The Mark Page 22

  My pulse drummed louder. I heard a tiny gasp on the other end, like someone about to take a breath then deciding better of it.

  “If this is really Henry Parker…”

  “It is, Jack.” I gave him my social security number and my dorm room number from my freshman year in college. “You can look those up if you want to. But you don’t need to.”

  “Parker, Jesus. What…where are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter right now. What I need, Jack, please, is information.”

  “Information? Are you kidding me? Christ, Parker, I shouldn’t even be talking to you. I could lose my job.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  “Regardless, Henry, you’ve got some goddamn nerve asking me for a favor. You don’t know what it’s been like around here. Wallace practically had to hire a PR army to take care of the absolutely inordinate number of calls about you. Not to mention that half the staff thinks you’re guilty as sin.”

  “What do you think?”

  I heard a sigh on the other end.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I’d prefer to reserve judgment.” He paused. “Are you guilty, Henry?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “If that’s true, it’ll be proven in a court of law.” Why was he saying this? Could Jack have known all along?

  “We both know I won’t make it that far. At least one person wants me dead, and that’s not counting the cops.”

  I heard the interest in his voice pick up.

  “Who wants you dead, Henry?”

  “I’m hoping you can help me figure that out.”

  Another sigh.

  “You know Paulina just agreed to write a book about you, tie it into the larger picture about the lack of ethics in journalism,” he said. “Pretty good money, from what I hear. She asked Wallace for a sabbatical.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “They want to have it in stores by the fall.”

  “I didn’t think I was important enough for anything like that.”

  “A week ago, you weren’t. Now, things have changed. Those columns she wrote got a lot of attention, syndicated everywhere. And ever since that husband who killed his wife’s blond bimbo mistress wrote a huge bestseller, they’re hungry for the next big scandal for America to sink its claws into. And you’ve been chosen, my friend. Apparently it’s going to have something to do with the dichotomy between good and evil and how the media portrays their heroes and villains. Some bullshit like that.”

  “Trust me when I say this story I’m working on could blow Paulina’s out of the water. There’s more to it than just Luis Guzman and John Fredrickson.”

  “All right, Henry, you have my attention. What have you learned?”

  I pulled out the list of names from Larkin’s office.

  “I need you to run background checks on ten people for me.”

  There was a pause. “Who are these people? Where did you find their names?”

  “I can’t say,” I said. I didn’t want to give him any leads. Just in case. “You have a pen and paper, Jack?”

  “You have a death wish, Henry?”

  “Not until this week. Here you go.” I read off the ten names, spelling out each one, along with the bank account numbers the checks were cut from. But there was one name I didn’t tell. I needed to keep that one for later.

  “Now what exactly am I looking for?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “And what if I decide to go to the cops right now? I’m sure they could trace this call and have you pinned down in minutes.”

  I was expecting that.

  “If you do, I’ll see that the Gazette is the very last newspaper to get the full story. I’ll make sure the Times, and maybe the Dispatch depending on the mood I’m in, get the full, uncensored exclusive. They’ll sell out their stock while the Gazette covers a hot dog vendor strike,” I said. “But if you do this for me, you’ll get first crack. No holds barred. I’ll tell you the whole story, warts and all. And trust me, Jack, it’s a hell of a story.” I clenched Amanda’s arm, feeling the warmth of her skin. She put her hand on mine, gave it a light squeeze. I waited as O’Donnell considered. Finally, he spoke.

  “Call me back in an hour,” Jack said.

  “Done.” I paused. “Hey, Jack?”

  “Yeah, Henry?”

  “I need to know…not because I really believe it, but…I don’t know anything anymore. I need to know…did you know about this? Did you know about Luis Guzman? Did you purposefully send me to him?”

  “Are you asking me if I set you up?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’m asking.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “So you’ll call me back in one hour.”

  “Sure, Jack.”

  “And, Henry?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t get killed before then.”

  I hung up the phone. My hands were shaking.

  “What’s wrong?” Amanda asked.

  “Jack. We need him to come through.” Then I looked at her. “But I don’t believe him.”

  34

  W e sat down in a coffee shop on the corner of 104th and Amsterdam. The hour couldn’t pass fast enough. The diner was empty, save a hefty black chef and an older couple who looked like they’d spent the last twenty years sitting motionless in the same booth.

  We hid ourselves behind two oversized menus. I ordered a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of coffee and Amanda did the same. We tore into the food when it arrived and quickly raised our cups for refills. The caffeine was all I could hope for to keep me awake, keep my nerves sharp.

  “So if you don’t believe him,” she said, “how do you know Jack isn’t going right to the cops?”

  “Because if he’s involved in this, he needs to find out what I know. He wouldn’t want anyone digging any deeper.”

  “Jesus, you think…” she said, her body going rigid “…you think he might have something to do with that man at my house?”

  That hadn’t crossed my mind.

  “It’s possible.” Amanda took a long drink of water.

  “So what do you think Jack’s going to find out from those names?” Amanda asked, chewing her bagel, brushing crumbs from her lap.

  “I really don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe those people were all related to Larkin somehow, like his third cousins, and he just decided to give them a break on rent.”

  “You really think that’s what happened?”

  I shook my head.

  “No. I don’t.” I took another bite and kept chewing until I felt Amanda’s eyes burning a hole through me. “You okay?”

  “No, Henry, I’m not.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She paused, cocked an eyebrow. “Honestly?”

  “Yeah. Honestly.” I felt a hole gnawing in my stomach. All I wanted to do was reach out, comfort her.

  “I’m scared, Henry.”

  “I am, too.”

  “No,” she said, her eyes vigorous. “Not like I am. You know why I want to work in child advocacy? Because growing up I was sick of nobody standing up for me. I spent every day hoping someone would give me a better life, and now I’m at the point where I really feel I can help people who need it. But here you are, trying to help yourself, me trying to help you, and not only am I scared that something terrible’s going to happen, but no matter what, I can’t control it. I can’t help anything.”

  The cold hole in my stomach spilled open, the guilt pouring out. My hand went to Amanda’s cheek. The warmth in her face made me shiver. I gently stroked her smooth skin and watched her eyes close. She closed her eyes, nuzzled her cheek into my palm.

  “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” I said, making no effort to fight my trembling voice. My eyes watered up. I didn’t care. “Without you I’d either be dead or in jail. I’m going to fight this until I can’t fight anymore, and it’s only because of you I can do that. You didn’t leave when you could have. I’d
like to think I would have done the same for you, but truthfully I don’t know. Saying thank-you doesn’t even begin to say a thing. But thank you, Amanda.”

  Amanda’s laughter was intermittent with sobs. She wiped her face with a napkin and took a sip of water.

  “When this is over,” she said, “then we can be thankful.”

  I said, “We’ll have a weeklong celebration, just for you. I’ll call it ‘Daviesfest.’ We’ll get all the big bands, have an outdoor concert, fire up the grill and invite some grungy roadies. It’ll be a ball.”

  “Can we get Phish? I’ve never seen them live.”

  “I think they broke up, but hell. Sure. We’ll get Phish.” She smiled.

  “That sounds really nice. Promise me it’ll happen, Henry.” I hesitated, trying to muster up those two words. She saw my mouth open and close, seemed to know what I was thinking. “Better yet, don’t promise me now. Promise later.” I nodded.

  Then from the corner of my eye, I noticed the elderly couple shifting in their seats. I tried to stay calm, but something about their demeanor bothered me.

  When we came in, they were sitting silently, sipping teas, comfortable as a girl wearing her boyfriend’s sweatshirt. Now they seemed nervous, eyes twitching back and forth. They were huddled together, mumbling. Then the man caught my eye, held it for a second, and that’s when I saw it. A split second of fear flashed across his face, then it was gone.

  He stood up, leaned over to his companion, and they got up and left the diner.

  The counterman shouted, “Later, Frank, Ethel. Good night, you two crazy kids!”

  They didn’t return the sentiment.

  I grabbed Amanda’s arm and said, “We have to go.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I think they recognized me.”

  “You’re kidding.” She bolted from her chair as I shook my head.

  “Come on.”

  We left the coffee shop and started walking west. Then uptown. Then east. Then downtown. We must have walked thirty blocks without saying a word. With every step my leg felt like someone was lashing it with a whip. Finally I checked my watch. An hour and a half had passed since I’d spoken to Jack O’Donnell.

  We found another pay phone and I rang the Gazette. Once again, Jack picked up on the first ring.

  “O’Donnell.”

  “Jack, it’s Henry.”

  “Christ almighty. The hell’ve you been, Parker?”

  “Sorry, I’m not really in charge of my schedule right now.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, I’ve got some information on your mystery people.”

  “And?”

  “And before I say a word, I want to know where you got these names.”

  “No way, Jack. The deal is you give me the info and I talk later. Otherwise I’m at the Dispatch and I’ll spill faster than Jeffrey Wigand.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Try me.”

  Somewhere, sometime, I’d always wanted to say that. I felt I pulled it off rather well. O’Donnell must have agreed.

  “That’s the way it’s gonna be?”

  “That’s the way.”

  “All right then, Harry Truman, I found three very interesting connections between your friends. Do you want door number one, door number two, or door number three?”

  “All of them. What’s the first connection?”

  “First? Okay, well, every single one of these folks has done time. And I’m not talking a week in the joint for taking a hit on your mother’s bong. I’m talking serious, get-comfy-in-solitary-confinement time. Every one of these winning personalities has served between two and twelve years in prison.”

  I looked at Amanda, the blood draining from my face. I couldn’t tell how much she could hear, but she sensed something was wrong. Cold sweat spread over my body, inking its way down my spine.

  “What’s the second?”

  “The second is that seven of these men were arrested again within five years of their initial release. Four went down for drug trafficking, two for transporting stolen goods across state lines and one for assault and battery while in possession of narcotics.”

  “Jesus.” The words escaped my lips without thought. So far this information was like two successive uppercuts to the jaw, leaving me shaken. All these men lived in one building?

  “You want to hear the third, or should we call it a night?”

  “No,” I said, numb. “What’s the third?”

  “Okay, well, five of these guys are currently deceased.”

  I felt bile rise in my throat.

  “Did you say five of them are dead?”

  “Yes, deceased is a fancy word for dead. Three were shot by the police, one committed suicide, the other was murdered by his partner while robbing a bank.”

  “Five of them are dead?”

  “You’re a quick one. One more of these fellows was shot during a robbery, but he healed quite nicely, currently lives in Dover. Nice place to convalesce, I hear.”

  “Which one lives in Dover?”

  “Guy named Alex Reed. He moved after taking a bullet in the gut from a 357. Blew out half his lower intestine. Ironically, he was the one being robbed.”

  The information was being processed way too fast. My head hurt. At least ten men in that building had served time, same as Luis Guzman, and five of those ten were dead. If I hadn’t gone back that night, Luis and Christine would have been numbers six and seven.

  But there was still one name to give O’Donnell. The one name I’d held back.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah, Henry?”

  “I need you to run one more name for me.”

  “Henry, I’m sticking my neck out as it is. I can’t keep doing this or someone’s gonna lop it off.”

  “Please, Jack. Just one more, I promise.”

  O’Donnell sighed. “All right. You’d better give me one hell of a story once this is over.”

  “I will, you have my word.”

  “Okay. So who’s the guy?”

  “His name is Angelo Pineiro. I think he might have some sort of connection to the other men on the list.”

  Another noise came over the line. Jack wasn’t sighing this time. He was laughing.

  “Angelo Pineiro?” O’Donnell said derisively. “That’s who you’re asking about?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

  “Well, do you want the long or the short version?”

  “You know him?” I asked. “You recognize the name?”

  “Recognize the name? Hell, I’ve written about the guy. Angelo Pineiro. His nickname is Blanket. Affectionately known amongst the law enforcement community as Lucifer’s Right Hand. In short, Angelo Pineiro is the guy who holds Michael DiForio’s dick every time he takes a piss.”

  35

  J oe Mauser dug his nails into the armrest as he felt the landing gear below the plane. The pilot announced the landing preparation, so Joe took another sip of scotch from his flask, held on so tight his knuckles turned white. Why couldn’t Parker have just hid at the Marriott?

  Denton sat next to him, chirping into an Airfone and scribbling away on a cocktail napkin. The call sounded important. Maybe there was some good news. Joe was praying for that. Parker had fucked with them long enough. And Joe couldn’t bear another call from Linda until justice had been served. John’s killer had been on the loose for long enough. It was time for retribution.

  Denton hung up the phone, nodding toward Mauser’s silver flask, engraved with the letters JLM.

  Joseph Louis Mauser.

  Joe always told people he’d been named after the boxer Joe Louis. It was bullshit, of course. His grandfather had been named Louis and his godmother Josephine. Didn’t matter. Everyone who knew the truth had passed away a long time ago.

  “Grab a nip?” Denton asked. Mauser handed him the flask without saying a word. He peered out the window, watching the thousands of tiny lights dotting the New York landscape. Everyone going on with the
ir lives, blissfully ignorant to the soulless murderer in their midst. A slight shudder ran through Joe’s body as the liquor took hold. When Denton finished his plug Mauser downed another take.

  “Take it easy there, chief,” Denton said. “I got some news that’ll warm you up better than any drink.”

  “This is Glenlivet, aged twelve years,” Mauser said. “You better have some pretty fucking incredible news.”

  “Don’t worry.” Then he said, “NYPD has a beat on Parker and the Davies girl.”

  “No shit?”

  “Nope. Some old man claims he saw Parker and the Davies girl sitting in a coffee shop up in Harlem. The uniform who took the report was skeptical as hell, said the witness looked like he was a heartbeat away from death itself, but both descriptions fit. The diner’s chef corroborated his story, saying he’d seen Parker’s picture in the newspaper that morning.”

  “So Amanda Davies is alive.”

  “Guess so,” Denton said. “But why would he kill Evelyn and David Morris, and not kill Amanda? Could he be keeping her as a hostage?”

  “You know how hard it is to carry a hostage a city block, let alone cross country? Personally, I think she’s in it with him.” Then something clicked in Mauser’s head. “You said they spotted Parker up in Harlem. Where in Harlem?”

  Denton looked at the soiled napkin.

  “Says here the place is called Three Eggs and Ham. Cute. It’s on 104th and Amsterdam.”

  “104th and Amsterdam. That’s right by…”

  “The building where Fredrickson got whacked.” Mauser glared at Denton, who seemed to realize his poor choice of words. “Sorry, Joe, where he was murdered. Anyway, NYPD’s combing the neighborhood. It took the witness a good fifteen minutes to call 911—had to change his Depends, I guess—so Parker could be anywhere, but they’re giving it due diligence.”

  “I don’t want due diligence,” Mauser said, seething. “I want them to pin Henry Parker to a wall. I want to look into his eyes as I put my gun under his chin. I want to see the fear in his eyes right before I blow due diligence out the back of his head.”

  Mauser felt the plane shake and tilt starboard. He gripped the seat tighter and closed his eyes, wishing the liquor would just let them stay closed until landing.