Kill the Messenger

39

The media encampment outside the courthouse looked like some kind of techno-geek refugee camp. Lights on poles, generators, wire cable snakes running in all directions on the ground, guys in baggy shorts carrying video cameras with network logos, sound guys in headsets, on-air talent dressed to the nines from neck to waist. From the waist down: baggy shorts, sandals, sneakers.

News vans made their own parking lot. Satellite dishes raised up like strange, giant flowers turning their faces to the sun. Vendors sold cold drinks and cappuccinos, pita sandwiches and burritos, ice cream and frozen fruit bars, vintage bowling shirts and “Free Rob Cole” T-shirts.

The print media were the coyotes of the bunch, roaming at large, not tethered to cables, no need for makeup or lights. Photographers with multiple cameras slung around their necks and ball caps on backward roamed the grounds, hunting for an angle that hadn’t been used. Reporters perched here and there, smoking cigarettes, talking shop.

Parker punched Andi Kelly’s number as he approached the scene.

“Andi Kelly.”

“This is so 1994,” Parker complained. “Hasn’t anybody come up with anything new since O.J.? Isn’t there something more exciting to report on?”

“Celeb criminals are hot again, Parker. It’s retro reality TV. All the rage.”

“What’s next? The return of David Lee Roth and the hair bands?”

“The world’s going to hell on a sled. Where are you?”

“Between the guy selling bootleg DVDs of Cole’s television series and the Channel 4 news van. Where are you?”

“On the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

“Meet me by the espresso guy.”

“You’re buying.”

“Have you ever picked up a tab in your life?”

“Nope.”

Parker paid for a double tall espresso for himself and a grande triple caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream for Kelly.

“You have the metabolism of a gnat,” Parker observed.

“Yeah, it’s great. What are you doing down here?”

“Talking to you,” he said, but his gaze scanned the crowd, his radar up for any sign of Kyle or Roddick. He tipped his head away from the madness. “Take a walk with me. You won’t miss anything, will you?”

She waved a hand at the courthouse and rolled her eyes. “Cole’s inside, trying to look bereaved for the jury pool. Scintillating, I’m sure. He gets to show his full emotional range, from A to B.”

They walked a short distance down the street, away from the carnival, turning to watch from a distance.

“You look a little rough around the edges, Kev,” Kelly said.

“It’s been a hell of a day so far.”

“And the day ain’t over yet,” she said. “Have you had to face your friends from RHD?”

“I won’t give them the satisfaction,” Parker said, his gaze still scanning. He was in full-on hunting mode now, mind racing, pulse racing, blood pressure rising. He couldn’t make himself stand still. Slowly shifting weight from one leg to the other was his pressure valve, spending a little steam to keep him from blowing up.

“I’m not a gracious loser,” he said. “I took everything I had on the case and walked. They’ve probably got an APB out on me even as we speak.”

“So who knocked you around?” Kelly asked.

“Huh?”

“My keen investigative skills tell me someone wasn’t playing nice on the playground.” She leaned down and plucked at his pants leg where he’d landed on his knee in Davis’s garage. A grease stain and a small three-corner tear marked the spot. Both legs were beige with dust over the expensive brown-with-blue-pinstripe fabric.

Parker’s eyes widened as if he were seeing himself for the first time. “Aww, son of a . . . I’m suing this creep Davis when I catch him. This is Canali!”

“Well, how stupid are you? Why would you wear a designer suit to a dogfight?”

“I’m a detective. When am I ever in a fight?” Parker said, more bent out of shape than the piece of tailpipe Davis had used to beat on him.

“Well, today, apparently.”

“Besides, my clothes are my disguise. No one thinks I’m a cop. I dress too well to be a cop.”

“Can you write your suits off on your taxes, then?”

“My business manager says no.”

“That sucks.” Kelly shrugged. “Everything has a trade-off. So what happened?”

“Eddie Davis caught me poking around his place. I took the opportunity to arrest him. Then he took the opportunity to try to kill me. He’s at large. Every cop in the city is looking for him now. Do you know anything interesting about him yet?”

“In the minute and a half since you asked me to vet the guy?”

“Here’s what I know so far,” Parker said. “He’s a low-end petty criminal with delusions of grandeur. Until recently, he had a low-end defense attorney by the name of Lenny Lowell.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

Parker did another quick scan, only his eyes moving. A stocky guy in a wrinkled shirt and tie stood a little too near, lighting a cigarette. Parker went over to him and flashed his ID.

“Hey, pal, take a walk,” he said.

The guy gave him attitude. “I’m having a cigarette here. Mind your own business.”

Parker got in his face. “No. That’s not how this works, ace. You mind your business over there,” he said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the courthouse.

Kelly wedged herself in front of him and tried to move him back a step. “Kevin . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at the smoker. “Sorry. He started the patch last week.”

Parker turned away from her and walked down the block another fifteen yards. Kelly scurried to catch up.

“This is just a thought,” she said, “but you could maybe take the testosterone down a notch.”

Parker ignored her. “My friend who overheard my name in that conversation between Giradello and Kyle was at a fund-raiser for the DA. The prominent guest of the evening was Norman Crowne.”

Kelly’s brow furrowed as she tried to tie the pieces together. “A low-end lawyer like Lowell . . . a cheap thug like Davis . . . Those guys are less than ants in the world of someone like Norman Crowne.”

“I think Lowell and Davis were blackmailing someone,” Parker said. “I’m guessing Eddie got tired of sharing. So how does a goon like Eddie Davis, a known knee-buster, come up with someone to blackmail?”

“Sixty-two percent of relationships begin in the workplace,” she quipped. Then realization dawned. “Oh, my God. You think someone hired Davis to kill Tricia Cole.”

“And that someone couldn’t be Rob Cole,” Parker said. “Even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to be in the house when the cops came. He would have been out establishing an alibi.”

Kelly tried to digest the idea. Parker started to pace, his own thought processes racing. Black cars were lined up at the curb with drivers at the wheel, and LAPD motorcycle cops were sitting on their bikes in front and behind, at regular intervals. Livery for the big heads that would be coming out of the courthouse soon. Three limos, a couple of Town Cars, a triple-black Cadillac Escalade with black-tinted windows.

Parker took in the details almost absently, just to keep his brain focused on something innocuous so he could breathe and rein in his energy for a moment. He paced back and forth past the same three cars a couple of times, then stopped abruptly. He wasn’t even sure why, at first. Then slowly he turned back to walk past the last of the cars again.

“What is it?” Kelly asked, joining him.

On the lower right corner of the back window was a small purple circular sticker with a gold insignia and a row of black numerals. A parking sticker for a corporate lot. The scene came up in his memory: He was walking toward the black Lincoln Town Car, doing what he had been doing just now, taking in small details, filing them neatly away in his brain, but keeping his mind focused on the subject of most importance: Eddie Davis. He remembered the electric blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the black car, the license plate, the small parking sticker on the lower corner of the back window. It was no bigger than a quarter.

Parker’s breathing was shallow and quick, and he felt a strange light-headedness as he lowered his gaze to the rear plate.

CROWNE 5.