The Guilty Page 7

  “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.

  CHAPTER 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 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.”

  “His daughter was killed, what do you expect?”

  “Carruthers has instituted mandatory overtime every day this week,” Sheffield continued. “They have undercovers staking out every major nightclub, patrolmen inspecting every rooftop within line of sight. They have us watching any celebrity that goes anywhere after midnight. Problem is we don’t know what we’re looking for. Not to mention we’re all watching our backs after Joe got killed.”

  I looked at the ground.

  “Don’t let it get to you. Guys in the department don’t hold a grudge for the most part. And the guys that do hold grudges are all old school, the kind the department keeps on a tight leash because they might have had ties to Mike DiForio’s crew. Carruthers knows Fredrickson was dirty, that he was taking money from that Tony Soprano wannabe. Until DiForio got barbecued, that is.”

  “When you say guys don’t hold a grudge ‘for the most part,’ what’s that, like fifty percent? Ninety?”

  Sheffield toed the cement. Then he looked at me. “Not gonna lie, bro, there’s definitely some bad blood. Fredrickson might have been dirty, but he went back a long way. The bad ones always have friends and there are always other people who covered their asses. Joe Mauser, though, he was a good cop. It’s just a cumulative effect of what’s happened to that family.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Me? Shit. I wouldn’t be here right now if I held a grudge. Fact is, city needs you on this story a whole lot more than it needs you digging up celebrity tampons to pad Hillerman’s bottom line. Plus I like your stuff. Tired of reading news reports that read like they were written by fuckers who are stuck on typewriters and Geritol.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Appreciate it in private. I’m happy to give you dirt so it doesn’t end up in Cole’s witch cauldron. But after this, I gotta be a ghost, man.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “So ballistics confirmed the same caliber shot was used to kill Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser.”

  “No big shock there,” I said.

  “No, we figured it was the same sick son of a bitch. But they were surprised to find out the caliber bullet our man used.”

  “Unusual?”

  “I’d say .44-40 magnum rounds.” Curt waited a moment. He expected my jaw to drop, but I must have slept through my NRA 101 course.

  “Why’s that surp
rise you?”

  “Nobody uses .44-40 ammunition these days. Just an impractical caliber to use, on both sides of the good guy/bad guy coin.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Magnum rounds are large, man. Heavy velocity, heavy impact. The recoil on those things will knock you on your ass. Forget everything Dirty Harry said, any cop who wants to be able to get off a second round in the same zip code would be an idiot to carry around a magnum. Only people who use it are idiot cons who think it looks pretty, but any perp who knows anything about weapons would prefer something lighter.”

  “Idiots don’t kill women with a single shot from a hundred yards out,” I said.

  “No. That takes a different kind of mental defect.”

  “So what are magnum rounds used for?” I asked.

  “Hunting, mostly,” Sheffield said. “Got an uncle, lives out in Montana, goes big game hunting using magnum rounds. Got a black bear head on his mantel used to scare the shit out of me and my sister growing up. It’s a good caliber for up to a hundred and fifty yards, after that the bullet is too heavy to maintain its accuracy.”

  “The killer shot both Athena and Joe Mauser from within two hundred yards.”

  “Right.”

  “Further reduces his idiocy quotient. Obviously the killer is smart enough to know his range.”

  “Question is,” Sheffield said, “why would anyone use magnum rounds for that kind of sniper shooting? Only an idiot would try to kill a person from far away using a magnum round. .22s are lighter, faster and more accurate. Not to mention easier to get. I’m up there on the roof? I’m using .22s.”

  “Unless there’s a reason for using magnum rounds,” I said. “Whoever killed Mauser and Athena planned the murders out. They knew Athena was going to be at the Kitten Club, and they knew the setup outside city hall well enough to position themselves for a shot. You don’t go through that kind of trouble and then randomly pick a gun and bullet that might separate your shoulder with the recoil.”

  “It is sexy ammo,” Curt said, rather offhandedly. “Magnum.”

  We continued walking, both processing the information. Powerful, short range, heavy, high velocity. Sexy.

  “Wait,” I said. “What do you mean it’s sexy?”

  “Look, I’m not saying you’ll find it at Victoria’s Secret…”

  “Come on. The killer chose this ammo for a reason. Why does someone choose magnum ammunition over something more practical? Especially when they have everything else planned to a T?”

  “Well,” Curtis said. “Dirty Harry made magnum ammo cool. Forget which one of the movies it was, but he used .44 caliber special loads, which are lighter and don’t have the same recoil. Funny thing is they didn’t actually use a magnum while shooting the movie, they used—”

  “Come on,” I said, impatiently. “What else?”

  “Well, magnum ammo is probably the one ammunition that’s actually known in pop culture. Ever see that movie, Winchester 73?” I shook my head. “Great flick. James Stewart and Shelley Winters. Anyway, the Winchester is commonly referred to as ‘The Gun that Won the West.’ Most popular rifle, probably ever, kind of a folk legend. The Winchester uses .44-40 magnum rounds.”

  “No shit,” I said. “Winchester, huh?”

  “Winchester.”

  “Think there’s a chance our killer might have used a Winchester on Athena and Joe?”

  “It’s a possibility, man, but the Winchester plant shut down a few years ago. It’s not even called Winchester these days, some conglomerate took it over. Probably called GunTex or something stupid. And trust me, nobody uses Winchester rifles anymore. They went out with the dodo and bell-bottoms.”

  “Some people think bell-bottoms are hip,” I said.

  “Hey, what you and your girl do is between the two of y’all.”

  “Yeah, but maybe there’s someone out there who thinks Winchesters are the new black. Or at least has a reason for using one.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine there are a whole lot of working ones left, so you got yourself a lead there, Maureen Dowd.”

  “And the note,” I said. “You told me another note was left at the scene again.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Curt said.

  “You did, asshole, give it.”

  Curt looked around, his eyes narrowing. “This is some creepy stuff, man. Hard to get something like that out of your head.”

  “Do you have a copy of it I could take?” I asked.

  “Nah. I didn’t need one. You don’t forget something like that.”

  “What did the note say?”

  Curt stopped, seemed to think for a moment, then carefully spoke.

  “It said, ‘People thought me bad before, but if ever I should get free, I’ll let them know what bad means.’”

  “I’ll let them know what bad means,” I repeated. “I didn’t write that.”

  “He used a line from one of your articles after shooting Athena, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Not exactly flattering. I was worried for a bit this guy had it out for me, but…guess he just liked my work.”

  “That make you feel better or worse?”

  “Not sure,” I said.

  “Warm and fuzzy this guy is not.”

  I clapped Curt on the shoulder. “Listen, Curt, I really appreciate it.”

  “Just do me a favor, wait until Carruthers makes his statement before you use that quote. Do all the research you want, just don’t jump the gun,” Curt warned.

  “You scratch my back, I scratch yours. So now it’s back to protecting and serving and all that good stuff,” I said.

  “You mean posing with tourists and keeping the kids away from my Glock. And you go back to being all fair and balanced and stuff,” Curt replied.

  “All the news that’s fit to print,” I said.

  Suddenly I heard a crackling sound. Curtis looked at me. Both of our heads shot to his waistband where his walkie-talkie was attached. A voice came over the speaker. I only made out two words, and my blood froze.

  “Shots fired…”

  Curtis grabbed the walkie-talkie off his belt. The voice crackled again.

  “10-10, shots fired, repeat, 10-10, shots fired at the Franklin-Rees building. All officers respond.”

  I looked at Curtis, saw a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes. “That’s—”

  “Four blocks from here.”

  Curtis turned and sprinted down the street, pedestrians parting, holding their children and backing against the wall.

  I had no choice. I sprinted after him.

  CHAPTER 16

  I followed Curt Sheffield like a running back wisely trailing a bruising fullback. Oxygen burned in my lungs, and I felt my side tickle right below the scar where one year ago my perforated lung had to be inflated. Fear gripped me, my heart hammering. Shots fired. Why the hell was I running toward the shots? I heard sirens in the distance. Screams loud enough to be heard over them. Men and women were running past me. We were swimming against a terrified tide. And I saw one man run by, blood staining his shirt.

  The Franklin-Rees company published many of the country’s most popular magazines. A multibillion-dollar corporation, its headquarters was a brilliant steel monstrosity with enough security measures inside to stop a tank. But as I got closer, I could tell that all the security inside the building was useless to prevent the horror of what happened just outside.

  I saw a dozen officers, guns drawn, massing around the entrance to the Franklin-Rees building. Curt Sheffield was barking into a walkie-talkie. I heard sirens. Cop cars. An ambulance seemed to be drawing near. I stepped closer. And wondered why the ambulance was in such a rush.

  A man lay on the sidewalk. A pool of blood was spreading around his head. Or at least what was left of it. When I saw the piece of brain sliding down the polished glass door, my stomach lurched and I felt dizzy.

  Aside from the crowd of New York’s finest, a small crowd of onlookers watched from across the st
reet. Several officers were shooing away ghouls with cameras. I could see a tuft of gray hair amidst the mass of blood and gore. Then the wind caught it, and took it away.

  The dead man was wearing a tailored suit. From the liver spots on his hands, I guessed him to be in his late fifties or early sixties. A white handkerchief, once tucked neatly into the jacket pocket, now fluttered like a trapped dove.

  When he put the walkie-talkie down, I approached Curt.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Not now, Henry.”

  “Please, just one minute…”

  “I said not now,” Curt said, pushing me away.

  Not now didn’t compute. I had to know. And if Curt wasn’t talking, none of the cops would. And enough people were milling about that somebody had to know something.

  Pushing the nausea aside, I walked across the street, right into the mass of onlookers.

  I took out my press pass and held it above my head.

  “Did anybody see anything?” I shouted. “Please, we need witnesses.”

  Nobody said a word. They were either too frightened or too busy relaying the news to their entire address book. I scanned the crowd. Looked each person in the face, tried to understand their emotional state, if there was anything more to them being there.

  One woman stood out. She had stringy brown hair, a cheap pantsuit and a brooch that looked way out of her price range. There was a speck of red on her white blouse that I knew had to be blood. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. She stared at me for a moment, then looked away.

  Slowly I walked up to her. I extended my press pass, along with my hand. She stared at me, unsure of what to do. Her eyes were terrified, but something was shackling her to the scene. She had to be here. She was much closer to all this than she wanted to be.

  “You were next to him, weren’t you?” I asked softly. She nodded. “I’m Henry,” I said, taking her hand in mine. Her whole body was shaking. I put my hand on her shoulder, tried to comfort her. I felt silly. I’d seen people die in front of me. And no hand in the world could comfort that.