The Guilty Read online

  “What is it?” she said.

  I looked at her, embarrassed. “Just hard to see these things happen. You know, and not be affected at all.”

  “That cop who was killed?” she said. “Mauser.”

  “Yeah. You know he was the one who last year…he almost killed me.”

  “I know,” Amanda said softly. “He came to my house. Pointed a gun at you.”

  “Thing is, I never blamed him,” I said. “If I’d been in that kind of situation, thought someone had murdered my family, I would have gone just as far as he did.”

  “Henry…”

  “He was a good cop,” I said, anger rising. “He didn’t deserve to go down like some animal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whoever shot him, they’re some sick bastard.”

  I took out my cell phone. Dialed Curt Sheffield’s number.

  “Sheffield,” he said.

  “Curt, it’s Henry Parker.”

  “Hey, man. Guess this doesn’t mean you’re hiding under a rock.”

  “I don’t think I’d fit under a rock right now. Listen, we need to meet up. I talked to the medical examiner today, I think we can help each other.”

  “Name the time and place. But hey, Henry, be careful. Word’s gotten around our friend Paulina Cole’s been digging a little bit, asking questions about Mya Loverne, about your relationship. Don’t know if she’s going after you, but nothing she touches stays clean, know what I’m saying.”

  I cursed under my breath.

  “Screw her,” I said.

  “I would if my lady wouldn’t wear my balls for earrings. Cole’s not a bad-looking older woman. Wonders of Botox, I guess.”

  “Yeah, right. I need to know if you’ve heard anything about the ballistics analysis. Two deaths from what looks like sniper attacks, I’m willing to bet my bonus the same ammo and gun was used in both Mauser and Athena Paradis’s murders.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Henry, you know I can’t just give out information Mayor Perez hasn’t declared open for public consumption.”

  “Come on, Curt, you know the Dispatch is probably writing checks right now to cops and anyone else who can answer that question. Do you really want Paulina Cole and her BS responsible for the first impression of millions?”

  “Watch your damn mouth,” Curt said. “Those are my boys you’re dissing.”

  “I’m sorry, man, but you know I wouldn’t say it just to make conversation.”

  “No,” he said reluctantly. “Listen, I got foot patrol duty tomorrow in Midtown. Carruthers wants my ass as public as possible. Guess they figure enough stuffy suits see me they might encourage their kids to sign up for the academy. Anyway, meet me on Fifty-second and Fifth tomorrow at five when my shift ends. Something else you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They found another note. Same as before, taped to the roof where the sicko took his shot from at city hall.”

  “Jesus Christ, what’d it say?”

  “Not over the phone, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there. And Curt, I appreciate it. Really. We need to grab a drink soon. No business.”

  “Sure, Jimmy Breslin, no business my ass.”

  “I’m serious, none.”

  “In that case, I hear a bottle of Stoli Raspberry calling my name,” he said. “And bring your corporate card, of course. You know, in case I get the munchies.”

  Sheffield hung up.

  I looked over at Amanda. The book was on her lap. I knew she heard the whole conversation.

  “He sounded good,” she said.

  “Always does.”

  “Are you worried about Paulina?”

  I thought for a moment. Paulina had done her absolute best to ruin my reputation last year. I knew she had it out for me, but still wasn’t sure if the vitriol was real or just a ploy to boost her career.

  “The same way you worry about gum disease or cancer,” I said. “You can brush your teeth and eat broccoli every day, but if it’s going to fuck up your life it’s going to fuck up your life.”

  “I don’t want anyone to do that,” she said.

  “Hey,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. She returned the gesture. “Whatever anyone does to me, you counteract it. You’re my counterbalance, babe.”

  I kissed her, but knew her mind was elsewhere.

  CHAPTER 12

  Amanda tucked her hands into her peacoat as she walked down the street. Henry had ordered a half mushroom pie from the pizza joint down the block (the one they probably kept in business). She’d told him she would pick up the pizza while she stepped out to grab some female products. Beautiful thing, those female products, as they could preempt any further questions.

  The night was still cool, the remnants of spring still hanging on. Soon summer would come, and New York summers could be brutal. Damn Al Gore, guy was right all along. Maybe he really did create the Internet, too.

  She thought about Henry, their relationship. It was still a relatively new thing, still exciting, but neither of them really knew what lay around the corner. They’d been dating steady for nearly a year, though for the life of her she couldn’t remember an official start date, other than the first day Henry introduced her as his girlfriend. It’d been a surprise but a pleasant one. After he was released from the hospital, everything just seemed to happen. Not that she had any problem with it—it felt good introducing him, holding his hand at night, saying the word boyfriend and knowing it meant more than some silly schoolgirl thing.

  For years, Amanda didn’t trust anybody. Not the nuns who ran the various orphanages she was shuttled between as a little girl, not the boys who claimed they liked her then split when the bra clasp remained fastened. Even Lawrence and Harriet Stein, the perfectly nice oatmeal couple who finally gave her a home, had a hard time earning any trust from their adopted daughter. And it still hadn’t fully come.

  She was amazed at the ease in which Henry settled into their relationship. She moved in with him just months after they met and he adapted like a dried fish being put back in water. He was romantic, honest, sincere. Even about the hard things. Mya. His father. He asked questions about her job, her family. He made her feel like she mattered. For Henry, the process seemed purifying. For Amanda, the process was much more difficult.

  She’d shared beds with boyfriends, made dinner for special guys and on some lucky nights had it made for her. But she’d never shared a laundry hamper. She’d never gone to work only to come home and see the same person she’d gone to sleep with.

  It was a challenge, and some nights, all she wanted was space that their one-bedroom could not provide, all she wanted to do was scream, pull the notebooks from storage and wander the streets taking stock of everyone she came across.

  But then she’d look at Henry. Sitting at his desk, reading a book or a newspaper. Writing on a notepad. She’d read his bylines in the Gazette and feel her heart swell with pride. And she would look at her man and smile, and he would smile back, and then Henry would come over and kiss her on the cheek and go right back to work.

  Henry had been in a serious relationship. Mya. It was as serious as most college relationships went. It wasn’t hard, Amanda figured, to move from one relationship to another. The person changes, but the habits carry over. He’d shared a bed. Shared a hamper. Amanda supposed she could be thankful he wasn’t awkward. But part of her wished they were both experiencing the doubts and fears for the first time, together.

  Amanda’s sense of trust seemed to come organically. Funny, since the very first thing Henry ever did was lie to her. He lied about his name to save his life, posed as someone else. But only on the surface. She could tell, from the moment they met, what kind of person he was. Maybe it was years of keeping journals, sizing up people in a quick glance. Because one thing Amanda always had a keen eye for was kindness. And in Henry she found that.

  She knew the last year had eaten away at him. In between recovery from
his wounds, the subsequent media frenzy, and then his attempt to settle back into a tenuous routine. Over the last few days, the sanctity of that routine had been threatened. Two horrible murders, one a man who, just twelve months ago, wanted nothing more than to kill him. She knew the guilt he still felt over John Fredrickson’s death. Stroked his hair when he had nightmares. Even though Henry hadn’t pulled the trigger, a family had been torn apart. That wasn’t something you got over in a year.

  When she saw that Athena Paradis’s murderer had used a line written by Henry, again she feared that his work would endanger his life. Everything pointed to it being a terrible coincidence. Henry didn’t want to dwell on it, and except for a brief conversation that night it had been dropped. She couldn’t help but sit a little closer to him. Call him a few extra times a day. Just to make sure he was safe.

  And now this witch, Paulina Cole, threatening to reenter his life. So she decided to do what any good girlfriend would do. Only she’d get more enjoyment out of it than most.

  Amanda picked up a pay phone at the corner. She was twelve blocks away from their apartment. It would do.

  She dialed the operator. Asked to be transferred to the main desk at One Police Plaza. When an operator picked up, she asked to be transferred to the press secretary. It rang twice, and was answered by a man with a high-pitched voice and wonderful enunciation.

  “I’m calling in regards to the recent murders of Athena Paradis and Detective Joe Mauser,” Amanda said. “I’m a reporter, and I’d like to speak to Chief Louis Carruthers for a story I’m writing. It’s of the utmost importance, so I’d appreciate if you’d connect me right this instant.”

  “Ma’am, all official statements regarding the murders of Ms. Paradis and Detective Mauser have been released, and are available on our website. If you need further information, you are invited to submit your queries and I will get the appropriate responses for you as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t you ma’am me,” Amanda said, affecting her best and bitchiest tone. Damn, this was fun. “You tell whoever your pansy-ass supervisors are, those pussy-eating faggots and butt pirates, and that spic mayor of yours who panders to all the kikes in city hall, you tell them that this is Paulina Cole of the New York Dispatch and I’ll be damned if I let some queer tell me what I can and can’t have access to. Now connect me to Carruthers or I’ll send someone down there to snip your balls from your sack.”

  Amanda smiled at the click and dial tone. She checked her watch. The pizza would be ready in less than ten minutes.

  Screw it. She still had time to call the mayor’s office.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Boy looked at his rifle. Admired the straight grain walnut stock, well preserved and polished. This was a gun that had served well and been loved accordingly. Thank God he’d been able to free it from that glass prison, from all the idiot gawkers who never felt the power the gun accorded. With this gun, he was carrying on a legacy over a hundred years old, and every time he clicked the set trigger he felt the power of death over life.

  So far the gun had been exactly what he’d hoped. Accurate and powerful. He hated how stupid most people were when it came to these guns, ignorant folk who assumed that the rifles of this kind that they saw in the movies were the real McCoy. Truth was, in the movies they usually used later models that were deemed more attractive. Only folks who could tell their ass from a cartridge chamber knew the truth. The Boy was being true to the legend, true to his heritage. And soon one more would fall.

  And now he sat on the bed, gazing at the weapon that had won so many battles, claimed so many lives.

  He heard a scuffling outside. He made out two voices: male and female. The walls in the hotel were about as thick as linen, and he could hear every nearby squeak like it was right next to him.

  The people seemed to be negotiating. The man’s voice was eager. A little too eager. The woman was talking slowly. The Boy could feel his blood begin to rise, his fingers grinding against the wood stock of the rifle. Those two outside, they had no idea how close they were to death, that the person less than ten feet away could snuff them out faster than it would take to exchange currency.

  But he couldn’t. He had to get the rage out, let it dissipate. He couldn’t end the rampage before it had barely begun. He was strong, powerful, had that blood running through his veins. The only thing that could stop him was stupidity.

  He heard her mention a dollar amount. The man said, “Oh hell, yes” loud enough for the grimy bastard at the front desk to hear it.

  “Told you I looked like her,” he heard her say.

  “No doubt, you got an ass like Athena Paradis,” he responded. That made the Boy smile. “Just…just let me call you Athena. Please, baby.”

  She didn’t say a word, but the moan of pleasure said it all.

  They unlocked a door, slipped inside and closed it. Five minutes later, the Boy felt his bed beginning to shake. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Fixing this nuisance would be relatively easy and painless, but nothing positive could be gained from it. There were more important homes for his lead. He took a deep breath, then turned his gaze from the rifle to the magazine splayed out in front of him.

  He eyed the man whose photograph lay within its pages. He was portly, with graying hair that cascaded in waves past his ears, a gut reserved for men who’d lived their later years in a state of complacency rather than diligence. His half-cocked smile was one of condescension. His air was that of a royal walking among subjects who should consider themselves fortunate to lick the shit off his heels. He was one more battle for the Boy to win, boldly and violently.

  He knew the man’s schedule, when he arrived, when he left, when he ordered lunch, when his secretary came home with him, when he’d grown tired of her and when his children were forced to visit. He knew the exact moment it would happen, knew where the security cameras were positioned and knew he would be gone right as the fear sank in.

  Athena Paradis was a masterstroke. He started the crusade by felling the biggest prize. The cop was a mistake, but looking into the man’s background it was a mistake prompted by fate. The cop—Mauser—had shot Henry Parker last year, an innocent man. The same Henry Parker who wrote the quote the Boy had left up on that rooftop. He wondered how Parker felt, if, like the Boy, he was glad Mauser was dead.

  The Boy looked at the gun one last time, could picture the bullet crashing through a helpless skull, and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  Paulina’s telephone rang. She hesitated answering it, focusing instead on the morning edition of the Dispatch spread in front of her. Her hand gripped a red pencil. She was already worked up from having to explain to Bynes that a prank caller had impersonated her. That even though she thought Louis Carruthers was an idiot she wasn’t stupid enough to spew a racist diatribe to a receptionist.

  She was making small notes in the margins, passages that could have read better, accusations that could have been a little more salacious without bordering on libel. The article on Joe Mauser’s murder had been written by some hack in Metro. Paulina’s piece on Athena was on page three. Mauser got page seven. In the kingdom of selling newspapers, heroic cops were cow shit compared to rich heiresses. Way it went, and Paulina didn’t think twice.

  She looked at her caller ID, recognized the area code, figured if she didn’t pick it up he’d just keep calling back. She picked it up.

  “What?”

  “Miss Cole, it’s James.”

  “Hi…James.”

  “Hi?” Hi as a question. As if the word would offend her.

  James Keach was a junior reporter at the Dispatch. About five foot ten, two hundred and ten cookie-dough pounds, with razor’s-edge-parted hair that looked ready to recede the moment anyone said anything nasty about it. Just two years out of J-School, James never left the newsroom, followed reporters around like a beagle awaiting a biscuit, and was generally more of a nuisance than anyone you didn’t either sleep with or work for had a righ
t to be. The kid had pulled a solid C+ average, but his father was golfing buddies with Ted Allen and apparently promised to give Allen an unlimited supply of mulligans at Pebble Beach if his son was given a shot to learn the ropes. James didn’t seem so much eager to learn the ropes as he did to simply climb halfway up and hang on for dear life.

  Paulina had given James his very first assignment, which, she stressed, was every bit as important as any story she was working on that year. Seeing as how he’d spent every previous waking moment peeking around the watercooler in the hopes of overhearing gossip, she knew offering Keach a bone would make him salivate.

  So last week, while laying out her eventual hatchet job on David Loverne, she decided to bring James into the fold. She wore her highest heels that day, a low-cut blouse, and a sweet new perfume called Sugar. James would have driven a lawn mower to Antarctica to report on penguin migration that day.

  His assignment, she told him, was to shadow Henry Parker twenty-four hours a day. Find out where he goes when he’s not at home or at the office. Find out who he speaks with and what they speak about. Find out who his friends and enemies are, what he has for breakfast, whether he wears matching socks, everything. She wanted to tie Parker into the Loverne piece, show how a combination of her father’s philandering and Parker’s snubbing drove poor Mya Loverne over the edge.

  For years, Mya had been the consummate politician’s daughter. Bright, attractive, never a hair mussed or sentence misspoken. She got good grades, and never got into trouble. Her life had taken a terrible detour when she was attacked by a man who broke her jaw during an attempted rape. Mya fought him off, but she had never been the same. Paulina attributed this to her disintegrating family and love life, her dreams vanishing in a puff of lies.

  And so far James was everything she wanted in a bloodhound: loyal, dependent and weak. If reporting didn’t work out, he’d make a hell of a peeping Tom. Hell, just yesterday Paulina learned that Henry took his coffee with skim milk and three Splendas. Not exactly front-page material, but Keach was getting close.