Parker 02 - The Guilty (3 page)

her that kind of coverage unless she cured AIDS or something. But murder changed all that, I guess.

"On my way," I said.

"I was never a fan of hers," Wallace said, offering more information than he needed to. "But the way it looks down

there...she didn't deserve what this monster did."

3

The New York night was muggy. Even at two-thirty in the

morning, when the sun, like most of the city, is hibernating

and waiting for the start of a new day, something kept the air

thick. It was early May, and humidity already choked the

streets. Late night revelers all wore shirts soaked through

with sweat, foreheads shiny, content for the sun to never show

its face again.

My cab slowed down and then stopped as we approached

a tangled mess. I could see flashing lights nearly three blocks

away. Kids lining the streets with worried looks. It took a lot

to ruin a good night. I could only imagine what had happened

here.

I walked the last few blocks to Thirteenth, wading through

honking cars and loaded partiers screaming on cell phones. I

couldn't help but hear the panicked voices.

"Man, there was blood everywhere. I was right near her,

man!"

"She...they think she's dead. Oh God, does that mean her

album won't come out on time?"

I saw Wallace Langston talking to a cop and jotting down

some notes on a spiral pad. Wallace didn't get out of bed for

The Guilty

27

many stories. He left that to his city desk. But this wasn't just

New York front-page news, this was a national headline. The

kind of tawdry story that Paulina Cole and the
Dispatch
would

be sopping up with a biscuit and squeezing dry.

I hadn't seen Paulina Cole in months, and I prayed she

wasn't here tonight. I didn't need any distractions. Paulina

Cole had once been a top reporter at the
Gazette
but left after

penning a series of controversial yet shockingly popular

articles where she insinuated that my murder accusation was

merely the next story in a succession of young journalists

whose names always ended up in brighter lights than their

stories. Didn't matter that my murder rap was bogus. The

articles enabled Paulina to jump to the
New York Dispatch,

the
Gazette'
s biggest rival. She got more money, more perks,

and of course the chance to hoist her name among brighter

lights.

Covering Athena Paradis's murder would be tricky. If we

played catch-up to Paulina and the
Dispatch's
muckraking,

they would dig a grave and bury us in a pile of our own moral

righteousness.

Above the Kitten Club was perched a gigantic neon sign

in the shape of a kitten. And not just any run-of-the-mill

kitten, the kind of kitten that apparently wore a halter top and

stockings and every few seconds tipped back some sort of

pink cocktail that probably cost more than my pants and contained less alcohol than a glass of seltzer. Appearances. Atmosphere. That's what Kitten Club patrons came for. And last

night they got it. In the form of Athena Paradis, world-famous

socialite, erstwhile fashion model, nubile actress, soon-to-be

recording artist, and, depending on who you asked, either

your personal hero or the bane of your existence.

I had nothing against Athena personally, but a few weeks

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Jason Pinter

ago a colleague forwarded me a leaked demo of her first

single. Not even three straight hours of Bruce and Dylan

could rinse that stain off.

You'd think my generation would have more to offer. I'd

like to say they do, but lying to yourself is pretty pathetic.

Within hours all those people soundly sleeping in their

beds would wake up to find out that one of the most famous

women on the planet had been murdered. That the suspect

was still at large. That there would be a city-wide manhunt

that would put all other investigations--including my own--

to shame. Not to mention the resources that Athena's father--

Costas Paradis--would likely contribute. Bottom line, if your

finger pulled the trigger, you were a marked man. But as

soon as the killer fired that round, the reverberations created

a news story. It was my job to see all the ripples.

Problem is, New York is a city eight million strong. If you

want to disappear--and don't have a pile of mush instead of

brains--you could disappear. Hundreds of crimes and dozens

of murders went unsolved every year. All this guy did was raise

the stakes. Raised them to a level that would scare off pretty

much anyone without a death wish, but raised nonetheless.

I saw Wallace, approached him. The editor-in-chief of the

New York Gazette
was a tall, slender man. He wore a neatly

trimmed brown beard flecked with gray, and though his

stature was hardly imposing, his intelligence shone through.

He wore a light jacket, hands tucked into the pockets. Wallace

and I acknowledged each other with a brief nod, then turned

back to the scene.

A line of police tape had cordoned off a thirty-foot radius

around the spot where Athena's body had fallen. Even against

the dark red of the carpet, I could make out a darker, more

gruesome shade. The body had been removed from the scene,

The Guilty

29

but forensics had taped off the angle at which her body had

fallen. Several areas were marked with flags, presumably for

ballistics and blood spatter experts. Some of the spatter

appeared to be as far as ten feet from where Athena had fallen.

Only a high-caliber slug could cause that much damage. I saw

a flag on the carpet, in front of a piece of chipped pavement.

Quite possibly where the bullet had lodged after exiting

Athena's skull.

The other bars in the district had been emptied out by the

cops. The music had been turned off. The only sounds were

the sirens and the cops, but the fear was louder than all of it.

"Warm out tonight," I said. Wallace nodded, wiped his

forehead with a handkerchief as though reminded to.

"Gunman shot Athena from a distance. Goddamn sick

coward."

"Just what I was thinking," I said. I looked around. "Guy

would have been noticed on the street," I said. Wallace lifted

his head, looked at the rooftops, didn't need to say more.

"How do you shoot a woman like that?" Wallace said, to

nobody. "Disgusting, that's what it is."

"Athena wasn't just a woman," I said. "You get that

famous, you become bigger than yourself. Become an ideologue or something." Wallace looked at me, knew we were

both thinking about what happened to me last year. When

people thought I'd murdered a cop, I was no longer Henry

Parker. I stood for something evil. And even when I was vindicated, the stench lingered. Athena lived in that spotlight

every day of her life.

Police were questioning several young men and women

who were sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against an ambulance. They looked visibly shaken. Eyes red, heads down.

Confidence sucked out of them. Several were crying. I

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Jason Pinter

wondered whether they were crying due to the horror they'd

just witnessed, or because the world had been robbed of

Athena Paradis.

"Cops aren't going to get anything from witnesses who were

inside the club," I said. "Figure at least fifty paparazzi outside,

all those strobe lights, every single eye was focused on her."

"How can you be so sure?" Wallace asked.

"'Cause mine would be. You tell yourself you could care

less about celebrities like Athena Paradis, but it's damn hard

to turn away. And this was her scene."

I thought of Mya. Wondered if she was near here when she

called. I hoped she'd made it home safe. I debated calling her

just to be sure.

"This is page one," I said to Wallace.

"We're too late for the print edition," he said. "I want your

copy on the
Gazette
website in an hour. And I want updates by

the time Al Roker is smiling his way through the weather report."

"Awful generous deadline of you."

Wallace looked at me. "We mishandle this story in any

way, the
Dispatch
will cannibalize our circulation rate and

spend all winter bragging about its superior reporting."

"They couldn't report their way out of the 6 train," I said,

expecting a laugh, but receiving none.

"Doesn't matter," Wallace said softly. "Story like this, it's all

about how sensational you can make it. Who runs the cover

photo of Athena in the most revealing dress. Gets the best quotes

from her exes. Finds the most salacious angle to play up, even

if it turns out to be bogus later on. You know Paulina will be all

over this."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"You know the sign I keep by the elevators to all our news

divisions, right?" I nodded. The sign Wallace was referring

The Guilty

31

to was simply titled The Three Types of Reporters. It was a

piece of paper containing four short, handwritten sentences.

Some reporters are always one step behind.

Some reporters always keep pace.

Some reporters are always one step ahead.

What kind of reporter are you?

"Good. Then Evelyn will be expecting your copy in

sixty minutes."

"I'm a lucky man."

Evelyn Waterstone was the
Gazette'
s battle-ax of a Metro

desk editor. All stories that focused within the five boroughs

were doled out by her, met with her approval, and she had

final edit. She was notorious for fighting for front-page space,

claiming that New York was the country's central nervous

system, and that most relevant stories stemmed from there.

So far she had treated me with kid gloves. Which left me

uneasy. She always seemed to be much tougher on the other

young journalists, the interns, the people who hadn't paid

their dues. The fact that she liked me was fairly disconcerting. Like someone who smiled to your face while they held

a Ginsu behind their back.

"Leave out the stuff about slug caliber and shooter vantage

points," Wallace said. "Too much conjecture. Let the
Dispatch

be forced to make retractions. We need to play this clean."

"I'll get it done," I said, trying to convince not only Wallace

but myself.

"Don't worry, I spoke to Evelyn before you got here.

She's aware of the time-sensitive nature, and is waiting for

your e-mail. I'm asking you to play in the same scuzzy

ballpark the
Dispatch
does, only you bat clean. You have an

32

Jason Pinter

hour. Find an angle the
Dispatch
will miss. The entire country

is going to be talking about Athena's murder, and we need to

give them something nobody else will. I don't want any

baseless conjecture. I don't want any name-calling. I don't

want to stoop to their level. I want you to report this story the

way a
Gazette
reporter would."

I nodded. Had no intention of doing it any other way. Since

I returned to the
Gazette
full time, I'd worked my ass off in

an effort to prove I could hack it at that level. My first goround had been sidetracked by a slight case of murder. I'd

spent the better part of a year trying to live down my own

story, and now it was time to return to what I did best. To what

I was born to do. Find the stories nobody else could.

I looked back at the crime scene. Saw where the body had

fallen. A ballistics expert used a pencil to trace an invisible

line from the top of a brownstone several blocks away to the

spot where the bullet had struck Athena. This club had

security cameras outside, meaning Athena's death had undoubtedly been captured live and in color.

All those cameras. All those witnesses. No doubt a dozen

people or more had taken cell phone photos and videos of her

murder. Who knew how many ghouls would post them publicly? Whoever had killed Athena couldn't have picked a more

public place. It was as if the killer wanted people to see it, to

record it, to spread his mayhem. It didn't make my job any

easier, that's for sure. There would be a cacophony of noise

tomorrow, and I needed to find a pitch that could rise above it.

I looked at the brownstone being eyed by the tech. Checked

my watch. Under an hour to find a story. Didn't have to be

the whole ball of yarn, just a strong thread. Sometimes a

thread was all you needed.

4

I pushed my way through the throng of eager reporters. Felt

more than one elbow jab my ribs. I wasn't naive enough to

think they were accidental. Much of the NYC press corps still

burned because of the publicity I'd received from my murder

rap. Grizzled vets who resented the book and film deals I'd

turned down. It was a Catch-22. They would have hated me

just as much if I'd taken the money. The spotlight of fame