Kill the Messenger (18 page)

                        
      25

Parker went back into Morton’s, hailing the waiter en route to the table and making the universal hand signal for “Check, please.”

“Let’s go,” he said to Kelly. He pulled out his credit card and handed it to the waiter, then grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and started shrugging into it.

Kelly looked up at him. “No dessert? Some date you are.”

“Sorry,” Parker said. “You know, I’m not the kind of guy your mother would like anyway.”

Kelly rolled her eyes as she stood up. “She’d like you fine—for herself. What’s the big rush?”

Parker’s eyes did a quick scan of the tables. The waiter hustled back with his credit card, and Parker hurriedly added a generous tip and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the slip. He didn’t speak again until they were out the door.

“I’ve got a dead low-end defense attorney nobody should care about but his nearest and dearest,” Parker said as they walked just past the valet parking stand. “Why do you think Robbery-Homicide and Tony Giradello would have an interest in that?”

Kelly drew a breath as if she had an answer, but nothing came out. Parker could all but hear the wheels in her head whirring like Swiss watch parts. “They wouldn’t,” she said. “But you’re telling me they do?”

“A couple of Robbery-Homicide humps showed up at the crime scene last night. Kyle and his partner. Tried to throw their weight around.”

“But they didn’t take over the case?”

Parker shook his head. “No. I called their bluff and they backed down, and I don’t get that at all. What the hell were they doing there if they weren’t there to steal the case? And I mean
there,
Johnny-on-the-spot, not their usual MO.”

The Division cops always locked down the scene on a homicide, and Division detectives usually began the initial investigation. Then if the case was big enough or bad enough or glamorous enough, and Robbery-Homicide decided to take over, they would waltz onto the stage and take over with attitude and press conferences.

“No fanfare,” Parker said. “No trumpets, no warning, no press, except this clown Caldrovics—”

“Who won’t name his sources on a nothing story about a nobody lawyer.”

“And now I’m told those same Robbery-Homicide hotshots reported to Giradello in the middle of a fund-raiser tonight.”

Kelly shrugged it off. “That could have been about anything. They’re preparing for the Cole trial. Just because you’re paranoid—”

“Why would my name get mentioned in that conversation?”

Kelly looked at him like she thought she must have missed out on something earlier in the conversation. “You didn’t have anything to do with Tricia Cole’s homicide investigation.”

“No, nothing. No regular grunts like me were involved. The body was discovered by the daughter, who called Norman Crowne. The Crowne brain trust called the chief directly. The chief sent Robbery-Homicide.”

“I know,” Kelly said. “I was there. That was my story,
is
my story. So why would Giradello be talking to Robbery-Homicide cops about you?”

“The only common denominator between me and Bradley Kyle is Lenny Lowell,” Parker said, carefully omitting the fact that the name of his chief suspect had also come up in the same conversation.

It was one thing to dangle a carrot in front of Kelly; giving her the store was something else. Parker wouldn’t compromise his case by selling himself out. As a cop, he had had a healthy hatred of reporters drilled into him long ago. But he liked Kelly, and he owed her, and he certainly wasn’t above siccing her on Bradley Kyle or Tony Giradello. As Parker saw it, it was a mutually advantageous arrangement.

“But why would Giradello have any interest in your stiff?”

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Andi,” Parker said, digging his ticket out of his coat pocket and turning toward the valet. “Why don’t you ask someone who might know.”

Kelly handed her ticket over. “And get back to you.”

“Symbiosis, my friend,” Parker said. “In the meantime, we’re going to go ask your little pal Jimmy Olsen if Bradley Kyle is a secret friend of his.”

Kelly’s face dropped. “We?”

“Well, I don’t know the guy. You do.”

“He’s not my child, for Christ’s sake. How would I know where he is?”

“You’re an investigative reporter. Where would you investigate if you were looking for young, asshole reporters?”

The big sigh. Parker’s Chrysler rolled up. “Maybe I can get a pager number.”

“Maybe you can do better than that,” Parker said, as Kelly’s car pulled to the curb behind his. “Where do the young monkeys hang out to drink and beat their chests these days?”

They each went to their respective driver’s door.

“If you kill him,” Kelly said. “I get the exclusive.”

The only single group of people Parker knew who drank as much as cops were writers, all kinds of writers. Screenwriters, novelists, reporters. The nearest watering hole was where the animals gathered to commune and commiserate. As solitary as writers were by nature, they had the particular stresses and paranoias of their work in common. And no matter what the profession, misery consistently loves company.

The bar Kelly led him to was a downtown die-hard joint that probably didn’t look much different than it had in the thirties. Except that in the old days, the air would have been white with smoke, and the clientele would have been predominantly male. In the new millennium it was illegal to smoke damn near anywhere in LA, and women went wherever they pleased.

Kelly snagged a pair of stools at the front corner of the bar that tucked them back from the crowd but allowed a view of the room and the front door.

“Back when your hat was in fashion,” she said, “this place would have been full of cigar-chomping newspapermen. Now that it’s fashionable to listen to Frank Sinatra and drink cocktails again, it’s overrun with young professionals looking for sex partners.”

“The world’s gone to hell on a sled,” Parker observed.

He ordered a tonic and lime for himself. Kelly asked for the best scotch in the place, then raised an eyebrow at Parker. “You’re still paying, right? I’m counting this as part of the date.”

“We’re not on a date.”

“You want something from me, and you bought me dinner in hopes of getting it,” she said. “How is that different from a date?”

“There’s not going to be sex involved.”

“Well, Jesus, reject me to my face, why don’t you?” she said, pretending outrage. “You’re brutal. At least most of the guys I date are too cowardly to be blunt. There’s something to be said for that.”

Parker chuckled. “You’ve still got it, Andi. You know, I’d kind of forgotten that. During that whole mess with the preppie murder, you were the only person who made me laugh.”

“I’m not quite sure how to take that.”

“As a compliment.” He turned toward her on his stool, going serious. “You were decent to me on that. I don’t know that I ever said thank you.”

She blushed a little, looked away, took a sip of her scotch, caught an errant drop from her upper lip with the tip of her tongue.

“Telling the truth is my job,” she said. “I shouldn’t have to be patted on the back for doing what’s right.”

“Well, still . . . You stood up when it wasn’t the popular thing to do. I appreciated that.”

Kelly tried to shrug it off, even though Parker knew she had taken flak for it at the time.

“I don’t see Caldrovics,” she said. “But that little pack in the fourth booth down is the one he might run with. The obnoxiously young and hungry,” she said with disgust. “I have jeans as old as they are.”

“You’re not old,” Parker scoffed. “If you’re old, I’m old. I don’t accept that.”

“Easy for you to say. A sexy guy is a sexy guy until he becomes incontinent and has to use an ear trumpet to hear. Look at Sean Connery. The guy has more hair coming out his ears than on his head, and women still fantasize about him. A girl hits forty-something in this town, and she’s culled from the herd.”

“Are you fishing for compliments, Kelly?”

She scowled. “No. I’m casting a fucking net. What are you? Stupid? Has training recruits had the same effect on you as a frontal lobotomy?”

“You look great,” Parker said. “You haven’t aged a day. Your skin is luminous, and your ass looks fantastic in those pants. How’s that?”

She pretended to pout. “You hit the key points, but you could score better on sincerity.”

“I’m out of practice.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“I’m telling you, I’m a quiet homebody now,” he said. “So tell me about Goran.”

“There’s nothing much to tell.”

“You married the guy.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said, looking down into her drink, waiting for Parker to drop it, but he was waiting her out, and she blinked first.

“I thought he was the love of my life. Turned out I wasn’t the only one who thought that.” She shrugged and made a funny face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “
C’est la vie.
Who needs it, right? I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

“Nope. I’m still working on the joy of being me.”

“There he is,” Kelly said, nodding across the room. “Caldrovics. He’s coming from the back. Must have been in the men’s room. Greasy hair, scruffy goatee, looks like a homeless person.”

“Got him,” Parker said, sliding off the bar stool.

“And for God’s sake,” Kelly said, “whatever you do, don’t mention my name.”

He put some bills on the bar to cover the tab, then made his way across the room, through the yuppies in heat, past a couple of old bulldogs arguing about the president’s Middle East policies. None of Caldrovics’ pals noticed him approaching their booth. They were too caught up in themselves and in some tale Caldrovics was telling as he stood at the end of the booth with his back to Parker.

Parker put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Mr. Caldrovics?”

The expression was unpleasant surprise with a base of suspicion. He was maybe twenty-four, twenty-five. He still had acne. He was probably still having flashbacks of being sent to the principal’s office.

“I’d like to have a word with you, please,” Parker said. He cupped his shield in his hand and flashed it discreetly to Caldrovics.

Before the rest of the table could become interested, Parker moved away from it, his hand still resting firmly at the base of the kid’s neck.

“What’s this about?” Caldrovics asked, dragging his feet.

“Doing your civic duty,” Parker said. “You want to do your civic duty, don’t you?”

“Well—”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your first name.”

“Danny—”

“Can I call you Danny?” Parker asked, walking him toward the back hall. “I’m Detective Parker, Kev Parker. LAPD Central Division, Homicide.”

“Homicide?”

“Yeah. When one person kills another person, that’s called homicide.”

“I know what it means.”

They went out the back exit to an alley where a couple of bar staffers were having cigarettes and looking bored.

“Let’s take a walk, Danny,” Parker suggested.

“This isn’t a very safe area.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m carrying a loaded weapon,” Parker said, tightening the tenor of his voice a little more with each word. “Two, actually. Do you have a gun, Danny?”

“Shit, no!”

“Well, that’s all right. I’m sure you’ll never need one.”

Caldrovics tried to put the brakes on. “Where are we going?”

“Just over here,” Parker said, giving him a little shove as they passed a Dumpster, where they couldn’t be seen by the employees behind the bar. “I thought a little privacy would be a good thing. I don’t like people eavesdropping on conversations. You know, like reporters. They never get the facts right, do they, Danny?”

He pulled his service weapon from his belt holster and kicked the side of the trash container. The sound reverberated like a gong. “Everybody out!”

Caldrovics jumped back, wide-eyed. “Shit, man! What are you doing?”

“Damn pipeheads,” Parker complained. “They’re always back in these alleys like rats in the garbage. They’ll slit your throat for a dime.”

The security light behind the building had the astonishing white brightness of a full moon. Parker could see the kid’s every expression but the kid couldn’t see his. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face.

“I need to ask you a couple of questions, Danny,” he began. “About that little bit you had in the paper this morning regarding the murder of Leonard Lowell, Esquire.”

Caldrovics took a step back toward the Dumpster.

“I’m the primary investigator on that case,” Parker said. “That means everything comes through me. Everyone who has anything to do with or to say about that case has to come to me.”

“I don’t have—”

“It’s protocol, Danny. I’m a stickler for protocol.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Caldrovics muttered.

“Excuse me?” Parker said, taking an aggressive step forward. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

“No.”

“Then you’re just stupid. Is that it?”

Caldrovics backed up another step, but Parker closed the space between them by another foot. “You’re so stupid you’d stand here and disrespect me to my face?”

“I don’t have to take shit from you, Parker,” Caldrovics said. “I did my job—”

“You’re not impressing me here, Danny. You’ve really gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“You can’t harass me like this,” Caldrovics said.

“What are you going to do? Tell on me?” Parker laughed. “You think I give a shit what anybody thinks of me? You think anyone gives a shit about what you have to say with no corroborating witness?”

They were close enough to kiss. Caldrovics was nervous, but doing a good job of trying not to show it.

“What have you got in your pockets, Danny?” he asked quietly. “You got a tape running?”

“No.”

Parker stuck a hand in the left pocket of the kid’s army surplus jacket, then in the right. He came out with a microcassette recorder.

“It’s not smart to lie to me, Danny,” Parker said, clicking the thing off. “The fuse on my temper right now is the size of an eyelash. I’ve got a murder that smells like week-old oysters, and you’ve got information I need. And now you’re lying to me.”