Likely Suspects (2 page)

What a strange day
, I thought as I rifled through the freezer looking for something to make for dinner. I had gotten home so incredibly baffled by the interview at Martin Technologies that I had put on my sweats and gone for a nice long run, trying to clear my head, followed by a second shower for the day, and a nap. When in doubt, nap. This had become my philosophy as of late and continued to work fairly well. Perhaps I should write a book on the art of napping since I didn’t see why anyone at Martin Technologies would actually want to hire me. Not to mention the fact I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to work for someone who seemed to have a few screws loose.

“Ah ha!” I exclaimed, pulling
out a microwavable dinner which had been buried under a pint of chocolate ice cream and a bag of peas. “Dinner is served.” I scanned the carton for an expiration date and then cooking directions. I checked the time. It was almost eight. Napping has a habit of making the day fly by; maybe that should be the title of my first chapter. I just popped holes in the plastic wrap when the phone rang.

“Hello?” I asked, answering without looking.

“Get dressed,” a
male voice I didn’t recognize responded.

“Excuse me?” I
was preparing to deal with this pervert quickly.

“Semi-formal
for dinner. There is a car downstairs to pick you up.” I pulled the receiver away from my ear to check the caller ID. “All part of the interviewing process, Alex.”

“Mr. Martin?”
The caller ID had been useless, only providing ‘private’ as the source of the call.

“Of course.” H
e paused. “Why? Are you interviewing elsewhere?”

“Can you ask the driver to wait?
I shall be ready in ten minutes. Or I can drive myself, if you simply tell me where to meet you.” I ignored his other question since jobs were like dates. You didn’t want to appear too eager or too available, but at the same time, you didn’t want to seem overly aloof or uninterested.

“Nonsense, why waste a perfectly good
, chauffeured town car. The driver shall wait until you are ready. No rush.”

I tossed the
frozen dinner into the trashcan and headed for the bedroom. Who uses a surprise dinner as an interviewing technique? I pondered this while rummaging through my closet, trying to find something semi-formal to wear. Settling on a black skirt, lavender blouse, and a black blazer, I put my hair in a ponytail and slipped on some open-toed pumps. This better suffice, I thought as I quickly put on some eyeliner and lip gloss, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

As I exited my apartment building
, I spotted a black town car parked in the fire zone. James Martin was leaning against the back door with his arms crossed, chatting with the driver.

“Stunning.” H
e smiled, and I blushed, despite my better judgment. He glanced at his watch. “And accurate too. It’s only been eleven minutes.”

“
I try to be punctual.” The driver opened the rear door, and I got into the car. “I didn’t realize you were waiting outside my apartment, Mr. Martin.” I was implying the creepy nature of his sudden appearance, but he didn’t seem to catch on.

“Please, i
t’s no longer office hours, so it’s James.”

“Okay, James.
Pardon me for being so blunt, but why the surprise dinner? If you wanted to continue the interview, you could have said so this morning or had your assistant notify me.” Before I could continue explaining how his actions could seem a little stalker-like, he interjected.

“
I like to see how potential employees react under surprise conditions. Based on your previous employment with ol’ Jabber, I know you can handle stressful, volatile situations, so I wanted to see how you handle yourself during overly civilized functions.” He grimaced slightly at the overly civilized.

“I see,” I said
, even though I didn’t. “How am I doing so far?”

“So far so good, but the night is still very young.”
He might have winked, or it was just a trick of the lights.

For the rest of the
drive to the restaurant, he asked questions about my background and my experiences with ol’ Jabber, which was his nickname for Mark. I answered easily and wished my morning interview had been this simplistic, without the interrogation. The driver pulled to a stop at an expensive looking French restaurant I had never heard of. The valet opened my door, and I stepped out. Mr. Martin, or James as I was supposed to call him this evening, came around to my side of the car and offered his arm.

“Shall we?” he asked politely.
This high-class scenario was probably to see how well his potential new security consultant could blend in with the hoity-toity aspects of his life, so I tentatively looped my hand through his arm.

“
I guess so.” The familiar nervous pang resonated in the pit of my stomach, and arm in arm, we entered the building.

The
interior was decorated extensively in crystal and glass fixtures. The dining room was comprised of less than two dozen tables situated in concentric half circles with a waterfall cascading behind the back of the bar. The bar stood against the far wall, completing the space the half circle of tables had left bare. To say the décor was exquisite would be an understatement. The maitre d’ greeted us immediately.

“Mr. Martin,
it’s so nice to see you again. Would you care for your usual table?” she asked politely, smiling in such a way to indicate she had seen him without his clothes on in the not too distant past.

“If it’s not
any trouble,” he replied, oblivious to her smile. “But we will need another chair. There is a third party joining us this evening.” I looked at him quizzically as we were escorted to a table near the back of the restaurant where we could gaze directly at the waterfall fixture and watch the bartender mix drinks. Once seated and situated with our beverage orders and menus, I turned to Martin.

“Is another executive
joining us for dinner?” I wanted to know what other obstacles I might be facing tonight.

“No.
I just thought Jablonsky could meet us here and praise you in person, instead of in these nicely written form letters I keep getting.”

I
studied my menu to avoid further conversation. I hate interviews; although, if I were being honest, I’d say I wasn’t a fan of intimate dinners either. Looks like a lose-lose tonight, Parker.

“Well
, if it isn’t Marty trying to scoop up the best and brightest yet again,” Mark Jablonsky teased as he approached our table and extended his hand to Martin. “How the hell are you, you old son-of-a-gun?”

I looked
at my former boss and my potential new employer. Since when did we transport back to the 1950s when people used phrases like old son-of-a-gun? The terminology didn’t faze Martin. He merely stood and shook Mark’s hand. The same look of mutual respect reflected on both of their faces, despite how incredibly different they seemed.

Mark was older, in his
early fifties, with graying light brown hair and a mustache. He had put on a bit of a gut from too many late nights in the surveillance van eating Philly cheese steaks and potato chips, and his suit, regardless of price, always looked as if he slept in it.

The two men
sat down, and Mark beamed at me. “You look like a million bucks.” Before I could respond, Martin chimed in.

“
That goes without saying, but the better question is does she look like she could help protect a million bucks.”

“Alex
is Parker is one of the most capable people I know, and I wouldn’t have recommended her otherwise. I know what you need, and she can handle it,” Mark said, picking up his menu to read. “I always tell you if you need proof, then test your hypothesis, just like your workers do in the lab.”

“Just so we’re clear,” I piped
up; being silent was never my strong suit, “what exactly does this job even entail because security consultant is a fairly vague term?”

Martin
turned to me. “Martin Technologies is responsible for the development of many different things from cooking utensils to airplane parts. I personally try to provide more economic and eco-friendly alternatives worldwide, and therefore, I’ve made quite a few enemies.” He paused briefly and picked up his glass. “Recently, there have been death threats, a kidnapping attempt, some manufacturing sabotage, and corporate espionage. I need a new face I can trust to keep an eye on things at work. Not to mention, the Board thinks it might be a good idea to update my personal security, seeing as how I have majority control of the company.” He took a sip before continuing with what seemed to be a level of melodrama. “If something happens to me, there could be a coup, stocks could plummet, and the world could explode. You know, things of that sort.” Although he attempted to joke, his eyes were as serious as I’d ever seen. Was the great James Martin actually afraid, or was that something else I saw flicker behind his eyes? Anger, perhaps?

Before anything else could be said
, the waitress returned to take our orders. I requested a steak with Portobello mushrooms in a cream sauce, as did Mark, while Martin ordered the Chateau Briand. As she walked away, I glanced around the dining room. Most of the tables were empty, which seemed odd since this was an upscale restaurant, and it was early in the evening.

“I
f you need someone who can do all that, you’ve found your girl.” Mark was lauding my capabilities, and Martin considered it as he lifted his scotch and slowly swirled the golden brown liquid around the glass.

“Perhaps yo
u’re right.” He nodded. “You’ve been right so far.”

I was
about to ask for more job details and what the actual relationship between these two men was when I heard glass shatter. It was a much louder sound than if a waitress had dropped a tray of glasses. This sounded as though a wall of mirrors had been simultaneously broken. Turning to the cause of the cacophony, I saw a group of masked gunmen in the restaurant’s entryway. The maitre d’ was cowering on the floor next to her podium, and the entire glass façade in the foyer was shattered.

“Ladies and gentlemen
, if we may have your attention, please,” the masked leader bellowed. An older woman sitting on the other side of the restaurant gasped as the men invaded the dining room. “We shall make this as brief and painless as possible. Do not call the cops, and do not use your cell phones. Stay seated and place your valuables in the center of the table. This is a robbery.”

Martin
carefully set his glass on the table, whispering in my ear, “congratulations, you’re hired. Now do something.”

I glanced
at Mark to see what he was thinking. More than likely he had his service piece and a back-up with him. I didn’t know him to go anywhere without a weapon, OIO policy, but he shook his head. I hadn’t been planning to knock-over any convenience stores on my way home, so I was also weaponless. Scanning the room, I counted the four gunmen. Three were entering the main dining hall, and one was remaining near the entrance. There could possibly be another couple outside and maybe a getaway driver. There was no way to tell for sure.

“I see four,
” Mark whispered.

Neither of
us was entirely clear on what to do, being unarmed and in a room full of potential hostages, including ourselves. I began surveying the rest of the room. Out of the dozen tables, only four were occupied. There were two tables of four and two other tables with two. The bar had another three patrons, and I spotted a waitress, the bartender, and the maitre d’.

“What are you going to do?
” Martin hissed. He didn’t understand the concept of mortal danger, or maybe it was from years of running a company that he just expected answers and results with the snap of his fingers. I glared at him.

“Stay quiet.
Do as they say. Do not draw attention to yourself,” I commanded.

The armed men were moving away fr
om the first table and heading around the semicircle. A woman at the next table screamed in horror, and one of the men backhanded her across the cheek, knocking her from the chair.

“Things could get
ugly. I think our best bet is to do as they say and hope they get what they want and go,” Mark stated in a hushed tone. I concurred with his assessment, my eyes never leaving the gunmen.

As if on cue, sirens began blaring in the distance.
So much for easy. The gunmen turned to the door, and I grabbed my steak knife off the table and slipped it up my sleeve. Mark did the same. A knife in a gun battle is basically pointless, but it was the only possible weapon available. It had to be better than nothing.

“What’s the layout?” I
hurriedly whispered to Martin. “Other exits, bathrooms, windows, the kitchen, anything useful to know?”

“The bathrooms are
on the other side of the bar. So is the kitchen. I don’t know what’s in it since I’ve never been in there. The bathrooms have barred windows.” I bit my bottom lip and looked at Mark for ideas. Normally, he’d have a solution, but he was useless tonight. He simply shrugged.

The gunmen were getting antsy with the
wailing sirens. The one who remained in the foyer was yelling orders to the others. “We gotta go. Hurry it up.” The other three seemed distracted, to say the least. They split up, and each headed for one of the remaining tables. The flash of police lights reflected off the shattered glass pebbles on the floor. “Shit!” the head gunman cursed from the entrance, bolting out the door and abandoning his comrades.

G
unfire erupted, followed by the sound of a bullhorn. “This is the police. The building is surrounded, drop your weapons, and exit with your hands in the air.” The gunman farthest from our table randomly fired out the front door.

“Stay back,
” he bellowed. Mark and I exchanged a quick glance. The situation was going to turn bloody any second, and we no longer had the luxury to wait it out.

“You
take two o’clock. I’ll get four,” I indicated which of the remaining gunmen we should focus on. It wasn’t a great plan, but their backs were to us. In the commotion, it was our best bet.

The third gunman
, who had fired at the police, would be a wildcard, but we would deal with him later. Mark held up his hand, preparing to begin the countdown. We had done this numerous times before, and I leaned over next to Martin, practically pressing my lips against his ear.

“When we move
, get behind the bar, stay low, and don’t leave that spot,” I instructed. Mark silently counted down to three, and we sprang to action.

I got behind my gunma
n. He was holding an automatic rifle loosely in one arm with his finger resting near the trigger but not on it. He seemed to be a professional, or at least had some general gun safety lessons during the course of his lifetime. I came up behind him, knocking his wrist down with my right fist and simultaneously placing the knife blade against his jugular using my left hand. His gun clattered loudly to the floor.

“Don’t move,
” I growled, yanking his arm up behind him and using his body as a shield. Mark managed to get a similar hold on his gunman, but the third was now facing both of us with his rifle raised and his finger resting on the trigger.

“What are you?” he asked in a
thick Boston-sounding accent. “Cops?” His finger twitched slightly over the trigger.

By this time,
Mark had wrestled his gunman onto the ground and was completely unprotected without a human shield to use as cover. My acuity was skewed as time moved in slow motion. I shoved my hostage hard to the right, toward the foyer, dropped down to his weapon, grabbed it, and fired at the third gunman. I double-tapped the man center mass, and he went down. I turned back just in time to see my discarded human shield running out the door. Mark had his guy face down on the floor and was kneeling on his back.

I
glanced around the room, making sure there were no other attackers. My adrenaline surged, and I wanted to be certain it was safe before I risked letting my guard down. I was slowly stepping toward the man I shot when applause erupted from behind the bar. I spun around, gun still poised, to find Martin clapping his hands together.

“Bravo,
Miss Parker,” he cheered.

“You idiot.
I could have shot you,” I yelled.

My nerves were
raw. I was completely on edge, and Martin was making himself an easy target. Mark took the rifle from my hands. Why hadn’t he gone to the downed man to check to see if he was alive or at the very least taken his weapon? Something was wrong. Why weren’t the cops rushing in? Protocol requires them to breach if shots are fired.

“Don’t be mad,
” Mark said. He went to the downed gunman and offered him a hand. The man took it and stood up, and I stared at the two of them completely bewildered. “They were just blanks,” he explained, patting the guy on the chest. “See he’s okay. It was all…”

“A set-up,
” I finished his sentence and spun around to face Martin. “You fucking set me up. In your screwed up mind, you just see this as another test, don’t you?” I angrily accused. Martin was pouring himself a drink and spilled it slightly as my volume increased. He decided it best to ignore me and instead addressed everyone else in the room.

“Good job
, everybody,” he announced to the restaurant employees, patrons, and gunmen alike. “Thanks for your incredibly convincing performances. Your bonuses will be included in your next paycheck. Have a nice night.”

The
twenty remaining people in the room all stood, congratulated one another, and walked out the destroyed entryway. The gunman I had fired upon smiled and nodded to indicate no hard feelings, but I ignored him. He took his mask off, and I realized it was the security guard from Martin Technologies. Suddenly, I felt bad for anyone who was employed by this psychopath. It seemed absurd they would be forced to play along in his little make-believe fantasies. I definitely didn’t want to be one of those people. I was shaking just slightly, the joys of anger and adrenaline.

“Please
, Alex, don’t be so dramatic,” Martin chided, coming around the bar and sitting on one of the stools. “I like to battle test my employees, and you passed with flying colors.”

Mark
touched my shoulder. “It’s just like training. You’ve been through worse with my tests.” I looked at Mark. How could he deceive me for the likes of this Armani-clad douchebag?

“You son-of-a-
bitch,” I snarled and walked toward the destroyed front door. Behind me, Martin and Mark were trying to determine who I had referred to as the son-of-a-bitch.

As I
approached the broken glass at the front of the restaurant, I realized it was an intricately designed front. The shattered glass was comprised of safety glass, which explained the loud shattering noise and why there were rounded pellets instead of sharp shards everywhere. As I carefully walked through the glass pebbles and out into the cool night air, I noticed a couple of Martin Tech employees packing up a sound system and some lights. The police presence outside had been another ruse elaborately staged by some former AV geeks. They paid no attention as they grabbed their equipment and headed for a van with the MT logo painted on the side.

“Dammit,” I
quietly cursed. It just now dawned on me I had no way of leaving this place, and to make matters even worse, I had no idea exactly where we were anyway. If I had my car, then I could drive around until I found something familiar; instead, I was out in the middle of who knows where with no way to leave. Perhaps hitchhiking wouldn’t be a bad idea. I could always go back inside and demand that Mark take me home, but I didn’t want to see his face or hear his rationalizations right now, nor did I want to deal with James Martin at the moment either. My anger needed to seethe a little longer.

The group of Martin Tech
employees quickly vacated the premises, and I watched as the AV guys drove away. The only vehicles left were the town car and an old beat-up sedan. I was debating if I should ask the driver of the car to take me home when I heard a voice from behind.

“Hey.
I am really sorry about this.” I expected those words to be coming from Mark or even Martin, which is what I settled on calling him with or without a few adjectives and expletives surrounding his name; however, the voice didn’t belong to either. It was the security guard/gunman. The Boston-like accent was gone, replaced with his normal speech pattern. “Mr. Martin had us re-enact this exact scenario four times. So far, you’re the only one who shot me.” He grinned. Apparently being fake shot was an exciting prospect.

“Sorry about that,
” I said noncommittally, noticing my hands were still shaking from the leftover adrenaline.

“Want to sit down?
” There was a low lying retaining wall around the building. He perched on top of it, and I took a seat next to him. “I’m Jeffrey, by the way. Jeffrey Myers.”

“Alexis,
” I offered lamely. We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments.

“So,
” we both began at once, and he laughed.

“Ladies first.”

“I was going to apologize for coming off like a complete bitch, especially in there. It’s just… I’m applying for this job, and your boss is a lunatic. How can you stand to work for him? The interview this morning was strange enough and now this elaborate fake robbery or hostage situation or whatever it was supposed to be. I don’t get it, and I’m stuck here with no way to leave.” I trailed off. My mind was spinning, and I knew I needed to shut up. But it was nice getting to talk to someone who might semi-understand.

Jeffrey smiled.
“I know what you mean. Mr. Martin can be a handful sometimes. He’s a bit eccentric, but it might be because he’s just so freaking smart. His brain is moving too fast for most of us to catch on, and then once we do, he’s five steps ahead again. I think he means well, though. And he really does need an upgrade on his security. He’s been getting a lot of serious threats lately, and things within the company aren’t going so hot. I don’t think he would have gone through all this,” he gestured to the building behind us, “if he didn’t seriously want to test your skills to see how well you could handle things.” I looked at him suspiciously.

“How much extra are you getting paid to fee
d me the company line?”

“An extra fifty for trying.
A hundred if it works.”

“
At least you’re honest. I’ll give you that much.” I stood up from my perch and looked back at the front entrance. Mark was standing near the door looking sheepish. “Jeffrey, your acting isn’t completely convincing, and the accent definitely needs work. But perhaps you should still consider quitting your day job.” I began to walk away.

“Perhaps you should consider signing on to my day job.
Where else can you have this much fun?” I turned and gave him my best ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ look before continuing to Mark.

I stood in front of him, my hands on my hips.
I felt like a petulant five year old who was upset by a practical joke, but the practical joke could have been life or death. He should know better than to do something this stupid.

“I knew you could handle it,” he said in an almost reverent tone.

“Wh
at would have happened if I cut that guy’s throat? Or thrown the knife at Jeffrey? Stabbed someone in the femoral artery?” My volume remained low, but I was still rather irate.

“That’s not you.
That’s not how you work, and that’s not the way I trained you.” As if this were explanation enough, but he did speak the truth. I didn’t like lethal force unless it was absolutely necessary. Taking a life was not something I wanted to do if it could be avoided.