Lack of Jurisdiction Read online

  As soon as the phone was back in the cradle, I reconsidered and dialed the main MT number, hoping to get a chance to speak with someone. MT was my in with the business world, and I could use it to my advantage to discover some more facts about Muller and Klaus Manufacturing. Except with the CEO away on business, it appeared the rest of the board members ran from the building as soon as five o’clock rolled around. I should have known better than to expect anyone to still be working at six thirty on a Friday.

  There should be something I could do in the meantime, but nothing wanted to cooperate. Out of ideas, I scribbled down a few addresses and locked up the office. Someone had the answers, and since I was actually being paid to investigate, there was no reason my job couldn’t begin with some surveillance.

  My first stop was the hotel. Security was prevalent, but since a deal was struck, there were far fewer VIPs hanging around. Mostly, I noted the obvious police presence. Assessing my options and the time, I let the valet park my car, and I went into the hotel bar for a drink. With only standing room remaining, I found a spot near the corner, ordered a gin and tonic, and scoped out the room. Some young professionals were out after work, meeting with friends or colleagues to knock a few back. A few people were on dates or looking for someone to keep them company, and as I made a final visual sweep, my eyes came to rest on someone with an entourage. Bingo.

  Picking up my drink and handing the bartender a twenty, I sauntered over, watching the two bodyguards immediately make me. I smiled, took a sip, and continued on my intended path. “Were you here for the conference?” I called over the chatter. The two men in off-the-rack suits stepped in front of me, blocking my path to the intended target, but he was intrigued.

  “Da,” he responded, “do I know you?”

  Slowly, so as not to cause a panic, I slipped my old MT I.D. card out of my pocket and held it up for inspection by the Blues Brothers impersonators. “I was observing. We weren’t part of the bidding wars, but I thought you looked familiar.” He smiled. Honestly, I wasn’t sure who he was, nor did I actually care, but he might know something useful. And since the police and Secret Service weren’t hounding him, he either had diplomatic immunity or no ties to the deceased. That didn’t mean he didn’t have ties to Paul Eastman, Bernard Muller, or Klaus Manufacturing. “Who do you represent?”

  “SMI. Out of Minsk.” He ordered the guards to step aside and let me closer. “It was a bloodbath, watching the way those deals were made.” The accent only made his annoyance sound like a guttural growl.

  “Tell me about it.” I took a seat at his table. “I’m sorry to barge in on you. I just changed into something casual and wanted to relax and enjoy a drink. But it’s standing room only, and you had an empty chair.”

  “No reason for a pretty woman to drink alone.” He smiled. “I don’t turn beautiful women away.”

  “Aww, you’re sweet.” For once in my life, I wished I paid more attention when Martin dealt with this corporate nonsense. “What did you think about Klaus Manufacturing?” I didn’t know how to ease into it because I didn’t know what actually transpired at the conference, so I might as well get straight to the point.

  He muttered something long and derogatory in his native tongue, so I only caught a word here or there. I could speak enough Russian to function in most difficult situations, but corporate was barely a language I understood, even in English. On the other hand, I could curse in over a dozen languages, so there was that.

  “My sentiments exactly.” I smiled and downed my drink. Your move, comrade.

  “You speak Russian?”

  “Nyet.” I snickered. “Have you ever dealt with Klaus Manufacturing before? They’ve been pestering everyone on the Board to take a meeting with them, and I can’t imagine what it is they have to sell.”

  “Shit. They sell shit.” He gestured to a waitress, and the next thing I knew, two shot glasses were on the table with a bottle of vodka. “Drink.” He poured liquor into both of our glasses, and I regretted ordering the gin. We drank, and he poured again. I knew the custom. If I could keep up, he’d keep talking. “They’ve been testing their clean energy,” he said with a level of disdain. “It blows up in their faces. They try again. And again, accidents happen.”

  “Is Mr. Muller still staying at the hotel?”

  “No. He ran back home with his tail between his legs.” Well, at least now I knew I wasn’t going to get a chance to speak to Bernie, so my Russian pal would have to do.

  “Have you seen their specs?” Drinking and not eating wasn’t smart. Furthermore, I needed to remember whatever he said. This was such a bad idea.

  “Everyone has seen their specs. They passed along the papers like they were propaganda. But I’ve seen their reports.” He narrowed his eyes. “They were at the conference. You said you were at the conference too.” He seemed suspicious why I wasn’t already aware of these facts.

  “Right.” I shrugged. “It all blended together once the negotiations began.” I laughed and touched his arm before he could pour another shot. “Like I said, I was sent to observe, not pitch our product, but so many translators and issues concerning energy, expense, manufacturing,” I let out a soft sigh, “you were there. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do.” His eyes drank me in, and his look changed to something sexual. “No more business talk. Do you have a husband? You aren’t wearing a ring.”

  “No.” I was about to excuse myself when he leaned back and smiled.

  “Come, you can play with me and my girlfriend.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” I stood, having learned more than I wanted to about this guy’s sexual preferences and just enough to have some solid ground to stand on when asking about Klaus Manufacturing. “Do svidaniya.”

  He nodded slightly and watched as I walked away. That was progress. Exactly how much or how useful was still a question, but it was something. And something was always better than nothing, wasn’t it? Stopping by the ladies room to purge as much of the excess alcohol from my system as possible before it could metabolize any further, I strolled through the hotel to see if I could gather any other information that might be helpful.

  The staff refused to answer my questions about Alvin Hodge. I had no jurisdiction, and my P.I. license never made much of an impact. Hotel security wasn’t eager to speak to me. And the few federal agents still lingering and the obvious police presence discouraged any illegal snooping. Failing to gather anything interesting, I did notice a few thick cables running from the ceiling tiles down the wall and through the floor. They were only visible near the main elevator, and after walking around a few levels, it was clear they were only visible on certain floors and in very few places. It was the same type of cable that Hodge was hanging from, but what was it for? Maybe it’d be on the hotel blueprints and schematics. Thankfully, I had access to those after my extensive review of PDN’s plan.

  “Maybe you’re not so rusty, Parker,” I said to myself, deciding I was sober enough to drive home.

  It felt good to be doing something, even if I wasn’t entirely certain what that something was. Furthermore, I was relieved that Eastman seemed clean. At least, I thought he did. Sure, he played around in the grey area of illegal activity, and he drank too much. But I didn’t think he was malicious. One less person I could mark off as a danger was always a good thing. Tomorrow morning, I would sift through the information, figure out which leads to follow, and form a plan of attack. But I did enough for today. And the only thing I wanted to do now was go home, crawl into bed, and not think about any of this for the next eight hours. But as usual, the universe has an obvious vendetta against me and my wonderfully laid plans.

  “Alexis Parker?” one of the two uniformed police officers asked as I emerged onto the sixth floor of my apartment building.

  “At your service,” I remarked, giving them both a curious glance. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Ma’am, we need to ask you a few questions.”

  “
Okay.” I unlocked my front door and invited them in. Phones were invented for a reason, but apparently these two cops didn’t get the memo. “What’s going on? I spoke with Detective Jacobs earlier today. Did he forget something?”

  “Maybe you should take a seat.”

  “Maybe you should get to the point.” I didn’t like this. Something was wrong.

  “According to your interview notes, you were stationed in the basement of the hotel during the conference,” one of the officers read as he conferred with his notes. “Was anyone else down there on Monday between noon and two p.m.?”

  “I was the only PDN employee present, but various hotel personnel were in and out of the basement for whatever the reason.” The two officers exchanged a glance, but I couldn’t figure out what the point of the question was. “Why? Is there a reason this is suddenly so important?”

  “What about other security personnel? Did any federal agents or private security check the basement?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Is there something I should know?” I narrowed my eyes, hoping one of them would decide to volunteer some information.

  “No. That was it. Thanks for your time,” the second officer said, and he opened my front door. “Someone will be in touch if there are any further questions that you need to answer.”

  “Officers,” I followed them to the door, “next time, save yourselves a trip and make a phone call.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” one of them replied, even though my helpful hint seemed to irritate him.

  Arriving home to a few police officers outside my door didn’t sit well, so I did the only thing I could think of and phoned Jacobs. “Detective,” I began when he answered, “why were two officers at my door five minutes ago?”

  “Parker,” he let out an exhale, “since it’s you and we all know exactly what you’re capable of, you might as well know, we discovered a breach in the subbasement, and a second body was discovered this afternoon below the hotel.”

  Eleven

  I am so sick and tired of death haunting me at every turn. My federal agent days were plagued with close calls and the occasional corpse, but for the most part, they weren’t that typical. It’s not like I was a homicide detective, so expecting a dead body wasn’t part of the job description. The private sector was supposed to be even less dangerous. No more death for me, except that seemed to be the norm. It was a constant tossup between discovering a body, someone nearly killing me, and being stuck in a situation where taking a life was the only option. This was the part of the job I wanted to escape when I took a sabbatical from crime, and here I was again.

  Jacobs wasn’t including me, probably since there was a good chance that I was a person of interest. No one else thought of the doors or insisted on taking a team down to the old tunnels, asking questions on breaching the sealed doors, and then determining that they weren’t a risk. Obviously, my original inclination was accurate, or someone working security at the hotel was paying more attention than they should have been. Despite the fact that earlier today I determined he wasn’t involved, the only name that came to mind was Paul Eastman, especially after considering his frequent absences, connection to at least one of the vics, and some of the underhanded things he did. Great, now I was working for a killer.

  Picking up the phone, I dialed Det. Nick O’Connell. We were close, and he would be straight with me about the case. Unfortunately, he and his partner were wrapped up in a robbery turned multiple homicide, and he didn’t know anything about Jacobs’ investigation. After promising to see what he could dig up when the dust settled, we disconnected.

  With limited information, I made a list of every person from PDN that was assigned to the hotel, the few Secret Service agents I recalled, the fire chief and the two firemen that led us through the tunnels, and any of the hotel staff that might have been in the basement on Monday. The police would want the list eventually, so I e-mailed it to Jacobs. This wasn’t my show. I was simply cooperating, even if it was one of the things I barely knew how to do.

  After completing the list, I opened the file from my meeting this afternoon and read through the information Eastman provided. Assuming he wasn’t responsible, someone on his list might be. After cross-referencing those names with the list I made for Jacobs, only the PDN and hotel employees overlapped. With little else to do, I made a few brief notations on what I learned from the SMI rep at the bar, dug up whatever I could find on the business conference, and growled in frustration when no two pieces of the puzzle fit together.

  It was late. I was tired, aggravated, and pissed at the universe for dragging me into another mess that I had no desire to deal with. Okay, maybe I liked solving crimes and putting the screws to murderers, kidnappers, rapists, and the like, but reviewing security measures shouldn’t result in the body count rising. This was anything but acceptable, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  My phone rang, and I glanced at the clock, wondering who would be calling around midnight. Maybe Nick had something useful to share, but it wasn’t Nick. That would have made life too simple, and obviously, that wasn’t allowed.

  “So I left my apartment today. Worst idea ever. I think I’m staying home until you come back,” I said in lieu of a greeting.

  “What’s wrong?” Martin asked.

  “Two dead bodies, a police investigation I’m not part of, and a strong possibility the killer might have hired me to prove his innocence.” Through the earpiece, there was background noise and traffic.

  “Tell your client to go fuck himself. I don’t want you to be alone with someone potentially dangerous. Have you called Mark or one of your cop friends? Maybe–”

  “I know. I won’t do anything stupid. Don’t worry,” I interjected. “How was the flight? What time is it?”

  “It was long and dull, and now it’s mid-morning. If you came with me, I know exactly what we would have done for all those hours on the plane.”

  “Scrabble?”

  “That would be such a waste of a private jet,” he murmured. “Anyway, I have a meeting to get to, but I just wanted to check in. You seemed off yesterday.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.” He sighed. “And now I have an actual reason to worry. Do me a favor and leave me a voicemail at least once a day if you can’t get a hold of me. I want to know you’re all right.”

  “Martin, I’m a big girl. I can take of myself.”

  “Humor me, sweetheart.”

  “Okay,” I grudgingly agreed, “but be careful and keep Bruiser close. Some of the places you’re visiting aren’t particularly fond of wealthy Americans. Fair enough?”

  After he agreed, we disconnected, and I rubbed my eyes. With no leads to follow and little information on the police department’s progress, I called it a night and went to bed. The dark was oppressive, so I turned on a light. Then the light was too bright. It was hot; then it was cold. Around three a.m., I gave up on the notion of sleeping.

  I jogged on the treadmill, did some laundry, cleaned my apartment, made a grocery list, and waited for eight a.m. Finally, when it would be considered a decent hour to make a few calls, I started by dialing Mark Jablonsky. My mentor was a federal agent, and even if the current case was out of his jurisdiction, he could gain access to the information I was lacking.

  “Since when do you call this early in the morning?” he asked gruffly.

  “Too much time with Martin has ruined me,” I retorted. “So I’m calling for a favor.”

  “I could have guessed as much. What do you want, Alex?”

  “My latest gig ended abruptly on account of two dead bodies. One of them was a hotel night clerk who happened to take a few extra day shifts, and I don’t have a name for the second DB. To top it off, my ex-boss hired me to work privately for him.”

  “Prostitution is illegal in every state except Nevada,” Mark teased.

  “Yeah, well, that’s not the biggest problem.” I paused, wondering how farfetched it was to consid
er Eastman a suspect. “The guy that hired me might be the killer, and he wants me to clear his name.”

  “Since when do you work the other side of the street?”

  “I don’t. Do you think you can use some of your pull to find out what’s going on, and maybe we can meet up tonight for dinner and talk it over?”

  “Are you buying?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Fine.” I heard the annoyed exhale. Mark was amazing, even if we occasionally butted heads, so that meant he wouldn’t hold back in telling me what was none of my business or what I shouldn’t go near. The only problem was I typically failed to heed his warnings. “Just sit tight until I review the information and we have a chance to talk. With Marty away, I’m back to being your emergency contact, and I’d prefer if you didn’t need one.”

  “That would make two of us.”

  Disconnecting, I dialed the precinct. Jacobs wasn’t in. Det. O’Connell and his partner, Thompson, just went off shift and didn’t bother to call, and Det. Heathcliff was working on a long-term undercover assignment. Revising my plan of attack, I phoned corporate headquarters for PDN and talked to someone in charge of the Human Resources department. Perhaps I fudged a few details, but after enough cajoling, the woman on the other end agreed to forward Paul Eastman’s personnel file to me. This would give me some sense of who I was working for. With any luck, he wasn’t a killer.

  Settling onto the couch, I read the security information on the hotel, PDN’s plan, the mission statement the Secret Service provided, and researched the point of the international business conference we were hired to guard. The business aspect never seemed important, but it could lend itself to motive and possibly point to a few suspects. Admittedly, this would be quite a bit easier if I had any earthly idea who the second victim was. After searching for today’s news stories, my eyelids started to droop, so I shut my laptop and took a nap.