CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Well, well, well,” Marcus said. “What have we here?”
The two of them were in a sandwich shop in downtown that served a passable Italian club and better than passable coffee, odd for a sandwich shop, but she'd take it considering the swill she'd been forced to endure recently.
She swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and said in a singsong voice, “I do not know! What do we have here?”
Marcus gave her a finger, and she chuckled. “Seriously, though, what do we have?”
“Check this out.”
He showed her his phone screen. It was open to an Instagram post. The post was an image of the news story of Hammond’s murder with the caption, God is good. The poster was by Michael Parker.
Kate lifted an eyebrow. “A relation of Gene Parker’s, I presume?”
“His son.”
Her eyebrows raised further. “Ah.”
“Ah, indeed. It seems that Michael isn’t the sort of Christian who believes in loving his enemies.”
“Shockingly, there are very few of those,” Kate said drily.
She looked up Michael. Thanks to the recency of Hammond's death, the internet returned several results right away.
Michael was eighteen years old now, which made him fifteen at the time of his father's murder.
He was reported as being hysterical when he learned of his father's death.
At the trial, he repeatedly shouted insults and threats at Hammond and eventually was barred from further court proceedings.
He was in school when it was announced that Hammond was acquitted of the murder and reacted by trashing a classroom and earning himself a trip to jail, from where his mother rapidly retrieved him.
“Angry kid,” she said when she finished reviewing the story.
“I’ll say,” Marcus said. “Looks like he got into it with Hammond at a charity event three weeks ago.”
Kate looked at Marcus. “Really?”
"Yeah. I guess the Chicago Realtors' association was hosting a benefit for 'underhoused individuals.'"
“Go on.”
“Anyway, Hammond apparently got up to pledge eighteen percent of the coming year’s income to building low-income housing in central Chicago to replace buildings that had become old and unsafe.
The crowd cheered, and Michael grabbed a microphone and asked when Hammond was going to admit that he murdered Gene Parker. ”
“What did Hammond do?”
“Check it out. There’s a video.”
He showed Kate the phone. It revealed security footage of the incident, which took place at a downtown hotel.
About sixty people were gathered, all wearing silk suits and evening gowns.
Even Michael wore a nice suit, though his was ill-fitting, saggy in the middle, and a bit too long in the arms. Probably his father's suit.
Michael was holding a microphone and thrusting his finger toward the stage. Derek stood in front of his own microphone. He had about a foot on Michael and at least eighty pounds, but he shrank under the boy’s tirade.
The man's. He was eighteen now. Young, but legally an adult, and he'd be tried like one if he were charged with this murder.
The video didn’t have audio, so Kate couldn’t tell what he was saying, but whatever it was, he was passionate about it.
His face was red, and spittle flew from his lips.
After a moment, two beefy security officers approached.
One of them reached for the microphone, and Michael spun around and landed a hard punch behind his right ear.
The guard shook his head and stumbled backward, stunned.
Apparently, Michael had some heat behind his blows.
The other guard rushed him. Michael threw the microphone, but the guard was prepared.
He ducked it and wrapped Michael up, lifting him off the ground and carrying him from the room.
The microphone landed in a woman's soup, splashing it all over her and the others at her table.
She shrieked and jumped to her feet, hands spasming in front of her shoulders.
As the guard carried Michael from the room, he continued to shout at Hammond, lips pulled back from his teeth.
When the video ended, Kate said, “Wow.”
“Yep.”
“Looks like Mr. Parker has an anger problem.”
“Sure does.”
“So where do we find him?”
“According to the Illinois DMV, he lives in a townhome in Bridgeport.”
“His own?”
“Let me see.”
Marcus tapped his phone’s touchscreen a few times, then said, “Doesn’t look like it. Apparently, it’s his mother’s place.”
“Not his father’s?”
“No, and when he was alive, still no. Mrs. Parker became Ms. Rochet eight years ago. It seems she cited infidelity as the reason for the divorce, which tracks with what we’ve heard of Mr. Parker so far.”
“But Michael still had a good relationship with his dad.”
“I mean, nobody wants to hear that their father was killed.”
Kate lowered her eyes. “No.”
Marcus looked at her. “Hey. You, okay?”
She smiled ruefully. “Am I ever?”
He set the phone down. “You want to talk about it?”
She lifted her eyes to his. Marcus’s eyes were so kind, so strong, just like him.
She nearly told him then. She nearly admitted how she felt about him and asked him if he ever felt even a little bit the same way.
But the first crime scene floated in front of her mind.
She didn’t think Cheryl was the type of crazy to do anything like what Rosalyn Pierce had done to Donald, but she knew Cheryl would be utterly devastated to learn that Kate, the woman Marcus had insisted wasn’t a threat, the woman Cheryl insisted was, had confessed having feelings for him.
And if Marcus lost Cheryl for good, then he would be utterly devastated. It would be Kate’s fault, and she couldn’t do that to him.
So, she took a deep breath, smiled, and said, “Later. It’s not relevant to the case.”
“I’m also your friend, you know,” Marcus reminded her. “Not just your partner.”
“I know. And I will tell you everything one day. But not right now. Right now, I want to talk to Michael Parker.”
Marcus looked a little disappointed, but maybe that was only Kate’s imagination. He nodded and got to his feet. “All right. I’ll drive. I don’t want you wandering off on the road and plowing through a bus stop.”
She slapped his arm, and he chuckled and clapped her on the shoulder. It was nice and friendly, just two buddies in law enforcement off to find justice again.
On the way to Michael’s house, a complication occurred to Kate. “He can’t know Cox.”
Marcus frowned. “Why not?”
“He’s eighteen. He lives in Chicago. So far as we know, Cox has never been to Chicago. And his proselytes have all been adults. Besides, he’s in solitary now, and he’s not allowed communication with the outside world.”
“Three years ago, he wasn’t incarcerated at all,” Marcus reminded her, “and he’s been able to send letters up until a few months ago. I’m not saying that Michael’s definitely a disciple. I still think this could be unrelated. But it doesn’t have to be unrelated.”
“Yeah,” Kate said. “Yeah, good point.”
They reached the address a few minutes later.
Bridgeport was the sort of neighborhood Kate imagined when she thought of the “big city” as a kid.
Townhomes and apartment buildings stood clustered together on both sides of narrow streets.
Strip malls every half mile or so sported liquor stores, delis, discount electronics stores, and various benign vice hubs like smoke shops and massage parlors.
There was one supermarket, an ALDI, just visible a mile down the street where Michael Parker lived with his mom.
A few kids played on the sidewalk as Kate and Marcus walked up to the house. They stopped playing and watched silently as the agents climbed the steps of the short porch and knocked on the door. Their sober faces and wide eyes made Kate’s skin crawl. She wasn’t entirely sure why.
The blinds on the window next to the door shifted. A female voice uttered a muffled curse before the door flew open and the same voice said, much louder, “Get the hell off my property!”
Kate’s eyebrow lifted. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“No. Get off! Go!”
The shouter was in the last flush of her prime before middle age sank its teeth in.
Her blond hair was dyed, but only a few scattered grays showed at the roots.
Her brown eyes were concealed behind a considerable but not excessive dose of makeup.
Her five-foot-seven frame carried a touch over two hundred pounds by Kate’s estimation, but she carried it well, and the flush in her cheeks bore a remnant of what would have once been considerable beauty.
Marcus flashed this beauty a movie-star smile. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Marcus Reid. This is my partner Special Agent Kate Valentine. You must be Caroline Parker.”
“I must be my boot in your ass if you’re not off this doorstep in ten seconds!”
Marcus continued as though she hadn’t spoken a word. “We were hoping to talk to your son for a few minutes. It’s about your ex-husband.”
“Bullshit it’s about Gene. He’s been dead three years. The FBI doesn’t want shit with a man who’s been dead three years. Get off my property.”
A for effort on Marcus’s part, but it was clear that honey wasn’t going to attract this fly.
“To be clear, ma’am,” Kate said, still polite but much firmer than Marcus had been. “We’re investigating the murder of Derek Hammond. We need to talk to your son.”
“No.”
“I’m afraid I must insist.”
“I don’t give a shit. Get off my property.”
Caroline’s eyes were wide and blazed with anger, but the fear behind it was clear. Please not my baby. Please don’t take my baby.
“Ma’am—”
“Don’t ma’am me! Leave! You’re not welcome here! I don’t consent to this conversation!”
The kids who watched Marcus and Kate approach now formed a half circle on the sidewalk behind them.
A few pairs of parents had joined them, making token efforts at shooing their kids away.
Marcus sighed and said in a sheepish voice, “Look, I know this is a pain in the ass, but we just have to clear it off our list. We’ll talk to him for like, five minutes, you can be present, and—”
She stepped forward and shoved her finger close enough to Marcus’s face to be borderline assault. “Get your fucking asses off of my porch right now, or I will sue the FBI for every damned cent it has. You are not welcome here, this conversation is over.”
Kate shifted her feet irritably. They couldn’t force their way inside without a warrant, and she wasn’t sure they had enough for that. She was already on thin ice due to past bending of the rules, and she didn’t think this circumstance called for it.
On the other hand, they needed to talk to Michael Parker. He was the most likely candidate to be the murderer, and he’d gotten into an altercation with Hammond less than a month ago.
“Mom?”
And sometimes, opportunities presented themselves when they were most needed.
“Michael? This is the FBI. We need to talk to—”
“No!” Caroline shrieked. The blood had drained from her face the moment she heard Michael’s voice. “Michael, go back upstairs! You two, get… Get off my property!”
She appeared to be on the verge of tears. Kate sympathized with the fear of a mother, but she had a job to do.
“Mom, I want to talk to them.”
“No! Get back upstairs! You two piss off!”
Her voice was a constant shriek now. Splotches of red appeared in her neck. She was trembling from head to toe, unable to believe that she had lost control of this situation.
“Ma’am, with all due respect, Michael is an adult. He should be allowed to make his own choices.”
Caroline, aware that Kate had spoken the truth and found the angle that would allow her to crack through the shield she had formed around her son, whirled on Kate, teeth bared, eyes rolling like a charging bear.
She put her hands on Kate and shoved hard.
Kate stumbled backward, and Marcus moved, grabbing Caroline, spinning her around and pulling her hand behind her back. “Hey! You don’t touch her!”
“No!” Caroline said, squirming and weeping. “No, please, no, God! You can’t do this!”
“Mom!” Michael cried.
A moment later, he appeared. He was on the shorter end of average height, but achingly handsome with full lips and blond hair. Hazel eyes and a sculpted body that no doubt made every girl at his high school swoon, not to mention a sizable portion of boys.
He put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder but removed it quickly when Marcus fixed a glare on him. “Can I talk to her, please?” he asked. “Just for a moment?”
“Talk fast,” Marcus warned. “Your mother just assaulted a peace officer.”
“No! Don’t say anything to him!” Caroline said. “Michael, please, please…” She sobbed. “Just go back upstairs!”
“Mom,” Michael said gently but firmly, like he was the parent and she the unruly child in the midst of a temper tantrum. “I’m going to go talk to these guys. I’ll be back when I’m finished, okay?”
“No, Michael. Don’t do it. They don’t care about shit. They just want to solve their case. They don’t care if you’re the killer or not, they don’t.”
Kate thought of assuring her that they very much cared, but considering her ex-husband’s killer had gotten away with the murder, she wasn’t sure Caroline would believe it.
“I’ll be back, mom,” Michael repeated. “If you don’t listen right now, you’re going to be arrested. Please go back in the house and wait for me to come home.”
Caroline slumped. Her head fell forward and smacked against the door jamb.
She didn’t say anything, but it was clear the fight had finally gone out of her.
Kate nodded at Marcus, and he released her hands.
Michael put an arm around her and led her into the house.
When she crossed the threshold, she whirled around and shouted, “You better not charge him with shit! He didn’t do anything!
You charge him with a crime, and I’ll sue you. I’ll sue you!”
“Mom,” Michael said. “Calm down.”
He led her further into the house. Marcus and Kate shared a grim look. Caroline’s fear was understandable but extreme.
Unless she had reason to believe that her son was, in fact, the killer. Then her fear was very justified.