Kill the Messenger

29

Chen’s Fish Market was five minutes from Parker’s loft. According to the DMV, one of the Mini Coopers that may have fled the scene of Abby Lowell’s break-in lived here. Parker pulled up in front and went to the public entrance first, finding the place hadn’t yet opened for business. But in the loading bay two men were shoveling shaved ice for the coolers that would chill the day’s deliveries.

Parker held up his badge. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m looking for a Lu Chen.”

The men straightened immediately, one wide-eyed with fear, the other narrow-eyed with suspicion. The first had the round, doughy features of someone with Down syndrome. Parker addressed the other man. “I’m Detective Parker, LAPD. Is there a Lu Chen here?”

“Why?”

Parker smiled. “That was a yes or no question. Unless your name is Lu Chen.”

“Lu Chen is my aunt.”

“And you are?”

“Chi.”

“Just Chi?” Parker asked. “Like Cher? Like Prince?”

The steel-eyed stare. No sense of humor.

“Is your aunt here?”

Chi stabbed his shovel into the pile of ice. Anger management issues. “I’ll go see if she’s in her office.”

“I’ll come with you,” Parker said. The guy looked offended at the suggestion. Hell of a lot of attitude from someone who shoveled ice for a living.

Chi climbed up on the loading dock, then stood there with his hands on his hips, glaring at Parker. Not the day to have worn the Hugo Boss suit, Parker thought, but there it was. The gauntlet had been thrown down.

Parker boosted himself up onto the dock and dusted himself off, trying not to grimace as he looked at a streak of black dirt on the front of his jacket. His sour-faced tour guide turned and led him through part of the small warehouse space, down a narrow hall to a door marked OFFICE.

Chi knocked. “Aunt? A police detective is here to see you.”

The door opened and a small, neat woman in a red wool blazer and black slacks stared out at them. Her expression was as fierce as her nephew’s, but in a way that was strong rather than petulant.

“Detective Parker, ma’am.” Parker offered his ID. “If I could have a moment of your time, please. I have a couple of questions for you.”

“In regards to what, may I ask?”

“Your car, ma’am. You own a 2002 Mini Cooper?”

“Yes.”

The nephew made a huff of disgust. Lu Chen looked at him. “Please leave us, Chi. I know you have work to do.”

“More than usual,” he said. “Being shorthanded.”

“Excuse us, then,” she said pointedly, and the nephew turned and walked away. She turned to Parker. “Would you care for tea, Detective?”

“No, thank you. I just have a few questions. Is the car here?”

“Yes, of course. I park in back.”

“Do you mind if I have a look?”

“Not at all. What is this all about?” she asked, leading him from the cramped office out the back to the alley.

Parker walked slowly around the car. “When was the last time you drove it?”

She thought for a moment. “Three days ago. I had a charity luncheon at Barneys in Beverly Hills. Then, of course, it rained.”

“You didn’t take it out yesterday?”

“No.”

“Did anyone else take it out? Your nephew, maybe?”

“Not that I know. I was here all day. Chi was here all day, as well, and he has his own car.”

“Does anyone else have access to the keys?”

Now she began to look worried. “They hang in my office. What is this about, Detective? Have I violated some traffic law? I don’t understand.”

“A car matching the description of yours was reported leaving the scene of a crime yesterday. A break-in and assault.”

“How dreadful. But I can assure you, it wasn’t my car. My car was here.”

Parker pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “A witness copied part of the license plate. It comes pretty close to matching yours.”

“As do many, I’m sure.”

She was a cool one, he had to give her that. He strolled along the driver’s side to the rear of the car and tapped his notebook against the broken taillight. “As the car was leaving the scene, it was struck by a minivan. The taillight was broken.”

“Such a coincidence. My car was struck while I was at my luncheon. I discovered the damage when I went to leave.”

“What did the lot attendant have to say?”

“There was none.”

“Did you report the incident to the police?”

“For what purpose?” she asked, arching a brow. “To garner their sympathy? In my experience, the police have no interest in such small matters.”

“To your insurance company, then?”

“File a claim for so little damage? I would be a fool to give my insurance company such an invitation to raise my rates.”

Parker smiled and shook his head. “You must be something on the tennis court, Ms. Chen.”

“You may call me Madame Chen,” she said, her back ramrod straight. Parker doubted she topped five feet, and still she somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “And I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“My apologies,” Parker said with a deferential tip of his head. “Madame Chen. You seem to have an answer for everything.”

“Why would I not?”

He touched the scratch marks on the Mini Cooper’s otherwise impeccable glossy black paint. “The minivan that struck the car leaving the crime scene was silver. The car that damaged your car was silver also.”

“Silver is a popular color.”

“Interesting thing about paint colors,” Parker said. “They’re particular to make. Ford’s silver paint, for instance, is not Toyota’s silver paint is not BMW’s silver paint. They’re chemically unique.”

“How fascinating.”

“Do you know a J. C. Damon?” Parker asked.

She didn’t react to the sudden change of subject. Parker couldn’t decide if that was genius or a miscalculation. An overreaction would have been more telling, he supposed.

“How would I know this person?” she asked.

“He’s a bike messenger for Speed Couriers. Twentyish, blond, good-looking kid.”

“I have no need of a bicycle messenger.”

“That wasn’t actually the question,” Parker pointed out.

No response.

“J. C. Damon was the person driving the car that was leaving the scene of the crime.”

“Do I seem like the sort of person to consort with criminals, Detective?”

“No, ma’am. But once again, you’ve managed not to answer my question.”

Parker tried to imagine what possible connection this dignified steel lotus blossom might have to a kid like Damon, a ragtag loner, living on the fringes of society. There didn’t seem to be any, and yet he would have bet money there was. This was the car. There were too many hits on crucial points for any of them to be coincidence, and what Madame Chen wasn’t saying was a lot.

Parker leaned a hip against the car, making himself comfortable. “Between you and me, I’m not so sure this kid is a criminal,” he confessed. “I think maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now he’s up to his neck in a serious mess and he doesn’t know how to get out. Things like that happen.”

“Now you speak like a social worker,” Madame Chen said. “Is it not your job to make arrests?”

“I’m not interested in arresting innocent people. My job is to find the truth. I think he might be able to help me do that,” Parker said. “And I might be able to help him.”

She glanced away from him for the first time in their conversation, a pensive shading to her expression. “I’m sure a young man in such a situation may find it difficult to trust—particularly the police.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true,” Parker said. “A young person with a happy background doesn’t come to be in a situation like that. Life is tough for more people than not. But if a kid like that has someone in his life who can reach out to him . . . Well, that can make all the difference.”

A small worry line creased between her brows. Parker figured she had to be pushing sixty, but her skin was as flawless as porcelain.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. “If for any reason you might need to reach me, ma’am, feel free to call me—anytime, day or night,” he said, handing the card to her. “In the meantime, I’m afraid I’m going to have to impound your car.”

Anger sparked her to attention again. “That is outrageous! I have told you my car has not left this spot in three days!”

“So you have,” Parker conceded. “The thing is, I don’t believe you. It matches the description, the plate number, the damage to the car I’m looking for. I’m afraid you’ve got the trifecta there, Madame Chen. A tow truck will come and take your car to be a guest of the LAPD until lab tests can be run.”

“I’m calling my attorney,” she declared.

“You have that right,” Parker said. “I should also tell you that if the results of the tests come back the way I believe they will, there is a chance you could be charged as an accessory.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“I’m just letting you know. It’s not up to me. I wouldn’t want to see that happen, Madame Chen. You strike me as a person who takes her responsibilities very seriously.”

“I’m glad you think so highly of me that you would treat me like a common criminal,” she snapped, turning on her heel and marching toward her office.

“I don’t think you common in any way, Madame Chen,” Parker said. “But for future reference, ma’am, Barneys’ parking lot always has an attendant.”

She gave him a look that might have melted lesser men.

Parker smiled. “I’m a regular.”

Unimpressed, she stormed off and disappeared into the building.

Parker sighed and looked around. The Chen family had a nice little business going. Neat as a pin. Everything A-one. He had purchased prawns here once for a quiet dinner with Diane. Excellent quality.

Maybe he would do it again when this case was closed.

He had left Diane asleep in his bed, putting an orange on his vacated pillow and a note that read: Breakfast in bed. I’ll call you later. K

It had been nice to fall asleep with her in his arms, and to wake up with her there. To do that more often seemed like a good idea. Not that he wanted something permanent, or legally binding. Neither of them wanted that. Rules and regulations altered expectations and issues of trust in a relationship, and not for the better, as far as he’d seen. But as he became more settled in his life outside the job, and more content with the reconstructed Kev Parker, stability and normalcy and connection were becoming more attractive to him.

He pulled his cell phone out and called Dispatch to have a black-and-white sent to sit on the Mini Cooper until he could get his warrant.

As he waited, he looked at the buildings across the alley. Plenty of windows overlooking the Chen lot. There were probably more than a few pairs of eyes glancing out even now. As soon as the black-and-white rolled in, the news would be all over Chinatown in a flash—among the Chinese, at least.

If he wanted to canvass the neighbors, he might find someone who had noticed the Mini Cooper missing, or perhaps had seen it leave or return. But Parker had no intention of doing that. He didn’t want Madame Chen as an enemy, or perceiving him to be one. There was no need to air her business with the neighbors and fan the flames of gossip.

The sensation of being watched crept over Parker’s skin. Not from above, but from straight on. His gaze swept the loading dock, the other side of the alley, and came to rest on a stack of wooden pallets sitting at the back of the next building.

Parker stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered—not toward the pallets, but across the alley, where tall bunches of purple irises and yellow sunflowers were being delivered in through the back door of a florist’s shop.

He eased his way down the alley, the pallets in his peripheral vision. When he was just past them, he glanced back.

A small figure shifted position to keep him in sight, wedging between the pallets and the brick building.

Parker turned and looked straight at his little voyeur. A kid. Maybe eight or nine. Swallowed up in a faded black sweatshirt nine sizes too big for him, his face peering out from the depths of the hood, blue eyes that went wide as gaze met gaze.

“Hey, kid—”

The boy bolted before the words were even out of Parker’s mouth, and the chase was on. Quick as a rabbit, the kid zipped past Chen’s lot, heading for the cover of a big blue Dumpster. Parker sprinted full-out after him, hit the brakes as the boy pulled a one-eighty, and skidded another ten feet before he could change directions.

“Kid! Stop! Police!” Parker shouted, sprinting back down the alley, his tie flipped over his shoulder, waving like a flag behind him.

The boy took a hard left into a parking lot wedged between a U of buildings. No way out Parker could see except to go in the back door of the center building. The door was closed.

The cars were parked nose-to-tail, two deep and four wide. Parker walked along behind the cars, his breath coming in hard, quick huffs. He set his hands at his waist and frowned at the fact that he was sweating. His shirt still had creases from the laundry. He hadn’t worn it two hours and he would be sending it back.

A quick glimpse of blond hair and blue jeans caught his eye as the boy dashed between a green Mazda and a white Saturn, crouching down to half his already small size.

“Okay, junior,” Parker said. “Come on out. I promise I won’t arrest you. No handcuffs, no pistol-whipping . . .”

There was a rustling on the fine gravel beneath the cars. A glimpse of pant leg, a black sneaker disappearing under a Volvo.

Parker stayed along the back of the cars, pacing slowly back and forth.

“I just want to ask you a couple of questions,” Parker said. “We could start with why you took off like that, but I’ll give you that one. A freebie. For future reference: If you run, cops will chase. We’re like dogs that way.”

He followed the scuttling sound back to the other side of the lot. He bent over and looked beneath a white BMW X5 with vanity plates that read 2GD4U. Big blue eyes stared back at him over a button nose smudged with dirt.

“Kev Parker,” he said, holding his badge down for the kid to see. “LAPD. And you are . . . ?”

“I have the right to remain silent.”

“You do, but you’re not under arrest. Is there some reason I should arrest you?”

“Anything I say can and will be used against me.”

“How old are you?” Parker asked.

The kid thought about that for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of answering. “Ten,” he said at last.

“You live around here?”

“You can’t make me talk to you,” the kid said. “I know all about my rights against self-in-crim-i-nation as defined by the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution.”

“A legal scholar. I’m impressed. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say. You really might as well not try to trick me,” the boy said. “I watch cop shows all the time.”

“Ah, you’re wise to us.”

“Plus, I’m probably a lot smarter than you are. I don’t say that to make you feel bad or anything,” he said earnestly. “It’s just that I have an IQ of a hundred sixty-eight, and that’s well above the average.”

Parker chuckled. “Kid, you’re a trip. Why don’t you crawl out from under there? You can explain the Pythagorean Theorem to me.”

“The square of the length of the hypotenuse of a right triangle equals the sum of the squares of the lengths of the other two sides. From the doctrines and theories of Pythagoras and the Py-thag-o-reans,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut as he sounded out the clumsy word, “who developed some basic principles of mathematics and astronomy, originated the doctrine of the harmony of the spheres, and believed in me-tem-psy-cho-sis, the eternal recurrence of things, and the mystical significance of numbers.”

Parker just stared at him.

“I read a lot,” the boy said.

“I guess so. Come on, genius,” Parker said, offering his hand. “All my blood is rushing to my head. Get out from under there before I have a stroke.”

The boy scuttled out from under the car like a crab, stood up, and tried in vain to dust himself off. The sleeves of his sweatshirt had to be six inches longer than his arms. The hood had fallen back, revealing a shock of blond hair.

“I don’t really consider myself to be a genius,” he confessed modestly. “I just know a lot of stuff.”

“Why aren’t you in school?” Parker asked. “You already know everything, so they sprang you loose?”

The kid pushed back a sleeve and consulted a watch that was so big for him it looked like he had a dinner plate strapped to his arm.

“It’s only seven thirty-four.”

“Your school must be close by, huh?”

The boy frowned.

“And you live in the neighborhood, or you’d be more concerned about the time,” Parker said. “You’re observant. You’re smart. I’ll bet you know a lot about what goes on around here.”

The one-shoulder shrug. The toe in the dirt. Eyes on the ground.

“You’re below the radar,” Parker said. “You can slip around, see things, hear things. Nobody even notices.”

The other shoulder shrugged.

“So why were you watching me down there?”

“I dunno.”

“Just because? You working your way up to becoming a Peeping Tom so you can spy on girls?”

The little face scrunched up in distaste. “Why would I want to do that? Girls are weird.”

“Okay. So maybe you want to become a spy. Is that it?”

“Not really. I just have an in-sa-tia-ble curiosity.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Parker said. “Do you know the Chens? From the fish market?”

Both shoulders.

“Do you know a guy around here by the name of J. C. Damon? He’s a bike messenger.”

The eyes went a little wider. “Is he in trouble?”

“Kind of. I need to speak with him. I think he might have some information that could help me with a big investigation.”

“About what? A murder or something?”

“A case I’m working on,” Parker said. “I think he might have seen something.”

“Why won’t he just come and tell you, if that’s all?”

“Because he’s scared. He’s like you, running away from me because he thinks I’m the enemy. But I’m not.”

Parker could see the wheels turning in the kid’s head. He was curious now, and interested in the grudging way of someone pretending not to be.

“I’m not a bad guy,” Parker said. “You know, some people blame first and ask questions later. There could be cops like that out there looking for this guy Damon. It’d be a whole lot better for him if he came to me before they get to him.”

“What’ll they do to him?”

Parker shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have any control over them. If they believe this guy’s guilty, who knows what could happen?”

The kid swallowed hard, like he was swallowing a rock. Blond hair, blue eyes, good-looking kid. Just the way Parker had described Damon to Madame Chen. This one had been right there at the back of Chen’s, watching, listening. His interest now went beyond the excuse of the kid’s insatiable curiosity.

“Could they shoot him?” the boy asked.

Parker shrugged. “Bad things can happen. I’m not saying they will, but . . .”

He reached in a pocket, pulled out a business card, offered it to the kid. The boy snatched it as if he expected a manacle to snap around his wrist. One of those cop tricks he was wise to. He looked at the card, looked up at Parker from under his brows, then stuck the card in the pouch of the sweatshirt.

“If you see this guy Damon around . . .” Parker said.

The black-and-white radio car turned in at the end of the alley and stopped behind Chen’s. The uniform got out and called to him.

“Detective Parker?”

Parker started to raise a hand. The kid was off like a shot.

“Shit!” Parker shouted, bolting after him.

The boy had run back into the U of buildings. No way out, Parker thought, closing in on him. There was only the narrowest of spaces between two of the buildings, a ray of sunlight as thin as a razor blade. The kid ran around the front row of cars. Parker tried to cut the angle, jumping up and skidding on his ass across the hood of a Ford Taurus. He reached out to grab the kid as he came off the car, but he landed badly, stumbled, and went down on one knee.

The kid didn’t even slow down as he came to the buildings. He ran into the crack of space, fitting exactly between the two walls.

Parker swore, turned sideways, sucked in his breath, and started in, cobwebs hitting his face, the brick snatching at his suit. The boy was out the other end and gone before Parker had made it a dozen feet.

“Hey, Detective?” the uniform called from the parking lot.

Parker emerged, scowling, picking spiderwebs off the front of his jacket.

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Yeah,” Parker said, disgusted. “Call Hugo Boss and send my apologies.”