Kill the Messenger

have anything to do with that? Are you delusional?”

“Somebody has been paying somebody else a lot of money to keep a secret.”

“You don’t even know that for certain.”

“Actually, I do know that for certain.”

“Rob Cole killed his wife,” she said again. “You weren’t there, Kevin. You didn’t see what he did to her. It was personal, vicious—”

“She had other people in her life. The daughter, who might have been fucking her husband. The brother, who had to live in the shadow of perfect sister Tricia—”

Diane ticked her points off on her fingers. “Rob Cole is the one who’s been indicted, the one going on trial, the one with no alibi and plenty of motive—”

“Tony Giradello could have a Pop-Tart indicted if he wanted—”

“Give me a break, Parker! There’s no way Giradello goes forward with a trial this high-profile if he can’t make it stick. He’s still got egg on his face from the last time. The jury will be seated in a week. He’s crossed every t and dotted every i, run every test, lined up every expert witness.”

“Well, he’s getting plenty of help with that, courtesy of Norman Crowne, isn’t he?”

“And now you’re a conspiracy nut! What have you been smoking?”

“Come on, Diane. You’ve said it yourself: It looks like Norman Crowne is buying justice. Who’s to say he isn’t buying silence too?”

“Tricia was the apple of his eye,” she said. “He couldn’t have loved her more. There’s no way he would pay to protect someone involved with her death.”

“Even if that someone was his own granddaughter?” Parker asked. “You know as well as I do, people will do incredible things in the name of love.”

“I know that. I know that. But you are so off the mark here. You’re seeing zebras. Rob Cole killed his wife.”

“Well, we’ll know for certain by tonight,” Parker said. “I stole a negative out of Lowell’s safe-deposit box, where he also had a whole lot of cash stashed. It’s being developed as we speak. I don’t think it’s a baby picture of his daughter.” He checked his watch and grimaced. He hadn’t taken three bites of his salad, but hunger meant nothing to him now. Physical hunger had been swallowed up by the hunger to finish the hunt. The satisfaction would carry him for days.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, digging bills out of his wallet. “As much as I love to see you get your back up, we’ll have to finish this argument later.”

Diane shoved her salad away and sat back, pouting.

“My God, you’re gorgeous when you’re pissed off,” Parker said, sliding out of the booth. He bent and kissed her cheek. “Look, maybe I am way off the mark—”

“You are.”

“I know Robbie is the guy you love to hate, doll, but you know what they say at the racetrack: Only suckers bet the favorite.”

She just stared at him, brows lowered.

“I’m not rooting against you,” Parker said. “I’m rooting for me. If this plays out, I win. Do you hate Rob Cole more than you love me?”

Her face softened then, and she gave him a grudging smile. “I’ll put a few bucks on you, long shot.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

“We’ll see.”

“Are you scheduled to work later?” he asked. “Maybe you should call in. Take the day, get some rest.”

“I’m off,” she said. “Just doing some errands. The bank, the store . . .”

“I’ll call you.” Parker turned to go.

“Kev?”

Diane slid out of the booth as he turned toward her. She gave him a hug and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He stood back and smiled. “You’re passionate. That’s nothing to be sorry for.”

The gorgeous winter-blue eyes glazed with a very uncharacteristic sheen of tears. “I do love you, you know.”

The old ladies in the next booth were staring openly, as enthralled as if they were at a dinner theater.

Parker couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d hit him with a hammer. The L word. He grinned and made a joke because he was so stunned, he didn’t know what else to do. “Why, Ms. Nicholson,” he said, batting his eyelashes, “you’ve made me giddy.”

She smiled and shook her head and waved him off. “Get out of here, you idiot.”

Diane Nicholson loved him. He wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to take that. She loved him as a friend? He knew that. She loved him as in loved him? Hell of a time to have that sprung on him, Parker thought, though not with any rancor. Maybe his karma was turning around after all.

If he could close this case, make a big splash, he’d have the world by the tail.

He called Joanie at Latent and left a message asking her to look for Eddie Davis’s name and address in the Rolodex that had been taken from Lowell’s office and sent to Latent to be examined for fingerprints, to do it ASAP and then call him on his cell phone.

He had told Ruiz to check Davis out, but Parker didn’t see himself calling her to ask if she had the info yet. Kyle and Roddick were sure to have been there by now. The hornet’s nest had been well stirred, and he had no doubt she would be crawling all over Bradley Kyle.

Parker pulled the car over into the patch of dirt that served as a parking lot for a tiny Mexican joint in a weedy, dusty, semi-industrial part of town near the Los Angeles River. Dan Metheny had eaten lunch at this place every day Parker worked with him. Clearly Metheny had seen no reason to change that habit over the years.

He sat at one of the picnic tables beneath the corrugated tin overhang, a plate of fat and cholesterol in front of him. He watched Parker through silver-mirrored shades. In all the time Parker had known him, he had seen Metheny’s eyes maybe twice.

“Hey, GQ,” the old man said. “You here to show us common folk how to dress?”

Metheny had been on the job for about a hundred and twelve years, or so it seemed. A big, barrel-chested black (Metheny’s own choice of words) man who ate too much red meat, drank too much bourbon, and smoked two packs a day. The stress of working South Central should have killed him, but he kept marching on. Too mean to die.

“I am the common folk,” Parker said, taking the seat opposite.

“Kid, there’s never been anything common about you. That’s why everybody hates you.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

“Fuck ’em,” Metheny growled. “It’s lonely at the top.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been spending all my time a few rungs down the ladder, getting shit on by the monkeys above me.”

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Giradello would’ve had you working parking meters if he could have. But you’re still a detective. You’re still on the job. And you look like a goddam movie star. You’ve got nothing to whine about.”

“Robbery-Homicide just yanked my murder away from me, and I have a trainee who would sooner stab me in the back with a stiletto heel than look at me.”

“This chick Ruiz?” Metheny said around a mouthful of enchilada.

“Yeah.”

“I asked a couple of guys I know working Latin gangs, and they never heard of her. I guess they could have forgot.”

Parker shook his head. “Believe me, this one doesn’t go unnoticed. They would have remembered.”

“Have you seen her personnel jacket?”

“It looks fine. I tried to call her last supervisor, but I was told the guy died. She probably cut out his heart and ate it as he bled to death at her feet.”

Metheny was silent for a moment, thinking, all the lines of his bulldog face bending downward, accentuated