The Guilty (2008)
Page 5
police with automatic weapons.”
“Good thing you finally learned how to use the vibrate
button.” Jack elbowed me. Amanda, I mouthed. He raised his
eyebrows. Girlfriend. He opened his mouth to say ah. Then
he ran his thumb across his throat. Cut it off. “Anyway, I’d
better turn this off. Jack is giving me dirty looks. I’ll call you
as soon as this circus is over.”
“Is it a three-ring circus, or does Athena Paradis warrant
four?”
“You know, I think they might green-light the ever-elusive
five-star circus. Just for Athena.”
“The news ran video of Costas Paradis getting off his
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private jet this morning. I’ve never much sympathized with
billionaires, but you have to feel for the guy.”
I said nothing. Didn’t have to.
“Give Jack my best. Knock the story out of the park, Henry.”
“Will do,” I said. “Stay quiet.” I hung up. Jack was holding
back a thin smile. “What?”
He allowed a small chuckle. “Like two sweet jaybirds, you
two,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind my taking amusement
in the love rituals of the young and naive.”
I eyed Jack’s hand, barren of any rings or jewelry other
than a swank Omega wristwatch. I knew he’d worn a ring,
years ago. He never showed any desire to discuss it.
I took my press pass out of my pocket and looped the
lanyard over my head. Jack did the same. We rounded the
corner and immediately became two small fish in the biggest
school I’d ever seen. There must have been five hundred
members of the press corps standing outside of city hall.
Dozens of cameras, many of them live, along with Brylcreemed reporters and onlookers peeking out of open office
windows for blocks in every direction. Millions of people
would be watching this conference, whether live or on the
evening news. Which made our jobs near impossible. How
do you find a shadowy corner when there are hundreds and
thousands of eyes scanning every inch?
We ducked under a rope and tried to push our way to the front.
“Easier to dig to China,” Jack said. “Screw this. I don’t
need to be close to hear Perez.”
“He’ll have the text up on his MySpace page within an
hour anyway.”
“Perez has a MySpace page?”
“Facebook, too. Wants to hit the young voters.”
“Do young voters like him?” Jack asked.
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“I wouldn’t vote for him,” I replied. “A little too much selfpromotion for my tastes.”
Jack pulled a pair of folding binoculars out of his pocket.
He stared through them, peered along the dais and around the
surrounding area. When he was done he passed them to me.
I took in the scene. The marble steps leading to city hall
were polished a gleaming white. The podium was empty,
waiting for Mayor Perez and, I assumed, Costas Paradis.
Three uniformed police officers stood on either side of the
podium. They stood straight, arms at their sides, guns visible.
I swung the binoculars from right to left. When I saw who
was standing directly to the left of the podium, I nearly
dropped the binoculars.
“I saw him, too,” Jack said. “He’s not here for you. Be a
professional.”
“Professional,” I said, my mouth dry. “Right.”
Standing to the left of the podium was Detective Lieutenant Joseph Mauser. One year ago, Detective Joe Mauser had
chased me halfway across the country, shot me in the leg, and
barely escaped with his life after taking three bullets in the
chest.
I had followed Mauser’s recovery over the months. Visited
his guarded hospital room and was turned away by the very
cops who’d wanted me dead before they found out the truth.
After two months in the hospital—fully recovered, minus
one spleen, two ribs and twenty pounds—Joe Mauser transferred from the FBI to the NYPD. He attributed the transfer
as a tribute to his fallen brother-in-law and in-arms, John
Fredrickson. The man whose death I was responsible for, indirectly or not. Mauser wanted to be closer to his sister, Linda,
John’s widow. In various interviews, Mauser insinuated that
he held no ill will toward me. That given the circumstances
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he would have defended his life and honor, as well. But a
wound is a wound, no matter how it’s caused, and the simple
fact was his brother-in-law would still be alive if not for me.
Mauser had sold the book and film rights to his story for
a reputed seven figures. He said the money wasn’t for him,
but would feed his sister’s family, educate her fatherless
children. If not for Mauser, my life wouldn’t have been saved
by a beautiful stranger. The same woman who now shares my
bed. I guess we could call it even.
Mauser looked good, healthy and even a little tan. He
looked like the kind of man who was proud to serve his city.
And I was glad to finally be on his side.
I could barely hear over the noise as reporters chirped into
cell phones, cameras ran their feeds. Suddenly a hush came
over the crowd and I saw Mayor Dennis Perez stride to the
podium through the massive columns bracketing city hall.
Walking alongside Mayor Perez was Costas Paradis. The
normally confident man looked pale, tired. But looking
through the binoculars, I could see the anger that burned for
his murdered daughter.
The mayor wore a striped gray suit and walked with a
purpose. His mustache was neatly trimmed as always, but his
eyes were bloodshot. He probably hadn’t slept since Athena
died. And Costas wasn’t the kind of man to mourn. He was
the kind of man whose grief turned to anger, whose anger
turned to rage, and whose rage could scorch the earth. I just
stood and hoped they found the killer before more families
experienced that grief.
The crowd grew quiet. Though the majority in attendance were paid to speak, discuss and bloviate as loud as
humanly possible, they also knew that if they missed a
single word they could miss a scoop, fall behind, give
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people a reason to pick up a paper or watch a newscast other
than theirs.
I thought about Wallace’s sign by the elevators. Then I
looked at the sea of microphones and suits. Just like a
marathon, a giant mass beginning as one. But that wouldn’t
last. The good ones would break away.
Mayor Perez stepped to the podium. Costas Paradis stood
next to Perez, and I could sense the mayor’s discomfort, like
a child forced to admit wrongdoing in front of an angry
parent.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His eyes traveled from
right to left. Making sure he made eye contact with every
camera he could. Give each station their half second of exclusive content. “At approximately one thirty-seven this
morning, Athena Paradis was shot and killed as she was
leavi
ng a nightclub. This is a shocking and heinous crime, perpetrated by an individual whose depravity knows no bounds.
At this very moment we have unleashed the very best men
and women upon the crime scene to establish just who is responsible for Ms. Paradis’s death, as well as their motives in
doing so. No stone will remain unturned, not a second will
go by where Ms. Paradis’s murderer will have a chance to
breathe.”
Jack was scribbling in a notepad. I was watching their
eyes. Mayor Perez. Costas Paradis. Joe Mauser. There was
worry in them. Right then I knew they had nothing.
The mayor continued.
“The true test of a city is challenge. The test of a family is
grief. In this investigation, we will grieve for the memory of
Athena Paradis, but rise to the challenge of bringing her killer
to justice.”
“Second book,” Jack said, pen hanging from his mouth.
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“What?”
“That line. From Perez’s second book. Just made himself
another ten K in royalties right there.”
I shook my head as Perez continued. “What we do know
at this time is that the shooter is most likely a lone assailant,
the murder weapon a high-powered rifle which was discharged from the roof of a building several blocks away from
the club where Ms. Paradis was performing that evening. We
have taken casts of footprints discovered at that rooftop, and
are matching them with known offenders as we speak.”
Bullshit, I thought. Officer Lemansky told me the rooftop
was covered in gravel. Unless they developed some way to
detect footprints in rocks, they’re throwing us a hollow bone.
He continued. “We have many unfortunate witnesses to the
crime itself, but as of yet nobody has come forward who has
been able to positively identify the assailant.”
At this point Costas Paradis moved a half inch closer. His eyes
seemed to be burning a hole through Mayor Perez’s neck. The
mayor swallowed. He held his hand up, index finger extended.
“Let me assure you that the NYPD is using every available resource to find this heartless and soulless coward, and
the NYPD will not rest until the assailant has been brought
to justice.”
Perez’s eyes became sorrowful and he lowered his head.
“At this time I would like to express my sincerest condolences to the Paradis family. I have known Athena’s devoted
father, Costas, for many years, and suffice it to say his daughter’s death is not only felt by the Paradis family, but is felt by
his family and friends both in this city and around the world.
Justice will be served.”
Hotel Paradis, Paradis Park, Paradis Skating Rink, I
thought. Not only was there a murderer loose, but there were
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millions, perhaps billions of dollars at stake. Maybe Perez
should quote a few more lines from his book. Catching
Athena’s killer was not only a moral and legal priority, but
one the mayor needed to help pay for those campaign reelection ads with spiffy production values.
Perez went on for another few minutes. He spoke a great
deal but said very little.
“I’ve seen mimes more eloquent,” Jack said. He leaned in
closer. “Listen, I’ve got a contact in the medical examiner’s
office. As soon as this little soiree breaks up I’ll have him on
the phone. I want you to talk to him before we file any copy.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“He owes me a solid. After you talk to him, I want you to
go back and canvas the area around the Kitten Club. People
don’t like talking to cops. Answering questions makes them
feel like they’re being accused of something. Too many
freaking Law & Order spin-offs. Anyway, tell them who you
are. A newsman, their voice, the voice of the people. You
make ’em believe it, they’ll let you hold their newborn.”
“Got it.”
At that moment, Mayor Perez said, “And now I’d like to
turn the podium over to Police Commissioner Alan Bradley,
who will answer further questions.”
“Might be worth leaving now,” I said. “Get a head start.”
“Not yet,” Jack said. “Leaving early is how you miss the
big stuff.”
Commissioner Bradley, a stocky bald man in his early
fifties, shook hands with the mayor and Costas Paradis. He
stepped to the podium with a look of gravity and sincerity.
Then I noticed something strange.
Joe Mauser was flinching. He brought his hand up to his
eyes, as if shielding the sun. I took the binoculars, followed
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his line of sight. He was looking at a building across the way.
Then I saw what he saw—a faint glimmer of light off
of… something— and then all hell broke loose.
Mauser dove to his left a millisecond before the air was
shattered by a deafening crack. I saw a fountain of red explode
by the podium, and suddenly hundreds of people were
screaming and running and cursing and fleeing.
I heard someone yell, “He’s been shot!” EMS workers
sprinted up the stairs. I watched in slow motion detachment,
arms and legs pummeling me as they flew past. A man and a
woman in white knelt down beside a fallen person atop the
stairs. Police had their guns drawn and were yelling into
walkie-talkies. Their eyes were all looking up, guns drawn.
At the rooftops. Where the gunshot had come from.
I looked through the binoculars to get a better view of
the carnage.
I could see a group of cops ushering the mayor and Costas
Paradis inside city hall. An ambulance was trying to get
through the pandemonium but was having no luck. The cops
were shaking, ready to fire at an instant’s notice.
I saw the EMS crews working as fast as they could on the
downed officer, but through the binoculars I could see one of
them shake her head. Watching fingers of blood drip down
the steps, I knew what she was thinking. This one can’t be
saved.
As they placed the cop on the stretcher, I increased the
magnification. I could just make out the face.
My breath left me. I dropped to my knees. Panting. Felt
Jack’s hand on my shoulder. Felt the world swimming away.
Saw the face again. Saw his brother in-law’s face. Both men
lying in a pool of their own blood.
The downed cop was Detective Lieutenant Joe Mauser.
8
She was lying on her back. Propped up against three pillows.
One more across her chest. One more by her right arm. She felt
warm, safe, comfortable. Henry made fun of her for this. Said
she was building a fort every night.Yet when the lights went out,
after Amanda had burrowed into her pillow castle, she would
push the pillows aside and gently lay her head on his chest.
She would listen to Henry breathe. Listen to his heart beat.
She knew when he was thinking about a story—his heart
beat a little faster. She knew if the day had been long and challenging, or fast and invigorating. All this from
his heartbeat.
She would glide her finger down his chest, tickling his side.
She knew he was sensitive, but he never told her to stop.
Sometimes she would run her finger along the scar where the
bullet had come so close to ending his life. She knew that in
some way she was responsible for that scar. For some reason,
despite the pain it had caused Henry, she was glad it was there.
She knew he was awake. His breathing was shallow.
Henry’s eyes had sunk. His body looked as though it had been
sapped of all energy, like one of those video game characters
after some evil shaman sucks their soul right out of their
body then yells something cheesy like “Fatality!”
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Another death. Reporters weren’t supposed to see lives end
in front of them. Henry wasn’t off in a tank in Iraq. How much
more could he take?
Henry’s breathing had grown steadier. Maybe he had fallen
asleep. She hoped so.
And then the shrill noise of Henry’s cell phone broke the
silence, and Amanda kicked herself for forgetting to change
the ring tone.
Henry didn’t stir, so Amanda reached over to the nightstand and picked it up. She expected to see Wallace Langston
or Jack O’Donnell calling about some urgent scoop.
But no, it was Mya Loverne. Undoubtedly calling again
in the desperate and pathetic hope that her old boyfriend
would return her affection. That some previously severed
synapses would again begin firing.
Amanda stared at the phone and felt a terrible pressure beginning to settle behind her eyes. She pressed and held the
power button until the phone went dark. Then she gathered
all the pillows, held them close to her chest and hoped sleep
would arrive soon.
For both of them.
9
The Boy sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees. Feet planted
on the floor. He read the newspaper again. Third time he’d
done so. Then he put it on the chipped wooden nightstand and
turned off the light.
He lay in the dark. He could feel his heart beating fast. It
wasn’t just the thrill of the kill that did it, it was the beautiful anticipation. Then the memory of the blood.
His hands still tingled, gravel still stuck in the treads of
his shoes. Amazing how he could read about himself in the
newspaper mere hours after the killing, the ink drying
quicker than the blood.