The Guilty hp-2 Read online

  editorialize much more than usual. In the end Wallace nixed it. And rightly so. But that didn't mean I couldn't try to print it elsewhere. Or let someone else print it.

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one number I swore I would never call again.

  The phone rang and the operator picked up.

  "This is the New York Dispatch, how may I direct your call?"

  "I'd like Paulina Cole's desk."

  "One moment."

  I held my breath, waited for the call to go through. Paulina screened her calls. One of the benefits of having worked beside her for a few months. Unsurprisingly it went to voice mail.

  "This is Cole. Leave a message."

  "Paulina, this is Henry Parker. Meet me at Ollie's diner in an hour. I have a story for you. No tricks, just business."

  I hung up and began walking toward the diner.

  51

  I was in the middle of chewing a ham-and-cheese sandwich when Paulina burst through the door. I'd been inside just ten minutes, but decided to order without waiting. This wasn't a date.

  Paulina's hair was disheveled, her makeup ready to cascade down her face at any moment, and her purse clung to her shoulder by one overworked strap. She perused the diner until she saw me. Then she took an enormous deep breath and came over. I leaned across the table and pushed the seat out for her. I was nothing if not a gentleman.

  "Henry," she said, placing her bag on the floor, then thinking better of it and hanging it over the chair back. "It's been a long time, we need to do this more often."

  "We need to do this once and only once," I said. She cocked her head like I was speaking ancient Sumerian.

  "That's not how I feel," she said. A waiter came by and handed her a menu. He began to walk away, but she snapped her fingers and he turned around. "I'll have a bagel and cream cheese, with the bagel scooped out and light cream cheese. I also want capers, but not too many. And a glass of pineapple juice." The waiter nodded and left.

  "So how's the Dispatch treating you?" I asked, taking a swig of coffee.

  "Oh, you know. Always busy, always hustling." She made a running motion with her hands to denote that she did, literally, hustle. "Listen, Henry," she said, leaning forward slightly. She was wearing a tight black sweater with a V-neck that exposed the top of her remarkably perky breasts. I wondered if she had them done. Then I decided I'd done enough thinking about her breasts for the rest of my life. "I know things haven't been great between us. But I'd like to make amends."

  "I'm sure you lose tons of sleep over it," I replied, "but everything I say today is off the record."

  "You can't be serious." I pulled a tape recorder out of my bag, held it up for her to see. "Let me guess. You got that 'off the record' bit on tape."

  "Just making sure my off the record is on the record."

  Paulina laughed. The waiter arrived with a glass of pineapple juice, pulpy and thick. Paulina took a small sip, then pointed a long fingernail at me.

  "You know, I always thought Wallace was smart to bring you onboard at the Gazette. That place is an old man's club.

  And old men don't get younger-they die. And if nobody is there to take over when they finally kick the bucket, the paper will die, too. It was smart of him to inject some new blood."

  "You've spilled enough ink calling for my blood this year,

  I didn't think you cared so much."

  She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "This is business, honey. You sell newspapers. Cute, young guy like you.

  Remember that actor from The Sopranos, supposedly killed a cop? Every day his mug was on the front page we couldn't print enough papers. Half the people that buy our rags don't

  read them, sweetie, they look at the headlines and the pictures and move on to pictures of Paris Hilton in a bikini. The least we can do is give them something to hold their interest."

  "Like Mya and David Loverne."

  Paulina shrank back. I could tell I'd struck a nerve. It felt good, but I couldn't dig too deep. I was here for a reason.

  "You know I never wanted to see either of them hurt." She meant it. "Mya is a lost soul. People like reading about lost souls, and they like to have someone to blame for it. You and

  Get-Around-Town Loverne were easy marks. But you're not so innocent yourself. I checked the hospital records. She was admitted with those facial wounds. You really did hang up on her when she called you. Your own girlfriend, lying beaten on the street, and you turn the ringer off. Brave man."

  "Keep punching, if it makes you feel better. I've lived with it for a year and a half and I'll never forgive myself. But I wasn't the one who hit her. And I've learned to live with the rest of it."

  "You say potato, I say poh-tahto. So here's the deal,"

  Paulina said, ignoring the waiter as he brought over her bagel.

  "You don't like me. That's fine. I have a man who makes me come twice a night so I don't need more friends. But you called me, Mr. Parker. So why am I here?"

  "Because I've got a story for you," I said.

  Paulina eyed me while she smeared cream cheese into the crater where the bagel had been dug out. "You've got a story for me? I hope it doesn't end with you squeezing sour grapes, because that's a boring story and you're the only schmuck who wants to read it."

  "It's not sour grapes," I said. "Those are there, don't get me wrong, but that's not why I called you. I have another story.

  A better story. A story that will help you beat the Gazette tomorrow if you have time to make it into the national edition."

  "I'm sorry, did Ted Allen put you on the payroll without telling me?" Paulina asked. She took a bite of her bagel, washed it down with pineapple juice. That combination couldn't taste good.

  "I have a once-in-a-lifetime lead. But Wallace won't let me run with it. He said it'd stir up a ton of controversy and he doesn't need more of that from me right now. He wants me to lay low."

  Paulina's eyes lit up at the word controversy.

  "So why come to me?" she said. "Why not take it to a magazine?"

  "It needs to run as soon as possible. There's a maniac out there and I think this could smoke him out. And if Wallace is too scared to run it, it's my duty to make sure it runs somewhere. I'm a journalist. My duty is to the truth first, my paycheck second."

  "It has to do with this Billy the Kid angle," Paulina said.

  "That's right."

  "Do tell."

  "Does the name Mark Rheingold ring a bell?"

  She thought for a moment, tapping her nails against the tabletop. "Religious guy, right? Had some big church down

  South."

  "Close enough. Do a little digging and you'll find out just how big this guy was."

  "So what's your point?"

  I told Paulina what I'd discovered. Every word of it. I told her how the Roberts family had died in that fire, along with

  Pastor Rheingold. I told her how William Henry Roberts's body was never found, and the county covered it up. How

  Roberts had been presumed dead for four years, and was continuing the bloody legacy of his ancestor, Billy the Kid.

  Paulina listened transfixed. Yet there was fear in her eyes.

  She knew I'd done enough digging so that this wasn't some half-baked concoction. She could tell from my eyes that the closest thing to a real demon this city had ever seen was currently walking the streets, had killed David Loverne and three others and tried to kill Mya. I told her all of it.

  "I still don't understand," she said, her voice much softer, the confidence gone. "Mark Rheingold, why was he at that house? If William Roberts really did…" she paused before she said it "…kill his whole family, why kill Rheingold, too?"

  I told her about the rumors of Rheingold's affairs with his congregants. I told her about the photo I'd unearthed.

  "I think Rheingold was having an affair with Meryl

  Roberts, William's mother. I think William's father knew about it. That's why Roberts killed Rheingold. He was killi
ng the man who brought disgrace to his family, Billy's family."

  "Jesus," Paulina said. She looked like she'd aged ten years in the last ten minutes. "And you want me to print this?"

  I reached under the table and unzipped my knapsack. I handed her dozens of pages of documents. Copies of all the research I'd done, the photos I'd unearthed. Everything proving Brushy Bill Roberts was Billy the Kid, and that

  William considered himself heir to the throne.

  "Between William and Billy they've killed almost thirty people." I looked at Paulina, her face grave. "You got into this business for the same reason I did. At least at first. You wanted to tell the truth. You wanted to find the stories that matter.

  Well, here's one that will rewrite history, and with any luck save some lives. I don't want a byline or any credit. You can take that. But it needs to run tomorrow. And if anything I said gets on the record in my voice, I swear to God I will make you pay for the rest of your life. I've lost my girlfriend. I've lost Mya. There's nothing more dangerous than someone with nothing to lose. Right now all I have is my integrity. You take that, I will make your life a living hell. I will sue you and

  Ted Allen and the Dispatch for printing that shit about Mya and me. I will lie through my teeth and tell people I fucked you and then dumped your ass and that's why you're so spiteful."

  "What happened to the truth?" Paulina said sarcastically.

  "Just this once, I'll not only stoop to your level, I'll wave hello from six levels lower."

  "I'll run it," she said, knowing I was serious. She tucked the file into her purse. It barely fit. I knew she'd take good care of it. "But if it's going to run I need to leave. I have a story to write."

  I gave her a military salute.

  "I'll pick up the check."

  "Next time it's on me," Paulina said. She stood up, threw on her coat and purse.

  I laughed, shook my head. "If I ever have a meal with you again, expect a healthy dose of arsenic in your pineapple juice. So you'd better hope there's no check to get."

  "I like this side of you, Henry," she said. "You act all nice, like you're the cub reporter who can do no wrong, but you've got some ice in those veins. Keep 'em cold, tiger."

  And she left.

  I sat there sipping my coffee, having made either a brilliant calculation or a horrible mistake. I was pretty sure it was the former. I'd find out tomorrow.

  52

  Nobody really noticed him as he walked by. His suit was tailored and his shirt was neatly tucked in. His bright red tie practically screamed POWER! from the rooftops. His shoes were shined, hair combed back and soaked with gel. He looked like any one of a million investment bankers or traders on their way to becoming the twenty-first century master of the universe. He was one in a million.

  A few did glance at the guitar strapped over his back, assumed after leaving the office he would play a gig at some dank bar with his other gel compadres, where drunken patrons would worship him for exactly forty-five minutes before going home to either puke or screw some desperate groupie.

  The truth was, the guitar case was made out of a lightweight carbon, the whole thing weighing less than five pounds. The Winchester rifle housed inside made the whole contraption weigh just over ten. It was easy to run with, narrow enough to fit through subway doors and turnstiles, scamper down fire escapes and disappear into the city crowds.

  And since he always dressed as either a young, rich broker or some near-homeless schlub looking for that one gig that would get him discovered, as far as New York was concerned

  he was faceless. Voiceless. Like a million more of his generation looked upon by their elders as those who sucked the life from the system and gave nothing back.

  Unlike those faceless assholes, he would be remembered.

  Like his great-grandfather was. Twenty-one when Billy allegedly died, yet that was enough time to carve a legacy that would live for generations.

  William's legacy would be a new chapter. The Winchester was more than an heirloom, it was an artery through which their bloodline flowed.

  When he woke up this morning, though, William knew there was a chance he might never use his beloved gun again.

  It had served him better than any weapon he could imagine, but the gun was old, not meant to be fired so many times in such a short span. At least in a museum it wasn't exposed to the elements. But legends weren't meant to be kept on display.

  One more shot. One more kill.

  William was sure that Amanda Davies's death would deal

  Henry Parker that one grievous blow that would finally push him over the edge.

  William had paid his last night at the hotel, and the nearly blind old man who ran the place said he was sorry to see him go. William couldn't help but laugh, wondered if he should correct the man. Sorry to hear you go.

  Yesterday's newspapers had been the most heartening yet. One editorial admitted that William had become some sort of folk hero, that each of his victims had some penance to pay and the devil had come to collect. Just like his greatgrandfather had.

  The gun was a means to an end. And once Henry Parker felt what he felt, experienced the same loss he had, knew what it was like to cut the disease away, the fuse would be lit. Henry

  would mythologize William Roberts, and the legend would be made. Billy the Kid wasn't made a legend until Pat Garrett created the myth. Like Garrett, Henry Parker had the power of the written word. The power to create a legend.

  It was fate that William chose to use Henry's quote when he killed Athena. And so a hundred and thirty years after his great-grandfather changed this country, so would William.

  Yet as he walked down the street, William felt a cold stir in the pit of his stomach. Every so often, another stranger would glance his way. Eyes scanning his face, like they had recognized him from somewhere. Like they knew him somehow.

  A twinge of panic began to rise in William's gut. He walked faster. Began to sweat. He didn't like this. Didn't like people looking at him. So far he had survived by blending in, looking like every other young punk in this city that people were happy to dismiss. But now there was recognition, and from random people on the goddamn street.

  William passed a small bodega. He thought about stopping for a pack of gum, just to calm his nerves. He went over.

  Debated getting a pack of cigarettes, too. People avoided smokers. He tried to remember how much money was in his wallet. Then he looked at the newspapers.

  They were neatly arranged under triangular metal paperweights. The headline of the New York Gazette read The Face

  Of Sorrow. It ran beside a picture of Cindy Loverne crying at her husband's funeral. A picture alongside it showed Mya

  Loverne, taken the day before he'd thrown her from the roof.

  She was smiling in the pic. The caption read Injured Daughter

  Hanging On.

  William smiled. Looked like the girl could make it. Wasn't that from Rocky?

  If she lives, she lives. If she dies…

  Then the smile faded. The pit in his stomach opened up, and he felt a wave of nausea overcome him. Then the nausea turned to anger, the anger turned to hate, and he ripped the paper from the kiosk.

  It was the New York Dispatch. The page one headline read:

  The Face Of Evil?

  There was a photo on the front page. He recognized it. He hadn't seen the photo in years, but knew exactly when it was taken. Clearly visible in the photo were three men and a woman.

  One of the men was his father.

  The other man was Pastor Mark Rheingold.

  The woman was his mother, Meryl, and she was reaching for the pastor, preparing for a deep embrace. William's father looked on in joyous approval.

  And in the background William recognized himself, just four years ago, staring at his mother and her lover as they mocked their family name.

  William H. Bonney would never have stood for that.

  And so neither would William Henry Roberts.


  Despite the newsprint, the tiny pixels, William saw the anger in his eyes. He remembered setting fire to the house, the fire that claimed the lives of his father, sister, mother and his mother's God-fearing lover.

  They were the same eyes he was showing to the world right now.

  Millions seeing his face in black and white.

  Millions recognizing him on the street.

  His heart beating faster than it had since the night he sent a bullet through Athena Paradis's head, William Henry

  Roberts turned and sprinted down the street.

  He couldn't waste any more time. He had to find her.

  It was only a matter of time before somebody recognized him and called the cops. Tried to end his crusade before he was ready.

  Amanda Davies had to die before that happened.

  53

  Louie Grasso picked up the phone. He gently placed the receiver to his ear and wondered if there was anywhere near this godforsaken building he could grab a shot of whiskey to throw in his coffee. If the rest of the day went the way his first half an hour did, he'd quit his job by noon. He'd been working the lines at the Dispatch for nearly seven years and had weathered complaints and grievances from all walks of life. Never, though, had he heard such anger due to a story. Goddamn Paulina Cole, at some point she was going to get them all killed.

  Louie took a breath, said, " New York Dispatch, how may

  I direct your call?"

  "You have two choices," said the man with the Southern twang on the other end. "You can either put this shithead Ted

  Allen on the phone or that sassy bitch Paulina Cole. Your choice, either one will do, but I'm not hanging up until one of those worthless dung heaps is on the line."

  Louie recited what his boss had told him to after the first barrage of calls came in.

  "Any complaints you have regarding Ms. Cole's article in today's edition should be addressed in the form of a typewritten letter or e-mail directed to the New York Gazette public relations department. Your concerns are duly noted. They will be responded to either individually or as a whole."