She thought about Henry, their relationship. It was still a
relatively new thing, still exciting, but neither of them really
knew what lay around the corner. They’d been dating steady
for nearly a year, though for the life of her she couldn’t
remember an official start date, other than the first day Henry
introduced her as his girlfriend. It’d been a surprise but a
pleasant one. After he was released from the hospital, everything just seemed to happen. Not that she had any problem
with it—it felt good introducing him, holding his hand at
night, saying the word boyfriend and knowing it meant more
than some silly schoolgirl thing.
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For years, Amanda didn’t trust anybody. Not the nuns who
ran the various orphanages she was shuttled between as a little
girl, not the boys who claimed they liked her then split when
the bra clasp remained fastened. Even Lawrence and Harriet
Stein, the perfectly nice oatmeal couple who finally gave her
a home, had a hard time earning any trust from their adopted
daughter. And it still hadn’t fully come.
She was amazed at the ease in which Henry settled into their
relationship. She moved in with him just months after they met
and he adapted like a dried fish being put back in water. He was
romantic, honest, sincere. Even about the hard things. Mya. His
father. He asked questions about her job, her family. He made
her feel like she mattered. For Henry, the process seemed purifying. For Amanda, the process was much more difficult.
She’d shared beds with boyfriends, made dinner for special
guys and on some lucky nights had it made for her. But she’d
never shared a laundry hamper. She’d never gone to work only
to come home and see the same person she’d gone to sleep with.
It was a challenge, and some nights, all she wanted was
space that their one-bedroom could not provide, all she
wanted to do was scream, pull the notebooks from storage and
wander the streets taking stock of everyone she came across.
But then she’d look at Henry. Sitting at his desk, reading
a book or a newspaper. Writing on a notepad. She’d read his
bylines in the Gazette and feel her heart swell with pride. And
she would look at her man and smile, and he would smile
back, and then Henry would come over and kiss her on the
cheek and go right back to work.
Henry had been in a serious relationship. Mya. It was as
serious as most college relationships went. It wasn’t hard,
Amanda figured, to move from one relationship to another.
The person changes, but the habits carry over. He’d shared a
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bed. Shared a hamper. Amanda supposed she could be
thankful he wasn’t awkward. But part of her wished they
were both experiencing the doubts and fears for the first time,
together.
Amanda’s sense of trust seemed to come organically.
Funny, since the very first thing Henry ever did was lie to her.
He lied about his name to save his life, posed as someone else.
But only on the surface. She could tell, from the moment they
met, what kind of person he was. Maybe it was years of
keeping journals, sizing up people in a quick glance. Because
one thing Amanda always had a keen eye for was kindness.
And in Henry she found that.
She knew the last year had eaten away at him. In between
recovery from his wounds, the subsequent media frenzy, and
then his attempt to settle back into a tenuous routine. Over
the last few days, the sanctity of that routine had been threatened. Two horrible murders, one a man who, just twelve
months ago, wanted nothing more than to kill him. She knew
the guilt he still felt over John Fredrickson’s death. Stroked
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.
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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,
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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
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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.”
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“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
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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 he
r 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
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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
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