The Guilty hp-2 Read online

  "Then promise this girl right here that if you feel yourself getting too close, you'll back off. The kind of man who would go out of his way to use a weapon with such a bloody history won't think twice about collateral damage. Reporters are no good dead."

  "I know that," I said.

  "Museums," she said. "Museums with Old West exhibitions. Collectors, but antique and current. Start your search with everything below the Mason-Dixon line. Anyone who goes out of their way to possess a working Winchester 1873 knows its history well. And appreciates it."

  "This killer surely does both," I said. "Hey, would you mind if I make a copy of this?"

  "Not at all, Xerox machine is down the hall, second left, next to the Wet Paint sign."

  I gently took the book, brought it to the machine, laid it flat and made three copies of the page featuring the Winchester. I put the copies in my backpack, then brought the book back to Agnes.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "Don't mention it. Now, what you do know," she said, "is that someone is looking to make a statement. The Winchester 1873 wasn't just any gun. This was the gun that won the West, back when our country was going through its bloodiest and most dangerous time."

  "And now somebody's brought that gun back east," Agnes continued. "And you better pray to God they're not looking for this gun to do what it does best, and pick up where it left off. Because these dead people? They'll just be the beginning."

  19

  She shivered in the morning air. She wore a tan polo shirt and skirt, the wind whipping through her uncombed hair. The weather report said today would be chilly and she could have easily worn a coat, but found herself caring less whether she was comfortable and more about getting out of the house.

  Last night had been a disaster. She remembered dancing on tables. She remembered pouring alcohol down her throat seemingly by the gallon. She remembered going home alone, and her bloodshot eyes reminded her that she'd cried herself to sleep. She remembered making a phone call around three in the morning, but it went right to his voice mail. She woke up with mascara stains on her pillow, throwing it into the laundry in a fit of rage. It was then that she remembered her meeting this morning.

  There were three messages on her cell phone. She didn't even remember it ringing. One was from her friend Shayla calling to make sure she got home all right. The second was from her friend Bobby, one of the bazillion gorgeous gay men of New York City who spent more money on clothing than the U.N. spent on military aid and seemed to have swept all the decent straight guys under some giant heterosexual carpet.

  Bobby had been positively shattered by Athena Paradis's murder. He owned an autographed copy of her book, had preordered her CD, and her image wallpapered his Mac.

  Bobby was also checking up on her. She'd gone to the bar with Bobby and her "friend" Victoria, though neither he nor

  Victoria seemed concerned enough to actually leave the bar to check on her. At least that's the sense she got, considering there was house music blaring in the background on their message.

  The third was from her mother asking to meet up for dinner. Her mother sounded sad, even a little scared. She deleted the message and erased the call from her memory.

  She wore dark sunglasses. Not that anybody would recognize her. Recently her jaw had been hurting. She'd seen a doctor a few weeks ago who said she might need another operation, that the first one might have damaged a nerve. She drank so much vodka to numb the pain that more than once she feared having to get her stomach pumped.

  She was in no shape for this meeting, but when she remembered the woman's voice, the urgency, the it's about your father, I just want your side of the story, she knew she had to keep it.

  The diner was just a few blocks from her apartment. She went there almost every morning, and it had been her suggestion to meet there. On weekdays she ordered a cappuccino to go, and the owner was always kind. On weekends she would treat herself to chocolate chip pancakes, then go straight to the gym to work off the calories.

  They wouldn't miss her at the office today. She'd called in sick. They didn't much care whether she came in or not, as long as her last name was still Loverne.

  Mya walked up to the diner and opened the door. She welcomed the smell of frying bacon, sugary syrup and fresh eggs, felt like ordering all of them to get rid of the awful taste in her mouth. A bottomless cup of coffee would go a long way. She had a vague idea of who she was looking for. Then she saw a woman in the corner waving her hand. The woman mouthed Mya?

  Mya nodded, walked over and slid into the booth. The woman extended a hand with perfectly manicured nails, and said, "Mya Loverne?"

  Mya nodded.

  "Paulina Cole. It's such a pleasure to meet you. Henry used to talk about you all the time back at the Gazette. " Paulina looked her over. It made Mya uncomfortable.

  Paulina Cole wore a tailored pantsuit. Her jewelry was fine but not ostentatious. She wore her hair tied back in a ponytail, a thin string of pearls around her neck. A tape recorder sat on the table next to two steaming cups of coffee. There was a smile on Paulina's face, like a friendly aunt pleased to see how well her niece is doing.

  "You're much more elegant in person. I've only seen your picture in the society pages."

  "The lighting always sucks," Mya said. "And the dresses make me feel like I can't breathe."

  "Coming from a well-known family is as much a curse as it is a gift," Paulina said. "You know, it's a real shame that

  Henry is too stubborn to see what he's lost."

  Mya didn't know whether to smile or throw a cup of coffee in Paulina's face.

  "Please don't patronize me."

  Paulina sat back, held up her hands. "I understand. But I can't apologize for saying it. Listen," she said, leaning forward again. "I'm embarrassed to say that we both know how stories in the news take on a life of their own. From what

  I gather, the last year has been hard for you."

  "What do you know about it?"

  "Well, after you were involved in Henry's altercation, "

  Paulina said, as though they'd been in a fender-bender, "your career doesn't seem to have taken off the way you expected."

  "What do you care about my career?"

  "I shouldn't," Paulina said. "But the truth is we both know how hard it is for strong women to make it in corporate America. Add to that the pressure of being a Loverne. Whether it's law or journalism, it's still about who can claw the hardest and deepest. Cornell, then law school at Columbia, you have a pretty terrific pedigree. I imagine neither were easy to achieve."

  "Easy is what you make of it. Some kids can study eight hours a night and still blow the bar. Some can soak it up while spending three years sucking down beers five nights a week."

  "And which were you?" Paulina asked.

  Mya shifted in her seat. "I don't really know. I think I used to be the former. Now…I don't know."

  "Mya," Paulina said, her voice growing soft. "You know why I asked you here, right?"

  "Not exactly," she said. "You said something about my father. What does he have to do with anything?"

  Paulina sighed. "I'm going to be straight with you. I'm writing an article on your father's campaign. Well, more specifically…his life. I think you can get where I'm going with this."

  "No. Enlighten me."

  "You're not blind," Paulina said, "and clearly not stupid. You must have heard the rumors. Or seen it with your own eyes."

  "Seen what?" Mya said.

  "The other women."

  Mya nearly choked.

  "You're writing an article about my father seeing other women? Are you fucking kidding me?"

  Paulina offered her hands. "It's more than that," she said.

  "Your father is an important man. Important people need to gain the trust of their constituents. It's my job, it's what I'm paid for, to make sure people know the full story."

  "Jesus," Mya whispered.

  "It's going to be in the newspapers," Paulina said.
"I have nothing against you or your father. I just want to know the truth. It doesn't need to be painful. If you just tell me what you know, the innuendos are kept out of it. The truth is all I want."

  "I can't believe he's so stupid," Mya said, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

  "Your father?" Mya nodded. "So you knew."

  "Yes," Mya said, her voice barely a sound.

  "Do you know who?" Mya shook her head. "Or how many?" Again.

  "I don't know anything else, please, just leave it alone."

  "Mya," Paulina said, "I honestly can't imagine how hard this is for you. Have you been able to talk to anyone else about it?" Mya stared into her coffee. "What about Henry?"

  Mya looked at her, stared into Paulina's eyes. Then shook her head.

  "We don't talk anymore. At least he doesn't talk to me." Mya took a sip of her coffee, holding the mug in both hands. She let the warmth travel down her hands. She put it down, added some more sugar. "I'm not sure what else you want to know."

  "Why doesn't Henry want to talk to you? Weren't you two close?"

  "Were," Mya said.

  "What happened?"

  "It ended. Relationships do."

  "You didn't want to stay friends?"

  " I did," Mya said. Paulina leaned closer. Mya could smell her perfume. It smelled good, not too strong.

  "The truth is, Mya, Henry is in an incredibly important position right now. I fear that the brain trust at the Gazette, that would be Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston, have placed too much pressure on Henry. Since the scandals last year, there haven't been many young reporters given access to the kind of stories he's had. Did you know he's covering

  Athena Paradis's murder?"

  "I read his stories," Mya said.

  "So much pressure though," Paulina said, as though the weight of the world was pressing on her shoulders. "If you're not up to the job, in our profession there are catastrophic consequences."

  Mya sipped her coffee, said nothing. Paulina offered a warm smile.

  "My ex was addicted to coffee," she said. "If he didn't drink a minimum of six cups a day, he'd throw furniture around our apartment like he was shooting rubber bands. I think I spent as much money staying in hotels to get away from him as I did paying our mortgage."

  "Really?"

  "God, yes. If you're ever in an abusive relationship, please take it from someone who's made too many mistakes in the love department, get your ass out of that place quick and don't ever look back."

  They both laughed. Mya looked at Paulina. Her smile seemed so genuine, like she wasn't simply a reporter, but someone who truly cared. Mya thought about her friends, the ones who said they'd always be there for her. The ones who never called, never checked up, always assumed her tears came from happiness. Never stopping to think that she had nothing to be happy about. And hadn't for a long time.

  "We were together almost three years," Mya said, sighing.

  "Then it ended."

  "Just like that." Paulina spread some raspberry jam over a slice of toast. She bit into it, brushed some crumbs off her lip.

  "Was it one thing, or just a lot of one things?"

  "Kind of both. You know how college relationships are.

  Eventually you either move in or get lost. I was a year older than Henry, and when I moved back to the city we just grew apart." Paulina kept chewing. "And then…"

  Paulina stopped chewing. Waited. Mya stayed quiet.

  "And then what?"

  "You know, shit happens. Life. He was up there, I was down here. Shit."

  Paulina spoke faster now, like she'd sensed something.

  "No, I have a feeling it was something specific. Did Henry do something? Did you?"

  Mya stayed silent. She didn't know if she could go on.

  Thought about her father. Thought about Henry. The two men in her life who'd promised to care for her, had in the end abandoned her. She stared at the tape recorder, cold gray, wheels turning. A memory that wouldn't be erased.

  Paulina reached across the table. She placed her hand on top of Mya's. Kind. Mya felt her skin, smooth with just a hint of roughness around the fingertips. She looked at Paulina's lips, coated with a demure red gloss. Mya felt tears come to her eyes again. She wanted to excuse herself, to go to the bathroom and wail and pound the walls and let it all out, let all the shit ooze into the walls and cracks and disappear. Then she could come back and sit here silent, without feeling like a dam about to burst. The tape recorder might as well have been a magnet holding her down. All she could do was talk.

  Afterwards her story wouldn't get lost in the cracks, it would be recorded in those metal wheels. For some reason, she felt better knowing that.

  "It was about a year and a half ago," Mya said. She felt the tears subside. Her jaw didn't hurt, but she could feel the scar.

  Her eyes dried up. It felt good to get it out. "Henry and I were in a fight."

  Paulina listened to the whole story. She nodded, smiled, nearly looked to be in tears at the end. And while they spoke, the tape recorder sitting on the table disappeared from Mya's thoughts.

  20

  "So if you were a hundred-and-thirty-year-old gun whose reputation was more notorious than Andy Dick on a bender, where would you be?"

  "Do you really expect me to answer that?" Amanda said.

  "It'd be helpful if you could," I replied. "But I won't be too disappointed if you don't."

  Thankfully I had the deep resources of the Gazette archives at my disposal. Speed was key. With a thread this important, it was only a matter of time before other news outlets picked up on it. Once a story began percolating, you had to spill it before it grew cold. I had to find out if the killer was using a

  Winchester, and just what his motives were for killing three seemingly unconnected people.

  "I'm gonna head back to the office, see what I can dig up,"

  I said to Amanda. "Thanks for setting me up with Trimble, I knew there was a reason I keep you around." I gave her a playful nudge, then wrapped my arm around her. As she leaned in, I heard a beep come from my pocket. I always kept my cell phone on silent mode when talking to a source.

  Someone had called and left a message.

  I checked my call log. One missed call. I recognized the number. I immediately shoved it back into my pocket.

  Amanda didn't need to see the number. She only had to look at my expression to know.

  "It was her again, wasn't it?"

  I nodded.

  "You know I'm not a jealous girlfriend," Amanda said. "I don't need the password to your e-mail, I have a life outside of you, I don't sit around at night wondering when you'll be home, and I sure as hell don't care if you subscribe to Maxim.

  But raging jealousy and curiosity as to why your ex seems to think it's all right to call you every freaking day are two different things entirely."

  "She's not calling me every day," I said, and immediately regretted it. That wasn't the point. Amanda was right. If the tables were turned and some old boyfriend was calling her at freaky hours, I'd be bugging the phone lines and setting up a tent outside the guy's house waiting for him to come home.

  The fact that she'd let Mya's intrusions go on for this long said a lot about her character and patience. And maybe mine, too.

  "Listen, Mya's had it rough the past few years. You remember what I told you about us, that night? When she was attacked?"

  Amanda sighed, nodded. She knew about the attack. It was one of the first things I'd told her when we decided to be together. I thought it was important, to approach our relationship with all the cards on the table. It was a painful one to show.

  A year and a half ago, Mya had been attacked. She was living in New York, while I was finishing my senior year. We were fighting constantly, and late one night she called me. Still boiling over an insult from before, I hung up on her. It turned out she had pressed Redial in the middle of being attacked and nearly raped by a man who jumped her outside of a bar. She managed to fight h
im off, but he broke her jaw. I didn't know this until the next morning. It was as much consolation as knowing the surgery didn't leave much of a scar.

  "I don't know why she keeps calling," I said. Amanda glared at me with one of those don't you dare patronize me looks. I had to remind myself that Amanda was much smarter than I was. "Okay, I know why she's calling. But she doesn't want me back. She's just hurting and needs someone to help."

  "I don't have a problem with that," she said. "I know you're a great friend. But ignoring her, telling her to leave you alone,

  I feel like you're doing it for my sake rather than hers. If you want to do something, do it. But stop with the I don't know why she's calling crap."

  "I don't want to do anything," I said. "I have you. That's where my attention deserves to be."

  I wrapped my arms around Amanda, held her close, hoped she knew I was telling the truth.

  "I turned my back on her once," I said. "I just don't want to be cruel. I know she's been having problems. I've heard she's been drinking too much, that she's alienated her friends.

  Being the daughter of a political animal is a full-time job, and

  Mya wanted to have her own life."

  "Look," she said, "I'm not saying you should leave the girl to drown in a distillery, I'm just saying this isn't normal.

  Forget any girlfriend neuroses, it's just not healthy for someone to do what she's doing. If you don't clear things up, it's only going to get worse."

  "You think so?" I asked.

  "Come on, she's not the only girl who's ever wanted a guy she couldn't get." I stared at Amanda, cocked my head. "Oh, give it a rest. You think you're the first guy I've ever liked?

  Come off your high horse, Johnny. I had a life before we met."

  "I know you had a life. I know there were probably other guys," I said. "I just don't want to know about them, hear about them, or think that they exist. I'd rather believe you wore a chastity belt your first twenty-five years, and the only guys you liked were flamingly gay men who wore big bushy mustaches and called you 'girlfriend' in an ironic manner."

  She laughed. "Now who's kidding who? Just think, though, if you can react like that to me just insinuating I've liked other guys, imagine how I feel that a girl you actually had a relationship with is begging for your jock at 3:00 a.m."