Anthony Giradello, the ADA set to make his career on the case, had seen Parker dragging down his ship, and had done the cruel and certain thing any ADA would have done: He took up his own whip and joined in the beating.
Giradello had done everything he could to distance his case from Parker, to downplay Parker’s role in the investigation. Sure, Parker was an asshole, but he was an unimportant asshole who hadn’t really had anything much to do with the investigation or the gathering or handling of evidence. The liberal LA press had joined in the feeding frenzy, always happy to eviscerate a cop doing his job.
Andi Kelly had been a single voice against the mob, pointing out the defense was employing the shopworn but tried-and-true “When All Else Fails, Blame a Cop” strategy. A shell game devised to draw attention away from overwhelming forensic evidence, to plant a seed of doubt in the minds of the jury. All they needed was to convince one juror that Parker was some kind of rogue, that he wouldn’t think twice about planting evidence, that he had some kind of racial or socioeconomic bias against the defendant. One juror, and they would hang the jury.
They managed to convince all twelve. A murderer walked free.
The political fallout had been ugly. The DA’s office had pressed for Parker to be fired, to continue to deflect the spotlight away from the fact that they had lost and a killer had walked free. The chief of police, who loathed the DA and feared the police union, had refused to get rid of Parker, despite the fact that every brass badge in the department wanted him gone. He had been painted as a problem, a loose cannon, insubordinate. The public spotlight was on him. He was a black eye on a department that couldn’t take another scandal.
The only interview Parker had granted during all of it was to Andi Kelly.
“So how you doing, Kev?” Kelly asked.
“Older, wiser, like everybody,” Parker said, slowly pacing the sidewalk.
“Know anything going on in the Cole case?”
“You’d know more than I would. You’re the one at the courthouse every day. I’m just a peon now, you know. Training the next crop of wolf cubs,” Parker said. “For what it’s worth, I have it on good authority Cole is an asshole.”
“That’s news? He beat his wife’s head in with a sculpture worth three-quarters of a million dollars.”
“He came on to a friend of mine with the missus standing right there.”
“Everybody knows he cheated on her. Robbie’s not smart enough to pull off total discretion, despite his best efforts. Everything Tricia Crowne put up with with that clown, it’s hard to believe she didn’t pull a Bobbitt on him years ago,” Kelly said. She released a big sigh. “Well, if you don’t have a scoop for me, Parker, to hell with you.”
“That’s harsh. Now that I’m down on my luck, living in the gutter, eating out of garbage cans, can’t you do an old friend a favor?”
“If you’re such a good old friend, why didn’t you stop me from marrying Goran?”
“You married a guy named Goran?”
“I believe you just made my point,” she said. “But never mind. I managed to divorce him without you too. What do you want, Man-I-Haven’t-Heard-From-In-Years?”
“It’s nothing much,” Parker said. “I’m working a homicide. Happened last night. There’s a couple of lines in the Times this morning. I’m curious who wrote it. Can you find out?”
“Why?” Like every good reporter, Kelly was always keen for the scent of a story. If she’d been a hunting dog, she would have been on point.
“It just struck me as odd,” Parker said casually. “No one spoke to me. I was on the scene half the night, and I didn’t see any reporter.”
“Probably some staff flunky picked it up off the scanner. Who’s the vic?”
“Low-end defense attorney. I’m surprised the Times wasted the space.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And why do you care it was in the paper if the guy’s a nobody?” Kelly asked.
“They got a couple of details wrong.”
“So?”
Parker sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, I don’t remember you being such a pain in the ass.”
“Well, I always have been.”
“It’s a wonder your mother didn’t put you in a sack and drown you when you were two years old.”
“I think she tried,” Kelly said. “I have issues.”
“Honey, I can trump your issues any day of the week.”
“Now you’re making me feel inferior.”
“Why did I call you?” Parker asked, exasperated.
“Because you want something, and you think I’m a whore for a good story.”
“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“Which brings us back to my last question. What do you care about two sentences buried in the Times?”
Parker glanced back into Starbucks. Ruiz was still on her phone, but was making a note. He considered and discarded the idea of telling Kelly about Robbery-Homicide’s unofficial appearance at the scene. He believed in playing his cards one at a time.
“Listen, Andi, it’s nothing I can put my finger on yet. I’m just getting a weird vibe here. Maybe I’m just hinky because they don’t let me out of my cage enough.”
“Still in the minors, huh?”
“Yeah. Ironic, isn’t it? They wanted to get rid of me because they thought I was a rotten cop, so they sentenced me to train new detectives.”
“Management at its finest,” Kelly said. “There’s a method to that madness, though. Anybody else they would have sent down to South Central to work drug murders and body-dump jobs, but they knew you’d thrive there. They had a better chance making you quit by boring you to death.”
“Yeah, well, I showed them,” Parker said. “So what do you say? Can you make a couple of calls?”
“And if this turns into something . . . ?”
“Your number is in my phone, and I’ll buy you a bottle of Glenmorangie.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks.”
Parker stuck his phone in his pocket and went back into the coffeehouse.
“The number is a prepaid cell phone,” Ruiz said. “Untraceable.”
“Every criminal’s favorite toy,” Parker said. Every drug dealer, gang banger, and thug in the city carried one. The number was sold with the phone. No paperwork, no paper trail. He grabbed the newspaper and started for the door. “Let’s go.”
“Who were you talking to?” Ruiz asked as they got back into the car.
“I called an old friend for a favor. I want to know who wrote that bit.”
“Because they got it wrong?”
“Because what if they didn’t? If the daughter found the body—”
“Then she’s a suspect.”
“She has to be considered anyway. Most murder victims are killed by people they know. You always have to look at the family.”
“But she has an alibi.”
“I want you to check it out later today. You’ll need to speak with the maitre d’ and the waiter at Cicada. Was she there, when did she get there, when did she leave, what was she wearing, did she speak to anyone, did she use the house phone, was she absent from the table for any length of time.”
“But if she found the body, how did this reporter find out and not us?”
“That’s my question,” Parker said, starting the car. “Chances are, it’s just a screwup. Some low face on the totem pole at the Times picked up the call on the scanner, got a detail thirdhand from one of the crime-scene geeks while they were sitting in a bar. Who knows? Half of what gets printed in the paper is bullshit. You can stand there and tell a reporter a story word for fucking word, and they’ll still get it wrong.”