by G. K. Parks
“Did you find her phone? Or her purse?” Maybe someone positioned Skolnick on the bench above Martin.
“Neither.” He stood up and glanced around the marina. “The cameras didn’t catch anything, and the rope to tie the boat to dock was missing when the Coast Guard towed her in.”
“You think the assailant tossed her phone and belongings?” I surveyed the main deck, trying to make sense of the scene.
“Could be, but we don’t have the resources to drag the marina looking for them. I doubt it would help anyway.”
“Have you checked her phone records? It’d be easier than dragging the whole damn ocean.” The victim wasn’t positioned in a particularly remorseful way. Her hands weren’t folded, and her eyes weren’t closed. Whoever murdered her wanted to make sure she was dead and escape as swiftly as possible. “Shit,” I cursed. “Her eyes were open.” The ramification hit us simultaneously. “She was still conscious when she was killed.”
“Barely,” he retorted. “Like I said, there were no defensive wounds, and look at this place,” he gestured around the yacht, “no obvious signs of a struggle. Maybe the force of the attack woke her from her unconscious state.”
The thought of waking up paralyzed to the terror of knowing death was imminent was an unbearable concept. I swallowed and leaned against the railing to steady my nerves. Don’t get in the victim’s head, Parker. “I don’t think we’ll get anything else from being here.” I had seen enough and wanted to leave.
“Hang on.” He disappeared into a cabin.
I studied the area from the building at the top of the pier, where the event was held, to our current position on Martin’s yacht. We were about fifty yards away. There were some streetlights near the docks, but not much cover between here and there. Even in the dim light, the assailant would have been visible from the boat.
“Did you get lost?” I bellowed, and he emerged.
“Y’know, our murder weapon doesn’t match any of the other pillows or cushions on this boat. Do you think our murderer brought his own pillow to the slumber party?”
“Did Martin verify it belonged on his yacht?” He shrugged. Apparently, no one bothered to ask. “I’m still having trouble determining if this was premeditated. The knife and pillow probably came from elsewhere, so was this planned? Or was it the perfect opportunity in the heat of the moment?”
“I could see it happening either way. But assuming Martin’s innocent,” he sounded skeptical, “then some planning had to go into the drugs and the killing.”
* * *
Once we returned to the precinct, Heathcliff began reviewing the notes the other officers made regarding the video surveillance as he patiently awaited Alvarez’s return. I was getting a bit antsy, anxiously drumming my fingers against the desk.
“Why don’t you take the photos and ask Mr. Martin about the pillow?” he suggested. “Right now, you aren’t being very helpful.”
I obediently picked up my phone and dialed Martin’s cell, but my call went to voicemail. He rolled his eyes, unimpressed by my dialing skills. “Fine, I’ll ask in person,” I relented.
When I arrived at the MT building, I went straight to the seventeenth floor. As I expected, Martin wasn’t in his office. Instead, I unlocked my door and sat down at the computer. In the meantime, I could check to see if Mrs. Smidel e-mailed me. I printed off the list of Roger’s friends and shut down my computer. Hopefully, Martin would stop by his office in between meetings or whatever it was he was doing. Finally, the elevator dinged, and he came bustling past, unlocking his office door.
Going across the hallway, I knocked on the doorjamb. “Do you have a minute? It’s for official police business.”
“Can I see your badge?” Four different folders were open on his desk, and he seemed to be moving in seven different directions at once. “Or can this wait?” For once, he was serious.
“It’ll just take a minute, I promise. We need you to identify this pillow.” He looked up to see if this was a pathetic attempt at a joke, and I held out the crime scene photo for his inspection.
“It’s white, rectangular, and filled with stuffing.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Is it yours? Did it come from your yacht?”
“Oh,” his eyes darkened, “no. Everything is color coordinated, and all of the cushions and pillows are either square or round.” He considered it for a moment. “But I’m not positive. The beds have memory foam pillows. Unless there were extras stored somewhere.” He made a crappy witness, and I snatched the photo away before he admitted to shopping for pillows that resembled the one in the picture.
“That will be all. Thanks for your time.”
“Lunch Friday?” he asked as I attempted to flee. I stopped in my tracks, closed his office door to prevent being overheard, and turned to him.
“Fine, and just so we’re clear, this pillow definitely does not belong to you. Understand?” He wasn’t a murderer, and I doubted anyone would question an unmatched pillow not belonging to his yacht. But his uncertainty wasn’t helping to solidify his innocence.
“Okay.” He caught my drift.
Thirteen
I called Heathcliff on my way back to the precinct, expecting to get his voicemail, but strangely enough, he answered. I relayed the message that the murder weapon did not come from Martin’s yacht. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned the killer waiting for the perfect opportunity while taking refuge on another boat docked nearby. It would explain why no one noticed the assailant, and as far as I knew, the individual hadn’t shown up on any of the marina surveillance footage either.
“Your hunches, while creative, aren’t going to give us just cause to get a warrant to search every single boat docked at the marina,” Heathcliff chided.
“That’s the problem with being on the job, all this ‘just cause’ bullshit.” He ignored my comment. “Did I miss seeing you put the screws to that misogynistic prick?”
“Unfortunately, no. We’ve issued a BOLO on Alvarez. He didn’t show up, and he won’t answer his phone. A couple of uniforms went to his apartment and the bar where he normally works, but no one’s seen him since yesterday.”
“Great.” I sighed. “Don’t these people ever realize when you run it just reaffirms your guilt?”
“It’s not that. They just believe we won’t find them if they run,” he surmised. “Look, there’s nothing else for you to do today. Moretti wants a meeting with me and a few of the other guys working this, so I’ll give you a call tomorrow and let you know when to come back.”
“All right. Good luck with Moretti.” Obviously, I was so incredibly helpful that I earned some free time of an unknown duration.
Rerouting to my office, I wanted to run backgrounds on the list of Roger’s friends before heading to Highland Prep to tail him again. As I suspected, none of his friends had official run-ins with the law. There were no records, sealed or otherwise. I wondered if I could call in some favors and see if any of them had jackets without convictions, but that could wait until I knew more. I still didn’t think there was anything going on with this kid, other than the fact he was a teenage boy who suffered a tragedy.
At Highland Prep, I meandered through the parking lot and noted Roger’s blue car still parked where he left it this morning. I circled around to avoid the overly enthusiastic security guards, certain that they locked onto my vehicle with their spy cameras and were running my license plate number to find out who I was and how much money I kept in my bank account. To avoid any further altercations, I parked a block away from the school and waited for class to be dismissed.
Soon after, Roger got into his car, alone. I followed at a decent distance, realizing he wasn’t going home. Eventually, he stopped at the park and carried a small rectangular box to the picnic tables. I could only hope he was about to do something illegal because stalking a teenage boy when you were no longer a teenage girl was ridiculous. I kept an eye on him but made sure my nine millimeter was loaded before clipping it into my sho
ulder holster. One could never be too careful when dealing with potential criminals, even if they were scrawny, high school students.
Roger took a seat at one of the empty tables. Next to him, a couple of people were playing chess for twenty a game. It was amazing the cops never bothered these swindlers.
Roger opened the box and flipped open an odd looking game board. It laid flat on the table, and he propped a cardboard sign next to it. He sat patiently, waiting for someone to play. This was not the way I envisioned he’d spend an afternoon at the park.
After five minutes, I approached the table. Luckily, he didn’t know who I was, and as long as he didn’t recognize me from the diner, we’d be okay.
“That doesn’t look like chess to me,” I commented, reading the sign. Mancala, $5 a game.
“That’s because it’s not,” he replied snottily. “I mean, er…” He didn’t expect a woman to speak to him since most of the chess players in the park were drunken, elderly men. His eyes roamed the length of my body, making it embarrassingly obvious he was checking me out. He smiled a big toothy grin and reddened. “It’s better.” Real smooth, kid.
“Fine, five dollars and you teach me how to play.” I had to do something to figure out what was up with this kid.
“I’d be happy to teach you anything, babe.” He was trying to be suave, but he was seventeen. It was a pathetic attempt, and I gave him a stern look.
“I’m too old for you. What are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?” It was best to pretend I had no idea who he was. Play it cool, Parker.
“Close enough,” he responded, setting up the small colored marbles in equal numbers on the wooden board. “How old are you? You must be in college, right?”
“Not even close,” I remarked, trying to build some kind of rapport.
“Oh, come on, graduate school then. You can’t be more than twenty-five.” I scoffed, and he offered a big wide-eyed grin.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I smiled. “So explain this game to me.” He ran through the fundamentals concerning the game play and ways of winning. The object was to get the most marbles. It sounded simple enough. Carefully, I pulled my wallet from my purse, zipping up my jacket in the process in order to keep my holstered gun invisible, and handed him a twenty. “I just bought three games.”
He looked pleased and quickly changed my twenty for a stack of fives, placing three of them separately on the table and adding equal amounts to the top. It took the first two games to figure out the finer points of strategizing, and I came close to beating him on the last game.
“Better luck next time,” he intoned.
I leaned back on the bench and looked around. There were a couple of people waiting for a particular chess match to finish, but no one was waiting to play this odd game. This wasn’t a practical way for a teenage boy to spend his afternoons.
“So how lucrative is this venture?” I asked, unwilling to relinquish my seat to the nonexistent line.
“You tell me. I just made twenty dollars in fifteen minutes.”
“Touché.” Standing up, I stretched slowly. “Are you out here every day? I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m here about four times a week after sch…class.” He was still trying to pass for older than he was, and I let it slide. “It’s easier than working a part-time job.” I remained neutral, knowing damn well his mother would give him anything he wanted.
“It’s an odd game to play. Have you ever considered chess or even checkers?”
“Nope, just this.” His expression shifted, and he looked forlorn.
Cautiously, I pushed a little harder, hoping for something concrete that would put his mother at ease. “Why?” I offered my demure smile. “Is there some special reason, like you grew up on the streets and all you could afford to play with were rocks and egg cartons?” He was dressed too nicely for anyone to actually believe he was poor, and he laughed.
“No. My dad taught me this game when I was little. We used to play for hours on the weekends. Actually, we used to play right there.” He pointed to a grassy area where some people were sitting with picnic baskets and blankets.
“That sounds nice.” It was time to walk away. “Thanks for the game. Maybe I’ll see you around.” I strolled down the path and took a circuitous route back to my car, so I wouldn’t seem quite so suspicious. There was nothing wrong with the kid; he was just lonely and trying to recapture missed memories.
* * *
Back at my office, I phoned Mrs. Smidel. It felt like I was ratting Roger out, but his mom was paying for an update on her son’s activities. Now, she should be relieved that there was nothing greatly amiss with her kid.
“But, Ms. Parker,” she protested, “that still doesn’t explain the scratch marks.”
“Mrs. Smidel, if he’s spending his afternoons at the park, maybe he had a reaction to the flora and fauna. He’s okay. He just misses his dad.”
“We all do,” she replied before hanging up.
It was time to focus on more serious business. I ran background checks on the suspects in the Caterina Skolnick case. Alvarez had a few DUIs and the stalking charge but not much else. Maybe if we could identify some of his known associates, we could determine where he was hiding. After coming up with no solid leads, I shifted gears to investigating the triumvirate: the agent, Rick Sanderson; the owner of the modeling agency, Yolanda Tate; and the photographer, Jake Spencer. On a sheet of paper, I diagrammed the interconnectedness of the group in relation to Skolnick, but inspiration failed to strike.
“Knock, knock,” Agent Mark Jablonsky announced from my office doorway. I narrowed my eyes, suspicious of the reason for his visit. “I come in peace.”
“Why are you here?” I inquired, pushing my diagram aside. It was almost seven, and time had flown by.
“Oh, come on, Parker.” He took a seat in my client chair and made himself comfortable. “I thought we were friends. You’ve always been like the daughter I never had.”
“Lucky me,” I deadpanned, studying him. He was dressed in his usual wrinkled suit, and his gun and credentials were still clipped to his belt. “Didn’t I make myself clear that I’m not coming back to the OIO again?”
“Don’t worry, this isn’t about that. Well, actually,” he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope, “I wanted to deliver your check.” I opened it, made sure it was correct, and stuck it in my top desk drawer. “Are you working the Skolnick murder for the police?”
“You know I am. After all, you called in a favor or two, I’d imagine.” He smiled warmly but didn’t offer an elaboration.
“How’s it going? Is Marty cleared yet?” He was up to something.
“He’s been cleared for the last,” I thought back, remembering today was Wednesday, “four days. Didn’t you see all the press conferences and news reports?”
“I’ve been busy,” he replied, but I didn’t believe him. He was well aware of the situation since Martin was one of his closest friends. “I just wanted to see how you were. We didn’t part on the best of terms Friday night, and then all this crap happened Saturday. I wanted to give you a minute to breathe before checking on you.”
“We’re good.”
He examined my notations and diagram. “Want some input?” He jerked his chin at the paper.
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“Tate and Sanderson both have boats docked at the marina, near the same slip where Marty keeps his yacht.” I was amazed by his candidness. “I did my own checking after he called earlier to ask about pillows. That has to be the strangest conversation I’ve ever had.” I shut my eyes and sighed. Martin needed to learn to keep his damn mouth shut.
“Did he tell you what I told him to say?”
“I know nothing,” Mark responded. “But you know I’ve got his back, and when I don’t, you do.”
“I thought, after last time, the best way to keep him out of trouble was to stay away from him, but it didn’t work too well.”
�
�This isn’t your fault. He’s had some shitty luck recently. Hell, maybe we should be thankful we aren’t him. Then again, if I had a private yacht, there wouldn’t be any dead bodies on it because I’d be sitting in the middle of the ocean away from all of this.”
Fourteen
The next day, I threw on some workout clothes, found a windbreaker, and zipped it over my shoulder holster. I tailed Roger Smidel to school and hung around in my car, drinking coffee and catching up on NPR. Needless to say, I was bored. Heathcliff didn’t call, and since Smidel paid for a week’s worth of surveillance, she might as well get her money’s worth. When school was dismissed, I followed Roger to the park and watched him set up shop at one of the picnic tables.
Getting out of my car, I hit the walking trails for a nice long jog. A little fresh air and some exercise couldn’t hurt, and it would enable me to keep an eye on Roger. I was on my second lap before anyone approached the table. The man who sat across from Roger was elderly, in his late sixties or seventies. He played a few games before walking away. No one else approached, and the kid stayed there, all alone, for the next twenty minutes.
Completing mile five, I stopped within Roger’s view to stretch before calling it a day. He noticed me and offered a lopsided grin. “Hi, again,” I greeted, walking toward the table. “I didn’t expect to see you two days in a row.”
“I told you I’m here most days,” he responded. “Do you want to try your luck again?”
“No cash.” I slapped my pockets to demonstrate my lack of wallet and pulled out my keys. “I just came for a run.”
“How ‘bout one on the house?”
Shrugging, I sat down. “You’re not the best businessman if you’re giving it away,” I quipped.
“Maybe it’s a brilliant sales tactic to get you hooked. I mean you did come back today.” He was relentless.
We played a slow-paced game as I analyzed every move in order to prolong the possibility for useful conversation. Unfortunately, he was completely content to do nothing more than stare doe-eyed at me. After a close match, I stood up.
