Kill the Messenger (21 page)

Mojo was still in the street and pushing ahead of him, his eyes on the next intersection.

A million tiny, instant calculations went through Jace’s brain like data in a computer—speed, velocity, trajectory, angles, obstacles.

A siren pierced his thought process. A black-and-white was coming up on Mojo, lights rolling. A voice cracked over a bullhorn: “LAPD! You on the bikes! Pull up!”

As they made the corner of Fourth and Hill, Mojo turned hard right, into Jace’s path. Jace angled his front wheel to the left. The light on Fourth had turned yellow. The intersection was almost clear.

The Beast rocketed off the curb, just missing Mojo’s rear wheel. Airborne, Jace shifted his weight, turning the bike.

The cop car was at the corner, turning right from the outside lane, cutting off a truck. The Beast’s rear tire landed just past the black-and-white’s left front headlight. A loud crash sounded, and the cop car jumped forward as something hit it from behind.

Jace took the jolt from the landing, jumped on the pedals, and gunned the bike straight into the oncoming one-way traffic from Hill Street.

A chorus of horns. Tires screeching on pavement. He split the two lanes like a thread through the eye of a needle, just missing side mirrors and running boards. Drivers shouted obscenities at him. He prayed no one opened a door.

He kept going, turning, cutting through alleys, turning, moving. Not even a heat-seeking missile could have followed him. He was one of the fastest messengers in the city. This was his turf. He didn’t even think. He just rode, burning off the adrenaline, sweating out the fear shaking down his arms and flailing in his chest.

Fucking Mojo, chasing him. Jesus H. One wrong move and they might both have ended up in a hospital, or in the morgue. Jace could have ended up in jail, hauled in for operating a bicycle in a dangerous manner, or something more serious, depending on how pissed off the cop had been. And it would have taken only a few minutes, maybe an hour, before they figured out they had the guy every cop in the city was looking for—if Mojo hadn’t volunteered the information first.

That’s what you get for trusting someone, J.C.

And what about what other people got for having him come to them? He thought again of Eta, and wanted to be sick.

Cruising through a green light, Jace checked the street sign, and might have laughed if he’d had it in him. Hope Street.

He pulled off at the Music Center Plaza, situated amid a trio of entertainment venues: the Mark Taper Forum, the Ahmanson Theater, and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, home of the Oscars until Hollywood had rejuvenated itself and reclaimed the awards.

The plaza was deserted. Nothing opened for another hour or so. Jace parked The Beast and sat down on a bench, trying to let go of all the tension in his body. He stared at the rise and fall of the many waterspouts around the
Peace on Earth
sculpture, and tried to clear his mind for just a moment.

The sculpture was allegedly famous. To Jace it looked like a monkey pile of people trying to hold up a giant artichoke that a dove had dive-bombed nose-first. All he could think looking at it was that the man who had created it had not lived in the same world he did, or the same world Eta Fitzgerald had lived in.

The sculpture was timeless. A thing without life that would live forever. A thing without emotion, meant to evoke emotion. It would sit on this spot forever, barring nuclear attack or the Big Quake.

Jace couldn’t imagine that anyone would really care if it was there or not, but there it would remain. Instead, people would come and go, live and die, and years would pass, and some would be missed and some would never be thought of at all.

He tried to imagine what Eta would have had to say about
Peace on Earth,
but he couldn’t hear her voice, and he would never hear her voice again. He could only put his head in his hands and cry for the loss of her.

                        
      29

Chen’s Fish Market was five minutes from Parker’s loft. According to the DMV, one of the Mini Coopers that may have fled the scene of Abby Lowell’s break-in lived here. Parker pulled up in front and went to the public entrance first, finding the place hadn’t yet opened for business. But in the loading bay two men were shoveling shaved ice for the coolers that would chill the day’s deliveries.

Parker held up his badge. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m looking for a Lu Chen.”

The men straightened immediately, one wide-eyed with fear, the other narrow-eyed with suspicion. The first had the round, doughy features of someone with Down syndrome. Parker addressed the other man. “I’m Detective Parker, LAPD. Is there a Lu Chen here?”

“Why?”

Parker smiled. “That was a yes or no question. Unless your name is Lu Chen.”

“Lu Chen is my aunt.”

“And you are?”

“Chi.”

“Just Chi?” Parker asked. “Like Cher? Like Prince?”

The steel-eyed stare. No sense of humor.

“Is your aunt here?”

Chi stabbed his shovel into the pile of ice. Anger management issues. “I’ll go see if she’s in her office.”

“I’ll come with you,” Parker said. The guy looked offended at the suggestion. Hell of a lot of attitude from someone who shoveled ice for a living.

Chi climbed up on the loading dock, then stood there with his hands on his hips, glaring at Parker. Not the day to have worn the Hugo Boss suit, Parker thought, but there it was. The gauntlet had been thrown down.

Parker boosted himself up onto the dock and dusted himself off, trying not to grimace as he looked at a streak of black dirt on the front of his jacket. His sour-faced tour guide turned and led him through part of the small warehouse space, down a narrow hall to a door marked
OFFICE.

Chi knocked. “Aunt? A police detective is here to see you.”

The door opened and a small, neat woman in a red wool blazer and black slacks stared out at them. Her expression was as fierce as her nephew’s, but in a way that was strong rather than petulant.

“Detective Parker, ma’am.” Parker offered his ID. “If I could have a moment of your time, please. I have a couple of questions for you.”

“In regards to what, may I ask?”

“Your car, ma’am. You own a 2002 Mini Cooper?”

“Yes.”

The nephew made a huff of disgust. Lu Chen looked at him. “Please leave us, Chi. I know you have work to do.”

“More than usual,” he said. “Being shorthanded.”

“Excuse us, then,” she said pointedly, and the nephew turned and walked away. She turned to Parker. “Would you care for tea, Detective?”

“No, thank you. I just have a few questions. Is the car here?”

“Yes, of course. I park in back.”

“Do you mind if I have a look?”

“Not at all. What is this all about?” she asked, leading him from the cramped office out the back to the alley.

Parker walked slowly around the car. “When was the last time you drove it?”

She thought for a moment. “Three days ago. I had a charity luncheon at Barneys in Beverly Hills. Then, of course, it rained.”

“You didn’t take it out yesterday?”

“No.”

“Did anyone else take it out? Your nephew, maybe?”

“Not that I know. I was here all day. Chi was here all day, as well, and he has his own car.”

“Does anyone else have access to the keys?”

Now she began to look worried. “They hang in my office. What is this about, Detective? Have I violated some traffic law? I don’t understand.”

“A car matching the description of yours was reported leaving the scene of a crime yesterday. A break-in and assault.”

“How dreadful. But I can assure you, it wasn’t my car. My car was here.”

Parker pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “A witness copied part of the license plate. It comes pretty close to matching yours.”

“As do many, I’m sure.”

She was a cool one, he had to give her that. He strolled along the driver’s side to the rear of the car and tapped his notebook against the broken taillight. “As the car was leaving the scene, it was struck by a minivan. The taillight was broken.”

“Such a coincidence. My car was struck while I was at my luncheon. I discovered the damage when I went to leave.”

“What did the lot attendant have to say?”

“There was none.”

“Did you report the incident to the police?”

“For what purpose?” she asked, arching a brow. “To garner their sympathy? In my experience, the police have no interest in such small matters.”

“To your insurance company, then?”

“File a claim for so little damage? I would be a fool to give my insurance company such an invitation to raise my rates.”

Parker smiled and shook his head. “You must be something on the tennis court, Ms. Chen.”

“You may call me Madame Chen,” she said, her back ramrod straight. Parker doubted she topped five feet, and still she somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “And I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“My apologies,” Parker said with a deferential tip of his head. “Madame Chen. You seem to have an answer for everything.”

“Why would I not?”

He touched the scratch marks on the Mini Cooper’s otherwise impeccable glossy black paint. “The minivan that struck the car leaving the crime scene was silver. The car that damaged your car was silver also.”

“Silver is a popular color.”

“Interesting thing about paint colors,” Parker said. “They’re particular to make. Ford’s silver paint, for instance, is not Toyota’s silver paint is not BMW’s silver paint. They’re chemically unique.”

“How fascinating.”

“Do you know a J. C. Damon?” Parker asked.

She didn’t react to the sudden change of subject. Parker couldn’t decide if that was genius or a miscalculation. An overreaction would have been more telling, he supposed.

“How would I know this person?” she asked.

“He’s a bike messenger for Speed Couriers. Twentyish, blond, good-looking kid.”

“I have no need of a bicycle messenger.”

“That wasn’t actually the question,” Parker pointed out.

No response.

“J. C. Damon was the person driving the car that was leaving the scene of the crime.”

“Do I seem like the sort of person to consort with criminals, Detective?”

“No, ma’am. But once again, you’ve managed not to answer my question.”

Parker tried to imagine what possible connection this dignified steel lotus blossom might have to a kid like Damon, a ragtag loner, living on the fringes of society. There didn’t seem to be any, and yet he would have bet money there was. This was the car. There were too many hits on crucial points for any of them to be coincidence, and what Madame Chen wasn’t saying was a lot.

Parker leaned a hip against the car, making himself comfortable. “Between you and me, I’m not so sure this kid is a criminal,” he confessed. “I think maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now he’s up to his neck in a serious mess and he doesn’t know how to get out. Things like that happen.”

“Now you speak like a social worker,” Madame Chen said. “Is it not your job to make arrests?”

“I’m not interested in arresting innocent people. My job is to find the truth. I think he might be able to help me do that,” Parker said. “And I might be able to help him.”

She glanced away from him for the first time in their conversation, a pensive shading to her expression. “I’m sure a young man in such a situation may find it difficult to trust—particularly the police.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true,” Parker said. “A young person with a happy background doesn’t come to be in a situation like that. Life is tough for more people than not. But if a kid like that has someone in his life who can reach out to him . . . Well, that can make all the difference.”

A small worry line creased between her brows. Parker figured she had to be pushing sixty, but her skin was as flawless as porcelain.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. “If for any reason you might need to reach me, ma’am, feel free to call me—anytime, day or night,” he said, handing the card to her. “In the meantime, I’m afraid I’m going to have to impound your car.”

Anger sparked her to attention again. “That is outrageous! I have told you my car has not left this spot in three days!”

“So you have,” Parker conceded. “The thing is, I don’t believe you. It matches the description, the plate number, the damage to the car I’m looking for. I’m afraid you’ve got the trifecta there, Madame Chen. A tow truck will come and take your car to be a guest of the LAPD until lab tests can be run.”

“I’m calling my attorney,” she declared.

“You have that right,” Parker said. “I should also tell you that if the results of the tests come back the way I believe they will, there is a chance you could be charged as an accessory.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“I’m just letting you know. It’s not up to me. I wouldn’t want to see that happen, Madame Chen. You strike me as a person who takes her responsibilities very seriously.”

“I’m glad you think so highly of me that you would treat me like a common criminal,” she snapped, turning on her heel and marching toward her office.

“I don’t think you common in any way, Madame Chen,” Parker said. “But for future reference, ma’am, Barneys’ parking lot always has an attendant.”

She gave him a look that might have melted lesser men.

Parker smiled. “I’m a regular.”

Unimpressed, she stormed off and disappeared into the building.

Parker sighed and looked around. The Chen family had a nice little business going. Neat as a pin. Everything A-one. He had purchased prawns here once for a quiet dinner with Diane. Excellent quality.

Maybe he would do it again when this case was closed.

He had left Diane asleep in his bed, putting an orange on his vacated pillow and a note that read:
Breakfast in bed. I’ll call you later. K

It had been nice to fall asleep with her in his arms, and to wake up with her there. To do that more often seemed like a good idea. Not that he wanted something permanent, or legally binding. Neither of them wanted that. Rules and regulations altered expectations and issues of trust in a relationship, and not for the better, as far as he’d seen. But as he became more settled in his life outside the job, and more content with the reconstructed Kev Parker, stability and normalcy and connection were becoming more attractive to him.

He pulled his cell phone out and called Dispatch to have a black-and-white sent to sit on the Mini Cooper until he could get his warrant.

As he waited, he looked at the buildings across the alley. Plenty of windows overlooking the Chen lot. There were probably more than a few pairs of eyes glancing out even now. As soon as the black-and-white rolled in, the news would be all over Chinatown in a flash—among the Chinese, at least.

If he wanted to canvass the neighbors, he might find someone who had noticed the Mini Cooper missing, or perhaps had seen it leave or return. But Parker had no intention of doing that. He didn’t want Madame Chen as an enemy, or perceiving him to be one. There was no need to air her business with the neighbors and fan the flames of gossip.

The sensation of being watched crept over Parker’s skin. Not from above, but from straight on. His gaze swept the loading dock, the other side of the alley, and came to rest on a stack of wooden pallets sitting at the back of the next building.

Parker stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered—not toward the pallets, but across the alley, where tall bunches of purple irises and yellow sunflowers were being delivered in through the back door of a florist’s shop.

He eased his way down the alley, the pallets in his peripheral vision. When he was just past them, he glanced back.

A small figure shifted position to keep him in sight, wedging between the pallets and the brick building.

Parker turned and looked straight at his little voyeur. A kid. Maybe eight or nine. Swallowed up in a faded black sweatshirt nine sizes too big for him, his face peering out from the depths of the hood, blue eyes that went wide as gaze met gaze.

“Hey, kid—”

The boy bolted before the words were even out of Parker’s mouth, and the chase was on. Quick as a rabbit, the kid zipped past Chen’s lot, heading for the cover of a big blue Dumpster. Parker sprinted full-out after him, hit the brakes as the boy pulled a one-eighty, and skidded another ten feet before he could change directions.

“Kid! Stop! Police!” Parker shouted, sprinting back down the alley, his tie flipped over his shoulder, waving like a flag behind him.

The boy took a hard left into a parking lot wedged between a U of buildings. No way out Parker could see except to go in the back door of the center building. The door was closed.

The cars were parked nose-to-tail, two deep and four wide. Parker walked along behind the cars, his breath coming in hard, quick huffs. He set his hands at his waist and frowned at the fact that he was sweating. His shirt still had creases from the laundry. He hadn’t worn it two hours and he would be sending it back.

A quick glimpse of blond hair and blue jeans caught his eye as the boy dashed between a green Mazda and a white Saturn, crouching down to half his already small size.

“Okay, junior,” Parker said. “Come on out. I promise I won’t arrest you. No handcuffs, no pistol-whipping . . .”

There was a rustling on the fine gravel beneath the cars. A glimpse of pant leg, a black sneaker disappearing under a Volvo.

Parker stayed along the back of the cars, pacing slowly back and forth.

“I just want to ask you a couple of questions,” Parker said. “We could start with why you took off like that, but I’ll give you that one. A freebie. For future reference: If you run, cops will chase. We’re like dogs that way.”

He followed the scuttling sound back to the other side of the lot. He bent over and looked beneath a white BMW X5 with vanity plates that read 2GD4U. Big blue eyes stared back at him over a button nose smudged with dirt.