by G. K. Parks
“You can quit,” he offered, knowing I couldn’t let this go.
“Yeah, right.” I ignored him, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. “I hate to ruin this mood you’re in, but I need to ask you some questions.”
“Oh goody, an interrogation.” He was beginning to freak me out with his happy-go-lucky attitude.
“Okay, seriously, you need to stop. Yesterday, you were ready to bite my head off, and you pretty much forced me to stay here and work this case. And now you come down here happier than a kid on Christmas morning who just spotted a freaking pony in the backyard. What the hell is going on with you? You’re confusing the crap out of me.”
“Sorry,” he toned down his attitude, “I’m sure I’m being completely inappropriate, given the circumstances.” He swallowed, recalling the moment he found the body on his yacht. “But out of all the possible outcomes, I woke up this morning.” He smiled. “And you’re here.” I got it. He was happy to be alive, but in a couple of hours, he’d probably be dealing with survivor’s guilt or something equally negative.
“They need to put you on a mood stabilizer.”
He chuckled and cleared the table while I went into the living room to retrieve the relevant information, but before I could return to the kitchen, he met me in the doorway. “It’s more comfortable in here,” he explained, taking a seat on the couch, “unless you wanted to handcuff me to something.” He raised his eyebrows seductively, and I resisted the urge to smile. “My safety word is,” he paused, trying to come up with something, “grenadine.” I snorted. “See, I knew I could get you to smile.”
“Shut up.” I was great at the comebacks this morning. “Mr. Martin,” I began, trying to derail his attempts at flirtation. Things were beginning to return to normal between the two of us, but I wasn’t sure we were ready for that. Yesterday, we both said too much, and right now, he had bigger problems to contend with.
“Alex?” he responded.
“Martin.”
“Alex.”
“Well, now that we’ve both been properly introduced,” I was getting annoyed with his antics, “when did you first meet Caterina Skolnick?”
“Friday night at the event hall.” At least he was finally being serious. Thank goodness.
“So you and Miss Skolnick never crossed paths before?” I flipped through the photographs, but he wasn’t in any of the pictures.
“Not that I know of.” He thought back. “I would have remembered her.” I let the comment go and began rattling off a list of parties and events she had attended. He furrowed his brow, considering each one before shaking his head.
“All right.” I got up to pace. “How did you meet?”
“Her agent, Richard Sanderson, introduced us.” His eyes followed my path, back and forth.
“How do you know him?” I picked up the notepad and scribbled the name on the paper.
“We’ve met a few times in passing.” He was being cagey, so I stopped midstride and faced him, crossing my arms. “I don’t really know the guy.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘in passing’?” He stared at the floor, preparing what I imagined would be a completely diplomatic and positively vague response. “Don’t make me get out my handcuffs and a phonebook.”
“I might have dated a few of his former clients,” he admitted. “There was Cynthia, Chelsea, and Beka,” he paused before adding, “Shanna, Svetlana, Stana, something like that.” Ladies and gentlemen, I give you playboy extraordinaire, James Martin.
“You dated six models?” And I thought the reason we weren’t going to work out was because people were trying to kill one or both of us. Obviously, that was just the tip of the iceberg.
“No. Four.” He made sure by counting properly on his fingers. “I can’t remember the last one’s name. It sounded foreign and started with an S.” Rubbing my eyes, I tried not to gape at him.
“Sanderson was the agent for all of them?” This Sanderson guy sounded like a pimp.
“Yes, but I never made that connection before now.” Probably because you were busy making other types of connections, but I kept the comment to myself. “It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen him.”
“Why? Did you suddenly stop dating models?”
A thought dawned on him, and he nodded. “Things got busy at work when the company expanded, so I wasn’t going out and about as often. Maybe I matured and outgrew them. Women need more substance.”
“You probably just got too old to catch their eye.” I was being catty. Martin was only in his mid-thirties. If Hugh Hefner could still find twenty-somethings to bang, then I was sure he could as well. You’re only twenty-nine, my internal voice commented, pissing me off. Maybe I was the one with multiple personalities. “None of that matters anyway.” Skimming over my notes, it might help if he rehashed the entire evening now that he had some time to let it ruminate. “Paint a picture of everything that occurred Friday from when you got up in the morning until you were arrested.”
He recalled every minute detail of his day until he ordered the two drinks at the bar; then things began to get hazy. One of the cosmopolitans was intended for Caterina, and the other was for himself.
Seven
Martin ran through all the details, but there wasn’t much I didn’t already know. The only exception was the mental ping concerning Sanderson. I gave him the stack of photos and names to flip through in case anyone else rang a bell, but everything came up empty. I needed to review the official police reports while I waited to get back to the real world and do my own investigating.
“Tell me more about Sanderson,” I instructed, slumping further on the couch. Right now, this was the closest thing I had to a lead.
“Why? Did you want to get into the modeling business too?” He was being exasperating as always. “Hell, you have the body for it.”
“I’m too old, too short, and otherwise damaged goods.” My mind wandered to my numerous scars, causing me to become even more annoyed. “How do you know Sanderson? Did he arrange for your dates?”
“They weren’t prostitutes,” he began as I scrutinized him, unimpressed. “And to answer your question, he didn’t arrange anything. I was dating,” he tried to recall which model was his first, “Beka, no, it was Chelsea that introduced me to her agent. It was at the Black and White Ball. That was the first time I met Rick.”
“It’s such a relief to know you treat women as unique, separate individuals and not just tissues you can use once or twice and throw away.” My glib response escaped my lips before I managed to restrain myself. Dammit, I cursed inwardly, hoping he would let it go.
“Is that what you think? I never treated you that way. I would never treat you that way.”
“Sorry, I have Tourette’s. So Chelsea introduced you to Sanderson at a party, and then you were randomly reintroduced to him at subsequent other parties when you were dating the others?” In my line of work, coincidences didn’t happen like this. Not four times, anyway.
“Yeah. Small circles.” He dismissed this happenstance easily.
“I’ll try to keep the commentary to myself, but be honest, Ms. Skolnick wasn’t your date?” I watched him, trying to determine the veracity of his answer.
“No. We met for the first time at the party.” How did he end up being the unlucky bastard in all of this? “Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did,” I replied automatically but waited for him to continue.
“Who’s asking? Alex Parker, investigator? Or Alex Parker, my failed attempt at a relationship?”
“Does it change your answer? Because if it does, then you need to hire someone else, and whoever you employ to get to the bottom of this is going to need the truth.”
“My answer is no, and it will always be no. That’s the truth. We weren’t dating. We weren’t set up to date. I was standing at the bar, ordering a drink, when Rick approached me. We exchanged pleasantries, and then Caterina appeared. He introduced us, and we started chatting. But
some woman pulled him away. After he disappeared, Caterina and I got to talking, and a couple of drinks later, I decided to give the girly cosmopolitans she was drinking a try and ordered two. The next thing I know, it was unbearably hot and stuffy in that room, so I excused myself to get some air. She joined me, and we strolled down the pier and ended up on my yacht.” He really was just unlucky. “But you didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out, drawing me from my contemplation.
“Maybe both.” I sighed, giving him a small, sad smile. “The funny thing is, before I woke up yesterday morning, I thought we still had a shot.”
“We can, Alexis.”
“Right now, you’re my boss, and I’m already having a hard enough time separating my feelings and insecurities from this case. So no, we can’t. Not now.”
He pressed his lips together and contemplated my words. “After?”
I shrugged. “Do I look like a damn fortune teller to you?”
* * *
Monday morning, I drove past the news vans, hoping to avoid any muss, fuss, or fanfare. I went home, changed, and left for another day of pseudo-bodyguard work. I arrived at the MT building a little after ten and headed straight to the top floor. Martin should be in his office, so I wouldn’t have to worry about tracking him through the seventeen floors in the building.
“Parker,” Bruiser acknowledged, buzzing me into Martin’s office, “I thought you might have gotten lost.”
“One could only hope. Where’s the boss?”
“Downstairs, giving a press conference.” He was as vexed about this as I was about the entire situation. “He said to stay here.”
“Take off,” I jerked my chin at the door, “and get a lift with Marcal this afternoon when he picks Martin up from work.” Not needing to be told twice, Bruiser left the office. That guy needed to stop following orders to such extremes. I took a seat on one of the leather couches and called Jack Fletcher.
“Ackerman, Baze, and Clancy,” the assistant answered on the first ring.
I requested to speak to Mr. Fletcher, but he was with a client and would have to call me back. I was batting a thousand today. Guess I’d just have to do what I always do and wing it. Picking up the phone again, I dialed Detective O’Connell’s personal line.
“O’Connell,” he responded promptly.
“How’s my favorite detective this morning?” I was laying it on thick.
“Parker.” Sometimes, the way he said my name reminded me of the way people would mutter curse words. Strange coincidence.
“Is Moretti busy?”
“He’s always busy, but if you want me to pass along a message, I guess I could do that.”
“Well, you are there to protect and serve,” I teased. “Typically, I call you for the protect part, so it’s about time I get some use out of the serve factor.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”
“All the time. It looks like the ABC’s have hired me to investigate Ms. Skolnick’s murder and the events leading up to it. Ideally, I’d love to tag along with whoever’s investigating, but if that’s going to be tricky, can I get copies of the reports and interviews?”
O’Connell sighed dramatically. “Maybe I’ll just have the LT give you a call. But shouldn’t you be bothering Heathcliff with this request?”
“I’ve never met the man. Did you want to introduce us?”
“Keep your phone handy. Someone will get back to you.”
I did a quick sweep of Martin’s office. With the exception of his press conference, it was just a typical workday for him. Having nothing better to do, I went across the hallway and checked in at my small Martin Technologies provided office space while I awaited his return. Since Martin didn’t want Bruiser attending the press conference, he didn’t need me there either. Honestly, he didn’t need anyone to babysit him while he was at work, but Skolnick’s corpse had worried him more than he would ever admit.
I just got settled, with my door wide open, when the MT vice president, Luc Guillot, appeared in my doorway. “Mademoiselle Parker, lovely to see you again.”
“Monsieur Guillot.” I smiled. “Please.” I gestured for him to enter. “What can I do for you, sir?” Guillot had recently been promoted and relocated from the Paris branch of MT. While he seemed pleasant enough, he had encouraged Martin to consider allowing my consulting contract to expire due to the job hazards related to other cases I may be working. I tried not to take it personally. After all, I didn’t want to be romantically involved with the guy who signs my paychecks; although, that had turned into a complete bust.
“This is all such a mess.” He sat across from my desk. “I know I’m new here, but do things like this happen often?”
“It’s beginning to seem that way.” I didn’t have an answer for him. “Mr. Martin’s just run into a string of bad luck recently.” Guillot frowned. “In case you have any doubts, please be assured, all charges have been dropped. He was not responsible for anything that occurred Friday night. In fact, he was lucky the assailant didn’t target him too.”
“No,” Guillot attempted to clarify, “please don’t misunderstand. I never believed James was guilty. I just don’t understand how things like this happen.”
“Me neither. It’s the human condition, I suppose. Everything’s just a mess of perceived haves versus have-nots. Money, power, sex, it eventually results in one animal making a bloody mess out of someone else for no good reason.”
“And you try to stop it.” Enlightenment dawned on his face. “That’s why James hired you and then kept you on at MT.”
“I can’t stop it. I just try to clean up the mess afterward.”
He nodded, as if to himself, and stood up. “Alexis, it is good to see you again.” I offered a small smile, the only condolence I could give in this cruel world. “I hope you will consider the new job offer.”
“What?” Maybe his English wasn’t as good as it should be, but he left without elaborating, leaving me in complete wonderment.
“You’re here.” Martin popped into view, placing his thumb against the biometric scanner and unlocking his office door. “I need you for a meeting.” Standing in the hallway were Fletcher and Ackerman.
“Gentlemen.” I nodded to them. The three of us followed Martin into his office. Apparently, I solved the mystery concerning which client Fletcher was meeting with this morning. If only all investigations were this simple.
“Between the press conference and the PR department, the media has gotten its fair share of the story and will no longer find me interesting enough to stalk,” Martin declared, multitasking as he spoke. I glanced at the attorneys, and they both agreed.
“The requested coroner’s report was sent to our office this morning,” Ackerman stated as Fletcher dug through his briefcase until he found the file. “As of yet, there has been no word from Skolnick’s estate, but we wouldn’t expect to hear from them this soon. There is still a possibility the actual guilty party will be apprehended.” I stared at Ackerman, somewhat bewildered. How could he worry about the possibility of a civil suit being filed months from now when a woman’s body was cooling in the morgue?
“We have discussed things at great length this morning,” Martin spoke up. “It’s been strongly recommended that I file a complaint against the police department for wrongful arrest and resulting damages.”
“But the cops didn’t do anything wrong, and you’re going to screw them over for doing their jobs?” I growled. “After everything?”
“Doing their jobs would have resulted in a proper arrest of the actual murderer,” Fletcher chimed in, and I turned, preparing an acidic retort.
Luckily, Martin intervened, rescuing the man. “However, as you’ve pointed out, that would not be very appreciative of the past assistance they have provided us.” I rubbed my forehead. No one was making any sense at the moment.
“Ms. Parker,” Ackerman took over the horse and pony show, “given the confidentiality agreement you’ve signed,
I am able to divulge that Ms. Skolnick’s insurance company has reached out to our firm. They need to verify the details surrounding her death, and since you are already investigating for Mr. Martin, we were wondering if you could run this investigation simultaneously. The threat of a potential lawsuit might just be the incentive the police department needs to grant you access to all the pertinent information.”
My head was spinning. In the last seventy-two hours, I had gone from once again quitting my position at the OIO to returning to my old job as Martin’s personal bodyguard, and now, I was supposed to be investigating a murder in order to solidify Martin’s innocence and to appease the corporate requirements of an insurance company. I sat in the client chair across from his desk and sighed.
“You get me into more goddamn trouble than you’re worth,” I muttered.
His green eyes danced playfully. “Admit it, you love this.”
Eight
I was particularly annoyed with Martin’s representation and their attempt to manipulate the police department. I had to think about things before agreeing to work for them in any real capacity, especially now that he was officially cleared, and as of yet, there was no real threat of any lawsuits, civil or criminal, regarding his arrest or the murder of Ms. Skolnick. Screwing with the boys in blue wasn’t something I was willing to do, and appeasing an insurance company wasn’t on my list of priorities. These were all hazards of signing your life away to a law firm, I suppose.
Sitting in my MT office, I stared across the hallway at Martin, who was behind his desk, typing a report. “What are you doing, Parker?” I asked myself. It dawned on me that acting as his bodyguard was fatally flawed. Some time away from his manipulative tactics had made me realize this, and his check was folded in the corner of my wallet.
Before he left work today, I was returning it and providing my incredibly sound reason why I couldn’t be his bodyguard. The last time we tried this, he pushed me out of the way of a bullet. Bruiser would just have to work some overtime, or he could hire someone else.
