The plaza was deserted. Nothing opened for another hour or so. Jace parked The Beast and sat down on a bench, trying to let go of all the tension in his body. He stared at the rise and fall of the many waterspouts around the Peace on Earth sculpture, and tried to clear his mind for just a moment.
The sculpture was allegedly famous. To Jace it looked like a monkey pile of people trying to hold up a giant artichoke that a dove had dive-bombed nose-first. All he could think looking at it was that the man who had created it had not lived in the same world he did, or the same world Eta Fitzgerald had lived in.
The sculpture was timeless. A thing without life that would live forever. A thing without emotion, meant to evoke emotion. It would sit on this spot forever, barring nuclear attack or the Big Quake.
Jace couldn’t imagine that anyone would really care if it was there or not, but there it would remain. Instead, people would come and go, live and die, and years would pass, and some would be missed and some would never be thought of at all.
He tried to imagine what Eta would have had to say about Peace on Earth, but he couldn’t hear her voice, and he would never hear her voice again. He could only put his head in his hands and cry for the loss of her.
29
Chen’s Fish Market was five minutes from Parker’s loft. According to the DMV, one of the Mini Coopers that may have fled the scene of Abby Lowell’s break-in lived here. Parker pulled up in front and went to the public entrance first, finding the place hadn’t yet opened for business. But in the loading bay two men were shoveling shaved ice for the coolers that would chill the day’s deliveries.
Parker held up his badge. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m looking for a Lu Chen.”
The men straightened immediately, one wide-eyed with fear, the other narrow-eyed with suspicion. The first had the round, doughy features of someone with Down syndrome. Parker addressed the other man. “I’m Detective Parker, LAPD. Is there a Lu Chen here?”
“Why?”
Parker smiled. “That was a yes or no question. Unless your name is Lu Chen.”
“Lu Chen is my aunt.”
“And you are?”
“Chi.”
“Just Chi?” Parker asked. “Like Cher? Like Prince?”
The steel-eyed stare. No sense of humor.
“Is your aunt here?”
Chi stabbed his shovel into the pile of ice. Anger management issues. “I’ll go see if she’s in her office.”
“I’ll come with you,” Parker said. The guy looked offended at the suggestion. Hell of a lot of attitude from someone who shoveled ice for a living.
Chi climbed up on the loading dock, then stood there with his hands on his hips, glaring at Parker. Not the day to have worn the Hugo Boss suit, Parker thought, but there it was. The gauntlet had been thrown down.
Parker boosted himself up onto the dock and dusted himself off, trying not to grimace as he looked at a streak of black dirt on the front of his jacket. His sour-faced tour guide turned and led him through part of the small warehouse space, down a narrow hall to a door marked OFFICE.
Chi knocked. “Aunt? A police detective is here to see you.”
The door opened and a small, neat woman in a red wool blazer and black slacks stared out at them. Her expression was as fierce as her nephew’s, but in a way that was strong rather than petulant.
“Detective Parker, ma’am.” Parker offered his ID. “If I could have a moment of your time, please. I have a couple of questions for you.”
“In regards to what, may I ask?”
“Your car, ma’am. You own a 2002 Mini Cooper?”
“Yes.”
The nephew made a huff of disgust. Lu Chen looked at him. “Please leave us, Chi. I know you have work to do.”
“More than usual,” he said. “Being shorthanded.”
“Excuse us, then,” she said pointedly, and the nephew turned and walked away. She turned to Parker. “Would you care for tea, Detective?”
“No, thank you. I just have a few questions. Is the car here?”
“Yes, of course. I park in back.”
“Do you mind if I have a look?”
“Not at all. What is this all about?” she asked, leading him from the cramped office out the back to the alley.
Parker walked slowly around the car. “When was the last time you drove it?”
She thought for a moment. “Three days ago. I had a charity luncheon at Barneys in Beverly Hills. Then, of course, it rained.”
“You didn’t take it out yesterday?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else take it out? Your nephew, maybe?”
“Not that I know. I was here all day. Chi was here all day, as well, and he has his own car.”
“Does anyone else have access to the keys?”
Now she began to look worried. “They hang in my office. What is this about, Detective? Have I violated some traffic law? I don’t understand.”
“A car matching the description of yours was reported leaving the scene of a crime yesterday. A break-in and assault.”
“How dreadful. But I can assure you, it wasn’t my car. My car was here.”
Parker pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “A witness copied part of the license plate. It comes pretty close to matching yours.”
“As do many, I’m sure.”
She was a cool one, he had to give her that. He strolled along the driver’s side to the rear of the car and tapped his notebook against the broken taillight. “As the car was leaving the scene, it was struck by a minivan. The taillight was broken.”
“Such a coincidence. My car was struck while I was at my luncheon. I discovered the damage when I went to leave.”
“What did the lot attendant have to say?”
“There was none.”
“Did you report the incident to the police?”
“For what purpose?” she asked, arching a brow. “To garner their sympathy? In my experience, the police have no interest in such small matters.”
“To your insurance company, then?”
“File a claim for so little damage? I would be a fool to give my insurance company such an invitation to raise my rates.”
Parker smiled and shook his head. “You must be something on the tennis court, Ms. Chen.”
“You may call me Madame Chen,” she said, her back ramrod straight. Parker doubted she topped five feet, and still she somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “And I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“My apologies,” Parker said with a deferential tip of his head. “Madame Chen. You seem to have an answer for everything.”
“Why would I not?”
He touched the scratch marks on the Mini Cooper’s otherwise impeccable glossy black paint. “The minivan that struck the car leaving the crime scene was silver. The car that damaged your car was silver also.”
“Silver is a popular color.”
“Interesting thing about paint colors,” Parker said. “They’re particular to make. Ford’s silver paint, for instance, is not Toyota’s silver paint is not BMW’s silver paint. They’re chemically unique.”
“How fascinating.”
“Do you know a J. C. Damon?” Parker asked.
She didn’t react to the sudden change of subject. Parker couldn’t decide if that was genius or a miscalculation. An overreaction would have been more telling, he supposed.
“How would I know this person?” she asked.
“He’s a bike messenger for Speed Couriers. Twentyish, blond, good-looking kid.”
“I have no need of a bicycle messenger.”
“That wasn’t actually the question,” Parker pointed out.
No response.
“J. C. Damon was the person driving the car that was leaving the scene of the crime.”