The Guilty Page 11

  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.

  CHAPTER 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 NewYork, 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 him 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.”

  “She’s not…Okay, you have a point.”

  “I usually do.”

  “Okay, I promise to talk to Mya. Now I have to get to work, time’s wasting. I need to find out where this gun came from. First I need to talk to Jack.”

  I opened the phone, dialed O’Donnell’s direct line. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Jack, it’s Henry. You busy?”

  “I was going to have my shoes shined, and hope a stray bullet didn’t find my old ass.”

  “Listen, can you meet me at O’Grady’s restaurant in twenty minutes?”

  “You want me to leave the office to meet you somewhere, you’d better give me a reason, and it better not be that you’re in the mood for an undercooked hamburger.”

  “No, but I might have a hell of a scoop on the Paradis murders, and I need some help.”

  “Are you stupid, kid? Half the Gazette goes to O’Grady’s for lunch. Meet me at McPhee’s pub in twenty, at least we can talk in private. Besides, it’s the only bar in a ten-block radius that charges less than five bucks a beer. What’s the occasion for this midday imbibing?”

  “I need you to use the archives and run a search for me, then bring whatever you can find.”

&
nbsp; “A search for what?”

  “Guns,” I said. “I need to know what museums and collections carry authentic Winchester rifles, model 1873.”

  “The gun that won the West,” Jack said, a sense of romance in his voice. “John Wayne would be proud. What does this have to do with the murders?”

  “I’ll tell you then,” I said. “But I think this killer is more than just a fan of history—I think he’s trying to re-create the bloodiest parts.”

  CHAPTER 21

  I walked into McPhee’s pub. And immediately decided that I never wanted to go back again. McPhee’s was the kind of dive bar you were happy to get into in college despite your crummy fake ID, where the bouncer weighed upward of six hundred pounds and was covered in tattoos that looked like they’d been painted on by an epileptic spider monkey. Where the bartender served beer whose advertisements settled for round men in green hats because they couldn’t afford buxom women in bikinis. Where the decibel level never rose above “angry grumble.”

  Yep, this was Jack O’Donnell’s kind of bar.

  I walked past several booths that contained paper menus stuck under dirty glass. The walls were lined with flickering neon beer signs, the owners apparently making a statement (that statement being “we don’t pay our electric bill”).

  I found Jack O’Donnell in the very back of the bar, sitting alone in a dimly lit booth. He was sipping a brown liquid which, by the fill line, had been an inch higher before I arrived.

  “Having a midday nip?” I asked.

  “It’s eleven in the morning. Either you don’t get much sleep or you have no concept of what midday means.”

  “Actually I was just trying to make a bad joke.”

  “Bad jokes don’t get funny just because you admit they’re bad.” Jack took another sip. A waitress came by, her hair done up in one of those fishing nets that all the classy ladies were wearing. She was also chewing gum. I could have sworn chewing gum while serving food had been outlawed alongside smoking and trans fat, but I stayed silent.

  “Can I getcha?”

  “Coors,” I said.

  “Bottle or draft?”

  I looked at Jack’s drink. Noticed an unidentifiable speck on the rim.

  “Definitely a bottle.” She smacked her gum and left.

  “Probably the safe choice,” Jack said.

  “I’ve been known to make a few.”

  Jack took another long sip. His cheeks were red; I could even sense it under his beard. No doubt he’d had a nip or two before I got to the bar, but I wondered if Jack’s drinking calendar had been more busy than usual.

  “I have a few leads on the Paradis murders,” I said.

  Jack said, “I thought you asked me here on a date.” I scowled at him. “So what have you come up with, boy wonder?”

  The waitress came back with my beer. I felt relieved as she popped the bottle cap in front of me. Somehow I wouldn’t put it past this place to refill empty bottles from the tap.

  “It was confirmed that Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser were killed by the same caliber bullet. And it’s only a matter of time before the cops release a statement confirming the same bullet and weapon was used to kill Jeffrey Lourdes.”

  Jack mimicked jerking off, yawning while he did so. Nobody ever said he wasn’t a classy guy. “That’s been running all morning, first or second lead in every major newspaper. It won’t make Wallace bat an eye. What else you got, Nancy Drew?”

  “You’re an asshole, you know?”

  “I know. So spill it.”

  “The actual bullet used was a magnum .44-40. Very uncommon usage due to its high recoil and over-the-top stopping power.”

  “That’s true. Cops don’t need to go around blowing suspects in half,” Jack said.

  “Exactly. So it seemed odd to me that a murderer who obviously went to great lengths to take down Athena and Mayor Perez, not to mention Jeffrey Lourdes, in such a public manner would use such an unusual bullet to do the job.”

  “You’re thinking…”

  “The killer chose the caliber of the bullets on purpose.”

  “Keep talking.”

  I smiled, took a gulp of my beer. Jack was interested. His shoulders were hunched forward. He hadn’t touched his drink in several minutes.

  “Figure if he’s using a rifle, he’s also gotta be carrying around something to transport it in,” I said. “Suitcase, knapsack. And he’s likely staying near transportation, a subway stop or bus terminal.”

  “You’re not the only one who’s thought of that. Rather than have cops sit in the subway and wait for guys in turbans carrying ticking packages to walk by, the NYPD has started searching bags over a certain length and width that are brought into the subway. They’re searching hotels within walking distance of the stops, as well,” Jack replied.

  “That’s a start, but we can’t just follow the cops and report on Carruthers’s statements. I want to go ahead and follow up on the gun. Amanda was able to hook me up with one of her old professors who’s a hair away from certifiable. I gave her a description of the bullet and rifle, and we think the killer is using an 1873 Winchester. Like you said, the Winchester 1873 model is known as ‘The Gun that Won the West.’ It was by far the most popular model of that era, was used by every famous lawman and lawbreaker whose ass got sore from horseback riding.”

  “This sounds awful thin,” Jack said. My heart sank. “But it also sounds awfully intriguing. And nobody’s covered this angle yet?”

  “Not that I know of. But take that gun and the quote from Billy the Kid, and I’d say this killer has a serious obsession with the Old West. Somehow Athena Paradis, Mayor Perez and Jeffrey Lourdes are connected in this guy’s mind. The other day you talked about Billy the Kid being some sort of Robin Hood.” I stopped, looked at Jack. “What if this guy really thinks he was right in killing those people? You know Wallace won’t let me run with the story as is.”

  “Not with your primary source being a college history professor, he won’t. Even with the gun and ballistics it’s too tenuous.”

  “Were you able to get those papers?” I asked.

  Jack reached into his briefcase, pulled out a leather folder. From the folder he retrieved several pages of printouts.

  “Every museum in the fifty that has a registered Winchester ’73,” he said.

  “Oh man, this is beautiful. Thanks a ton.”

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  “Can’t imagine Wallace will green-light any expenses for this, either.”

  “Doubtful. That assistant who witnessed Lourdes’s murder,” Jack said.

  “Betty Grable.”

  “She had to be transferred to Bellevue. Seeing her boss killed like that, something snapped. Hate to say it, but it’s a good thing you got a minute of her time.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said.

  “Ripples, Henry. Not just the dead are affected by death.”

  “Guess not.”

  “That quote,” Jack said. “Billy the Kid. You got something, but it’s not nearly concrete enough for Wallace to let you print it.”

  “I’ll find more,” I said. “But I need time, resources.”

  Jack looked at me, seemed to be weighing something. Then he took a pen and pad from the briefcase. He opened the pad, scribbled something on it, then ripped off a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a check for two thousand dollars.

  “Jack, I can’t possibly…”

  “Take it,” he said. “This will buy you some resources. And if it leads to anything, I expect to be reimbursed.”

  “And if it doesn’t lead to anything?”

  Jack smiled. “Then I expect one hell of a birthday present.”

  I had nothing to say, but, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it again,” Jack said. He finished his drink, set it down. The waitress came over and he nodded for one more. He saw my eyes following his. “Trust me, kid, once you get to my age you can’t underestimate the importance of a good drin
k.”

  “I’ll remember that, but I have a few years.”

  “Yeah, you do, but they go by quick. Wasn’t long ago I was meeting my boss for drinks. Now,” Jack said. “That girl you’re with. Amanda’s her name, right?”

  “That’s right.” In the year and a half since I’d known Jack, we’d never discussed Amanda other than platitudes and pleasantries.

  “And you two met during the Fredrickson fiasco.”

  “They say the best relationships are born out of extreme circumstances.”

  Jack’s eyes had a flicker of recognition. “I think I heard that in a movie once.”

  “Probably.”

  “How are things going between you two?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Good, I guess. We’re living together. Soon, I know, after everything that happened, but it feels good.”

  “That’s nice,” Jack said wistfully. “Another thing you can never underestimate is companionship.” Jack, I knew, had been married, and divorced, three times. “So I guess you’d say it’s serious.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I think so. Besides, if Amanda ever knew I said no to that question I’d wake up the next morning with no teeth.”

  “Feisty, is she?”

  “She’d kick feisty’s ass down the block.”

  “That’s good,” Jack said, smiling. “You know I look at you across this table, you look at me the same way I used to look at Petey Vincent.”

  “The name rings a bell,” I said.

  “Petey Vincent was my idol growing up. Those days, newsmen were the toast of the city. You reported the hot stories, had more groupies than ballplayers, spent the evenings at your Park Avenue homes and ate caviar. Nowadays the only way a reporter eats caviar is if an I-banker sends it to them at Christmas. It’s a thankless job, so you gotta really love it.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “What I’m saying is,” Jack continued, “if you want to be a great reporter, you need to keep Amanda this far from you.” He held out his arm, as though holding up a wall.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “I’m not going to ask if you love her,” Jack said. “Love is easier to find than you think. But nobody remembers great love. People remember great men and women for who they are, not who they love. At some point in every relationship, you have to make a choice as to what your priorities are. At some point this job will demand more of your time than your loved ones are willing to give up. And when that happens, you can either be prepared for it or you get overwhelmed. You’ll end up a half-assed reporter and a half-assed husband. And then you’ll have nothing.”