The Guilty hp-2 Page 14

  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 most 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.

  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 first 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 bal listic report," I said. "I've been in New Mexico, I-"

  "Later," Wallace said. The doors opened. "Let's go."

  My stomach surged upward with the motion of the elevator. I wondered if the feeling in my gut was what prisoners felt like before their execution. We got off on the eighteenth floor. I'd heard about the eighteenth floor, but had never been there. Unless you were nominated for a Pulitzer or were about to have the rug pulled out from your career, you never came up here. And I sure as hell wasn't up for a Pulitzer.

  The digital counter stopped at 18. The doors opened.

  Everything looked newer up here; the wood paneling dark and freshly polished, the newspapers in the waiting area folded, and even the receptionist looked like she spent a little more time at the gym than those on the Metro floor. She guarded a narrow hallway with one set of double doors at the end. The office of Harvey Hillerman, chairman and CEO of the New York Gazette.

  Wallace nodded at the receptionist.

  "You can go right in," she said.

  "Thanks, Gloria." Gloria went back to typing.

  The doors swung open as we approached. Harvey Hiller-man was standing in front of us, holding the door open, an unlit cigar in his mouth. The end was sopping wet and looked like a gangrenous limb that could detach at any moment.

  His sleeves were a little too long for his wrists. His jacket seemed to billow out. On the wall was a framed portrait of

  Hillerman standing next to Bill Clinton, Hillerman's pants just a bit too baggy, as if the clothes he wore belonged to a larger man.

  Harvey Hillerman's office was startlingly clear of any sort of clutter. Lining his walls were several dozen framed page ones from various Gazette editions. I scanned the headlines while Harvey and Wallace exchanged awkward pleasantries.

  April 4, 1996. Theodore Kaczynski, aka the Unabomber, is arrested at his remote cabin in Montana after his brother,

  David, notifies authorities.

  February 5, 1997. O.J. Simpson is found liable in civil court for the wrongful deaths of Nicole Brown Simpson and

  Ronald Goldman and ordered to pay $33,500,000 in damages.

  August 18, 1998. During Grand Jury testimony, President

  Bill Clinton admits to an "inappropriate" relationship with former White House intern Monica Lewinsky.

  July 17, 1999. John F. Kennedy, Jr. and his wife are killed after the plane Kennedy was flying crashes into the

  Atlantic Ocean.

  December 14, 2000. Democratic Presidential nominee Al

  Gore concedes the presidential election to George W. Bush, over a month after election day.

  September 12, 2001. The day after terrorists killed nearly three thousand Americans.

  March 3, 2002. The launch of Operation Anaconda, the first large-scale battle during the United States' war in Afghanistan since the Battle of Tora Bora in December, 2001.

  March 13, 2003. Elizabeth Smart is found alive nine months after being kidnapped by two Morman fundamentalists.

  December 14, 2003. United States military forces capture

  Saddam Hussein.

  December 27, 2004. An earthquake measuring between

  9.1-9.3 on the Richter scale occurs in the Indian Ocean, triggering massive tsunamis over South and Southeast Asia killing over 180,000 people.

  "Murder, calamity and scandal," Hillerman said. "They're usually the first things people look at." My eyes leapt from the frames to the chairman.

  Harvey Hillerman was a tall man, gray neatly-coiffed hair, with round tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a Montblanc sticking out of his shirt pocket. His desk was covered with shiny things: trophies, awards, metallic pens and things encased in glass.

  He motioned to the framed editions. "Each of those represents the bestselling newspaper of that calendar year." He gazed at them for a moment, reflective, then motioned to the oversize chairs positioned at forty-five-degree angles in front of his desk. "Wally, Henry, please sit," he said. We both did so.

  "Sir," I said, "before you say anything can I just say things didn't happen the way the Dispatch said they did.

  Paulina, she-"

  "That's enough, Parker," Hillerman said. "Mind if I ask where you've been the last few days?"

  "New Mexico, sir."

  "New Mexico!" Hillerman exclaimed. "What in the bloody hell were you doing in New Mexico, vacationing?"

  "No, sir," I said. "I was following the lead Jack and I touched on in today's paper. The gun angle. It goes deeper-"

  "Did you know about this trip to New Mexico?" Hillerman asked Wallace.

  "O'Donnell made me aware of it last night," he said, looking at his shoes.

  Hillerman squinted his eyes as he stared at me. I didn't know whether to stare back or let the visual beatdown continue.

  "So, Parker," Hillerman finally said. His voice wasn't reprimanding, it was…interested. "Tell us what you found in

  New Mexico."

  I did a double take.

  "Sir?"

  "You went there for a reason. I'm hoping you didn't come up empty-handed."

  "Well," I said, clearing my throat, "I was able to identify the murder weapon as a Winchester rifle, model 1873. That model is extremely rare, considering Winchester discontinued the gun a h
undred years ago. There are barely a few dozen still in working condition."

  Hillerman's eyes widened.

  "I figured the gun had to have been stolen from either a private collection or a museum. Had a gun with that value been stolen from a collector, they would have filed the requisite insurance claims. There are less than twenty museums in North America with records of a Winchester 1873. Every museum still had the Winchester in their possession, except for one."

  "Let me guess. It was in New Mexico," Hillerman said.

  "That's right."

  "And did you find this museum?"

  "Yes, sir, I did. The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in

  Fort Sumner."

  "And?" Hillerman said.

  "After getting railroaded at first by the manager, he eventually confessed that the model they were currently displaying was a replica, that the real one had been stolen several years back.

  They couldn't afford the insurance or security measures and couldn't risk losing tourist dollars by simply closing the exhibit."

  "So the weapon this man has been using was stolen from a New Mexico museum and then brought to New York where it's killed four people," Hillerman said. "That's an awful long schlep, just to use a certain gun."

  "Not for this killer. He stole that gun for a reason," I said.

  "And why is that?"

  "Because the gun he stole used to belong to Billy the Kid."

  Hillerman sat back in his chair. The cigar was still hanging from his mouth, but he seemed to have forgotten about it.

  "What you're saying is, this killer is using Billy the Kid's old gun-as in the Billy the Kid-shoot-'em-up Billy the

  Kid-to kill people in New York City."

  "Not just random people. He's got a motive, a pattern.

  The killer has some sort of connection to either the gun itself or the Kid."

  Hillerman cocked his head and looked at Wallace. The editor-in-chief hadn't said a word in minutes. Wallace was between a rock and a hard place: attempting to keep control of his paper while having to account for his reporter being eviscerated in articles by their biggest competitor.

  "Wallace," Hillerman said. "What do you think?"