by G. K. Parks
As I neared the last third of the photos, I stopped on an image. It was the exterior of Dinah’s limousine. It was dark outside, either late at night or early in the morning. She was stepping out of the car, but someone remained in the back seat. Her security always exited first, so I knew it wasn’t Scar or Ty. Zooming in, I stared at the pixelated image for a few moments. The only identifiable part of her companion was his right arm. I highlighted a section of his wrist and hit the enhance button.
The computer slowed considerably in protest, but eventually, it sharpened the area in question enough that I could make out the design of his cufflink. I knew those cufflinks. Hell, I bought those cufflinks. I clicked through the remaining photos, but Martin wasn’t recognizable in any of them. For a moment, I thought about deleting that one photo, but I hesitated. No more secrets.
I fished out my phone and dialed Martin. It was around lunchtime, so there was a good chance he’d have time to chat. We only spoke a few minutes, just long enough for me to ask some questions about Dinah. He might have seen or heard something important, and even though he didn’t want to discuss these matters, I convinced him otherwise.
We hung up fifteen minutes later. Apparently, he had gone to set the same night the flowers were delivered. She had taken him on a tour. She never officially introduced him to anyone, and he didn’t recall anybody paying them any particular attention. Afterward, they shared a ride to her hotel during which they discussed matters to which I was not privy. Scar and another man from her protection detail had been inside the limo with them.
Martin never went inside the hotel. He simply went from her car to his, having told his driver where to pick him up. She had given him a hug, supposedly resulting in the makeup transfer to his shirt. The paparazzi hadn’t caught that on camera because it happened inside her limo, and he didn’t get out of her car until it was parked in the hotel garage. When Dinah stepped out at the front door, the paparazzi swarmed her, as they usually did, and that was it. Martin was never spotted by the camera brigade.
I stared at the photo another moment. Cross’s people would realize someone was in the car with Dinah, but they wouldn’t be able to ID him from the photo. Deleting it would just draw more attention to it, which I wanted to avoid. Martin didn’t seem worried about the photo. The only thing he was concerned about was what I was going to do with the information concerning his arrangement with Dinah. Nothing. It wasn’t Cross’s business, and it had no bearing on the investigation. It was irrelevant, just like these memory cards.
Deciding I wasn’t ready to share them with my colleagues, I phoned the paparazzi I interviewed the previous day. No one had seen Reaper or had any idea where he’d be. He wasn’t waiting outside the lot, and he wasn’t at the hotel. The annoying buzzing nagged at the corners of my mind, and I went upstairs to update Cross on the situation.
“You have friends at the department,” Cross said. “Find out why the cops are looking for him. Discretely.”
“I’ll try.”
“You are under contract. Nothing is to be divulged under any circumstances. Do I make myself clear? Should you encounter resistance, contact Mr. Almeada. I will notify the defense attorney that he should make himself available to you.”
“Sure.” I didn’t know why Cross thought I needed to have the city’s best defense attorney on speed dial, but from previous encounters, it was probably to scare the police into submission.
On my drive to the precinct, I picked up a tray of fancy coffees. Although bribing a police officer was illegal, I couldn’t show up empty-handed. That wouldn’t be particularly friendly, and I needed someone to be in a friendly mood in order to do me a favor.
I parked the company car in the rear lot where a fleet of police cruisers were waiting. Before going inside, I decided to make one final attempt to find Reaper on my own and dialed his phone number. The voicemail picked up automatically. Obviously, his phone remained off.
Exiting the car, I entertained the possibility Reaper could be Dinah’s stalker, but he was a native. Based on his credit card records, he hadn’t made any trips to California, and I was operating under the assumption whoever was after Dinah followed her across the country. Plus, he just didn’t have the access.
“May I help you?” a rookie officer asked from behind the desk.
“I sure hope so.” I hadn’t considered exactly how I wanted to play this. “I’m here to see someone in major crimes.”
“Do you know who specifically?”
I held back my chuckle. None of the boys upstairs would be pleased to see me, which is why I came bearing gifts. “One of the detectives. If you could just let them know Alex Parker is here with a coffee delivery, someone will buzz me up.”
He gave me a funny look but didn’t bother to protest. He picked up the phone and dialed the upstairs extension and repeated what I had just told him. If it hadn’t been for a recent attack on the police department, I probably could have slipped upstairs without a problem, the way I always had. But things were different now. Hopefully, one day soon the city would be safe enough for the protocols to become laxer.
The rookie hung up the phone. “It’ll be just a moment.”
By the time he had gotten the words out, Detective Nick O’Connell appeared at my side. He didn’t hesitate to select a vanilla latte from the tray. He sipped slowly, eyeing me over the lid, and led me to the stairs.
“Do I even want to know?” O’Connell asked, sounding tired and resigned.
“Can’t I just stop by for a visit?” I jiggled the coffee carrier as we went up the steps. “I thought my friends could use a little pick-me-up.”
“Uh-huh.” He was far from convinced. We pushed through the double doors and made our way to his desk. His partner, Thompson, was stabbing away at his keyboard. “You sure you don’t want me to write it up?” O’Connell asked him.
“I got it,” Thompson growled. He never looked up from the screen. “What do you want now, Parker?”
“I brought coffee.”
“We can get our own coffee,” Thompson retorted, but he held out a hand while he continued to type with the other. I put a large coffee with cream and two sugars in his waiting palm. He took a sip, never acknowledging that I remembered his preference.
I glanced around the bullpen. “Is Heathcliff around?”
O’Connell leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. “He just ran down to records. He’ll be back in a few minutes.” He cocked an intrigued eyebrow. “You planning on asking him for a favor instead?”
“Jealous?” I crossed to another desk and put a cappuccino next to Heathcliff’s nearly empty mug.
“Call it hopeful,” O’Connell said, but he knew I’d been doing my best to avoid Derek Heathcliff after our last two encounters had caused him a few personal and professional difficulties. “You still working for Cross?”
“Yep.”
“Which is why you’re here,” Thompson muttered.
Nick gave me a look and jerked his chin at an empty chair. I pulled it up to his desk and took a seat. “Talk to me. How are things?”
“Couldn’t be better. You can’t tell anyone, but I’m consulting on a movie,” I said.
“Have you met anyone famous?” Nick asked.
“I can’t say. It’s all very hush-hush.”
He dropped his arms and reached for his latte. “I’ll bet. Is Martin freaked out?”
“Why would he be?” I asked, wondering if O’Connell knew something I didn’t.
Thompson coughed. “Hall pass.”
I turned in my chair to look at him. “What?”
“Shut up,” O’Connell said.
Thompson glanced up at his partner and then at me. “I’m sure they must have an understanding. Her boyfriend knows everyone who’s anyone. His hall pass probably only involves foreign nationals who are denied access to this country.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked again.
Thompson snickered, took another si
p, and went back to typing, this time not nearly as angry as before. O’Connell sighed, hoping I’d just get to my point instead of wasting time trying to shoot the shit and pretend this was strictly a social call.
But I was stubborn and refused to give in, so Nick finally said, “A hall pass is a made up list of five celebrities you’re allowed to mess around with if the opportunity presents itself.”
“You and Jen each have a list?” I asked in disbelief.
“It’s something we joke about, but I’m pretty sure if she got one of those pretty boy actors on her list naked in the hospital, she’d take advantage.” He gave me a look. “It’s just one of those stupid what ifs for fun. It doesn’t mean anything for us normal folks. For those of us not involved with millionaires, the likelihood of running into one of the people on the list isn’t even remotely possible, so it’s something to tease and threaten.”
My mind went to thoughts of Martin and Dinah, and I cringed. Nick quirked an eyebrow, but I shook away his question.
“Sure, loads of fun. Sounds like a blast,” I said.
Nick took another swallow from his cup and stared at me. “I need to get back to work, so would you mind telling me why you’re really here?”
“The paparazzi have been out in force lately. They wait outside the studio and the hotels. They are a real pain in everyone’s ass,” I said.
“Yep.” Nick continued to stare. “Are they causing problems? We might be able to force them to disperse.”
“Actually, I was hoping to speak to one of them in particular. I dropped by to see him, but he wasn’t home. His neighbor said the police came by to talk to him.”
Nick put the cup down and clicked his mouse a few times until he was on a different screen. “What’s his name?”
“Chaz Relper.” I spelled it, and O’Connell scanned the details for a moment.
“Let’s see,” O’Connell’s eyes narrowed slightly as he read, “a BOLO’s been issued.”
“Why?”
“Says here he’s wanted for questioning. Apparently, he inflicted property damage, caused an accident, and fled the scene.” He read a few more lines. “Officer Mitchell took statements and issued the BOLO. It’s his case. You want to know anything more than that, you’ll need to ask him.”
“Where can I find Mitchell?”
“He’s a beat cop,” Thompson supplied before O’Connell could respond. “Dispatch should have a twenty.”
O’Connell reached for a radio and pressed the button, asking for details. Once he had the information, he was patched through to Mitchell. “I got a lady here wants to buy you lunch. Just say when and where.” The staticky response came back, and O’Connell scribbled it down on a sticky note and stuck it to my arm.
I looked down and read the note. “Now I have to buy this guy lunch?”
Nick shrugged. “You said this was a social visit. Go be social.”
Thompson kept his eyes on his screen, but he smiled. “Too bad you didn’t put Mitchell’s name on your hall pass.”
“Last time I bring you coffee,” I snapped.
“One can only hope,” Thompson replied.
O’Connell laughed. “If you want, I can radio back and tell him you’re a badge bunny.”
I glared at the two of them. “Thanks a lot, boys.”
“Don’t mention it,” Nick insisted, “and next time, don’t waste your breath saying this is a social call. We all know you’re incapable of such things.”
“I am not.”
“Fine. Put your money where your mouth is. We’re having poker night at my place next Saturday. You’re invited, and feel free to bring Martin.”
I took my note and headed for the door. “I’ll let you know about poker. I’m surprised it’s not just for the boys.”
“Can’t be,” Nick retorted. “Jen will be there, and Thompson’s dating a girl cop. We have to be inclusive.”
“They aren’t called girl cops, O’Connell. They’re called cops,” I said.
He grinned. “So I hear.”
Twenty-five
“Why are you interested in Reaper?” Mitchell asked, the words barely recognizable as he chewed. He slurped his strawberry milkshake and eyed me. “You famous?” His brows scrunched, and he put the cup down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “You can’t be. O’Connell doesn’t know anyone like that.”
Aside from introducing myself and paying for his meal, which consisted of two double cheeseburgers, a strawberry milkshake, a side of onion rings, and a cup of chili, the only words I’d uttered to Officer Mitchell were, “What can you tell me about Chaz ‘Reaper’ Relper.” And since then he’d done nothing but talk and eat, mostly at the same time.
When I didn’t answer, he looked at me expectantly and reached for an onion ring. “You sure you don’t want something to eat?”
“No, I had a big breakfast.”
“Suit yourself.” He popped the onion ring into his mouth and shoveled a mouthful of chili in after it. “How do you know O’Connell?”
“You might call it a working relationship.” Changing the subject now would be best. A career beat cop wouldn’t bother giving a private investigator the time of day, even after she spent far too much on his artery-clogging euphoria. “Any leads on Reaper?”
“Not really. I dropped by his place several times this week while I’ve been out on patrol, but he’s never there. We tried calling. No answer. We issued an alert on his car, but we haven’t gotten any hits there either.” He stopped eating and sat back. His eyes suddenly grew keen, and his body shifted. “How do you know Reaper?”
“I don’t.”
Mitchell exhaled. “I’m gonna need more than that. You are aware I’m under no obligation to discuss an ongoing case with any outsiders, and quite frankly, I don’t know O’Connell well enough to owe him any favors. So what’s the deal?”
“I’m in the private sector. He’s a paparazzo with a drone. That poses problems for my client.” It was vague. He might think I was an agent or manager, a private eye, or in the security biz. The fewer facts I divulged, the better. “O’Connell and the rest of major crimes will vouch for me. I’m not looking to get anyone jammed up. I just want to pin down Reaper’s whereabouts.”
“You and me both.” He picked up the second burger and took a bite.
“Is it out of line to ask what he’s accused of doing?”
Mitchell chuckled. “Sure, innocent until proven guilty and all that, but this asshole flies his drone right into this lady’s windshield. Broke right through the glass, scared the living bejesus out of her. What the fucker didn’t count on was the dashboard cam she had hooked up. She caught the whole thing on camera.”
“And you identified Reaper from the footage?”
“Nah,” he took another bite, swallowed, and picked at something caught between his teeth, “this putz stuck a label on the front of his drone. If found, please return. He put his name, home address, and phone number right on the thing.”
“Do you have the drone in evidence?”
He shook his head. “Craziest thing. It breaks through her windshield. She slams on her brakes. Gets rear-ended. The drone is still in flight, busts out her rear window, and flies off. A couple of people who saw the accident caught its departure on their phones. Talk about crazy shit.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“The woman driving got cut up pretty bad when the drone busted through the glass, and the hit from behind was enough to push her into a parked car. It set off her airbags. She has a busted nose, and she’s claiming whiplash.” He rolled his eyes at that one. “She’s out for blood. She wants this Reaper guy dead to rights. I’m thinking she’s hoping the criminal charges stick to strengthen her civil claims.” He took another bite. “It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. This guy should have just come forward at the time. Now he’s evading us, which pisses me off. I want to find him. If he doesn’t show up soon, we’ll probably step up the search and take a more active approach than just knockin
g every once in a while.” He took another sip of his milkshake. “I got a call into the DA’s office. We’re thinking it might be important to search his place. If nothing else, we need to confiscate that drone before he does more damage. Just imagine if he’d flown that thing into one of the cars on the bridge or in a tunnel during rush-hour. It would take hours to get it sorted and cleared.”
His radio squawked, and he turned it up and tilted his head to the side while he listened to the call. After grabbing another quick bite, he wiped his hands on a napkin, pushed the button, and responded that he was on his way.
“I gotta go.” He looked at me again. “O’Connell got your info?”
“Yeah.”
“If I need something from you, I’ll be in touch.”
He left in a hurry, and I stared at the few morsels left on his tray. His story didn’t give me much to think about. I needed additional details, so I called O’Connell while I cleaned up Mitchell’s mess. According to the police report, the accident happened a few blocks from the club the same night Clay booked it for his private party. Based on the 911 call, it happened just after one a.m. From what I recalled, things should have been underway, but it was still early enough in the evening that most of the cast hadn’t gone back to the hotel yet.
Pondering if any of this information was relevant, I returned to the office. My first stop was the tech department. Without access to the actual dashboard camera footage, I couldn’t say with absolute certainty this drone and Reaper’s were the same, but they did find adhesive residue attached to the front from what might have been a label.
“It’s a cheap model. No GPS. No way to determine coordinates or location. If it’s the same drone the police are looking for, then I can see why the guy who owned it would put a label on it.” Amir glanced at the machine. “We’re going to dust the tape for prints. It’ll be done in sections since we have to unravel it. We might even find some kind of trace or a hair.”
