Kill the Messenger

54

Another gorgeous Southern California morning. Sunshine, traffic jams, and sensationalism.

Every early news show of every television station in the city was running footage of “Peril in Pershing Square,” followed by “Shootout on Olvera Street.” Much of the Pershing Square fiasco had been caught on videotape by a USC film student, who had been in the park to make a documentary about the movie crew that had been setting up for a shoot on the site.

Every station had reporters live at the scenes, where absolutely nothing was happening at six in the morning, and no one had anything of any real value to say.

“Regurgitating and rehashing sketchy facts and supposition—live at [crime scene of choice] this is [reporter’s name here] for channel whatever news.”

Television journalism in the new millennium.

Parker watched TV with the sound muted, reading the closed- captioning for Diane’s name, which appeared again and again. Every cop and SID tech and paramedic at the scene knew her. There had been no shortage of people willing to step into the glare of the lights and make some comment, or express their shock. The upper-right-hand corner of the screen on every channel had her booking photo already.

It hurt to see it, to see the emptiness in her eyes, the pallor of her skin. The vibrant, strong woman he knew was not there. This was some other Diane. This was the Diane she had spoken of, a stranger even to herself. In this Diane lived fear and fury, and the kind of raw pain that drove otherwise good people to cross lines they otherwise would not. This Diane had committed murder by proxy. This Diane had shot a man in the head. This Diane had planned and executed the plan to frame a man for a capital crime punishable by death.

In this Diane lived the need for love, the hunger for connection, the vulnerability of a child. This Diane had been used and abused by a sexual sociopath in a cruel and heartless game.

Parker walked away from the plasma-screen TV and went up onto the roof to stretch, to close everything out of his mind and walk through the movements that had helped to calm and center him every day for the past few years. Today the dance was tense with anger, the energy—the chi—blocked by the strength of his emotions.

When the frustration had tried his patience long enough, he gave up and just stood there for a long time, looking out over Chinatown, listening to the sounds of the city awakening and beginning the day.

One of the things he loved most about LA was the overriding sense that every day was new, brimming with the possibility of dreams coming true. Today, all he could feel was the opposite of hope. Today, he would in all likelihood lose the career he had fought so hard to resurrect. Today, a woman he loved would be charged with murder, and a morally bankrupt, emotional rapist would be set free with an unspoken endorsement to go on with his life as if nothing had ever happened.

Parker released a heavy sigh and went back inside to prepare to face it all. The best thing to do with a bad day: get through it and end it, and hope the next day would somehow be better.

Parker made his first stop of the day the hospital. One, because it was early, and he had a better chance of avoiding anyone from Robbery-Homicide. They would certainly interview Abby Lowell that day, but there was no urgent need to do it right away. Eddie Davis wasn’t going anywhere. And two, because he still had a badge, and the badge would get him in to see her with no questions asked.

She was a ghostly figure under the white sheet, the machines monitoring her vital signs the only things that indicated life. Staring up at the television growing out of the ceiling, her face was blank, her eyes expressionless. She was watching the Today show. An NBC news reporter was standing in Pershing Square talking about the incident, the film student’s footage was rolling, and Katie Couric looked concerned as she asked the reporter if there had been any bystander casualties.

“Your fifteen minutes is starting,” Parker said, tapping the face of his watch.

Abby’s eyes darted toward him. She didn’t say anything. Parker pulled a stool over to the side of the bed and perched on it.

“I’m told your prognosis is good,” he said. “You have feeling in all extremities.”

“I can’t move my legs,” she said.

“But you know they’re there. That’s a good sign.”

She just looked at him for a moment, trying to decide what to say. Her gaze flicked to the television and back. “Thank you for staying with me in the park last night. That was a very kind thing for you to do.”

“You’re welcome.” He gave her a crooked smile. “See? I’m not all bad.”

“You’re pretty bad,” she said. “You treated me like a criminal.”

“I can apologize now,” Parker said. “But it’s my job to be suspicious of people. Nine times out of ten I’m proven right.”

“And the tenth time?”

“I’ll send flowers.”

“Did you get the bike messenger?”

He nodded. “He didn’t have anything to do with your father’s death.”

“He tried to sell me the negatives. I thought he was in on it with Davis.”

“Why would you have wanted them?”

“Should I have an attorney present?” she asked.

Parker shook his head. “It’s not against the law to purchase negatives. Are you in them?”

“No.”

“Did you have any part in the blackmail scheme?” He wasn’t sure she didn’t. Her behavior through it all had been less than innocent.

“I found out what Lenny was up to,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought he could surprise or disappoint me anymore. I was wrong.”

“It’s hard to learn that lesson with someone you care about.”

“I didn’t want it to be true. I confronted him, begged him to put a stop to it, like that would have changed the fact that he was guilty of blackmail. He told me he would. He told me he had gotten caught up in it, that he was afraid of Eddie.”

“How did he get involved in the first place?”

“Davis was already a client. He came to Lenny and confessed to the murder, bragged about it. He didn’t think Lenny could do anything because of privilege. Then he asked Lenny to help him with the blackmail. He needed someone who wouldn’t rat him out to take the photographs.”

“And Lenny said yes,” Parker said. The lure of money had been too much for him, and/or having had a confessed perpetrator of a brutal murder make the offer made it too scary to refuse.

A nurse came into the room and gave Parker the eye as she looked at the machines and checked on Abby, trying to move him along. He could see by the strain on Abby’s face that she was running out of gas.

“Did Lenny give up Davis to the DA’s office? He wanted the last big payoff to himself?”

Tears brimmed over her lashes. The machine monitoring her heart rate began to beep a little faster. “I did,” she confessed in a small, hoarse whisper. “I thought if Giradello could go after Davis . . .”

Then Davis would have been arrested for Tricia Crowne-Cole’s murder. The negatives showed only Davis and Diane. Maybe they wouldn’t find anything against Lenny, except the word of a hit man. But Davis had had other plans.

“Did you speak to Giradello himself?”

“No. To his assistant.”

“Did you give your name?”

“I couldn’t.”

And how seriously would Anthony Giradello take an anonymous tip on a case that was a lock to convict, and a lock to launch his own political career? Not very. He had a vested interest in sending Rob Cole away. It was a wonder he’d even bothered to put Kyle and Roddick into the field to nose around.

Parker looked at Abby Lowell lying there looking young and frightened and crushed at the losses she had suffered. And he could see her at five or six in his mind’s eye, with that same expression as she sat in the corner of some bookie joint, left there by her father like she was a piece of luggage he would pick up on his way out.

Her eyes closed. The nurse scowled at Parker. He murmured a good-bye and walked out the door.