Likely Suspects (29 page)

After
ordering breakfast, he spent most of the day asleep on the couch. The blood loss and surgery had taken a lot out of him. I spent the day playing phone tag with Mark, who was still working but had called for an update on Martin’s condition. O’Connell hadn’t checked in, but I dismissed the thought as irrelevant. Hopefully, he was putting the final nails in Blake Denton’s coffin. After realizing there wasn’t anything else to do, I decided to take a nap too. If you can’t beat them, join them, but closing my eyes brought images to my mind that I didn’t want to focus on. I tossed and turned until I heard Martin moving around in the living room. Getting out of bed, I went to see if he needed anything.

“You know, those child safety caps were designed to keep intoxicated people from taking medic
ation,” I remarked as he unsuccessfully attempted to open his pill bottle using only one hand.

“
Really? I thought they were meant to torture people with only one good arm.” He obviously wasn’t feeling too great. Being shot could do that to a person. I opened the bottle for him. “I hate feeling like an invalid,” he commented, swallowing his pill.

“Join the club.
Unfortunately, we’re both stuck here for the time being, which means you’re stuck with me pretending to be nursemaid.”

“Does that include sponge
baths and a sexy outfit? Maybe some white stockings and a garter belt?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Sorr
y, but no,” I mocked regret, “I’d hate to make you feel any more like an invalid than you already are.”

“Me and my big mouth.”

I laughed
and winced slightly. Even though I was feeling better, I wasn’t back to one hundred percent. Maybe in another two or three days I’d be able to laugh and get out of chairs just like before. Damn, I really was turning into an old woman.

The next morning
, O’Connell showed up at a rather ungodly hour. “Do you really have to knock so loudly?” I asked, opening the door.

“That’s the point of a knoc
k, to be loud and get attention.”

“Martin’s asleep,
so can you please just shh.” I went to the coffeepot and measured out the coffee and added water before turning on the machine, and I flipped over two of the upside down mugs. “Just give me a minute.” I went back to my room, found some clothes to change into, and then went into the bathroom and hurried to make myself presentable. When I came out, O’Connell was sitting on the couch, drinking a cup of coffee.

“You should be a quick change artist,” he
commented as I poured my own cup and joined him.

“What’s going on?”
He didn’t come all this way for a lousy cup of coffee.              

“How are you doing?
Are you feeling any better?”

I took a
s deep a breath as I could, testing the waters. “Eh, getting there.” I looked at him suspiciously. “What do you want, Nick?” I asked, using his first name for the first time. It sounded strange.

“Forensics has
been working on Martin’s house. We got the video footage off his home security feed and everything, but,” he paused, “I hate to ask.”

“What?”
Either I was still half asleep, or I didn’t want this to be going where I thought it was going.

“If you’re up to it, can you take me throu
gh the house and give me a play-by-play? Who shot where, what weapons, all of it.”

“How badly do you need this?” I asked.
“I thought you had two of the shooters in custody. Can’t they do it?”

He
gave me an uncompromising look. Clearly, asking the bad guys, who were looking for a plea deal, to give a walkthrough would be a ridiculous notion. “It would make my life easier.”

I sighed.
“Okay, fine.” We sat in silence, drinking our coffee for a few minutes. “Since I’m helping you out, you have to tell me something. Is this as simple as Denton, Griffin, Jackson, and some hired guns?”

“It looks that way.
Denton’s financials are the real kicker. There are so many transfers in and out that it’s taking our guys a long time to track it all down. We don’t want to miss anything. That’s why we’re keeping the detail across the hallway, in case more than one team was hired to do the job.”

“You know what else I’d like, Detective?”
I earned the right to be somewhat demanding this morning. “A piece.”

“Eve
rything’s in evidence right now. There’s nothing I can do,” he sounded apologetic.

“W
orst case scenario, I’m still the last line of defense. What do you want me to do? Offer any would-be attacker some ghastly coffee?”

“I’ll see what I can arrange, b
ut honestly, the coffee’s not half bad.”

I made O’Connell
wait since I wasn’t willing to leave until Martin was awake, and I got the chance to tell him what was going on. Since his surgery, I hadn’t been more than a few dozen feet away from him, and I was still paranoid. Also, I felt extremely guilty and grateful, and I couldn’t disappear without a word. O’Connell understood, and we spent the rest of the morning discussing the case.

T
he majority of my assumptions turned out to be pretty accurate. Denton was locked up without bail, due to his monetary means and ample travel opportunities. All information relating to the shooting at Martin’s compound and his injuries had miraculously been kept secret. I was amazed there weren’t any leaks at the station house or hospital. This would be headline news if the press got wind of it.

When
I heard the water running in Martin’s bathroom, I knew my departure time was fast approaching, and I looked at O’Connell, hoping he had changed his mind. So much for wishful thinking. Once Martin was dressed, properly medicated, and bandaged, I told him what was going on. He didn’t seem particularly pleased by the prospect either, but he was lucky enough to be legitimately injured so he didn’t have to come along.

O’Connell drove to Martin’s compound
, and we entered the house, ducking under the crime scene tape. We began in the living room and slowly made our way up the stairs, going from room to room and shadowing my actions from the day of the shooting. I was being methodical as we moved through the house. O’Connell was taking notes, and a ballistics guy was following us around, noting weapons and trajectories as friendly or unfriendly fire.

We were on the fourth
floor, nearing the office or, more accurately, the room that once resembled Martin’s private office. The bloodstain from my second kill of the day had left a discolored, damaged place on the wood floor, but it was nothing compared to the blood-soaked carpeting inside the office. My stomach twisted violently, and I covered my mouth and ran down the hallway to Martin’s bathroom, getting there just in time to throw-up repeatedly in the toilet. By the time O’Connell found me, I was dry heaving. He gently rubbed my back until my body gave up the fight to physically purge the memories from my system.

“
I’ve got a pretty clear picture. We don’t need anything more. I’m sorry I brought you here,” he said quietly. I made sure my stomach had settled before standing up and rinsing my mouth in the sink. My chest and ribs were on fire, and I wrapped my arms protectively around my body, hoping to ease the agony.

He drove
back to the hotel and escorted me up to the presidential suite. I used the hotel key to get inside, and he followed me in. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked, and I gave him a disgusted look.

“I’m fine,
” I growled. I really wasn’t feeling very fine at the moment. After brushing my teeth, I found my pill bottles and brought them to the kitchen. Martin, who had been in his room, came out to see what was going on.

“Get everything settled?”
Martin queried.

“Yeah.
Parker’s help will be instrumental in finalizing our reports,” O’Connell replied. My back was turned, but I could feel eyes staring as I headed for the mini-bar, looking for some ginger ale. “Can I get you anything?” He cut me off halfway to the mini-bar, trying to be helpful.

“Ginger ale.”
I glared daggers at his back.

He pulled out the
soda, opened it, and handed it to me. Reading the directions on my two pill bottles, I popped one of each and washed them down with the canned drink. I took a seat in the chair and leaned back, shutting my eyes and hoping to make everything disappear with the power of my mind. Martin was on the couch, watching the entire exchange.

“Detective, if there’s nothing else,” Martin’s tone sounded off, perhaps even slightly threatening.
I had heard that same tone the day he’d gotten the photos in his e-mail. At least I wasn’t on the receiving end of it this time. 

“Okay,” O’Connell got the hint, “thanks for doing this
, Ms. Parker.” He gave my shoulder a supportive squeeze. “If you need anything, call.” It wasn’t his fault. He was just doing his job, and now he was making me feel guilty for my invidiousness.

“I’m fine.
It’s just…difficult.” It took a moment to find the right word, but he understood, wished Martin a speedy recovery, and left.

“You look green,” Martin said, eyeing the ginger ale suspiciously.
He reached over with his left hand and picked up my pill bottles. “If you want some of the good stuff, feel free.” He jerked his head at the kitchen counter.

“I’m part Martian,” I replied, “and no, I don’t even like taking these.”
I knew what the next question was going to be. “I got a little queasy at your house, and it didn’t agree with the ribs.”

He
picked up the phone and ordered toast, soup, and more ginger ale. “What?” He smirked. “I suddenly had this insane desire for chicken soup and toast points.”  

We ate our lunch
, and then I changed the dressing on his wound and brought him his pills. He was lying on the couch, dozing, so I grabbed a pillow from my room and sat in the chair. The next thing I knew, the room was dark, except for the flickering light from the television. Cautiously, I stretched and got out of the chair, just to make sure I could. It was almost eight o’clock. I looked at Martin to make sure he was still breathing, which he was. Paranoid much, I thought as I sat back down, not wanting to wake him. Curling up on my side, I watching him sleep until I could no longer hold my eyes open.

When
I finally opened my eyes again, the room was brightly lit, and he was flipping through the morning news channels. For a moment, I thought this last week had been a bad dream, and I was still at the compound. But I saw the sling on his arm and realized my nightmare was our reality. Carefully, I sat up. My neck was stiff, but my ribs weren’t protesting as much. Maybe all I needed was some sleep and actually following doctor’s orders.

“No narcol
epsy jokes today?” I asked, yawning. Maybe I was high, but he even looked better. More color was in his face, and his green eyes seemed brighter than they had been in days.

“It did
n’t seem fair since I started the trend yesterday.”

“You probabl
y caught it from me.” I tried to sound serious.

We went about our new daily routine
, except he was much more awake and active than he had been since the surgery. He still napped, but he was getting antsy. He read the paper and caught up on the business world. He even suggested a game of strip poker, but I declined on account of my now greenish-brown torso and his inability to take his own shirt off.

O’Connell called and said the report was
finalized, and Martin could start the process of repairing his residence sometime next week. Life was getting back on track. The forensic accountant was almost finished tracing all of Denton’s transactions, and hopefully, in a few more days, our need for the boys in blue would be nonexistent. 

I went to sleep in my bedroom that night fe
eling as if matters were resolved. Unfortunately, my subconscious didn’t share my positive sentiments. I was back in Martin’s office. The mercenary was standing above me, and Martin was to my right, unconscious and bleeding. The gun was poised, and the man’s trigger finger twitched. Looking at his face, the mercenary morphed into Blake Denton, and he fired.

“No!” I cried, jolting
upright and gasping for breath. Two men burst into the room, handguns raised. I screamed and reached for my own gun, which wasn’t next to me. My lungs weren’t getting enough air, and I was hyperventilating. One hand was wrapped around my battered ribcage and the other clutched the side of the mattress. This was how I was going to die.

“It’
s okay. It’s okay.” Martin’s voice mixed with my terrified confusion. I spun my head to the right. He wasn’t lying on the ground, and I wasn’t in his office. Where was I? The men lowered their guns. “She was dreaming. Leave before you give her a heart attack.” His words weren’t making sense, and I heard mumbled apologies as the armed men retreated from the bedroom.

Martin appeared in
the doorway, but I couldn’t speak. I was still trying to catch my breath, and my heart was pounding in my chest so forcefully I was sure my entire body was moving with every beat.

“Alex,” he said softly, probably afraid to spook me fu
rther, “it was just a dream. You were having a nightmare.” I swallowed but couldn’t find my voice. I was still fighting to regain control of my breathing. I was fairly certain I was in the midst of a panic attack. Without a word, he climbed into my bed and wrapped his left arm around me, pulling me gently against his side. “You’re okay. Just breathe. Slow, deep breaths,” he instructed. I wrapped both of my arms around his waist and buried my head in the crook of his neck, trying to slow my gasps to match the steady rise and fall of his chest. He tried to move his right arm but realized it was still immobilized and cursed quietly.

Once my heart
rate slowed and I managed to catch my breath, he carefully leaned back, bringing me with him, so we were lying against the pillows. “I thought they were here to kill me,” I squeaked, feeling the need to explain my hysterics, but he shushed me.

“No one is going to kill you.
I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. The cops are outside, where they will stay if they know what’s good for them.” Annoyance was in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized
again, but he cut me off.

“Try to get some sleep.
” He kissed my forehead. “It’s late.” I shut my eyes and snuggled against him. I couldn’t argue, not tonight, not when I needed to know he was safe and I wasn’t alone.