Kill the Messenger

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.”

                              19

Eta heaved a sigh as she locked the front door from the inside. The iron grates were already down. The place was a damn fortress. Otherwise, the windows would have been busted out, and there would have been bums and winos and crazy people all over the damn place. Tonight, though, she thought it felt more like a prison inside.

She had been trapped all day, daring to try only periodically to make contact with her Lone Ranger. Not that it would have mattered if she had tried every twenty minutes to reach him. Either he didn’t have the radio with him, or he wouldn’t answer because he was afraid of some kind of trap.

She’d damn near had a heart attack when Parker had asked her to go out back. Something about her van. But Jace hadn’t been in it. And where he’d gone, she didn’t know. She fretted that he might have thought she had brought the detectives in, if he’d seen them. She had gone back out after Parker and his hoochie-mama partner had gone, but she couldn’t see any sign of the boy.

And then that dirt-for-brains Rocco had gone off on her. She’d better not think about trying to harbor a fugitive. He couldn’t have a criminal associated with his business.

Eta had pointed out to him that half his damn family were criminals, and that a place like this one couldn’t be waiting around for altar boys and Eagle Scouts to come through the door. Like Rocco was particular who was around him, she’d said, rolling her eyes at his friend, Vlad, who was putting golf balls, ash falling from the end of his cigarette onto the rug.

Rocco would have sold his sister for a dime if he thought that would keep his ass out of trouble. He didn’t want no truck with LAPD, and the word loyalty was foreign to him.

“Worthless, spineless weasel,” Eta mumbled as she set the place to rights, dumping ashtrays, throwing out soda cans and beer bottles. “Someone shoulda put him in a sack at birth and dropped him in a hole.”

When the second round of cops had come calling—some bug-up-his-ass Robbery-Homicide pretty boy and his mute partner—Rocco had been so far up their digestive tracks, they must have tasted that god-awful cologne he dipped himself in every day. He didn’t have a clue about Jace Damon or anyone else who worked for him, but he was quick to bad-mouth just the same. The detectives wanted Jace, therefore he must have done whatever they said he’d done, and Rocco had always had a bad feeling about that kid.

Eta had her doubts Rocco could pick Jace out of a lineup.

He had ordered Eta to tell the detectives everything she knew. She looked at him like he was stupid—which he was—and walked away from the lot of them. Until she knew more about the situation, what little information she had was staying right in her brain.