Parker 02 - The Guilty (9 page)

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.

The Guilty

75

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,

The Guilty

77

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 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.

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."

80

Jason Pinter

"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

The Guilty

81

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

82

Jason Pinter

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