Klink was to Parker’s right, Napoleon to his left. You’ve gotta find a way to finesse this Parker or he’s gonna catch on.
Parker gave a slight nod, then decided to use the powers of his intellect. “Look, Klink. I know this sounds a bit off but . . . it’s chalk.”
Napoleon scoffed next to him. Brilliant.
“Chalk?” Klink said, a confused look on his face.
“Yeah. It’s the one and only thing we’ve got repeating itself here in this case. Over and over, again. And Napoleon always taught me to look for quirky patterns.”
I taught you no such thing.
“And chalk is it?” Klink said with a sigh as he cracked his neck and they wove their way between people on their cell phones or eating ice cream cones.
“Yes. I mean, c’mon Klink,” Parker said. “First we have the altar in Alex Roland’s apartment that Murillo found, with the masks drawn in chalk. This, right after that unexplained chalk outline around Ruiz’s body after his fall. Then? Joey’s mom and that chalkboard story. I mean . . . shit.”
They bumped into each other briefly as they attempted to avoid a heavyset man in an old Los Angeles Rams jersey who suddenly stepped into their path.
Klink said nothing. But he was nodding, so Parker pushed on.
“As if all that weren’t enough? We get that horror show we just saw at Ava’s apartment . . . and all that art—again with the chalk—in her room.”
“You think she’s in on any of this? With Roland? I mean . . . he has the masks drawn in chalk on his altar, she’s a chalk artist? Etcetera?”
Parker wanted to say “No, of course not” but that would be stupid. He had a rational reason now for them being here, and that was all he needed. So, instead, he said, “Maybe.”
Then Klink seemed to debate himself in a way that made Parker appreciate him more as Murillo’s partner. Parker had worked with them both individually on cases now, and he could see now why they made such a good team. They were both skeptics . . . but optimistic ones. “Yeah. And then there’s this Chalk Man guy. Joey mentioned him first. Then Ava. Could be Roland’s nickname or something. Then, there was all her ramblings about being attacked, speaking to spirits or whatever . . . but for all we know she’s hopped up on opioids and a lifelong cutter who finally went over the edge.”
Be careful, Parker. You don’t want to inadvertently let Ava be painted into the corner as an actual suspect.
Parker nodded at his dead partner’s words. He was right. But Parker also didn’t want to squash Klink’s rationale entirely. So, he decided to play the ball where it lay. “If she’s in on things with Roland? Okay. But she showed zero signs of being on drugs either time that we saw her.”
“Dude. She was drawing on her leg that first night we saw her!”
“That could be mental illness, Klink, and you know it. Pure OCD or a calming technique someone taught her to ward off panic attacks.”
“We don’t know that. And now we’ve just seen her after she’d carved herself up with a blade.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll do a blood test at the hospital and test for drugs, and maybe you’ll be right. Again, though, she could just be mentally ill. We just don’t know yet. But here’s what we do know: chalk keeps coming up.”
“C’mon. That could be pure coincidence. I mean . . . this is Forrest Gump detective work, man.”
“Stupid is as stupid does?”
“Exactly.”
Parker stopped and turned to face Klink, who stopped alongside him. “Look. I got no problem with that. I like Forrest Gump. But what I do have a problem with is the word coincidence. That’s also—”
“I know, I know,” Klink said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Something else Napoleon taught you. But sometimes coincidences happen, Parker.”
Napoleon didn’t miss a beat. Wrong.
Parker said the same. “Wrong.”
“Parker . . .” Klink began, before he stopped himself. Parker looked at his face and recognized something: more struggle. On a personal level, he couldn’t handle it, and this was clashing with his professional self, which felt obligated to look at everything in a case. Everything.
“Klink. I’m calling bullshit. You know, somewhere in your head, that the pamphlet in that apartment, though it might scream ‘coincidence?’ Was not a coincidence. It was maybe the final breadcrumb in an exceptionally long trail of them that’s led us right here, right now.”
Klink’s face briefly went soft before it hardened again. “Fine. Let’s push through this lead then. What next?”
Napoleon was standing next to the two of them now, his head turning back and forth as he looked out over the crowd. It should be obvious, Parker.
“How so?” he replied in his mind.
We’ve barely started walking through the festival and already there’s all sorts of art here. Warhol knock-offs, anime, traditional cartoon . . . Dios de le Madre . . . we need to find out if there’s any—
“Mayan art.”
“Come again, Parker?” Klink said.
“We need to see if there’s a Mayan artist here.”
“What?”
“Maybe I’m crazy—”
Klink laughed. “Maybe, my ass.”
“But besides the chalk? That’s the only other repeating theme here, Klink!”
Klink rubbed both his hands over his thinning hair and then sighed so deeply that Parker wondered if maybe he wasn’t the one fighting off a panic attack. “Mayan stuff.”
“Yep. Mayan altars. Mayan gods. Mayan art on Ava’s wall.”
There’s a point when a person decides to swim with the tide, not against it. From men refusing to accept a battle plan at first, to some of his fellow officers in his black-and-white days who maybe just didn’t want to break up a raging party where known gang members would be. At some point, though, you stopped arguing with the situation and at least tried to accept the idea of how to move . . . not past it, but through it. Parker had seen the look that was now in Klink’s eyes, and he was relieved. Klink nodded. “Okay, man. Let’s give it a shot.”
“Cool,” Parker said.
It was just before noon, and the crowd was schizophrenic: thin in some places, heavy in others. Clusters of people would gather at various displays, and Parker noticed that in some squares there were as many as three or four artists at work, on their knees or sitting cross-legged, each fleshing out a different part of their concrete canvas. The colors were bright and loud and beautiful. Parker wished he were here under different circumstances, and with Trudy, so they could walk like some of the couples around him now, who were meandering about, holding hands and sipping on frozen lemonade through large green straws.
After a few blocks, he asked a member of the Pasadena Chamber of Commerce, who had the word “Guide” written on a name tag over the breast pocket of his shirt, if there was a pamphlet for the event that would show which art was where. “You mean like at a museum?” the man said quizzically. “That shows which exhibits are where?”
“Exactly,” Parker said.
“Nope,” the man said. “Sorry. The event is more or less discovering as you go.”
Great, Parker thought.
Not ideal, Napoleon added.
Klink was distracted by a man trying to sell him animal balloons as Parker tilted his head in Nap’s direction and silently hinted, “I don’t suppose you could go float around and—”
Nope, Nap replied flatly.
Parker sighed. “I’m just not getting this whole ‘Spirits in The Material World’ thing, man.”
Wow, Napoleon said. The Police? You actually just used a reference to The Police?
“It was a good album,” Parker humbly replied.
I know. It’s just . . . at your age.
“Yeah. One of our sergeants in boot camp, old dude, like a hundred, ya know . . . like you. He played it for us.”
Nice. Well. It beats your rap crap with the puerile lyrics any day of the week, I’ll tell ya that.
It was Parker’s turn to mock. “Did you just say puerile? Dude. I think God made you smarter after you died. Because that’s just too big a word for you.”
Keep it up, Parker.
Parker just smiled. The chitchat, the jokes . . . all flame retardants for the fire of impatience that was growing in them all as they made their way steadily, laboriously, through the festival. Thirty minutes passed, with little more talk, and they’d covered the entire length of artists on Colorado Boulevard and were now working their way down a side street to an open courtyard with more artists. Getting frustrated, Parker was struck with a new idea that he was mad at himself for not thinking of sooner: he began asking the artists themselves if they knew of anyone at the festival doing Mayan art.
The first four he asked had no clue.
The fifth one, a girl with a red bandanna tied tightly over her bright blond hair, looked up at him with her ocean blue eyes and at first tried to answer him through the paint brush she had between her teeth. Laughing at herself for the effort, she removed it, chalk dust shaking loose from the big bristles. Seeing Parker looking at it she said, “I use it to add texture. Anyway, did you say Mayan art?”
“Yes,” Parker said.
“That’d be Sandi. Sandi Espinoza. She’s over on the other block, across from City Hall.”
Parker thanked her and ignored her flirtatious smile as he turned to Klink. “Finally.”
“No shit.”
Napoleon said nothing.
Chapter 29
It was a mildly warm day, in the mid-seventies, with the sun in a tug-of-war battle with the clouds over the sky. Swarms of people moved in attire appropriate for the weather: shorts, yoga pants, sweats and casual jeans, almost all topped off with t-shirts or light tops. And what Parker noticed most was the quiet of the crowd; the commentary on the works were hushed and respectful, sometimes reverent. The masterpieces on the ground below them all might’ve been temporary, but they were good. Some were original works, some re-creations. They varied from serious abstractionist to super-sized movie posters. Best of all, to Parker’s eye at least, were the 3D works. Even with only time to glance, they were impressive.
It took them ten minutes, at a brisk pace, to weave their way between the crowds, through the festival and over to the area across from City Hall. Even then, it wasn’t easy finding Sandi Espinoza’s section. They were in the center of the courtyard, Pasadena City Hall to their backs, and after two dozen stops, Parker was just about to start asking artists again where Sandi Espinoza’s particular spot might be, when he saw her.
He knew it was her even though he’d never seen her before in his life. He would’ve known it was her even without the massive Mayan mask, which she had drawn in red, oranges and yellows, from corner to corner of her reserved section, and which she was just putting the finishing touches on now.
He didn’t need to recognize her.
Because he immediately recognized the little boy at her side.
There, on his knees and with his hands in his lap, looking lost and afraid, was little Charlie Henson.
Parker gasped. “Klink!”
“I see him!” Klink said, the excitement of recognition in his voice.
The time for walking and looking was over, as was the time for calmly working their way through the crowd. Parker pulled out his badge with one hand and unsnapped his gun holster with the other as Klink did the same next to him. “Police! Everyone out of the way!” Klink yelled as they charged towards Sandi Espinoza.
At first the crowd was slow to respond, then seeing their badges and the seriousness of their faces, people began to comply. Then, after a few people saw their hands on their guns, panic set in with yells and shouts.
“Klink . . .” Parker said.
Again, Klink was not only in sync with Parker’s movements but also his thoughts. He pulled out his radio and called dispatch to tell them to put out the word to everyone, especially Pasadena PD, who were probably in charge of security for the entire event, that two LAPD officers were on site, had found a kidnapped minor and were about to confront a possible suspect.
It was a good thing he did, because the commotion had indeed caught the attention of three Pasadena police officers, all on horseback, who were across the courtyard. They turned and began to lightly gallop towards them before one of them grabbed his radio and put his ear to it. Still, as they grew closer, Parker took no chances. The last thing he needed to do was get shot by friendly fire right now. So, he held up his badge and waved it frantically, motioning the officers to the right flank of where Charlie Henson was. That would seal off two of four possible escape routes.
His mind was trying to figure out what Sandi Espinoza’s role in all this was as they cautiously approached her and Charlie.
He needn’t have bothered.
This time, it was Napoleon’s turn to gasp. Parker!
“I see it,” Parker replied in his head.
As they grew closer, Sandi Espinoza looked up at them . . . with cobalt black eyes.
“Shit. What do we do, now?”
Sandi Espinoza answered that question for them. Using only her ankles to stand up, like some sort of double-jointed mime, she rose and stared at them, blank faced. In one hand was a chalk stick. In the other, a paper towel.
She was thin and tall, with wiry black hair, prominent cheekbones and hands that looked older than her face. Her blue t-shirt was covered in various colors of chalk residue and her jeans were bunched up around the rubber pads she had strapped over her knees. She did not yell at them or make any moves towards Charlie. Instead, she just stood there and glared at them, wreaking of passive threat.
Something wasn’t right about all of this. Parker’s brain kept whirring, trying to figure out what was off. To his right, the officers on horseback were closing in. Now, directly behind Charlie, two more officers were approaching on foot. Vaguely, from far away, Parker heard Murillo’s voice come over Klink’s radio, telling them that he and the cap were on their way. Then, incredibly, Campos chirped in, too. “I’m coming, too. Tell Parker to watch his ass!” He had just violated his desk duty orders and his voice sounded panicked.
What were they all worried about? The frail woman in her mid-forties standing before him with a chalk stick? How could that be? All they had to do was . . .
Again, as if Klink were reading Parker’s mind, he asked the million-dollar question. “Should we just charge them? You take the woman and I grab Charlie?”
Parker was about to nod his agreement with the idea when he took a deeper look at Charlie. His shock of blond hair was going in all directions and his big innocent blue eyes were looking at them hopefully but . . .
Skeptically.
Parker squinted. Skepticism?
How? How in the world does a ten-year-old child look at anything in all of life . . . with skepticism?
It wasn’t long before Parker had his answer.
A single ominous red dot traced a line across the sidewalk to Charlie Henson’s chest.
Parker could actually feel a sense of doom fill the air.
At the last second, the dot moved from Charlie to the area near Klink, who had just taken a step toward the corner of the art. The ground in front of him exploded in shards of concrete as the echoing boom of the gunshot recoiled through the air.
Then? All hell broke loose.
As Klink ducked and fell to one knee, a chorus of screams erupted as people began to cover their heads and scatter in every direction, seemingly all at once, with no rhyme or reason, some of them colliding with each other violently and going down before panic and adrenaline raised them like ghosts back to their feet and onward in a desperate search for cover. The police horses, though trained for this type of stuff, evidently hadn’t experienced it on this level. Their animalistic neighs of fear only made things worse. They did not buck their riders, but those same riders urged them to run at a full gallop to behind a large mobile trailer near the edge of the area.
Kl
ink tried to join them, but the red dot was back now, on the ground, right in front of his right hand, which he’d used to support his fall. “Dammit,” he whispered.
“Don’t move, Klink,” Parker said firmly.
“No shit,” Klink replied tersely.
In all the commotion, Parker hadn’t even tried to run for cover. They were all in Roland’s crosshairs anyway, so there was no point. Son of a bitch, Parker thought, dropping his head. I should’ve known.
The red dot returned to Charlie and found its place again in the center of his chest. Parker knew better than to turn his head. Instead, he traced the dot with a trained eye. Where it moved. How it moved.
“It’s coming from behind us, to the right,” he said calmly to Klink. “It’s likely that he’s in the tower on top of City Hall. I saw it on the way in. Nice, beautiful dome with white arches and terracotta tile.”
“Yeah?” Klink said, his voice jammed with nerves, his body frozen in place.
Charlie was crying, his eyes wide now with fear, his small hands folded in his lap and clenched together tightly.
“Can you get to him?” Klink asked under his breath.
“I’m too far way,” Parker said, hearing the resignation in his own voice.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. By a long shot,” Parker muttered, chuckling bitterly at the irony of his words.
The dot moved back towards Klink and a second shot rang out. Parker held his breath and took a single step, praying that Klink would not go down in a lifeless heap. He didn’t. Instead, the ground behind him erupted this time, and Klink cowered and almost fell sideways, his body recoiling in fear as he scrunched his shoulders.
When Klink spoke, his voice was flat. “I was just going to move into a new house.”
“Don’t talk like that, man,” Parker replied.
Chalk Man Page 19
