Fall Guy

But before I got the chance to see if he did, I saw something else. Parker had two messages.
    I knew I had no right to listen to Parker's messages, but that had never stopped me in the past and it surely wasn't going to stop me now. What I found might not be admissible in court, but I wasn't trying to make an airtight case. I was only trying to find out what the hell was going on. And when I saw that the first message was from Elizabeth Bowles, there was no way on earth I would have closed the phone and put it back where I found it, where Parker would expect to find it the next day if I couldn't reach him before to tell him not to come.
    „Parker, it's Elizabeth again and the answer is still no. Under no circumstances will I have you living in my home again. If my brother were alive, he'd be telling you the same thing. And don't come asking for money either. Been there. Done that. It's over.“
    The message had been left after Tim had kicked Parker out of the house. He hadn't heard it. No matter. This was obviously not the first time Elizabeth had told him that he couldn't move back in with her. He'd made another plea anyway. Just in case. But he was more than likely expecting exactly what he got, another rejection.
    Was that why he hadn't retrieved his phone when the cops were here? Was this the reason he was in such a rush to get his things back? Because if anyone heard what I'd just heard, there'd be no doubt that Parker hadn't been given permission to stay at his aunt's apartment.
    I played back the second message.
    „P, it's me, Andy. See you in hell“ was all it said. Caller unknown. At least to the phone and to me.
    There was a wallet stuffed in the comer, too, with about eighty dollars in it. Two watches, both expensive. A man's silver ID bracelet with the name „Christopher“ on it. Magpie indeed. I wondered if Parker had been sitting on his stash when the cops were looking around. I wondered, too, how much they'd looked around once they'd determined the death to be a suicide.
    I made one more call, this time using O'Fallon's phone, and then got back to work. I dumped the plastic bag with the contents of Parker's pockets in it onto the kitchen table, not wanting to get his things mixed up with the things on Tim's desk. I picked through the pile: pens and pencils, tissues and handkerchiefs, a folded-up scarf, a pair of leather gloves with the price tag still on them, a comb, a man's gold bracelet, matches, opened packs of cigarettes and change. I couldn't make much of anything new out of what I'd found but thought the stuff should go to the same person I was going to give the cell phone to, Michael Brody. Parker was his problem, not mine, unless of course he was somehow the cause of Tim's death. But the cops didn't seem to think so. As far as I knew, he wasn't even questioned at the precinct, only at the apartment. While they did suspect him in connection with the disappearance of Elizabeth Bowles, no one seemed to think him culpable in Tim's death. No one except me. I was pretty sure that Parker had helped Tim down the long path to suicide, that he beat him down, that he'd made it more and more difficult for Tim to feel there was any point to his life, any saving grace to cling to, any reason to live. But if that was prosecutable, the jails would be far more crowded than they already are, souls pressed as tightly together as subway riders during rush hour.
    I began to put everything back in the bag when I read one of the matchbook covers. Hell. The message hadn't said, „See you in hell.“ It had said, „See you in Hell,“ a bar on Gansevoort Street.
    I went back to the couch, the one with the nest of goodies, the couch, I was sure, where Parker had slept. Only this time, I tore it apart. I took off all the cushions, finding more treasures hidden in corners. Why not? The couch had been both his bed and his nightstand. Where else could he put his things? And things of Tim's he meant to remove from the apartment, seeing first if they'd be missed before taking them to a local hockshop or selling them in the street.
    When I'd finished poking into every comer, I unzipped the worn pillow covers and reached inside. In one, wrapped in a dishtowel, there was cash. I sat down and counted it. Parker had hidden $3,235 there, Parker who, as far as I knew, did not have a job. Another reason why he was so anxious to retrieve his possessions.
    I spent another three hours at the apartment, packing things up. I had