couch, I gave Nick a summary of what happened.
“You sh ould file a report.” He carefully assessed my face, gingerly touching the damage in order to determine if anything was broken.
“I don’t know who this guy is or how connected he might be.” I winced at his touch. “I don’t want to start stirring the pot until I know what’s cooking.” O’Connell thought it was a bad idea not to implement any official channels.
“I’ll write up a report but keep your name off of it. In the event anything happens, at least we’ll have that much.” He would simply follow the same procedures in place for dealing with confidential informants.
“Fine,” I acquiesced and gave him a more thorough description of the man and the events surrounding my assault. O’Connell walked around my apartment, checking for any evidence. “Ski Mask was wearing gloves. They both were wearing gloves, actually,” I commented, thinking about the man’s hands against my arms.
“Professionals ?” I nodded. He went into the hallway and checked the lock. There were no signs of a break-in. “Were you wearing the same clothes?” My bloody jeans were on the bathroom floor, but my shirt was the same. “Get changed. If you were that close to the guy, maybe you got some kind of transfer on you.” Limping to my bedroom, I changed my shirt carefully, and he bagged it.
“You al ways come prepared?”
“You always in such a good mood after getting the shit knocked out of you?” he replied.
“No, it must be your bubbly personality.” Sarcasm was my attempt to hide the exhaustion and fear. “Know any good locksmiths willing to work Sunday nights who can install a deadbolt or four?”
O’Connell made a call to a retired cop he knew who was nice enough to come over and install two deadbolts and a security bar on my door. The man looked at me suspiciously. He probably thought I was the victim of domestic abuse. That really served as a great commentary for how often crimes and abuse happen against women, I thought cynically. I wrote the man a check, and he left without another word.
“Are y ou going to be okay by yourself?” O’Connell asked.
“Of co urse.”
“I’ll have a few cars keep an eye on things tonight in the neighborhoo d, just in case.”
When he left, I locked each of my new locks and turned on all the lights in my apartment. It was the only way I would feel secure enough to sleep. My nine millimeter was on the nightstand for easy access. I changed the gauze on my leg since I already bled through it and grabbed the bag of peas and put them on top of my face before closing my eyes and going to sleep.
I awoke late Monday a fternoon, sleeping for almost eighteen hours straight. The gauze on my leg was soaked through with blood, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. And my thigh didn’t look as bad as it did the day before. Despite the fact my pillow was a bit soppy from the melted peas, my eye was no longer swollen shut. However, it still appeared as if I went twelve rounds in the ring with a heavyweight champion who mistook my face for a punching bag. I showered and dressed, re-bandaging my leg.
When I c hecked my phone, there were four missed calls. Glad I’m so popular, I thought as I listened to my voicemail messages. The first was from Martin, asking where I was.
“Shit.” I completely forgot about the meeting. The second was from Evans-Sterling, asking for a call back. The third was from Jean-Pierre, but the words were garbled from a bad connection. The fourth message was Martin again; he sounded worried and wanted me to call him back immediately when I got the message.
Deciding to prioritize, I dialed the home office of Evans-Sterling. The receptionist transferred my call to Mr. Evans, the namesake partner in charge of the American branch.
“Ms. Parker,” he sounded frustrated. Join the club. “The painting you delivered yesterday was a fake. Can you please account for your whereabouts surrounding
“You sh ould file a report.” He carefully assessed my face, gingerly touching the damage in order to determine if anything was broken.
“I don’t know who this guy is or how connected he might be.” I winced at his touch. “I don’t want to start stirring the pot until I know what’s cooking.” O’Connell thought it was a bad idea not to implement any official channels.
“I’ll write up a report but keep your name off of it. In the event anything happens, at least we’ll have that much.” He would simply follow the same procedures in place for dealing with confidential informants.
“Fine,” I acquiesced and gave him a more thorough description of the man and the events surrounding my assault. O’Connell walked around my apartment, checking for any evidence. “Ski Mask was wearing gloves. They both were wearing gloves, actually,” I commented, thinking about the man’s hands against my arms.
“Professionals ?” I nodded. He went into the hallway and checked the lock. There were no signs of a break-in. “Were you wearing the same clothes?” My bloody jeans were on the bathroom floor, but my shirt was the same. “Get changed. If you were that close to the guy, maybe you got some kind of transfer on you.” Limping to my bedroom, I changed my shirt carefully, and he bagged it.
“You al ways come prepared?”
“You always in such a good mood after getting the shit knocked out of you?” he replied.
“No, it must be your bubbly personality.” Sarcasm was my attempt to hide the exhaustion and fear. “Know any good locksmiths willing to work Sunday nights who can install a deadbolt or four?”
O’Connell made a call to a retired cop he knew who was nice enough to come over and install two deadbolts and a security bar on my door. The man looked at me suspiciously. He probably thought I was the victim of domestic abuse. That really served as a great commentary for how often crimes and abuse happen against women, I thought cynically. I wrote the man a check, and he left without another word.
“Are y ou going to be okay by yourself?” O’Connell asked.
“Of co urse.”
“I’ll have a few cars keep an eye on things tonight in the neighborhoo d, just in case.”
When he left, I locked each of my new locks and turned on all the lights in my apartment. It was the only way I would feel secure enough to sleep. My nine millimeter was on the nightstand for easy access. I changed the gauze on my leg since I already bled through it and grabbed the bag of peas and put them on top of my face before closing my eyes and going to sleep.
I awoke late Monday a fternoon, sleeping for almost eighteen hours straight. The gauze on my leg was soaked through with blood, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. And my thigh didn’t look as bad as it did the day before. Despite the fact my pillow was a bit soppy from the melted peas, my eye was no longer swollen shut. However, it still appeared as if I went twelve rounds in the ring with a heavyweight champion who mistook my face for a punching bag. I showered and dressed, re-bandaging my leg.
When I c hecked my phone, there were four missed calls. Glad I’m so popular, I thought as I listened to my voicemail messages. The first was from Martin, asking where I was.
“Shit.” I completely forgot about the meeting. The second was from Evans-Sterling, asking for a call back. The third was from Jean-Pierre, but the words were garbled from a bad connection. The fourth message was Martin again; he sounded worried and wanted me to call him back immediately when I got the message.
Deciding to prioritize, I dialed the home office of Evans-Sterling. The receptionist transferred my call to Mr. Evans, the namesake partner in charge of the American branch.
“Ms. Parker,” he sounded frustrated. Join the club. “The painting you delivered yesterday was a fake. Can you please account for your whereabouts surrounding
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