Parker 02 - The Guilty (11 page)

The Franklin-Rees company published many of the country's most popular magazines. A multibillion-dollar corporation, its headquarters was a brilliant steel monstrosity with

enough security measures inside to stop a tank. But as I got

closer, I could tell that all the security inside the building was

useless to prevent the horror of what happened just outside.

I saw a dozen officers, guns drawn, massing around the

entrance to the Franklin-Rees building. Curt Sheffield was

barking into a walkie-talkie. I heard sirens. Cop cars. An ambulance seemed to be drawing near. I stepped closer. And

wondered why the ambulance was in such a rush.

A man lay on the sidewalk. A pool of blood was spread-
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ing around his head. Or at least what was left of it. When I

saw the piece of brain sliding down the polished glass door,

my stomach lurched and I felt dizzy.

Aside from the crowd of New York's finest, a small crowd

of onlookers watched from across the street. Several officers

were shooing away ghouls with cameras. I could see a tuft of

gray hair amidst the mass of blood and gore. Then the wind

caught it, and took it away.

The dead man was wearing a tailored suit. From the liver

spots on his hands, I guessed him to be in his late fifties or

early sixties. A white handkerchief, once tucked neatly into

the jacket pocket, now fluttered like a trapped dove.

When he put the walkie-talkie down, I approached Curt.

"What the hell happened?"

"Not now, Henry."

"Please, just one minute..."

"I said
not now,
" Curt said, pushing me away.

Not now
didn't compute. I had to know. And if Curt wasn't

talking, none of the cops would. And enough people were

milling about that somebody had to know something.

Pushing the nausea aside, I walked across the street, right

into the mass of onlookers.

I took out my press pass and held it above my head.

"Did anybody see anything?" I shouted. "Please, we need

witnesses."

Nobody said a word. They were either too frightened or

too busy relaying the news to their entire address book. I

scanned the crowd. Looked each person in the face, tried to

understand their emotional state, if there was anything more

to them being there.

One woman stood out. She had stringy brown hair, a cheap

pantsuit and a brooch that looked way out of her price range.

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Jason Pinter

There was a speck of red on her white blouse that I knew had

to be blood. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. She stared

at me for a moment, then looked away.

Slowly I walked up to her. I extended my press pass, along

with my hand. She stared at me, unsure of what to do. Her

eyes were terrified, but something was shackling her to the

scene. She had to be here. She was much closer to all this than

she wanted to be.

"You were next to him, weren't you?" I asked softly. She

nodded. "I'm Henry," I said, taking her hand in mine. Her

whole body was shaking. I put my hand on her shoulder,

tried to comfort her. I felt silly. I'd seen people die in front of

me. And no hand in the world could comfort that.

"Betty Grable," she said. "I'm--was--oh God--I'm Mr.

Lourdes's assistant."

My jaw dropped.

"That," I spat out. "That's Jeffrey Lourdes?"

She nodded again, then burst into tears.

Jeffrey Lourdes was the publisher of
Moss
magazine, and one

of the most influential figures in popular culture for nearly thirty

years. He'd been credited for discovering dozens of headlining

acts, some of the greatest reporting the country had ever seen,

and now he was a mass of flesh torn apart by a piece of lead.

"I didn't know what was happening," Betty said. "I swear."

Her hands were a trembling mess, tears cascading down her

cheeks. "I was just telling him he had to be in early tomorrow

for a photo shoot, then out of nowhere--"

She covered her mouth with her hand, choked sobs into it.

I stayed silent. Had to let it come to her.

"Then he shot him!" she cried. "He shot him!"

"Who?" I asked.

"The young man," she said, her lip quivering. "He did it."

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95

"Who was he? Young man? How old was he? What did he

look like?"

"I don't know," Betty said. She looked at me as if having

a revelation. "He looked about your age."

I stopped writing, looked at her.

"What happened?"

"We were standing there, Jeffrey was about to hail a taxi,

and all of a sudden this man came out of nowhere. He was

holding this giant--gun isn't even the right word--this giant

thing.
This fucking
cannon.
He just walked right up to Jeffrey

and pulled the trigger, and then he ran. Oh God, Jeffrey!" She

was staring at the body. One foot was visible through the sea

of blue and white. I saw a police car pull up in front. An ambulance behind it. Two EMS workers popped out, ran to the

body. I could tell from their body language they weren't going

to work too hard on this one.

"What did he look like?" I said.

Betty shook her head. Not because she didn't know, but

because she didn't want to.

"He was tall," she said. "Maybe an inch taller than you.

Jeans. A jacket." She trailed off.

"What else?"

"I don't know!" she cried.

"Trust me, I know this is hard," I said. "But did he have

any distinguishing features. Facial hair, tattoos, piercings..."

"The gun," she said.

"The gun?"

"The way he held it after he killed Jeffrey. I'll never forget

that look in his eye. He stared at his gun for a second and then

he ran. Looked at it the way somebody looks at a lover. This

sick, sick boy. Oh my God..."

"The gun," I said. "What did it look like?"

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Jason Pinter

She looked at me as if in shock that I could be asking such

a trivial question.

"Please. It's important.
Think.
"

"It...it looked like something out of a movie. Not a recent

movie, something old. And the way he held it, like it was fragile."

"What about what the gun looked like?"

"The handle was brown..."

"Could it have been made from wood?" I asked. She nodded.

"There was this terrible explosion..." She stopped.

"Please, I can't do this right now."

"Can you tell me anything else about it? Was it one

barrel or two?"

"I don't know! I've never seen a real gun before in my life,

now
please
leave me alone."

Just then a cop seemed to take notice and jogged over to

us. He separated me, whispered, "Get the fuck out of here,

scum." Then he said, "Miss, did you see the shooter?"

As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder long enough

to see her nod and then collapse in his arms.

Ten feet from the carnage, a man clicked open his cell

phone. Sweat was streaming down his face. He'd thankfully

skipped lunch. Breathing heavy, he pressed Redial and waited

for an answer.

"Hello?"

"Miss Cole?" He mopped at his brow with a shirtsleeve.

"It's James Keach. You'll never believe what just happened."

17

I arrived home tired to the bone. After spending hours writing

my piece on the Jeffrey Lourdes murder, my fingers ached, and

my head throbbed. I'd had enough death for a lifetime, and I

was growing tired of seeing it up close. I tossed my wallet and

keys on the table, fell into the couch next to Amanda. She put

her hand on mine. I squeezed it with whatever energy I had left.

We sat there. Tried to talk. Conversation came in bits and

pieces. Amanda had ordered dinner for both of us. I wasn't

hungry, just watched her poke at a salad. I stirred my pasta

with a disinterested fork. All I could think about was Jeffrey

Lourdes, and how ironic it was that the first time I ever saw

him in person, his most recognizable feature had been

reduced to blood and bone.

Betty Grable's words still rang in my ears. Between what

Curt Sheffield told me about the ammunition used to kill both

Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser, and her description of the

weapon used to kill Jeffrey Lourdes, there was no doubt in

my mind that the killer was using a rifle that took magnum

bullets, and he was using that weapon for a reason. And

somehow I had to find that reason, and use that to find the

killer.

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Jason Pinter

"How's work?" I asked Amanda. It was just a conversation starter, something to break the mood. Death was an inevitable part of reporting, but it had no place at the dinner

table.

"The judge is still being a dick on the Mary Westin case,"

she said. "Three abuse complaints from the neighbors, two

cigarette burns and Judge Jellyfish still doesn't realize it's in

Mary's best interest to be taken the hell away from her sickass parents."

I nodded, picked at a piece of penne. On many nights I'd

told Amanda how proud I was of her--both her work ethic

and choice of profession. After graduation, Amanda had

passed her bar exam and achieved high enough marks to

warrant a position in the Juvenile Rights Division of the New

York Legal Aid Society. The caseload for lawyers working for

the Legal Aid Society had increased nearly a hundred percent

in the last few years, mainly due to some high-profile cases

of child abuse and neglect that resulted in the horrific death

of children who had slipped through the cracks. The Legal

Aid Society had taken a beating in the press for their alleged

inability to protect children whose parents were already the

recipients of numerous abuse complaints. Because of this

they were looking for fresh blood, cowboys and cowgirls

who wouldn't stand for red tape.

Amanda worked long hours, alongside several other lawyers

who were appointed "law guardians" by the court. It was incredibly enriching work for her, I knew. But spending all day

every day around troubled and abused children took its toll.

Sometimes she would come home, crawl into bed and appear

on the verge of tears. She was too strong for that, though. She

knew her tears were trivial compared to the reality of the situation. And her energy was better focused outward than in.

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99

"You know, I sit there sometimes," she continued, "and I

want to scream. Not that I really hate the guys I work for, but

in these cases you need to throw the book against the wall and

just holler. Right and wrong doesn't stem from legal precedent."

I felt her staring at me, waiting for a response. I didn't

want to talk about my day, but had to bite my tongue not to

erupt. I hated making Amanda feel like my troubles were any

more important than hers, but I couldn't focus on anything

but this story.

"I have a lot of work for tomorrow," I said. "I'm pretty sure

whoever's responsible for these murders is using an antique

rifle or a replica, something that hasn't been used in a long

time. There are thirty-two gun shops in the five boroughs

alone, so I have my work cut out for me."

"You should talk to Agnes Trimble," Amanda said, sighing,

wiping her mouth as a tomato spurted juice onto her plate. "She

was my American History professor at NYU. Brilliant woman,

but she scared the hell out of us during student conferences.

She kept half a dozen model guns in her office, you know, like

some people keep snow globes or toy fire trucks. She knows

more about guns than Al Gore knows about the environment.

Belongs to the NRA, all that good stuff. I can call her if you'd

like, she should be in the city for the next few weeks and I'm

sure she'd be happy to talk to you. Who knows, maybe she can

help."

"Actually, yeah. That'd be a huge help," I said. "Thanks."