Kill the Messenger

by Tami Hoag

  “So how you doing, Kev?” Kelly asked.

  “Older, wiser, like everybody,” Parker said, slowly pacing the sidewalk.

  “Know anything going on in the Cole case?”

  “You’d know more than I would. You’re the one at the courthouse every day. I’m just a peon now, you know. Training the next crop of wolf cubs,” Parker said. “For what it’s worth, I have it on good authority Cole is an asshole.”

  “That’s news? He beat his wife’s head in with a sculpture worth three-quarters of a million dollars.”

  “He came on to a friend of mine with the missus standing right there.”

  “Everybody knows he cheated on her. Robbie’s not smart enough to pull off total discretion, despite his best efforts. Everything Tricia Crowne put up with with that clown, it’s hard to believe she didn’t pull a Bobbitt on him years ago,” Kelly said. She released a big sigh. “Well, if you don’t have a scoop for me, Parker, to hell with you.”

  “That’s harsh. Now that I’m down on my luck, living in the gutter, eating out of garbage cans, can’t you do an old friend a favor?”

  “If you’re such a good old friend, why didn’t you stop me from marrying Goran?”

  “You married a guy named Goran?”

  “I believe you just made my point,” she said. “But never mind. I managed to divorce him without you too. What do you want, Man-I-Haven’t-Heard-From-In-Years?”

  “It’s nothing much,” Parker said. “I’m working a homicide. Happened last night. There’s a couple of lines in the Times this morning. I’m curious who wrote it. Can you find out?”

  “Why?” Like every good reporter, Kelly was always keen for the scent of a story. If she’d been a hunting dog, she would have been on point.

  “It just struck me as odd,” Parker said casually. “No one spoke to me. I was on the scene half the night, and I didn’t see any reporter.”

  “Probably some staff flunky picked it up off the scanner. Who’s the vic?”

  “Low-end defense attorney. I’m surprised the Times wasted the space.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And why do you care it was in the paper if the guy’s a nobody?” Kelly asked.

  “They got a couple of details wrong.”

  “So?”

  Parker sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, I don’t remember you being such a pain in the ass.”

  “Well, I always have been.”

  “It’s a wonder your mother didn’t put you in a sack and drown you when you were two years old.”

  “I think she tried,” Kelly said. “I have issues.”

  “Honey, I can trump your issues any day of the week.”

  “Now you’re making me feel inferior.”

  “Why did I call you?” Parker asked, exasperated.

  “Because you want something, and you think I’m a whore for a good story.”

  “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

  “Which brings us back to my last question. What do you care about two sentences buried in the Times?”

  Parker glanced back into Starbucks. Ruiz was still on her phone, but was making a note. He considered and discarded the idea of telling Kelly about Robbery-Homicide’s unofficial appearance at the scene. He believed in playing his cards one at a time.

  “Listen, Andi, it’s nothing I can put my finger on yet. I’m just getting a weird vibe here. Maybe I’m just hinky because they don’t let me out of my cage enough.”

  “Still in the minors, huh?”

  “Yeah. Ironic, isn’t it? They wanted to get rid of me because they thought I was a rotten cop, so they sentenced me to train new detectives.”

  “Management at its finest,” Kelly said. “There’s a method to that madness, though. Anybody else they would have sent down to South Central to work drug murders and body-dump jobs, but they knew you’d thrive there. They had a better chance making you quit by boring you to death.”

  “Yeah, well, I showed them,” Parker said. “So what do you say? Can you make a couple of calls?”

  “And if this turns into something . . . ?”

  “Your number is in my phone, and I’ll buy you a bottle of Glenmorangie.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Parker stuck his phone in his pocket and went back into the coffeehouse.

  “The number is a prepaid cell phone,” Ruiz said. “Untraceable.”

  “Every criminal’s favorite toy,” Parker said. Every drug dealer, gang banger, and thug in the city carried one. The number was sold with the phone. No paperwork, no paper trail. He grabbed the newspaper and started for the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Who were you talking to?” Ruiz asked as they got back into the car.

  “I called an old friend for a favor. I want to know who wrote that bit.”

  “Because they got it wrong?”

  “Because what if they didn’t? If the daughter found the body—”

  “Then she’s a suspect.”

  “She has to be considered anyway. Most murder victims are killed by people they know. You always have to look at the family.”

  “But she has an alibi.”

  “I want you to check it out later today. You’ll need to speak with the maitre d’ and the waiter at Cicada. Was she there, when did she get there, when did she leave, what was she wearing, did she speak to anyone, did she use the house phone, was she absent from the table for any length of time.”

  “But if she found the body, how did this reporter find out and not us?”

  “That’s my question,” Parker said, starting the car. “Chances are, it’s just a screwup. Some low face on the totem pole at the Times picked up the call on the scanner, got a detail thirdhand from one of the crime-scene geeks while they were sitting in a bar. Who knows? Half of what gets printed in the paper is bullshit. You can stand there and tell a reporter a story word for fucking word, and they’ll still get it wrong.”

  “I guess you’d know about that,” Ruiz said.

  Parker shot her a glance. “Baby, I could write a book. But right now we’ve got better things to do.”

  15

  According to the Pakistani woman who had been managing the mailbox place for the last three months, Box 501 belonged to a woman named Allison Jennings, whom she did not know. The box had been rented to Ms. Jennings in 1994. The rent was paid by a money order left in the box once a year. These facts had been noted in the file, each year’s note in different handwriting. It seemed a lot of people had used Box-4-U as a stepping-stone to bigger things.

  Box-4-U occupied a deep, narrow space between a Lebanese take-out place and a psychic who was running a special on tarot card readings. The mailboxes made a corridor from the front door back to an area with a counter, shelves stacked with shipping cartons, padded envelopes, rolls of tape, bubble wrap, and giant bags of foam packing peanuts.

  From the back it took an effort to see past all the stuff to the mailboxes if one cared to pay attention to who was going in and out. Probably the great majority of box renters entered and left in anonymity. As long as they paid their rent on time, no one cared who they were.

  The manager who had rented Box 501 to Allison Jennings had made a copy of her driver’s license and stapled it to the rental form as required. The license was from Massachusetts. The photo on the copy was nothing but black ink. Parker had the manager make copies of both sheets, and he and Ruiz went back out onto the street, where they had parked in a loading zone.

  As they got into the car, Parker paused to look at the psychic’s storefront. A lavender neon sign read: “Madame Natalia, Psychic to the Stars.” She gladly accepted Visa and MasterCard.

  “You want to go inside?” Ruiz asked. “Maybe she can see your future.”

  “Why would anyone go to see a psychic in a shithole place like that? If Madame Natalia can see the future, why hasn’t she won the lottery by now?”

  “Maybe that’s
not her destiny.”

  Parker put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He had been about to say people make their own destiny, but that didn’t reflect kindly on himself, so he said nothing at all. He knew he had set himself up for his fall from Robbery-Homicide by being too cocky, too mouthy, too visible. And he had made his own choice to stay where he was now, a sidetrack to nowhere. He had also decided he would prove himself again, go out a winner. But according to Ruiz’s logic, maybe that wasn’t his destiny.

  Ruiz called in the DL for Allison Jennings. Who knew? Maybe the woman would turn out to be a fugitive.

  The physical address the woman had listed on her renter’s form for Box-4-U was a redbrick building in a dicey downtown neighborhood where everything, including the population, had been neglected for decades. Street people decorated the landscape, digging in garbage cans, sleeping in doorways. Across the street from Allison Jennings’s building, a crazy guy in a parka that had once been white marched up and down the sidewalk, screaming epithets at the construction crew working on the building.

  The place had been gutted and was being redone for downtown’s newest invasion of urban hipsters. The sign advertising the development company promised one-, two-, and three-bedroom luxury apartments in LA’s hippest, most happening new district. The artist’s rendering of the finished project did not show the screaming homeless guy.

  “Are they crazy?” Ruiz asked. “No one in their right mind would move down here. There’s nothing here but crack houses and schizo street people.”

  “Wait ’til they put a Starbucks on the corner,” Parker said. “There goes the neighborhood. Bring in the young urbanites, next thing you know, the price of illicit substances is through the roof. The average pipehead won’t be able to afford to live here. It’s a social tragedy.”

  “You think this woman is still around here?”

  Parker shrugged. “Who knows? She filled out that form ten years ago. She could be dead by now, for all we know. This Damon kid maybe bought the box off her, or took it over. He’s got to be around here someplace if he’s using it.”

  “Someplace” covered a lot of territory. Central Bureau policed four and a half square miles of downtown LA, including Chinatown, Little Tokyo, the financial district, the jewelry and fashion districts, and the convention center. A lot of ground, a lot of people.

  Parker pulled the car into the lot at the station and turned to his partner. “First thing, take Damon’s job ap to Latent. See if they can get a match with anything off the murder weapon. Then call Massachusetts. Then look for any local Allison Jenningses. Then get on the computer and see if you can find any crimes similar to the Lowell homicide in LA over the past two years. And call the phone company for the local usage details on Speed Couriers.”

  Ruiz looked perturbed. “Anything else, Master?”

  “Start going through the calls. Maybe this Damon kid doesn’t have a phone, but maybe he does. And get the phone records for Lowell’s office and for his home.”

  “And what will you be doing while I’m doing all of this shit?”

  “I’m going to talk to Abby Lowell. Find out how she got her name in the paper. She’ll like talking to me more than she’d like talking to you.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  He flashed her the famous Kev Parker grin. “Because I’m me, doll.”

  With Ruiz out of his hair, Parker drove directly to Lenny Lowell’s office. He wanted to walk through the crime scene and around the street in daylight, without the distractions of the uniforms and the criminalists, a trainee, and the Robbery-Homicide goons. He found it centering, calming in a macabre sort of way, to spend time in the place where a victim had died.

  He wasn’t sure he believed in ghosts, but he believed in souls. He believed in the essence of what made a being, the energy that defined a person as being alive. Sometimes when he walked a scene alone, he believed he could feel that energy around him, lingering. Other times there was nothing, emptiness, a void.

  He had never paid attention to such ideas in his former life as an RHD hotshot. He had been too full of himself to sense much about anyone else around him, alive or dead. One good thing he had gained in his loss: awareness, the ability to step back from himself and see a clearer picture of what was around him.

  The neighborhood was no more attractive in daylight than it had been at night, in the rain. Less so, actually. In the stark light of a gray morning, the age and dinge and tiredness of the place couldn’t hide.

  The little two-story strip mall where Lowell’s office was located looked to have been built in the late fifties. Hard angles, flat roof, metal panels of faded color—pale aqua, washed-out pink, puke yellow. Aluminum frames around the windows. Across the street, the 24/7 Laundromat squatted, a low brick building with no discernible style.

  The better scum defense attorneys had offices in Beverly Hills and Century City, where the world was beautiful. This was the kind of place where the lower end of the food chain hung their shingles. Though it seemed to Parker that old Lenny had been doing pretty well for himself.

  Lowell’s Cadillac had been towed away from the back door of the office, taken away to be checked for evidence. The car was new but had been vandalized. His home address was a condo in one of the new downtown hotspots near the Staples Center. Pricey stuff for a guy whose clients used the revolving door at the bail bondsman’s office.

  Parker wondered why the killer would have risked smashing the Cadillac’s windows if all he had wanted was to steal the money in the safe.

  Was it an act of punitive rage? A former client, or a family member of a client who hadn’t beaten the rap, and blamed Lowell? Had the motive for the murder been revenge and the money a bonus? Or had the killer been after something he hadn’t found in the office? If that was the case, this murder was a much more complicated affair. Besides the money in his safe, what could a guy like Lenny Lowell have that would be worth killing for?

  Parker unsealed the crime-scene tape and let himself in the back door of the office. The smell of stale cigarette smoke clung to the fake wood paneling, and had been absorbed into the acoustic-tile ceiling, dyeing it an oily yellow. The carpet was flat and utilitarian, and a color chosen to camouflage dirt.

  There was a bathroom on the left. The criminalists had gone over it, dusting for prints, plucking hairs out of the sink drain, but they had found no trace of blood. If the killer had gotten Lenny Lowell’s blood on him, he’d been smart enough not to try to clean himself up here.

  Lowell’s office was next. A decent-size space now awash in paper, and fingerprint dust residue, and bits of tape marking evidence locations on the rug. The lawyer’s blood had soaked into the carpet in a barely discernible stain (another selling point for the manufacturers: hides large bloodstains!). Drawers had been pulled out of file cabinets, out of the desk.

  “You’re disturbing a crime scene,” Parker said.

  Abby Lowell, sitting behind her father’s desk, startled and gasped, and banged her knee trying to stand up and back away.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God, you scared me!” she scolded, her splayed hand pressed to her chest as if to keep her heart from leaping out.

  “I have to ask what you’re doing here, Ms. Lowell,” Parker said, taking a seat across the desk from her. The arm of the chair was speckled with blood. “We seal crime scenes for a reason.”

  “And do you make funeral arrangements?” she asked, gathering her composure around her again like the cashmere sweater she wore. “Do you know where my father kept his life insurance policy? Will you call the company for me? And what about his will? I’m sure he has one, but I have no idea where it is. I don’t know if he wanted to be buried or cremated. Can you help with that, Detective Parker?”

  Parker shook his head. “No, I can’t. But if you had called me, I would have met you here and helped you look. I would have known what you touched and what you moved. I would have known if you had taken something other than your father�
��s will or his life insurance policy.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” she asked, sitting a little taller, arching one dark, elegant brow.

  “No. I’m just saying. That’s how a crime scene works, Ms. Lowell. I can’t care that the victim was your father. It can’t matter to me if you think you have a right to come into this office. My job is very clear to me. The second your father ceased to breathe, he became my responsibility. I became his protector.”

  “Too bad for my father you weren’t here to protect him from being killed. And by ‘you’ I don’t mean you personally, I mean the LAPD.”

  “We can’t predict when and where a crime is about to happen,” Parker said. “If that were the case, I’d be out of a job. And frankly, you would be ahead of us in expectation of being able to protect your father. You knew his habits, you knew his friends, you probably knew his enemies. Maybe you knew he was into something that could have gotten him killed.”

  She looked incredulous. “Are you now saying it’s my fault some thug broke into my father’s office and killed him? You’re incredible. How insensitive can you be?”

  “You wouldn’t want to find out,” Parker said. He took his hat off and crossed his legs, settling in. “You didn’t seem all that sensitive yourself last night, if you don’t mind me saying, which you probably do. You walk into a room, your father is posing for the big chalk outline. You seemed more upset that your dinner plans had been disturbed.”

  “Why? Because I didn’t fall down weeping? Because I didn’t become hysterical?” she asked. “I’m not the hysterical type, Detective. And I do my crying in private. You don’t know anything about my relationship with my father.”

  “Fill me in, why don’t you? Were you and your father close?”

  “In our own way.”

  “What way was that?”

  She sighed, looked away, looked back. The relationship, like most relationships, was more complicated than she wanted to attempt to articulate—or more complicated than she expected him to understand.

  “We were friends. Lenny wasn’t much of a father. He wasn’t around. He cheated on my mother. He drank too much. His idea of quality time with me when I was a child was to drag me along with him to the racetrack or to a bookie bar, where he would promptly forget I existed. My parents divorced when I was nine years old.”