The Parker Trilogy Page 14

“Yes and no.”

  Murillo pinched up his face. “What do you mean by ‘yes and no?’”

  “First, how about you break down—” Campos stopped short, having finally caught sight of Yi. “Shit.”

  Parker sighed. “Yep.”

  Campos bit at his lip, walked past the three of them and stood over Yi’s body. Parker watched him closely. Campos seemed to have forgotten about all of them and that they were in the middle of a conversation just seconds before.

  “Leave him be,” Murillo whispered. “He always gets Sherlocky like that.”

  “Really?” Parker whispered back.

  “Yep. They only worked together a few times, but man did it ever drive Nap crazy.”

  Parker smiled. Murillo was one of the few people on earth who could bring up Napoleon’s name and not make Parker sad. As they watched Campos work his way around the body, Klink broke out his notebook and started giving Parker the run down.

  “The ME counted seventeen entry wounds but can’t guarantee that number until he gets him on the table. The kill shot was probably the one to the face.”

  “For sure the face?”

  “Yeah,” Murillo interjected. “The body fell backwards. Since his brains are all over the rocks, he was on his back when the shotgun blast came his way.”

  “And we’re sure it’s a shotgun?”

  Klink nodded. “Buckshot all in the dirt and embedded in the rocks behind his head.”

  “We got tracks leading into and out of here. Hard to say which ones belong to the crime scene and which ones were already here.”

  Parker looked around. There was graffiti everywhere, from different gangs in the East LA area. Like hieroglyphics of a modern day hidden culture, they spelled out turf identity and daily life. After his detective’s exam, he’d been forced to study both the various gang tattoos and graffiti markings, for identification purposes on arrests and to determine shifting border claims in the neighborhoods.

  “Lots of gravel,” Klink said out of nowhere.

  They each nodded. Even if they could clearly determine the footsteps of the killer or killers, gravel sucked for casting foot impressions that were accurate enough to admit in court.

  “This is taggerville too,” Murillo said, following Parker’s gaze around the cement walls and along the columns of the bridge.

  “Kinda a make-out spot as well, now that the Sixth Street Bridge has been torn down,” Klink added.

  Parker walked over to Campos, who was looking intently at the body. There was trash and litter all around. For a rainy night, Yi’s clothes were mostly dry, the benefit of being killed beneath such a massive bridge. His arms and legs were splayed out, half spread-eagle, his white t-shirt a mangled mess of blood and bullet holes. Even in the cold, crisp morning air, flies were gathering on his head wound.

  It was almost surreal that just a half day ago this had been a walking, talking human being that had held his dog at bay while Parker and Campos interviewed him in his front yard. It wasn’t new to Parker, the whole “death” thing, but he was never going to get used to it. And that was probably a good thing.

  “You ready to hear it?” Campos said softly.

  “Let the training commence!” Parker replied.

  “Hmm,” Campos said. Then, almost solemnly, he added, “You mean, continue.”

  Parker looked at him. Campos was proving to be full of surprises. It was a small acknowledgment of respect towards Nap, his successor, and Parker couldn’t have appreciated it more. “Correct.”

  “Okay. What’s wrong with the body?”

  Parker looked Yi over from head to toe. “One shoe’s missing. All the wounds save the head shot are to the chest and stomach.”

  “Go on.”

  “The head shot was while he was down on the ground, but I got that from Murillo and Klink.”

  “Yeah. I heard. No cheating.”

  “Okay. His hands are partially clutched up. Maybe he was grabbing at his assailant?”

  Campos shook his head. “That could just be normal rigor. How do you think we’d know?”

  “Fingernails.”

  “Correct. The ME will be checking under all the fingernails for cotton, hair or skin. But I don’t think he’s gonna find anything. You’re close though. Stick with the hands.”

  Parker tried and tried, but after a few minutes, he gave up. “What is it?”

  “The hands and fingers?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Intact. No defensive wounds. The ME probably caught that the second he walked up.”

  “She,” Murillo said as he joined them. “It was Parsons.”

  “Kady Parsons,” Campos explained to Parker. “That’s good. She’s knows her stuff.”

  “Okay,” Parker said, still mulling over the crime scene. “No defensive wounds, but . . .”

  “And what looks like sixteen other bullet holes, unless the ME finds more, which I’m guessing she won’t.”

  “And?”

  “What might be significant about that?”

  “If they’re all nine-millimeter?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, Parker thought hard and long. Then it came to him. “Same gun. Probably illegal. Which means old-school nine that has a fifteen-bullet clip—”

  “Plus one in the chamber,” Campos said with a nod of encouragement. “Go on.”

  “Someone unloaded the full clip into him.”

  “Yep. I’m guessing the first three were here, here . . . and here,” Campos said, using a pen from his pocket to point at three bullet holes directly in the center of Yi’s chest.

  “Why?”

  “Slight burn marks,” Murillo interjected.

  “Which means they were close up,” Campos added.

  “So those were the three that got him first?”

  “Most likely. And took him down quickly.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Campos looked at Murillo. “Go ahead and tell him.”

  “Because the rest of the wounds are grouped together,” Murillo said, staring at the body before looking at Parker. “If he had a chance to run or fight for his life? There’d be some bullet holes in his rib cage or back.”

  “He went to the ground probably three-quarters dead, and whoever did this to him stood over him and emptied the rest of the clip out of spite.”

  “Shit,” Parker said, shaking his head.

  “Common gang-style killing, Parker. Vicious. Personal.”

  “So why the shotgun blast? Wait . . . I think I’ve got it.”

  “Go ahead,” Campos pressed.

  “It was a bad shot. Most likely meant to blow off his entire face, and possibly screw the dental records.”

  “Close, but no cigar.”

  “Why?”

  “If this were an attempt to cover up the identity of the vic, why leave his fingertips? We could lift prints in no time, if we didn’t already know it was Yi.”

  “Not to mention all the tattoos,” Murillo added.

  “So then . . . why?”

  Campos sighed. “I already told you, rookie. He was caught completely off guard with the first three shots. I’m guessing the shotgun was put in his mouth, at the end, to send a message.”

  Parker nodded. “Because . . .”

  “They knew he’d talked to us.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the morning, Father Soltera awoke feeling completely unrested. Looking at his alarm clock he saw that it was 5:20 a.m. He sighed. Carol wouldn’t be in until seven thirty to help setup for the daily mass, which was at eight.

  Rubbing his eyes, he got up, put some coffee on, showered and shaved. Then, as he had for thirty years, he had a slice of toast with peanut butter along with his coffee. Sometimes he allowed himself a bit of honey or cinnamon on top, but today he kept it simple. With events of the night before still fresh in his mind, he decided to go to the sanctuary for some private prayer time.

  When he stepped from the hallway into the sanctuary, he saw th
e man in the tan jacket immediately. Had he left the church door unlocked when he’d stumbled home last night? No. He was sure he locked it.

  The man stood and nodded at him. “You are Father Soltera.” It was not a question. And that voice; it was the same one from yesterday morning that had warned him about Luisa.

  So, he wasn’t an angel.

  He noticed the man smirk, ever so slightly.

  “Pardon me, but how did you get in here?” Father Soltera said.

  “The door is always open to those who knock, right?” the man replied with a smile.

  “I didn’t hear a knock.”

  “Actually, it’s what woke you. I just gave you time to get ready before you came out.”

  Father Soltera was curious, but unafraid. “Who are you?”

  The man smiled. “Man. Father . . . I gotta tell ya. I spent most of my life asking myself the same question and I still don’t have an answer.”

  “Well,” Father Soltera replied, hearing his voice crack. There was something about this man’s presence. “Since you don’t have a name, my friend, do you need an intercession? Would you like to pray together or something?”

  “Thanks, but actually, I’m not here for your help, Father.”

  “No?”

  “No. And sorry for being rude. Manners aren’t really my thing. My name’s Napoleon. Napoleon Villa. And believe it or not, I’m here to help you.”

  Father Soltera looked more closely at him. He wore a white dress shirt with brown slacks. His brown belt and dress shoes were a bit worn, but it was his face that looked the most tired. Not weary-tired as much as experience-tired, like a man who had seen many things in life, some of which he wished he hadn’t.

  Father Soltera knew the look well because it was one he wore himself, on many days.

  “Well, I don’t hear that one very often. So, how is it exactly that you’re here to help me, Mr. Villa?”

  Mr. Villa stood and nodded. “Can we go for a walk to the courtyard or something?”

  “Sure,” Father Soltera replied, stepping aside to allow him to exit the pew. “Let’s go this way,” he added, motioning them towards the side door past the altar.

  As they walked together, he noticed Villa glance up at the giant cross over the altar. His gaze suddenly grew soft and the age lines in his cheeks and near his eyes seemed to fade some. The weariness was gone. In its place was a contemplative look that instantly made Father Soltera ask, “Are you a believer?”

  Mr. Villa smiled. “Of more than I could’ve ever imagined, really.”

  It was another cryptic comment and Father Soltera felt his curiosity mounting.

  As they were making their way out of the church, a gust of air caught the door, blowing it back in their faces. With Mr. Villa just in front of him, it looked as if he might be struck, but instead he pushed the door back gently. Except that he didn’t touch it. Father Soltera was shocked but then chalked it up to a trick of the eyes.

  It was bitterly cold outside, with the rain falling in sideways drifts. Father Soltera grabbed his jacket and put it on, and was about to look for an umbrella when he noticed a bubble, like the ones you blow from a wand as a child on hot summer days, forming around the two of them. They stepped outside, and he almost stumbled as he watched in awe as the raindrops struck the surface and then crisscrossed in various directions, from the top of the bubble and down the sides.

  “This isn’t possible . . .” Father Soltera whispered.

  Mr. Villa glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Yeah. I used to think the same thing, Father.”

  Napoleon motioned for Father Soltera to make his way into the courtyard. They sat beneath a large elm tree on one of the four wooden benches that framed a small ornate fountain. The tree only partially sheltered the area from the rain, its slumping leaves running with slow, heavy drops.

  The enclosed courtyard was sheltered from most of the noise of the city, making it easier for Soltera to focus on the pattering rain and the babbling fountain, which echoed quietly in the bubble enclosing them.

  “Mr. Villa? Have you been here before?”

  Mr. Villa shook his head. “Nah. My grandmother used to take me to St. Lucia’s when I was young, but never here.”

  “So how did you know there was a courtyard here?”

  A slight smile creased Mr. Villa’s lips. “Lucky guess, I suppose.”

  A small flock of birds was skittering among the branches of the elm tree, ruffling their feathers and knocking a few leaves loose in the process. They stuck to the top of the bubble and slid slowly downwards.

  I’m still in my room. Yes. This is a dream.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Mr. Villa said as he sat on the edge of the bench, his legs spread and his elbows resting on his knees. “And no, this is not a dream.”

  Father Soltera was stunned and barely managed a reply. “Did you just read my—”

  “You’ve worked a long time in the faith, haven’t you, Father?”

  Father Soltera raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Oh. I suppose. Yes.”

  “And you’ve often prayed for a sign and all that.”

  The courtyard seemed to grow suddenly still. “Mr. Villa . . .”

  “That’s been the hard part, right?”

  “I don’t—”

  “The praying and the waiting and the seemingly randomness of it all.”

  “It is hard for many, all of us, really. Myself included.”

  “But you’ve stood your ground.”

  “Yes. In three churches now, for over three decades.”

  Father Soltera looked hard at the man before him. Something was different about him. But he sensed no danger. With the recent tragic scandals of the church, many warnings had gone out to be on alert for individuals seeking revenge, either for themselves or a loved one. Since it had never occurred to Father Soltera to commit such heinous acts in his entire life, he wasn’t overly worried. But a priest had been shot last year in Chicago just for being a priest, so you never knew. “You seem to know a lot about me, Mr. Villa.”

  “And you not so much about me.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  “East LA has made you street-smart, heh?” Mr. Villa chuckled. “‘Know who knows you,’ and all that.”

  “You could say that,” Father Soltera replied with a small smile.

  Mr. Villa shrugged. “Okay. Not much to say, really. I grew up around here. I was a detective for almost as long as you’ve been a priest, but I was always street. Old school.”

  “And now?”

  Again, the smirk. “Now? I guess you could say I’m a consultant or something.”

  Father Soltera chuckled as he leaned back against the bench and crossed his legs. “And how does that pay?”

  Mr. Villa was tracking a bird as it dipped from the tree to the edge of a branch, then through the bubble to the edge of the fountain, where it stood and pecked at the water. “Better than you could ever imagine.”

  Getting to know people was what Father Soltera did for a living, so he knew when to let the silent moments be. They crept in when they wanted, and if you pried them away too soon, they only multiplied. So, odd as it was, the two of them sat for a few moments and let the sound of the trickling water and the chirping bird be their only dialogue.

  Finally, Mr. Villa continued. “Anyway. I’m here to let you know that all your prayers? They were heard.”

  “Why, thank you. But how, exactly, do you know this, Mr. Villa?”

  “I was told.”

  “By whom?”

  “You need to ask, Father? By God, of course.”

  Now he was worried. It appeared that the man, friendly and disarming as he might be, was a nutcase.

  “I—”

  “Why did you just think that?”

  “What?”

  Mr. Villa had looked away from the fountain, his eyes now focused on him. “Why did you just think I was a nutcase, simply for affirming what you already believe?�
�

  Father Soltera was knocked speechless.

  “You don’t have to answer, Father. I understand.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ve already told you,” Mr. Villa answered, “but you already know I’m more than that.”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Fine. Then why have you come?”

  Mr. Villa leaned back now against the bench too, and the two men locked eyes. “I told you yesterday: Luisa.”

  Father Soltera squinted. His frustration gave birth to irritation, then anger. “What do you want me to do?”

  “We have to get her to safety. Somehow. Someway.”

  “Mr. Villa, if you know something that should be reported to the authorities . . .”

  “No.” It was a single word, but with it, the bird on the ledge of the fountain froze, as did the water in mid-fall, stuck between levels in the fountain, and the other birds in the trees went totally silent. Father Soltera looked up in shock and saw that even the clouds, which had been drifting on a brisk current in the sky, were now arrested, and the beads of rainwater too. He couldn’t help the gasp that escaped his throat.

  “Father, it’s time.”

  “For what?” Father Soltera choked out, but his words were barely a whisper.

  “Do you believe all the stuff you preach, about how God works for the good in all things and all that?”

  “Of . . . of course I do.”

  “Then I’m guessing you also believe that the other side, the evil side, works for the bad in all things?”

  Father Soltera nodded.

  “You’re sick, aren’t you, Father?”

  Tears filled Father Soltera’s eyes. “Yes.”

  “You don’t have much time. We both know that. But guess what?”

  “What?” One word. Lonely. Expectant.

  “After a life of giving, you’re being asked to give one last time. For Luisa. The journey ahead of you won’t be easy.” He reached across the bench and laid his hand on Father Soltera’s hand, and the energy that pulsed from him was both overwhelming and glorious. “Do you understand?”

  Father Soltera nodded.

  “The other side has seen you, Father. You’re in danger now too. But you’ve got me, comprende?”

  Again, Father Soltera nodded.