The Guilty hp-2 Page 23

  The killer on the rooftop, grinning like the devil himself.

  When James was finished, Paulina sat in silence. She recalled her conversation with Mya at the diner; the small, frail girl looking like she was one tap away from shattering.

  Mya Loverne. Was it possible…

  Paulina cleared her throat, blew her nose into a handkerchief. She picked up the phone and dialed the Metro desk.

  "Fred, Paulina Cole here. Call Ted Allen. Tell him Senator

  Brisbane is being pushed back to page seven. We have a new page-one story tomorrow."

  She hung up. Looked at James.

  "Did they say Mya is going to make it?" she asked. James shook his head.

  "I couldn't get into the hospital, and nobody would speak on her condition. But it looked pretty bad."

  Paulina closed her eyes, dismissed James with a wave of her hand. When he left, she sat back, folded her hands behind her head. Then with a snap she sat forward, pushing the sympathy from her mind. Then she turned on her computer, and began to type.

  46

  There is no place whose atmosphere gives off such a potent mixture of calm and anxiety as a hospital room. The beeps come at such even intervals that if you forget their purpose for a moment, they could easily lull you to sleep. Then you remember what they represent and that knot swells up in your stomach, you look at the prone figure being monitored by machines, and you feel like you might never sleep again.

  Watching Mya breathe through a tube, that's how I felt.

  Chairs in hospital rooms weren't any better. They were all metal and odd contours. As if the hospital didn't want you relaxing on the job.

  I was alone in the room with Mya. Her mother, Cindy

  Loverne, was asked to leave by hospital staff. She arrived shortly after Mya and broke down immediately. Screaming.

  Crying. Asking how God could allow her husband and daughter to possibly be taken in the same week. She asked if

  God was testing her strength as a woman, as a person. It wasn't God who had done this to her family.

  Cindy had hugged me. I hadn't seen her in almost a year and a half, the last time being in a different hospital room.

  Again, watching Mya breathe. It was hard not to apologize Jason Pinter to Cindy Loverne; meeting me was the worst thing that ever happened to Mya.

  The last time Mya was in the hospital she left with a barely visible scar. But I always knew it was there, might as well have been a bloodred tattoo.

  If Mya survived this-the doctors had given her a thirty percent chance of doing so-she wouldn't be so lucky this time.

  Mya had suffered multiple skull fractures and a shattered hip. It took three hours of surgery to reduce the swelling in her brain, to fuse her bones back together. And that was the good news. The doctors said thankfully she'd landed on her side. That might have saved her life. If she'd landed on her back or head, she would either be paralyzed or dead. At least now she had a fighting chance. And I knew Mya was a fighter. I knew it.

  "Hey. Henry."

  I turned around. Curt Sheffield was standing in the doorway. He was dressed in full uniform. The blue clashed against the white walls. I noticed the gun on his belt, holstered, safe.

  For a moment I thought about grabbing it, marching into the street and stalking around the city until that bastard Roberts showed his face. And then I would show him the same mercy he showed everyone else. None.

  Curt gestured for me to join him outside. I nodded, stood up. Watched Mya's chest rise and fall.

  I went into the hallway, followed Curt toward a small waiting area. We both took seats.

  "How is she?" he asked.

  "She's got a battle ahead of her."

  "She looks like the kind of girl who's fought a lot of battles recently." I nodded, knew many of them were my fault.

  "She's tough," I said. "Her hip will be fine. It's her head they're concerned about. They won't know how much damage there is until the swelling comes down."

  "Jesus," Curt said, shaking his head. "Thing like this, kind of makes you want to become an atheist."

  "Actually I've never prayed more in my life. But I'm pretty sure God is considering revoking my baptism right now."

  "You know this isn't your fault, right?" Curt watched me, waited for a response. I didn't answer him. I couldn't.

  Because it wouldn't be the answer he was hoping for. "Henry, you know that, right?"

  "Amanda," I said. "Have you…"

  "She's staying with a co-worker tonight. You know she's worried sick about you, man," Curt said. "Amanda's a hell of a catch. It hurt her to see Mya like that. She just doesn't want it to break you."

  "It won't break me," I said. "But it might have broken us."

  "Do you love her?" he asked. I said nothing. "I said do you love her?"

  "Yes," I said. "I do."

  "Then don't do this. You're a selfish prick you don't at least call. You think you're the only one hurting?"

  "I can't see Amanda ending up like that," I said, pointing toward Mya's room. "That girl is in there because of me.

  Because of who I am and what I do. I can't control anything, man. I can't help myself from taking these punches, but I'll be damned if Amanda needs to feel them, too."

  "You don't think she's feeling it right now?"

  "Not the same way Mya is. Emotional pain hurts, yeah. But physical pain can kill. I'd rather her be devastated than dead."

  I looked up at Curt. "Have you come any closer to catching this guy? Please tell me they've found the son of a bitch."

  Curt took a deep breath. I saw a twitch as his hand went to his holster. I knew what he was wishing, because I felt the same way.

  "No," he said. "NYPD is tripping over themselves to get at this guy, but the mayor's made everyone scared. Too many young guys in this city, too many potential suspects. One person gets an itchy trigger finger, Roberts is forgotten about and we have a crisis on our hands."

  "So what then, we wait until he kills someone else, falls asleep at the scene?"

  "First off," Curt said, "there's no 'we.' You're not a cop.

  You do your job, keep digging up leads, write shit people care about. We'll do ours and eventually we'll catch this guy."

  "Bang-up job so far," I said.

  "You know what, Henry? Go fuck yourself. You're not the only one hurting. Four people are dead and your ex is banged up bad. You want to vent? Go ahead. But don't crap on the only people left who give a damn about you."

  "I don't need this," I said. "I have work to do. I have to find this guy."

  "Yeah, right."

  "You gonna stop me?"

  "Stop you?" Curt said, laughing. "Why would I do that?

  Hell, I'll even walk you out. But listen, man, Carruthers is going to make another statement tonight." He took a breath.

  "They found another quote. Where he pushed Mya."

  "Jesus."

  "Thought you'd be better off hearing it from me instead of the tube."

  "Thanks for small favors. What did it say?"

  "Was addressed to you," Curt said.

  "To me?"

  Curt nodded. "Said, 'Henry: Quien es? '"

  "Quien es?"

  "It's Spanish," Curt said.

  "I figured that," I said. "What's it mean?"

  "Means 'who is it?'"

  "He asked me 'who is it?'"

  "Guess he's not done with you, yet. Be careful, my friend."

  Cindy Loverne passed us in the hall. She grazed my shoulder with her hand, gave a weak smile.

  "Gimme a minute to talk to Mya's mom," I said. "Then

  I'll head out."

  "Take your time," Curt replied. "That family needs you more than I do."

  I nodded, clapped Curt on the back, entered Mya's hospital room. Cindy was kneeling on the floor. She was holding Mya's hand, stroking it gently. I heard her whispering close to her daughter's face. I hadn't entered quietly. I watched Cindy speak to her daughter for several minutes before she sto
od up, walked to an empty chair and flung herself down.

  "How are you, Mrs. Loverne?"

  The woman's expression didn't change. She had a dreamy look in her eyes, slightly glazed. She was likely on some sort of sedative. If these things had happened to my husband and daughter I'd want to be knocked out, too.

  "I'm okay," she said, her voice slow and deliberate.

  "How've you been, Henry? It's been such a long time."

  "I'm doing okay," I said.

  "I see your name in the newspaper a lot. So proud that you're doing so well for yourself."

  I said nothing. Felt proud of nothing. And receiving compliments made me feel worse.

  "I'm so sorry about Mya," I said. "But she's going to make it and come out a hundred percent. She's going to recover and be a great lawyer. She's going to make you proud."

  "That'd be nice," Cindy said. "David always said Mya had the brains in the family. I sure believed him. Did you know David used to watch 'Cops' every night? And those

  'When Animals Attack' videos? I always said to him,

  'David, how can such an educated man watch such tripe?'

  You know what he said?"

  "No, what did he say?"

  "He said every smart person needs some stupidity to take their minds off of life."

  "Mya used to always make me watch videos of people getting tricked," I said. "Candid camera-type stuff."

  "Oh!" Cindy said, clapping her hands together. "Like the one where someone drops a fake spider onto the shoppers at the mall."

  "She almost burned out my DVD player at school, making me watch that."

  Cindy's face was red, her smile long and genuine. She looked over at her daughter, her head swathed in bandages, and the smile quickly disappeared. "I hope you get to watch those with her again sometime," she said. "Henry?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Loverne?"

  "Would you like to watch those videos with me and Mya sometime? When she gets out of this place?"

  "There's nothing I'd rather do more," I said. And I meant it.

  "Henry, would you mind giving me some time alone with my daughter?"

  "Of course not," I said. "You have my cell phone number in case you need anything, right?"

  She held up her phone. "It's been programmed in here for a long time."

  I smiled. "Please call me. For anything."

  Cindy only nodded, and went back to staring at her daughter. I stood up, went over to Mya, kissed her lightly on the forehead. Cindy was beaming as I stood up.

  "Take care, Mrs. Loverne."

  "You, too, Henry. Such a handsome boy. I'm so glad my baby dated a boy with such ambition."

  "Goodbye, Mrs. Loverne."

  I left the hospital and met Curt outside. Then I caught a cab to Rockefeller Plaza.

  Roberts had to have left a trail somewhere. Pastor Mark

  Rheingold. Something about him wasn't right. And where better to find a trail to heaven than to start with a man of God?

  47

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  Amanda spun around. Darcy Lapore was standing by her desk, arms folded as though expecting an easy yes. Darcy was married, in her early thirties, made less than thirty grand a year, yet never came to work wearing an outfit that cost less than the net worth of the average Colombian drug czar. Her husband-a sweet man named Greg who just happened to work at a hedge fund-lavished expensive jewels and Caribbean vacations on her like the Gulf of Mexico might dry up at any moment. Despite this, Darcy still gave out her phone number to any suitor who asked. Always off by one number, though, and thankfully men were pretty stupid.

  Amanda had never been to the Bahamas. Or Mexico. She'd never been outside the continental United States. It wasn't that

  Lawrence and Harriet never tried to take her on family vacation, but they would always be that: Lawrence and

  Harriet. They would never be her parents-her family. She never had any desire to go away with them. It was like going away with a roommate you didn't particularly get along with.

  Children found themselves at odds with their parents all the time, but there was always an inherent love, a binding that surpassed most animosity. She never had that bond. So the animosity lingered.

  It wasn't hate, they were good people after all, but there was never any desire to spend more time with them than she had to. Brief chats at the dinner table, superficial discussions about homework, friends, occasionally boys and the future.

  Amanda loved to talk about the future.

  Darcy was constantly stuck in the present. The "what now."

  Which is why Amanda liked her.

  Today Darcy was wearing a stylish Versace pantsuit and a maroon tank top underneath. Her buoyant cleavage was visible above the lapels. Appropriate attire for a not-for-profit organization. A thin string of pearls danced around her neck, and the diamonds in her ears could have choked a horse.

  "Baby, you want to talk?" she repeated.

  "You know, I appreciate the gesture," Amanda said, "but

  I'm okay. Thanks anyway."

  "You don't look okay, honey darling," Darcy said. That was another Darcy trademark-taking two NutraSweet words and sticking them together like syrup on top of fried sugar.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Really," Amanda said, self-consciously pulling her V-neck sweater up a little higher. "It's okay."

  Darcy rolled a chair over, nearly knocking over a potted plant in the process. "Is it boy trouble?" she asked with a mischievous smile, clearly hoping it would be. Though Darcy's idea of boy trouble likely consisted of "he doesn't pay attention to me" and not the "he just witnessed his ex-girlfriend being thrown off a roof " variety.

  "Things could be better in that department," Amanda said.

  She began typing on her keyboard, nothing but gibberish, but hoping Darcy would get the hint.

  "Oh, do tell! My Greg, any time he's not performing up to snuff I tell him. I say 'listen, honey babe, you know I love you, but we need to get a few things straight because my chi isn't being harnessed.'"

  "Your chi?"

  "Hell yes, babycakes, my chi. If my chi isn't being harnessed I need to let my man know about it. It's like a tree root.

  It can go a few weeks without being watered, but unless you want it to dry up permanently you gotta feed it some water.

  Nourish that sucker."

  "I think that's about all I need to know about your chi."

  "Suit yourself. So what is it? Man trouble? Something else? Come on, babypie, tell me."

  Amanda stopped typing. She didn't want to talk to Darcy but…

  The truth was she had nobody else. For over twenty years,

  Amanda had grown up a stranger to everyone, even those supposed to take care of her. She was always introverted, never talking unless being talked to. It was great for developing sardonic comebacks, but meaningful conversations occurred as often as meaningful relationships. And that's where the notepads came in.

  She hadn't written on them in months. Since she and Henry had gotten serious. Since she found someone who made her feel like she wasn't a stranger anymore. Someone who felt like he would be in her life longer than a leaf fluttering.

  Someone who felt like he would stay with her forever.

  And yet here she was, sitting at work at seven o'clock at night, having finished up her daily tasks, biding the time until everyone left and she could fall asleep on her boss's couch.

  Amanda had feared early on about what would happen if she and Henry split up, grew distant. After their first few months, she never imagined they could grow apart. She never feared tomorrow would bring an empty bed. Today, Amanda wondered if that tomorrow had arrived.

  Amanda looked into Darcy's eyes. They were coated with makeup, brought out by jewels, but they were also honest.

  Darcy seemed genuinely interested, genuinely concerned.

  Whether it was a fleeting concern Amanda couldn't tell, but if she didn't let out some steam she would either explode or cry.


  She smiled at Darcy. Opened up the web browser on her computer. Went to the home page of the New York Dispatch.

  Clicked on the headline banner, opening up their top story of the day.

  The headline read: Murdered Politician's Daughter Critically Injured After Being Thrown From Rooftop.

  "The same person who killed Athena Paradis," Amanda said, as Darcy scanned the article. "He threw Mya Loverne off a roof."

  "That guy scares the shit out of me," Darcy said, seemingly oblivious. "I mean, I'm not the biggest Athena Paradis fan, but

  I can't say the girl deserved to die. To think there's someone like that walking around out there… God, just gives me the creeps."

  Then Darcy's eyes stopped scanning. She was reading a line three-quarters of the way down the page. She underlined a sentence with her fingernail.

  "Is that…"

  The line read: Loverne is also reported to have been ro mantically involved with Henry Parker, a junior reporter at the New York Gazette who himself was the focus of a murder investigation just last year.

  Amanda felt a terrible lump rise in her throat.

  "That…that's your boy trouble?"

  Amanda laughed softly, didn't know why, then nodded, heard a patter as the first droplet hit her keyboard. Darcy's face was a mix of sympathy and confusion. That's your man?

  Amanda leapt from her seat without turning the screen off, threw on her coat and fled the office, running into the New

  York night where the lonely streets awaited her.

  48

  I walked to my desk without stopping for any hellos, any questions, queries or anything. I ignored everybody. I sat down at my desk knowing eyes were watching me, waiting to see what would happen, debating whether to offer support, taking mental wagers on who would be the first to break the seal and open conversation. I turned on my computer and immediately ran a search for the words Quien es and Billy the

  Kid.

  I found several matches. And that vague Spanish line took on a whole new meaning.

  When Pat Garrett allegedly killed Billy the Kid, the Kid's last words were Quien es. They were supposedly uttered in the dark, before Garrett put a bullet through Billy's heart. Words spoken from Billy to Pat Garrett, and now William Henry Roberts to me.