Kill the Messenger

by Tami Hoag

  Parker went to her. “You’re all right?”

  The smile was wry, fragile, quivering at the corners of her mouth. She looked down just to the right of his feet, and combed a strand of hair back behind her ear with a trembling hand.

  “He didn’t kill me, so I’m better off than the last Lowell he ran into.”

  “Where do you keep your booze?” Parker asked.

  “In the freezer. Grey Goose. Help yourself.”

  “Not my poison,” he said, picking his way over the aftermath of the ransacking as he went into the kitchen. He found a glass, poured some of the vodka over ice, and handed it to her. “How long ago did this happen?”

  She sipped the drink, leaning her hip against the counter. “A couple hours, I guess. I didn’t realize this was out of your area until they showed up. They didn’t want me to call you.”

  “Don’t worry about them. You did the right thing. Besides, I’m like a wolf. I’ve got a big territory. What happened?”

  “I came home, walked in, the place looked like this. I went down the hall, went into the bathroom, and he grabbed me.”

  “Did he have a weapon?”

  She shook her head.

  “What’d he look like? Tall, short, black, white . . . ?”

  “Not as tall as you. Blond. Young. White. He looked like he had been in a fight or something.”

  “I’ll need you to get with our sketch artist first thing tomorrow,” Parker said. “How did you know he was the bike messenger?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me who he was. But he said he knew my father, that he’d done some work for him, and I just knew it was him.”

  “What did he want? Why would he come to you?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to find out. I was sure he was going to kill me. I ran, and he chased me, and I was almost to the door, and then he was on me. . . .”

  The dark eyes glistened with tears. She leaned back against the counter and put a hand over her face. Parker watched her for a moment, then walked away from her and went down the hall. The bathroom was on the left. A small space with a tub/shower combo, a toilet, a pedestal sink. The mirror of the medicine cabinet above the sink was broken, with shards missing.

  He squatted down and checked out a pale rust-colored smudge on the old octagonal tile. Blood, he figured. Some had seeped into the grout between the tiles, staining it dark.

  He stood and looked closely at the broken mirror and the inscription someone had written on it in red lipstick. NEXT YOU DIE.

  Why would the bike messenger want Abby Lowell dead if killing Lenny and stealing the money from the safe had been a crime of opportunity? He wouldn’t. Whoever was behind the murder, behind this, had a more complicated motive. And as far as Parker was concerned, that ruled out Damon.

  Abby appeared in the shattered glass, a multitude of tiny, fragmented images, as if she was inside a giant 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, “Thank
s 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.

  “Man needs a whuppin’,” she grumbled, working her way toward the back. As she went to turn the lights out in her office, the phone rang.

  All she knew about Jace was that once she had been shopping in Chinatown, and she had seen him across the street with a boy about eight or nine. They had probably been there for fun. She had watched them go into a fish market. When she had mentioned it to him the following Monday, he had denied being there. Must have been someone else, he’d said, but she knew it hadn’t been.

  She wouldn’t have answered the phone, but she thought it might be him.

  “Speed Couriers,” she said. “What you want, honey? We closed for the day.”

  “This is Detective Davis, ma’am. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Eta scowled at the phone, as if he could see her. “Don’t you people talk to each other? What am I paying taxes for? For y’all to all go running around asking the same questions over and over like a bunch of damn morons?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. I just have a couple of questions about one of your messengers, J. Damon.”

  “I know that,” she said with annoyance. “You got to get up to speed. What are you? The third string? I got better things to do with my night than talk to you, honey. I got babies at home need me. I’m hanging up.”

  She slammed the receiver down, her gaze going to the radio. One last try.

  She keyed the mike. “Base to Sixteen. Where you at, Lone Ranger? You gotta come home to Mama, sugar. ASAP. You got that? I’m still holding money for you. You copy?”

  Silence. No static. No nothing. She had no idea if he even had his two-way with him. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. She tried to picture him safe someplace. She could only picture him alone.

  Eta shut off the lights. As she made her way toward the kitchen, she pulled on her raincoat. It was late already. If Jace was going to call, he would have done it by now. She had her own two-way with her, just in case.

  The alley was black as pitch. It had started to rain again. The light above the door had gone out like it did every time it rained. She’d told Rocco to call an electrician the last time it happened, but of course he hadn’t. He’d wait until the entire electrical system shorted out and burned the damn building to the ground.

  Eta shook her head at the hopelessness of thinking Rocco might one day have some sense in his head. She dug her car keys out of her tote bag.

  And then a light was in her face, blinding her.

  “Detective Davis, ma’am,” he said.

  This isn’t right, Eta thought. If he’d been back here all along, why wouldn’t he have just come inside to see what she was up to? Why call on the telephone?

  “I really need to get an address from you, ma’am.”

  Eta inched her way to the side, a strange feeling crawling over her. This wasn’t right. She wanted to go. “What address?” she asked, inching toward the van.

  “Your messenger, Damon.”

  “I don’t know how many times I got to say this,” Eta complained, taking another step. “I don’t have no address for the boy. I don’t have no phone number. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know nothin’ about him.”

  The light moved closer. Davis moved closer. “Come on. He’s worked here awhile, hasn’t he? How can you not know anything about him? You can’t keep that up.”

  “I can and I will. I can’t tell you nothin’ I don’t know.”

  Her escape ended at the side of her van. She clutched the keys in her hand.

  The light moved closer. She had nowhere to go.

  “You want to do this the hard way?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to do this at all,” Eta said, sidling toward the back of the van. If she could get in the van, lock the doors . . . She turned her key ring in her hand.

  “I don’t care what you want, bitch,” he said, and lunged.

  Eta brought her hand up, pressing the trigger on the mini-can of pepper spray she kept on her key chain. She guessed where his eyes might be and fired, a primal shout tearing up out of her throat.

  Davis yelped and swore. The flashlight beam went straight up, then came down, the heavy flashlight missing her head, hitting her shoulder.

  Eta cried out, kicked blindly, connected with some part of his anatomy.

  “Fucking cunt!”

  Davis spat the words at her, grabbed a handful of braids as Eta tried to bolt. He probably thought he could stop her in her tracks, or pull her back. But Eta was a large lady, and for once that was in her favor.

  She kept her momentum moving forward. Davis swore and flung himself on her back, trying to knock her down. The flashlight went flying, beam flashing up, down, skimming the ground as it rolled.

  One knee buckled beneath her and she fell, throwing him off. She tried to scramble up off the ground, but she was awkward and unbalanced, and she fell against the van, and had to get her feet back under her and try again.

  Davis threw himself at her, slamming her back against the vehicle. She clawed at him, her long nails scratching down his face, and he cried out again. He hit her hard across the face. And then his body was pressed up against hers, and something sharp was at her throat.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice low, breath rasp
ing in and out of his lungs, bitter with the scent of stale cigarettes and sour beer.

  “I don’t know,” Eta said. Her own voice was unrecognizable to her, soft, shaking, frightened. She was crying. She thought of her kids. Her mother would have them at the dinner table by now. Jamal would be begging to stay up late. Kylie would be talking nonstop about what had gone on in fifth grade today.

  “You want to live, bitch?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Where is he? Answer me and you go home to your family.”

  She was trembling. She was going to die for keeping a secret she had no answer for.

  The knife caressed her throat. “Give me an answer. You go home to your kids. If it’s the truth, I won’t come back for you—or them.”

  Eta didn’t know the truth. She gave him the only answer she could.

  “I seen him in Chinatown.”

  “Chinatown.”

  She drew breath to answer him, but when she tried to speak no words came out of her mouth, just strange wet sounds. Davis stepped back from her, picked up the flashlight, shined it on her. She lifted a hand to touch her throat and felt her life running out of her. Her hand was red with it.

  Horrified, she wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. She wanted to shout for help, but she seemed not to have control of her tongue. She needed to cough, but she couldn’t breathe. She was drowning in her own blood.

  She staggered forward. Her legs buckled beneath her. She fell like an anvil to the wet, oily pavement.

  She thought of her husband . . . and then she went to him.

  20

  Diane Nicholson sipped at a glass of mediocre champagne and rolled an eye around the elegantly appointed room, bored. The Peninsula Beverly Hills Hotel was the epitome of class and wealth, two things required to attend a political fund-raiser for the district attorney of Los Angeles. But very little in the political world impressed Diane. The glow had worn off long ago.

  Her husband had spent a dozen years involved in city politics. Joseph’s second great love. His job was his first, the love that made him a wealthy man. Diane had been ranked somewhere further down the list—after golfing and his boat. The last couple of years of the marriage, the most they saw of each other had been at events like this one. And even then, all she had been was an accessory on his arm, like a pair of diamond cuff links.