by Tami Hoag
At his funeral all his friends had given her their sympathy and had gone on about how much she would miss him. But they had seen more of him than she ever had. Joseph’s absence from her life was an absence of the anxiety of wondering what was wrong with her that the man who was supposed to love her would rather have been golfing than with her.
He had married her for her potential as a social asset. She had a good look, was well-dressed, well-informed, well-spoken. But her career was an embarrassment to him, and Diane had refused to give it up. And the more strained their relationship became because of it, the harder she had hung on to it, afraid to let go of the one thing that was a sure thing, because her husband’s love was not.
Better to have loved and lost, the saying went. What bullshit. She had learned that lesson the hard way, twice.
She allowed herself to be dragged to these events now because she enjoyed eavesdropping, and because appearing with someone warded off matchmakers. Also, she had agreed to come on the condition her date buy her dinner afterward.
Her date was Jeff Gauthier, forty-six, handsome, an attorney for the city of Los Angeles, chronic bachelor. He had been a friend for years and years. After Joseph’s death, Jeff had talked her into becoming each other’s event date. Jeff considered it bad policy to drag a real date to these rubber-chicken affairs. Not so much to spare his date-of-the-month the brain-numbing experience, but because he felt showing up with dates-of-the-month was bad for his image.
“I’m having the most expensive thing on the menu,” she said, leaning toward him and snagging a stuffed mushroom off the tray of a passing waiter. “And dessert.”
“That’s what you always do.”
“I might even order an extra dessert to take home with me.”
“We only have to stay long enough for me to be seen with three prominent people.”
“Do I count?”
“You’re notorious, not prominent.”
“I like that better, anyway.” This crowd had never known what to make of her. Married to someone as successful as Joseph, yet working for the county touching dead bodies every day.
She scanned the crowd. The usual suspects. District Attorney Steinman and his wife, the mayor and his wife, ADA Giradello and his ego, the assorted LA movers and shakers who thrived on this kind of thing, newspaper photographers and reporters, crews from the local television stations here for a sound bite for the late news. The media could have saved themselves the trouble and simply run photos and footage from the last event this crowd had gathered for. They all looked alike.
“I’m going to slip a twenty to one of the waiters if he’ll start spinning plates on a stick,” she said.
“Why don’t you just get up on a table and sing us a song?” Jeff suggested, herding her toward a big-deal downtown developer.
They did the meet and greet. A couple of flashes went off. Diane smiled and complimented the developer’s wife on the vintage brooch she was wearing.
“Did I hear you sold the Palisades house?” the woman asked.
“I didn’t want that much house,” Diane replied. “I’m trying to downsize and simplify my life.”
The woman would have looked puzzled if not for the Botox in her forehead. “Barbra Sirha said she thought you bought something in Brentwood.”
“West LA.” A much less impressive zip code than star-studded Brentwood or Pacific Palisades. Diane could sense the woman’s need to ask her if she’d lost her mind.
Gazes passed like ships in the night as everyone looked for the next important person to move on to.
And then that person walked into the room.
Norman Crowne was a man of average height and slight build, gray hair, and a beard precisely trimmed. Unassuming at first glance for a man who wielded the kind of power he did. People expected him to be an imposing figure, tall, broad-shouldered, with a booming voice. None of those traits applied to him, yet he still possessed an aura of power that preceded him through the crowd.
He was followed by his son, Phillip, and a pair of bodyguards who looked like they had come straight from the Secret Service. All four of them were impeccably turned out in dark suits and stylish ties. The crowd parted before them as if they were royalty, and the senior Crowne went directly to the district attorney and offered his hand.
The son, a product of Crowne’s ill-fated second marriage, turned to Anthony Giradello and was greeted warmly. They were of an age, and both graduates of Stanford Law, but Phillip had been born a Crowne, with all the opportunities and privileges that came with it. He had gone to work for his father and held a cushy position in Crowne Enterprises. Giradello had been spawned in a small town near Modesto, the son of fruit ranchers, and had hustled for every chance he could grab, clawing his way up the ladder in the DA’s office.
“One big happy family,” Diane murmured into Jeff’s lapel as they moved through the crowd in search of his second significant person of the evening. “That’s blatant. The trial of his daughter’s murderer is about to start, and Norman Crowne is all but laying money on the table for the DA in front of every media source in Los Angeles.”
Jeff shrugged. “So? There’s no conflict of interest. Giradello hardly needs to be bribed to go for the throat on this one. He wants to convict Rob Cole so badly, he can hardly stand it. Cole is his O.J. He’s not going to mess that up. To say nothing of using this trial to blot out the memory of that preppie murder your friend Parker screwed up for him.”
“Parker was a scapegoat. Giradello didn’t do his homework. That trial was his first big lesson in ‘money buys justice.’ This is his second,” Diane said. “You don’t think every average person in America isn’t going to look at this picture on the morning shows tomorrow and say Norman Crowne is buying himself a conviction? That more expensive lab tests of forensic evidence will be done, more expert witnesses will be called; that a bigger effort will be made to nail Rob Cole to a cross than to convict a gangbanger in South Central who’s killed five or six people.”
“Well . . . I don’t care, frankly,” Jeff said. “And I don’t see why you would, either. You’d have them stick Rob Cole’s head on a pike and feed his remains to dogs at the city pound. What’s your problem with Norman Crowne’s influence?”
“Nothing. He can have the pike custom-made. I just don’t want to see grounds for appeal.”
“Lady Justice,” Jeff chuckled, pointing her toward one of the DA’s biggest backers, a radio talk-show host with on-air politics so far to the right he should have fallen off the planet. “There’s the Diane we know and love.”
“I’m not making nice with this blowhard,” she said between her teeth.
“You know, for a faux date, you’re a lot of work.”
“Quality doesn’t come cheap.”
Jeff introduced himself to the blowhard. Diane gave him the cursory acknowledgment nod with the Novocain smile, and turned to get a bead on the Crowne clan, now joined by Tricia’s daughter from her first marriage.
Caroline Crowne was just twenty-one, short and somewhat stubby, like her mother had been, though Caroline had done a lot more with herself than Tricia ever had. Packaged in conservative designer labels and balancing on a pair of Manolos, her curly mop of auburn hair was stylishly cut in a chin-length bob. She gave the appearance of a well-heeled young executive type, and was supposedly slowly inserting herself into her mother’s role of seeing to the Crowne charitable trust.
Shortly after Tricia’s murder, the tabloids had hinted at the possibility of something sordid going on between Caroline Crowne and her stepfather, but the rumors had been squelched like a slug on the sidewalk, and Norman Crowne’s granddaughter had abruptly ceased to be of any interest to the press.
What a list of headlines an affair between Caroline Crowne and Rob Cole would have generated. Poor old Tricia whacked to make way for a May-December romance between her daughter and her sleazy rotten rat-bastard husband. Caroline had been nineteen when her mother died. Barely legal.
It wasn’t all that hard for Diane to imagine.
“One more and we’re out of here,” Jeff said through his teeth as he smiled and raised his glass to someone off to his right.
“I can already taste the sea bass,” Diane said, letting him steer her toward the district attorney.
From the corner of her eye she caught a door swinging open, maybe six, eight feet to her right. Bradley Kyle and his partner came in looking like kids who were being sent to the principal’s office. They were headed in the same direction that Jeff was taking her—toward the DA and the ADA, and Norman and Phillip Crowne.
Giradello turned and looked at the detectives, frowning.
Diane drifted a step in their direction as Giradello excused himself from Phillip Crowne and moved two steps toward the cops. Eavesdropping was the real reason she came to these things.
Jeff interrupted her briefly to introduce her to the district attorney, whom she’d met fifty times before. She smiled, shook the man’s hand, and tuned him out, her gaze sliding just to the right of him.
The conversation was terse, Giradello’s face darkened, Bradley Kyle turned his hands palms-up, like, What do you want me to do about it? Only the odd word escaped for the casual ear to catch. Do, what, can’t, know. Somebody was supposed to have done something, but hadn’t been able to.
Kyle and his partner had worked Tricia Crowne’s murder. Not as leads, as second team. As the trial began they would be called on to double-check, to dig up and polish off notes and memories, to pick at any tiny fibers that could become loose ends.
Rob Cole’s attorney, Martin Gorman, would know everything about them—who they were on the job, who they were off the job, whether one or the other had ever made a derogatory remark about Rob Cole or about actors in general or about too-handsome jerks who went around in vintage bowling shirts no matter what the occasion. Odds were good Gorman had spies in this very room, watching Giradello’s every move, looking for anything that could give him an edge, an opening, or at the very least keep him from getting surprised.
A trial as big as this one was a chess game with layers and layers of strategy. The pieces were being jockeyed into position. Giradello was bringing his army into line. Somebody was supposed to have done something but hadn’t been able to. She wondered what that something was.
Steinman said something. Jeff laughed politely. Diane smiled and nodded.
A word, a curse, a growl, a name she didn’t recognize . . . and one that she did.
21
Ruiz was long gone by the time Parker returned to the station. He wanted to be pissed off, but he couldn’t manage it. It was important to have a life away from the job if you wanted to stay sane on the job. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, so consumed by his rise to stardom in Robbery-Homicide that when that train came off the tracks he hadn’t known what to do or who he was. He’d invested everything in his career.
It would have been nice to go home himself, take a steam, put on some jazz, have a glass of wine, order in some wonton soup and Mongolian beef from the restaurant down the street. He had a script to read, and notes to make. And sleep sounded like a good idea too.
He had a great bed and a view of Chinatown’s neon lights for when he didn’t want to or couldn’t sleep. He could stare out those windows and lose all track of time. A three-dimensional abstract of the streets four stories below. He found the colors soothing, or maybe it was the juxtaposition of vibrant light and sound on the streets with the quiet dark around him in his haven, his cocoon.
He wouldn’t be going home soon. There were too many things he needed to know, and he needed to know them quickly. His instincts had already been on point with this case, and that sense was only getting keener. The oddities of the break-in at Abby Lowell’s apartment—and with Abby Lowell herself—were rubbing against the grain.
She was a study in contradictions. Courting sympathy, giving the cold shoulder, vulnerable, tough as nails, victim, suspect. All applied. The hell she didn’t know what her burglar was after. She was after it herself.
Lenny Lowell’s death was no random act of opportunity. And what the hell would a bike messenger, assigned by the luck of the draw, have known about this mysterious something Lowell apparently possessed that was worth killing for? The money gone from the safe—provided there had ever been any, and they had only Abby Lowell’s say-so on that point—had been nothing but a bonus for the killer.
A simple robbery didn’t send a perp on to his victim’s daughter to toss her apartment and threaten to kill her. Parker’s instincts told him the words scrawled on Abby Lowell’s bathroom mirror had an implied “unless” to them. Next you die . . . unless I get what I’m after. Which implied the assailant believed Abby Lowell knew what he was after.
And why had the mirror been broken? How had the mirror been broken? The damage had been done after the message had been written on it. Abby Lowell hadn’t had a mark on her, nor had she said anything about a struggle in the bathroom, the mirror getting broken, someone bleeding.
She said the guy told her he’d done some work for her father. What was that about? The Emily Post etiquette rules for murderers? Hello, here’s who I am, my references, my connection to you. So sorry, I’m going to kill you now. What crap.
And the guy drives away in a Mini Cooper.
Parker reminded himself the Volkswagen Bug had been the car of choice for serial killers in the seventies. Cute cars were nonthreatening. How could anyone driving a Bug be a bad person? Ted Bundy had driven a Bug.
Parker ran the partial plate from the Abby Lowell break-in through the DMV, and waited, impatient. He made himself a cup of tea, paced while it steeped. Kray’s trainee, Yamoto, was at his desk, studiously working on a report. Ruiz was probably out salsa dancing with the sugar daddy who kept her supplied in Manolo Blahniks.
Girl most likely to marry money. Parker wondered why she hadn’t done so already. She probably figured she had a better shot at a big fish if she went up the career ladder to a better class of crime. Make Robbery-Homicide, become high-profile, start hanging out with political and Hollywood types, and boom: rich husband.
On impulse, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of an old friend who worked Homicide in South Central.
“Metheny,” a gravel-choked voice barked on the other end of the line.
“Hey, Methuselah, you got it under control down there?”
“Kev Parker. I thought you died.”
“I kind of wished I had there for a while,” Parker admitted.
Metheny growled like a bulldog. “Don’t let the motherfuckers get you down.”
“I had that one tattooed on my dick. How’d you know?”
“Your sister told me.”
Parker laughed. “You old son of a bitch.” He had partnered with Metheny a thousand years ago when Parker had been cutting a swath through the food chain to get to Robbery-Homicide. Metheny liked him anyway. “You got any contacts working Latin gangs in your neck of the woods?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I’ve got a trainee did some task force work down your way. I’d like to find out how she was.”
“Trying to get in her head or her pants?”
“Her head is scary enough for me. Her name is Ruiz. Renee Ruiz.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
They traded a few more insults and hung up. Parker turned his attention to the results of his DMV search.
Of Mini Coopers registered in the state of California, in the Los Angeles area, seventeen matched the possible combinations of numbers and letters Parker had offered for the search. Of those, seven were listed as being green, five black. None of them were registered to Jace or J. C. Damon. None of them had been reported stolen.
The detectives at Abby Lowell’s break-in would be looking for the car too, though Parker doubted they would get to it until the next day. Their case was basically a B&E. No serious violence. They wouldn’t be excited enough to stay late—unless it was just to spit
e him.
Parker couldn’t let them go hunting first. Maybe they were good at what they did, and they would pull it off without a problem. But he thought it more likely they would go charging through the clutch of Mini Cooper owners like stampeding cattle, bolting the lot of them, tipping off Damon. He couldn’t risk losing his suspect because of stupidity and territorial bullshit.
He dug a map of the city out of his desk drawer and spread it across Ruiz’s desk, then took his Thomas Guide and began locating the addresses of the Mini Cooper owners. He marked the places on the map. None were in the immediate vicinity of the mailbox rented to Allison Jennings and passed on to J. C. Damon.
Working his way outward from that location, Parker found one of the owners lived in the Miracle Mile area, not far from Abby Lowell’s apartment. That car was registered to Punjhar, Rajhid, DDS. One was in Westwood, near UCLA. One was registered to a Chen, Lu, who lived in Chinatown—on his way home.
He plotted all twelve, and stared at the map with his splotches of red ink like bloodstains scattered over the city. Which car did Damon have access to? Where the hell did he live? Why was he so secretive about it? He didn’t have a record. And if he had one under another name, who in his day-to-day life would know? If he was living under an alias, the only way he was going to be found out was to be arrested or have his fingerprints turn up at a crime scene. They had the partial prints from the murder weapon, but not enough to get a hit running them through the system.
Maybe the kid was a career criminal. Or maybe he was hiding from someone. Whatever the reason for all his secrecy, Damon was driving around in somebody’s Mini Cooper. And if he hadn’t killed Lenny Lowell, why would he search out Lenny’s daughter? How would he know anything about this missing something everyone wanted so badly?
And why had Robbery-Homicide shown up at that scene?
