by G. K. Parks
My phone rang, and I picked it up. “Parker.” I rolled my eyes and made a mental note to consciously answer with ‘hello’ next time.
“I hear you want to play with the big boys.” Moretti’s voice echoed in my ear.
“I’m not sure I’d go that far.” It was time to backpedal. “If I investigate for James Martin, I’d like to know I have your blessing, but currently, I’m having second thoughts.”
“What do you think I am? Some mafia don?” he teased. “I just spoke to Agent Jablonsky. He says you were consulting at the OIO for the past month and really helped them out on a case, but you didn’t want to stay because of all the legal mumbo-jumbo.”
“You’ve basically summed up my entire career.”
“Well, if you decide not to work for the ABCs, the commissioner’s approved you for a consulting gig at the precinct.”
“What?” My voice came out a high-pitched squeal, even Martin heard it through the glass and glanced at me. I shook my head and turned away, completely flummoxed and slightly embarrassed.
“You think I’m going to sit here and tell you how great you are?” Moretti sounded annoyed. “Honestly.” He groaned loudly. “Ex-federal agent, international notoriety, James Martin’s personal security consultant. Think about it. You do realize how beneficial it would be to the city if you work this case.”
The police department feared Martin would file suit against them, and by hiring me, it would insulate them from any potential legal ramifications. Furthermore, I had a sneaky suspicion Mark called in some favors, just to make my life miserable for quitting on him again.
“Damn politics,” I grumbled, and he chuckled.
“Oh, and lastly, O’Connell and Thompson tossed in their votes for you too. They figure, in the event there is the need for any undercover work, you’d be a more convincing model than most of the women in uniform.” And people wonder why cops are referred to as pigs.
“I’ll get back to you.”
I liked it better when I spent weeks on end with no job prospects on the horizon. As I tried to figure out what to do, I realized I needed to talk to someone, and right now, there was only one person equipped to provide a proper perspective and answers to my questions. The only problem was he was sitting across the hallway, busy at work.
I spent the rest of the day playing solitaire on my office computer and practicing my three-point shot by tossing discarded pro/con lists into the trashcan. At four thirty, Monsieur Guillot wished me good night on his way to the elevator. After he was gone, I locked my office door and went across the hall.
“Perfect timing.” Martin smiled briefly, buzzing me into his office. “I was just going to file this and tell you to go home for the day.”
“Can I pick your brain for a minute?”
“Is this about the mouse in your office?” He shuffled through his folders, looking for the proper placement for his document. “Or was it a spider? I can never remember which one you’re afraid of.”
“Spiders, ugh.” I cringed. “But no, there was no spider in my office. And I’m not afraid of them. I just don’t like them. All those legs, ew.” He had attempted to derail my line of questioning, but I was determined. “So, can we talk or not?”
“Those are the worst five words anyone can ever utter.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” I decided to ignore him and just launch into my monologue, and if he deemed my speech worthy of a response, then that would be a plus. “Am I supposed to work the Skolnick case? Things have changed from the way they were Saturday morning. You’re not a suspect, and the news nightmare has been handled. You were stuck in the middle, but now, you’re on the outside looking in. Do you give a damn what happened, or would you prefer to leave it be? You have no reason to be concerned. You didn’t know her. You’re fine, and it all seems to have worked itself out, at least as far as your involvement in the matter.”
He scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. “You don’t want to work for Ackerman.”
“I’d rather accidentally shoot myself.” I slumped into his client chair, and we stared at each other as I tried to gauge what his feelings were toward tracking Skolnick’s killer. “Her death, it’s not your fault, and it’s not your problem.”
“It was my yacht.” He pressed his lips together, and something flashed across his face. I understood the uneasiness of being that close to death and that close to a murderer. “I gave her that drink from the bar. I didn’t know there was anything in it, but still,” he looked away, “it’s not fair I got lucky.”
“You’ve never been lucky,” I commented, “at least not as long as I’ve known you.” He snorted but didn’t remark. “The local PD offered me a consulting position to help them check into her case. I’ll take it, if you want me to. But there is a catch. You won’t be able to sue them.”
“Don’t do this because of me.”
“Why else would I do it? Speaking of,” I dug through my purse, locating the check, “I can’t be your bodyguard. You should know better than to ask, and if you pull the same shit again in the future, then you’re going to need to hire a few bodyguards to protect you from my wrath.”
“Alex,” he stared at the check, sitting on the desk between us, “I know you’re good at what you do.”
“Yeah, and last time, you got yourself shot, shoving me out of the way. I can’t protect someone who’s trying to protect me.”
“So you quit?” His tone was mostly neutral, perhaps even bordering on amused.
“Do you want to get the bastard who drugged you and used your yacht to stage a murder?” I asked again.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I dialed Moretti, and I was once again put on hold. Martin sat silently behind his desk, watching with utter fascination. When Moretti came on the line, I agreed to go to the precinct and sign all the necessary paperwork as soon as I was completely free from the ABC law offices. My soul had been signed over to those devils early Saturday morning, so it would be nice to get it back sooner rather than later, while some of it was still intact. “Looks like I’m in, after all. Tell O’Connell if I’m going undercover, he’s going to be my gay stylist.” I ended the call, and Martin attempted to hand back the check.
“Here. It looks like you’re still working for me.”
“I get my monthly stipend from MT, and the police department will pay my consulting fee. I don’t work for you.” He raised his eyebrows. “I just work for your company and, therefore, you. But you aren’t giving me any more personal checks. I’m not a fucking call girl, so you don’t need to leave the money on the dresser before business can commence.”
He snickered. “I feel I should welcome you to the dark side since I’ve made this argument at least a dozen times over the last year, and you never seemed to catch on.” I flashed him my annoyed glare.
“I’m outta here. Do me a favor and stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll give Ackerman a call and make sure you’re released from all the contracts and paperwork. Go ahead and get started at the precinct.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
He started to reach for me but decided better of it. We were stuck in an awkward place. We had argued too much and too recently to be friends, but at the moment, we weren’t more either. We were just in an uneasy limbo.
* * *
After I signed all the official paperwork to be considered a temporary consultant for the police department, Moretti led the way to Detective Heathcliff’s desk and introduced us. Heathcliff seemed the strong, silent type, barely saying two words before handing over all of the reports and files pertaining to Caterina Skolnick.
“Those are copies,” Heathcliff said. “You can take them home to read them. Bring ‘em back tomorrow, and you can share any insights you might have at that time.”
“Oh-kay,” I said slowly. Obviously, he wasn’t the warm, fuzzy type. I did as he said and nodded to Thompson on my way out. I
was still slightly miffed by the commentary concerning my physical appearance, but maybe I should take it as a compliment.
Placing the files in the trunk of my car, I went to my office at the strip mall. I hadn’t stopped by in the past month, and even though there weren’t a million people lined up for my investigative and consulting services, the junk mail still needed to be cleaned out of my mailbox.
As I flipped through the stack of flyers, I listened to the answering machine messages. I was surprised to find any messages at all, but as the machine played, I realized the bulk of the six messages were telemarketers. I was about to press delete all when a woman’s hysterical voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Is this Alexis Parker? I don’t know if I should have called, but I didn’t know who else to call. I might need help. Please call back.” She left a phone number before hanging up.
I tossed the stack of mail into the trashcan and checked the date and time to see when the message was left. It was only three days old. Could I really have my first new client? A mix of emotions quickly ran their course as I dialed the number.
“Hello?” a woman answered.
“Hi, this is Alex Parker.” Before I could say anything else, the woman interrupted.
“Thank god,” she sounded relieved, “I didn’t know who to contact. The police laughed me out of the station, but a friend suggested I call you.”
“Ma’am, what’s wrong? Who gave you my name?”
“It’s my son.” She inhaled sharply. “He’s classmates with Thomas Guillot, Luc and Vivi’s kid.” Things were starting to make a tad bit more sense. “You must be very busy, Ms. Parker.”
“It’s okay. Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Nine
“Mrs. Smidel,” I was still speaking to the frantic woman on the phone, “what did you tell the police?”
“Just that something is wrong with my son, Roger.” I had been listening to her for the last twenty minutes, and all I had determined was that Roger wasn’t missing, arrested, or physically hurt. He sounded like a typical teenage boy who attended a private, upscale high school. “They thought I was being overly protective and suggested I buy some of those at-home drug screening kits if I had any more concerns.” I had the feeling I was dealing with a hypochondriac.
“What did Roger’s father say?”
“I’m a single parent, Ms. Parker. His father died a year and a half ago.”
“I’m sorry. What exactly has Roger been doing that is out of the ordinary?”
“He’s non-communicative, surly.” She paused, thinking of other differences. “Sometimes, there are strange marks on his arms and neck, but by the next morning, they’re gone. It’s happened a couple of times.”
My brow furrowed as I tried to come up with a reasonable explanation. “Does he play sports?” I inquired. “Maybe it’s related to physical activity or the sporting equipment used.” Unless it was somehow drug-related, which was not uncommon for a teenage boy in an affluent environment.
“He used to play lacrosse but gave it up after his father passed.”
“Ma’am,” I began slowly. There didn’t seem to be a case here, and I wasn’t sure exactly what this woman wanted me to do. “Perhaps your son just needs someone to confide in.” A therapist might be helpful, at least for one of the Smidels.
“Ms. Parker,” she sounded desperate, “I just want my son back.”
“Okay, let me do some research. Can you come by my office tomorrow?” I gave her the address. “We can discuss things more fully then, and I will let you know if I’m able to help.”
“Thank you.” She seemed relieved. Deciding I’d done my good deed for the day, I locked up my office and went home before I could get into any more trouble.
* * *
My night was spent reviewing every scrap of information related to Skolnick’s murder. There weren’t any transcripts or videos in the file since, as of yet, no interviews had been conducted due to the limited number of persons of interest in the case. I rubbed my eyes and got another cup of coffee.
I stared at the scattered paperwork and crime scene photos, wondering how the police could have considered Martin a suspect. Skolnick had been drugged but so had he. My guess was the bartender was responsible for the dosing since no one else had access to her or her drink as far as I knew. Furthermore, the spermicide and lack of condom were clear indicators she met someone else at the party prior to Martin. Maybe her quickie got jealous. After all, jealousy and revenge were great motivators for murder.
Flipping through the materials, I found a few photos of Skolnick in affectionate embraces with an unknown man. He was a dirty blond, probably around 5’10, and in decent shape. His face was obscured, so tracking him down might be difficult. There was no guest list provided, nor a list of those working the event. Frankly, not much progress had been made on the investigation. The folder only contained the coroner’s report, toxicology screening, and a thorough list and description of the items on the yacht and how the body was found.
I reread the notes I had scribbled on Saturday afternoon in Martin’s kitchen. The police still had a lot of work to do, and as a consultant, maybe I could help steer them in a more productive direction. Leaning back in my chair, I rotated my neck slowly. Having me consult for the police department was an utterly ridiculous notion. The cops ought to know what to do and how to do it. Homicides were not my area of expertise, so it was no wonder why Det. Heathcliff wasn’t too keen on having an outsider hovering around his case. As it stood, his hands were already tied by the police brass since this was such a high profile case which would explain the lack of relevant material. Anyone he questioned would be hounded by the media, and the entire event would turn into a circus. Everything would need to be done quickly, quietly, and only after finding irrefutable proof.
The finalized autopsy report provided a lot more relevant information than the preliminary report I had ‘accidentally’ read on Saturday. Caterina Skolnick was 5’10, 118 pounds, natural blonde, with numerous remodeled foot injuries. Most likely, she had been a ballet dancer in her formative years. I looked at the picture of the lifeless, empty husk. What a shame. I understood how she caught Martin’s eye and probably her killer’s too.
She was suffocated to death, and there were traces of down and cotton fibers in her throat and lungs from where the pillow had been held against her face. The lack of blood loss indicated her heart had already stopped beating before she was stabbed three times to the left side of her torso. There was a picture of a mold taken from the wound track. I was no expert, but it looked like the blade from a common steak knife. Maybe it had been taken from the charity event which would indicate this wasn’t premeditated, but the Rohypnol would say otherwise, unless the drugs and the murder were unrelated.
No, I shook my head. Whether the drugs were part of the plan to kill her or not, they still provided the perfect opportunity to commit the crime. Maybe this was premeditated murder. Sighing, I knew I was running myself in circles. There wasn’t enough evidence to speculate either way. The only thing I was positive of was the assailant obviously wanted to ensure she was dead. Why else stab her multiple times after suffocating her? The hair stood up on the back of my neck.
Martin really had gotten lucky. Maybe if he hadn’t drunk to such excess or taken his painkillers, he would have been conscious and faced off against the killer. I dazed off into nothingness as my mind ran rampant into dark places. Putting all the documents back into the proper case folders, I called it a night before I could give myself any more nightmares.
* * *
The next morning, I met with Heathcliff and hoped some of the more pertinent clues could be dissected out of this mess. “Parker.” He glanced in my direction. Good morning to you too, I thought cynically. “I have interviews scheduled with the bartender, the event coordinator, and the victim’s agent.”
“Did you get a list of guests and the hired help? What about surveillance from the part
y and the marina?” Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind my input.
Smugly, he lifted a file box and dropped it unceremoniously on his desk. “Since you seem so eager, you can sort through all of this while I question some witnesses.” I smiled warmly, hoping to get myself out of the doghouse and waited for him to vacate the area before I began to separate the contents into various subcategories.
“Yo,” I called to O’Connell, who had just entered the room, “where do you guys set up your in-progress cases?”
He looked completely confused. “What the hell are you talking about, Alex?” he inquired, peeking into the box.
“We had a board, like a corkboard, at the OIO. We would just tack up relevant photos or evidence.” He continued to stare as if I were speaking a foreign language.
“Hey, Thompson, you ever hear about any board to put the information from our cases on?” he asked his partner. Thompson made a face and shrugged, but the mischievous glint in his eyes gave it away.
“Hazing the new consultant,” I muttered bitterly. “And don’t you dare think for a second your comment on my should be model status is going by unnoticed.” He laughed and rolled out a corkboard from the roll-call room and handed me a box of tacks. “Thanks.”
“Now, you better be careful because these are sharp,” he pointed into the box, “and I don’t want to hear you pricked your finger.”
I glared at him. “Since you’re so smart, read my mind.” I narrowed my eyes, and he grinned before returning to his desk. I was being made painfully aware of my outsider status in the precinct, even though O’Connell and Thompson were simply busting my nonexistent balls because that’s just what they do. Maybe I would make myself scarce after today to avoid stepping on any more toes.
The entire hour was spent sorting through everything in the box and turning the blank corkboard into a workable theory, or at least something close to a workable theory. The victim and all the relevant evidence found on or near her body was in the center of the board. On the left side were her known associates, a history of her past, career, and familial and friendly ties. On the right was a detailed list of the charity event and the final few hours of her life. When I was done, I rested my hips against the edge of Heathcliff’s desk, chewing on the cap of my pen and trying to see if there were any connections I didn’t notice before.
