The Guilty hp-2 Read online

  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.

  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-78

  Jason Pinter 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 w
in, 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.

  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 right 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.

  "So, James, calling to shed light on more of Parker's dietary habits?"

  "Oh, no, Miss Cole, nothing like that." He paused. "So how are you this morning?"

  She rolled her eyes. "I'm just fine, James. Skip the pleasantries."

  "Right. No more pleasantries. Sorry about that, I…"

  "James."

  "Right. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I followed

  Parker when he left his apartment this morning. He made one call, then right after that another call came in. Then he went into the Gazette and I lost him. Maybe I'll see if I can get a temp ID, get into the building…"

  "That's all right, James, your daddy doesn't need you getting arrested. Who was the first call to?" Paulina chewed the swizzle stick from her coffee, wondering if snorting the

  Xanax would make it take faster.

  "I didn't catch everything, but the guy's first name was

  Curtis. Parker said something about them meeting up later this afternoon. They sounded tight."

  Lovers? Paulina wondered. That'd be a hell of a story.

  "And who called him right after?"

  "No last name, but at one point he called her Mya. And from the sound of it Parker didn't sound happy to hear from her. Cut her off pretty quick."

  The straw fell from Paulina's mouth. A smile spread over her lips. Mya Loverne. Paulina knew that after his acquittal,

  Henry had broken up with Mya for a new airhead named

  Amanda Davies. Tossing aside his former love. Apparently, the goods weren't so happy to be tossed aside.

  Paulina had despised Henry Parker the moment she met him. Given a cushy job by Wallace Langston despite the experience of a fetus. And to top it off, the court jester himself,

  Jack O'Donnell, took the kid under his wing. Paulina had sweat blood and tears over her ink for years, and Henry was being groomed as the heir apparent. The newsman of the twenty-first century whose balls had barely dropped.

  And either directly or subversively, Paulina swore to be the wrecking ball that tore it all down. And if she happened to take down the Gazette with it, hell, that wouldn't be such a bad morning.

  "James, you just made my coffee taste better."

  "Oh, that's swell, Miss Cole, and again I hope you know how much I appreciate your trusting me with this assignment. I'm…wait, Parker's moving. I'll call you back when I get anything new."

  "You do that, Jamesy, you do that."

  "Hey, Miss Cole?" James said apprehensively. "Do you think I can file expense reports for my breakfast? The bagels at this place are like three bucks each."

  "Not a chance, Jamesy. Talk to you later." She hung up.

  15

  I rounded the corner and saw him standing at a street vendor, paying for coffee and a muffin and waiting for change.

  "Make that two coffees," I said.

  "My friend here will take his with twelve sugars," Curt

  Sheffield said.

  The vendor looked at me like I'd asked for a side of pork loin. "That's a lot of sugar, man."

  "Three Splendas," I said. "I thought cops weren't allowed to lie."

  "That's to suspects and witnesses. Not reporters. In fact, that's encouraged."

  Curt took his change. I watched in awe as he inhaled the muffin in three bites.

  "I think I've seen the same thing happen with boa constrictors. I bet if I look closely I can see a muffin-shaped protrusion in your uniform."

  "Lay off, I haven't eaten since breakfast. You know at first

&nbs
p; I liked the idea of being the NYPD's poster boy, but you can't catch a break on the streets. Parents introducing their kids to me like I'm walking around in a Mickey Mouse costume or something."

  "If Mickey carried a loaded Glock." He licked the crumbs from his fingers. "And aren't you guys supposed to eat donuts?"

  Curtis sipped his coffee, wiped some crumbs from his mouth. He nodded, said, "Let's go," through a mouthful, and led me down the block. It was a cool afternoon, the streets lined with people preparing for the commute home.

  "So tell me about the note," I said.

  "What, no foreplay?"

  "Not when two people have been killed."

  "That's our job to deal with," Sheffield said. "You write about it, remember? That shit last year don't make you Dick Tracy."

  "You're right, but you also know I'm one of the few guys in this town who'll give you a fair shake."

  Curt sipped his coffee. "Word is Harvey Hillerman is hard up on Wallace to raise circulation. Says the Dispatch is growing and you're shrinking worse than my old man after joining the polar bear club."

  Harvey Hillerman was the owner of the Gazette, and perpetually at war with the tabloid tactics of the other papers in town. But it was hard to keep the public's interest with payroll scandals when the Dispatch could just take a shot of Athena

  Paradis in a bikini, slap it on the front page and match your circulation rate.

  "It's not my job to worry about Hillerman."

  "It's your job to make sure you have a job, paisan. "

  "You know you're black, right?"

  "What, paisan is reserved for Italians? Screw that."

  We walked toward Sixth Avenue.

  "So what have you got?" I asked.

  "Well, the ballistics report came back. I'll tell you, the pressure on Perez is unreal. Costas Paradis is watching every move he makes with a magnifying glass, and he's holding that glass up to the sun. Man's got eyes and ears from every lawmaker to every sewer grate in the city."