“I don’t know,” she said. “You know I shouldn’t.”
“No one will be the wiser, doll. None of this goes to court. I just need a break, is all,” Parker said. “And doesn’t your hubby deserve a little night on the town with his favorite girl?”
“He can have a million of them,” Patti said. “I dumped the bastard. But my son would be delighted.”
“They’re yours for the taking. You know, they’re yours either way,” he said. Mr. Magnanimous. “Take your son and have a great time. I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you.”
“Oh, I think they probably did,” she said, but her voice was no longer cheerful. “Everybody tells me I’m better off.”
“Yeah, well, everybody can go through it for you too, then. Let them see what a good time you’re having.”
“Like you would know.”
“I’ve learned from the experiences of my friends.”
He let the silence hang, waiting for Patti to fill it.
“Tell me the warrant is on the way,” she said with a sigh.
“The warrant is on the way. Call me if it gets lost en route,” Parker said. “Pick the tickets up at Will Call. I’ll leave your name.”
There was no activity at Davis’s place. No gardener in the yard. No cleaning woman parked in the driveway. Eddie could have been sleeping off his last murder, Parker supposed, his anger stirring again for Eta and for her family.
An absolutely senseless killing that would alter the lives of many people, and not for the better. And Eddie Davis was lying in bed scratching his balls, or down at Fat Burger, or doing whatever a mouth-breather like that did to pass the day. Sitting around picking his nose and trying to decide if he should go with a mutual fund or put his ill-gotten gains into a big crack-cocaine deal.
Parker eased his car down the hill, past Davis’s driveway, parked, then walked back up to the house. Through the dirty glass panes in the garage door he could see an assortment of older motorcycles, most in various states of disrepair, and a brand-new red Kawasaki Ninja ZX12R sport bike. About twelve K worth of fuel-injected sexy beast. Another sign of Eddie’s new prosperity. There was no big black sedan.
Parker boosted himself up on a big terra-cotta planter full of dead plants to look over the gate into the backyard.
Kidney-shaped pool. Tiki bar. Tacky hot tub. And an ugly orange chow chow that looked like it had mange. The dog got up and sauntered over, sat down and stared up at Parker, then turned to chew at one of the mangy bare spots on its coat.
Parker dropped back down and went to the front door of the house to peer in through the sidelights. The requisite porn-movie furniture—black leather, low-slung sectional sofa, cushions scattered on the living room floor around a Moroccan-looking coffee table made out of a giant hammered brass dish that was littered with beer cans and pizza boxes and open bags of Doritos. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a big, black, phallic, wide-screen television flanked by enormous speakers.
Sliding doors to what was probably the master bedroom were located on the other side of the high wood-plank fence on the south end of the house. As Parker stood on another big pot of dead plants looking in, the chow chow came around from the other side of the house, sat down, and stared at him again. The dog’s eyes were dark, emotionless dots in its big head. Eyes like a stone killer, Parker thought. The bastard would probably take his leg off if he swung it over the fence.
“Hey! Who the fuck are you?”
Parker hopped down from the planter. Eddie Davis stared at him from the driver’s side of a black Lincoln Town Car pulled to the curb. He had the same eyes as the dog, and he looked like he’d been tossed into the middle of a hockey brawl—a piece of white tape across his nose, one eye swollen and red, scratches across one cheek.
“Steve,” Parker called, grinning. “You Eddie? Rick sent me.”
“Rick who?”
“You know. Rick from that thing at the beach. He told me you maybe got a bike for sale. A Kawasaki road bike, maybe ninety-eight, ninety-nine? If he’s right, I’ve got money burning a hole in my pocket. I’ve got a hard-on for that bike, you wouldn’t believe.”
“Why were you looking over my fence?”
“I thought maybe you were back at the pool.”
Davis seemed to contemplate whether his greed would outstrip his caution.
“Hey, if you want me to come back another time . . .” Parker offered, spreading his hands. “It’ll have to wait until the end of next week, though. I’m on my way out of town on business. I just thought if I could drive by maybe I’d catch you. . . .”
Davis stared at him for a moment longer.
“It’s your call,” Parker said.
“Hold your coat open.”
“Huh?”
“Hold your coat open.”
To see if he was carrying. To see if he was a cop. Parker held his jacket open.
“Jesus, if you tell me you think I look like a cop, my tailor will kill himself!”
Davis didn’t respond. Same sense of humor as the dog too. He put the Town Car in reverse, backed up, and pulled into the driveway.
Parker walked over, his senses sharpening with each stride, taking in the surroundings, the car, the license plate, a parking sticker on the lower right corner of the back window. He assessed Davis’s body language as he got out of the car—tense, watchful. Parker had no doubt that Davis was carrying a weapon—a gun, a knife, the blade he’d used to cut Eta Fitzgerald’s throat.
The homes in the neighborhood weren’t densely packed together, but they were near enough that Parker thought Davis probably wouldn’t risk killing him in his driveway in broad daylight.
“I don’t know anybody named Rick,” Davis said. His left eye was swollen nearly shut, and tearing. He pressed at it with a dingy handkerchief.
“Rick Dreyer,” Parker said. “Venice Beach. The guy with the tats all up and down his arms and legs. You know. He does the great paint jobs. The guy’s a genius with an airbrush.”
The good eye narrowed. “I know of him.”
Parker shrugged. “Maybe he’s a friend of a friend or something.”
Davis thought about that. The inner workings of his mind moved at the rate of grass growing. “Stench knows him.”
Parker pushed his jacket open again and settled his hands at his waist. “Whatever,” he said with a big I’m-your-pal grin. “Listen, Eddie, I’ve got a plane to catch, so . . .”
Davis pressed the button on the garage-door remote in his hand, and the door started up, grinding and groaning. He tipped his head by way of invitation for Parker to go in. Parker turned a bit sideways, wanting Davis in full view. The guy wasn’t tall, but he was built like a refrigerator.
“So what do you want for this baby?” Parker asked.
“Eight thousand.”
“Holy shit!”
Parker stopped abruptly. Davis went another two steps into the garage before he turned around. The sun hit him in the face and his eyes went shut.
Parker pulled his gun out of the belt holster nestled at the small of his back, and, swinging with both arms, backhanded Davis as hard as he could across the face.
Davis’s head snapped to his right, blood gushing from his already broken nose. He staggered backward, tripping over his own feet, falling. He hit the concrete ass-first, sprawling, arms flailing, the back of his head bouncing off the floor.
Anger and adrenaline pumping, Parker stepped over him, leaned down, stuck the SIG-Sauer in his face.
“Eddie Davis, you’re under arrest for the murder of Eta Fitzgerald. One word out of your fucking mouth and I’ll beat you to death. You would have the right to an attorney, but you killed him too, so you’re shit out of luck. You got that?”
Davis groaned, turned onto his side, coughing, and spat out a mouthful of blood. “Jesus-fucking-Christ!”