by Tami Hoag
It would be over in the next few minutes. Jace’s only hope was that he would live to tell the tale.
Parker watched Eddie Davis through night-vision binoculars as he crossed the plaza. LAPD may not have been able to afford pens that didn’t leak, but Parker had no such budget limitations. He kept a small treasure trove of gadgets in the trunk of his car.
Clipped to the bridge of the binoculars was a small, wireless parabolic microphone that fed him sound through a discreet earphone. In his other ear was an earbud for the walkie-talkie that connected him to Tyler, in the car.
He had left the boy with Andi Kelly, and didn’t know which one was more liable to keep the other out of trouble. They had picked Kelly up on their way. If Parker’s hunch paid off, she was going to get one hell of a story.
“Where’s the money?” Jace asked. Davis was still ten feet away.
“It’s on the way.”
“What? You never said anything about anybody else,” Jace said. He was trembling. The guy standing in front of him was a murderer.
“You never asked,” Davis said. “I don’t carry that kind of cash around. What did you think? That I’d rob an ATM?”
He looked like something from Dawn of the Dead as he stood there with the streetlight washing over him. He had a strip of white tape across his nose. One eye was almost swollen shut, and he looked like someone had hit him across the left side of his face with a brick.
He stood with his arms crossed, casual, like they were a couple of strangers chatting while they waited for a bus.
“So where are the negatives?”
“They’re safe,” Jace said. He rubbed his hand over the gun in his pocket. He didn’t know anything about using a gun. Parker had said, What’s to know? Point and shoot.
“There must be someone big in those pictures to be worth all this, for people to be killed over them,” Jace said now.
Davis smiled like a crocodile. “The killing’s the fun part.”
He started to take a step closer.
Jace pulled the .22 out of his pocket. “You’re fine right there. I don’t want you coming any closer.”
Davis gave a little huff. “You’re some pain in the ass, kid. How do I know you’ve even got the negatives? Maybe you came here to rob me.”
“Maybe I came here to kill you,” Jace said. “That woman you murdered at Speed Couriers? She was a good person.”
“So?” Davis shrugged. “I just do my job. It’s nothing personal.”
Jace wanted to shoot him then, just Bam! point-blank in the face. That was what he deserved. No need for the taxpayers to waste a nickel on him.
This is for Eta. . . .
“I hope my brother doesn’t get killed.” Tyler tried to sound matter-of-fact about it. The truth was, he was so scared, he thought he might throw up.
“Kev won’t let that happen.”
They sat hunched down in the front seat of Parker’s car. Well, Andi was hunched more than he was. It didn’t take that much hunching for Tyler to be pretty much out of sight.
“Are you his girlfriend?” he asked.
“Naw . . . Kev’s a loner. Until this week, I hadn’t seen him in a long time,” she said. “He’s a good guy. He didn’t used to be, but he is now. He used to be a jerk.”
“And then what?”
“And then he took a long look at himself and he didn’t like what he saw. I’m pretty sure he’s the first man in recorded history to make the decision to grow and change, and actually pull it off.”
“He seems pretty cool—for a cop.”
“You don’t like cops?”
Tyler shook his head.
“Why is that?”
He shrugged with one shoulder. “’Cause that’s how it is.”
He turned away to avoid her trying to figure him out. Headlights flashed as a car turned toward them.
Tyler jumped in his seat, fumbled for the walkie-talkie, pressed the call button.
“Scout to Leader, Scout to Leader! Bogie! Bogie!”
If there was one thing Parker hated, it was a wild card, unless the wild card was himself. Davis had called in a ringer, and what the hell was that about? He didn’t need help getting a pack of negatives from one kid, and there was no way he was actually going to pay for them.
He touched the button on his mike. “Roger that. We’ve got a bogie coming in.”
Countdown to showtime.
“You’re a real piece of shit,” Jace said.
Davis didn’t react. “Yeah, people tell me that all the time.” He went to reach inside his coat. “I want a smoke.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Jace ordered.
Davis gave a big sigh. “Amateurs.”
“Yeah,” Jace said. “Amateurs make mistakes. Get jumpy. Pull the trigger when they don’t mean to.”
That smile crawled across Davis’s wide face again. “You want to kill me so bad, you can taste it. Maybe you’ve got a future in my business.”
Jace said nothing. The creep was trying to yank his chain, distract him. His arms were getting tired holding the gun out in front of him. Where the hell was the guy with the money?
Headlights bobbed nearby. He almost made the mistake of turning to look.
The air around them seemed as thick as the ocean. Hard to breathe. The only sound he could hear was the black guy snoring on the park bench.
“Here comes the money, honey,” Davis said.
Parker waited for the new member of the troupe to appear. At Tyler’s alert, his sensitivity to every stimulus heightened to an almost unbearable level. Every sound seemed louder. The touch of the night air on his skin was too much. He was more aware of his breathing, of his heart tripping faster.
His money was on Phillip Crowne.
The daughter, Caroline, may have had motive, but he couldn’t see a girl that age being able to pull it off—having her mother killed, setting up her lover to take the fall, and keeping it all quiet. No. Young women in love were all about passion and drama and over-the-top demonstrations of both.
Nor would Rob Cole have taken the fall for her. Guys like Cole didn’t take responsibility for their own actions, let alone someone else’s. If Rob Cole had thought that Caroline had murdered Tricia, he would have been singing that song at the top of his lungs.
Parker liked the brother for it. Andi Kelly had told him Phillip Crowne had been seen having dinner with his sister the night she was killed. The dinner conversation had been serious. Phillip claimed Tricia had talked about divorcing Cole, but the discussion could just as easily have been about Tricia wanting to blow the whistle on her brother’s siphoning of funds from the charitable trust.
No one had ever been able to prove Phillip had been helping himself—but then, everyone had been focused on stringing up Rob Cole. A celebrity scandal was so much more interesting than plain old vanilla embezzling. There was nothing sexy or exciting about Phillip Crowne, while going after Rob Cole had all the ingredients of America’s favorite pastime: tearing down the idol.
Besides, Rob Cole had motive, means, and opportunity. He’d been right there at the scene of the crime when it had happened. He had no viable alibi for the time of the murder. Parker was willing to bet Phillip Crowne hadn’t gotten more than a perfunctory look from RHD, if that. And it hadn’t hurt him to be the son of one of the most influential men in the city either. Norman Crowne backed the DA. Phillip Crowne and Tony Giradello had known each other since law school.
If Eddie Davis and Lenny Lowell had been blackmailing Phillip, was it such a stretch to imagine Phillip Crowne going to his old buddy Giradello for a favor? It wasn’t that difficult for Parker to imagine Giradello selling justice to Crowne. There wasn’t a man on the planet hungrier or more ambitious than Anthony Giradello.
All of it fell into place like the heavy, glossy pieces of an expensive puzzle. Giradello couldn’t let a couple of mutts like Davis and Lowell bring down his well-heeled pal, or ruin the trial that would make his own name a hous
ehold word. If he sent in Bradley Kyle and Moose Roddick, who also stood to benefit from convicting Rob Cole, he could manipulate the situation, make it go away.
Parker’s blood went cold at the idea that maybe Kyle hadn’t meant to miss anybody he’d been shooting at in Pershing Square. Davis was a big loose end. Jace Damon had the negatives. Abby Lowell was a wild card.
He had wished for a case to make a comeback. This one was an embarrassment of scandalous riches and human tragedy. He thought of Eta Fitzgerald and her four motherless children, and wished he could trade the case to give her back her life. But the best he could do was nail her killer and the people whose actions had ultimately been the catalyst for her murder.
A figure was walking toward the plaza, toward Davis and Damon. The moment of truth was at hand.
Parker raised his glasses and focused in . . . and the world dropped from under him.
49
Jace didn’t recognize the person coming toward them, coming from behind Eddie. From a distance, the light was too poor. And as the person drew nearer, Jace caught only an on-again, off-again glimpse over Davis’s shoulder.
“This guy had better have the money,” he said.
Davis glanced over his shoulder. Jace kept the .22 trained on him, but pulled it back and held it in front of himself at waist height.
Davis opened his stance, turning a half step so he could see his benefactor and still see Jace from the corner of his eye.
The other person spoke. “Where are the negatives?”
“Where’s the money?” Jace asked, allowing himself only a second to register the fact that the third person in their group turned out to be a woman.
She looked at Davis. “Who’s he?”
“Middleman,” Davis said.
“Can’t you do anything right?”
“I did okay killing Tricia Cole for you.”
“And I paid you for that. And that’s all I’ve done since,” she said. Her voice was tense and trembling and angry. “Pay and pay and pay.”
“Hey,” Davis said. “You want to run with the dogs, that’s how it goes, honey. It’s not like calling a flunky to kill a snake in your yard. You had someone whacked. There’s consequences.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, choking back tears. “It has to stop. I want it to stop. I never meant for all this to happen. I just wanted him to pay. But when do I stop paying?”
“Now,” Davis said. “This is it. Jesus Christ, knock off the waterworks. The kid has the negatives. You pay him his five grand, you pay me my finder’s fee, and that’s the end of it. Cole goes to trial next week. You did your part making sure he doesn’t have an alibi. Giradello can’t wait to hang him.”
“Where’s the money?” Jace asked again, impatient and jittery.
The woman held a black nylon gym bag in her left hand. She swung it out to the side and let go of the handle. The bag hit the ground maybe four feet away.
Jace looked over at it. He nodded to Davis and motioned with the gun. “See what’s in it.”
Davis went to the bag, squatted, and unzipped it. “Here it is, kid. See for yourself.”
Jace took a step to the side and tried to see inside the bag without bending over.
It happened so fast, he barely had time to register the flash of light on the blade as Davis came at him and rammed the knife into his belly.
Parker screamed into the mike, “Go, go, go!” Throwing the binoculars aside, he bolted out of cover and ran.
Even as he shouted, “Police!” Diane Nicholson pulled a gun and shot Eddie Davis in the head.
Dan Metheny rolled off the park bench, weapon in hand, shouting, “Freeze, motherfucker!”
But Diane was already running, and kept running as Metheny fired off five quick shots.
Parker screamed at him, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
He pointed at the ground as he ran past and shouted at Metheny, “Keep him alive!”
He sprinted after Diane as hard as his legs would pump, shouting her name over and over.
She had twenty yards on him, and was athletic and fast. She was going to make it to her car.
She skidded around her Lexus, yanked open the door, and got in.
The engine fired as Parker drew close, then the car was coming at him.
Parker went up on the hood, losing his gun, grabbing on with both hands as Diane spun the wheel. The turn was lurching and awkward, and threw Parker off the side like a bull in a rodeo.
He hit the ground and skidded and rolled, coming up on his feet.
But the Lexus didn’t make it a hundred yards. Jimmy Chewalski’s black-and-white came screaming from the other direction and skidded to a stop, blocking her escape.
Parker reached the back of the car, panting, as Diane flung herself out of it. She stumbled, went down on her knees, scrambled back up, and turned to face him. A gun was in her hand.
“Diane,” Parker said. “Jesus Christ, drop the gun.”
Chewalski and his partner both had their weapons out, and were yelling.
Standoff.
Diane looked at them, looked at Parker. Her expression was one of anguish, and a kind of pain Parker had never imagined until now. He thought that her face was mirroring the emotions tearing through him.
“God, Diane, please,” he begged. “Drop the gun.”
Diane felt as if she were standing outside of her body, watching this happen to someone else.
She was holding a gun. Cops were pointing their guns at her.
She had shot a man in the head.
She had paid a man to kill her former lover’s wife.
She had no idea who this person was, this person inside of her who could do those things.
Her need for his love had turned her into something she hated. She had told him more than once she would do anything for him—lie for him, die for him, subjugate her pride, give up all she had. The idea made her sick.
“Diane, please,” Parker said, holding out a hand to her. The emotions on his face broke her heart. “Put the gun down.”
How could I have done this? she asked herself. How could I have come to this?
It was too late for answers. It was too late to change any of it. It was too late. . . .
50
Tyler felt all his blood drain to his feet when the shooting started.
“Jace!” he shouted. He grabbed the radio and pressed the button. “Scout to Leader! Scout to Leader!”
He turned to Andi Kelly. Her eyes looked as wide as his felt.
The person from the Lexus ran out of the park, running for the car that was left way down the street from them. Someone came chasing after, closing ground. He sprinted through a cone of light from a street lamp. Parker.
“Jace! Jace!” Tyler screamed his brother’s name over and over. He shoved open the car door and started running for the plaza as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Tyler!” Andi Kelly called.
She caught him from behind, grabbing him by the arm. Tyler struggled and kicked and yanked, shouting, “Let me go! Let me go!”
But the woman didn’t let go. Instead, she pulled him against her and held tight. His screams became sobs, and he went limp in her arms.
They call it “suicide by cop.” Someone wants to die but doesn’t have the guts to stick the gun in their own mouth and pull the trigger, so they get the cops to do it for them. If the person wants it badly enough, there isn’t any way to stop them. All that person has to do is turn the gun on the cops and start shooting.
Parker’s heart was in his throat as he held his hand out to Diane. “Diane. Honey. Please put the gun down.”
The despair in her face was a terrible thing to see. She was giving up right before his eyes. He took a step closer.
Behind him, Jimmy Chew said, “Kev, don’t get close.” Chew was worried Diane would turn the gun on Parker.
Parker took another step.
The streetlight shone silver over the tears on her cheeks.
She looked at him and said, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. . . .”
He took another step.
Shaking and weak, she tried to lift the gun out to the side. It wobbled in her hand like a dying bird.
“It’s okay,” Parker whispered. Stupid thing to say. What was okay about any of this? What would be okay after this moment had passed? Nothing. But he said it again anyway. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”
The gun dropped from her limp hand, and she melted into his arms, sobbing.
Parker held her as tightly as he could. He was shaking. Tears burned his eyes. He held her and rocked her.
Behind them, he could hear the radio chatter coming from the black-and-white. Chew’s partner was calling for backup, asking to have a supervisor and detectives sent.
Parker hoped to God they didn’t send Ruiz, or Kray.
An ambulance siren was already wailing, coming from the other side of the plaza. Metheny also would have called them in, and requested backup, and asked for detectives and a supervisor. In a very short time the plaza would be ablaze with lights, alive with people. He wished he could make it all recede and go away. He didn’t want people seeing this. Diane was a proud and private person. She wouldn’t want anyone seeing her like this.
It was a strange thought, he supposed. She had shot a man in the head. She had as much as confessed to having paid Eddie Davis to murder Tricia Crowne-Cole. But he didn’t know the person who had done those things. He knew the woman he held. He wished he had known her better.
Jimmy Chew put a hand on his shoulder. “Kev,” he said quietly. “They’re coming.”
Parker nodded. He led Diane to the black-and-white and put her in the backseat. Chew handed him a blanket from the trunk of the car, and Parker wrapped it around her and kissed her cheek, and whispered something to her that even he didn’t understand.
As he straightened away from the interior of the car, he turned to Chewalski and said, “Jimmy—uh—can you just see that no one bothers her? I—uh—have to go over there. . . .”
“Sure, Kev.”
Parker nodded and tried to say thank you, but his voice didn’t work. He walked a few steps away, rubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath, and let it out. He had a job to do. That was the only thing that was going to keep him from falling apart.
