“I’m in touch with my feminine side,” Parker said.
“She’ll sell you out for a dime and give back change,” Kelly said.
“Well, there’s definitely some truth in that,” Parker muttered, wondering if Ruiz wasn’t even at that very moment selling him out to Bradley Kyle, describing in detail every piece of paper Parker had taken with him when he’d gone.
“You’re her training officer,” Kelly said. “Usurp her power. Grab the case for yourself. What do you care if she hates you?”
“She already hates me.”
“See?”
“Okay,” Parker said with resignation. Kelly was like a Jack Russell terrier. If she wanted something, she was relentless in her pursuit. She would bite into a story and hang on, no matter what. “Yes, I like Davis for the murder last night.”
“Why? What’s his motive?”
“I’m still working on that,” he hedged. “But it’s a good bet that he went to Speed Couriers to get a line on the bike messenger.”
“The bike messenger. Wasn’t he a ‘person of interest’ last night?”
“He’s still a person of interest. I just don’t consider him to be a suspect. I need to get with him, talk to him, before RHD barges in and blows everything. They’re taking the Lowell case.”
“You’re kidding. Why would they be interested?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“And you’ll let me know when you do?”
“You’re the only pal I’ve got in this, Andi,” Parker said seriously. “I’ve got bogies all around me. Don’t make me think you’re just using me like a cheap gigolo.”
“I think you should know better, Kev,” she said. “Nothing about you is cheap. I’d say I have your back, but I’d rather have your front. And I do like the idea of you playing the gigolo.”
“You shameless tart.”
“Yes. You know I’m pushing forty. I don’t have time to mess around. Anyway, have I ever let you down?”
Parker ignored the opportunity to keep the innuendo going. “No. You haven’t,” he said on a sigh. “The head of Robbery-Homicide told my captain they feel the Lowell murder might relate to something they have ongoing.”
Kelly was silent for long enough that Parker thought she might have lost the connection.
“And we’re back to Bradley Kyle and Moose Roddick talking with Tony Giradello, your name coming up in the conversation,” she said at last.
“That’s right,” Parker said. “I’m looking at a blackmail scheme here, Andi.”
“Who versus who for what?”
“I don’t know yet, but two people are already dead. And there’s only one case Bradley Kyle has ongoing with stakes that high.”
“Tricia Crowne-Cole.”
33
Jace chained The Beast to a parking meter and went inside the bar. It was a small, dark, dank place with fishing nets and buoys and life preservers nailed to the walls. The place reeked of beer and cigarettes, blatantly defying the state’s antismoking laws. A table of regulars felt free to stare with disapproval at any newcomer. They watched Jace all the way from the door to the bar.
Jace kept his head down and took a stool at the far end of the bar. He ordered a burger and a soda, ignoring his need for a good stiff belt of something to dull the physical and emotional pain.
The television that hung from the ceiling on the other end of the bar was tuned to Court TV. They were all over the Cole murder trial. Martin Gorman making a statement from a podium adorned with a bouquet of microphones. Then cut to ADA Giradello doing the very same thing in a different location.
A motion had been made by the defense to exclude any mention of Rob Cole’s past—the drugs, the money, the women—on the grounds that evidence was only going to prejudice the jury. Giradello argued Cole’s past should be admitted into evidence to establish a pattern of behavior. The judge ruled for the state. A serious blow to Gorman’s case. He was complaining about Norman Crowne trying to buy justice, and complaining harder that it seemed to be working.
The burger arrived. Jace took a bite of it, still looking at the television. The ruling should have gone in favor of the defense, he thought. The probative value of the evidence didn’t outweigh the prejudicial nature of the facts of Cole’s past.
So Cole was a loser because of the drugs, the money, and the women, so what? None of that pointed to a violent offender. He had never tried to murder anyone before. There had never been any mention in the press of Cole physically abusing his wife. There was no pattern of escalating violent behavior. Jace figured if Cole had ever laid a finger on Tricia, Norman Crowne would have come down on him like a ton of bricks, and the gossip would have run like wildfire through LA.
But the ruling had gone for the prosecution, and if that was an indicator of how the rest of the trial would go, Martin Gorman had his work cut out for him.
Gorman was probably right. Norman Crowne held tremendous sway over Los Angeles politics, and his pockets were virtually bottomless.
Jace thought back to the night he had picked up the package from Lenny. The television had been on with a report on the Cole case, and Lenny had said to him:
He wondered if Lenny knew those things because he had an inside track to information on the case, or because he was a blowhard who liked to talk himself into believing he had a more important role in the drama than he did or ever would. Maybe both.
Lenny for sure had the inside dirt on someone. The people in the negatives Jace wore taped to his belly. And what he had, what those negatives meant, was worth a lot to that person, or why bother to blackmail him or her.
Lawyers like Lenny didn’t have big clients. There were no celebrities, no millionaires on his list. So if he wasn’t defending the people in the negatives, then how would he know what to blackmail them for?
The only obvious choice was that someone, a client, had let him in on something, and put him in the position to act on it.
The taped footage cut back to Giradello. He was a tough-looking son of a bitch. Not a man to cross. If Rob Cole had one brain cell in his head, he should be using it to figure out some way to avoid the ADA. Take a plea bargain. Hang himself in his jail cell. Anything.
Giradello pulled no punches in the courtroom. He went for the throat. He was going to make his chops on Rob Cole, maybe even launch his own political career from his vantage point on top of Rob Cole’s bloody corpse. If he nailed Cole, he would have the undying gratitude of Norman Crowne.
Crowne and his son were asked to comment on the ruling. The old man was calm and dignified. The son, Phillip, was emotional. Ecstatic over the ruling, then melancholy about his sister, then angry with Cole, then back to melancholy. The display struck Jace as strange. He wondered if the lesser Crowne was on something.
“I think they should just leave Rob Cole alone,” said one of the barflies, a peroxide blonde in a tube top, apparently so named for accentuating the tubular rolls of fat wrapped around her.
“You just want to fuck him, Adele.” This from a balding guy who had been wearing the same clothes so long, they were coming back in style.
“What’s wrong with that? He’s a whole lot cuter than you.”
“He’s a whole lot cuter than you too. I heard he’s a fag. Anyway, I’m just saying, I’m sick of these celebrities thinking they can get away with murder. I hope the state fries his ass.”
“They don’t do that anymore, you moron. Now it’s the spike. Lethal injection.”
“That’s too easy. When they used to strap a guy into ol’ Sparky, he knew he was in for some serious pain.”
