The Mark hp-1 Read online

“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

  We 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?
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  “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

  Joe 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 their 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.

  “I want that as much as you do, Joe, trust me on that.”

  Mauser, his eyes still closed, said, “I don’t think you do, Len.”

  He opened his lids, looked at the younger man next to him. He could sense an anger boiling within Leonard Denton, but a quiet one. This anger lived within his blood, didn’t depend on heated circumstances to boil. That was the most dangerous kind.

  “So why do you think Parker came back?” Denton asked. “Why risk returning to the scene of the crime? You think it might be the drugs, the package he stole from the Guzmans? Maybe he went back for it?”

  “Honestly, Len?” Mauser said. “I don’t give a shit. I’m not gonna waste my breath on theories about why Parker did this or why Parker did that. That’s up to the courts, if he ever sees the inside of one. If we find the drugs, hoo-rah.”

  “What about Shelton Barnes?”

  Mauser detected a hint of fear in Denton’s voice. Was it possible the man was still alive? Joe was still in the dark as to how and why this dead man had ended up armed at the Davies residence in St. Louis.

  Fuck it.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing did. As long as he found Henry before the NYPD or Shelton Barnes. There were so many wild cards in the deck it was getting difficult to juggle. But it would all be worth it if he was granted just one second alone with Henry Parker.

  “So what’s the plan then?” Denton asked.

  “I’m willing to bet Parker’s still on the island. He wouldn’t have come back without a damn good reason. Maybe it was the drugs. I want the NYPD to question every doorman, tourist, subway station attendant and dog walker within a one-mile radius of that diner. But I don’t want Henry taken into custody before we get there. I have my agenda and it’s not changing.”

  “We have the same agenda, Joe. Don’t forget that.” Mauser looked at Denton, the man’s eyes bright, a small spark behind the pupils. There was a tangible anger there, bolstered by fear, and it would have to be dealt with when this was over.

  Joe lowered his voice, allowing the alcohol to temper his e
motions.

  “Len, I know you’re pissed you haven’t moved up in the department faster. But believe me when I say that half this job is luck. You get a good lead, a case breaks, and that’s your career right there. And as soon as we catch this soulless prick, everyone at the bureau will know I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “I appreciate that, Joe, I really do,” Denton said, a faraway look in his eye. “But sometimes you need to make your own luck.”

  “Yeah,” Mauser said, relaxing into his seat as the plane righted itself. “Sometimes you do.”

  36

  I couldn’t stop shivering. I was pretty sure mys going numb. I wrapped my arm around Amanda’s waist as we walked downtown. Just another couple strolling at night on the clean-swept streets of Manhattan. Nothing to see here.

  Jack O’Donnell’s voice sounded in my head like a church bell gone haywire. Those two words were beyond frightening, beyond rational thought, terrifying and inconceivable.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  Michael DiForio.

  I knew that name, heard it bandied about the newsroom like an acid-coated breath mint. People stopped and stared when you said it, raised their eyebrows and listened closely for what they expected to be a gruesome tale. Only people like Jack O’Donnell stayed quiet. They were the ones who knew the most. Who knew the reality of the man’s savagery.

  We’d all heard stories that could keep you up at night, make you tuck your children in a little more snugly, double-check the windows and bolt the doors. The breathless rumors of an army silently brewing beneath the city’s surface.

  Now I knew why Luis Guzman was dressed up that night, why he looked like a man waiting for the executioner’s song. Luis Guzman was supposed to deliver something-drugs, arms, who knows-to John Fredrickson. This was the mysterious package everyone assumed I’d stolen. And somehow it was linked to the most dangerous man in the city.

  Ten ex-convicts, all paying meager rent to live at 2937 Broadway, payments decreasing through the years. I tried to piece it together. It seemed like car insurance: if drivers stay accident-free, their rates decrease. These ex-convicts had done something to justify the decreases. And one option made perfect sense.