by G. K. Parks
“Why? Do you think I did it, too?” he asked bitterly.
“Cut the crap,” I snapped. “I know you damn well didn’t do this, and I’ll do whatever I can to get you out of here.” I tried not to let him continue to push my buttons. “Ackerman called this morning, read me in, but I can’t investigate.”
“Really?” He sounded cynical. “You gave me up for the job, and now you’re giving the job up, too? Why the hell are you here? What good is any of this doing?”
“Goddamn you.” I didn’t need this. He could stay here and rot. It’s not like it should matter to me. Dropping my tone to a barely audible whisper because I didn’t want to risk my anger causing this asshole to get into even more trouble, I retorted, “Whenever you do manage to get out of here, just ignore the call I made to you last night. After all, you were probably busy screwing the dead girl at the time.” Turning, I stomped down the corridor.
“Alex,” his tone shifted to something more civil, “I wasn’t. We didn’t.”
Fine, I cursed inwardly. Martin always had what I considered extreme mood swings; apparently some things never change. I pressed my lips together and counted to ten before turning around.
“Then what happened?” I asked, exasperated. He wrapped his hand around one of the metal bars, and I stood in front of him.
“I don’t know.” He looked lost. “Everything’s jumbled.”
“Okay.” I noted how bloodshot his eyes were. “Start at the beginning. What’d you have for dinner?” It was a tactic I used when trying to jog a witness’s memory. Often, it helped to have them start with something simplistic and unrelated.
He began his recollection with insignificant details relating to the gala. He always was philanthropic and got invited to a charity function at the marina, the same marina where his yacht was docked. Numerous influential guests flocked to this particular event, and he spoke to quite a few people from business associates to minor celebrities to models. As the evening progressed, someone introduced him to Caterina Skolnick, a twenty-six year old model. I attempted not to begrudge the recently deceased as he continued his story.
There was an open bar, and he drank continuously for a good part of the evening. “Things start to get blurry,” he said, attempting to recall how he ended up on the yacht.
“When the police brought you in, they took a blood sample, right?” I was double-checking what was in the report.
“Yeah, they wanted to run a full tox screening.” He looked perplexed.
“To see what your blood-alcohol level was,” I clarified. It was painfully obvious he was extremely hungover.
“Great, they’ll probably think I’m a drug addict, too.”
“Why?” I didn’t like where this conversation was going. “What the hell were you doing?”
He looked at his arm before glancing back at me. “Doctor prescribed pain medication, but I took them as directed,” he quickly interjected, hoping I wouldn’t go off on a tirade.
“Are you trying to kill yourself? Can you not read the warning label saying something along the lines of no alcohol or limit alcohol intake? It’s no wonder you can’t remember anything. It’s a fucking miracle your heart didn’t stop.” His attempt to avert my wrath failed miserably, and I rubbed my eyes, trying to think my way through his unhelpful commentary. We stood there silently for a few moments. “What’s the next thing you remember?”
“I was at the party, and then we were walking down the pier to the yacht. We got on board.”
“Was anyone else with you besides Caterina? Were you followed?”
He frowned and slammed his open palm against the bars, causing me to jump. “I don’t know what happened after that. It’s all blank.” He sat on the cot, leaning his good elbow on his knee and resting his head in his hand. The briefest desire to wrap my arms around him crossed my mind, but I pushed that out of my head. I wasn’t even sure if, aside from his current predicament, we would be on speaking terms.
“Did you call the police?” Since I knew he placed the distress call, maybe jumping ahead in the story would help jog his memory.
“Eventually. I must have blacked out because when I came to, I was on the floor. We were still on the main deck.” The blood drained from his face, and he looked like he might be sick. “I reached for the bench seats, and I felt her arm. It was cold.”
“Cold?” I parroted the word.
How long had she been lying there dead? Body temp takes awhile to drop. How cold was it last night? Did the coroner’s report list an estimated time of death? I didn’t remember seeing it, but since he had been in lockup since four a.m., TOD had to be sometime before three o’clock at the earliest. If she was cold, she could have been killed several hours before that, maybe even around the time they first boarded the yacht.
“Yes.” He looked nauseous. “Unnaturally cold. The first thing I noticed was her eyes. They were open and filmy, but she wasn’t seeing.” He had never encountered a dead body before last night. That alone could be traumatizing enough without the added stress of being arrested for the crime. “I felt for a pulse, tried to revive her, and then I called for help.” I nodded for him to continue. “The Coast Guard towed us to shore. The cops were called, and then I was brought here. They photographed, fingerprinted, and took my blood, and that’s pretty much it. Hell of a day.” He had been processed and booked.
“How far from shore were you? Were you questioned? Did you have counsel present?” Improper procedure was as good an excuse as any to be exonerated.
“I have no idea, but I could still see the harbor lights. So it wasn’t far. It couldn’t have been.” He sighed, screwing his eyes shut and trying to gain insight. “I was questioned, and my attorney was present. He instructed me not to say a word, but,” he met my eyes, “maybe you’ve rubbed off on me. I told the authorities everything I remembered because I don’t want the person responsible to get away with this.”
Smiling sadly, I remarked, “What a dumb idea.” He graced me with the briefest smirk I’ve ever seen. If everything he said was true, and there was no reason not to believe him, then whoever murdered Caterina had been inches away from him. The realization was chilling. If Ms. Skolnick was the intended target, then without any solid proof, Martin could theoretically provide the real culprit’s defense attorney with the ability to cast plenty of reasonable doubt on any trial proceedings.
“Alex,” he pulled me from my reverie, “why did you call last night?”
“Did you have your phone with you?” I ignored his question as a thought worked its way through my brain.
“Of course.” He was standing close to the bars again. “But I must have been out of it by then. What time did you call?”
“It was around one. I had just left Mark at the bar.” Maybe my call could help establish a timeline. The cops needed to pull the surveillance from the charity event and get some witness statements in order to determine what time Martin left. If he truly was passed out when I called, and if it could be corroborated by either the marina security cameras or his toxicology screening, maybe he could get out of here sooner rather than later.
“You’re still working for Mark?”
“No,” I replied harshly. “Look, one thing at a time. I need to run some things by O’Connell or Ackerman or whoever the hell will listen. I said I’d try to get you out of here, so sit tight. I’ll be back.” Turning on my heel, I headed for the stairs.
“Alex,” he murmured my name and something about missing me, but maybe I was hallucinating. After all, given the way our encounter started, I wasn’t sure he would want me around once the current crisis was resolved.
Three
I was sitting in my car, speaking to Ackerman over the phone. He already heard Martin’s recitation of the evening’s events, but perhaps my background could shed some light on the inner workings of police procedure.
“They are still collecting evidence, but it all seems suspect and highly circumstantial,” I concluded my diatribe.
<
br /> Through the speaker, Ackerman could be heard pecking away at a keyboard. “I’ve been trying to put a rush on the arraignment in order to get Mr. Martin released on bail.” Despite his attorney-client privilege, I signed my life and soul away to the ABC law offices, so I was allowed to be in the know on such things. At least this deal with the devil didn’t require a signature in blood. “He’s a high profile client and an upstanding citizen with no previous criminal record. If everything goes as planned, he should be home by late this afternoon.”
“All right.” My mind was a million miles away. “I’ll stay at the precinct until he’s moved to the courthouse. If I can do anything else, give me a call.”
Disconnecting, I went inside to see if I had any pull at the police station. Since the major crimes unit achieved worldwide notoriety after I acted as bait to lure out the French national hell-bent on killing me and I provided them all the pertinent evidence on a local murder-for-hire conspiracy, maybe it was time to call in some favors.
“Back so soon?” O’Connell asked, and I shrugged, trying to figure out the best way to be tactful.
“Who caught the case?”
He jerked his head to the corner of the room. “Heathcliff’s working the case, but his balls are in a vise because of it.” He picked up his pencil and tapped it on the desk. “Martin isn’t our typical suspect. Wealthy, connected, personal friend of the mayor, goes golfing with half of city council.” He was embellishing since I didn’t know Martin to golf, ever. “Every move Heathcliff makes is being sent up the ladder.”
Politics be damned. The brass was so concerned with making sure everything was done perfectly that it was going to take even longer than usual. Meanwhile, any actual leads were growing colder by the minute. It would be best to go over Detective Heathcliff’s head and straight to the major crimes lieutenant, a man I had only briefly encountered in the past, Dominic Moretti.
“Where’s Moretti’s office?” Someone needed to get the ball rolling and not just Heathcliff’s.
O’Connell swiveled in his chair and pointed to the door with the metal nameplate. “Try not to go in with guns blazing. The LT doesn’t respond well to dramatics.” I acknowledged his advice and marched to Moretti’s office, knocking somewhat timidly.
“Enter,” Moretti bellowed from inside.
“Lieutenant Moretti? I’m Alex Parker. I don’t know if you remember me.”
“Parker.” He nodded slightly to himself. “The Parisian shooting, right?”
“Yes, sir.” I sat on the edge of the chair. “I was hoping to speak with you about the Skolnick case.”
“In what capacity? Are you still working for James Martin? Or are you back with my old pal, Mark Jablonsky, at the OIO?” He was eerily aware of everything pertaining to me, and I wondered if O’Connell tipped him off earlier.
“I’m guessing overly observant and concerned citizen isn’t an option?” I tended to be sarcastic and make bad jokes at the worst possible times. He didn’t waver, waiting for me to be serious. “I finished consulting for the OIO yesterday. Today, I’m just a Martin Tech security consultant.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he laced his fingers together and rested his hands against the desk. “Why don’t I begin with what you’re going to say, and if I get it wrong, you can correct me. Fair enough?”
He looked like a bulldog with drooping jowls and unyielding eyes. He was the definition of a hardened, no-nonsense cop. I agreed to his terms, and he began his spiel. Or maybe it was mine. I could no longer be sure.
“Martin’s at a party, gets a little drunk, things don’t mix well, so he goes outside to get some fresh air. The vic, Caterina Skolnick, goes with him. Maybe she’s interested in a good looking man, or maybe she thinks his Rolex has its own attractive qualities. Somehow, they end up on his yacht. Maybe they have sex.” He shrugs, lifting his hands in a ‘who knows’ gesture. “Martin’s unconscious on the boat. Someone else finds Caterina, finishes her off, unties the yacht, and then when Martin comes to, he calls it in. And we end up here.”
“So why are you holding him?” Moretti’s theory sounded even better than mine.
“Gotta hold someone. There’s a dead model on a yacht and no one else around. My department’s already given a bad enough rap for being incompetent when we do our jobs. How would it look to let some rich SOB walk away from a crime scene?” He raised a challenging eyebrow, making me wonder if the question was rhetorical or if he actually expected an answer.
“Dammit,” I muttered. This was bureaucracy at its worst.
“Eh,” he assessed my reaction, “cheer up. It gave us a chance to have this pleasant moment together. Plus, the toxicology just came back a couple of minutes ago. They were both drugged. Rohypnol was found in both of their systems. We’re pursuing other avenues, especially since the DA won’t touch Martin with a ten foot pole now that he might also be considered a victim. All the charges are being dropped.”
“You could have started with that tidbit of information.” I was trying to keep the resentment out of my voice and failing miserably.
“I guess, but it’s more fun to watch people squirm. Side effect of working this job too long.” He grinned, amused. “I’m not pretending to be psychic,” he continued, “but I’m guessing if you’re still working private sector for him, our paths might cross again on this case. Do you think he’ll hire his own team of investigators to assist in figuring out who drugged him and why his yacht was used for the staging of a homicide?”
I hadn’t considered any of these possibilities. My singular concern was to get Martin released, but Moretti had a point. “I don’t know. If so, are you open to having some assistance?” He evaluated the situation, weighing his options.
“O’Connell’s vouched for you a couple of times, and Jablonsky swears by your skill set. If it comes down to it, we’ll work with you, but just make sure he doesn’t hire some imbecilic private dick that’s going to bumble around and botch the entire investigation.”
“All right. Thanks, Lieutenant.” I was in the process of shutting his office door behind me when he asked if I would give Martin the good news, and I nodded. Things were beginning to look up.
As I went past O’Connell’s desk, I gave him a big smile and a thumbs-up. Nick must have assumed I lost my mind, but he knew me. He probably figured there wasn’t much left to lose anyway.
I headed for the stairwell, hoping not to be stopped en route to the holding cells. I was on the landing when my phone rang. Ackerman was calling with the good news and to request, if I could manage it, that I somehow get Martin out of the building and away from the media circus. Lovely, the media, I thought frustrated. One thing at a time.
Nodding to the cop working the desk, I continued my trek to Martin’s cell. “The charges are being dropped,” I told him. He was sitting on the bunk, looking miserable, but at my words, he produced the first genuine smile I’d seen in far too long.
“How?” He was relieved but confused. “You must be a miracle worker.”
A small part of me wanted to take credit because I didn’t want to risk dealing with his resentment, but the truth would come out soon enough. “It wasn’t me. They didn’t have any hard evidence. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you were drugged.” He approached the bars, wanting to ensure he heard all of the good news. “Both of you were. The tox report came back. I don’t know much else, but the DA’s dropping all charges.”
“You’re still saving me,” he said quietly, grasping the metal bar that separated us.
“I’m going to catch up with O’Connell while we wait for someone to release you. But fair warning, the media circus is going to be a bitch. When I got here, they were already outside, circling like sharks. But we might be able to slip out the back, and I can take you home. My pathetic subcompact is less obvious than your chauffeured town car.”
“Okay.” He was at a loss for words. That was a first for him, or maybe it was only a side effect of the roofie an
d the hangover.
* * *
A couple of hours later, Martin was a free man. Whether or not he was free from suspicion was still questionable, but the district attorney and police commissioner came to the precinct to personally apologize for the inconvenience. Martin took their apologies graciously, more graciously than I would have, and signed off on receiving his personal property as he exited lockup. He was attempting to fasten the clasp on his watch when I met him in the corridor.
“O’Connell and I have planned the perfect escape,” I said, handing him a pair of sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a windbreaker. “We thought you should disguise yourself since you are public enemy number one and all. My car’s around back with the patrol cars, so your departure shouldn’t be plagued with paparazzi claiming to be journalists for the local news stations.”
“Aren’t they journalists?” he asked, somewhat bewildered. His lack of sleep had impacted his ability to comprehend my witty banter.
“Yes, but never mind.” There was no point in explaining my failed attempt at a joking remark. We made it uneventfully out of the police station and to my car.
“You’re actually taking me home?”
“Yes.” I wondered what prompted this strange question.
“Because I just assumed you were still hung up about going back to my place. You haven’t been there since the shooting a year ago.” His tone was accusatory; however, given everything he had been through, he earned the right to be bitchy. But since I was nice enough to rescue his sorry ass, he needed to hold his snide comments in check.
“If you’re that concerned, I’ll let you out here, and you can walk.” He remained silent as we continued the drive to his house. Finally, a thought crossed my mind, and I knew once I asked, we’d be fighting again. Screw it. “Where the hell was your bodyguard last night?”
