The Guilty hp-2 Read online

  "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."

  "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."

  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 run-138

  Jason Pinter ning 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 drink."

  "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."

  The waitress came back with a refill of Jack's drink. She noticed that neither of us were speaking. "Getcha another?" she said, nodding at my half-finished beer.

  "No, thanks." She clicked her gum and walked away.

  "I don't think I could ever give her up," I said. Jack sighed, looked down.

  "Then you'll make a fine beat journalist. Live with exposed brick and take the subway because you can't afford taxis."

  "That's not why I do this job."

  "Of course it's not," Jack said. "But in any industry, the money level rises as the talent itself does. The better you are, the more you're needed. And when the money comes, so does love. It might not be the forever kind of love people with shitty mortgages have, it might not last until you die, but it's good enough to make you smile every once in a while. And that's what life is about, in the end. When you stare into the abyss, you want a smile to come back at you. Even if it's just sometimes."

  "I have that," I said. I felt a pressure on my chest. I took a sip of beer and swallowed it down.

  "You try to make everyone happy, you wind up making nobody happy. Anyway," Jack said, raising his glass, "here's to the story. Let's find out more about this asshole, and hopefully put an end to it. Keep digging, Henry. Just don't stand too close to the hole."

  22

  I needed to find out who might have gotten hold of an authentic 1873 Winchester, and how. Thankfully Jack had managed to pull together a file of many major gun collectors and museums. It was a haystack, to be sure, but one of these haystacks either sold their needle, or had it stolen. Jack had given me another thread, and now I needed to pull.

  I went to the office, turned on my computer and ran a search for "Winchester 1873" and "stolen."

  Only 149 hits came back. I searched through every entry, looking for anything that could be a piece of thread. Most of the articles were police and newspaper reports of replica Winchesters stolen from gun shows. No help there. I wasn't looking for a replica. Whoever was using that gun was using the real deal. None of the 149 hits went anywhere that looked promising.

  I ran a new search, this time for "Winchester 1873" and

  "museum." Over four hundred responses came back. I refined my search by adding the words "authentic" and "working."

  Now we were down to thirty-two hits.

  I sifted through each entry, arriving at the estimation of fifteen museums in the United States that listed authentic

  Winchester 1873 rifles among their collections, along with some sort of reference to the gun being in working condition.

  My first call was to the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and

  Museum, located in Waco. I got an automated system, pressed zero for the operator. A nice woman with a wonderful Southern drawl picked up the phone.

  "Ranger Museum, how may I help ya?"

  "Hi, do you still have an exhibit featuring the Winchester

  1873 rifle?"

  "Gun that won the West, we surely do. It's open from nine ayem to six pee-yem. Day passes are a dollar fifty, yearround pass is twelve dollars. That's the better deal, y'ask me."

  "How long have you had that rifle?"

  "Oh, heck, I've been here three years and it's been here long as I have, I'd have to ask for sure though."

  "And you've had no other rifles come and go since then?"

  "Why no…may I ask your interest?"

  "That's okay, I appreciate the help." I hung up.

  I called ten more museums. Each one could currently account for their Winchesters, and had seen none go missing in recent memory.

  Then I dialed the twelfth number on my contact sheet, the

  Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

  "MOL Museum, this is Rex speaking."

  "Hi, Rex, I'm calling because I read somewhere that you have an authentic, working Winchester 1873 rifle in stock. Is that true?"

  "It ain't in stock," Rex said, "this is a museum, not a sidewalk sale, son."

  "Sorry, but you do have one."

  "Why yes, sir, we do."

  "Just one?"

  There was a split second of silence before Rex answered, and I picked up on it.

  "Why, yes, one's just about all we need."

  "Have any rifles come in or left the museum for any reason over the last year?"

  "Listen, you care to tel
l me what all these questions are about?"

  "I was just wondering…"

  "Our gun is here, it's in great shape and it looks a lot better in person than it does over the phone."

  For a moment I assumed we'd been disconnected, but then

  I heard the dial tone and knew Rex had hung up on me. My heart began to beat faster. But I had to confirm it.

  I dialed the number again. The same man picked up.

  "Hi, I just called about your Winchester 1873 model rifle, and-"

  "Hey, either come to the museum like all normal folks or stop calling."

  Once again I was greeted by a dial tone. I stared at the phone for a moment. This museum clearly didn't like my line of questioning. Then I recalled that the museum was in New

  Mexico. The heart of the Old West.

  I picked up the receiver and dialed again. This time a different number. It picked up on the first ring.

  "Hey, Henry," Amanda said. "Missed me much?"

  "I have to go to New Mexico," I said. "And I need to leave tonight."

  There was silence on the other end.

  "Does that mean I shouldn't wait for you for dinner?"

  "If you don't mind waiting until tomorrow to eat."

  "As if I don't have enough trouble getting out of bed in the morning," she said. "So you found something out there?

  New Mexico?"

  "Yeah, something to do with the murders. I know it."

  "Something about the gun?"

  "Yeah, I think I have a lead at a museum."

  "Then go. Do whatever you can to find this guy," she said.

  "I'll be here when you get back. Dinner might be a bit cold, though. I'll just rename it vichyssoise and call it a gourmet meal."

  I laughed. "No way. When I get back you're getting the finest grilled cheese in North America."

  "I'll keep a bowl of Kix nearby just in case."

  "Thanks, babe. I'll call you when I leave."

  Then I hung up and checked departure times for flights to

  New Mexico.

  23