The Guilty Page 4

  “Why ballistics?” Wallace asked.

  “Athena was killed by a high-powered rifle shot from a rooftop three blocks away, and the killer left a message he wanted to be found. This is as premeditated as it gets, and was executed with careful consideration. No doubt the murder weapon will fit into that. Then we can run a check on the gun, find the store he bought it at, go from there.”

  “Jack?” Wallace said. Jack scratched his beard. It looked a little darker than it had the last few days, the brown a little more, er, not gray. With our coverage of the Paradis murder, we were going to sell a lot of papers. Jack wanted to look his best in case there were any photo ops or interviews. And who was I to question the omnipotence of Just For Men?

  There was a beep alerting Wallace to an incoming e-mail. He clicked the mouse, eyes narrowing as he read.

  “Mayor Perez called a news conference for noon today. Costas Paradis will be in attendance.”

  I looked at Jack, who was staring at the screen, thinking. The fire was just starting to burn, and I felt it, too.

  “I want you both there,” Wallace said. “And I don’t care what you do or how you do it, get something different to run with tomorrow. I need angles here that won’t be covered by the other papers.”

  “Angle is my middle name,” Jack said.

  “Yesterday you told me it was Glenfiddich,” replied Wallace.

  “Mine is Shane,” I said proudly. They both looked at me. I wasn’t proud anymore. “I mean it’s Angle, too.”

  Jack shook his head. “Wine cooler. That’s your middle name. Get a good story and I’ll promote you to Zima.”

  “And Henry,” Wallace said, “if anyone asks about the quote the killer used, you have your ‘no comments’ at the ready. Am I correct in assuming you’re not hiding anything? That you have no reason to think this is anything but an awful coincidence?”

  “I swear I have no idea,” I said honestly. “Trust me, after last year I’d just as soon stay out of the spotlight as much as possible.”

  “Then let’s keep it that way. We have to assume the suspect used it simply because the quote was relevant, or that he has some serious bats flying around in his belfry.”

  “That might work better than a ‘no comment,’” Jack said.

  “Now get a move on,” Wallace continued. “I have no doubt there’ll be some fireworks at this conference. You won’t want to watch from the back row.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Paulina Cole sat at her desk, holding a warm cup in her hands. She took a sip. Coffee and Xanax. Better than toast and a runny omelet. She’d squeezed Dr. Shepberg’s name into an article naming the best psychiatrists in NYC and ever since then the prescriptions arrived in her mailbox once a month.

  Behind Paulina’s desk were half a dozen picture frames containing front pages pulled from the New York Dispatch. Stories she’d broken, papers so hot they’d sold out their print runs and been dissected on blogs around the world. Since she’d joined the Dispatch, the paper’s circulation had grown 1.5 percent, a number many tried to attribute to a new marketing campaign, but those in the know knew it was solely because of her. Ted Allen, the Dispatch’s publisher, had said as much during the last shareholders meeting, and promptly given her a ten percent raise. He said Paulina Cole represented the bold new direction the Dispatch would be taking into the twenty-first century, that despite all the perils facing the print industry, technology simply couldn’t compete with an old-fashioned nose for news. According to Allen, the Dispatch was tired of being the number two newspaper in New York. And come hell or high water (possibly both) they would eventually best their number one enemy. Even if it meant simply hiring away their top reporters.

  That’s how he phrased it. Their enemy. This wasn’t business, this was war. The longer you stayed satisfied being number two the more likely you’d fall out of the race completely. Nobody remembered the guy who lost the election, the ex before meeting your soul mate. The second-best were forgotten, pulped. If you weren’t willing to kill to grab the lead, you deserved to get trampled.

  That was Paulina’s job; to do the trampling, to sell newspapers.

  And for all the battles waged between the two newspapers, the coverage of Athena Paradis’s murder could be the Dispatch’s Gettysburg. Athena was the most recognizable woman in the world, more than the president’s wife, more than Princess Diana (hell, most of Athena’s fans were too young to have even heard of Lady Di), even more than that lucky gal who scribbled the words Harry Potter on a notepad.

  The battles lines had been drawn. More newspapers were going to be moved during the Paradis investigation than any event save a terrorist attack. Of course Paulina could argue that more people had seen Athena’s reality show than had voted in the last election, so by sheer volume alone this was the biggest news story of the decade. Besides, the Lindbergh baby had never posed on the cover of her self-titled album wearing stockings and wrapped in a fire hose.

  Until three o’clock this morning, Paulina had been digging into the personal life of David Loverne, congressional candidate, philanthropist, father of Henry Parker’s ex-girlfriend Mya, and alleged keeper of somewhere in the vicinity of four mistresses. It was a cover story in the making. David was beloved. Tall, handsome, the kind of man other men looked up to and women wanted to look down upon. She was going to blow the whole thing wide open, expose the creep for who he really was. His fans and supporters would be demoralized. His detractors (yes, there were some) would eat it for breakfast. And every one of them would fork over their fifty cents to read it.

  Over the past week, Paulina had interviewed two women who claimed to have slept with Loverne, both within the past year. One dalliance occurred in a limousine after a stump speech, the other in an airplane flying to Dubai. Taking Loverne down would sell papers. Getting in another dig at someone close to Henry Parker was just icing on the cake.

  There was a knock on her door.

  “Come in,” she said. In walked Terrence Bynes, the Dispatch’s Metro editor. Paulina’s direct boss. The fact that he would lick between the subway railings if Paulina asked him to was implicit in their relationship.

  Bynes was wearing suit pants with cuffs an inch too long, and a blue work shirt that looked like it had been fermented with starch. His eyeglasses were too big, not to mention unnecessary, considering Paulina knew his last eye exam produced 20/19 vision. And she’d be willing to bet there was a rolled sock (or two) down his trousers as well.

  “I assume you read the Gazette this morning,” Bynes said.

  “Fucking online edition,” Paulina said, taking another sip, feeling that delicious warm tingle. “Read only by cheapos and kids without the attention span to click the ‘Next Page’ button. Their print edition didn’t have anything we didn’t, that’s all we should be concerned about.”

  “Tell that to Ted Allen,” Bynes continued. “The man is pissed. He thinks we got scooped, and he’s looking to point the finger.”

  “We did get scooped,” Paulina said. “But that’s like saying we got stabbed by a toothpick at the start of a knife fight. What Henry Parker wrote this morning won’t be a blip on the radar tomorrow after Perez’s press conference. So tell him if that finger goes anywhere near me I’m cutting it off.”

  Bynes smirked. “Why don’t you tell him that?”

  “Well, it’s your job, but I’d be happy to. I’ll e-mail him right now.” She pulled out her keyboard and began typing. Bynes placed his hand over the keys.

  “That was a hypothetical question,” he said.

  She stopped typing. “Don’t ever ask me a hypothetical question again, or I’ll hypothetically strangle you with your shoelace. I call every bluff I see. Remember that.”

  Bynes swallowed, flicked his eyes down to his wingtips. “So what do I tell Ted Allen? He’s pissed this Parker kid got to the cops before we could.”

  Paulina leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes. This Parker kid. This Parker kid.

  Her eyelid
s flew open.

  “This Parker kid is a good reporter. Give me pages four through seven tomorrow for coverage of the murder.”

  “That’s a lot of copy. Are you sure you’ll have enough to fill that space?”

  “Don’t ask me that again. I could give a rat’s ass what you do with pages eight, nine and sixty-nine. Oh, and get Tamara Finnerman to do a write-up of David Loverne’s speech at the Alzheimer’s event last night. When my story runs, I don’t want people thinking we’ve had it in for him. Tell her to use prose so syrupy and purple I’ll be able to see the Crayola logo. Tell Allen that between these two stories, the Gazette will be limping within weeks.”

  Bynes laughed, then wiped a loose dribble of saliva from his mouth.

  “I’m not going to tell him that. What, you think covering a story we’ve already been scooped on will suddenly have Wallace Langston quaking in his Doc Martens?”

  Paulina smiled at him, crossed her legs.

  “Every war begins with an opening volley. Parker’s scoop this morning was the Gazette’s opening volley. I’m not simply returning fire, I’m coming back with a Howitzer up their ass. You know my ex-husband was a state prosecutor. One thing I learned from him, other than that men are as useful as dirty bathwater, is that nobody remembers how you won, they remember if you won. We simply take what Parker has, know what he’s going to know, and make it our own. Henry’s a great reporter, but after last year he’s nervous, twitchy, and doesn’t want to rattle the cage any more than he already has. I have someone who’ll shadow him closer than his beard stubble, and I’ll be waiting to lay down the copy.”

  Bynes smiled. “I thought you said Finnerman was the one who wrote purple prose.”

  “Trust me,” Paulina said. “It’ll look better on paper.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I was walking toward city hall alongside Jack O’Donnell, nearly having to sprint to keep up. And his legs had an extra thirty years of mileage. I dialed Amanda, figured I’d say hi before radio silence. She picked up on the second ring. “Hey, hon, can’t talk for long, just wanted to say hi. I’m heading to the press conference with Jack. Think I can smell the mayor’s cologne a mile away,” I said into the cell phone.

  “Hey, babe. No problem,” she said. “I’m about to go into the library and I think they’ve starting arming the cell phone police with automatic weapons.”

  “Good thing you finally learned how to use the vibrate button.” Jack elbowed me. Amanda, I mouthed. He raised his eyebrows. Girlfriend. He opened his mouth to say ah. Then he ran his thumb across his throat. Cut it off. “Anyway, I’d better turn this off. Jack is giving me dirty looks. I’ll call you as soon as this circus is over.”

  “Is it a three-ring circus, or does Athena Paradis warrant four?”

  “You know, I think they might green-light the ever-elusive five-star circus. Just for Athena.”

  “The news ran video of Costas Paradis getting off his private jet this morning. I’ve never much sympathized with billionaires, but you have to feel for the guy.”

  I said nothing. Didn’t have to.

  “Give Jack my best. Knock the story out of the park, Henry.”

  “Will do,” I said. “Stay quiet.” I hung up. Jack was holding back a thin smile. “What?”

  He allowed a small chuckle. “Like two sweet jaybirds, you two,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind my taking amusement in the love rituals of the young and naive.”

  I eyed Jack’s hand, barren of any rings or jewelry other than a swank Omega wristwatch. I knew he’d worn a ring, years ago. He never showed any desire to discuss it.

  I took my press pass out of my pocket and looped the lanyard over my head. Jack did the same. We rounded the corner and immediately became two small fish in the biggest school I’d ever seen. There must have been five hundred members of the press corps standing outside of city hall. Dozens of cameras, many of them live, along with Brylcreemed reporters and onlookers peeking out of open office windows for blocks in every direction. Millions of people would be watching this conference, whether live or on the evening news. Which made our jobs near impossible. How do you find a shadowy corner when there are hundreds and thousands of eyes scanning every inch?

  We ducked under a rope and tried to push our way to the front.

  “Easier to dig to China,” Jack said. “Screw this. I don’t need to be close to hear Perez.”

  “He’ll have the text up on his MySpace page within an hour anyway.”

  “Perez has a MySpace page?”

  “Facebook, too. Wants to hit the young voters.”

  “Do young voters like him?” Jack asked.

  “I wouldn’t vote for him,” I replied. “A little too much self-promotion for my tastes.”

  Jack pulled a pair of folding binoculars out of his pocket. He stared through them, peered along the dais and around the surrounding area. When he was done he passed them to me.

  I took in the scene. The marble steps leading to city hall were polished a gleaming white. The podium was empty, waiting for Mayor Perez and, I assumed, Costas Paradis. Three uniformed police officers stood on either side of the podium. They stood straight, arms at their sides, guns visible. I swung the binoculars from right to left. When I saw who was standing directly to the left of the podium, I nearly dropped the binoculars.

  “I saw him, too,” Jack said. “He’s not here for you. Be a professional.”

  “Professional,” I said, my mouth dry. “Right.”

  Standing to the left of the podium was Detective Lieutenant Joseph Mauser. One year ago, Detective Joe Mauser had chased me halfway across the country, shot me in the leg, and barely escaped with his life after taking three bullets in the chest.

  I had followed Mauser’s recovery over the months. Visited his guarded hospital room and was turned away by the very cops who’d wanted me dead before they found out the truth. After two months in the hospital—fully recovered, minus one spleen, two ribs and twenty pounds—Joe Mauser transferred from the FBI to the NYPD. He attributed the transfer as a tribute to his fallen brother-in-law and in-arms, John Fredrickson. The man whose death I was responsible for, indirectly or not. Mauser wanted to be closer to his sister, Linda, John’s widow. In various interviews, Mauser insinuated that he held no ill will toward me. That given the circumstances he would have defended his life and honor, as well. But a wound is a wound, no matter how it’s caused, and the simple fact was his brother-in-law would still be alive if not for me.

  Mauser had sold the book and film rights to his story for a reputed seven figures. He said the money wasn’t for him, but would feed his sister’s family, educate her fatherless children. If not for Mauser, my life wouldn’t have been saved by a beautiful stranger. The same woman who now shares my bed. I guess we could call it even.

  Mauser looked good, healthy and even a little tan. He looked like the kind of man who was proud to serve his city. And I was glad to finally be on his side.

  I could barely hear over the noise as reporters chirped into cell phones, cameras ran their feeds. Suddenly a hush came over the crowd and I saw Mayor Dennis Perez stride to the podium through the massive columns bracketing city hall. Walking alongside Mayor Perez was Costas Paradis. The normally confident man looked pale, tired. But looking through the binoculars, I could see the anger that burned for his murdered daughter.

  The mayor wore a striped gray suit and walked with a purpose. His mustache was neatly trimmed as always, but his eyes were bloodshot. He probably hadn’t slept since Athena died. And Costas wasn’t the kind of man to mourn. He was the kind of man whose grief turned to anger, whose anger turned to rage, and whose rage could scorch the earth. I just stood and hoped they found the killer before more families experienced that grief.

  The crowd grew quiet. Though the majority in attendance were paid to speak, discuss and bloviate as loud as humanly possible, they also knew that if they missed a single word they could miss a scoop, fall behind, give people a reason to pick up a paper or
watch a newscast other than theirs.

  I thought about Wallace’s sign by the elevators. Then I looked at the sea of microphones and suits. Just like a marathon, a giant mass beginning as one. But that wouldn’t last. The good ones would break away.

  Mayor Perez stepped to the podium. Costas Paradis stood next to Perez, and I could sense the mayor’s discomfort, like a child forced to admit wrongdoing in front of an angry parent.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His eyes traveled from right to left. Making sure he made eye contact with every camera he could. Give each station their half second of exclusive content. “At approximately one thirty-seven this morning, Athena Paradis was shot and killed as she was leaving a nightclub. This is a shocking and heinous crime, perpetrated by an individual whose depravity knows no bounds. At this very moment we have unleashed the very best men and women upon the crime scene to establish just who is responsible for Ms. Paradis’s death, as well as their motives in doing so. No stone will remain unturned, not a second will go by where Ms. Paradis’s murderer will have a chance to breathe.”

  Jack was scribbling in a notepad. I was watching their eyes. Mayor Perez. Costas Paradis. Joe Mauser. There was worry in them. Right then I knew they had nothing.

  The mayor continued.

  “The true test of a city is challenge. The test of a family is grief. In this investigation, we will grieve for the memory of Athena Paradis, but rise to the challenge of bringing her killer to justice.”

  “Second book,” Jack said, pen hanging from his mouth.

  “What?”

  “That line. From Perez’s second book. Just made himself another ten K in royalties right there.”

  I shook my head as Perez continued. “What we do know at this time is that the shooter is most likely a lone assailant, the murder weapon a high-powered rifle which was discharged from the roof of a building several blocks away from the club where Ms. Paradis was performing that evening. We have taken casts of footprints discovered at that rooftop, and are matching them with known offenders as we speak.”