Past Crimes (Alexis Parker Book 20)

by G. K. Parks

  “After everything I’ve done for you, the least you can do is take me to lunch.”

  “Deal.”

  He pointed at the clock. “Moretti’s working late tonight. If you hurry, you can probably still catch him and ask about cops who might have a bone to pick with your boss.”

  “Moretti won’t talk to me. He threatened to arrest me for interfering.”

  “He won’t. He likes you.”

  “I don’t think that’ll stop him.”

  “Tell him what you found.” Mark handed me the threatening note. “And tell him about this. I want to make sure he knows someone’s screwing with you. If it is a cop, he’ll take care of it. Dominic’s one of the good ones.”

  “Fine.” I collected my things and grabbed the note off the desk. “Keep your phone on. If I get tossed in a cell, you’re my one call.”

  “My battery’s low.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Charge it.”

  * * *

  It was after midnight. Shift change happened an hour ago, but since Moretti was determined to make this case, he’d be burning the midnight oil. I just hoped he was taking the phrase literally.

  I parked in the nearest space, debating if I should go inside. But something told me it’d be better to have this conversation outside of the hallowed halls of the precinct. Instead, I settled in behind the wheel, knowing he’d have to come out eventually.

  While I waited, I called Martin. He hadn’t left work yet either and wasn’t sure when he’d get home. He and his projects manager were crunching numbers.

  When the wait got to be too much, I got out of the car. Pain shot through the backs of my calves, up my hamstrings, and along my quads. The hours spent researching had caused my overworked muscles to tighten up to the point that I could barely walk. The only way to fix that was to move around and stretch.

  Stupid, I thought. Working out was supposed to improve my performance, not hinder it. What would I do if someone jumped out of the shadows and attacked me? I couldn’t exactly fight him off.

  My mind recalled one of the gruesome stories a survivor had shared in group during last Thursday’s session. My imagination turned on, and I squinted through the darkness. Did I see someone lurking near the side of the building?

  “You’re losing it,” I muttered to myself, but I took out my flashlight, palmed my gun, and poked around in the dark corner of the parking lot. A door slammed, and I jumped, spinning toward the source of the sound. But I didn’t see anything. “Hello?”

  Silence.

  Slowly, I edged around the corner of the building. A couple of cops who’d come off shift were hanging out on the front steps, joking about something. That must have been what I heard. They nodded to me.

  “Do you need some help, lady?” one of them asked.

  “No, I’m waiting for someone.”

  “You want me to relay a message? I can tell whoever it is to get his ass in gear.” He jerked his thumb at the entrance.

  “No, that’s okay.”

  He nodded and went back to talking to the two other cops.

  Unlike the rear parking lot, the front of the precinct was well-lit. The rear entrance only had two small lights at the door and a couple of lampposts placed near the center of the parking lot. So when I trudged back to my car, everything suddenly seemed darker and a lot more sinister.

  I bounced gently on the balls of my feet, loosening up my muscles. At least my legs didn’t hurt anymore. But I felt eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.

  My thoughts returned to the case. Did a cop kill Trey Knox?

  I couldn’t stay out here with my imagination running rampant. So I headed for the door. Just then, it swung open.

  “Jesus, Parker, you know better than to sneak up on a cop. Are you trying to get yourself shot?” Moretti clutched his chest. “Put that thing away before someone gets killed.” He nodded down at my gun. “Drawing on a cop is a death sentence. What’s up with you? You know better than that.”

  I shoved the gun into my holster, hoping my rapidly beating heart would slow. “We need to talk.”

  “Is this about Cross?” Moretti unlocked his car door.

  “Lucien didn’t kill Knox.”

  Moretti gripped the roof of the car with one hand, internally debating whether to hear me out. “You weren’t around eight years ago. You don’t know what happened.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Jablonsky requested the files. I’m sure you’re already up to speed.”

  “I didn’t see any proof. Sure, I get why you thought Cross might have done it. Wrong place, wrong time. But you watched the recording. Knox was alive and kicking three weeks after you thought he’d been killed. That means you were wrong. Cross didn’t do it.”

  Letting out a laugh, he turned to me. “Cross said he’d kill Knox if he ever came back to town. Guess what, he came back to town. And he ended up dead. That’s pretty open and shut if you ask me.” He looked around the dark parking lot, but we were alone. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but what makes you so sure Cross is innocent?”

  “Cross wouldn’t kill a client.”

  “Didn’t you shoot a client not too long ago?”

  “First of all, he lived. Second, he was a serial killer. And third, I didn’t say I wouldn’t kill a client. I said Cross wouldn’t.”

  “I’m going home.”

  I grabbed the edge of the car door before he could slam it shut. “You offered him a deal if he told you about the Russians or Knox’s illegal activities. How do you think they fit into this?”

  “I’m not sure they do. But Knox implied otherwise, so I’m willing to explore it.” He scrutinized me. “The best thing for Cross to do is cooperate. If he didn’t kill Knox, whatever he tells me might lead us to the actual killer. Talking can only help him, but he won’t say a damn thing. In my book, that makes him guilty. Since you want to help him, tell him to talk.”

  “He doesn’t listen to me.”

  “In that case, I’ll see you later.”

  “Lieutenant, wait.” I folded my arms over my chest and rested my hip against the inside of his door. “There’s something else you need to know.”

  “What is it?”

  I pulled the note out of my pocket and held it out to him. “I already had it checked for prints and DNA. It’s clean. The bastard who left it on my windshield wore coveralls, like the crime techs assigned to the airport construction site. But he had a belt and gun. No one else did.”

  Unfolding the note, he read the words carefully. “You saw him?”

  “Only briefly from the back.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Buzzcut, dark hair. I already told you what he was wearing.”

  Moretti rubbed his eyes. “When did this happen?”

  “About an hour after I left the precinct.”

  “Did you report it to the police on scene?”

  “Mark said I should bring it straight to you.”

  “Ten hours later? Did you get lost on your way here?”

  I reached for the note. “Just forget it.”

  He kept a firm grasp on it. “Do you think the man who threatened you is a cop?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, given the circumstances.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Knox’s killer went to great lengths to conceal his victim’s identity, but then he leaves a collector’s item dangling from the man’s mutilated fingertip. That doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. Everyone who ever met Knox knew the significance of that ring. It’s why you put a rush on the ID and how you knew what DNA sample to use as a comparison. As far as I know, the ring was tucked safely away in Knox’s desk drawer. The police found it when they searched his house the day he went missing. They knew where it was. It wouldn’t have been hard for one of them to stick it on Knox’s finger after the body was discovered.”

  “We don’t know how or when the ring ended up on Knox’s body, but Knox could have retrieved it himself as
soon as he returned. Leaving the ring on his finger could have been an oversight.”

  “What about the safe deposit box key which just so happened to lead to a recording that points you to the perfect suspect? Isn’t that a little too convenient?”

  “It was in the guy’s shoe. Who kills someone and takes their victim’s shoes?”

  “Plenty of kids get murdered because someone wants to steal their Air Jordans or whatever the hottest new kick is.”

  “We both know that’s not the case here.”

  “No, but I watched the recording. That wasn’t from a surveillance camera. The angle was wrong. Someone hid a camera somewhere inside that private cabana and filmed Knox’s exchange with Cross. Everything about this screams setup.”

  “Knox might have made the recording. He probably figured he could use it as an insurance policy. No cop I know has the time or money to waste on a trip across the world.”

  “Even if Knox set up the camera, how could he know Cross would show up? Cross had no idea what happened to Knox. It’s why he kept investigating after the man disappeared. He wouldn’t have done that if he wanted him gone.”

  “He might if he wanted to make sure Knox never returned. People lie, Parker, especially your boss. How do you know he kept investigating?”

  I closed my mouth and shook my head.

  “It’s in a Cross Security report somewhere.” Moretti gave me a look. “Right?”

  “Maybe.”

  He sighed. “You’re biased.”

  “Just listen to what I’m saying. You trust my judgment. So hear me out.”

  “Fine, Knox didn’t plan to record Cross. So what? It doesn’t change anything else. The video is damning. Cross hasn’t even tried to defend it other than to say he didn’t mean what he said.”

  “It changes the parameters of the recording. Either Knox set up a camera to record someone else, or a third party spied on them and planted the recording in the safe deposit box just so you would find it.”

  “That’s how you plan to clear Cross’s name? By claiming this is an elaborate frame job created by a third party?”

  I pointed at the note in Moretti’s hand. “There is a third man. There’s your proof.”

  He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “All right. Let’s go back inside so I can take your statement. After that, I want you to sit with a sketch artist.”

  Fourteen

  The sketch artist flipped his pad around so I could see it. “Any identifying features? A mole? A scar? Freckles on his neck? Anything like that?”

  “No.”

  He put his pencil down and handed the sketchpad to Moretti. “Here’s the suspect.”

  Moretti glowered at it and rubbed his eyes. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I told you I saw him from the back.”

  “This description fits half the cops in the department and ninety percent of the assholes behind bars.” Moretti passed orders along to the watch commander that second shift should question the reporters and construction personnel at the scene to see if they noticed anyone suspicious. When he hung up the phone, he sighed. “I’ll look into it, but we both know this isn’t going anywhere. Just keep an eye out and watch your back. That’s all I can tell you for now.” He thanked the sketch artist and logged off his computer. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home and get some sleep.”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “Parker, it’s late. I’m tired. We’ll deal with this in the morning. C’mon, I’ll walk you out.”

  We didn’t even make it to the double doors before an alarm sounded. The lights dimmed, the emergency lights creating a trail to the door. “What is that?” I asked.

  “Fire alarm.” Moretti barked orders to the men in the bullpen to log out, secure any evidence or weapons, and to evacuate the area. “Get out of here, Parker. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “What about the holding cells?” I couldn’t just let my boss remain trapped in a burning building.

  “We have evacuation procedures in place. We got this.” He shoved me toward the doors. “Now go.”

  The stairwells were crowded with dozens of police personnel who were evacuating the building. I got swept into the group descending the staircase. But I didn’t smell smoke. On the main level, the desk sergeant directed officers to perform tasks. In the chaos, I ducked back into the stairwell and headed downstairs to the holding cells to make sure the police didn’t forget about their captives.

  Halfway down the steps, thick, white smoke obscured my vision. Automatically, I covered my nose and mouth with the collar of my shirt. Clutching the railing, I moved blindly into the white abyss. I couldn’t see the lights through the impenetrable white sheet.

  When I reached the bottom of the steps, I nearly tripped when the handrail abruptly stopped. I’d been here several times before, but blind, it felt like unfamiliar terrain. Everything was a grey-white. A shadow moved to my left.

  “Hello?” I stuck an arm out in that direction, but I met nothing but air. Creeping forward, I knocked into the side of the desk. Righting myself, I kept one hand on the furniture. Despite the smoke, the room wasn’t warm. The smoke wasn’t due to a fire. So what caused it? “Is anyone in here?”

  I stopped to listen, hearing nothing but a constant whooshing, like air releasing from a balloon, and then footsteps. Heading in the direction they’d come from, I used my arms to feel my way across the room. When my left hand banged against the metal bars, I ran my fingertips along the edge, not surprised when I found the cage open.

  Moving on to the next holding cell, I heard the door squeak when my hand came into contact with it. Another one open. The police must have already cleared the room. By the time I reached the fourth door, the fire alarm stopped. There was no fire.

  The whooshing sound continued, but I couldn’t determine precisely where it was coming from. Perhaps behind me and to the right. Footsteps sounded again, padded thuds on the tile floor as if from felt-soled boots. Focusing on the sound, I stopped moving and held my breath, straining to determine the exact location. That’s when the metal bars directly in front of me violently clanged.

  Surprised, I jumped back, my hand knocking against the open cage door to my left. A strangled gasp sounded, and the metal clanged again. Despite the smoke, I sensed movement in front of me. The shadows danced, and I strained to see through the dense cloud of white.

  The footsteps were beside me now, quiet squeaks against the tile. The smell of aftershave overpowered the chemical scent of the smoke. He was beside me. Pivoting on the ball of my foot, I searched for him through the fog. The shadows were darker. Just as I reached out to grab him, he barreled into me with his shoulder, knocking me into the holding cell door.

  It clanged shut, the sound reverberating throughout the room. And then he ran. I raced toward the stairs, tripping on something along the way. Keeping one arm in front of me, I slammed into the wall, feeling for the opening before chasing him up the stairs.

  I stumbled, unable to see and judge the distance. Cracking my shins against the edge of the step, I grabbed the banister and hauled myself up. His muffled footfalls weren’t that far ahead of me, but he kept charging up the steps. I had to catch him.

  Just as the smoke started to thin, he stopped. I was almost on him. Another few steps and I’d have him.

  He could be a cop. But every cop I knew would have announced himself, and they sure as shit wouldn’t knock me into the holding cell door. So who the hell was this guy? And what was he doing downstairs during the evacuation?

  He turned around, placing one hand on the railing and the other on the wall, and swung both of his legs up and kicked me in the sternum. The force of the hit broke my grip on the handrail, and I flailed, hoping to grab onto something even as I fell backward down the steps.

  I screamed out of surprise. My low back impacted against the edge of the step, followed by my upper back hitting the next step. The momentum made me roll in a diagon
al, sideways motion, tumbling backward into the white abyss, my lower legs dragged against the wall while my elbow and shoulder scraped along the other side, catching on the metal hook of the railing, until I finally came to a stop in a heap at the bottom of the steps.

  The adrenaline had me on my feet, and I ran shakily back up the stairs. As soon as I cleared the smoke line, I caught a glimpse of a man in tactical gear with close-cropped dark hair exiting the stairwell on the main level.

  Shouldering my way through the double doors, I skidded to a stop near the front desk, searching for any sign of him. The desk sergeant was still barking orders, but she stopped when she caught sight of me. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  “The man in full tac armor, where did he go?”

  “The team’s outside.”

  I burst out the front door to find a bomb squad unit getting briefed. All of the men wore the same tactical armor. The soles of their boots were thick rubber. Which of these bastards just knocked me down the steps? Another thought sprang to mind. What was he doing down in the holding cells?

  The desk sergeant appeared behind me. “Ma’am, what happened? You’re bleeding.”

  “One of those assholes just threw me down the stairs. Tell Lt. Moretti what happened and make sure he detains them.” She reached for my arm, but I brushed past her. “The holding cells were evacuated. Where are the prisoners being detained?”

  Before she could answer, I spotted patrol officers guarding several men in handcuffs in a roped off area in the parking lot. Another area had been set up for the women detainees. From the top of the steps, I scanned the crowd, but Cross wasn’t there.

  “Shit.”

  “Lady, stop.” One hand rested on the butt of her side arm.

  “He’s not here.” That could only mean one thing. Turning around, I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. The desk sergeant and two patrol officers were at my heels, but they’d have to shoot me if they wanted me to stop.

  Running downstairs, I raced into the cloud of smoke. By now, the whooshing noise had stopped, but the smoke had yet to clear. Banging into the desk again, I jerked backward and moved forward, counting my steps as I went. When I reached the end, I placed my hand on the back wall, maneuvering around until I found the door for the last holding cell.