Parker 02 - The Guilty (37 page)

diner until she saw me. Then she took an enormous deep

breath and came over. I leaned across the table and pushed

the seat out for her. I was nothing if not a gentleman.

"Henry," she said, placing her bag on the floor, then

thinking better of it and hanging it over the chair back. "It's

been a long time, we need to do this more often."

"We need to do this once and only once," I said. She

cocked her head like I was speaking ancient Sumerian.

"That's not how I feel," she said. A waiter came by and

handed her a menu. He began to walk away, but she snapped

her fingers and he turned around. "I'll have a bagel and cream

cheese, with the bagel scooped out and light cream cheese. I

also want capers, but not too many. And a glass of pineapple

juice." The waiter nodded and left.

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Jason Pinter

"So how's the
Dispatch
treating you?" I asked, taking a

swig of coffee.

"Oh, you know. Always busy, always hustling." She made

a running motion with her hands to denote that she did, literally, hustle. "Listen, Henry," she said, leaning forward

slightly. She was wearing a tight black sweater with a V-neck

that exposed the top of her remarkably perky breasts. I

wondered if she had them done. Then I decided I'd done

enough thinking about her breasts for the rest of my life. "I

know things haven't been great between us. But I'd like to

make amends."

"I'm sure you lose tons of sleep over it," I replied, "but everything I say today is off the record."

"You can't be serious." I pulled a tape recorder out of my

bag, held it up for her to see. "Let me guess. You got that 'off

the record' bit on tape."

"Just making sure my off the record is on the record."

Paulina laughed. The waiter arrived with a glass of pineapple juice, pulpy and thick. Paulina took a small sip, then

pointed a long fingernail at me.

"You know, I always thought Wallace was smart to bring

you onboard at the
Gazette.
That place is an old man's club.

And old men don't get younger--they die. And if nobody is

there to take over when they finally kick the bucket, the paper

will die, too. It was smart of him to inject some new blood."

"You've spilled enough ink calling for my blood this year,

I didn't think you cared so much."

She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "This is business,

honey. You sell newspapers. Cute, young guy like you.

Remember that actor from
The Sopranos,
supposedly killed

a cop? Every day his mug was on the front page we couldn't

print enough papers. Half the people that buy our rags don't

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315

read them, sweetie, they look at the headlines and the pictures

and move on to pictures of Paris Hilton in a bikini. The least

we can do is give them something to hold their interest."

"Like Mya and David Loverne."

Paulina shrank back. I could tell I'd struck a nerve. It felt

good, but I couldn't dig too deep. I was here for a reason.

"You know I never wanted to see either of them hurt." She

meant it. "Mya is a lost soul. People like reading about lost

souls, and they like to have someone to blame for it. You and

Get-Around-Town Loverne were easy marks. But you're not

so innocent yourself. I checked the hospital records. She was

admitted with those facial wounds. You really did hang up on

her when she called you. Your own girlfriend, lying beaten

on the street, and you turn the ringer off. Brave man."

"Keep punching, if it makes you feel better. I've lived with

it for a year and a half and I'll never forgive myself. But I

wasn't the one who hit her. And I've learned to live with the

rest of it."

"You say potato, I say poh-tahto. So here's the deal,"

Paulina said, ignoring the waiter as he brought over her bagel.

"You don't like me. That's fine. I have a man who makes me

come twice a night so I don't need more friends. But you

called
me,
Mr. Parker. So why am I here?"

"Because I've got a story for you," I said.

Paulina eyed me while she smeared cream cheese into the

crater where the bagel had been dug out. "You've got a story

for me? I hope it doesn't end with you squeezing sour grapes,

because that's a boring story and you're the only schmuck

who wants to read it."

"It's not sour grapes," I said. "Those are there, don't get

me wrong, but that's not why I called you. I have another story.

A better story. A story that will help you beat the
Gazette

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Jason Pinter

tomorrow if you have time to make it into the national

edition."

"I'm sorry, did Ted Allen put you on the payroll without

telling me?" Paulina asked. She took a bite of her bagel,

washed it down with pineapple juice. That combination

couldn't taste good.

"I have a once-in-a-lifetime lead. But Wallace won't let me

run with it. He said it'd stir up a ton of controversy and he

doesn't need more of that from me right now. He wants me

to lay low."

Paulina's eyes lit up at the word
controversy.

"So why come to me?" she said. "Why not take it to a

magazine?"

"It needs to run as soon as possible. There's a maniac out

there and I think this could smoke him out. And if Wallace is

too scared to run it, it's my duty to make sure it runs somewhere. I'm a journalist. My duty is to the truth first, my paycheck second."

"It has to do with this Billy the Kid angle," Paulina said.

"That's right."

"Do tell."

"Does the name Mark Rheingold ring a bell?"

She thought for a moment, tapping her nails against the

tabletop. "Religious guy, right? Had some big church down

South."

"Close enough. Do a little digging and you'll find out just

how big this guy was."

"So what's your point?"

I told Paulina what I'd discovered. Every word of it. I told

her how the Roberts family had died in that fire, along with

Pastor Rheingold. I told her how William Henry Roberts's

body was never found, and the county covered it up. How

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317

Roberts had been presumed dead for four years, and was continuing the bloody legacy of his ancestor, Billy the Kid.

Paulina listened transfixed. Yet there was fear in her eyes.

She knew I'd done enough digging so that this wasn't some

half-baked concoction. She could tell from my eyes that the

closest thing to a real demon this city had ever seen was currently walking the streets, had killed David Loverne and three

others and tried to kill Mya. I told her all of it.

"I still don't understand," she said, her voice much softer,

the confidence gone. "Mark Rheingold, why was he at that

house? If William Roberts really did..." she paused before

she said it "...kill his whole family, why kill Rheingold, too?"

I told her about the rumors of Rheingold's affairs with his

congregants. I told her about the photo I'd unearthed.

"I think Rheingold was having an affair with Meryl

Roberts, William's mother. I think William's father knew

about it. That's why Roberts killed Rheingold. He was killing

the man who brought disgrace to his family, Billy's family."

"Jesus," Paulina said. She looked like she'd aged ten years

in the last ten minutes. "And you want me to print this?"

I reached under the table and unzipped my knapsack. I

handed her dozens of pages of documents. Copies of all the

research I'd done, the photos I'd unearthed. Everything

proving Brushy Bill Roberts was Billy the Kid, and that

William considered himself heir to the throne.

"Between William and Billy they've killed almost thirty

people." I looked at Paulina, her face grave. "You got into this

business for the same reason I did. At least at first. You wanted

to tell the truth. You wanted to find the stories that matter.

Well, here's one that will rewrite history, and with any luck

save some lives. I don't want a byline or any credit. You can

take that. But it needs to run
tomorrow.
And if anything I said

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Jason Pinter

gets on the record in my voice, I swear to God I will make

you pay for the rest of your life. I've lost my girlfriend. I've

lost Mya. There's nothing more dangerous than someone

with nothing to lose. Right now all I have is my integrity. You

take that, I will make your life a living hell. I will sue you and

Ted Allen and the
Dispatch
for printing that shit about Mya

and me. I will lie through my teeth and tell people I fucked

you and then dumped your ass and that's why you're so

spiteful."

"What happened to the truth?" Paulina said sarcastically.

"Just this once, I'll not only stoop to your level, I'll wave

hello from six levels lower."

"I'll run it," she said, knowing I was serious. She tucked

the file into her purse. It barely fit. I knew she'd take good

care of it. "But if it's going to run I need to leave. I have a

story to write."

I gave her a military salute.

"I'll pick up the check."

"Next time it's on me," Paulina said. She stood up, threw

on her coat and purse.

I laughed, shook my head. "If I ever have a meal with you

again, expect a healthy dose of arsenic in your pineapple

juice. So you'd better hope there's no check to get."

"I like this side of you, Henry," she said. "You act all nice,

like you're the cub reporter who can do no wrong, but you've

got some ice in those veins. Keep 'em cold, tiger."

And she left.

I sat there sipping my coffee, having made either a brilliant calculation or a horrible mistake. I was pretty sure it was

the former. I'd find out tomorrow.

52

Nobody really noticed him as he walked by. His suit was

tailored and his shirt was neatly tucked in. His bright red tie

practically screamed POWER! from the rooftops. His shoes

were shined, hair combed back and soaked with gel. He

looked like any one of a million investment bankers or traders

on their way to becoming the twenty-first century master of

the universe. He was one in a million.

A few did glance at the guitar strapped over his back,

assumed after leaving the office he would play a gig at some

dank bar with his other gel compadres, where drunken patrons

would worship him for exactly forty-five minutes before

going home to either puke or screw some desperate groupie.

The truth was, the guitar case was made out of a lightweight carbon, the whole thing weighing less than five

pounds. The Winchester rifle housed inside made the whole

contraption weigh just over ten. It was easy to run with,

narrow enough to fit through subway doors and turnstiles,

scamper down fire escapes and disappear into the city crowds.

And since he always dressed as either a young, rich broker

or some near-homeless schlub looking for that one gig that

would get him discovered, as far as New York was concerned

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Jason Pinter

he was faceless. Voiceless. Like a million more of his generation looked upon by their elders as those who sucked the

life from the system and gave nothing back.

Unlike those faceless assholes, he would be remembered.

Like his great-grandfather was. Twenty-one when Billy allegedly died, yet that was enough time to carve a legacy that

would live for generations.

William's legacy would be a new chapter. The Winchester was more than an heirloom, it was an artery through which

their bloodline flowed.

When he woke up this morning, though, William knew

there was a chance he might never use his beloved gun again.

It had served him better than any weapon he could imagine,

but the gun was old, not meant to be fired so many times in

such a short span. At least in a museum it wasn't exposed to

the elements. But legends weren't meant to be kept on display.

One more shot. One more kill.

William was sure that Amanda Davies's death would deal

Henry Parker that one grievous blow that would finally push

him over the edge.

William had paid his last night at the hotel, and the nearly

blind old man who ran the place said he was sorry to see him

go. William couldn't help but laugh, wondered if he should

correct the man.
Sorry to
hear
you go.

Yesterday's newspapers had been the most heartening

yet. One editorial admitted that William had become some

sort of folk hero, that each of his victims had some penance

to pay and the devil had come to collect. Just like his greatgrandfather had.

The gun was a means to an end. And once Henry Parker

felt what he felt, experienced the same loss he had, knew
what

it was like to cut the disease away,
the fuse would be lit. Henry

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321

would mythologize William Roberts, and the legend would

be made. Billy the Kid wasn't made a legend until Pat Garrett