The Parker Trilogy Read online

  He was six inches taller than her but inside he was shrinking. There was something about her that was going to be his undoing that night, he knew it instantly. This one would be no easy take, no quick lay. And he was okay with that. He really was. It was a hot summer night and he was horny as hell, but for this one he’d go home alone if he had to, if only he could get her digits to dream about overnight.

  Looking back on the moment now, he suddenly understood why; at that point in his life he had next to zero hope for potential, for things worth hoping for. Marisol was someone worth hoping for. Period.

  The rain song outside kept playing and his heart began to grow heavier in its midst. Unintentionally his eyes fell on the 9 mm on the nightstand next to the bed and, once again, he wondered at the potential of things. Maybe. No. It was probably likely that blowing his brains out was a good idea. The whole world was bullshit anyways. There wasn’t enough money or fame or street cred to make it all worth it. Any of it. This promotion was just another step down a path that led to nothing, and worse, only led him further away from Marisol.

  She wanted him to give up this life. She’d told him so many times. In that voice of hers. When she was serious.

  That night at the party, her voice was soft and flirtatious. Everything he said was funny, and her laugh kept coaxing him out, closer to her, closer . . . to those eyes that kept drawing him in. He wanted to fall into those eyes and rest. She wasn’t an escape; he’d bedded plenty of those. No. He knew better. She was a sanctuary, a place of refuge, where he wanted to be for a long, long time. And that’s what kept knocking him speechless: the fear of feeling this way about someone.

  Because people couldn’t be trusted. Especially bitches. They always broke your heart, one way or another.

  But he told himself that Marisol never would. Now five years later, in this shitty room, listening to the rain, he laughed at that thought. Man, oh man, oh man. How he should’ve known better.

  He reached out for the gun, feeling his fingers comb over the cold metal as he gripped the handle. Lifting it up over his face, the back of his head sunk into the coolness of his pillow. He stared at the barrel. It was heavy. Loaded. Even though it would only take one bullet to do the job.

  It was time to go.

  He didn’t want to be here anymore. Plain and simple. He wasn’t much of a church dude, but he’d gone enough times to worry for a second that suicide might mean an instant passport to hell. After contemplating that idea for a second or two he decided he didn’t care because, well, he was destined for hell someday anyways. So, what did it matter if he got there on his own schedule?

  The party that night was loud and went late, but they stayed sequestered together in the back corner of the yard, each with a shoulder leaning against a wooden fence. He left her side only once, to go refill her beer while she ran inside to pee, each step towards the keg feeling like miles and miles away from home. He was afraid, actually afraid, that this goddess with long, shiny, thick black hair would not come back. That the excuse to use the restroom and the errand she’d sent him on was simply an excuse to disappear, forever, into the ether of the night.

  When he’d filled their beers, he crossed the smoke-filled expanse of the backyard, the pungent smell of stink-weed everywhere, and resumed his spot on the fence, where he waited. And waited. Before long though, despite the chatter of all the talking people around him and the blasting music, he saw her weaving her way through the crowd back to him.

  He felt his breath catch now just as it did that night, so long ago. Except now it was because his damn, stupid-ass tears had come back, and because, seemingly all by itself, the index finger of his right hand had slipped over the trigger.

  Then, though? Then he was breathless because she had smiled at him, happily, when she saw him, a sort of relief painted on her face as if she’d been worried that he too might disappear before she got back, as if . . .

  His thumb pulled back the hammer and he brought the gun to his temple.

  . . . as if he were the only man at the party.

  The barrel of the gun pushed the soft flesh of his temple into his right eyebrow. Almost there. To a place. Where it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Why bother staying?

  Hector Villarosa closed his eyes and pictured her one more time, and when he did he saw a kaleidoscope of her expressions: happy, sticking her tongue out, rolling her eyes playfully, tearing up at sad movies. It was all these faces that gave him a reason to stay.

  He pulled the gun away slowly, uncocked it and let it rest on his chest as his eyes grew weary with a depression-tinged hope.

  He could still win her back, couldn’t he?

  It wasn’t too late. He could.

  Once the sancho was out of the way, he’d have a chance.

  Wouldn’t he?

  The song outside kept playing.

  He fell asleep before he could answer himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Toolie’s real name was Nari Park and she hadn’t been nearly as hard to find as Tic Toc, though at first she was just as evasive. In the morning, they’d tracked her to her job at Claire’s in Monterey Park and walked in just as she was putting up a new display of split-knee jeans, whatever the hell those were.

  Parker had slept like crap and was in no mood to chase anyone today, so he was thankful when Toolie froze like a deer in the headlights when Campos told her who they were. She was wearing a studded blue jean jacket over what looked like a white pirate shirt, a dozen chains of silver strung around her neck, her black jeans dropping down to a pair of black flats. There was a black and white tattoo of a swan on each of her forearms, or maybe they were flamingos. Parker was never good with birds, and between the lack of craftsmanship and no color to go by, it was hard to tell.

  “What’s this about?” she said, looking nervously at a woman at the counter, perhaps her boss, as she smacked on a piece of chewing gum, even though it was only mid-morning.

  “Do you have ten minutes? Perhaps we could step outside to talk?” Campos replied.

  “Look. I don’t—”

  Parker wasn’t just tired. He was crabby. Sighing heavily, he said, “Do you prefer that we call you Nari . . . or Toolie?”

  It was obvious that Toolie’s coworkers were unaware of her secret identity as a gangster girl after hours. She gave another panicked look at the counter, then said, “It’s Nari. Fine. Just keep it down, okay?”

  They watched as she approached the woman and spoke to her, motioning her head in their direction. The woman, in her early thirties with black hair cut in a tight bob and wearing way too much blush on her cheeks, nodded curtly at her and waved her hand as if to motion Toolie and whatever was going in her life that involved the police out of the store.

  “I got a funny feeling about this one,” Campos said.

  Parker raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

  “She got no poker face, Parker. And her cards suck.”

  “All that from an introduction?”

  “You’ll learn.”

  “She’s letting me take my ten-minute break early,” Nari said as she walked past them briskly. They followed her outside to the parking lot, where she turned on them with a little more edge this time. “What the hell, man? You trying to get me fired?”

  Campos shook his head. “Nope. We just need your help with an investigation we’re doing.”

  Again, she froze. Parker saw what Campos meant now. It wasn’t just her body that locked up, but her eyes. Not for a millisecond too long but a full second or more too long. It was bizarre.

  “Who?” she asked nervously.

  “You ever heard of Hymie Villarosa?”

  “Hymie Villarosa?”

  “Yes. Can we ask you a few questions?”

  “Questions?”

  Parker needed more coffee. Questions repeated back to the police were “Bad Guy Speech 101” violations. Her better play would’ve been to ask clarifying questions, like “Hymie who?” and then “What kind of questions?”.
Both would’ve still gotten her slapped down, but it was better than the stop-start pattern they were currently opening up with.

  “We know about the two of you, Nari,” Campos said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your relationship.”

  “Relationship?”

  Parker realized he was going quickly from crabby to bitchy. Campos had the lead but he didn’t care. “Shit. Nari. Look. Since we only have ten minutes here, we better knock off with the clueless routine, okay?”

  Nari jumped, then looked at Parker as if he were a chastising father.

  Campos’ smirk was barely noticeable. He seemed surprised but motioned his head for Parker to go on.

  “You were sleeping with Hymie when he was killed. He’d told you things he wasn’t supposed to, things that left him dead on the sidewalk over by that liquor store.”

  “I don’t want—”

  Parker stepped a few feet closer to her, folded his arms, looked over her shoulder to the inside of the store at her boss again, then back to Nari with a steely gaze. Speaking in a low voice he said, “Look. I don’t care what you want, Nari. I got Hymie’s mother in my station house two or three times a week in tears, bringing us tamales she’s so damn desperate for answers, and trust me, I’m gonna get ’em.”

  Stunned, she nodded gently, her jaw slightly unhinged.

  “Obviously, other people have talked to us, Nari. So, think hard about how you wanna play this. You may think you’re having a bad day now, but if you make this hard? We’ll take you into the station and turn this ten-minute break into a ten-hour day.”

  Zap. That got her. “No! Please.”

  Her face was more panicked than one might imagine a trip to the station house would cause. After all, this wasn’t a girl who spent her life in band camp. Parker was going to press her but she spoke up first. “Don’t take me in! I mean it. They’ll kill me.”

  There it was. And if he were honest? Parker would have to admit that she had just stunned him.

  The air around their small circle of conversation seemed to suddenly be sucked right up.

  “What do you mean kill you?”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she swiped a shaking hand at them, partially smearing her mascara in the process. When she spoke next, it was barely in a whisper. “What do you think I mean, dude? Shit. I’m saying they’ll do to me what they did to Eric.”

  Parker and Campos glanced at one another, then back to Nari.

  “Eric Yi?”

  She nodded.

  “You know who killed Eric Yi?” Campos asked.

  Another nod.

  “And who killed Hymie?”

  “Yeah. But, I can’t tell you.”

  “You’re past having a choice in it all, Nari.”

  “No,” she squeaked.

  Parker had seen this before, and if it were art it’d be called “Portrait of a Human Being When the Chickens Have Come Home to Roost.” The look of desperation when denial was useless. He’d feel bad for her if he hadn’t already read her rap sheet: this same petite little fashionista had been busted for check fraud three years ago, and then assault with a deadly weapon only a year later, using a kitchen knife to try and stab a girl who had spread rumors about her.

  “Who killed Hymie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fine. Then, Eric?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was going pill bug on them, rolling up into a tight little ball.

  “Fine,” Parker said, grabbing her by the arm. “Let’s go.”

  She recoiled. Parker was beginning to think he was wrong, that she was going to bolt and that another chase was in his future, but instead she only backed up a few steps and said, “What? No. I already told you.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Nari.”

  She was tearing up again. “Please.”

  She was scared, cornered and desperate. No doubt wondering how life could change so much in the span of five minutes. And here came Campos Don Juan to the rescue.

  “Look at me, Nari.”

  She did, with big eyes and a trembling lower lip.

  “This can stop here.” His voice was soothing and full of warmth. “You tell us what we need to know and we leave. No witnesses to the conversation that know anyone in your camp, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You tell us, we’re outta here. No station house today, no nothing. No one has to know nothing right now.”

  Unlike Nari, Campos did have a good poker face. He was lying, without actually lying. A mouse caught in a trap misses any qualifiers to its escape. So happy to get away with limbs and tail intact, it misses words like “today” and “right now” that would reveal that the cheese it’s running away with is poisoned. Campos was leaving the door open for them to come back and get Nari later, no doubt at the DA’s insistence.

  Nari took a very deep breath and looked out over the parking lot. She had a large mole at the base of her neck that was peeking out from beneath her chains. “Shit. Man. I shoulda moved away last year. I had a chance to not get wrapped up in any of this shit.”

  Campos nodded and waited. Parker just waited. But the irony was not lost on him. It was just like when they had interviewed Eric Yi, except he was hoping for a future that never came and Nari was hoping for a past that she would never recover.

  The sound of cars migrating through the parking lot to the Vons supermarket nearby was the only soundtrack to the movie that Nari was playing in her mind. Her eyes were playing scenes for each one of her options, until she finally reached a decision.

  Nodding mostly to herself, she looked at Parker. “Jin. Jin Yeung. He was there that night. He wanted to kill Hymie.”

  “Why?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Some Korean bullshit about sleeping with an outsider. He still calls me a whore to this day, every damn time he sees me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And you wanna know what?”

  She became indignant, angry and righteous. “I’m glad I’m telling you. Screw him. I never did nothing to him and I didn’t know—”

  “Know what,” Campos said, his hands in his pockets, just a guy having a chat about a double murder outside a Claire’s on a sleepy weekday in Monterey Park.

  Nari put her hands over her face, to cover the bloom of her shame. “I didn’t know they were going to kill him. Hymie didn’t deserve that. I thought they’d have a talk with him. Settle him down and shit. But not ace his ass.”

  Campos nodded with a face that pretended to be pained at the cruel irony of it all.

  The truth was like that practical joke with the foam worm in a can; once it was partially out, it all came out. “Jin killed Eric, too. At least that’s what I heard.”

  “How’d he know Eric spoke to us?”

  “Shit. Eric always had the worst luck. That day he spoke to you guys?”

  “Yeah?”

  “One of Jin’s homeboys was driving by Eric’s house in his new car, to pick him up, to bring him to a surprise lunch with everybody.”

  Instantly, Parker remembered the green Nissan with the tinted windows that had cruised by them the day they’d interviewed Eric Yi in his front yard.

  “Drove right by and saw him talking to you guys. It’s such bullshit, man. I’m so tired of all of it. Eric was a good guy, ya know? He always made me laugh. Just like . . . just l-l-like . . .”

  She began to sob into her hands before she forced herself to finish. “Just like Hymie.”

  That’s when it struck Parker that the love Hymie had felt for Toolie had been mutual. It was clear as day, right there in the devastated way in which she said his name.

  The captain’s office was large but sparsely furnished, which gave it a lonely kind of feeling. Even the potted plant on a glass credenza against the far wall looked like it could use some company, its green leaves bright but bowed. Parker looked at Campos, but all he did was raise his eyebrows.

  They were standing in fr
ont of the captain’s desk, which was littered with pens and pencils, a tan iPad sitting like an island in a sea of white papers, as they waited for him to speak. Finally, Captain Holland looked at Parker, sighed and said, “So the girl has this Jin guy pegged to be at The Mayan tonight? We’re sure of that?”

  Parker nodded, his arms folded across his chest. “As sure as we can be. We double-checked it with our boy Tic Toc and he confirmed it.”

  “Rumor has it that he’ll be there with his main boss, Mondo, and this guy named Guero Martinez, talking numbers or some crap.”

  The captain had a face that looked more youthful than his actual age, with chubby cheeks that conflicted with his white hair. He squinted at them. “I know that name.”

  “Yeah. Everyone in the Gang Unit does too.”

  “Coke, right? With the cartel?”

  “And evidently he’s moved up the ranks pretty quickly,” Parker added.

  “What’s he going to be there for?” the captain asked.

  Campos, in a tan shirt and brown pants, was leaning against a black filing cabinet. “Stats. Probably of the ‘how many kilos, how much cash’ variety. And, evidently, Mondo just got back from Vegas with some new talent for him.”

  “What do you mean by ‘new talent,’ Campos?”

  “Strippers. Whores. Usually the ones on the downside of their careers.”

  “You mean the ones in their early twenties?” the captain replied sarcastically.

  “Pretty much. He’s not into human trafficking, officially, at least not yet. They’re for himself.”

  “Go on.”

  “Rumor on the street is that he’s a devil worshiper, into the black arts and all that shit. He likes to torture them.”

  The captain sighed again, then rubbed his eyes. Parker was still new at being a detective, but he already knew that he never wanted to be a captain. The last one, this one, the others he’d seen when he’d worked over in South Central, they all looked exhausted, all the time. After a few seconds, the captain shook his head and looked at them again. “So. How do you want to play this out?”