The Parker Trilogy Read online

  “Yes. It is. But we’ll do our best to fix it,” Maggie replied almost robotically.

  Seeing the bag in Maggie’s hand, Kim asked, “Where are you going?”

  Just then, Henry walked in.

  “Perfect. I’ve got you both here,” Maggie said.

  “What’s going on?” Henry asked.

  Maggie looked at him point-blank. “I need you to do something, Henry.”

  “What?” Henry replied, sounding perplexed.

  Maggie put her hand out. “I spoke with one of the detectives on Luisa’s case. They want you to review the security footage of the car that Luisa got into last night and get them the plate, or even part of the plate. Can you do that?”

  “Y-yeah. I mean, I can try.”

  “Great.”

  “Maggie,” Kim interjected, “what’s—”

  “In the meantime, I have a little errand to run. I think I know where Luisa might be. I’ll let you know once I check it out.”

  “What?”

  But she was out of the office and on her way to her car as they shouted after her. Once at her car, she threw the bag in the passenger seat and sped out of the parking lot as Henry came running out of the front door of the shelter and tried to chase her down.

  Google Maps told her that she would have to take the 110 Freeway to the 60 Freeway to get there. It would be a fifty-minute drive at this time of the morning.

  Google Maps also told her that the Hollenbeck Police Station, where Detectives Murillo, Klink, Ivy, Hopkins, et al worked, was twenty minutes from South El Monte.

  She felt guilty, but in all the chaos she’d pulled a Luisa and swiped someone’s cell phone from the reception counter on her way to Kim’s office. She would use the phone to call Klink or Murillo when she was within reach of the warehouse, just in case.

  She knew this particular part of her plan was illogical. Knew it full well. But . . . Hopkins. She just couldn’t get him out of her mind. What if Murillo hadn’t had the case transferred yet? What if Hopkins was on duty right now? What if he overheard Klink and Murillo say where Luisa might be? What if he called someone who could get to South El Monte quicker?

  The “what ifs” were too numerous to risk, because push come to shove, Maggie still could not get past her belief, deep down, that the police never got things right. Someday, she might be able to. Murillo sounded like a good guy, and so did Klink, but she didn’t know them. Not one bit. So, for Luisa’s sake, she’d go in first. Alone.

  She had no doubt in her mind that she could handle Felix, but if there were more people there? Then she’d need help.

  She’d call Klink when she was almost there and that way at least if she got there first, she’d have some control over the situation. Felix was probably not willing to listen to anyone right now, but if someone could get through to him? The odds favored Maggie more than the police, who he’d probably been at war with his whole life.

  No. With Maggie he’d either listen or he’d be much more likely to let his guard down. In Maggie he’d see a woman. He’d see weakness. He’d see vulnerability. And that would be his undoing.

  She smiled softly. The storm is brought, not endured.

  Rush hour traffic into Downtown Los Angeles was brutal. She wove from one lane to the next, knowing that it was all only advancing her mission by mere seconds, but seconds might be all that Luisa had left.

  Before long, she curved onto the transition to the 60 and began making her way east. Traffic here was just as heavy. Trying to calm herself, she noticed the crucifix hanging from her rearview mirror as it swung lazily from side to side, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.

  Time. Time was her enemy now.

  Her exit, Santa Anita Avenue, was just up ahead.

  The crucifix also made her think of Father Soltera, lying there in that hospital bed, and she became sad. He’d asked her to do one thing, hadn’t he? Just one: protect Luisa. And man, how badly had she blown that?

  But the crucifix also reminded her to keep the faith. She could still fix this. She could.

  Then she remembered that it was Felix who had been vicious enough to put Father Soltera in that hospital bed in the first place, who had jumped him and stabbed him repeatedly.

  It was Felix who had brazenly charged into Eden Hill and shot the place up in a fit of jealous rage.

  And it had been Felix who had been cunning enough to somehow talk Luisa into giving him another chance. Into telling him where she was so he could come pick her up in the dead of night.

  Vicious. Brazen. Cunning. Maybe he wasn’t all that different from her ex, after all. No. He wasn’t.

  And that’s when it struck Maggie that there were more Michaels in the world than she ever dared to believe.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Parker felt like he was going to pop. He knew he’d come into work and was now at the station, in a group of people huddled around Murillo’s desk, trying to figure out what to do next, but in his head? He was still home, arguing with Trudy, trying to revise what he’d said and how he’d said it, so as not to feel like such an asshole.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to focus.

  Captain Holland was leaning against a tall file cabinet nearby, his arms folded, his left hand holding a few reports. “Okay. So, we have a lot of loose ends on this one.”

  “Right,” Murillo said. He was sitting in his chair. Like the captain, he was speaking in a hushed tone.

  “And you think, based on this girl’s ‘gut’ opinion, that I should box out two of my detectives on this?”

  Klink was sitting on the desk across from them, but like Parker, he was staying silent.

  Agent Clopton was not. “Okay. So, break this all down for me.” She and Agent Sharma had just arrived and together they rounded out their sealed corner of the squad room.

  Holland sighed. “Okay. We’ve got your investigation into Güero Martinez, and now alongside it, we’ve got two other cases.”

  Clopton was flabbergasted. “Two?”

  “Yep. A priest who was stabbed a few nights ago and is barely clinging to life over at White Memorial Medical Center and now a young girl, sixteen—”

  “And pregnant,” Murillo interjected.

  “Yeah. And pregnant, whose been forced to go into hiding because the same guy who tried to off the priest is after her now.”

  Agent Sharma’s face was covered in dismay. “What?” Parker noticed that she looked tired.

  Klink finally spoke up. “He’s the baby daddy.”

  “Okaaay,” Clopton replied, spreading her arms. “What does any of this have to do with our case?”

  Holland sighed heavily. “The girl is Güero Martinez’s niece.”

  Agent Clopton looked incredulous. “Shit.”

  “And the guy on the rampage? The baby daddy? He’s one of Güero’s bodyguards.”

  Agent Sharma shook her head. “And shit, again.”

  “You said the priest was stabbed two nights ago . . .” Clopton began.

  “Yeah. And the next day? Lover boy shot up a women’s shelter nearby and tried to get to the niece,” Captain Holland interrupted.

  “And we’re just hearing about this—” Clopton tried again.

  Again, Holland cut her off, his voice impatient. “This was all going down congruent with you bringing the Fed case to our attention. Like I said. A lot of loose ends that we’re finally tying together.”

  Clopton glared at him. “Okay. Fine. So why does the niece think we should box out two of your detectives?”

  “Not the niece,” Murillo cut in. “A woman by the name of Maggie Kincaid. She works at the shelter and knew the priest somehow. She didn’t like the way she was interviewed about his stabbing.”

  “Okay. Which two detectives interviewed her?”

  Murillo shut his mouth, Klink looked out the window. Parker stayed silent, still trying to keep Trudy out of his mind while also trying to convince himself he still cared about all of this.

 
Holland nodded slowly, as if coming to grips with something in his head. The thin blue line was about to be crossed. When he replied it was in barely a whisper. “Ivy and Hopkins.”

  It was when Parker saw the quick glance that Agent Clopton exchanged with Agent Sharma that he finally spoke up. Because he didn’t like secrets. “What was that look for?” he said, his throat still clogged with sleep. He cleared it. “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” Agent Clopton said dismissively.

  “Oh. Bullshit I will.”

  She snapped her head in his direction. “You’re out of line, Detective.”

  But Holland, in a very good sign, had Parker’s back. “I don’t think so, Agent Clopton. You’re the one that’s dragged us into this.”

  “Yeah. And now it’s a shitstorm!”

  “What? As if we stabbed the priest or went after the niece?”

  She put her hands on her hips as Agent Sharma sighed and answered for her. “Of course not.”

  “Okay then,” Parker replied. “Can we quit screwing the dog here and just get after it?”

  Now it was Agent Clopton’s turn to come to grips with something in her head. “Okay,” she said after a quick nod at Sharma, who gave a slight nod back, “how well do you guys know them? Ivy and Hopkins, I mean?”

  “Well, shit. We’ve all worked with them from time to time,” Murillo said defensively.

  “That’s not what I mean. You hang with them after work? Coach their kids’ soccer team with them? That kinda stuff?”

  To a man, they all shook their heads before Klink spoke up. “Ivy keeps to himself a lot. Does a ton of volunteer work. Both kids in college. Lives with his wife, who we only see at the Christmas party or the annual awards banquet.”

  “Yeah,” Murillo added, “the guy’s a closed book. Don’t know if I’ve ever seen him take a drink.”

  Agent Sharma spoke next. “And Hopkins?”

  Klink shrugged. “I played on the squad softball team with him one year. Affable guy. Divorced. Likes to toss a few back every now and then.”

  “That it?”

  “Yeah. We’re not running buddies or anything. He invited me to Vegas last month, but I couldn’t make it.”

  Again, Clopton and Sharma looked at each other. Clopton spoke. “Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t go.”

  It got quiet for a few seconds longer than normal. “What does that mean?” Captain Holland finally asked.

  “Hopkins is a name that’s come up. More than a few times. We think it’s his voice on that tape.”

  “Shit,” Murillo said, rubbing his hands over his face.

  Klink squinted at her. “And you knew this all along? Even yesterday, when you said—”

  “That we weren’t sure? Yeah.”

  “Well, excuse the term, Agent Clopton, but that’s a real dick move!”

  “We were being careful.”

  “We suspect he was in Vegas to meet Güero Martinez, who just happened to be there with his associates that same weekend for some fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “The usual. Booze, gambling. And, oh yeah, they picked up a half-dozen Russian girls that were shipped in from Canada and drove them back here in the back of a rented U-Haul truck.”

  Holland nodded. “And you’re sure Hopkins met with him?”

  “They stayed in the same hotel, but we got nothing on tape. They must’ve met off-site. We found out at the last second where Güero was staying, but we couldn’t bug his room in time.”

  “Regardless, shortly thereafter? Hopkins paid off about twenty-five grand of his credit card debt. It’s all circumstantial. But, I mean . . .” Sharma added.

  Captain Holland looked very sad. “Yeah. I get it. What are the odds, and all that.”

  “Dammit!” Klink blurted out.

  “He was probably trying to draft you into the cause,” Agent Clopton said, looking at Klink. “Still. Sorry if I offended you.”

  Klink said nothing.

  “So now what?” Murillo asked.

  Just then, the elevator doors opened and out stepped Sergeant Davenport. When she walked up, she saw Parker and looked surprised. “You’re already back? I thought you had three days’—”

  “The Feds brought him in on their side of things, Emily,” Holland said.

  After Davenport was introduced to Agents Clopton and Sharma, they began to tell her everything to catch her up to speed. But more than once, Parker caught Davenport looking his way with concern on her face.

  Still, Parker watched it all from a mile away. He was thinking of Trudy, lying next to him in bed. Imploring him. Please, Evan. Take a leave. You can’t be working another case right now.

  He’d told her no, repeatedly.

  Why? she had yelled, rolling her eyes in frustration.

  He’d told her because he’d already agreed to help. That they needed his help. That the guy they were after was very bad news.

  But she had been relentless. Sitting up on her knees and punching him in the chest, she had reminded him that the LAPD had plenty of cops to handle the case. They don’t need you.

  Parker had told her that’s not how it worked.

  Pain had fallen down her face like an avalanche as her eyes teared up and she offered up one forlorn word. Please?

  He’d lost patience then and told her that when you accepted a mission, you saw it through to the end. No retreat. No surrender.

  Trudy had shaken her head as her face gave way to remorse and then a sudden rage. Evan. Don’t you get it? You’re. Not. At. War. Any. More.

  And that’s how she said it. One word at a time, emphatically, as if she were trying to get through to an incorrigible child.

  But he wasn’t hearing it. Instead, he showered, dressed and went to work.

  Struggling the whole time—while he tied his tie, while she said goodbye to him and during the whole drive downtown—to get the final numbers of Outpost Keating out of his head.

  Eight killed, twenty-seven wounded. Out of fifty-four men who fought valiantly even though they were outnumbered six-to-one. That was a casualty rate of over fifty percent.

  All because one man had managed to get inside their wire.

  By the time the hunt for revenge occurred a few months later, Parker had been sent home. At the time, he was happy about that, because he just wanted out of that damned place so bad.

  But now? Now he wished he’d gotten the chance to go and kill every one of those bastards.

  Because maybe if he had, he wouldn’t still be dreaming about them.

  Hector sat on a cold metal bench, his head in his hands, and waited. He was in a holding cell with two other inmates, waiting for final transport to the cell block he would be housed in until his arraignment, when the cell door opened and four Latino men all walked in.

  The atmosphere in the room immediately shifted. Hector did not know them, but one of them had a tattoo that made him a member of Fifteenth Street, a rival gang from East LA that Hector’s gang had tangled with, more than once, for drug trade turf, mostly around Dodger Stadium.

  This was a problem.

  But it became an even bigger one when the sheriff that had brought them in motioned to the other two inmates to exit the cell. They didn’t have to be told twice to get moving.

  Hector looked at the sheriff. “Hey! What’s this crap?”

  The sheriff looked at Hector with a tiny smirk. “What’s what, punk ass? Four transferring in, two out. Just another day at the office.” He shrugged.

  The cell door closed and the sheriff walked away with the other two prisoners.

  Hector stood.

  The four Fifteenth Street homies immediately formed a semi-circle around him, the tallest one to his left, the bulkiest to his right. The two in the middle were smaller than Hector but one of them was evidently the leader, because he spoke first. “Where you from?”

  In the gang life it was the three-word question that almost always preceded violence. What it really meant was, “I don’t know you.
” And in the gang life, if you were caught somewhere you weren’t known? You were caught somewhere you could die.

  Hector dropped his chin, stuck out his chest and balled up his fists. “Fresno Street V’s, you f—”

  They were on him in an instant, kicking and punching him from every direction. He felt one fist connect a little too solidly with his right cheekbone, which sent stars dancing across his eyes.

  As he fell to the floor, they piled over him, throwing punches and elbows against his neck and ribs. There was no way he was going to win this fight. He knew that. But he wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

  He saw an opening and took it, punching the homie in charge right in the mouth with a clean shot. He cursed and turned his face away as blood began to spill from his mouth.

  Another round of pain came Hector’s way as he squirmed onto his side and tried to get away. They grabbed at him and held him down, but he managed to get one hand free and jam it between the bulky homie’s legs, where Hector found his balls and squeezed with all his might. Yeah, it was a bitch move, but so was four-on-one.

  The bulky homie began having a conversation with the universe as he screamed and tumbled away across the cell floor in agony.

  One down, one rocked a bit . . . but the tall guy had one hand around Hector’s throat, squeezing tight, and was punching him mercilessly in the face with his other hand.

  Hector felt his nose give way, then his upper lip split. It was all he could do to get his hands up to deflect some of the punches as one of his eyes began to swell shut. Then, suddenly, the homie in charge shouted and the beating stopped.

  In the brief pause filled with groans and heavy breathing that followed, Hector’s mind raced as to what was happening and why.

  Was it possible that his own gang would do this to him? Could Ramon have ordered it anyway? No. Hector had Curtis’ protection, didn’t he? Or maybe after what he’d done in the nightclub with Marisol the decision had been made to silence him before he could size up a life sentence and get squeezed by a DA to talk gang secrets.

  But he’d never shown disloyalty before, had he? No. No he hadn’t. But . . . he had shown complete recklessness by gunning people down in a place where such an important meeting was being held that night, right? Hector’s heart sank. It was true. The cops had no doubt shown up and shaken everyone down, and up there in the balcony was a very large contingent of very important people.