The Parker Trilogy Page 25

  “We’re after Jin. We got what we need to build a case on him,” Campos said, cracking his neck, “but if we happen to get lucky and this big shot, Guero, has a seventeen-year-old in his lap when we arrive?”

  “Or Mondo has a bag of coke or an unlicensed weapon on him?” Parker added, straightening his tie, which was black and stark over his white shirt, and matched his black pants, prompting Campos to make Men in Black comments the whole time they waited for the captain to come in.

  The captain was staring off at some place beyond the wall. “We can get Mondo and Guero off the street for a day, tops, before the cartel bails them out.”

  Campos shrugged. “Yeah. Well. Ya never know.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  Parker waited, but Campos nodded at him to give the presentation, so Parker did. “Odds are we’re gonna have different gang factions there. Guero has a bodyguard detail made up of mostly gangsters that he’s plucked from around East LA, and we’re guessing that Mondo will be rolling with his own entourage, as well. We want to put together a tactical unit to back us up. We’ll go in, ID our boy Jin, and then radio out for support.”

  The captain was already shaking his head before Parker finished. “Lot a people, lot a guns.”

  Campos didn’t argue. “Yeah. It could be a PR nightmare—”

  “Could be?”

  “Or it could be a huge catch. A guy who most likely committed a double homicide, the leader of the Asian Soldiers and the number one guy in East LA for the cartel, all in one place?”

  “We also might not get this chance again at Jin,” Parker added. “We’ve checked up on him. He’s got a passport. Flies home to South Korea once or twice a year. He slips outta that club? He could be gone for good.”

  The cap sighed. “And both Toolie and Tic Toc make him for the murder of both Hymie Villarosa and Eric Yi?”

  Parker and Campos nodded.

  “Just so you know? You both pitching me this the same day it’s supposed to go down is bullshit, you know that, right?”

  Campos shrugged. “We’re moving in real time on this one, Cap. We just got the info this morning. It’s just how it’s played out.”

  Seeking to reassure the captain, Parker added, “That’s why we wanna go in first, in case the info’s bad for some reason.”

  The captain eyed Parker. Hard. “And if Mondo or Guero are in there, but not your boy?”

  It was a test question, and Parker filled in the right answer bubble like a good little student. “We’ve got nothing on the other two, so we walk right back out the door.”

  “Correct, Parker. No Rambo shit, you got it?”

  “Yessir.”

  “So? We got the green light?” Campos pressed.

  Yet another sigh escaped Captain Holland’s lips. Then he stood and nodded. “Yeah. We desperately need to start making some headway with the cartel, but I won’t lie, it’s about more than that. Because if Hymie Villarosa’s mother comes in here one more time with a plate of food, begging for help? I’m gonna need therapy.”

  “Okay. Who’s on shift tonight to help us out?” Parker asked, holding his breath for the right names to be spoken. When they were, it was his turn to sigh.

  “Murillo and Klink,” the captain replied after looking at a schedule sheet taped to the side of his computer monitor. “You want them in on this?”

  “Yes,” Parker said at the same time as Campos.

  “That’ll leave Rodriguez and Edelman to cover things alone for a while tonight, but they’ll be okay.”

  “Great.”

  The cap nodded and picked up the phone as he motioned them out of his office. “I’ll call Davenport with the Tactical Unit and tell them you’re on your way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Father Soltera woke in the morning feeling like he’d had his best sleep in days, and he knew why. Luisa was in the shelter, safe.

  As he lay there he realized that he would never wake up in his room the same way ever again. Not after that monster and those children had visited. Not after The Faceless Men from last night. Now, he slowly opened his eyes and looked around, terrified of what might be looking right back at him.

  There was no one.

  He waited for Napoleon Villa to speak to him.

  There was silence.

  He used the restroom, took a shower and shaved. After putting on pants and a t-shirt, he headed into the kitchen to make breakfast, starting with a pot of coffee. He was incredibly hungry so, eschewing his peanut butter and toast, he dumped some Wheaties into a bowl and poured some milk over them, watching as the small rivers of white descend over the sharp surfaces of the cereal and into the depths below, where it pooled up and waited for him to break his diet even more with a sprinkling of sugar. He ate it before it could get soggy as the coffee brewed and filled his room with its wonderful smell.

  Then he sighed, half with relief, half in nervous trepidation.

  It was the first Thursday of the month. A special day. His day to see Gabriella.

  After an hour, he finished getting dressed and then headed out to the sanctuary, noticing that the linoleum floor had been polished by the cleaning company the prior day, as it now glistened with fresh wax.

  He was surprised to find only two people seated in the pews, waiting. His heart sank when he saw that Addie Walker was one of them. It seemed like today was going to be all about past sins, not only from those about to confess them, but by the one who was about to listen. When he glanced at the second person, he was shocked to see that it was Napoleon Villa.

  Stunned, Father Soltera looked at him with curiosity. Mr. Villa simply nodded at Addie as if to say, “She’s first.”

  When Addie entered the booth, he braced himself. She was a good woman. She’d served on the Pioneer Club for a long time, worked the suicide hotline every holiday season and was devout in her desire to help others. But she was also tortured by a single decision that had her vacillating between regret, guilt and crippling sorrow ever since she’d made it.

  She came into the confessional with the same heavy heart she’d been carrying for seven years now. Ever since the day she was in charge of watching her granddaughter, Paige, and had let her go outside to play on her own. In the front yard. The fenced front yard.

  Which meant nothing to the brazen, reckless Joaquin Murietta.

  Father Soltera’s hands began to tremble, like they always did, whenever he was around Addie Walker, though it was always worse when she came to confession.

  Addie did not know if she could ever love God again after what He’d allowed to happen to her precious little Paige.

  But Father Soltera wondered if Addie Walker would ever, in a billion years, be in this confessional speaking to him if she knew that he was the one who had let Joaquin Murietta get away. Two days before Paige’s abduction.

  Shaking his head like an eraser against his thoughts, he gave Addie Walker three Hail Marys and more urging to forgive herself. When she asked “Why should I?” he answered the way he always did: “Because it is prideful to ask God to forgive our sins when we ourselves refuse to do so.”

  And that was true. It was almost like putting yourself above God in the “grace department,” as if your own forgiveness was a thing of greater value.

  But he was preaching to himself too. She wasn’t the only one unable to forgive herself, was she? No.

  When she left, he waited for Mr. Villa and, sure enough, a few minutes later a sense of power ushered its way into the booth, there on the other side of the screen, emanating a light that could be felt but not seen.

  “Hello, Father,” he said, and his voice seemed deeper this time.

  Father Soltera exhaled in an uneven breath, then with a small chuckle he said, “I don’t suppose you have any sins you want to be forgiven for, do you?”

  Mr. Villa laughed. “No, actually. Thanks. But I think that’s been covered now.”

  Yes. Yes, I’m sure it has. That must’ve felt so good, to be free of that pai
n, Father Soltera thought.

  He was startled when Mr. Villa answered. “Yes. It did. Very much so.”

  “I forgot that you could do that . . . thing . . . with the mind reading and all.”

  “If it bothers you . . .”

  “No. Well, yes. But it’s okay. Anyway. Thank you for your help last night.”

  “No problem. It’s what I’m here for.”

  They fell into a quiet spell, the sounds of the sanctuary now mute. There was no one else waiting. After a moment, Father Soltera heard Kevin, the mailman, open the door and come down the aisle, whistling softly, his keys jangling on his hip as he went right past the confessional and to Carol’s office.

  “Are those men without faces gone now?” Father Soltera blurted out, not knowing why.

  “For good this time, yes.”

  “So, Luisa is finally safe?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Her uncle, Father, is a big problem. And he’s calling on forces from the other side that are incredibly powerful.”

  Father Soltera sighed.

  “He is only adding to his sins. As many of you do.”

  For some odd reason, Father Soltera felt instantly as if the confessional, or at least his role in it, had been reversed. He was not here to help free the soul of Mr. Villa. No. It was the other way around. At first, the feeling was disconcerting, but then he went with it, because it felt right.

  “I’ve”—the words caught in his throat but he forced himself to choke them up—“done some very bad things, Mr. Villa.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. What about ’em?”

  “I don’t . . . know how to get past them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, well, they’ve crippled me, I guess.”

  “Nah. You’ve crippled yourself.”

  Father Soltera thought for a moment. “You take my transgressions too lightly.”

  Instead of digging further, as he expected him to, Mr. Villa changed course. “And what of the good you’ve done?”

  “I try not to focus on that.”

  “Which ain’t exactly smart, is it?”

  Father Soltera leaned closer to the screen and nodded, knowing that the outline of his shadow could be seen from the other side. “Yes. You’re right . . .”

  “So, what’s with the weak knees, then?”

  “I fear the bad far outweighs the good.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “With all due respect, how do you know that?”

  Again, a silence filled the booth. He noticed that the bench on the other side of the screen didn’t creak at all under the weight of Mr. Villa. Perhaps because he didn’t weigh anything, anymore. It was a comforting but also eerie thought.

  Finally, Mr. Villa replied, “Look. Let’s quit dancing around. I know what I know and you’ve already figured out how I know it.”

  Father Soltera sighed. “So, what now? What could possibly be next?”

  “Look. Like I told you, I had a chance to stop him too, Father. Joaquin Murietta murdered three more after I made that mistake at one of the crime scenes—that mistake that got him off the hook and out of jail. He’d already murdered one of them before he even came to you. You’re not alone in feeling responsible.”

  “Three?”

  “Yes. If timelines help you? It was Bertha Ortega first. It was her he was speaking of when he came to this very confessional, years ago, to confess his horrid acts to you. Then, right after, came little Paige, Addie Walker’s granddaughter—”

  “Oh, my.” Father Soltera moaned in shock. How could Mr. Villa know these things? It was a silly question. “His last victim was Betty DeGarza. Ten years old. We missed saving her by a day.”

  Father Soltera buried his head in his hands. “It’s so horrible. All of it.”

  “Yes. It is. But just as you just advised Addie to forgive herself, and no doubt would advise me to do the same if I asked, you must be willing to forgive yourself as well.”

  “Why? Why should I? Did you forgive yourself? I mean, when—” you were human.

  “No. I didn’t. I jacked that up too. That’s part of what destroyed me in the end, or was destroying me. It was my job to catch him, Father. My job to stop him. Your job was to provide a place for him to repent, and you did that. The seal of the confessional is sacred. You did do your job.”

  “Yes. But try telling—”

  “Father, every day those that come here find a way to escape sin. It’s their way. Others have different ways that don’t require you or this confessional, but with you, over the years, literally thousands of people have come forwards because of their belief in the secrecy of the sacrament. One man abused the privilege but from it thousands have been saved.”

  “Oh, how I want to believe that, Mr. Villa. Please help me to.”

  “Look. Had I done my job? You never would’ve been put in that place to begin with.”

  Father Soltera stared off through the screen. He could feel Mr. Villa staring right back.

  “Don’t you see the other reason why I’m here?” Mr. Villa said solemnly.

  “No. What do you mean?”

  “It’s me who indirectly caused you so much suffering.”

  A third and final silence came between them. When Father Soltera finally spoke, he decided to be honest. “I’m not there yet, you know.”

  “I know. But I’m here to tell you that it’s okay to get there, when you’re ready, and let it go.”

  “Okay.” Father Soltera wanted to leave it there, but he didn’t. There was one more thing he wanted to find out, just one more thing, about Gabriella and . . .

  I told you—that I can’t help you with, Father.

  The relief that had just begun to wash over Father Soltera from his guilt about the child murderer Joaquin Murietta was snuffed out. He felt an immense grief come over him. “She is too great a sin, isn’t she?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as Gabriella’s face came to mind.

  Father . . . that is a walk you must take with Him alone.

  He heard a rustle on the other side of the screen as Mr. Villa stood.

  Father Soltera had just begun to think that he’d left when suddenly Mr. Villa’s voice whispered to him, from just on the other side of the screen. “But I will say this, Bernardino: beware of the moments when you would seek to deny your humanity. It’s in such thoughts that you’ll find the enemy does his best work.”

  Then, Mr. Villa was gone.

  After sleeping in late, Hector took a few calls, organized a few transactions and then walked a few blocks in the drizzling rain to the Chinese food shack nearby. He’d been craving some orange chicken for months, and ordered a double portion of it with a bowl of white rice and a cherry Fanta. Sitting by himself felt good. It was cold inside the shack, with barely enough room to stretch out with the other four tables crammed in the way they were, but it was nice to just kick it a bit.

  Pulling out his phone, he punched up his Kindle, finding that the spot was still saved in the book he’d been reading the day before he went in to jail. The Road by Cormac McCarthy. He was only towards the beginning, but it was already pulling him in for more. On the inside, he’d tried repeatedly to get a copy, to no avail, so it was as if a part of him had never made it into jail but instead had been left in solitary confinement, waiting here, stuck between pages thirty-one and thirty-two.

  This part of himself had no idea of what was coming, once he got out. It was still innocent, in so many ways, pacing around impatiently in the chapter to renew a life that it would never have again.

  He mourned a bit for it all, then pressed on with his reading, finding the story even darker than he remembered, then wondering if perhaps this wasn’t due more to the eyes that were reading it.

  He ate as he read, barely lifting his face enough from the screen to tip the Fanta bottle to his lips as the rain outside grew heavier and the sizzling woks behind the counter h
issed and clanged. Rain or no, all the locals loved this place. In and out they came, mostly grabbing to-go orders and running back out to their cars, which was fine by him. After a while, he looked up and blinked, then yawned.

  His thing was classics, yes, but he’d read a lot of them already. Mostly all the ones he wanted to anyway. So now he was saving a list of newer books that had made the cut, the “contemporary classics.”

  He’d found and tore through a copy of The Remains of the Day by Ishiguro. Parts of it were hard for him to get but he understood the class systems all too well. Gaiman’s American Gods wasn’t bad either. It really didn’t matter, as long as the story could take you away. He was jealous of people who read for fun, who read to remember things.

  He read for peace, and to forget things.

  There was a time when he dreamed of being a great student, of going to UCLA or USC and getting a degree. That was before he knew how much money it cost to go to college, or how many shifts it would take at Burger King to pay for a single class. Plus, well, though he’d been really good at English and History, his grades in Math and Science were really bad. He could’ve done better if he tried harder, but when high school’s just a place you go to, and not a place you try and graduate from, it stops mattering, mostly.

  He could’ve made his street life pay off. The drugs made him enough money to easily pay for college. But the gang life almost demanded immediate suspicion of anyone who even looked like they were trying to get out. And college? What was that if not the number one way of trying to get out?

  In some ways, the idea was even dangerous, as silly as that sounded. Because your friends on the street were only your friends if you stayed there, stuck on those streets, with them. It was enough to make you bitter, if you let it. But it wasn’t that they were bad people. Most of them had already lost someone in their lives, one parent or both, through divorce or jail or some other crap; some had seen their siblings move off, or killed on the street; and some even lived with their grandparents. It didn’t matter. Regardless. The sum of their lives had been mostly loss.