The Mark Read online

  A moment of silence. Mauser feared the connection had been lost, but then he heard a choking sound come through the line. He looked over at Denton, who seemed unmoved. Mauser settled back and listened.

  Henry said, “I just want you to know I don’t hold anything against you for the way you were when I was growing up.” Henry’s voice trembled, but it remained strong. “I’m not mad. In fact, I want to thank you for making me stronger.”

  “The hell’re you talking about boy? You sound crazy.”

  “You know, it’s funny how you remember things sometimes. I can remember almost every word you said to me—trust me, there weren’t many. How you always told me I wouldn’t amount to anything because nobody in our family ever did. How the night of my high school graduation you told me I’d be better off moving away because I’d only bring you and Mom misery.”

  “I never said that,” the elder Parker said, but his voice was unconvincing.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Henry continued. “Because I wanted to thank you. I was able to take all that negative shit you lumped on me and turn it into something good. I used you, Dad. I fucking used your hate as my fuel.”

  “What’s your goddamn point?” Parker senior rasped. “Did you call just to bitch and complain? I’m too tired to deal with that and I get enough already from your mother.”

  “No, that’s not why I called. I wanted to let you and Mom know that I’m in trouble. Serious trouble, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get out of it. People think I did something that I didn’t. Something terrible. But I don’t want your help, at least not in the way you’d think.”

  “So what do you want, Henry? I told you I ain’t giving you no money.”

  There was a pause. Mauser waited, fingernails grinding into his skin.

  “I want you to hate me,” Henry said softly. “I want to hear that poison from your mouth again. I want your hateful bones to say everything you’ve said over the years, because I’m tired, too, Dad, and I need something to keep me going. I need to know that it’ll be worth it to dig myself out of this hole. I want you to lay it on me, no holds barred, no punches pulled, because that’s all you’re worth to me now.”

  “You want me to say I hate you?” Henry’s father said. “Fine. I hate you. You ruined my life. I had to work my skin to dust to pay for our family. We’ve had to wait on you hand and foot since you were a damn baby and what have I gotten in return? Worries and misery, that’s all.”

  “Keep going,” Henry said softly.

  “I had to give up the life I wanted when you were born. You think that’s fun? I never had a say. You think when your mother was pregnant she said ‘Honey, are you sure you want a baby?’ No. She never said shit. Nine months later out you came, and nothing’s been the same since.”

  “More,” Henry said, his voice stronger now. Mauser felt the venom in the older man’s voice, reverberating through the speaker. Such hatred, almost unfathomable for one’s child, even one on his way to hell.

  “That’s all you’re getting, Henry. I’m tired and you’re keeping me awake. What else do you want?”

  “Nothing, Dad, that’s all I wanted.” Henry paused. “But in case you or Mom, or anyone else is interested, I’m in NewYork.”

  “New York, huh?”

  “Yeah, the big city. In fact, I’m inside a building right now, on 80th Street and East End. Big brown thing, looks abandoned. I’m on the third floor. They gutted the apartments so the space is open. I’m just sitting here. The view of the water is really stunning. I’m glad I came here, Dad, because this is something I would have never gotten the chance to see if I let my genetics decide my fate.”

  “Well, that’s just marvelous,” Henry’s father said, sarcasm dripping.

  “Yeah, it is. Anyway, there’s this thing everyone thinks I stole. Well, I didn’t steal it, but I did find it. I’m looking at it right now and I can understand why people want it. And if anyone wants it, they’d know where I am.”

  “Don’t hold your breath waiting for me.”

  “I won’t, Dad. I won’t.”

  Mauser heard a click and then a dial tone.

  “Jesus,” Denton said. “Kid just told us where he is.”

  Mauser scratched his chin.

  “Could be a trap,” Denton said. “Kid might be waiting with an AK or something. Shit, and he has the package of drugs he stole from the Guzmans.” Mauser looked at him. They both knew the improbability of Parker being armed. Denton patted down his pants, again quite vigorously.

  “They really driving you nuts, huh?” Mauser said.

  “You have no idea.”

  They took the FDR exit, threading past motorists doing the speed limit. It was after midnight and the streets of New York were still packed. Unbelievable.

  They got off at 96th Street, turned left and headed toward East End Avenue. Mauser could see what Parker was talking about; the river looked absolutely beautiful. Dark blue, the surface glittering like a million silver dollars were resting at the bottom. A cold fear ran through Mauser’s body, but he couldn’t quite place it. The hunt was almost over. John’s death so close to being avenged. Parker was waiting for them, the taste sour like metal in his mouth.

  “I don’t want the NYPD there until we’ve had our shot,” Mauser said. “I want a fifteen-minute lead time. Call Louis, tell them we need backup at 14:30. That’ll give us some time. I don’t want Parker in custody until we’ve seen him first.”

  “They’re not gonna want to wait, Joe. They want blood as bad as you do.”

  “Tell Carruthers he doesn’t have a fucking choice,” Mauser spat.

  “It’ll only do so much good,” Denton said. “They’ll come whether we tell them to or not. This is NYPD jurisdiction now. Louis is keeping us in the loop.”

  “So step on the goddamn gas and get us there faster.”

  “You got it, Joe.” Denton dialed in the order. He heard Louis’s voice, accommodating. Denton clicked the phone off.

  “We have fifteen minutes. They’ll have a small army ready at two-thirty, but not a moment sooner. Lou understood. Said if he were you he’d ask for fifteen minutes, too.”

  Minutes, Mauser thought, were unnecessary. One moment was all he needed.

  The car accelerated, the headlights blurring into one long illuminated strand. He looked at Denton, who smiled, spoke earnestly.

  “Hey, I want my shot, too, Joe.” He grinned. “Getting Parker could be my big break.”

  Mauser nodded as the car sped into the night, leaving only a cloud of exhaust in its wake.

  39

  A ngelo “Blanket” Pineiro admired the room, one of the few times in recent memory he’d had time to fully soak it in. He listened closely when their man made contact, but he soon found his mind wandering. He scanned the gorgeous oil portraits of Michael’s family that lined the cherry-red walls, the lineage dating back multiple generations. There was something romantic about them, and Blanket hoped one day he’d be remembered like that, having lived a life worthy of such a painting. Surely he was on his way.

  With its high windows, marble columns and authentic Persian rugs, Michael DiForio’s penthouse was truly a museum of modern art. Blanket watched the man himself, sitting in his Salerno leather chair, eyes staring up at the ceiling as if waiting for divine intervention. The voices over the phone were full of static, barely understandable. When the line went dead, Blanket waited for Michael’s response. He received only silence.

  “You hear all that, Mike?” Blanket could almost see the gears turning in Michael DiForio’s head. No doubt the police would be at the scene in mere minutes, forget the fact that the goddamn loose cannon Barnes was nowhere to be found. Blanket knew Barnes as well as a man could know a ghost. The killer was a thoroughbred, unstoppable, and a hugely valuable asset when his blinders were on. But somewhere along the line he’d run off the tracks. To Barnes, recovering the package now seemed incidental, and that was the problem.

  “Call the Ringer,”
DiForio finally said, rising up and striding around the ornate wooden balustrade. “I want to give that asshole one last chance.”

  Blanket could see the man’s knuckles were white from gripping the chair. He knew how badly Michael needed that package, how much time and money had been spent accumulating the treasures inside. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could set operations back years, maybe decades. Michael would lose his best—perhaps his only—chance to own this miserable city.

  Fucking Gustofson. Guy’d been on his last legs when DiForio bailed him out with that assignment. Then the junkie fuck went and blew it all in spectacular fashion. For whatever reason, the middleman—Luis Guzman—never received the album. Now John Fredrickson was dead and a shit storm the size of the tri-state area looked ready to rain down at any moment.

  “Boss, you want me to take some guys down to that building, try to find Parker?”

  Michael shook his head, his eyes still closed. “By the time you get there, the building’ll be swarming with cops and Feds. If we just send Barnes, at least there’s a chance for him to slip in and slip out. Your crew? Like a bunch of retarded children trying to work a bulldozer.”

  Blanket held his hands out, pleading.

  “Mike, I don’t think Barnes still has his heart committed to, you know, the cause. I think he wants Parker dead, and I don’t think our package is on his list of priorities anymore.”

  DiForio ran a hand through his hair. Blanket considered Michael’s thoughtfulness a source of pride for the whole organization. To have an impetuous leader was to have a leader without a plan, without a vision, and any organization led by that example was doomed to failure. And Michael, he always had a plan. This situation, though, couldn’t have been foreseen.

  The plan should have been foolproof. The Guzmans had never missed a drop. Hans Gustofson was a rung away from the bottom and malleable. John Fredrickson was as loyal an employee as they got. Parker was the wild card they never could have anticipated. And in good wild-card fashion, he’d fucked everything up. A precision watch smashed into tiny bits by an invisible hammer.

  Michael’s eyes suddenly locked on Blanket.

  “Send four men to that building on East 80th. I want them to do everything possible to get to Parker before the cops do. And tell them to keep an eye out for Barnes. No telling what that man’s capable of.”

  “You got it, Mike.” Blanket turned to leave.

  “Wait, Angelo.”

  Blanket spun around. “Yeah, Boss?”

  “Make sure the four you send are expendable.”

  40

  T he Crown Victoria pulled up to the corner of 80th and East End at 2:13 here were no spots, so Denton parked next to a hydrant. The streets were deathly quiet. They had seventeen minutes before the NYPD would bust everything open. The clock was ticking.

  At first Mauser wondered if they’d be able to spot the building Parker was referring to, but it was obvious as soon as he stepped out of the car. A cavity in a mouthful of pearly whites, the tenement didn’t belong here. Like Parker himself.

  The only entrance was through a wrought-iron gate, swung open just enough for one body to fit through at a time. Deep rivets had been dug into the ground. Clearly few people ever entered—or left—the building.

  Even in the faint light of the moon, Mauser could see the dark stains on the brick, the utter hopelessness of the building’s facade. Joe slipped his hand down to his holster, unbuckling his Glock. The metal felt cool, inviting, as though it had lain dormant for too long. He heard another snap, saw Denton’s hand move from his hip. Finally they were about to confront Henry Parker, and both of their safeties were off.

  Mauser entered first. He moved slowly, inching across the cement, listening for any movement. The gate led to a small portico. Crouching by the stone steps, Mauser pointed at the door, nodded to Denton. Leonard raised his pistol for cover as Mauser approached.

  Joe tried to breathe steadily, evenly, his heart like a hummingbird’s wings. When he reached the top step, Mauser looked back at Denton, then quickly peeked through a dirt-streaked window. He saw a tiny flicker of light at the top of a stairwell, but no sign of life.

  Gently Mauser turned the doorknob, the wind whistling past his head. He met no resistance, and entered the darkened foyer. The air inside smelled stale. Joe slunk along the wall, his Glock raised, his pulse racing. Denton joined alongside him and they cautiously made their way to the stairwell.

  The steps were worn, caked with dried mud and dirt. Crouching down, Mauser crept up the steps. Parker had said he was on the third floor, but that could have been a ruse. The kid could jump out at any moment, catch them by surprise. Mauser seriously doubted the kid was armed with anything more dangerous than a knife or a loose pipe. In the back of his mind, Mauser hoped he’d have the balls to fight.

  The second-floor landing was dark. Light burst from the floor above, trickling down the staircase. Mauser cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but he didn’t have time to second-guess.

  As he took the first step up, something soft brushed by his face. Stumbling back, he felt it again.

  “The fuck!” Joe cried, tripping backward over Denton’s foot. A cluster of pigeons burst from the shadows, flying around the stairwell, beating their wings madly, feathers flying in the soft light. Mauser threw up his hand, tried to swat at them. “Goddamn it, get away!”

  Denton joined in, both of them flailing about until there was silence. Joe wiped the sweat from his brow, looked at Denton, the man’s hair disheveled.

  “So much for getting the drop,” he whispered.

  They approached the third-floor landing. Globs of white littered the steps. They looked fresh. Bird shit. Wonderful. When he reached the third floor, Mauser swung his gun toward the light.

  The room before them was empty. The only light came from a single bulb whose pull string had been yanked off. There was no sign of Parker.

  Joe edged forward, forearms tensed, gun steady. The he saw it. In the center of the room, directly beneath the bulb, lay a photograph.

  Mauser knelt down and picked it up. Suddenly his knees went slack, then he felt a hollowness in his stomach. His gun hand dropped. Joe recognized the man in the picture.

  It was John Fredrickson.

  His brother-in-law. Husband to his sister. In the photo Fredrickson held an envelope lined with cash. Handing him the envelope was a man Mauser recognized immediately.

  Angelo Pineiro. “Blanket” Pineiro.

  Joe stumbled back, the photo falling from his hand. Denton stepped forward, picked up the picture.

  “Jesus,” he said flatly. “Is it real?”

  “I think so,” Mauser said. Then he noticed a small black arrow on the bottom of the photo, pointing downward. Mauser flipped the picture over and saw two words scrawled on the back.

  Fifth floor.

  Mauser gripped the photo, felt it crinkle in his hand. Adrenaline pumped through him. John was on the take. Was it possible? And where the fuck did Parker get the picture? Anger boiled inside him, but now Mauser couldn’t focus it.

  He bolted up the stairs, the birds on the stairwell below scared into a tizzy. Denton trailed behind him, but Joe Mauser could hear nothing, just the drumming in his head.

  John…why?

  When he reached the fifth floor, Mauser found the door was wide open. Parker was waiting for him. The moon cast a ghastly white gleam across the floor. Shadows danced in the corners. He squinted, thought he saw something move.

  “Parker!” he yelled, gun erect, outstretched.

  Denton strode up beside him, their heavy breathing merging into one. The room was quiet. The birds had stopped flying. Mauser stepped forward, the room blanketed in soft, impenetrable darkness.

  “I have more.”

  Mauser froze. The voice came from the corner of the room, by the window. All Joe could see was blackness. Raising his gun to chest level, Mauser stepped forward.

  “If anything happens to me, the negatives
go right to the press. Lower the gun. Then we can talk.”

  “Joe,” Denton whispered. “He could be armed. Let’s just do him now before the cavalry arrives.”

  Parker seemed to hear this, but his body didn’t respond. It was tense, rigid.

  “There are more photos,” Parker said. “A lot more. They’re being guarded by a friend. If anything happens to me you’ll see them in the morning papers. All I’m asking is for you to lower the gun.”

  John’s face in that photo. The money…

  Without thinking, Mauser lowered his gun. He placed his hand on Denton’s wrist, forcing his gun down.

  Out of the shadows stepped Henry Parker. He looked like a man who’d just run an entire marathon at full speed, his arms sinewy, shirt stained with dried sweat, hair unkempt. He could see blood seeping through Henry’s left pant leg from where he’d been shot. The young man breathed deeply. Joe could see dark rings under his eyes. Henry Parker looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and had been running from the devil the entire time. Which was probably the truth.

  “You killed John,” Mauser said, stepping closer. Parker didn’t budge. “You killed a part of my family. You left a wife without a husband and two children without a father. You deserve to go straight to hell.” Mauser felt the blood harden in his veins, and slowly he raised the gun, aiming right at Henry Parker’s heart.

  “John Fredrickson is dead,” Parker said. “But not because of me.”

  “Fuck this shit,” Denton said, stepping forward, his gun raised, as well. “He killed John. Look at his eyes, he knows he did. If anyone deserves to die, Joe…”

  Mauser looked into Parker’s eyes, the first time he’d seen them up close since St. Louis. Since Shelton Barnes.

  That photo…

  And somewhere, deep inside Henry Parker’s eyes, Joe Mauser saw the one thing he never thought he’d see.

  Truth.

  “Tell me what happened,” Joe said. “And don’t leave a thing out. And if I think you’re lying to me, I won’t think twice about shooting you in the face.”