Kill the Messenger

ground.

What now, J.C.?

The negatives were in their envelope under his shirt, strapped around him with athletic tape. He had to find a place to hide it, someplace away from Tyler, and away from the Chens. Obviously, it was valuable to someone. He could use it for leverage, use it as an insurance policy if things went further south than they already had. He needed to find safe, neutral ground. A public place. And he needed to get to Abby Lowell.

A car turned in at the mouth of the alley, crawling toward him. Maybe the two cops.

A dark sedan.

A cracked windshield.

Fear hit Jace in the belly and shot through his veins like mercury. Quick, toxic. He wanted to look, to put a face on his hunter. Humanize the monster. See that in the light of day the guy was just a small, inadequate man who posed no real threat. But of course none of that was true. He wanted something Jace had, and even if Jace simply gave it to him, the guy would probably kill him anyway because Jace knew too much—even though he really knew nothing at all.

The car slowed as it neared him. Jace’s chest tightened. He was on the driver’s side. Could the guy put a face on him? Flashes of the night before burst behind his eyes. He was on the bike, swinging his U-lock into the windshield. He couldn’t remember the driver’s face; could the driver remember his? He’d had his helmet on. And his goggles.

He glanced over out the corner of his eye as the car came even with him.

A head like a square block of stone, small, mean eyes, dark hair buzzed short. The guy’s skin was pale with blue undertones beneath his beard. He had a piece of white tape across the bridge of his nose, and a black mole on the back of his neck. The kind of mole that was more like a growth, sticking out, the size of a pencil eraser.

The sedan cruised past like a panther in the jungle, quiet, sleek, ominous.

Jace kept walking, refusing the urge to look back. His legs felt like jelly.

The guy was cruising the Speed office. Of course he knew where Jace worked. He had Jace’s messenger bag. Another flash of memory: being grabbed and yanked backward by the strap of his bag. There was nothing much in the bag—a tire pump, a spare tube, a couple of blank manifests . . . with the Speed logo and address in red at the top of the page.

Next the guy would try to find out where Jace lived, just as the cops would. But none of them would be able to, he assured himself. The only address Speed had for him was the old P.O. box. And the only address the P.O. box people had on file was an old apartment he had lived in briefly with his mother before Tyler was even born. No one would be able to find him.

But the sharks were in the water, moving, hunting.

Two cops and a killer.

I never wanted to be the popular guy, he thought as he crossed the street. The position came with too much trouble.

He chanced a look back over his shoulder. The sedan’s taillights glowed at the far end of the alley.

Jace broke into a jog, pain throbbing in his ankle with every footfall. He couldn’t afford to feel it. He didn’t have the luxury of time to heal. All his energy had to go to survival now.

He needed to find Abby Lowell.

                              14

What’s your opinion?” Parker asked as they eased back into traffic.

“That I’m glad I don’t have a shit job like that,” Ruiz said, checking her hair in the mirror on the back of the sun visor. It was frizzing from the humidity.

“So now we know where the suspect works,” she said. “But he’s not going back there anytime soon. We know where he gets his mail, but we don’t know where he lives. There’s nothing to make much of.”

Parker made the rude sound of a game-show buzzer. “Wrong. First of all, we could have his prints on the job ap. We know his name, or an aka at least. We can kick up his sheet if he has one. Scrutinize his prior bad acts. And there’s a good chance he has priors. He keeps to himself, gets paid in cash, mail goes to a box; no address, no phone. He operates like a crook.”

“Maybe he’s homeless,” Ruiz pointed out. “And what if he doesn’t have a sheet?”

“If Latent can pull a clear print off the job ap, and if they can match it to a print on the murder weapon, we’ll have that. And the dispatcher knows more than she’s saying.”

“Yeah, but she’s not saying it.”

“She’s got a conscience, she doesn’t like breaking rules. But she’s protective of her messengers. They’re like a family, and she’s the mom. We’ll give her a little time to think about it, then go back to her. I think she wants to do the right thing.”

“I think she’s a bitch,” Ruiz grumbled.

“You can’t take it personally. You make it personal, you lose your perspective. It worked well in this situation to play her off you. You make a good bad cop, Ruiz,” he said. “You’ve got good tools. You have to learn not to throw the whole box at the head of every witness or perp you run into.”

From the corner of his eye he could see her watching him. She didn’t know what to make of him. She bristled at his suggestions, and didn’t trust his compliments. Good. She needed to be kept off balance. She had to learn how to read people and how to adapt. She should have learned it day one in a uniform.

“Jesus,” he mumbled. “I sound like a teacher.”

“You are a teacher. Allegedly.”

Parker didn’t say anything. His mood had turned south. Most of the time he tried to keep a narrow focus on his goal in the department. He didn’t think of himself as a teacher. He was waiting for the chance to make a comeback.

He could have quit. He didn’t need the money or the hassle. The job he had on the side had paid off his debts, bought him his Jag and his wardrobe. But he was too stubborn to quit. And every time a case took hold of him, and he felt the old adrenaline rush, he was reminded that he loved what he did. He was old-fashioned enough to be proud that he carried a badge and did a public service.

And every time a case took hold, and he felt that adrenaline rush, he was reminded that somewhere deep inside him he still believed this could be the case that turned it all around. This could be the case where he proved himself, redeemed himself, regained the respect of his peers and his enemies.

But if this was the kind of case with the potential to turn his career around, Robbery-Homicide was sure to muscle in and take it away from him.

He turned the car into the tiny parking lot of a little strip mall with a collection of food shops: Noah’s Bagels, Jamba Juice, Starbucks. The driver picked the radio station, the passenger picked the restaurant. Parker usually chose a cop hangout for breakfast, not because he liked too many cops, but because he liked to eavesdrop, pick up the mood of things on the street, catch a scrap of gossip that might be useful. Ruiz picked Starbucks. Her order was always long and complicated, and if it didn’t turn out exactly to her liking, she made the barista do it over, sometimes by making a scene, sometimes by batting eyelashes. Bipolar, that girl.

Parker went into Jamba Juice and got a fruit smoothie loaded with protein and wheatgrass, then went into Starbucks and commandeered a table in the back with a clear view of the door, took the corner chair, and picked up a section of the Times a previous customer had abandoned.

He kept thinking about the fact that Robbery-Homicide had come sniffing around his crime scene. There had to be something to that. They were front-page guys working front-page cases. Lenny Lowell had not made the front page. The Times probably wouldn’t waste any ink on him at all.

“Watching your girlish figure?” Ruiz asked as she joined him.

Parker kept his attention on the newpaper. “My body is a temple, baby. Come worship.”

He hadn’t seen or spoken with anyone at the scene resembling a reporter, and he was the detective of record . . .

. . . but there it was, a couple of sentences stuck in a lower corner on a left-hand page beside an ad for a sale on tires. ATTORNEY FOUND DEAD.

Leonard Lowell, the victim of an apparent homicide, found by his daughter, Abigail Lowell (twenty-three, a