The Guilty Page 14

  “And nobody cared that it suddenly was gone?”

  “Anyone who asked, I told ’em some rich collector bought it.”

  I asked, “How long ago was it stolen?”

  Rex stared at the ground.

  “You know Billy built this town,” he said, nodding at the grave site. “That man was a goddamn hero. Most don’t look at it like that. But he fought for good.”

  “I bet the twenty-some-odd people he killed would disagree.”

  “Any war, man, you have to spill blood to do what’s right.”

  “Said like a true patriot,” I said, biting.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “When he was young, Billy was hired by an Englishman named John Tunstall. Tunstall was a rancher, in a territorial feud with two men named Lawrence Murphy and James Dolan. John Tunstall aimed to take Billy under his wing, turn a troubled youth into a good man. John Tunstall was murdered by Dolan and Murphy, who’d paid Sheriff William Brady to carry out the crime. After that, Billy and his boys united to form a band called the Regulators. The Regulators killed Brady, and because of that, the governor of New Mexico sccked the hounds of hell on Billy and his gang. But somewhere along the line, the Regulators traded places with the devil. The Regulators wanted to kill those who’d done wrong, folks who were contaminating everything that was good.”

  “There’s a man in New York,” I said, “using Billy’s gun to kill people. There’s no doubt in my mind he stole that gun from your museum. A witness said the killer looked young, in his early to midtwenties.”

  “Just like the Kid,” Rex said. Then he cocked his head. “How old are you, Henry?” I looked at him. And didn’t answer.

  “Someone is looking to carry on Billy’s legacy,” I said. “You say Billy meant to create order. He wanted to kill those who’d done wrong.”

  “That’s right.” Rex thought for a moment. “You reckon this killer of yours is some screwed-up kid, wants to play cowboys and Indians?”

  “I doubt it. This isn’t just some kid who wasn’t loved enough by his mommy and daddy,” I said. “This guy has a motive. He thinks he’s doing good.”

  We stood there in silence, staring at the grave site of one of the most legendary murderers in history. A man who died at the age of twenty-one, having ended one life for each of his years. And yet over the years the Kid had become immortalized as a hero. An icon worthy of legend. How could a murderer incite such passion? How could a man seemingly deputized by the devil himself be remembered as an angel?

  A beeping sound broke the silence. I plucked my cell phone from my pocket, opened it. It was a text message from Jack. It was two sentences. When I read them, my blood ran cold.

  There’s been another murder. It’s David Loverne.

  * * *

  I couldn’t speak. Mya’s father.

  The last time I saw him was at his daughter’s side at the hospital, where…

  I called you, Henry. I remembered Mya’s voice on that terrible day.

  “I have to go,” I said to Rex, shutting the phone. “I need to get home right away. I appreciate the help.”

  “You gonna be, you know, telling the police about this?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Figures. Anyway, you’ll want to look at Brushy Bill. Dollars to dineros if it’s Billy’s legacy you’re investigating, it’s something to do with ol’ Brushy.”

  I nodded at Rex, then half-walked, dazed, back to the hotel. I threw everything in my duffel, jumped in the rental car and headed toward Albuquerque.

  The drive seemed to last for days. Visions in my mind reminded me of that night, seeing Mya’s father there, holding her hand. Me not being able to apologize because words were useless. Knowing Mya had been hurt, and that I hadn’t been there for her.

  Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes and now David Loverne. Somehow Mya’s father fit in the killer’s demented pattern. But how?

  I’d heard rumblings about David Loverne’s misdeeds. That his marriage wasn’t as rock-solid as the façade he put on in public. Many felt that at some point scandal would hit, and hit hard. It was only a matter of time. I thought of Mya, how she was so damaged, how she’d been reaching out to me and I’d been slapping her hand away. If she ever needed a friend, someone who used to know her better than anyone, now was the time for me to be there for her.

  I tried Mya’s cell phone. It went right to voice mail. I couldn’t leave a message. I had to see her. Then I remembered her text message.

  I’m sorry. Forgive me.

  I was numb when I arrived at the airport. They charged a hundred bucks to change my flight. I paid it in cash.

  I called Amanda and left her a message. Then I called Jack and told him I would get to the office that night. He told me to read the Gazette and the Dispatch before I saw anybody in New York. His voice had both an urgency and sadness to it. My stomach turned over.

  On my way to the terminal, I stopped by a news kiosk. I grabbed a bottle of orange juice and went to the newspaper rack. Thankfully they carried both the Dispatch and the Gazette. I paid for the drink and papers and took them to the gate. Sitting down, I took a long gulp of juice and then laid the papers out on my lap.

  The Gazette’s headline read:

  Ballistics Sheds New Light On Murders

  Killer possibly using “Gun that won the West”

  by Jack O’Donnell

  with additional reporting by Henry Parker

  * * *

  Then I looked at the Dispatch. There were two stories competing for dominance. The first headline read:

  Athena Paradis’s Greek Boy Toy Speaks Out

  Tells why murdered heiress was second to none

  in the bedroom

  * * *

  Then I read the second headline. I didn’t hear the juice bottle hit the ground when I dropped it. Or the announcement that my plane was boarding. All I could see was that headline:

  “He Left Me Bleeding On The Street”

  Mya Loverne, David’s daughter, comes clean about

  the relationship that nearly ended her life

  by Paulina Cole

  CHAPTER 27

  Just months ago, voters looked at congressional candidate David Loverne as a man who held family above all else. A beautiful wife, Cindy. An ambitious daughter, Mya.

  But all this is gone after a series of revelations that have shocked New Yorkers and destroyed a family that seemed indestructible.

  David Loverne is being accused of perpetuating a long affair with a former aide, Esther Margolis. Ms. Margolis claims she is pregnant with Loverne’s child, and that Mr. Loverne paid her sums totaling nearly ten thousand dollars in order to keep quiet and raise the child alone. Mr. Loverne refused comment for this article, but Ms. Margolis said, “I couldn’t face looking at my son years from now and lying to him about who his father is.”

  I read the rest of the article, my heart hammering, hands shaking. Then I came to a line that nearly had me shouting in anger. It read: Yet David and Cindy Loverne are not the only members of the Loverne family whose world has been shattered.

  Mya. Paulina was going to exploit Mya’s fragility to sell newspapers. I read on, rage building inside me.

  When you first look at Mya Loverne, you see a woman brimming with potential. Young, with strong green eyes, a confidence and solidarity that tells you she’s taken on everything the world has thrown at her. At first glance you would think the world is this young woman’s oyster.

  But that isn’t the case. In fact, far from it.

  In the last eighteen months, Mya Loverne has been attacked. She’s had her bones broken by an attempted rapist. And she’s been abandoned by the one person who promised to be there for her.

  For Mya Loverne, the wine has grown warm, the roses wilted. The one person to whom this misery can be pinned is Gazette reporter Henry Parker, with whom Mya ended a three-year relationship last summer. The relationship was halted in the m
ost disgusting, careless way possible, when Henry dumped Ms. Loverne for another woman. This was prior to Mr. Parker being accused of murder, a charge that was not pursued, despite a nationwide manhunt that left several dead.

  “We shared our bed and our lives for almost three years,” Mya told me when we met yesterday at a coffee shop near her apartment. “Do you know what it’s like to have someone know every intimate detail of your life and then not even return your phone calls?”

  The original sin, however, was the night last year when Mya was attacked while on her way home from a party.

  “A man pulled me into an alley,” Mya told me, the pain from that night still evident in her eyes so many months later. “He wanted to rape me. He told me he was going to hurt me.”

  In an effort to call for help, Mya pressed the redial button on her cellular phone. It dialed the last number she’d called. Her boyfriend, Henry Parker.

  “I called him while this man was on top of me,” Mya said. “And Henry hung up.”

  Thankfully Mya, ever resourceful, was able to get a shot of pepper spray off, deterring her attacker from committing the heinous crime of rape. It did not, however, prevent him from breaking Mya’s jaw in retaliation. Henry Parker, though, did not see Mya until the next day, when after a frantic night of phone calls from Mya’s parents they were unable to locate him. The reason they couldn’t find Henry?

  “He told me,” said Mya, “that after he hung up he turned his cell phone off.”

  We all know how Henry Parker has destroyed the family of his former pursuer Officer Joseph Mauser, deceased, John Fredrickson, deceased, and Linda Fredrickson, widowed. We have seen the careless havoc he has wrought upon the lives of good and decent people like Mya Loverne. And yet he is allowed to cover the news for this city’s “esteemed” newspaper, the Gazette.

  Well, readers, if this is the kind of human being they have reporting the news, the kind of human being Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston claim is qualified to enter your lives every morning, I must say this is a dark day in the history of journalism, and for humanity itself.

  The question is, fellow citizens, will you stand for men like David Loverne and Henry Parker occupying prestigious roles in our society? If you’re like me, the answer is obvious. Rise up, and demand more from our newsmen and our leaders. Demand they be held accountable for their actions. Demand that they not be allowed to harm one more innocent life.

  I put the paper down. Noticed the newsprint smudged on my fingers. Didn’t bother to wipe it off. My hand trembled as I laid it down. In an article about the infidelity of David Loverne, Paulina had stooped to a level lower than I imagined possible.

  Mya.

  The article had clearly been written and submitted before her father’s murder.

  I called you, Henry.

  And I didn’t answer. And now the whole world knows it. And the whole world sees me as a demon. But I’m not. And they won’t believe me.

  Oh God, Mya, how could you?

  I stared out the window, alone in an airport in a strange city, thinking of the girl whose heart I’d broken, the girl whose destiny I had changed for the worse, the girl whose life would never be the same. I sat there and stared at the newspaper and thought of Mya, and thought of Amanda, and wondered if Paulina Cole was right.

  CHAPTER 28

  The flight touched down just before five o’clock. I turned on my cell phone while people were still prying their oversize luggage from the overhead bins. There were eleven messages waiting for me. And I didn’t have that many friends.

  I speed-walked through the terminal listening to the messages. The first was from Amanda. Wanting to know if I’d seen the Dispatch today. Wanting to know if I’d heard from Mya. Wanting to know if I was okay. Her voice was a combination of sorrow because I’d known David Loverne, and anger because of what Mya had done. Ordinarily I’d be thrilled to know a girl was willing to fight for me, but all I could think about was Mya. She didn’t ask for this. And now her father was dead.

  The second message was from Jack O’Donnell, telling me to expect hellfire and brimstone but not to say a goddamn word to the press until everyone at the Gazette had a chance to sort through the wreckage. He told me to call him as soon as I got the message.

  The next two were from Wallace Langston. Asking me to call him as soon as I got his message. Telling me it was urgent beyond belief.

  The third was from a reporter from the New York Times. The fourth was from a reporter for the Associated Press. The fifth through tenth messages were also from reporters asking for a quote on today’s story in the Dispatch as well as my thoughts on the death of David Loverne. I knew nothing yet about the circumstances surrounding Loverne’s death.

  The last message was a hang up, but I heard a soft whisper say “Henry” before the line went dead. I didn’t need to check the call log to know who it was from.

  I checked the newsstand as I ran through the airport, hoping to see something about Loverne’s murder, but there was nothing. It happened too late to make the papers. The only ink about the Lovernes at all, in fact, was Paulina’s story.

  As I waited in the taxi line, I couldn’t help but think it was an awful coincidence that Mya’s father was killed the day Paulina’s story ran. That his dalliances seemed to have flown under the radar for so long, what were the chances of his being murdered on the very day they were made public, put under harsh light? The odds were too long to be a coincidence. Clearly Loverne was killed for a reason. I didn’t have to ask anyone. I knew Loverne had been killed by the same sick son of a bitch who’d killed Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. Another public figure. Another public execution.

  I called Amanda first.

  “Jesus, Henry,” she said, picking up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way back from the airport. I should be in the city in twenty minutes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  How could I answer that?

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “You don’t sound fine. Talk to me.”

  “I have to go right to the Gazette. They’re going to want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “Babe, I want to see you, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, this time my voice barely masking the irritation, then hating myself for talking to her like that. “I don’t know when I’ll be home, but I’ll talk to you then. I found a lot in New Mexico. I think I have a line on who the killer is. Or thinks he is.”

  “Well, I have to work late, but if you need anything please let me know. Hen, I’m so sorry about this. I know how close you were to that family.”

  It took a moment to gather myself.

  “Henry, you there?”

  “Yeah…listen, I’ll call you when I know more. I might need one of those cyanide pills they give to soldiers in case they’re captured.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’m kidding.”

  “Call me when you know more. Talk to Jack, I’m sure he can help. I’ll see you at home. I love you.”

  I paused for a moment, letting those words sink in.

  “I love you, too.”

  As soon as I hung up I called Jack’s private line. There was no answer. I cursed and left a brief message.

  “Jack, it’s Henry. Listen, I have something you need to hear. I know why the killer is using that gun. Call me as soon as you get this. I’ll need your help before I go into the buzz saw.”

  As my cab veered toward the Grand Central Parkway, the sun began to dip below the clouds, turning New York a beautiful dark blue. I could feel sweat dripping down my neck. Putting Loverne’s murder aside, I had new information that would be vital to the reporting on this story. I just hoped it would be heard through all the noise.

  The fare was thirty-five bucks. I tossed two twenties at the driver and raced into the Gazette office. There were two other days I’d felt this kind of queasy apprehension about going to work. My f
irst day in the office, where I met Wallace and Paulina and nearly offered to polish Jack O’Donnell’s shoes. My first day back on the job after running for my life from Joe Mauser and the assassin Shelton Barnes. And now today.

  I entered the silent lobby, heard my shoes clacking on the marble floor. The security guard nodded hello and went back to reading his newspaper. From his polite demeanor, I guessed he hadn’t read Paulina’s article.

  I swiped my pass and went to the Metro floor. The doors opened, and standing right there was Evelyn Waterstone. Short, cold, mean—I couldn’t tell if her reaction to my presence was based on general surliness or was simply her normal countenance.

  “Parker,” she said.

  “Hey, Evelyn,” I replied.

  “Nice reporting on the ballistics story with Jack.”

  “Thanks,” I stammered, trying to remember the last time Evelyn had offered a pleasantry.

  “Hope you’re still around tomorrow,” she added, before walking away.

  As I threaded my way toward my desk, I noticed that every reporter, stringer and editor had stopped what they were doing to watch me. I couldn’t look them in the eye.

  Once again, I was the story.

  I barely had time to sit down when Wallace was standing over my desk. His eyes were tinged with red and the indents on his nose meant he’d stayed at the office overnight without removing his glasses. His hair was askew, tie loosened, like a school kid roughed up by the classroom bully. He pressed his lips together and said, “Come with me.”

  I felt eyes boring into my back as we walked to the elevator. I didn’t have to ask where we were going. Wallace pressed the button, then shoved his hands back into his pockets. Then he looked at me.

  “That was good work you did for Jack,” he said.

  “I think there’s much more to these murders than the ballistic report,” I said. “I’ve been in New Mexico, I—”