The Guilty Read online

  Mya and I dated for several years in college, a time I could hardly remember. When we met, I was smitten. She was tall, beautiful, with confidence like no girl I’d ever met. And for some reason she’d picked me. I don’t know if I ever loved her, or simply loved being with her. Loved being with a girl I knew would be somebody.

  We’d broken up a year ago. Right before my life had changed forever. Our relationship was probably doomed whether or not I’d been accused of murder, but after I nearly died and became a minor New York celebrity, she’d had a change of heart. Suddenly she wanted to give our buried love life another go.

  She didn’t love Henry Parker anymore. At least not the Henry she’d met years ago. Not the Henry Parker she used to kiss behind the stacks in the Cornell library. She loved the Henry Parker that had been invented by the newspapers and magazines. The indestructible one who’d survived a three-day manhunt, only to live and regain his job at the city’s most prestigious newspaper. Not the Henry Parker who could barely run without feeling the pain in his side from where the bone shards punctured his lung. Or the Henry whose heart beat fast every time he heard a police siren or a car backfire. That was the Henry that only Amanda knew. And I was happy she knew it. It felt real. Like it could last forever.

  Mya loved the other Henry Parker. But that wasn’t me. That Henry was a creation, a monster created by ink. I wanted nothing to do with him.

  At the same time, the year Amanda and I had been together had seen incredible changes. When I’d first met Amanda—when I’d lied to her to save my skin—she’d been as lost as I was. Her entire life existed in a trunk full of notebooks she’d kept since she was a little girl. Notebooks she used to catalog every single person she met, writing down superficial details, mirroring the abandonment in her real life.

  When she picked me up in her car, thinking I was a student named Carl Bernstein, Amanda wrote down her thoughts about that nonexistent man. I wanted her to know life wasn’t something to be cataloged. With me, she could actually experience it. Soon after she moved in, the notebooks disappeared. One night, after making love, I’d asked about them. She said she didn’t need a stupid pen and paper anymore. She said real memories were good enough. And that’s what I promised to give her. Even if it meant her playing practical jokes with my ring tone.

  I clicked the answer button and waited. I could hear breathing on the other end. It was the fifth time this month Mya had called after midnight, in addition to the myriad calls to my office, always from unlisted numbers or pay phones. At night, I could chalk it up to her being drunk. During the day, I didn’t know what to make of it. A week ago Mya had called at 3:30 a.m. She asked if I’d meet her for a drink. To talk about stuff. We’d never really had a chance to say goodbye, she’d said. I told her we did. And still she kept calling.

  “Hehlo? Izzis Henry?”

  “Yes, Mya,” I whispered, watching to see if Amanda would wake up.

  “Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “Why are you at home?”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “Why are you sleeping?”

  “Because I have work tomorrow.” I waited. She said nothing. “Listen, Mya, you need to stop calling me.”

  “Oh, stop it,” she said, and I could picture her waving her hand dismissively. “You’re not sleeping now. It’s early, silly. Come out for a drink.”

  “Mya, there’s no way…”

  “Who is that?” I felt Amanda stir, her eyes fluttering open. “Is someone on the phone?”

  “It’s me,” I said softly. “Go back to sleep. It’s Mya again.”

  “Again? Does she think you deliver pizza or something?” Amanda said through a yawn. “Tell her to call Domino’s and get out of our life.”

  I waited a moment until Amanda’s breathing evened.

  “Listen, Mya, I’m going back to sleep. Please. Stop calling.”

  “I miss you, Henry.” Her voice had changed, choked up. I closed my eyes. Tried not to think about the last time I’d hung up on Mya late at night. I couldn’t do it again. She had to choose to let it go.

  “Come on, Mya, I’m with someone else now. You know that. Please. Hang up the phone. Go back to your friends.”

  “I have no friends. Please, Hen. I really want to see you.”

  “Good night, Mya. I have to go. You should go.”

  “Fine,” she said, and then I heard a dial tone.

  I swallowed. Felt Amanda stir. Wished Mya hadn’t gotten so screwed up after the whole mess last year. Wished she could be happy.

  And then the phone rang again. Amanda bolted upright.

  “Don’t bars in this city have a closing time? I swear you need to get a restraining order. If you answer it you’re sleeping on the couch.”

  “I don’t fit on the couch.”

  “Then you get the refrigerator. I have an eight-thirty tomorrow. It’s hard to convince a child that their future is in good hands if their counsel shows up looking like Morticia Addams.”

  I pressed Answer. “Mya, I told you I’m with someone—”

  “That’s none of my business or concern, Henry, but if it makes you feel better Jack asked me to blow you a kiss.”

  Crap. It was Wallace Langston, the editor-in-chief of the New York Gazette. My boss. And he definitely wasn’t calling because he missed me. Wallace was a good man, had hired me out of college, but I learned quickly that New York had a way of chewing up and spitting out its good men. Few newsmen were more respected, but readers didn’t care much about professional courtesy. They wanted juice, gossip, and sadly often the lowest form of both. And that was one thing Wallace refused to give.

  I’d gotten used to late-night calls from the office. Jack O’Donnell—my colleague and professional idol—was prone to doing it just for kicks. Like Mya, sometimes late at night I could smell the Seagrams on his breath through the phone. Jack worked late. He was unmarried, had no children. He just needed to hear a friendly voice, I supposed, because there weren’t many in his life. So I didn’t mind. And thankfully Amanda slept like wood.

  “Wallace, what’s up?”

  “I need you at Thirteenth and Eleventh. Right away.”

  “I’m guessing this isn’t so we can spend nine bucks on a beer at one of those clubs in the meatpacking district.”

  He ignored me. “Just get in a cab. There’s been a homicide at some swanky shindig called the Pussy Club, I need you to cover it. I’d send Jack but he hasn’t set foot in anything but an Irish pub since the seventies.”

  “Pussy Club…you mean the Kitten Club?”

  “I mean it’s 2:33 a.m. and if you’re not here in ten minutes, we’re going to get scooped by the Dispatch, the Observer and those crummy papers they give away for free on the subway platforms.”

  “Why me? Who’s on night shift?”

  “You’re the only guy who’s even remotely young enough to even understand this stuff. Now get dressed.”

  “What stuff? I don’t follow.”

  “Athena Paradis was shot to death this morning. Looks like it might have been some sort of execution. Single shot, from a distance. I’m going out on a limb and saying you’re more familiar with her, er, résumé than Jack is.”

  I was stunned. Athena Paradis. The world’s most famous socialite. Famous for, well, something. She averaged three page ones a month at the Dispatch. Wallace refused to give her that kind of coverage unless she cured AIDS or something. But murder changed all that, I guess.

  “On my way,” I said.

  “I was never a fan of hers,” Wallace said, offering more information than he needed to. “But the way it looks down there…she didn’t deserve what this monster did.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The New York night was muggy. Even at two-thirty in the morning, when the sun, like most of the city, is hibernating and waiting for the start of a new day, something kept the air thick. It was early May, and humidity already choked the streets. Late night revelers all wore shirts soaked th
rough with sweat, foreheads shiny, content for the sun to never show its face again.

  My cab slowed down and then stopped as we approached a tangled mess. I could see flashing lights nearly three blocks away. Kids lining the streets with worried looks. It took a lot to ruin a good night. I could only imagine what had happened here.

  I walked the last few blocks to Thirteenth, wading through honking cars and loaded partiers screaming on cell phones. I couldn’t help but hear the panicked voices.

  “Man, there was blood everywhere. I was right near her, man!”

  “She…they think she’s dead. Oh God, does that mean her album won’t come out on time?”

  I saw Wallace Langston talking to a cop and jotting down some notes on a spiral pad. Wallace didn’t get out of bed for many stories. He left that to his city desk. But this wasn’t just New York front-page news, this was a national headline. The kind of tawdry story that Paulina Cole and the Dispatch would be sopping up with a biscuit and squeezing dry.

  I hadn’t seen Paulina Cole in months, and I prayed she wasn’t here tonight. I didn’t need any distractions. Paulina Cole had once been a top reporter at the Gazette but left after penning a series of controversial yet shockingly popular articles where she insinuated that my murder accusation was merely the next story in a succession of young journalists whose names always ended up in brighter lights than their stories. Didn’t matter that my murder rap was bogus. The articles enabled Paulina to jump to the New York Dispatch, the Gazette’s biggest rival. She got more money, more perks, and of course the chance to hoist her name among brighter lights.

  Covering Athena Paradis’s murder would be tricky. If we played catch-up to Paulina and the Dispatch’s muckraking, they would dig a grave and bury us in a pile of our own moral righteousness.

  Above the Kitten Club was perched a gigantic neon sign in the shape of a kitten. And not just any run-of-the-mill kitten, the kind of kitten that apparently wore a halter top and stockings and every few seconds tipped back some sort of pink cocktail that probably cost more than my pants and contained less alcohol than a glass of seltzer. Appearances. Atmosphere. That’s what Kitten Club patrons came for. And last night they got it. In the form of Athena Paradis, world-famous socialite, erstwhile fashion model, nubile actress, soon-to-be recording artist, and, depending on who you asked, either your personal hero or the bane of your existence.

  I had nothing against Athena personally, but a few weeks ago a colleague forwarded me a leaked demo of her first single. Not even three straight hours of Bruce and Dylan could rinse that stain off.

  You’d think my generation would have more to offer. I’d like to say they do, but lying to yourself is pretty pathetic.

  Within hours all those people soundly sleeping in their beds would wake up to find out that one of the most famous women on the planet had been murdered. That the suspect was still at large. That there would be a city-wide manhunt that would put all other investigations—including my own—to shame. Not to mention the resources that Athena’s father—Costas Paradis—would likely contribute. Bottom line, if your finger pulled the trigger, you were a marked man. But as soon as the killer fired that round, the reverberations created a news story. It was my job to see all the ripples.

  Problem is, New York is a city eight million strong. If you want to disappear—and don’t have a pile of mush instead of brains—you could disappear. Hundreds of crimes and dozens of murders went unsolved every year. All this guy did was raise the stakes. Raised them to a level that would scare off pretty much anyone without a death wish, but raised nonetheless.

  I saw Wallace, approached him. The editor-in-chief of the New York Gazette was a tall, slender man. He wore a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with gray, and though his stature was hardly imposing, his intelligence shone through. He wore a light jacket, hands tucked into the pockets. Wallace and I acknowledged each other with a brief nod, then turned back to the scene.

  A line of police tape had cordoned off a thirty-foot radius around the spot where Athena’s body had fallen. Even against the dark red of the carpet, I could make out a darker, more gruesome shade. The body had been removed from the scene, but forensics had taped off the angle at which her body had fallen. Several areas were marked with flags, presumably for ballistics and blood spatter experts. Some of the spatter appeared to be as far as ten feet from where Athena had fallen. Only a high-caliber slug could cause that much damage. I saw a flag on the carpet, in front of a piece of chipped pavement. Quite possibly where the bullet had lodged after exiting Athena’s skull.

  The other bars in the district had been emptied out by the cops. The music had been turned off. The only sounds were the sirens and the cops, but the fear was louder than all of it.

  “Warm out tonight,” I said. Wallace nodded, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as though reminded to.

  “Gunman shot Athena from a distance. Goddamn sick coward.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” I said. I looked around. “Guy would have been noticed on the street,” I said. Wallace lifted his head, looked at the rooftops, didn’t need to say more.

  “How do you shoot a woman like that?” Wallace said, to nobody. “Disgusting, that’s what it is.”

  “Athena wasn’t just a woman,” I said. “You get that famous, you become bigger than yourself. Become an ideologue or something.” Wallace looked at me, knew we were both thinking about what happened to me last year. When people thought I’d murdered a cop, I was no longer Henry Parker. I stood for something evil. And even when I was vindicated, the stench lingered. Athena lived in that spotlight every day of her life.

  Police were questioning several young men and women who were sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against an ambulance. They looked visibly shaken. Eyes red, heads down. Confidence sucked out of them. Several were crying. I wondered whether they were crying due to the horror they’d just witnessed, or because the world had been robbed of Athena Paradis.

  “Cops aren’t going to get anything from witnesses who were inside the club,” I said. “Figure at least fifty paparazzi outside, all those strobe lights, every single eye was focused on her.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Wallace asked.

  “’Cause mine would be. You tell yourself you could care less about celebrities like Athena Paradis, but it’s damn hard to turn away. And this was her scene.”

  I thought of Mya. Wondered if she was near here when she called. I hoped she’d made it home safe. I debated calling her just to be sure.

  “This is page one,” I said to Wallace.

  “We’re too late for the print edition,” he said. “I want your copy on the Gazette website in an hour. And I want updates by the time Al Roker is smiling his way through the weather report.”

  “Awful generous deadline of you.”

  Wallace looked at me. “We mishandle this story in any way, the Dispatch will cannibalize our circulation rate and spend all winter bragging about its superior reporting.”

  “They couldn’t report their way out of the 6 train,” I said, expecting a laugh, but receiving none.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Wallace said softly. “Story like this, it’s all about how sensational you can make it. Who runs the cover photo of Athena in the most revealing dress. Gets the best quotes from her exes. Finds the most salacious angle to play up, even if it turns out to be bogus later on. You know Paulina will be all over this.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “You know the sign I keep by the elevators to all our news divisions, right?” I nodded. The sign Wallace was referring to was simply titled The Three Types of Reporters. It was a piece of paper containing four short, handwritten sentences.

  Some reporters are always one step behind.

  Some reporters always keep pace.

  Some reporters are always one step ahead.

  What kind of reporter are you?

  “Good. Then Evelyn will be expecting your copy in sixty minutes.”

&nbs
p; “I’m a lucky man.”

  Evelyn Waterstone was the Gazette’s battle-ax of a Metro desk editor. All stories that focused within the five boroughs were doled out by her, met with her approval, and she had final edit. She was notorious for fighting for front-page space, claiming that New York was the country’s central nervous system, and that most relevant stories stemmed from there. So far she had treated me with kid gloves. Which left me uneasy. She always seemed to be much tougher on the other young journalists, the interns, the people who hadn’t paid their dues. The fact that she liked me was fairly disconcerting. Like someone who smiled to your face while they held a Ginsu behind their back.

  “Leave out the stuff about slug caliber and shooter vantage points,” Wallace said. “Too much conjecture. Let the Dispatch be forced to make retractions. We need to play this clean.”

  “I’ll get it done,” I said, trying to convince not only Wallace but myself.

  “Don’t worry, I spoke to Evelyn before you got here. She’s aware of the time-sensitive nature, and is waiting for your e-mail. I’m asking you to play in the same scuzzy ballpark the Dispatch does, only you bat clean. You have an hour. Find an angle the Dispatch will miss. The entire country is going to be talking about Athena’s murder, and we need to give them something nobody else will. I don’t want any baseless conjecture. I don’t want any name-calling. I don’t want to stoop to their level. I want you to report this story the way a Gazette reporter would.”

  I nodded. Had no intention of doing it any other way. Since I returned to the Gazette full time, I’d worked my ass off in an effort to prove I could hack it at that level. My first go-round had been sidetracked by a slight case of murder. I’d spent the better part of a year trying to live down my own story, and now it was time to return to what I did best. To what I was born to do. Find the stories nobody else could.