The Guilty hp-2 Page 7

  "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 surprise 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 bellbottoms."

  "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 balan
ced 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 walkietalkie 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.

  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 street. 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.

  "Betty Grable," she said. "I'm-was-oh God-I'm Mr.

  Lourdes's assistant."

  My jaw dropped.

  "That," I spat out. "That's Jeffrey Lourdes?"

  She nodded again, then burst into tears.

  Jeffrey Lourdes was the publisher of Moss magazine, and one of the most influential figures in popular culture for nearly thirty years. He'd been credited for discovering dozens of headlining acts, some of the greatest reporting the country had ever seen, and now he was a mass of flesh torn apart by a piece of lead.

  "I didn't know what was happening," Betty said. "I swear."

  Her hands were a trembling mess, tears cascading down her cheeks. "I was just telling him he had to be in early tomorrow for a photo shoot, then out of nowhere-"

  She covered her mouth with her hand, choked sobs into it.

  I stayed silent. Had to let it come to her.

  "Then he shot him!" she cried. "He shot him!"

  "Who?" I asked.

  "The young man," she said, her lip quivering. "He did it."

  "Who was he? Young man? How old was he? What did he look like?"

  "I don't know," Betty said. She looked at me as if having a revelation. "He looked about your age."

  I stopped writing, looked at her.

  "What happened?"

  "We were standing there, Jeffrey was about to hail a taxi, and all of a sudden this man came out of nowhere. He was holding this giant-gun isn't even the right word-this giant thing. This fucking cannon. He just walked right up to Jeffrey and pulled the trigger, and then he ran. Oh God, Jeffrey!" She was staring at the body. One foot was visible through the sea of blue and white. I saw a police car pull up in front. An ambulance behind it. Two EMS workers popped out, ran to the body. I could tell from their body language they weren't going to work too hard on this one.

  "What did he look like?" I said.

  Betty shook her head. Not because she didn't know, but because she didn't want to.

  "He was tall," she said. "Maybe an inch taller than you.

  Jeans. A jacket." She trailed off.

  "What else?"

  "I don't know!" she cried.

  "Trust me, I know this is hard," I said. "But did he have any distinguishing features. Facial hair, tattoos, piercings…"

  "The gun," she said.

  "The gun?"

  "The way he held it after he killed Jeffrey. I'll never forget that look in his eye. He stared at his gun for a second and then he ran. Looked at it the way somebody looks at a lover. This sick, sick boy. Oh my God…"

  "The gun," I said. "What did it look like?"

  She looked at me as if in shock that I could be asking such a trivial question.

  "Please. It's important. Think. "

  "It…it looked like something out of a movie. Not a recent movie, something old. And the way he held it, like it was fragile."

  "What about what the gun looked like?"

  "The handle was brown…"

  "Could it have been made from wood?" I asked. She nodded.

  "There was this terrible explosion…" She stopped.

  "Please, I can't do this right now."

  "Can you tell me anything else about it? Was it one barrel or two?"

  "I don't know! I've never seen a real gun before in my life, now please leave me alone."

  Just then a cop seemed to take notice and jogged over to us. He separated me, whispered, "Get the fuck out of here, scum." Then he said, "Miss, did you see the shooter?"

  As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder long enough to see her nod and then collapse in his arms.

  Ten feet from the carnage, a man clicked open his cell phone. Sweat was
streaming down his face. He'd thankfully skipped lunch. Breathing heavy, he pressed Redial and waited for an answer.

  "Hello?"

  "Miss Cole?" He mopped at his brow with a shirtsleeve.

  "It's James Keach. You'll never believe what just happened."

  17

  I arrived home tired to the bone. After spending hours writing my piece on the Jeffrey Lourdes murder, my fingers ached, and my head throbbed. I'd had enough death for a lifetime, and I was growing tired of seeing it up close. I tossed my wallet and keys on the table, fell into the couch next to Amanda. She put her hand on mine. I squeezed it with whatever energy I had left.

  We sat there. Tried to talk. Conversation came in bits and pieces. Amanda had ordered dinner for both of us. I wasn't hungry, just watched her poke at a salad. I stirred my pasta with a disinterested fork. All I could think about was Jeffrey

  Lourdes, and how ironic it was that the first time I ever saw him in person, his most recognizable feature had been reduced to blood and bone.

  Betty Grable's words still rang in my ears. Between what

  Curt Sheffield told me about the ammunition used to kill both

  Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser, and her description of the weapon used to kill Jeffrey Lourdes, there was no doubt in my mind that the killer was using a rifle that took magnum bullets, and he was using that weapon for a reason. And somehow I had to find that reason, and use that to find the killer.

  "How's work?" I asked Amanda. It was just a conversation starter, something to break the mood. Death was an inevitable part of reporting, but it had no place at the dinner table.

  "The judge is still being a dick on the Mary Westin case," she said. "Three abuse complaints from the neighbors, two cigarette burns and Judge Jellyfish still doesn't realize it's in

  Mary's best interest to be taken the hell away from her sickass parents."

  I nodded, picked at a piece of penne. On many nights I'd told Amanda how proud I was of her-both her work ethic and choice of profession. After graduation, Amanda had passed her bar exam and achieved high enough marks to warrant a position in the Juvenile Rights Division of the New

  York Legal Aid Society. The caseload for lawyers working for the Legal Aid Society had increased nearly a hundred percent in the last few years, mainly due to some high-profile cases of child abuse and neglect that resulted in the horrific death of children who had slipped through the cracks. The Legal