Parker 02 - The Guilty (5 page)

Sex Symbol Shooter.' Almost poetic."

"Take off several thousand for subtlety," another voiced

chimed in. I turned around.

Jack O'Donnell walked into the room, half a dozen newspapers under his arm. He looked well rested, energized.

"Least someone around here caught forty winks," I said.

"I think I caught forty winks total my first five years on

42

Jason Pinter

the job, don't complain to me about sleep." He took the papers

from under his arm, and I recognized the running heads of

what looked like the morning edition of every major paper in

the metropolitan area, as well as a few nationals. He tossed

them on Wallace's desk one at a time, giving us a chance to

read each headline.

I wasn't aware newspaper fonts could run that big.

"You have no idea how much it cost us to dump our page

one and get the Paradis story in there," Wallace said. "None

of them report anything substantial. That'll come tomorrow.

With any luck we'll sell enough papers today to make up for

the printing and shipping delays."

"Even in death Athena breaks the bank," Jack said. "You

know some asshole found a highball glass from last night that

still has Athena Paradis's lipstick on it? Bidding on eBay is

up to ten grand. I'm thinking of joining the fray, resell the

glass during the trial and retire."

"This case will never go to trial," I said, a sick feeling in

my stomach.

"And why not?" asked Wallace.

"Fools with a cause don't go quietly. They don't put their

hands behind their back, and they don't care about their

Miranda rights. This guy's in it until the end."

"Let's hope you're wrong," Wallace replied. "Right now

all we can do is our job. So let's talk."

Jack flicked my ear as he walked by. "What, no iPod

today?"

I sighed, played along.

"I usually take it off when I get to the office."

"Hard to concentrate when listening to Bee-yonk, right?"

I didn't correct him, frankly would have felt like an idiot

telling him the correct pronunciation was Beyonce. A few

The Guilty

43

months ago, I made the careless mistake of going to the

bathroom and leaving my iPod on my desk. The mistake

wasn't leaving it out in the open, but trusting someone like

Jack to act like an adult. By the time I got back to my desk,

Jack had scrolled through my entire playlist and taken votes

from the entire newsroom as to which artists I should delete

from the hard drive permanently. The results were tabulated,

and for a week after that he would ask for the player to see if

I'd complied. Finally I removed the offending songs, just to

shut him up. According to Jack, any music created after 1986

should never be heard through my (or any other) speakers

again. He said if not for the Dylan and Springsteen, he would

have thrown the entire thing in the garbage.

"Henry," Jack said, his voice now without any condescension. "If you don't think this case will go to trial you're an

idiot. Someone's getting prosecuted, even if it takes a few

cases to get the right suspect. Costas Paradis's private jet is

on its way to the city as we speak, and I can promise that he's

bringing hellfire and brimstone and a savings account large

enough to be a continent unto itself. Whether it's Shawn

Kensbrook, the security staff at the Kitten Club, the killer

himself, or Lord Zeus up on high, somebody's getting locked

away while the key is thrown in the ocean. Half a dozen

tabloid hacks are writing first drafts of quickie books that will

be on sale in your local grocery store within the week."

"Cynical much?" I said.

Jack dismissed the question. "If you want to last in this

business as long as I have, you'll have the cynical alarm on

High 24/7. Question
everything.
You wouldn't be here right

now if you hadn't done that last year."

"So why did a line I wrote end up at a crime scene?" I

asked. "That's my question."

44

Jason Pinter

"Let's hope it's an eerie coincidence," Wallace said. "That

it doesn't have some sort of meaning that plays into why

Athena was killed."

"If this goes to trial," Jack added with a smile, "we can always

claim libel, say the killer used Henry's quote out of context."

I absently scratched my ribs.

"Now the question for you both is," Wallace said, "where

do we go from here? We've got the killer's message. Jack,

you check with the NYPD, see if Chief Carruthers has any

suspects or leads."

"I want to talk to the ballistics department," I said. "Jack,

do you know anyone there you can hook me up with?"

"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

The Guilty

45

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."

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 oldfashioned 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 even-
The Guilty

47

tually 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
Dis-

patch'
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

48

Jason Pinter

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

The Guilty

49

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