“Melissa,” I said, “let’s go down the hall and find a


room and sit down.” I needed a minute to figure out how to handle this. When we had some privacy, I said, “Why do you think I


amyour father?” My mother told me that if I ever needed anything, I


should find you.You were honest; you would protectme. “As soon as I was old enough, I went to boarding


schools, the best ones money could buy. I saw my mother on holidays, but that was about it. She had no man in her life. I knew about her, who she was. I lived in the family. I knew who ‘Uncle Mario’was, what was in my blood. There was nothing I could rely on, except what she said about you. “I never knew you, my father, but I had to believe that


my mother wouldn’t trust my safety to anyone but family,” Melissa said. Well, she had me there. She had believed this, even


though her mother never said the words. Sometimes those beliefs are stronger than actual facts. I was about to change her world. “Melissa, I’m not your father. I was never close to your


mother.After the case when we met was closed, we went our separate ways. I never heard from her again until just before she was killed. I had no contact with her.We each went on with our lives. “I’m honored and a bit humbled that she trusted me


enough to tell you to basically put your life in my hands, and yes, Iwill help you find outwhat happened to your aunt. But, no, I’mnot your father. It was like a light went out.Melissa started to deny it, to


argue, then realized Iwas telling the truth. She began to cry. I never have done well with women who cry. The door opened and Paulo came in. He sat down and put his armaround her. “It’s OK,Melissa. Let’s take a walk and talk.” Paulo led her out onto the airport tarmac. It was like that


scene in “Casablanca.” The fog off Santa Monica Bay was rolling in. They walked through the mist. Paulo andMelissa began to talk. I went back into the conference room. LAPD Capt. Bill


Voss, Smythe-Jones (aka Uncle Mario), and the FBI agent were there.They all had that look: “Well?” I told them. It was going to be common knowledge any-


way. Smythe-Jones wasn’t as accepting as his nieceMelissa. I offered to take a blood test. That slowed him down. I wouldn’t do that if there were even a slight chance she was my daughter. We sipped our coffee, each with his own thoughts. I was


thinking about that poor girl and what Paulo was telling out by her uncle’s G5. “Well,” said Smythe-Jones, “dowe have a deal?Will you


findmy daughter’s killer?” “Yes, but I won’t work for you. I will work for your


niece.” (OK she’s a grand niece but it just sounds pedantic. You know what Imean.) That seemed agreeable and keptme, sort of, fromwork-


ing for theMob. We broke up, and as we walked out, Paulo andMelissa


met us at the terminal entrance. A limo was there to take Uncle and Niece to Shutters in SantaMonica. I was to meet themfor breakfast the nextmorning.No onewas in themood to talk aboutmurder tonight. Paulo had driven his own car since he lived on theVenice


canals, just a fewblocks away. I took Bill back to Culver City to pick up his copmobile.


APRIL 2009 • PARKING TODAY • www.parkingtoday.com 49


Parking Today Online www.parkingtoday.com


As I drove home, I was musing – how did the kidnappers


know I was at the Hollywood Bowl? How did they set it up so the car with Sarah’s body would be blocking mine? How did they know that I had a relationship with Sarah’s sister? How did my business card get in the trunk with the body? I pulled intomy driveway.Mywife, Shirley,was stayingwith


her best friend. She and her husband were the last ones to see Sarah alive, and they needed some support. The front door to the house was open, the lights were on. I


reached into the glove compartment and pulled outmy gun ... To be continued ...


You can read the previous chapters of this Episode, and the other Three Episodes of Death by Parking at PT’s web site www.parkingtoday.com. Click on Magazine.


PT


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