The Guilty hp-2 Read online

  Wallace seemed to come to life. "We've already gotten three calls from Louis Carruthers's office about Jack's ballistics article. Apparently they knew about the similarities and were hoping to withhold information until further notice."

  "But you're saying Henry beat them to the punch."

  "That's right."

  "And this new information, the possible link between the killer and the Kid, what have you heard on that?"

  "Complete silence from the NYPD," Wallace said. "And they haven't been silent about anything."

  "Which likely means they weren't aware of it," Hillerman added.

  "That's right."

  Hillerman again leaned back in his chair, gnawed on the end of his stogie, then threw the soggy mess into a trash can.

  "Here's what we do." His voice was angry, passionate. My heart was beating faster, my resolve growing stronger. "We report the living hell out of this story. Henry," he said, "I want you to chase this down like a goddamn shark smelling blood. I want you to get Lou Carruthers's office on the line and get the

  NYPD's cooperation. Since you seem to have scooped them on this, they'll give you a big wet one in return for the intel. I want copy for tomorrow's national edition about both the stolen Winchester and link to Billy the Kid. Just imply there might be a relationship, I don't want anyone jumping to conclusions, but we need your museum manager to go on the record. You got me?"

  "Absolutely," I said.

  "Right. Parker, get yourself home and clean up. You look like you just got mugged in the Gobi desert or something. Hell of a fucking job, Henry."

  "What about Paulina Cole's story?" I asked.

  "Fuck Cole," Hillerman said. "Good, honest, unbiased reporting beats out tabloid bullshit any day of the week. You give our readers something new about this case the Dispatch doesn't have, Paulina can pen hatchet jobs until her cooch defrosts, we'll sell more newspapers. Now get to work."

  Wallace and I were out the door before he could fish out another cigar.

  29

  I got out of the subway and walked toward my apartment.

  The last hour had been a whirlwind of debriefing, notes jotted down with the penmanship of someone born without opposable thumbs, and the sketches for what I knew would be a terrific and stunning article.

  Jack filled me in on David Loverne's murder, which was nearly unbearable to listen to. I had to distance myself, look at the situation objectively, try not to think that the murdered man we were discussing had once hugged me, shook my hand, even told me he expected great things from me. Had things turned out differently, the man might have been my father-in-law.

  I tried not to think about how it would leave Mya without a father.

  I tried not to think about Paulina's article, written before

  Loverne's death. The two had to be related. I was still stunned by the audacity and hatred steaming from Paulina's article, but

  Wallace assured me that I would face no repercussions from Gazette management, and if need be they would defend me, publicly. I declined. They'd done enough of that already. After the debriefings, Wallace and I met with the Gazette' s legal team to draft a response for any reporters looking for a quote.

  The letter was brief. It said that Paulina's story was careless and inflammatory, and any more attempts by this allegedly balanced news organization to libel without facts would be met with legal reprimands from the Gazette, and moral reprimands from readers who wouldn't tolerate muckraking.

  That part was BS. Readers loved muckraking and, as much as it pained us, we knew Paulina's article would sell newspapers.

  The details of David Loverne's murder were gruesome in both their brutality and efficiency.

  After Paulina's story ran in the Dispatch, in which she alleged that Loverne's history of infidelity would soon come to light, the press corps descended on the man's apartment building eager to take photographs of drawn curtains, berate cleaning ladies and doormen, and try to scrape up the scraps

  Paulina had left under the table. When a person was accused of wrongdoing, people didn't try very hard to photograph their good side.

  Around five o'clock, Loverne left to attend a previously scheduled fund-raiser. He was swarmed by dozens of reporters. In what would be viewed as a colossal blunder, Loverne had no private security, and the elderly doorman was easily overmatched. As Loverne attempted to push his way through, a lone rifle shot shattered the commotion, blood splashed against the glass doors, and David Loverne died.

  The photographers spent their entire rolls shooting Loverne's body, the blood pouring from his chest, as well as the rooftop where it seemed the shot had come from. Several photographers even tried to bully their way into that very building to either catch the culprit or take photographs of the crime scene before the police arrived. Thankfully that doorman was a former cop, realized what was going on and locked the doors.

  The shooter was long gone. But by the time the police arrived, hundreds of photos of Loverne's body were circulating among newsrooms, tabloids and the Internet.

  I called Curt Sheffield to get the lowdown. He told me one of the investigating officers mentioned that another note had been left by the killer, but it was being kept quieter than a mouse fart. He didn't find it amusing when I asked him if he could hold a megaphone to the mouse's ass to hear it better.

  "Doesn't matter if I tell you," Curt said. "Guy's as vague as my little sister when I ask her how a date went."

  "He didn't leave a note with Jeffrey Lourdes. Now he changes his tune and leaves one with David Loverne. This is my ex's father, man, cough it up."

  "Again," Curt said, "you use this before it's made public,

  I'll string you up to a lamppost. The note was just one line.

  It read, 'Because I had the power.' That's it."

  "'Because I had the power'? That's pretty vague. What's it mean?"

  "You're the reporter," Curt replied. "You ask me, this guy's been watching too much David Lynch."

  As soon as I hung up with Curt, I did a search for that quote, only adding "William H. Bonney" to the search field.

  What came back was most certainly not vague.

  In 1878, corrupt sheriff William Brady arrested Billy the

  Kid under the auspices of helping the Kid arrest John

  Tunstall's killers. When a reporter asked the lawman why he would arrest Bonney, a seemingly innocent man, Brady replied simply, "Because I had the power."

  The connection was no longer a secret. This killer wanted us to know he had a foot in the past. The notes and public executions were garnering more media attention than anything I'd seen since coming to the city. Only not exactly in the way I expected.

  The country was captivated by these murders, and the obsession had grown with every shot. Internet sites receiving millions of hits a day were all but praising the murderer.

  Paradis, many said, was single-handedly responsible for the downfall of popular culture, and, many said, morals and ethics, as well. David Loverne had long claimed to uphold traditional family values, only in reality he had more sexual partners than the average Mormon. Mayor Perez-the intended target-another empty suit full of insincere promises. Jeffrey Lourdes, once a respected visionary, had been reduced to common gossip and smut peddler.

  I couldn't believe these attitudes were so prevalent, that murder was being looked at by some as a reasonable means to an end. But they were. Somehow the man destroying lives was actually endearing himself to the public, by eliminating those deemed to be making our society ill. When I read those articles, shook my head at the stories, I knew what the link was. Why the man was killing who he did.

  He was an avenger. A Regulator. Killing those who needed to be killed for the greater good.

  Could there really be such a large portion of the population convinced that these murders were a good thing? Was it just cynical ghouls who would never know what it was like to lose a daughter, a father, a husband? That the person committing these crimes was not someone to ere
ct a statue for, but rather a gallows?

  I thought about Rex. Something was still troubling me about our conversation, but in my rush to return to New York

  I hadn't been able to follow up. Before I left, he mentioned a name. Brushy Bill. It sounded familiar for some reason, and

  I made a mental note to follow up with Rex later on. I had a full night ahead of me. I wondered when Amanda would be home. I missed talking to her, and hoped to God that everything Jack told me the other day could be chalked up to the ramblings of an old, lonely man. That just because he was going to die alone didn't mean I would. Amanda had saved my life; was my life. And I wouldn't give that up without one hell of a fight.

  But then I rounded the corner to my apartment and saw the one thing I never expected to see. I stopped on a dime. Couldn't move. I didn't know what to do or what to say. Whether to go forward and confront it, or to turn and run. The anger inside me rose up, threatened to consume everything, but her tears, the misery etched on her face, they drowned it all out.

  So when I saw Mya Loverne standing alone in front of my building, wearing an old sweatshirt, her eyes bleary and red from crying, I didn't know whether to scream at her, or to gather her in my arms and tell her everything would be all right. Like I should have done the night she got hurt. Like I hadn't done for her since.

  "Henry," she sobbed, taking a tentative step toward me. I couldn't move. All I could do was stare at the woman who'd shared my bed so many nights, whose hand I'd held and caressed, who just the other day had thrown me under a bus driven by Paulina Cole. A girl who had just lost her father to a heartless monster. I didn't know what to say to this girl. But then I found myself taking a step forward.

  "Henry," she said again, the sobs now racking her small body. Mya looked like she'd lost at least twenty pounds since

  I'd last seen her, and she was a slim girl to begin with. She looked malnourished, pale, like she had given up on herself.

  "Henry, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to say all those things, they just happened. Henry, I'm so sorry. Please, my father, I don't know what to do."

  My heart broke as I watched this, this shell of my former love. I took another step toward her, and she did the same.

  "My dad," she cried, her voice interrupted by staccato sobs,

  "my dad was killed. Oh God, Henry, please say something."

  I took another step. I could feel her breath, caught the faint whiff of perfume sprayed on long ago and never washed off.

  Her hair was a ragged mess, her eyes streaked and bloodshot.

  "Mya, I'm so sorry for your father…I…he was a good person."

  "I know he was good," she shouted. "So why did he have to die?" She came toward me, didn't hesitate, and suddenly Mya was leaning against my chest. Not in an embrace, but for support.

  There was no strength in her. If I moved she would collapse.

  But I didn't move. I couldn't.

  "Mya, I'm going to find this guy. I promise. I'm sorry for everything I've done, everything I did."

  She looked up at me. Her eyes blinked twice. She sniffed.

  "You told me you would always be there for me," she said.

  My stomach burned as I drew in a breath. Then her eyes opened, I saw a fire in them, as she pounded her fists against my chest and screamed, "Where were you, Henry? Where were you when I lost everything? When my fucking father died? Where have you been? "

  She brought her fists down on my chest, punching me with no force behind the blows. Then I took her arms and held them.

  "I'm going to help you," I said. "I'm going to help you get your life back together. You've always been one of the strongest people I've ever known, Mya. And you can come back.

  You can do great things."

  "I have nobody," Mya cried softly. "I lost you. I lost my father."

  "You didn't lose me," I said gently. "You didn't want me.

  We weren't right together. You don't want me. You haven't for a long time. But I can help you. I will help you."

  "I just want to be happy," Mya said. She wiped her eyes.

  A piece of lint from her sweatshirt caught on her eyelash. I plucked it free. She laughed through her sobs. "You used to make me happy, Henry."

  I didn't know how to respond. Mya's arms had freed themselves, and I felt them wrap around my waist. Mya hadn't been this close to me in a long time. Yet there were no sparks. I held her like I would hold a small child. For comfort. For protection.

  I wanted to hate her. I wanted to ask why she said those things to Paulina, why she took our private life and made it public, why she threatened to ruin us both. But I also wanted to squeeze all the pain from her body. Because she didn't deserve any of it.

  Before I could think, I felt Mya's breath on my face; harsh, sweet. She leaned in. I wanted to stop her but I couldn't.

  Couldn't say no to her right now. I felt her breath, didn't want it like this. But I couldn't break this girl's heart one more time. Her breath touched my lips, I wasn't going to stop her, and then they pressed against mine, hot and needy.

  "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

  My body went rigid. I pried myself from Mya's grip. Her hands slid off me. She'd heard the voice, too. I was afraid to turn around, but I had to.

  Amanda was standing on the corner. Watching us. A bag of groceries lay at her feet. Where she'd dropped them.

  "No. No, no, no no no. You have got to be fucking joking," she said. She left the groceries and started toward us with a frightening urgency. I tried to open my mouth but nothing came out.

  "Amanda," I said. It's not what it looks like. I can explain. Of course I would say those things. Isn't that what every guy said?

  "You goddamn whore, " Amanda spat. "You drag him through your filth and then you come to our house to spread it around?

  Get the fuck out of here, you disgusting tramp." Mya took a step toward Amanda, like she might do or say something, but then she turned and ran away. I turned back to Amanda.

  "Wait," I said.

  "So was she wearing perfume?" Amanda asked, her eyes wild, searching for some crazy answer. "Tell me she drugged you, that she had a gun, that she's the lunatic who's killing all those people and offered to sleep with you for the scoop.

  Tell me something other than you were just standing here playing tonsil hockey with the girl who dragged your name through the mud. Tell me there's more to it."

  "Her father was killed," I said. "I didn't know what to do."

  "No, you knew what to do. You decided to be hero Henry fucking Parker and swoop in for the rescue. Is that your M.O. now? You find these damaged girls and pretend to be their savior until the next basket case comes along? Is that what you did with me? You were tired of Mya so when I happened by you figured you'd take my broken ass for a spin?"

  "It's not like that and you know it. I love you, Amanda."

  "Then why were you kissing another fucking girl? " she shouted.

  "I didn't…I…she held me," I said, realizing how lame it sounded as soon as the words came out of my mouth.

  Amanda looked back at the groceries. "There's your dinner," she said. "Cook it yourself. Burn the apartment down.

  I'm going to stay at the office tonight." She turned and started to walk away.

  "Amanda," I said, following her. My head was spinning, my heart felt like it was about to burst. This couldn't be happening.

  "If you follow me I'll call the cops and tell them Mya's girlfriend-beating ex is coming after me." I stopped in my tracks, blinking rapidly. "Try me," she said. "I swear I'll do it."

  Then her hand was in the air. A cab chugged up to the curb. I could feel the eyes of a dozen strangers watching the scene unfold. I watched as Amanda got into a cab, fleeing in a cloud of exhaust, leaving me alone on the street with a bagful of groceries.

  30

  I stood on the street corner. My feet tapped involuntarily.

  My brain was running on about four gallons of caffeine, half of which probably hadn't e
ven entered my bloodstream and would cause my eyes to pop out of their sockets any minute now.

  I didn't sleep last night. I watched Amanda's cab drive off, picked up the discarded groceries, put them away neatly. I called Amanda. She told me not to call again. I didn't. Instead

  I took a cab to her office, saw the light on, and stood outside all night just to make sure she was safe. She didn't need to know I was there. But I did.

  The next morning I decided to visit Agnes Trimble.

  It was 8:45 a.m. I'd already plowed through the Gazette and the Dispatch. A reporter had written an article about the growing public sentiment that the killer might have done a public service by killing four people. Tomorrow more ghouls would come out of the woodwork and celebrate this murderer, and soon it would cross over from print to radio to television.

  Four lives were being trivialized, and a killer was being glorified. Undoubtedly reporters would eat each other to get the first scoop, pay loads of money to interview this beast.

  Pretend to be appalled by the killer's deeds while cashing the checks he helped rake in.

  I waited outside the department building for Agnes. She got off the bus, then dropped her keys when she saw me. I guess if I saw a guy with messy hair, dark circles under his eyes and a heroin addict's jitters waiting in front of my office

  I'd be a little unnerved, too.

  "Professor Trimble," I said, trying to slow down my convulsions. "Do you have a minute?"

  "Mr. Parker," she said, picking up her keys and smoothing out her clothes. "My taking your appointment with Amanda did not give you a free invitation to show up uninvited before

  I've had my morning scone."

  "I understand that and I apologize for my abruptness and for interrupting your, uh, scone eating. But I need your help."

  She sighed. "I should charge you a convenience fee." Then noticed I'd come alone. "Miss Davies isn't with you today?"

  "No, just me," I said, eager to avoid any more discussions of Amanda. Agnes didn't need to know that the only way I could stop myself from thinking about Amanda was following this story.