Suspicion of Murder Page 6

  “And I can’t cut into my girlfriend with a goddamn paring knife.” Martin locked eyes with me. “He was a Navy corpsman. He’s bound to be better equipped to handle this than I am. And he’ll keep his mouth shut. You trust him with my life, so you can trust him with yours.”

  “Mr. Martin?” Bruiser stood in the entryway to the kitchen, probably surprised to find me sitting backward in a chair in nothing but my jeans and a bra. “Ms. Parker?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not some weird fetish thing,” Martin offered in an attempt at levity.

  “We’re in need of your medical expertise.” I began explaining the current dilemma and my insistence on having the bullet removed intact.

  “Get on the table,” Bruiser said, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them up. “And I’m going to need more rubbing alcohol. The injury itself isn’t severe, but with the bullet still inside and all that damn wood, your biggest worry is infection. How long since it happened?”

  “It was around five this morning,” I responded as Martin finished laying some clean towels on top of his table and went to find more antiseptic. “It’s been a long day.” Bruiser let out a small chuckle as I lay flat against the towels, oddly relishing in getting to lie down somewhere warm, dry, and safe, even if I was about to be sliced open like a Christmas ham.

  Bruiser washed his hands at the kitchen sink and poured copious amounts of rubbing alcohol over them. Martin was standing around nervously, and I was seriously considering taking a nap while I waited for things to get underway.

  “Alex,” Martin brushed my wet hair off my back and to the side, “we can still go to the emergency room.”

  “No. You know why I can’t. If I do, I’ll either be framed for murder or killed.”

  “Parker, this is going to sting, and then you’re really not going to like what follows,” Bruiser warned.

  “Wait a minute,” I remembered how important it was to maintain the veracity of the evidence, “Martin, take some photos. Just remember, I forced you to do it at gunpoint. In case Mark hits any snafus concerning where the bullet came from, he’ll have photographic proof.” Martin picked up his phone and did as I asked. When he was done, I nodded to Bruiser and gripped the edge of the table, preparing for the pain to get worse.

  Eight

  My breathing was ragged, and my side was throbbing from where Bruiser had to dig around to locate and extract the bullet. At least it was over. As soon as I could get it to Mark, he would run it through ballistics. Hopefully, it would match the bullet used on Sam, and I would be cleared. Sam, I hadn’t had time to think about him. Poor guy. He stuck around to walk me to my car, and this was the thanks he got.

  “Alex,” Martin was sitting on top of the kitchen table, tracing small circles along my shoulder, “are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I tried to sit up, but I winced back against the table. “Help me up. I need to get out of here.” Tilting my head, I saw him exchange a glance with Bruiser.

  “Although amateur, you just had surgery with no anesthesia,” Jones stated. “It’d be best to hang around just to make sure you don’t go into shock. I’m not a doctor.”

  “Nice disclaimer. What time is it?”

  “It’s two,” Martin said, climbing off the table.

  “I have to be out of here by four. Sooner would be safer, but with the way the investigation should be going, four is the absolute latest.” I rolled onto my non-injured side, and before I could say anything more, Martin lifted me into his arms and cradled me against his chest. He was warm. I missed feeling warm. He carried me to the couch and was about to put me down when I insisted my blood on his sofa wasn’t going to sell the story of being taken hostage. Bruiser covered the cushions with some extra towels, and Martin laid me on top of them. “Thanks, Jones.”

  “Any time.” He disappeared into the kitchen to clean off the table.

  Martin retrieved a blanket, and once I was covered, I shimmied out of my damp jeans and asked if he could rinse my shirt and pants and throw them in the dryer. With my limited resources, staying wet all day wouldn’t help matters. His expression was grim, but he did as I asked and returned with the dress shirt I had stuffed in my bequeathed drawer. At least I had something to wear in the interim.

  “Try to get some rest. You look beat.” He rubbed his thumb across my cheek, and I shut my eyes, knowing I had to sleep whenever I could. There was no way to predict how long I would be out in the cold, but until I was cleared, I couldn’t turn myself in. As I started to drift off, I heard Martin and Bruiser exchange mumbled words.

  “It’s not a question of if it’ll get infected. It’s a question of when.”

  “Only she understands what’s going on, and I’m not telling her what to do,” Martin responded. “It’s her judgment call.”

  “She’s tired, hurt, and scared.” Jones sighed. “It’s a deadly combination.”

  * * *

  Martin softly stroked the lock of hair framing my face as my eyes fluttered open. His forehead was creased, and his jaw was clenched. His eyes were clouded with sadness, and every argument I had ever made for the reasons we shouldn’t be a couple played through my head.

  “It’s three thirty,” he supplied. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, next to my hips. “I’ll do whatever you want. I have resources. A private jet. We can be wheels up in an hour. Or we can get in the car and drive until we run out of gas. Please let me help you.”

  “You’ve already helped. I might be on the run, but I’m not running away. If I leave now, can I ever come back? I trust Mark. Nick, too. They’ll find a way. Once I know it’s going to be okay, I’ll turn myself in.” Sitting up, I noticed my side was feeling better, and so was I. “But if you’re offering resources,” I hedged.

  “Anything.”

  “Can you lend me some cash? Whatever you have on you will do. I can’t use my credit cards or anything they can trace. And can I raid your bathroom for first-aid supplies?” He offered a bittersweet smile and got off the couch to get some money.

  My messenger bag was still on the bathroom floor where I dropped it. Opening it, I pulled out the resignation letter. Then I took the bottles of ibuprofen and acetaminophen from the cabinet, a container of peroxide, and all the medical tape and gauze I could find and stowed them inside.

  Martin brought my clothes into the bathroom, along with a thousand dollars. He watched as I dressed, and then he went back upstairs to get a sweatshirt and umbrella.

  “You don’t have to leave. Maybe they won’t make the connection.”

  “You’re already too involved. You don’t have to do anything else.” He knew I had another request, and he wouldn’t deny it. “But I need an hour’s head start before you call Mark and report the assault. Tell him I burst in here with a gun and forced you to remove the bullet. Make sure he gets the photos for evidence. And remember, you did all of this against your free will. My dramatic entrance will help sell it when they review your security footage.” I picked up the resignation letter and handed it to him.

  “You quit?” He attempted to tease, but there was no mirth behind his joke.

  “MT has enough problems without dealing with blowback. If I quit before any of this happened, it should insulate your company. Maybe you should call your legal team and be prepared to threaten lawsuits if necessary.”

  “Alex.” He was trying to interrupt.

  “I never wanted what I do to hurt you. I’m so sorry. I’m trying to mitigate it as much as possible, but if they turn up the heat, I’m leaving you the cell phone. You’re the only one who has my contact number. If things go south, call. I will surrender and take all the blame and culpability.” He put his thumb and forefinger on my chin, and we shared a long, passionate kiss.

  “Stay safe.”

  “One more thing, do you mind if I borrow a car? I’ll ditch it at the first parking garage I find, and–”

  “Take it. Just remember, Jones was concerned about infection. Avoid the bad guys and
the germs.”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  Driving around would lead to capture. Time was not on my side in any regard. If no one was investigating my connection to Martin, then I would have an hour until Mark was notified, and soon after, they would be tracing Martin’s missing vehicle.

  Finding a parking garage less than five miles from his house, I parked on the third story and locked the doors. As I walked down the steps, I slipped the car keys into my bag. Once outside, I opened the umbrella and continued walking.

  Going back to my apartment would be asking for trouble. Checking into the precinct would be a surefire way to get arrested or caught, and stopping by my office was just as dumb of an idea. How was I going to pinpoint the crooked cop when all avenues were barred? Ernie. Maybe if I could find Ernie, he could shed some light on what happened this morning and what the police were doing.

  Out of other options, I headed for the public library. Accessing a computer terminal, I ran a white pages search for Ernie Papadakis which led to half a dozen entries. Switching tactics, I ran a more thorough people search, located the proper Ernie Papadakis, and cross-referenced it with the addresses. I scribbled down my destination and left the library.

  I hailed a taxi to Ernie’s apartment building. He lived in an affluent building, complete with doorman and high-powered security cameras. Smiling at the doorman, I insisted on seeing Mr. Papadakis and provided my first name. The doorman called up to Ernie’s apartment, but there was no answer. My blood ran cold, but I tried to convince myself Ernie was probably out. His club had been robbed, and his bartender shot. Obviously, there was no reason to think he would be home. The doorman eyed me suspiciously as I walked away. Glancing back, he picked up the phone and was speaking animatedly to someone.

  Trudging down the street, I was coming up blank. Five blocks away, I heard the cacophony of sirens. An ambulance and two police cars darted past, en route to Ernie’s building. Great. Was I going to be blamed for another crime? Even though I needed to keep moving, I found myself reversing direction and sprinting down the street after the cars. A couple blocks away, I slowed my gait and ducked into a coffee shop. The police lights reflected off the wet pavement, and a gurney rushed out the front door, carrying Ernie with an oxygen mask over his face. From this distance, I couldn’t determine the extent of his injuries or what happened, but he was still breathing.

  A few nosy onlookers stood in the street, watching the ambulance race away as police officers questioned the doorman. “Anyone know what happened?” I asked from behind the group. They shrugged their shoulders and disbanded at the sound of my intrusion. How come they never did that when I had a badge and gun?

  Things were rapidly going downhill for me. To be fair, things weren’t going so well for Ernie either. I thought briefly about his silent partner, but I insisted on not knowing the man’s identity. And even now, I still wasn’t comfortable getting in bed with organized crime.

  The rain picked up again, and I shivered. My focus should be on finding shelter. It was beginning to get dark, and I had no plan of attack. Muddling through the city, I found a chain motel with exterior doors. The sign out front boasted they were still open, despite the top three levels being closed for renovation. Plus, there weren’t many cars in the parking lot since it wasn’t tourist season. Spotting a maid’s entrance at the bottom corner of the building, I pulled the baseball cap lower and removed my lock picks.

  In two minutes, the lock popped. Finding a master keycard hanging from a peg, I palmed it and put the snap-closure grey smock on over my clothes and took off the cap. Picking up a stack of folded towels, I exited the room and pulled the door shut behind me. My messenger bag would probably be a dead giveaway I wasn’t a maid, so I obscured it from view with the towels as I headed up four flights of stairs.

  Motels tended to fill the bottom floors first so cleaning and services could be provided more easily. The fifteen cars in the parking lot were likely half employees and half patrons. By my estimation, the fourth floor should be mostly vacant, especially since most of it was roped off for renovation. I walked to the far end and knocked on the door.

  “Maid service,” I hollered. There was no response. “Sir, I’ve got your towels.” I glanced around; no one opened a door or shouted a response. All the drapes were drawn on the other rooms, and there was the distinct possibility no one was even occupying this level. Carefully, I slipped the keycard into the lock and opened the door. “Sir? Ma’am?” The place held nothing except motel-provided amenities. Noting the light layer of dust covering all the surfaces, I knew business hadn’t been booming for a few weeks.

  Immediately, I went to the wall unit and cranked up the heat. Then I went back to the door, slid the security bar into place, and shoved the standing wardrobe in front of it. If someone wanted to get inside, I wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Taking a deep breath, I hoped this would be a safe place to stay the night. Discarding the maid’s uniform, I took off my jacket and wet clothes and hung them in the wardrobe in front of the door. No reason it couldn’t serve multiple functions. Then I dumped out the contents of my bag and assessed what was left. Two unused burner phones, the one for contact with Martin, roughly a thousand dollars, car keys, lock picks, peroxide, some pain relievers, gauze, a change of clothes, some extra underwear, an umbrella, and my gun and bullets were all I had.

  Shivering, I stripped off the rest of my clothing, removed my bandage, and took my gun into the bathroom. Stepping into the shower, I turned the water on as hot as I could stand and tried to force the chill from my bones. My side was sore and still bleeding. The hot water made it worse, but like Bruiser said, it needed to be kept clean so it wouldn’t get infected. Being out in the rain all day didn’t help either of those prospects, and I prayed my temporary shelter would remain secure. When I was finally warm, I got out of the shower, dried off thoroughly, poured copious amounts of peroxide over the wound and redressed it. Luckily, there was a motel-provided hairdryer.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, I was clean, warm, and exhausted. I took my wet clothes from the wardrobe and hung them over the heating unit so they would dry faster. Then I pulled down the covers in one of the two full-size beds and shut the light.

  I awoke a little after four a.m. to the sound of voices on a lower level. Quickly, I got up and traded the motel towel for my now dry clothing. Throwing everything back inside my bag, I put it on the floor, reached for my gun, and listened through the darkness. The voices quieted, and there were no other sounds. My eyes were closing, and I forced myself to stay awake for another twenty minutes until I was sure it was safe. Then I buried myself under the covers and slept until eight.

  The sun filtered in from the window, and I squinted against it. At least it wasn’t raining. Risking a quick look outside, I didn’t see any movement on my level or any police cruisers in the parking lot. My safe haven was still secure. In the bathroom, I found soap, lotion, shampoo, a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, hairdryer, and coffeemaker, all courtesy of this fine motel chain. Brushing my teeth, I turned on the coffeemaker and listened to it whistle and sputter as the coffee brewed. Parker, you need a plan.

  Taking my full mug into the main room, I got back into bed, wincing as I propped myself up on a few pillows and put pressure against my injured side and back. Locating the remote, I turned the television to the local news. There was no coverage on the club shooting. Uncertain of everything, I picked up the burner and called Martin’s disposable phone.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. The sound of his voice broke my heart.

  “Yes. Are you alone?”

  “Yeah, I’m in my office.”

  “Did you get everything to Mark? Have they been following you? They’re not going to file charges against you, are they?” There were a million questions bubbling to the surface.

  “Mark’s on it. He said they were putting a rush on ballistics, but hopefully, they’ll hear something today or tomorrow. There’s a lovely group of
federal agents parked outside my place and another set that followed me to work. No one’s asked any questions except Mark, and,” Martin lowered his voice, and the sink in his office washroom turned on, “he has a message for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He and O’Connell are looking into allegations of police corruption. The cop that shot you is probably the same guy they’re after.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “He thought you’d want to know, so he asked that I pass it along, figuring you might try to contact me.”

  “You’re not a go-between. It’s too dangerous. I just wanted to make sure you were okay and tell you where to pick up your car.” I gave him the address. “Call if there’s an emergency. In the meantime, I have to find a way to talk to someone in charge.”

  Nine

  Hoping the motel wouldn’t rent or renovate my occupied room while I was gone, I left the nonessentials in the messenger bag inside the wardrobe. Everything I deemed imperative was shoved in my purse, and I grabbed the master room key, made sure the coast was clear, and stealthily exited the motel room. Martin said ballistics might get a match later today, so I needed to figure out a way to set up a meeting with Nick or Mark.

  I caught a cab to the precinct and hoped no one would recognize me. Walking into the lion’s den was a ludicrous notion, but a note on O’Connell’s car might just work out okay. Walking purposefully to the back lot, I spotted the beat-up sedan in its usual space. During my taxi ride, I scribbled a location and time to meet and addressed it to ‘my favorite detective’ which was my affectionate nickname for him. Nick should easily determine who left it. I just wasn’t sure if he would show up alone or if he would invite a tactical team to join us. Sidling up to the car, I expertly maneuvered the plain white paper, having cut off the motel name from the top, into the doorjamb.