The Guilty Read online

  Book 2 of the Henry Parker series by bestselling thriller author Jason Pinter.

  As I lie in bed with Amanda, ignoring another late-night call from my ex, a shot rings out in the New York night and a beautiful starlet dies outside the city’s most popular nightclub. This is the kind of story I was born to chase—but I never dreamed this story began over a hundred years ago….

  Suddenly another life is taken, the bullet fired from one of the deadliest guns ever made. Both victims are highly controversial, their murders more like public executions. My search leads me into the twisted world of The Boy—a world defined by a demented code of honor and shocking, long-buried secrets of the world’s most infamous outlaw.

  When this assassin realizes I’m getting too close to the truth, uncovering the past could jeopardize everything I care about. Because in his world there’s a fine line between good and evil, and the difference between innocence and guilt depends on who’s holding the gun….

  “An author who dares to take the traditional thriller in bold new directions.” –New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen

  “Jason Pinter knows what he’s doing. The Fury rocks. READ IT!” –New York Times bestselling author Michael Connelly

  Originally published in 2008.

  Books by Jason Pinter

  The Mark

  The Guilty

  The Stolen

  The Fury

  The Hunters: A Novella

  The Darkness

  The Invited

  THE GUILTY

  JASON PINTER

  For Susan

  Always, for you

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Linda McFall. To simply thank her for being a good editor would be overlooking the thousand ways she makes the writing and publishing process a joy. Linda forced me to reach inside this manuscript and, kicking and screaming, pull out a better book.

  Adam Wilson, who was always there in a pinch and kept everything on track.

  Joe Veltre, whose insight and savvy make him an über-immortal among agents. Thanks also to Diane Bartoli and Sara Wolski, who patiently answered all my fine-print questions (some of which were half-intelligent).

  My deepest thanks to Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Craig Swinwood, Loriana Sacilotto, Stacy Widdrington, Maureen Stead, Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Heather Foy, Ana Luxton, Jayne Hoogenberk and Valerie Gray, aka Team MIRA. Whenever I don’t think I could be more impressed with my publisher’s dedication and aptitude, they raise the bar. I only hope I’m able to keep pace.

  Cris Jaw, designer extraordinaire. Behind those bullet holes lies her brilliance.

  Michael Wallis, Professor James Starrs, Frederick W. Nolan and Marcelle Brothers, whose sturdy shoulders provided support in my research for this novel. Timothy L. O’Brien, who shared the wonders of journalism’s most hallowed halls.

  Mom, Dad and Ali, supportive and nurturing as always, thank you again for helping me live my dream.

  Wilson, who always gives me something to look forward to when I come home.

  Jeff, Jane and Sabrina, my beloved in-laws, who not only bent over backward to spread the good word in every way possible, but raised the wonderful girl who became my wife. Great job!

  And to Susan. My first reader, my best friend, my soul mate. Thank you.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  PROLOGUE

  They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

  I disagree.

  I’ve lost before. I lost the affection of my parents before I was old enough to know that the world looked upon an estranged child with sad eyes. I lost my first love because I was too cowardly to protect her. I nearly lost my life due to circumstances beyond my control. All of those losses created holes in my life. Holes I’ve attempted to patch up, to cover, but they’ll always be there, even if they don’t leave a mark on the surface.

  Doesn’t mean I can’t try to forget. Through life. Through work.

  Through Amanda.

  If she wasn’t here, lying next to me in our bed, her head inches from mine, I wouldn’t be here at all. It’s not that I’d be back in Oregon, paying my dues at the news desk of the Bend Bulletin, skiing at Mount Bachelor, thirsting through thirteen inches of annual rainfall, and paying two hundred bucks a month in rent.

  If she wasn’t here, I would either be rotting in the ground somewhere or in a jail trying to stay alive while cursing a simple twist of fate.

  Her soft brown hair cascading down her back, eyes so bright and big I get lost in them.

  One year ago I was running for my life. A total stranger saved me. Without her, everything would have been lost.

  And God help me I can’t lose her, because I don’t have the strength to patch that kind of hole.

  So as I lie here, watching Amanda’s chest rise and fall, all I can do is hope I’m here to witness every last breath of her life. And hope that, finally, the stories I report won’t be my own.

  CHAPTER 1

  The limousine pulled up to the curb outside the Kitten Club, and like a cult waiting for its leader, dozens of heads turned at once. Hundreds of eyes widened. Pulses sped up, hearts raced.

  A black-clad bouncer stepped to the limo and opened the door. A slender leg stepped onto the curb. Then it stopped, its owner making sure the cameras had time to swallow up every inch of perfect skin. Then another leg slipped out. The crowd moaned, her body glitter giving the girl’s normally pale skin a translucent glow. The crowd gasped as her full form emerged. Those who weren’t too stunned to move pressed against the velvet ropes, the bouncers going into full push-’em-back mode.

  Flashbulbs popped by the dozen. She flashed that million-watt seductive smile, the one that had seduced and captivated people all over the world. They shouted at her. Nothing she hadn’t heard before. Yet as she stepped onto the red carpet, rolled out just for her, listening to the throng of fans chanting her name, Athena Paradis couldn’t help but feel that the world had given itself to her.

  She waved to the dazed crowd, stopped to sign a few autographs and blow air kisses through ruby lips, laughed at the mismatched chunky schlubs who would be fantasizing about her that night as th
ey lay alone in the dark.

  One-thirty in the morning, but the flashes and strobe lights made it seem like broad daylight. It was just late enough for the party to be in full swing, just late enough to make sure she’d be the last memory in a night her fans would never forget.

  Despite her seeming nonchalance, Athena spent many nights in breathless anticipation of these delicious moments when all eyes would be on her. Hearing digital cameras beeping, fingers tapping on cell phones as flabbergasted fans sent grainy images to their friends. Young men trying to give her the same lame sultry looks she’d seen and laughed at a million times. Yet she would always smile just enough to make them think they had a chance.

  This was Athena’s world, her oyster, and it was delicious. Everyone else watched from outside the snow globe, hoping that one special night they too might be touched by her magic.

  In three days, Athena Paradis would release her very first album, The Goddess Athena. Her promotional tour was in full swing, and tonight at the Kitten Club was a prime stop. She was scheduled to guest DJ, spin and sing tracks that had never been heard outside the recording studio (created with the gentle touch of some very talented—and patient—sound producers, vocal coaches and technicians). Athena’s autobiography, HOW YOU CAN BE LIKE ME, was ghostwritten by a pleasant sixty-year-old Jew named Herman Goldstein. It spent eight weeks on the New York Gazette bestseller list. Her signings all required extra security. Herman wasn’t allowed to attend.

  Three bouncers the size of minivans controlled the crowd. The mayor’s office had sent several off-duty cops just in case. Athena’s manager and publicist had called Mayor Perez’s office nonstop requesting massive police protection for their twenty-two-year-old gold mine, but the second-termer refused. Not that he didn’t want to help. The mayor was well known for his reliance on sizzle over steak, providing a good show to distract people from their everyday woes. He’d written three self-help books and was constantly photographed alongside celebrities, including Athena Paradis. But the police union was busy negotiating a new contract, and they were squeezing him hard. Adding additional unnecessary force tonight would only cost overtime the city couldn’t afford.

  Every nightclub Athena graced with her presence would fatten her bank account by fifty thousand dollars. The hotter—or more desperate—the club, the more they paid. Most promoters, like the Kitten Club’s Shawn Kensbrook, tripped over themselves to pay Athena ungodly sums of money for a simple appearance. She would show up, pose for the camera, down a few kamikaze shots, dance on the bar, and within a week the patronage tripled. Best advertising in the world, and a hell of a lot more entertaining than an ad in a movie theater or those worthless postcards.

  Tonight, though, wasn’t about appearance fees. If she seduced the crowd, it would be worth its weight in platinum for her album.

  Athena sauntered past the throng of gawking men and starry-eyed women, slipping into the pulsating darkness. Her entourage was immediately met by Shawn Kensbrook, club promoter extraordinaire and co-owner of the Kitten Club. Just three years ago, what was now the Kitten Club had been an abandoned warehouse in Manhattan’s meatpacking district. It was destined to be torn down by developers or vermin, whichever got there first. Kensbrook was able to mount an army of backers to buy what was widely considered a sinkhole. Through his A-list Rolodex, Kensbrook turned a pile of rubble into Gotham’s hottest nightspot since the heyday of Limelight. Its clout had grown to the point where New York Magazine had referred to it as “The Oprah Winfrey of music promotion.” If you had to jump on one couch to get maximum exposure, the Kitten Club was the place to jump.

  Shawn was decked out in a wool Versace suit that ran $2,200 and burned off a thousand calories a night. Shawn had purposefully bought it a size too small, the fabric stretching over his taut frame. Athena knew the only thing he worked harder at than promoting his club was promoting his body. Unlike most in the entertainment field, Kensbrook accomplished it solely through weightlifting, protein bars and the best personal trainers money could buy. Bastard didn’t even drink.

  Shawn pecked Athena on the cheek and ushered her through the crowd to the DJ booth in the back. She shook hands with a guy Shawn introduced as DJ Stix, a light-skinned black man wearing sunglasses rimmed with diamonds. No doubt they were real. Kensbrook would want his employees to dazzle in every way, no matter the price.

  Athena’s manager, a twitchy man named Eddie, would be standing by in case she got the crazy urge to sing without proper electronic vocal support. Athena had an army of producers who made sure she sounded perfect in the studio. Live, anything could happen.

  After the current song ended, Stix turned down the music and Kensbrook picked up the house microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, kittens, cats and lions of all ages,” he said. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to the Queen of all Media, her royal highness herself, the woman whose debut album drops this Tuesday, give it up, show your love, for the beautiful Athena Paradis!”

  The crowd roared as Athena waved, blowing imaginary kisses, flaunting her body and striking glamorous pose after pose. She was a god among mortals. She knew it, they knew it, and they all loved it.

  Suddenly a deep, throbbing bass began to reverberate through the club. Squeals of joy leapt from the lips of heavy-breathing men and women. Then, after a dozen bass thumps, the synthesizer kicked in, and the club came alive.

  The sweaty bodies congealed into a solid mass as the expertly arranged rhythm sent ripples through them, electricity making every person sway, every person bounce, every one of them belonging to her.

  Sweat coated Athena’s upper lip. She licked it, shuddered at the sensation, and knew the night would be a memorable one. The blue Missoni dress clung to her body, the fabric matted on her curves like tissue paper. The dress had been airmailed by Ottavio Missoni himself, specifically for Athena to wear tonight.

  She could feel DJ Stix’s eyes drinking her in. He didn’t even pretend to look away. Even Shawn Kensbrook couldn’t help but steal an eyeful as she danced and spun to the beat. Athena looked at them with a seductive grin, then raised the volume a few notches, the bass thumping harder.

  The music consumed the night. And then Athena jumped on top of the turntables.

  The crowd stopped dancing, stared at her, cheered her on. She ran her hands over her body, made every one of them feel like they could be her lover.

  Athena owned them. Every single one.

  Somebody handed Athena a clear glass. She drank it in two gulps. Vodka tonic. With a hint of lime. She could feel the ecstasy tab kicking in. The whole world became a velvet dream, soft, wet and inviting. She kissed the air, watched as her lips sent waves of passion through hundreds.

  When the song ended, Stix took Athena’s hand and escorted her back to her nine hundred pounds of bodyguard. The lips pleaded with her to stay, reaching and pawing as she was led through the crowd.

  Shawn Kensbrook ducked through the prying arms. Athena’s lead guard recognized him, parted the way. Shawn was dripping with sweat. She envied that he could experience such ecstasy while sober. He threw his arms around her. Whispered into her ear.

  “Athena, hon, that was off the charts.”

  “No,” she said. “Come Tuesday, that’s number one on the charts.” Shawn smiled, nodded.

  “Look at this, I mean, will you look at it? All these people here for you…what’s that feel like?”

  She smiled at him, flicked her tongue into his ear. She felt him shiver. Felt him grow hard in an instant.

  “You’ll never know.”

  Shawn watched as the bodyguards whisked her away. The bouncers parted the curtains, flung open the doors. Her limo waited just beyond the red carpet. It would take her to Nikos’s SoHo loft, where he’d have champagne, strawberries and other goodies waiting. They’d do it all night before passing out naked on his satin sheets. Tomorrow she would see her photo in newspapers across the city.

  Athena stepped onto the red carpet and waved to her
fans. Her new fans. Her old fans. Fans who would give anything for her. She took one step onto the carpet. Smiled. And then a crack of thunder filled the air, and a bullet smashed through her skull.

  And just like that, her blood staining the carpet an even darker red, the Goddess Athena died.

  CHAPTER 2

  I woke up thinking that Amanda must have hijacked my cell phone. That’s the only way my ring tone could have been changed from the standard and satisfying triple beep to an electronic version of that awful new Athena Paradis song, “I Want UR Love.”

  And the only thing worse than hearing that song come from a tinny cell phone speaker was being woken by it at three in the morning.

  Amanda grumbled. Her arm was thrown over my chest, but her sleep hadn’t been interrupted. Figures I’d be the only one disturbed by her diabolical creation.

  I reached across to the nightstand where I kept the phone, careful not to dislocate my shoulder since my other arm was pinned under Amanda. There are worse things in the world than having your arm stuck underneath a beautiful woman who loves you.

  I covered the speaker with my thumb and checked the incoming number. Christ, not again; this was becoming a routine. It was Mya, my ex-girlfriend. Two-thirty in the morning. The third time this week Mya had called in the wee hours. I was having a hard time putting an end to it. I knew since last year Mya had been on a slippery slope. Calling from a bar, no doubt. I could practically smell the Stoli through the mouthpiece.