Parker 02 - The Guilty (21 page)

word
to the press until everyone at the
Gazette
had a chance

to sort through the wreckage. He told me to call him as soon

as I got the message.

The next two were from Wallace Langston. Asking me to

call him as soon as I got his message. Telling me it was urgent

beyond belief.

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179

The third was from a reporter from the
New York Times.

The fourth was from a reporter for the Associated Press. The

fifth through tenth messages were also from reporters asking

for a quote on today's story in the
Dispatch
as well as my

thoughts on the death of David Loverne. I knew nothing yet

about the circumstances surrounding Loverne's death.

The last message was a hang up, but I heard a soft whisper

say "Henry" before the line went dead. I didn't need to check

the call log to know who it was from.

I checked the newsstand as I ran through the airport,

hoping to see something about Loverne's murder, but there

was nothing. It happened too late to make the papers. The

only ink about the Lovernes at all, in fact, was Paulina's story.

As I waited in the taxi line, I couldn't help but think it was

an awful coincidence that Mya's father was killed the day

Paulina's story ran. That his dalliances seemed to have flown

under the radar for so long, what were the chances of his

being murdered on the very day they were made public, put

under harsh light? The odds were too long to be a coincidence. Clearly Loverne was killed for a reason. I didn't have

to ask anyone. I knew Loverne had been killed by the same

sick son of a bitch who'd killed Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser

and Jeffrey Lourdes. Another public figure. Another public

execution.

I called Amanda first.

"Jesus, Henry," she said, picking up on the first ring.

"Where are you?"

"I'm on my way back from the airport. I should be in the

city in twenty minutes."

"Are you okay?"

How could I answer that?

"I'm fine," I said.

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Jason Pinter

"You don't sound fine. Talk to me."

"I have to go right to the
Gazette.
They're going to want

to know what the hell is going on."

"Babe, I want to see you, are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, this time my voice barely masking the

irritation, then hating myself for talking to her like that. "I

don't know when I'll be home, but I'll talk to you then. I found

a lot in New Mexico. I think I have a line on who the killer

is. Or thinks he is."

"Well, I have to work late, but if you need anything please

let me know. Hen, I'm so sorry about this. I know how close

you were to that family."

It took a moment to gather myself.

"Henry, you there?"

"Yeah...listen, I'll call you when I know more. I might

need one of those cyanide pills they give to soldiers in case

they're captured."

"Don't say that."

"I'm kidding."

"Call me when you know more. Talk to Jack, I'm sure he

can help. I'll see you at home. I love you."

I paused for a moment, letting those words sink in.

"I love you, too."

As soon as I hung up I called Jack's private line. There was

no answer. I cursed and left a brief message.

"Jack, it's Henry. Listen, I have something you need to

hear. I know why the killer is using that gun. Call me as

soon as you get this. I'll need your help before I go into

the buzz saw."

As my cab veered toward the Grand Central Parkway, the

sun began to dip below the clouds, turning New York a beautiful dark blue. I could feel sweat dripping down my neck.

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181

Putting Loverne's murder aside, I had new information that

would be vital to the reporting on this story. I just hoped it

would be heard through all the noise.

The fare was thirty-five bucks. I tossed two twenties at the

driver and raced into the
Gazette
office. There were two other

days I'd felt this kind of queasy apprehension about going to

work. My first day in the office, where I met Wallace and

Paulina and nearly offered to polish Jack O'Donnell's shoes.

My first day back on the job after running for my life from

Joe Mauser and the assassin Shelton Barnes. And now today.

I entered the silent lobby, heard my shoes clacking on the

marble floor. The security guard nodded hello and went back

to reading his newspaper. From his polite demeanor, I guessed

he hadn't read Paulina's article.

I swiped my pass and went to the Metro floor. The doors

opened, and standing right there was Evelyn Waterstone.

Short, cold, mean--I couldn't tell if her reaction to my

presence was based on general surliness or was simply her

normal countenance.

"Parker," she said.

"Hey, Evelyn," I replied.

"Nice reporting on the ballistics story with Jack."

"Thanks," I stammered, trying to remember the last time

Evelyn had offered a pleasantry.

"Hope you're still around tomorrow," she added, before

walking away.

As I threaded my way toward my desk, I noticed that every

reporter, stringer and editor had stopped what they were doing

to watch me. I couldn't look them in the eye.

Once again, I was the story.

I barely had time to sit down when Wallace was standing

over my desk. His eyes were tinged with red and the indents

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on his nose meant he'd stayed at the office overnight without

removing his glasses. His hair was askew, tie loosened, like

a school kid roughed up by the classroom bully. He pressed

his lips together and said, "Come with me."

I felt eyes boring into my back as we walked to the elevator.

I didn't have to ask where we were going. Wallace pressed

the button, then shoved his hands back into his pockets. Then

he looked at me.

"That was good work you did for Jack," he said.

"I think there's much more to these murders than the bal listic report," I said. "I've been in New Mexico, I--"

"Later," Wallace said. The doors opened. "Let's go."

My stomach surged upward with the motion of the elevator. I wondered if the feeling in my gut was what prisoners felt like before their execution. We got off on the

eighteenth floor. I'd heard about the eighteenth floor, but had

never been there. Unless you were nominated for a Pulitzer

or were about to have the rug pulled out from your career, you

never came up here. And I sure as hell wasn't up for a Pulitzer.

The digital counter stopped at 18. The doors opened.

Everything looked newer up here; the wood paneling dark

and freshly polished, the newspapers in the waiting area

folded, and even the receptionist looked like she spent a little

more time at the gym than those on the Metro floor. She

guarded a narrow hallway with one set of double doors at the

end. The office of Harvey Hillerman, chairman and CEO of

the
New York Gazette.

Wallace nodded at the receptionist.

"You can go right in," she said.

"Thanks, Gloria." Gloria went back to typing.

The doors swung open as we approached. Harvey Hiller-man was standing in front of us, holding the door open, an

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183

unlit cigar in his mouth. The end was sopping wet and looked

like a gangrenous limb that could detach at any moment.

His sleeves were a little too long for his wrists. His jacket

seemed to billow out. On the wall was a framed portrait of

Hillerman standing next to Bill Clinton, Hillerman's pants

just a bit too baggy, as if the clothes he wore belonged to a

larger man.

Harvey Hillerman's office was startlingly clear of any sort

of clutter. Lining his walls were several dozen framed page

ones from various
Gazette
editions. I scanned the headlines

while Harvey and Wallace exchanged awkward pleasantries.

April 4, 1996. Theodore Kaczynski, aka the Unabomber,

is arrested at his remote cabin in Montana after his brother,

David, notifies authorities.

February 5, 1997. O.J. Simpson is found liable in civil

court for the wrongful deaths of Nicole Brown Simpson and

Ronald Goldman and ordered to pay $33,500,000 in damages.

August 18, 1998. During Grand Jury testimony, President

Bill Clinton admits to an "inappropriate" relationship with

former White House intern Monica Lewinsky.

July 17, 1999. John F. Kennedy, Jr. and his wife are

killed after the plane Kennedy was flying crashes into the

Atlantic Ocean.

December 14, 2000. Democratic Presidential nominee Al

Gore concedes the presidential election to George W. Bush,

over a month after election day.

September 12, 2001. The day after terrorists killed nearly

three thousand Americans.

March 3, 2002. The launch of Operation Anaconda, the

first large-scale battle during the United States' war in Afghanistan since the Battle of Tora Bora in December, 2001.

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Jason Pinter

March 13, 2003. Elizabeth Smart is found alive nine months

after being kidnapped by two Morman fundamentalists.

December 14, 2003. United States military forces capture

Saddam Hussein.

December 27, 2004. An earthquake measuring between

9.1-9.3 on the Richter scale occurs in the Indian Ocean, triggering massive tsunamis over South and Southeast Asia

killing over 180,000 people.

"Murder, calamity and scandal," Hillerman said. "They're

usually the first things people look at." My eyes leapt from

the frames to the chairman.

Harvey Hillerman was a tall man, gray neatly-coiffed

hair, with round tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a Montblanc

sticking out of his shirt pocket. His desk was covered with

shiny things: trophies, awards, metallic pens and things

encased in glass.

He motioned to the framed editions. "Each of those represents the bestselling newspaper of that calendar year." He

gazed at them for a moment, reflective, then motioned to the

oversize chairs positioned at forty-five-degree angles in front

of his desk. "Wally, Henry, please sit," he said. We both did so.

"Sir," I said, "before you say anything can I just say

things didn't happen the way the
Dispatch
said they did.

Paulina, she--"

"That's enough, Parker," Hillerman said. "Mind if I ask

where you've been the last few days?"

"New Mexico, sir."

"New Mexico!" Hillerman exclaimed. "What in the bloody

hell were you doing in New Mexico, vacationing?"

"No, sir," I said. "I was following the lead Jack and I touched

on in today's paper. The gun angle. It goes deeper--"

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185

"Did you know about this trip to New Mexico?" Hillerman

asked Wallace.

"O'Donnell made me aware of it last night," he said,

looking at his shoes.

Hillerman squinted his eyes as he stared at me. I didn't

know whether to stare back or let the visual beatdown continue.

"So, Parker," Hillerman finally said. His voice wasn't reprimanding, it was...interested. "Tell us what you found in

New Mexico."

I did a double take.

"Sir?"

"You went there for a reason. I'm hoping you didn't come

up empty-handed."

"Well," I said, clearing my throat, "I was able to identify

the murder weapon as a Winchester rifle, model 1873. That

model is extremely rare, considering Winchester discontinued the gun a hundred years ago. There are barely a few

dozen still in working condition."

Hillerman's eyes widened.

"I figured the gun had to have been stolen from either a

private collection or a museum. Had a gun with that value

been stolen from a collector, they would have filed the requisite insurance claims. There are less than twenty museums

in North America with records of a Winchester 1873. Every

museum still had the Winchester in their possession, except

for one."

"Let me guess. It was in New Mexico," Hillerman said.

"That's right."

"And did you find this museum?"

"Yes, sir, I did. The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in

Fort Sumner."

"And?" Hillerman said.

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Jason Pinter

"After getting railroaded at first by the manager, he eventually confessed that the model they were currently displaying was

a replica, that the real one had been stolen several years back.

They couldn't afford the insurance or security measures and

couldn't risk losing tourist dollars by simply closing the exhibit."

"So the weapon this man has been using was stolen from

a New Mexico museum and then brought to New York where

it's killed four people," Hillerman said. "That's an awful long

schlep, just to use a certain gun."

"Not for this killer. He stole that gun for a reason," I said.

"And why is that?"

"Because the gun he stole used to belong to Billy the Kid."

Hillerman sat back in his chair. The cigar was still hanging

from his mouth, but he seemed to have forgotten about it.