The Parker Trilogy Read online

  It’s okay. Don’t think of them. Don’t let yourself—

  She would sit in the pew with her back as straight as her long hair, which often fell to her waist. And she would look at him as if every word he said could both save her and crush her.

  “Don’t. Stop it right now, Bernie,” he said, speaking to himself in the third person in the hopes that the words would finally be obeyed.

  For a while it was just him, the room and the rain. As if he were a conductor in the pit of a heavenly orchestra made of thousands of percussive instruments, each falling and exploding raindrop a new note in a song that he did not want to stop listening to.

  When the toaster oven dinged, shattering his peace, his eyes snapped open. He’d almost fallen asleep on his feet, he was so exhausted. He walked slowly to the kitchen, ate the slice of pizza over the sink and dutifully took his pills with another glass of water. He would regret this, so much water before bedtime. His bladder would never make it through the night now. But that was okay. He was used to getting up a few times in the wee hours anyway to relieve himself, so what was one more time in the grand scheme of things?

  After the last pill, he went to his recliner, sat down, covered himself with the heavy blanket and sheet that were on it, then reached over to the stereo system nearby. He loved to listen to music to help him fall asleep each night, and though he doubted he would need any help this evening, it didn’t matter. Habits were good for you. Most of them, anyway. They gave order to an otherwise anarchistic world. And the rain, sounding so musical the way it just had, made him yearn for one of his favorite songs.

  Using the stereo remote he dialed up the song, set it up to repeat, then set the sleep timer for thirty minutes.

  As the opening chords of Ombra Mai Fu spilled from the speakers, Father Soltera waited for the singer’s voice to step into the sound and fill it, and she did, with a human vulnerability that seemed to translate the dialect of the instruments around her with a gentle yet powerful plea. Listen, the notes said, and then suffer the joy for doing so.

  He closed his eyes.

  Somewhere, he knew, in that song was his truth. Maybe hiding in the retreating keys of the piano, maybe beyond them and in the heart of the cellists’ resonating tones.

  For a brief second, he saw Gabriella’s face again, but he banished it with the final cry of the singer, which reverberated with such intensity that it seemed to be playing his heart like a sheet of music, his desire to be in heaven and away from all the temptations and pain of this world now growing.

  In time. All in due time. When the cancer was done doing its job.

  For now, he would listen to the lyrics.

  May thunder, lightning, and storms

  never disturb your dear peace,

  nor may you by blowing winds be profaned . . .

  He smiled and whispered the closing words.

  “A shade tree there never was, of any plant . . . dearer and more lovely, or sweet.”

  Then, he fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hector awoke in his car, his head jammed against the driver’s side window, the cool glass plastered to his cheek. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings. It was early and the car was covered in droplets of rain, which partially distorted his view of the outside world. There was a misty fog hovering over the street in front of him, and the grass of the house he was parked next to was dark and wet.

  He remembered telling his crew that he was going home with the girl in the red blouse. She’d told him her name but he’d already forgotten it, never intending on ever talking to her again anyway. Just doing his thing, proving to everyone that he was back in the game. And, to be honest, the sex had been great. But after nearly four months in prison, how could it not be? When they were done in the backseat, he had driven her home and gone up into her apartment, where they both fell asleep.

  A few hours later he awoke in a drunken haze and made his way to the kitchen, where he raided a box of Frosted Flakes, which he obviously enjoyed and decided to keep because the box was still with him, lying now on the passenger seat.

  At some point he’d driven here, but he couldn’t remember when or how. Whatever.

  Across the street was Marisol’s house. Her car was in the driveway, and so was a black Chevy Camaro with chrome rims and one of those old-school 76 station balls stuck on the antennae. David-the-Bouncer’s car, no doubt.

  Hector grabbed at his waistband, but his gun wasn’t there. He’d left it back at the shop shop, in an old Nike box under the bed. He knew that, but just the thought of this fool inside that house, with Marisol, made him think two things: gun and kill.

  Who you kiddin’? You ain’t got the balls.

  Hector closed his eyes. The Smiling Midget was back.

  Choosing to ignore him, Hector yawned, exhaustion keeping his rage muted this time. He needed some coffee and a damn donut or something, but he didn’t want to miss lover boy when he came out of the house. It was Wednesday. A school day. Maybe he had morning classes or something. A real smart guy, this David. But not smart enough not to mess with someone’s girl when that someone was in jail.

  That was a bullshit move right there. Be the shoulder to cry on. Be the confidant. Be patient. Then get that hand up that skirt. Hector wondered how long it took him, how long Marisol held out and tried to be a good girl before she finally gave in. He probably got her high, she always got horny on weed, and then it was simple as that.

  Yeah. Real Mother Teresa, that Marisol. She was . . . practically . . . a virgin when she met you too. Right? The Smiling Midget laughed, long and hard.

  “Go away,” Hector replied wearily.

  Practically . . . meaning, what, you were like the tenth or twelfth dude she’d been with?

  “I said . . . shut UP!”

  I mean, did you ever get the number, man?

  Hector sat up and spun around. The Smiling Midget was stretched out on his back, his arms spread, his head resting in his hands. Glaring at Hector with contempt, he pushed further.

  Because we both know you wanted to know, huh, buddy boy? Just how special . . . you weren’t.

  “Whatever you say, you dickless troll. Quit distracting me.”

  Ah. Okay. So back to David, huh? Yeah. Steal a dude’s woman when he’s not around to do anything about it and can’t defend his honor because he’s behind bars? I admit. That was some pathetic-ass shit right there.

  Hector shivered. It was cold. Really cold. He reached for the key to turn on the heater but then thought twice about that. All the other cars around him were parked and still. A car sitting outside idling might look suspicious. Marisol wouldn’t know this car, it belonged to Renaldo, but still, Hector didn’t want to take the chance. After ten minutes, though, his head aching, his stomach rumbling and his skin shivering, Hector got fed up.

  “Screw it,” he said into the emptiness of the car, his voice raspy and low.

  There was a mini-mart close by, no more than a mile away. He could get there, load up on grub, take a piss and be back here in ten minutes. The odds that this bastard had a 7:00 a.m. class were probably not that high. Not when he usually worked bouncers’ hours. East LA College was nearby too. So even if he had an early class, he would probably milk every minute of sleep he could get.

  Yeah. The Smiling Midget sniggered. That’s what he’s doing in there: sleeping. Keep telling yourself that.

  Shaking his head, Hector started the car, made a U-turn off the curb and drove to the mini-mart. Being an old Chevy Impala meant it didn’t take long for the car’s heater to kick in and make him feel toasty. When he pulled into the parking lot he almost didn’t want to get out, but the sight of a line of coffee pots over an island in the middle of the store was more than he could take.

  Hopping out of the car, he was chilled more by the fog than by the temperature. He was instantly damp. Once inside the mini-mart, he headed to the bathroom, did his business and splashed warm water over his face, shaved head and aching
neck. It felt so good that he did it again. Then, angling the faucet to cold water, he used the index finger of his right hand like a toothbrush, trying to get rid of his cottonmouth. Talk about dehydrated. He decided that he would drink a bottled water before the coffee. When he finished, he dried off with some paper towels and made his way through the store.

  After grabbing a banana and two donuts to go with his water, he made his way to the coffee island. He went with dark roast, adding eight packets of sugar to the cup and only a dash of cream. After paying up, he went back out to his car and drove back to the exact same spot across from Marisol’s house, happy to see that the Camaro, and this pendejo, were still there.

  Somehow the drive had knocked The Smiling Midget out. He was snoring loudly in the back seat.

  Relieved, Hector sat and waited, like a cop on stakeout, munching on the donuts and drinking his coffee slowly, wary of his stomach’s anger at him for drinking so heavily the night before. Over the next hour he watched as the neighbors shuffled out to their cars and drove off, some of them looking bitter and angry, others still looking half asleep with their kids in tow. Good little squirrels, all marching off to earn a nut. Hector shook his head. Whether they were hourly or salary? They were all suckers.

  “Screw that, homie,” he said to no one at all. Thanks to the coffee loosening his vocal chords, he sounded more like himself again.

  The sky had gone from gray-black to flat gray to what it was now: a vicious white-gray color that glared into his eyes and stoked his hangover headache. The fog was lifting though. When he had first awoken he could only see four or five cars down the street. Now he could almost see all the way to the corner.

  Hector was just beginning to wonder what was more boring, being a nine-to-five grunt or being a cop on stakeout, when the door to Marisol’s house slowly opened and out came who Hector assumed was the man of the hour. He certainly looked like a bouncer; at least six foot three, easy, with broad shoulders and a large frame. He wasn’t fat but he wasn’t muscular. And he wasn’t hooked up either. That was for sure. He had a full head of hair and dressed like an average joe. No tatts that Hector could make out, and the haircut and clothes alone said that he wasn’t from around here.

  That only made it worse. Things in the hood were hard enough without outsiders rolling in and sniping off the ladies. This was the type of dude who hung out in Los Feliz, maybe grew his sideburns long to look hip from time to time and probably spoke like a damn gentleman. Third gen, no doubt. Conversational Spanish only, not much better than half the damn white boys in LA these days.

  Seeing him at last gave Hector a detached sort of feeling. Maybe it was a bit of shock, but mostly it was the unremarkable feeling that he imagined most everyone who’s ever been cheated on gets when they finally see the infamous lover who has forever changed their lives. A sort of “That’s . . . it?” feeling. Because it was rare that people matched your expectations of them.

  As David made his way down the driveway, Hector almost got out of his car, before the midget woke up and spoke up. Nope. Not yet.

  “No? You been egging this on all morning.”

  Because it’s fun, yeah. But I ain’t steered you wrong one time yet, have I?

  Hector reluctantly shook his head.

  So. Chill. David’s day is coming. Trust.

  It was just past five in the morning. Parker rubbed his eyes and listened as the phone rang, waiting for Campos to pick up. Life was cruel. For the first time in weeks, Parker had managed to find The Land of Sound Asleep, and now this. Finally, on the fifth ring, Campos answered, his voice muffled.

  “What’s up? I thought we weren’t meeting until six thirty.”

  “Plans have changed,” Parker said grimly. “Eric Yi is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Murillo and Klink caught the call, but the Gang Unit got involved right away too, recognized Yi’s name from the file notes I shared with Fisher yesterday, and then called me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Not a ton of details yet . . . besides the fact he was shot seventeen times.”

  “Sun-na-nitch.”

  “Yep.”

  “So much for Alice Kim today.”

  Parker was partially dressed. He put his phone on speaker, placed it on the dresser and put on his dress shirt. “I’m thinking you could call the cap and have him swap us out? You and I take over the crime scene, Murillo and Klink rotate over to Amy Kim’s house to wait on any Tic Toc sightings?”

  Campos yawned loudly into the phone. “Makes sense. I’ll call him now. But you know they’ll be no switch out until we get down there.”

  “Yeah. I’m gonna drive my own car there. You?”

  “Yeah. Where?”

  “Beneath the Fourth Street Bridge.”

  “Okay. See you in twenty to thirty minutes.”

  “Got it.”

  Parker tucked in his shirt and, figuring that since it was a murder the cap would most likely be on scene, he cursed and grabbed a tie, putting it loosely around his neck so his Adam’s apple wouldn’t be jammed up.

  When he turned around, Trudy was sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes. “I only caught part of that conversation, but it still sounds completely tragic.”

  Parker nodded, but shrugged. “Gang member. Thug life.”

  “Someone’s son. Someone’s friend,” Trudy replied.

  He sighed, thinking of Eric Yi just the day before, saying he was done with the gang and how he was moving away to start over in San Diego. He was trying to move in the right direction, but like a wicked game of Monopoly, he never made it past “GO.”

  “Sorry. You’re right. He was someone’s brother and grandson too.”

  Trudy stretched and propped the pillows up behind her so she could sit against the headboard. Pulling the sheets up to her chest, she said, “You try to be the tough guy all the time, ya know? First response is always the macho response. But you care. You do. And that’s what really matters.”

  “But caring too much on this job? It’s just as dangerous as not caring enough.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well. We can discuss your philosophies on criminal justice over dinner tonight at Bar Celona. How’s that?” Parker said, as he hurriedly put on his socks and dress shoes.

  “I do love their tapas, and I will happily eat them in front of you, but only if you change your clothes by then.”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  She shook her head and gave him a sleepy smile. “You realize that you’re wearing a gray dress shirt with gray slacks, right?”

  Parker shrugged. “The tie is black.”

  “With gray stripes.”

  “So?”

  She shook her head. “Go bravely into that dark world, dear man.”

  Parker grabbed his suit jacket and looked at it. Also, gray. It was too late to change now, and really, he didn’t care. “I’ll keep you posted on my shift. The alarm’s set, so go back to being Sleeping Beauty.”

  She laughed. “Uh. That bitch is blond.”

  He was heading toward the bedroom door, when she shouted after him. “Hey!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Give us a kiss,” she said, her eyes shining in the dim morning light.

  He went over to her and obliged her request, but only with a peck. “That’s all you get for now,” he said with a smile.

  “Ohhhh, reeeeaalllly,” she replied, raising her eyebrows. “Be careful, sir. You really don’t want to play the ‘hold out’ game with a woman.”

  “This is true. I know.”

  “Sooo then?” she teased, pursing her lips tightly.

  He got up and left the room.

  “You shit!” She laughed as she playfully threw a pillow at him.

  He smiled the whole way down to the car and was still smiling when he arrived at the Fourth Street Bridge, but by the time he parked near the train tracks, made his way down the viaduct walls beneath the bridge and walked up to the body of Eric
Yi, he wasn’t smiling anymore.

  Half of Yi’s head was gone, splattered like ground beef onto the rocks behind him. He was a man with one eye now that was open and staring off into the clouds overhead, which had taken a break from bringing all the rain that filled the basin behind him, giving the illusion that Eric Yi died next to a slowly running river.

  “Shotgun,” Parker said to Murillo, who was standing nearby.

  Murillo nodded. “One of the weapons, yeah. But the upper torso looks like individual bullet wounds. Forensics just left. Probably nine mill.”

  “So, we got more than one perp?”

  “Most likely,” Klink chimed in. His barely-there blond hair was combed straight back in his ongoing effort to disguise his premature baldness. “Unless it was one guy with two weapons who just really wanted to make sure he was dead.”

  Parker looked at Murillo, who had been on the Paleo diet the past two months and had dropped a good twenty pounds. “How long you guys been here?”

  “Almost two hours. Damn graveyard shift. I hate it.”

  “Cap’s gonna kill us with this ‘work the ugly shift once a month’ bullshit,” Klink sniped.

  Parker grunted. “I hear ya. Our turn is in a few weeks.”

  He looked around the crime scene, decorated as it was with evidence tags, the perimeter roped off with police tape. “Crime scene guys got a lot done already.”

  “ME, CSU. Slow night in LA combined with catching the call short.”

  Parker was looking at Murillo in confusion when Campos walked up, obviously having overheard. “By which he means that this call came in right before everyone was due to get off shift and go home.”

  Klink smirked. “And when you’re on graveyard—”

  “You look forward to that time like no other,” Murillo finished.

  “Well,” Campos spoke with hesitation in his voice, “we might’ve just ruined that for you.”

  “This is your guy on an active case. So, we can just punt to you, right?”