Martin took a seat on the bed, suddenly exhausted. He held up the check. “I’m not taking your money. The ransom could have been millions, and I would have gladly paid it. I would do anything for you. Anything.” He ran a hand through his hair, making the dark brown locks spike even higher.

  “Then accept payment graciously, and don’t argue with me about it.”

  He set his jaw, a sign of his stubbornness. “Should I tell the movers you changed your mind?”

  “I haven’t. Have you?”

  He stood, pressed the check into my palm, and brushed his lips against my cheek. “No, and I never will.” Before I could say anything, he returned to the living room and told the movers to take the TV. We didn’t need an audience for our inevitable fight.

  By the time I joined him, the only things left in the living room were my couch and coffee table. The rest of my furniture, my books, my computer, my files, and my movie collection were gone. Martin and I packed them before the movers arrived, and they were now on their way to Martin’s house.

  Martin offered to tackle the kitchen. Since cooking wasn’t one of the skills I acquired while working for the OIO or as a private investigator, my cookware and appliances left a lot to be desired. But he wanted to salvage whatever he thought we could use.

  “The coffeemaker’s coming with me,” I insisted. “And the large serving spoon.”

  “I have spoons.”

  “Good for you, but I like mine.”

  He faced me. “Alex, I’m barely holding it together. I don’t want to fight about this. I don’t want to think about the days I spent wondering if you were alive or dead, and I sure as hell don’t want a weekly or monthly reminder of how close I came to losing you.”

  “You hate my spoon that much?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t make me spell it out.”

  “Is that why you called the shrink this morning?”

  “Dammit. Why does that bother you so much?”

  “It doesn’t.” But it did, and Martin knew it. I turned away and stared out the fire escape. “I don’t want to be the one who broke you. I need you to be okay because you’re the glue that holds me together, but I know this is my fault. Do you want me to go back to therapy with you? We can talk through it together.” Couples therapy didn’t work well the first few times we tried it, but this wasn’t about our relationship. This was about addressing trauma, and while I was perfectly content pretending I hadn’t been abducted and almost buried alive, Martin didn’t have the same coping mechanism in place. Now, whenever we were apart, he was anxious. And when we were together, he couldn’t let me out of his sight, which was probably why he couldn’t sleep. That and the nightmares.

  “That’s the last thing I need,” he growled.

  “Great, I did break you.”

  “You didn’t break me, and I don’t want to break you. I never want to make you relive that, and that’s exactly what will happen if you come with me to see the shrink.” He sighed. “If you must know, I called to ask about sleep aids.”

  “Did you get a prescription?”

  “I don’t want one. I just wanted to know what kinds of non-prescription options are available. Y’know, things like melatonin or herbal teas.”

  “What did he say?”

  Martin ducked down and opened another cabinet. “You know doctors. They’re a bunch of quacks.” He pulled out a frying pan and examined the back. “But like I said, I don’t need a constant reminder. So please, Alex, let the money go. It’s something we’ll fight about, and I rather fight about whose serving spoon is better because that’s one argument that won’t keep me up at night. And honestly, I could use some sleep.” He peered over the counter and grinned. “Plus, I already know the answer to that question.”

  I didn’t know if the money was something I could let go, but I’d find another solution. Martin had a thing for exotic cars. Maybe in ten years, when I saved up enough, I’d buy him one. The thought that we’d even be together in ten years simultaneously frightened and comforted me. I always knew I was unstable, and yet, he was the one with a shrink on speed dial. We were a match made in heaven or the psych ward.

  “Okay. I’m glad we’re in agreement that my spoon’s better.” I blew out a breath. “From the way things look, I’ll probably be out of work by next week, anyway. I should tighten my belt in preparation for
the inevitable.”

  Martin put the pan down and came around the counter and wrapped his arms around me. “Is that because of this afternoon? Does Cross have an anti-hanky-panky policy?”

  “Probably, but even if he doesn’t, you know I do.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again. I find you irresistible.” He kissed my temple. “What’s going on? You were late coming home tonight. Was that Cross’s doing?”

  “In a way. He made me primary on Renner’s side case, so I was at the precinct doing research. But that’s not the issue.”

  “What is?”

  “After you left, Lucien asked me straight out if I could convince you to change your mind. He and I need to establish some ground rules now that I know his true motivation for hiring me. If we can’t reach an agreement, it’d be best for me to move on.”

  “Maybe it’ll do you some good to get away from the office for a few days,” Martin said, but I could see the storm clouds hanging over his head. He despised Lucien Cross as much as I did. Maybe more. “It might help you gain some perspective or clarity, and I’m sure it’ll make him realize what an asset you are. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do, name it, but I bet by the time you get back, Lucien will be groveling at your feet.”

  “Yeah, right. He wants you. He wants a partnership with Martin Technologies and thought hiring me was the best way to get to you, except he didn’t realize we were dating. He just thought I liked to moonlight as your security.”

  “You did make an excellent bodyguard.” Martin winked, hoping to cheer me up. “However, if you want to leave Cross in the dust, I have plenty of friends and business contacts I can call. Didn’t Jablonsky offer to help you find another law enforcement job? The PD offered you a position with their counter-terrorism unit a while back. Don’t be afraid to tell Lucien to kiss your ass. I’d be happy to do it for you.”

  “We’ll see, but you know I like to fight my own battles.”