by G. K. Parks
She laughed politely, but I was certain that I could hear aggravation in Ridley’s lengthy exhale. Obviously, there must be something wrong with the men that the federal government employs; none of them seemed to understand my sense of humor.
She crossed the room and motioned that we join her at a table. Flipping on the backlight and computer projector, she took a step back and waited for Ridley to take over the presentation. He slipped on a pair of gloves and picked up a metal probe to use as a pointer.
“You are aware that you aren’t allowed to work your own case, Parker,” Ridley chastised. “However, Jablonsky believes that seeing what happened and hearing a few theories might jog your memory and give us a viable lead. Since this isn’t an exact science and we normally don’t get to hear an account from the actual victim, this ought to be a learning experience for all of us.”
“Just pretend I’m a guinea pig,” I said.
“Based on injuries sustained and the pattern of damage,” he flipped my jacket over, and I was shocked to see the degree of damage to the leather, “there was an intense impact, followed by a skid, and continued roll at a high velocity.”
“Shit.” I couldn’t help but stare at the practically shredded patches of leather at the side and back.
“If you look at the overlay,” Davenport added, flipping on the screen and placing photos of my injuries underneath a see-through photo of my jacket, “the road rash on your side and the deep laceration on your back correlate with the damage to your jacket. However,” she added another image while Ridley opened an evidence bag and removed my shirt, “the rest of your clothing is fairly intact, with the exception of a rip on your jeans.”
“Which matches up with the bruise on your knee,” Ridley said.
“Does that mean anything?” I asked, putting on gloves and rotating my jacket on the table so I could watch the way the deep gashes and scratches in the leather traveled in a fairly continuous circular path.
“The cuts on your lower stomach and back were likely due to the lack of protective cover surrounding them,” Ridley said. He removed my jeans from the evidence bag and stared at the frayed hem at the waistline. “We know for certain that you rolled. There are multiple points of impact — your right knee, your left side, and your right arm. But there are no paint flecks or metal chips which would be indicative of being hit by a vehicle, and the lack of defensive wounds would indicate that you didn’t attempt to brace yourself. The trace evidence we found at the site of your injuries is typical of contact with asphalt.”
“Meaning?” I asked, growing increasingly more panicked as the presentation continued.
“You were traveling at a high speed and came into contact with the pavement. The initial point of impact occurred on your right side, causing the bruising and sprain to your knee and arm.” He focused on my cast. “Did the hospital tell you about spider fractures?”
“They said I have a sprain.” I swallowed. “You’re supposed to make my day better, not worse.”
“In your case, they aren’t a big deal,” Davenport said. “They’re minor. They might have been missed.” She opened a file and took out a film, placing it on the lighted portion of the table. “See this depressed area here and these faint lines that look almost like pencil marks?”
“Yeah.”
“The lines could be microfractures running from your wrist to your elbow.” She shrugged. “Or it could be a shadow or something on the film. They’re really not a big deal, but if they are spider fractures, then you hit hard. Not hard enough to sever the bone but pretty damn hard nonetheless.”
“The momentum probably made you skip off the ground, like a stone on the water, and you hit again on your left side, this time slower, so the force dragged you until the revolutions began,” Ridley concluded. “We see this frequently with motorcycle accidents. Were you on a motorcycle?”
“No.” I bit my lip, staring at my jacket and feeling like a stranger in my own skin. “What else could account for it?”
“Extreme sports,” Davenport suggested.
“I wasn’t wearing skateboarding gear,” I snapped.
“Maybe a fall, but angle and trajectory would be difficult, unless it was a sharp incline,” Ridley suggested.
“Any sharp inclines near where I was found?”
The techs had pissed me off, and a part of me wanted to walk out of the room and find somewhere safe to hide. It wasn’t rational, but Lucca’s insistence that I had unknowingly done this to myself while stuck in some fugue state scared the crap out of me. The more I heard, the more confused I became.
“The ramps in the parking garage don’t have the necessary slope needed to obtain the velocity at which you must have been traveling. However, a tumble down the staircase might provide the proper angle, but because it isn’t a solid line, there would be obvious breaks in the gouges.” Ridley pointed to my jacket. “And there aren’t.” He looked up. “We’re baffled, but this isn’t even the worst part.”
“What is?” I reluctantly asked.
“Underneath your damaged fingernails, we found wood pieces,” Ridley said.
“I know. Lucca told me.”
“They had to come from finished furniture. We’ve traced the type of wood and varnish used. It’s a match to a popular type of commercially sold tables and chairs.”
“So?” I asked.
“It had to come from inside. The wood was pristine. There were no signs of weathering or damage by the elements. But the glass, pebbles, tar, and oil that you were covered in are indicative of any city street. The evidence is contradictory.”
“Not if whatever happened began indoors,” Jablonsky said from the doorway.
“Tell me you have a lead,” I practically begged, hating the pathetic tone in my own voice that earned sympathetic looks from Davenport and Ridley.
“Not yet,” Mark said. “We’ll get there.”
“Did you find anything else on any of my other belongings?” I asked. “Are you finished analyzing my credentials and gun?”
“We recovered your wallet,” Davenport said. “You can have that back. It was of no use.” She held it out and waited for me to look through it. “Is anything missing? If this was a mugging…”
“Not a mugging. No one took my debit card or credit card. They must have realized what my limit was.” Everything else was inside. “What about my gear?”
“What gear?” Ridley asked.
“My nine millimeter, my government ID and badge, and my handcuffs.” Closing my eyes, I tried to recall if I had a purse with me, but since my phone had been in my pocket and they had my wallet, I wouldn’t have been carrying a handbag. My purse was probably in the trunk of my car.
“We didn’t find any of those at our crime scene,” Davenport said. She picked up the hospital manifest to make sure they hadn’t been cataloged by the ambulance driver or someone on staff. “Nothing was found. Are you sure you had them with you?”
I looked at Mark. “Things just got a lot worse.”
Six
“Notification has been made,” Mark said. “If someone tries to impersonate a federal agent, we’ll hear about it.”
“Maybe,” I replied, “but most people aren’t going to question an authority figure, and even less are likely to take the time to look at the photo ID. They see a badge, and that’s about it.”
“At least we have a possible motive,” Lucca said.
“Yeah, someone attacked me just to steal my gun and ID in order to perpetrate a murder.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose, wincing when it pulled at the scab on my forehead. “Why didn’t they kill me?”
“Count your blessings,” Jablonsky replied.
Lucca’s brow furrowed. “It doesn’t make sense. Parker tried to kick my ass the other morning just because I startled her. She wouldn’t let some asshole take her shit and walk away. She’d have defensive wounds.”
Jablonsky cocked his head to the side. “Or the asshole would be in the hospital.” He sighed.
“Maybe an opportunistic vulture took them after she was out cold.”
“In that case, why didn’t he take my wallet and phone?” I asked.
“Phone’s traceable,” Lucca said, “but he would have taken your wallet. And why the cuffs? They’re not of any real value.”
“Unless you want to dress up like a LEO or you’re into bondage,” I said. “Maybe it’s not about committing a murder. Maybe it’s about dressing up to play the part.” I glanced at the recent cases I’d been working. “It’s possible whoever did this wanted access to this building or someplace only an agent could go.”
“Perhaps,” Lucca didn’t look convinced, “but how did they knock you out without a fight.” He flipped through my medical file. “You weren’t tasered or drugged. Although, you must have been pretty damn smashed the night before since you were barely under the legal limit when the hospital ran the tox screen. Is it possible you left your crap at a bar and this is a total misunderstanding?”
“How incompetent do you think I am?”
“Is that on a scale of one to ten?” he retorted, and Jablonsky cleared his throat before my so-called partner and I came to blows.
“Lucca, go canvas the bars in the vicinity and see if anyone remembers seeing Alex there on the night in question,” Jablonsky ordered. Lucca nodded, relieved to abandon the threat assessment for now. Once Lucca walked away, Mark turned to me. “Unofficially, have you been drinking on the job?”
“No.” My answer came quickly. It wasn’t even something I had to think about. I was professional, and being even slightly impaired wasn’t safe.
“I didn’t think so,” he mumbled, scratching at the scruff on his upper lip. He looked across the room at a few of the agents that didn’t seem to be working hard enough. “Henderson, Thatcher, you’re going on a treasure hunt. Check out the parking structure where Parker was found and everything in the nearby vicinity. Make sure our crime scene guys didn’t miss anything.”
As if people around here didn’t hate me already, now they had more work to do because of me. Sighing, I slumped into a chair and flipped through the information on my phone. None of the numbers or messages were from an unknown source. Today was supposed to lead to answers, not more questions.
“It’s a bust,” I said, focusing on Mark who appeared to be deep in thought. “I’m of absolutely no use. I still don’t remember anything. I’m fairly certain I didn’t join a motorcycle gang or wipeout while practicing for the X-games. Nothing here has jogged any memories. Lucca’s right. If this had been an attack, there should be obvious signs of a struggle. At the very least, my knuckles should be bruised.”
“You could have been jumped. It happens, even to the best of us. Maybe that one blow to the head was all it took.” He frowned at the toxicology report. “Our timeline could be wrong. Just because the last thing you remember was around seven p.m., that doesn’t mean that you were attacked right after.”
“Then I really could have been anywhere, doing anything.” Exhaling, I stood up. “What if this was caused by some kind of mental issue?”
“No,” Mark shook his head, “you don’t get to pretend that you’re Brad Pitt. I have that problem with half the men here.”
“Fine, I’ll be Ed Norton, the one that shot himself in the head in order to kill off the other personality.”
“Parker,” Mark growled, “this isn’t Fight Club. There’s another explanation. We just haven’t found it yet.”
“You’re the one that made the reference in the first place.” I pressed my lips together, but nothing useful surfaced. “What do you think happened?” He shrugged, but I didn’t buy the clueless act. “What did you have to speak to the Director about?”
“Something unrelated.” He glared at me. “Leave it alone, Alex.”
“Leave what alone?”
“Everything else.” He stood up and led me to the door. “You’re on medical leave. You have to go for a follow-up consultation before you’ll even be cleared to sit behind a desk again. You know that, so why are you poking around in other cases? It was a courtesy that I asked you to come in today.” He glanced around the room, finding most of the agents out on assignment. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll have your protection detail take you home.”
“It wasn’t a courtesy,” I argued. “Unfortunately, now we have even more to worry about than we did before.” Refusing to leave, I stood in the doorway. “How much of an ass-chewing will I get for losing my gun and ID?”
“It depends on the circumstances. It depends on when and if they’re recovered.”
“That’s a lot of uncertainty. It goes great with everything else.” The jaded bitterness was in my voice, and I had the undeniable urge to hit something. “I don’t even know what happened. How the hell should I know if I’m even to blame?”
Leaving Mark’s office, I returned to my desk, opened the drawer, and took out my car keys. Due to the possible concussion, I probably wasn’t cleared to drive, and since I had a protection detail, leaving wouldn’t be wise or much of an option. Instead, I figured I’d go to the garage and search my car. Maybe there’d be something inside that would indicate what I planned on doing or who I was meeting.
The elevator ride was brief, giving me a few moments of privacy to think. The only conclusion I reached was that I was angry. This shouldn’t be happening. Who the hell loses fourteen hours of her life? Granted, I should be thankful, and truthfully, I was. I was lucky, blessed even. I woke up with fairly minor injuries, no missing kidneys or sexual assault to report. Hell, I woke up with almost all of my faculties in working order. So I had a fourteen hour blank spot in my memory. So what? At least I hadn’t suffered any lasting damage. Resolved to look on the bright side of things for once, I went to my car and unlocked the door.
Taking a seat behind the wheel, I checked the cup holder, the center console, and the glove box. There was nothing unusual or indicative of my evening plans. I did a quick check underneath the car seats, and then I searched the back. My subcompact didn’t exactly have much of a back seat, and with the exception of my gym bag and towel, it was empty. Hitting my injured side against the car door on my way out, I swore.
Shaking it off, I moved on to the trunk. Mark had taken my go-bag out of the trunk and brought it to the hospital, but my purse, which I kept in case I made plans after work, was normally in the car. After all, a girl needs a place to keep her handgun when she’s out with friends.
The lid lifted, and a sudden uneasiness returned to my chest. My breath caught, and I had trouble swallowing. Nothing sinister lay inside, but my mind didn’t agree. The trunk contained my purse, an emergency first-aid kit, and a few other emergency items. A flash shot through my mind of a bloody mass wrapped in plastic. I backed away from my car. My lower back slammed into one of the waist-high, yellow, metal posts near the no-parking area, and a scream escaped my lips. I don’t know if it was the utter fear or the pain that caused it, but I found myself crumpled on the ground, gasping.
Time passed, but I wasn’t sure how much. It could have been seconds or hours that I remained paralyzed in physical and mental agony. Flashes of a vehicle, blood, and a body went through my mind like rapid-fire. I couldn’t discern what was happening or what I was remembering. My side hurt, bringing me back to reality. Physical pain focused my attention, and I remained still, assessing the damage.
“Parker?” Lucca called from across the lot. “Alex?” He sprinted to me with Agent Steve Cooper by his side. “What happened?”
I shook my head, trembling. Words escaped me, and Cooper took my pulse. Lucca went to get help, and Cooper scanned the vicinity for signs of danger. His eyes narrowed in on the growing bloodstain on the side of my t-shirt. Carefully, he lifted my shirt, seeing that I had reopened several lacerations.
“You’re pretty banged up,” Cooper said. “Did someone do this to you?”
“I walked into the pole,” I said, finding my voice. “I hit my side and back. It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”
Cooper gave me a look. We had worked a case together a little over a year ago when I was nothing more than a lowly private investigator that had been accused of murder. He had been leading the task force that was investigating police corruption and had gotten stuck with me. Cooper was fairly by the book, but he was a stand-up guy that had saved my life once before. I trusted him. I knew he’d never let anything happen to me.
“How bad?” he asked. “Should I call for an ambulance?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s nothing.” I was embarrassed and shaky. Moving to stand up, I pulled myself off the ground using the same damn pole that had reduced me to a whimpering pile of pain.
“It doesn’t seem like nothing.” He opened my car door and stepped back. “Take a seat.” I sat in the car, feeling increasingly stupid as the minutes passed. “Lucca told me what happened, how they found you.” He stared into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “I’m fine, mostly.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” he asked, but I shook my head. “What about Vito?”
“The mafia don that threatened to kill me if I returned to the OIO and ratted on him? Nah, the thought never crossed my mind.”
“Parker,” Cooper said, annoyed by my sarcastic attitude. He must have forgotten that was a cornerstone of my personality. “Are you sure it wasn’t him?”
“I’m not sure about anything. I didn’t rat on him. I’m not investigating him. I never went back on my word, so he shouldn’t have a beef with me.” I looked at the elevator, wondering when Lucca would be returning.
“You came back to the OIO.”
“Yeah, well, maybe he doesn’t know about that.” I focused my attention on removing the bandage at my side. “Plus, he wouldn’t leave me alive. If it was him, I’d be dead.” Pulling the useless piece of gauze free, I said, “Grab that first-aid kit from the trunk, will ya?”
“Sure.” Cooper pulled the box out of my trunk and knelt in front of me, but before I could patch myself up, Lucca returned with a medic.
