Kill the Messenger (14 page)

Sitting back against the hood of the car, he drank some of the Gatorade he’d bought at the 7-Eleven, and washed down three Tylenol. He needed to keep his energy level up and try to minimize the pain enough to think through it. His brain was what kept him alive on the streets every day. The ability to see a couple of jumps ahead, yet to focus on the moment.

He took his life into his own hands every day on the streets as a messenger. Risking his own life and having someone else put him at risk were very different scenarios. He chose to put himself on the street. He knew the risks, he knew his abilities. If he went under a bus, a bus killed him, not the people on the bus. If he made a mistake, it was on him.

None of this mess seemed within his control. He’d been thrown into the middle of the mix like he’d been sucked into a tornado. The only thing he could control was his own mind, and in the end, that would be the only thing that could save him.

He wished he knew what he was up against—
who
he was up against. He could easily call to mind the blockheaded guy in the dark car. But when he called up the memory of the attack in Abby Lowell’s apartment, he came up blank. In his mind’s eye he tried to see things he hadn’t seen. He tried to look in the mirror, to see the guy behind him, but it hadn’t happened that way.

What the hell is going on, and why do I have to be in it?

Luck of the draw. If he hadn’t been late with the blueprints, he would have gone home that night like any night, and Eta would have told Lenny Lowell they couldn’t take his package. Lenny Lowell would have been a story buried in the paper. Jace probably wouldn’t have paid any attention to it, just as the majority of Angelinos wouldn’t have paid any attention to it. Nobody blinked at an ordinary, run-of-the-mill murder. Murders happened every day. There had to be a hook. Something kinky, something twisted, and/or a celebrity.

Jace wondered if the people in the negatives taped to his belly might be famous. Some celebrity being blackmailed over deviant sexual behavior. The kind of seedy story that made up the gritty side of LA. City of angels, city of sleaze. It depended on who was looking, and where.

The reservoir was the gray of gunmetal, reflecting the heavy clouds that hung above it, but shining metallic where the low western sun skipped rays across it. The sky in the west was the color of molten lava, purple twilight seeping down toward it. It would all disappear into the ocean soon, and darkness would fall like a cloak over the city. He would go home and maybe he would be able to sneak upstairs through the shadows, and escape Madame Chen’s scrutiny.

He wanted to go home, to be home, to stay home, or to throw his books into his bag and jump the Gold Line train to Pasadena for his social sciences class at City College. He wanted to do something normal. He wanted to help Tyler with some project for school, watch television, make popcorn. Maybe he would do that, he thought, mail Lenny’s package to Abby, get a new job, start over again, pretend none of this had ever happened.

As he slid behind the wheel of the car and reached to turn the key, the two-way on the passenger seat gave a blast of static, then Eta’s voice. “Base to Sixteen. Base to Sixteen. Where you at, baby?”

Jace reached over and touched the radio, fingered the call button, but he didn’t push it. He didn’t dare.

“Base to Sixteen. Where you at, Lone Ranger? You gotta come on home to Mama, sugar. ASAP. You got that? I’m still holding money for you. You copy?”

“I’m in the twilight zone, Eta,” he murmured. “I’m going home.”

                        
      17

Abby Lowell’s story about Cicada checks out,” Ruiz announced as Parker approached the building from the parking lot. She stood outside the doors, smoking a cigarette under cover from the rain that had started to spit down in slow, fat drops.

“What else did you find out at the restaurant?”

“They have a wonderful poached pear salad,” she said.

“Did you sample the wine cellar too?”

“No, but I got a date with a really cute waiter,” she said, preening. “He’s going to be the next Brad Pitt.”

“Aren’t they all? You spoke with the maitre d’ who was there last night?”

“Yes. He said she seemed impatient, kept checking her watch.”

“Was she upset? Crying? Did she look shaken?”

“Impatient was all he said. They were busy.”

“What about her waiter?”

She shook her head. “They never seated her. The maitre d’ showed her to the bar. The bartender said she had a vodka tonic. A couple of guys tried to hit on her. She wasn’t interested. He saw her on her phone a couple of times. She left a nice tip, but he didn’t see her leave.”

Parker frowned, looking out at the gathering gloom as evening crept near. “I want her phone records, home and cell.”

“You think she had something to do with it?” Ruiz asked, puzzled.

“I caught her at her father’s office this morning. She said she was looking for his life insurance policy and his will.”

“That’s cold, not criminal.”

“She violated a sealed crime scene,” Parker said. “And she didn’t leave with an insurance policy. She left with documents and a key to a safe-deposit box at City National Bank. She went there directly after leaving the office and tried to get access to her father’s box.”

“They didn’t let her in?”

“She gave the manager her sob story, but she wasn’t authorized by Lowell to sign for the box. The manager told her she needs to file a probate petition along with an affidavit, and get a court order. Ms. Lowell was not a happy girl.”

“Did you get in the box?” Ruiz asked.

“We’ll have a court order first thing tomorrow,” Parker said. He yawned as he moved toward the doors. “I need a cup of something.”

“I called Massachusetts,” Ruiz said as they went toward the squad room. “They ran the DL number we have for Allison Jennings. It came back to a woman living in Boston.”

“Did you get a phone number?”

“I did better than that,” Ruiz said smugly. “I called her. She said she has no idea how her license turned up here. Said she had her handbag stolen and lost her driver’s license with it once a long time ago. Maybe that’s it.”

They went into the squad. Parker hung up his raincoat and his hat and went directly to the coffee machine. He poured a cup and leaned back against the cupboard. The coffee tasted three times worse than it had in the morning.

“You were just a regular whirling dervish while I was out,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

She looked at him like she was waiting for the nasty punch line.

“I do say nice things every once in a while,” Parker said. “When earned.”

Ruiz seemed not to believe him, but she didn’t call him on it. She leaned back against her desk and crossed her arms, pushing the red lace bra and its contents up into sight. “Latent has Damon’s job ap. They haven’t called back. And I got the local usage details for Speed, and for the victim—office and home.”

Parker squinted at her. “Who are you? And what have you done with Ms. Ruiz?”

She gave him the finger and went on. “The number off Abby Lowell’s cell phone call list? Leonard Lowell called that number yesterday from his office at five twenty-two in the afternoon. The call lasted one minute, twelve seconds.”

Parker frowned and thought about that. At 5:22
P.M.
Lenny Lowell had called an untraceable cell phone number. A little more than an hour later someone using that same cell phone had called Abby Lowell and told her that her father was dead.

How did that tie in with the bike messenger? It didn’t. The lawyer had called the Speed office to arrange the pickup.

Even if the phone belonged to Damon, it didn’t make sense. Why would Lowell have called him directly, then set up the pickup through Speed? There wouldn’t have been any reason to.

And then what? Damon shows up, kills Lowell, takes the package and the money from the safe, turns the office inside out looking for something, bashes in Lowell’s car window on the way out, then calls a woman he doesn’t know to tell her her father is dead?

“This isn’t working for me,” Parker muttered, going around the desks to lower himself into his chair. He yawned and rubbed his hands over his face. He needed a second wind. His shift might be over, but his day wasn’t.

The first couple of days of a homicide investigation were crucial. Trails cooled fast, witnesses started losing the details of their memories, perps slithered away into holes. To say nothing of the fact that oftentimes three days was as much priority time as they could devote to a case before another dead body turned up and they had to move on that one because the first couple of days were crucial . . . And round and round they went.

There was no luxury of time. The LAPD employs roughly 9,000 cops for a city of 3.4 million people. The NYPD has a force of 38,000 for just over twice the population.

“What?” Ruiz asked, perturbed. “Looks pretty neat to me.”

“That’s why I have the number
two
in my rank and you don’t. Most murders are easy. A guy kills another guy because the second guy has something the first guy wants. Money, drugs, a woman, a leather jacket, a ham sandwich. A guy kills his wife or girlfriend because she’s been screwing some other guy, or because she burned the pot roast, or because he’s just a plain vanilla mentally unbalanced asshole.

“Same thing for women. It’s usually straightforward. They kill someone they know because they’re jealous. It’s always jealousy with women. Sometimes jealousy mixed with greed, but mostly just jealousy.”

Parker shook his head. “There’s something wrong with this picture. A bike messenger is dispatched by chance. He gets in Lowell’s office, sees money hanging out of the safe, kills Lowell, steals the money, beats it out of Dodge. Lowell didn’t call him up beforehand and say, ‘Hey, come steal my money and beat my head in.’

“And if it was a crime of opportunity,” he went on, “the messenger doesn’t take the time to look up Abby Lowell’s cell phone number and call her to pretend he’s a cop and tell her to go to her father’s office. Why would he? What’s it to him?” The phone on Parker’s desk rang. He snatched up the receiver. “Parker.”

“Kev, it’s Joan Spooner over at Latent.”

Parker flashed the grin, even though she couldn’t see it. “Tell me something I want to hear, Joanie. What have you got for me besides your heart?”

“A husband,” she said dryly.

“A podiatrist,” Parker said with distaste. “A guy who comes home every night smelling like other people’s feet. When you could have me. A lot of women would kill to have me.”

“Right. They do. They’re called perps,” she said. “What a sad commentary that you have to put women in handcuffs to have them go anywhere with you.”

“Some like it that way,” he purred into the phone. “Don’t knock it ’til you try it, Joanie.”

Across the desk, Ruiz rolled her eyes.

“Enough out of you, mister. Put both hands on the table and pay attention. I’ve got a possible match for you on those prints from the Lowell homicide. You can’t hang your hat on it in a courtroom, but it’s something you can play off of. I’ve got a thumb and a partial middle finger on the murder weapon, and a partial thumb on the job application.”

“And they match?”

“In court I’d have to say a possible match on the thumb, and a defense attorney would have me for lunch. Between you, me, and the lamppost, I think it’s probably the same person.”

“I love you, Joanie,” Parker crooned.

“So you say, Kevin. One of these days it’s going to be put up or shut up.”

“Careful what you wish for, doll.”

He thanked her and hung up.

Ruiz tried to lean into his line of sight. “Hey, Romeo, what did she say?”

Parker chewed on his thumbnail for a moment, staring into the middle distance, thinking. “A probable match of a thumbprint on the murder weapon and on the job ap.”

“He’s our guy.”

Parker shook his head. “Play devil’s advocate. If you were Damon’s defense attorney, how would you punch holes in Latent’s evidence?”

Ruiz sighed. “I would say that we concede Damon was in Lowell’s office. He went there to pick up a package. So he touched a bowling trophy. So what?”

“Exactly. And where on the murder weapon are these prints located? To beat Lowell’s head in, he held the trophy upside down. The marble base did all the damage. Do we have photos back?”

“No.”

“Call SID now before they all go home like regular folks. You need to talk with the guy who lifted the prints off the murder weapon. And I need photos of the back of the desk, and the area around the desk.”

“What am I? Your secretary?” Ruiz complained. “My shift is over, and I’m hungry.”

Parker tossed a roll of Mentos across the desks. “When you’re with me, there are no shifts working a homicide, babe. Eat a breath mint. You’ll be fine. Your clothes will fit better.”

His phone rang again and he grabbed it up. “Parker.”

“Detective Parker?” The smoky voice was trembling a little. “It’s Abby Lowell. My apartment has been broken into. By that bike messenger. I thought you should know.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He hung up the phone and pushed himself to his feet. “Get those photos ASAP,” he ordered Ruiz as he went to the coatrack and shrugged into his raincoat. “And get going on the phone records from Speed. We need to get a line on Damon. Abby Lowell says he broke into her apartment today.”

“And where are you going now?” Ruiz whined.

Parker bobbed his eyebrows and put on his hat. “To the damsel in distress.”

                        
      18

Abby Lowell lived outside the lines of Central Bureau. Parker flashed his badge to the uniforms standing in the foyer of the building. One nodded him past. The other was engaged in conversation with a potbellied older guy who was expounding on his theory regarding the downfall of our once-great nation.

A pair of detectives from West Bureau, Hollywood Division, stood in Abby Lowell’s living room, looking around like they were sizing up the place to redecorate. Everything was everywhere. The living room had been tossed like a salad. A Latent Prints guy Parker knew was dusting.

“Some party,” Parker said. “Mind if I join the fun?”

The older of the two Hollywood cops, a square-headed guy with a Marine buzz cut, curled his lip like a dog about to growl.

“What are you doing here, Parker? I thought they had you writing parking tickets.”

“Your vic called me in. Apparently you failed to impress her with your commanding presence.”

“Crawl back in your hole, Parker. This is ours. We’ll send you a copy of the reports.”

Parker curled his own lip and took a step forward. “You think I want your fucking lousy B&E? File all the paper you want, then go chase some 7-Eleven bandits, go scare up some wannabe starlets moonlighting on their backs. Do whatever it is you people do over here.” He twirled a finger around, indicating the room. “This is part of my homicide, ace. You can’t piss the fence higher than I can.”

“The always-charming Detective Parker.”

Abby Lowell stood in the archway leading to the private rooms of the apartment, leaning one shoulder against the wall. She was still dressed in the same sapphire knit outfit she’d had on that morning, but had pulled on an old oversized gray cardigan. She was hugging the sweater around her. Her hair was mussed. Her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes as if she had been crying.

Parker went to her. “You’re all right?”

The smile was wry, fragile, quivering at the corners of her mouth. She looked down just to the right of his feet, and combed a strand of hair back behind her ear with a trembling hand.

“He didn’t kill me, so I’m better off than the last Lowell he ran into.”

“Where do you keep your booze?” Parker asked.

“In the freezer. Grey Goose. Help yourself.”

“Not my poison,” he said, picking his way over the aftermath of the ransacking as he went into the kitchen. He found a glass, poured some of the vodka over ice, and handed it to her. “How long ago did this happen?”

She sipped the drink, leaning her hip against the counter. “A couple hours, I guess. I didn’t realize this was out of your area until they showed up. They didn’t want me to call you.”

“Don’t worry about them. You did the right thing. Besides, I’m like a wolf. I’ve got a big territory. What happened?”

“I came home, walked in, the place looked like this. I went down the hall, went into the bathroom, and he grabbed me.”

“Did he have a weapon?”

She shook her head.

“What’d he look like? Tall, short, black, white . . . ?”

“Not as tall as you. Blond. Young. White. He looked like he had been in a fight or something.”

“I’ll need you to get with our sketch artist first thing tomorrow,” Parker said. “How did you know he was the bike messenger?”

“He wouldn’t tell me who he was. But he said he knew my father, that he’d done some work for him, and I just knew it was him.”

“What did he want? Why would he come to you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to find out. I was sure he was going to kill me. I ran, and he chased me, and I was almost to the door, and then he was on me. . . .”

The dark eyes glistened with tears. She leaned back against the counter and put a hand over her face. Parker watched her for a moment, then walked away from her and went down the hall. The bathroom was on the left. A small space with a tub/shower combo, a toilet, a pedestal sink. The mirror of the medicine cabinet above the sink was broken, with shards missing.

He squatted down and checked out a pale rust-colored smudge on the old octagonal tile. Blood, he figured. Some had seeped into the grout between the tiles, staining it dark.

He stood and looked closely at the broken mirror and the inscription someone had written on it in red lipstick. NEXT YOU DIE.

Why would the bike messenger want Abby Lowell dead if killing Lenny and stealing the money from the safe had been a crime of opportunity? He wouldn’t. Whoever was behind the murder, behind this, had a more complicated motive. And as far as Parker was concerned, that ruled out Damon.

Abby appeared in the shattered glass, a multitude of tiny, fragmented images, as if she was inside a giant kaleidoscope.

“What’s this guy looking for?” Parker asked, turning to face her.

“I don’t know.”

“Your place gets turned upside down, someone threatens to kill you, and you don’t know why?”

“No, I don’t,” she said, stiffening. “If Lenny was up to something, he didn’t include me in it.”

Parker cocked a brow. “Really? Isn’t it strange, then, that shortly before he was murdered, Lenny made a phone call to his own killer? And that after your father was dead, the killer called you to tell you about it? I find that strange. Why would Lenny feel free to give his killer your cell phone number and address?”

She wasn’t ready to cry now. She was getting pissed off. The brown eyes were nearly black. She didn’t like it that he wasn’t as sympathetic as she wanted him to be.

“Maybe he got it out of Lenny’s Rolodex.”

“But why? Why terrorize you if you can’t give him what he wants?”

“I shouldn’t have to remind you, Detective, I’m the victim here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your father’s safe-deposit box?” he asked bluntly.

Her breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

“What this killer is looking for—what he was looking for in your father’s office, what he was looking for here—am I going to find it in that box when I open it tomorrow?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m still looking for Lenny’s will and life insurance. I thought they might be in the bank.”

“I’ll let you know,” Parker said. “I’m not hindered by probate. As soon as I have the court order in hand, I get to find the prize in the Cracker Jack box.”

She had nothing to say about that, but neither did she look nervous. If Lenny’s will was in the box, it probably didn’t contain a paragraph beginning with
In the event of my violent death, my daughter was in on it.

“I find it odd that you didn’t include a trip to the bank in your list of reasons to get away from me this morning,” Parker said.

“I wasn’t trying to get away from you. I have a lot to take care of.”

“I’m sure you do, Ms. Lowell. And how was your class, by the way?”

“I didn’t go.”

“What was the subject again?”

“I didn’t say.”

“Now’s your chance.”

She had that I-want-to-hurt-you look in her eyes. “What’s the difference? I didn’t go.”

“And which funeral home are you using?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“But you were at one today? After the bank, before you came back here?”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “If you don’t mind, Detective, I need to go lie down. I’m really not up to being interrogated tonight.”

“You should probably stay with a friend,” Parker suggested.

“I’m going to a hotel,” she said tightly.

Parker stood too close to her as he leaned toward the door. “Sleep well, Ms. Lowell,” he purred, holding her gaze with his, nearly close enough to kiss her. “Call me if you need me.”

“That’s not likely.” She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Hell of a poker player . . .

Parker edged past her through the door, and went back down the hall. Buzz Cut was on his cell phone, standing by the front door. Parker approached the younger detective, who was still making notes.

“Anybody see this guy get away?”

The guy tried to look around Parker to see his partner.

“You can answer me now, junior, or I can have my captain crawl up your captain’s ass, and we can all have a bad time. I don’t want to do that,” Parker said apologetically. “I got no beef against you, kid, but I’m working a homicide. I don’t have a lot of time to screw around.”

The big sigh. The look to the side. “One of the neighbors got a partial plate,” the kid said quietly. “A dark green or black Mini Cooper.”

“A Mini Cooper?” Parker said, taken aback. “What the hell kind of a crook drives a Mini Cooper?”

The shrug. The head cock. The kid flipped back a few pages in his notebook and showed his notes. “He got clipped by a minivan when he pulled a U-turn in the middle of the street. Knocked out some of the plastic from the Mini’s driver’s-side taillight and scratched the paint.”

“Did the driver get a good look at him?”

“Not really. All she could say was young, white male. It happened too fast.”

“You got a card?”

The young detective pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it over. Joel Coen.

“Thanks, Joel,” Parker said, jotting the tag number down on the back of the card. “If I get something, I won’t forget you.”

He stuck the card in his pocket and went to the Latent Prints guy to tell him they were looking for a possible match to prints found at the Lowell homicide. He told him to talk to Joanie.

Buzz Cut was closing his phone as Parker made his exit.

Parker tipped his hat and said sarcastically, “Thanks for the hospitality, Buzz. I’ll call as soon as I’ve solved it for you.”