by G. K. Parks
“Do they have a security system? What about receipts? How about the bartender? Someone might recognize me and be able to tell you who I was with.”
“It’s my investigation.” He jerked his head to the side. “I’ll handle those questions.”
Deciding that arguing was pointless, I made my way through the different areas of the dining room, not finding any additional memory triggers. Moving toward the restrooms, I hoped I would remember something, but I didn’t. The bar and the glasses seemed to be the only thing I recalled. Maybe I was a lush with a problem. Disheartened, I continued my walkthrough, ending up in the hallway to the kitchen.
From here, I could see white tile floors. Moving deeper down the hallway, I stood in the doorway of the kitchen. The neon red emergency exit sign was in the far corner of the room above a door. The room was nothing but white and stainless steel. Stainless steel tables, prep stations, cooking utensils, and shelves filled the space. It was clean and pristine, but something about this space felt sinister. My eyes roamed over the surfaces, tracing the grout in the tile and the sharp corners of the tables. Finally, my eyes came to rest on a drain in the floor.
“Oh my god.” I stepped backward, knocking over a mixing bowl with a clatter that drew the attention of everyone inside the restaurant. I bent over and picked it up, suddenly feeling a sense of doom fill me.
“Parker?” Lucca asked, coming to see what the noise was, along with several of the restaurant employees.
Before I could say a word, my eyes locked on a busboy that had been lingering inside the kitchen while the cooks prepped for the day’s meals. His gaze shifted from me to Lucca, and I knew in that instant he would run. He turned on his heel, bursting out the emergency exit. Without hesitating, I took off after him.
“Go around,” I yelled to Lucca as I darted through the kitchen and out the door after the man.
Sixteen
Running from a federal agent wasn’t advisable under the best circumstances, and these were far from stellar conditions. This was personal. I chased him out the door, ending up at the back of the building. The area was completely contained, or so it appeared. I slowed my pace, drawing my weapon in anticipation of the unknown. Where the hell did he go?
I moved forward; my gaze focused on the dumpster ahead while my peripheral vision monitored the surrounding area for signs of movement. Lucca hadn’t followed behind, so I was right to assume that there was another way around. I considered the location of the restaurant on the block. Dumpsters lined the enclosed space, and doors lined either side. It must open up at the end of the block. If the busboy had enough of a head start, he’d run right into Lucca.
Why the hell did he run? I wondered, keeping my head on a swivel. A stray cat jumped down from the lid of one of the dumpsters behind me. Spinning, I focused my aim on the furry creature, but he seemed oblivious to his near-death experience.
Inhaling, I turned around, carefully flipping open the nearest dumpster, but no one was hiding inside. Continuing on my path, I began to reconsider my direction, wondering if the cat had been spooked by someone besides me. I checked the first door I passed, but it was locked. I turned my head to check the opposite direction again. While I was distracted, the adjacent door swung open hard, knocking into my back and sending me sprawling. I landed spread eagle, barely maintaining my grip on the gun.
“Federal agent,” I shouted, “freeze.”
The busboy didn’t falter. Instead, he gained speed, determined to get away as if his life depended on it. I pulled myself off the ground and ran after him. He wasn’t a runner, and I was gaining on him. It helped that he was stuck in an enclosed space and there was only one way to go.
“I said freeze,” I growled.
Barreling forward, I was almost close enough to take him down when a sharp pain shot through my body. The world blinked out for just a second, but by the time my focus returned, he had turned the corner and was on the main street. I continued after him for a few more seconds until my heart threatened to beat out of my chest and my body cried out for oxygen. Stopping, I bent over, forcing deep breaths down my throat.
“Parker,” Lucca ran up, “are you okay?”
“Go,” I pointed down the street, “go after him.” My words came in between huffs, and Lucca hesitated before continuing pursuit. As soon as he was gone, I sunk to the ground. I needed to call for back-up, but I couldn’t do anything aside from breathe. When the tunnel vision cleared and I was no longer gasping, I reached for the phone.
“Don’t bother,” Lucca said, trudging toward me, “he’s gone.” He offered his hand and helped me up. “What part of cooperating witness did you not understand?”
“All of it.”
“Obviously. Do you have any idea who that guy was?”
“No,” I considered the question, “I just knew he would run.”
“Repressed memory or instinct?”
“Both, I guess. We need a name, an address, and I want security footage from the restaurant. Something went down, and that busboy knows what happened.”
After an hour of listening to the manager stonewall most of Lucca’s questions, we left the restaurant. Unless we had a warrant, Pepper refused to hand over security footage or receipts. The vindictive part of my psyche hoped that the manager was involved, and that we would have the joy of eventually arresting him. But it wasn’t a crime to assert one’s rights.
“So we get a warrant,” I said, climbing into the car. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“What happened during the pursuit?” Lucca asked, changing the subject. “You’ve never been outrun by a suspect. You’re still not feeling good?”
“I’m recovering. It’s a process. One step forward, two back, a little dizzy spell here and there, but I’m fine.”
He gave me that annoying disappointed look of his. I should be immune to it by now since I got it often enough, but I wasn’t. “You shouldn’t have pursued. Even if you caught him, we’d have enough trouble explaining that.”
“Oh, so it’s better that he got away?”
“I didn’t say that, Parker. Stop twisting my words. I know how displeased you are with the current situation, but you’re putting yourself in harm’s way. And you’re putting me in danger too.”
“He rabbited. That’s on him. You told me to look around. I did. He must have recognized me and ran. That’s not my fault.”
“I guess not.” He flipped on the signal light and headed in the opposite direction of the federal building. “I’m taking you home. You need to rest. You’re not ready to be out in the field.”
I wanted to protest, but I knew he was right. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Yeah.” He pulled to a stop in front of my building. “I’ll let you know when we bring him in.”
“And when the warrant comes through.” I smiled at him. “I know I’m not on the case. You can’t discuss that with an agent who’s out on medical leave.”
“I’ll make sure you’re in the loop.”
“Careful, boy scout, your badge might get tarnished if you keep bending the rules.”
“It’s already too late. You’re my partner. I have your back.”
Giving him a bittersweet smile, I shut the door and patted the side of the SUV. Then I went up the stairs to my apartment. Truth be told, Lucca was a nice guy, but I had the habit of being a sarcastic bitch sometimes. Maybe I’d try to be nicer. I didn’t want to be friends, and I knew I was close to crossing over to the dark side. My walls were up to protect myself from the potential pain of losing someone else that I cared about. But after this ordeal, I knew I could rely on Lucca, and he should be afforded the same courtesy. I just hoped that I wouldn’t fail my new partner the same way I failed my old one.
After entering my apartment, I took off my jacket and slipped out of the shoulder holster, feeling a sticky dampness on my back. Great. Taking off my shirt, I soaked it in the sink and tried to get a look at my back. Martin was right; the bruises did look s
ignificantly worse than they originally had. Of course, my run-in with the car door, the parking pole, and our suspect today hadn’t helped matters. The lacerations on my back had reopened, but once they were cleaned, they didn’t appear much worse. I just needed to take it easy and not bump into anything for a week or two.
It was around dinnertime when Jablonsky knocked on my door. From the look on his face, I knew it wasn’t good news. He entered, going straight to the liquor cabinet and pouring a couple fingers of whiskey. After knocking it back, he took a seat at the counter.
“The judge won’t issue a warrant. He thinks it’s a fishing expedition,” Mark said, not meeting my eyes.
“Did you tell him that two men were murdered and an agent was injured?”
“Of course, which he interpreted as law enforcement’s misguided need to subvert the system by infringing upon individual rights.”
“It’s a fucking restaurant.”
“No shit.” He looked at me. “Apparently a few hours after you and Lucca left, the police showed up to ask their own questions. They must have gotten the address off the SUV’s GPS since they impounded the vehicle yesterday.” He poured another glass and downed it. “The bodies were found plastic wrapped in the trunk. Two slugs in one and a single shot in the other. Your credentials were inside the trunk, and your gun was found in the back seat. GSR was all over the vehicle. The police won’t release the identities of the victims, but Lt. Moretti did confirm that one of the deceased was a cop.”
My lungs deflated, and I dropped into a chair before my legs gave out. I remembered the trunk, the sound of the gunfire, and the dead detective. I remembered too much and not enough. It wasn’t fair. Inhaling slowly, I put my head in my hands. I had to silence that voice inside that said I was responsible. It didn’t make sense, but it was how I was wired to feel. The weight of the world rested on my shoulders, or so Martin had said. Obviously, he wasn’t wrong.
“What about the busboy?” I asked, attempting to distract myself with other information.
“His place is under surveillance, but he hasn’t been back. I spoke with the police department, and they’ve issued an all points on Jacob House.” Mark capped the bottle and returned it to the liquor cabinet. “Lucca said you didn’t recognize him. But House ran, and you gave chase.”
“Pretty much.”
“Is there anything you forgot to mention?”
“No,” I searched my mind, “but his name is familiar.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know.” I bit my lip and crossed the room to my computer, searching through my files for a hit. The query came up blank, and I shook my head. “Do we have a profile on him? He must be guilty of something. He ran.”
“He has a driver’s license and a work visa on file at Pepper. However, we’ve run his ID through the database, and it’s a fake. He might have run because he was afraid of getting caught.”
“We weren’t there to arrest him. He recognized me. That’s why he ran. He knows something or saw something.”
“Then we need to find him before the police do. Their priority will be to get a cop killer off the street, and I’m not sure we can trust whatever an illegal immigrant says inside an interrogation room.”
“Do you honestly believe the cops will try to pin this on me?”
“If I say yes, are you going to go on the lam again?” He glared at me. “That was the dumbest thing that you’ve ever done. Don’t even think about it.”
“I wasn’t, but we both know the evidence points to me. It’s either a setup or I was fortunate enough to escape.”
“Your injuries and DOT cams suggest escape. House might have seen the actual killer. He might be able to clear you. I just think it’d be beneficial that we talk to him first.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t running from me because he saw me shoot them?”
“Parker, how the hell did you lift two grown men into the back of a SUV? You’re strong, and you can fight. But I don’t see you performing a two hundred pound deadlift. Practical reasoning is on your side, remember that.”
“Well, it’s not like I can remember much else.”
“Oh for christ’s sake, I’m sick of the self-pity. You’re lucky. Those men weren’t.”
“I know, and that’s why I’m so angry. I was there. I should be able to help. I want to help, Mark. I want to tell you what happened. I want whoever is responsible to pay. I just can’t remember. And it kills me. It rips a hole through my heart every time I flash back to seeing one of their bodies. I can’t stand the helplessness, the impotence, the,” I raised my hands as if I were strangling an imaginary person, “the utter uselessness. God,” I put my head in my hands, “I even spoke to Dr. Weiler and tried this hypno-meditation crap. It won’t come, and it’s my fault because I’m too weak or scared to remember it.”
“Alexis,” Mark said, crossing the room to be near me, “it’ll come. Give it time.”
A wave of nausea struck me like a ton of bricks, and I swallowed the burning bile, gagging slightly. “Get away.”
“What?”
I pushed back, rolling my chair away from Mark and the desk. The smell of the liquor was stuck in my nasal cavity, and I couldn’t shake it. It made me sick, and I remembered all the worst hangovers I ever had. None of those ever resulted in this type of lasting reaction.
“It’s the whiskey.”
He gave me a curious look. “Well, we know you’re not pregnant. The hospital would have mentioned that. Is it just whiskey?”
“Scotch too, but they’re incredibly similar.”
“I want to try an experiment, but you won’t like it.” Mark went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a few different bottles. “How about we start with vodka?” He uncapped the bottle and held it out. “Take a sniff.”
Seventeen
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent the night with my head in the toilet. Then again, wasn’t it two nights ago that I slept on the bathroom floor? This was not a pattern I wanted to repeat. My sides ached, and my throat burned. Jablonsky pushed a bottle of Gatorade toward me, looking apologetic.
“You ought to hydrate,” he said.
“I should take that bottle and shove it up your ass,” I hissed. Closing the toilet seat lid, I rested my cheek against the top and stared at him. “What time did I roll out of that SUV?”
“Around two a.m.”
“So the alcohol was introduced to my system between eight p.m. and two a.m., and the hospital ran the tox report at nine a.m.?”
“That sounds about right.”
“Which means I was fucking blitzed.” I knew there was a way to calculate what my BAC had been at two a.m., but I couldn’t remember the exact formula. Surely, the techs could determine that if necessary, but it was safe to assume I was well beyond the legal limit. I was probably near the alcohol poisoning end of the spectrum. “That’s why I’m having trouble remembering what happened.”
“Your body remembers better than you do,” Mark said. “Do you have any idea what you were drinking?”
I’d reacted poorly to every bottle in my liquor cabinet. Honestly, I could have been drinking anything that night, but something told me it hadn’t been by choice. Mark uncapped the Gatorade bottle and held it in front of my face.
“Drink this.”
“Put that down. I don’t want it,” I said, not wanting to have a second viewing of the neon yellow liquid.
“Fine, do what you want. I’m not going to force it down your throat.” He leaned back against the vanity. “For the record, I didn’t expect you to get so violently ill.”
“Yeah, well, my stomach is apparently my Achilles heel.” I considered getting up, but the queasiness hadn’t completely gone away yet. “Although, I haven’t been sick like this in a while. I guess it was about time.”
A thought crossed Mark’s mind, and he stood up and went into the living room. “We might be able to retrace your steps. You must have gotten sick somewhere between Pepper a
nd the parking garage.” He sent a few texts and returned to the bathroom. “We’ll see if that leads to anything.”
“Okay.” Braving the possibility of a relapse, I stood and rinsed my mouth in the sink. “Is it odd that I find this development reassuring?”
“What do you mean?”
“I finally have an explanation for why I can’t remember things clearly, and it isn’t because of some deep-seated trauma or repressed memory. It’s because of the shit that some asshole force-fed me.” The words came out of my mouth without any thought behind them, but I knew they were true. “We just have to figure out why.”
“And who.”
“Yeah.” I returned to the living room. “Do me a favor and clear that shit out of here. I don’t care what you do with it. Drink it, pour it down the drain, whatever. I just don’t want to see it or smell it.” Shuddering, I went into my room and flopped onto the bed. “Call if there are any updates.”
“You do realize that you work for me, right?” Jablonsky asked, peeking around the doorjamb. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it most of the time.”
“Fine, what do you want me to do, boss?”
“Get some sleep. Clear your head.” He entered my room and picked up the pill bottle. “Are you taking these?”
“Sometimes.”
“They probably aren’t helping with the fogginess.” He put the bottle down. “Is Marty on his way?”
“It’s just me tonight.”
“All right. I’ll unload whatever cheap liquor you still have in this dump, and then I’ll camp out on the couch. If you need something, let me know.”
I voiced numerous words to the contrary, but he waved his hand, dismissing my protests. While I remained in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the clink of the bottles being removed from the cabinet, my mind drifted over the recent facts. I considered giving the meditation thing another shot but decided that allowing my mind to wander was a better alternative. Once my front door opened and closed for the second time and the sound of the TV filled the silence, I relaxed. It was safe to let the thoughts come and the memories resurface.
