by G. K. Parks
“Don’t do that.” But his face read guilt in bold letters. “You have some great deductive skills, but don’t use them on me.”
Too bad, I was never one to follow directions very well. “Thing is, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it because that’s just how you are,” I took a long sip, “except Thursday night, you were dressed nicely but simply. No Rolex, no ring, and I didn’t check your wallet since protection was in the nightstand, but I had to tell you to tip the bartender.”
“But it was O’Connell,” he protested. When I didn’t waver, he sighed and cleared his throat, knowing damn well I was right. “It had been a month since we spoke, and I had given up on you. On us. What do you want me to do? Nothing happened with Caterina or anyone else. I wish I could take back that night, but I can’t.”
“How many serious relationships have you actually had?” I asked, surprising him with the question. This wasn’t about flings with models. This was about his ability to focus and commit.
“Two.” He was confused by my line of questioning.
I nodded thoughtfully. I didn’t have a better answer than his. From my determination, we were both fairly dysfunctional and destined for a mayday spiral before crashing and burning yet again.
“I don’t want you to think I’m easy.” The words came out, but I had no idea where I was going with this.
“You’re anything but easy,” he agreed. “I’ve known you for almost a year. Just think about all the time and effort and friendly dinners that went into things. I’ve never worked this hard for anything else. Anyone else.”
“Manipulative bastard,” I teased, smiling at him. On a more serious note, I added, “We have a history. Not a good history. Nothing’s changed really. I still do this, and I never want to be put in a position to relive what happened. So I will isolate myself and avoid you like the plague when things get rough.”
“But I get it now.” He reached for my hand. “You should have given me more credit on the first go ‘round. After all, I’m brilliant. I would have understood, but you didn’t tell me. Maybe if you had, we could have avoided some heartache.” His eyes were sincere. “Can I assume you’ve decided we should try this again?”
“I guess so since the decision was made in your kitchen the other night, but we need some ground rules or something. I don’t know. We’re both workaholics. I say our careers take priority. If you have to work late, travel, and be gone for weeks at a time, it’s okay, but I expect the same level of understanding. Part of the problem last time was your clinginess.”
“Sorry, but how was I supposed to react after you told me you were almost killed?” His thumb absently traced the scars on my wrist.
“Hazard of the job.” I pressed my lips together, wondering if that would be a deal-breaker. He nodded, thinking about the week I had exiled him during our first, fleeting attempt at a relationship. “It’s not going to get any easier,” I warned, “and if you wake up on a boat with a model again, I will leave you in jail to rot.”
“What if it’s Lola?” he asked playfully. “Is she the exception?”
“She’s still way out of your league.”
We ate dinner and spent the rest of the evening drinking the remainder of the French wine and a bottle I had stocked for a rainy day. We played mancala off and on to occupy the time between conversation and seductive glances. We turned it into a game of twenty questions.
“Are you sure you’re straight?” I asked. “Because I am still positively baffled by your endless knowledge of fashion, clothing, and accessories.” His face drew into a bittersweet smile, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer anymore.
“My mom was a fashion designer. She was sick for a long time, but she didn’t want her work to suffer. When I was in high school, I used to help out after class. Then when I was in undergrad, my summers were spent working at her business. It counted as an internship on my business school application since, by that point, she spent most of her time in the hospital, and I had to learn how to run her business.”
“I’m sorry.” I tended to blunder into these situations far too often.
“It was a long time ago. It’s fine,” he insisted.
“Is this when you started dating models?” I teased, lightening the mood.
“If only I had been that smart.” He snickered. “Then again, from what I hear, they are a scary, deranged lot.” We fell into a comfortable silence, pouring the last of the wine and automatically resetting the game board. “Why are we still playing?” he asked, draining his glass. “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but I’m pretty sure I know where this evening is headed.” He looked confident.
“Fine, last game for high stakes,” I smiled coyly, “the winner gets to be on top.”
“Or we could forget the game and just take turns,” he whispered seductively, standing up from the table and offering me his hand.
Thirty-five
“You have to stop watching me sleep. It’s too stalker-esque,” I murmured, opening my eyes to find Martin lying next to me. He was absently playing with a strand of my hair.
“I can’t help it if we disagree on what is considered morning,” he replied. “I tend to wake up early, and there isn’t much to do except watch you.”
I rolled my eyes and turned away from him, snuggling deeper under the covers. He put his arm around my waist, and we stayed in the quiet for a while. Unfortunately, I was awake now. Damn morning person.
Even though there was no chance of falling back to sleep, I had no desire to emerge from bed. Things were simpler here, isolated from reality and the harsh dangers the world had to offer. The problem was, even here, my mind was back to work on the Skolnick case.
My thoughts wandered to Jake Spencer. He was clearly a player, but the girls knew it and didn’t care. They probably had other partners on the side too. But why did Webber latch on to Sanderson when nothing else in their world indicated monogamy was even possible? Her alleged love for the guy was what drove her to murder, but I wasn’t even sure they had ever been intimate. And if they had, she wasn’t faithful either, especially with her threesomes.
Perhaps Webber had reached this frenzied, possessive state after she thought Skolnick was eyeing Sanderson. Maybe all the little things, like the modeling jobs, Jake’s attention, and no martinis made her snap. Obviously, someone didn’t like to share. After all, Sanderson was Webber’s agent, and his questionable ogling translated into flirtation in her mind. Did she assume that Sanderson would be Skolnick’s newest sex slave, like Jake, and it would be detrimental to her career?
Caterina Skolnick was the only star at Tate’s agency, and all the models loathed her because of it. Hell, it was a miracle they hadn’t strung her up like a piñata and beat her to death. It was a crazy, sexed-up version of Cinderella and the evil stepsisters all over again, but this story lacked a prince and a happy ending.
“What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever done?” I shifted around to face Martin.
“Why?” The intrigue was obvious on his face. “Was there something you wanted to try?”
“No,” I responded quickly. “I’m of the mindset if something is already amazing, there’s no need to change things up. I was just thinking about the photographer and the models. They all have some kind of kinky hang-up.”
“I’m fairly conventional, but I remember when the bondage thing became so in vogue, this woman wanted to tie me up. It lasted for maybe thirty seconds.” I hid my laughter, and he corrected himself. “The knot. It came undone. Have you ever?”
“No,” I interjected sharply. “When you’ve actually been bound,” I rubbed the slight scars on my wrists, “it makes no sense how anyone can find the torture or pain a turn on.”
“It’s just,” he swallowed, “sometimes, I don’t see how you’re okay. All the things you’ve seen and done. Everything that’s happened to you.” He held me tightly. “You’re incredible.” This was our entire problem. He wanted to protect me from my life, and I wanted hi
m to stay away from it.
“I give us three weeks,” I stated neutrally, derailing the serious topic.
“Three weeks?”
“Maybe I’m overestimating. We’ve been together twice, have you gotten me out of your system already?”
“Not even close, Alex.”
“Then I say three weeks until our fiery end. Unless you think we’ll go the way of a Robert Frost poem, then maybe it’ll be an icy end.”
“Don’t bet against us,” he purred in my ear. “I’m in this for the long haul.”
“It’s not the 1950s. We’re not going steady, but,” I wasn’t going to fight anymore since I wanted things to be good for as long as they could be, “monogamy does have its perks. Casual’s about all I can handle, but no more models on the side.” He kissed me, silently agreeing to my terms, and we spent the rest of the day together.
* * *
The next day, Heathcliff phoned. They were wrapping things up, and I was recalled from my brief exile. Valerie Yves cut a deal for herself. The possession charge was being pled down, and the police department was willing to overlook the assault in exchange for testimony against Monique Webber. I went to the precinct and listened to the story unfold.
Valerie Yves was still on Sanderson’s boat when Monique Webber entered to retrieve a pillow from the freshly made bed. According to Yves, Webber didn’t notice she wasn’t alone, picked up the pillow, and sauntered down the pier. Being curious, Yves followed and watched Webber search the ground near the dumpsters, but she didn’t see what happened after that because she was too busy self-medicating away the horrors that just occurred. Fortunately, despite the haze, she still remembered Webber throwing something onto a neighboring boat after untying Martin’s docked yacht.
“We asked for permission to check the neighboring vessels, and we found Caterina Skolnick’s cell phone and the knife used to stab her,” Heathcliff informed me, sliding some photos over for my perusal. “We presented this evidence to Ms. Webber, and she sang like a canary.” He was pleased and maybe a little bit relieved to have the albatross removed from around his neck. “She even admitted to turning on the engines, which is what led the yacht to drift so far from the docks. We fingerprinted her and checked the controls. The prints were smudged, but there’s a three point match. It isn’t sound forensic evidence, but it corroborates her guilty admission. The real kicker is the knife. It’s covered in Skolnick’s blood, and Webber’s prints are all over the handle.”
“Unbelievable.” I frowned. Even though we identified the killer, no one was clean. “I’m glad you caught the psychopath responsible, but Spencer’s going to walk away with a misdemeanor, maybe. Meanwhile, Tate and Sanderson are busy breaching the realm of adult entertainment by bribing out of work models with the hope of a turnaround in their careers, and Alvarez, for all his faults, ends up getting an accessory charge for trying to make a quick buck to support his family.”
“The whole thing’s been fucked up from the start,” he admitted. “We do what we can. One less raging psychopath on the street is still a win in my book. Let’s be honest, Parker, no one is getting a bum rap here. Maybe some got off easier than they should have, but we aren’t in the business of booking innocent parties.”
“Well,” I gave him a pointed look, “not when the innocent party gets his high powered attorneys involved.”
“Don’t forget his personal security either,” O’Connell chimed in.
“I still maintain any of us would have done the same thing given how it looked. One guy in the middle of the water with a dead model, nine times out of ten, he’s going to be good for the murder.” I couldn’t argue with Heathcliff’s logic. If it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck, it normally wasn’t a mongoose.
Since things were settled with major crimes, I took a trip upstairs to the narcotics unit to see if I could discover anything useful relating to Roger Smidel and the two brutes from the park. Heathcliff escorted me to the detective in charge and made the proper introductions. I was given a very brief synopsis of everything that transpired.
Roger, Karen, and Oliver had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time when they witnessed the two drug-dealing thugs meet with their supplier. No charges were ever filed against the three teenagers, courtesy of the ABC law offices and junior partner, Jack Fletcher. The two thugs agreed to roll on their connection for reduced sentences and were sent to the U.S. Marshal Service for protection until their testimonies. The state wanted to stop all drug running since the war on drugs would never be over, thanks in large part to the Reagan administration and the continued efforts of the DEA. Of course, the expansion of RICO laws to apply to drug cases and the government’s ability to confiscate any and all property in drug busts was added incentive. This allowed the two thugs the chance to avoid hard time and salvage their lives if they cooperated.
Roger Smidel’s name would never be linked to any of the proceedings or used in concert with any of the information. He was in no danger of being threatened by the supplier, and he and his friends could go back to resuming their lives as normal, obscenely wealthy teenagers. I would call Mrs. Smidel sometime soon to reassure her and see if she finally stopped her incessant nagging and shrieking. The narcotics team thanked me for the heads up. At least I managed to make a few more friends at the precinct.
Back at the major crimes division, I filled out whatever remaining paperwork the police department needed and relinquished the use of my commandeered desk. I gave Thompson and O’Connell a friendly smile. They knew this wouldn’t be the last time our paths crossed.
“It was nice working with you, Detective.” I extended my hand to Heathcliff.
“Are you always so formal, Parker?” he asked, ignoring the gesture and getting up from his desk. “I’ll walk you out.” He held the door as we exited the precinct and headed toward my car. It was dark. The day had flown by, but everything was copacetic. “Hey, do you maybe want to go out sometime, get dinner or a drink?” I tilted my head to the side, trying to determine if he was just being friendly.
“Are you asking me out?” I was in utter disbelief this no-nonsense cop had any interest in anything that wasn’t strictly job related.
“Yeah, something like that.” He grinned.
“I’m flattered, but I don’t date guys I barely know. Hell, I don’t even know your first name, and until five seconds ago, I thought it might be detective.” Not to mention, I’m seeing someone.
He laughed good-naturedly. “It’s Derek, but at least you had the first two letters right. I take it you aren’t much for dating cops either. Probably goes back to the whole cops versus feds thing, right?”
I chuckled. “It’s not that. It’s the shit hours, work never sleeps, on-call all the time, horrible odds of coming home with a few holes, or not coming home at all.”
“You only date outside your own species then,” he replied knowingly.
“Are you saying you’re a dog and I’m a bitch?” I playfully teased, opening my car door.
“Your words, Parker, not mine.” He held the door as I got into my car. “Have a good night. Stay safe out there.” He shut the door and tapped the side of my car before going back inside. Maybe dressing like Lola had been beneficial to my ego, I thought ironically.
Thirty-six
The next morning, I went to my office, determined to show up at least twice a week since I was mostly unemployed again. I called Mrs. Smidel who seemed civil and accommodating on the phone. Apparently, she had been abducted, and the imposter wasn’t aware of what a shrew the real Lynette Smidel was. Graciously, she thanked me for recommending Mr. Fletcher to deal with Roger’s legal issues. She was relieved her son’s future had not been irrevocably damaged, and he was no longer in any danger.
“I’m sending you a check to cover the extra time you put in to help Roger,” she promised.
“That’s not necessary, ma’am.” Her money came with too much screaming and nagging for my liking.
“It�
�s in the mail.” As an afterthought, she added, “I’ve forbidden Roger from going to that park anymore. No good can come from him sitting around alone. Maybe you were right, Ms. Parker, and I need to be more present in his life.”
“Glad to hear it.” I doubted her conviction, but I wasn’t a parent. Maybe she really did all she could.
After cleaning my office and paying a few bills, I had no more business to conduct. To waste time, I was online shopping for office furniture and cute shoes. Apparently, no good could come from sitting alone with a credit card and countless shopping opportunities either. The bell above my door chimed, saving my bank account, and I caught a glimpse of Roger entering my office.
“I hope it’s okay I stopped by,” he sounded sheepish.
“Take a seat.” I gestured to my client chair. He sat down and stared unnervingly at me. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to say thank you in person. Mr. Fletcher truly helped me out. Karen and Oliver, too.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what he does. How are your friends? Are they okay with everything that’s happened? Are you doing okay with everything?”
“They broke up.” There was a happy glint in his eye. “And I’m good. Oliver isn’t supposed to hang out with us anymore, but Karen’s been around the last few days. The only bad thing is Mom won’t let me go to the park anymore.”
“Well, your mom worries about you, and in case you haven’t figured this out yet, that’s actually a good thing.”
“Yeah, if it lasts.” He didn’t think her resolve was going to stick either. “In the meantime, my cash cow has dried up.”
“Who are you kidding? Twenty dollars a day is far from making bank,” I remarked, looking out the door at his Lexus. “What the hell do you need extra money for anyway, besides buying drugs?” I gave him a stern look.
