Parker 02 - The Guilty (34 page)

Mya Loverne. Was it possible...

Paulina cleared her throat, blew her nose into a handkerchief. She picked up the phone and dialed the Metro desk.

"Fred, Paulina Cole here. Call Ted Allen. Tell him Senator

Brisbane is being pushed back to page seven. We have a new

page-one story tomorrow."

She hung up. Looked at James.

"Did they say Mya is going to make it?" she asked. James

shook his head.

"I couldn't get into the hospital, and nobody would speak

on her condition. But it looked pretty bad."

Paulina closed her eyes, dismissed James with a wave of

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her hand. When he left, she sat back, folded her hands behind

her head. Then with a snap she sat forward, pushing the

sympathy from her mind. Then she turned on her computer,

and began to type.

46

There is no place whose atmosphere gives off such a potent

mixture of calm and anxiety as a hospital room. The beeps

come at such even intervals that if you forget their purpose

for a moment, they could easily lull you to sleep. Then you

remember what they represent and that knot swells up in your

stomach, you look at the prone figure being monitored by

machines, and you feel like you might never sleep again.

Watching Mya breathe through a tube, that's how I felt.

Chairs in hospital rooms weren't any better. They were all

metal and odd contours. As if the hospital didn't want you

relaxing on the job.

I was alone in the room with Mya. Her mother, Cindy

Loverne, was asked to leave by hospital staff. She arrived

shortly after Mya and broke down immediately. Screaming.

Crying. Asking how God could allow her husband and

daughter to possibly be taken in the same week. She asked if

God was testing her strength as a woman, as a person. It

wasn't God who had done this to her family.

Cindy had hugged me. I hadn't seen her in almost a year

and a half, the last time being in a different hospital room.

Again, watching Mya breathe. It was hard not to apologize

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to Cindy Loverne; meeting me was the worst thing that ever

happened to Mya.

The last time Mya was in the hospital she left with a barely

visible scar. But I always knew it was there, might as well

have been a bloodred tattoo.

If Mya survived this--the doctors had given her a thirty

percent chance of doing so--she wouldn't be so lucky this time.

Mya had suffered multiple skull fractures and a shattered

hip. It took three hours of surgery to reduce the swelling in

her brain, to fuse her bones back together. And that was the

good news. The doctors said thankfully she'd landed on her

side. That might have saved her life. If she'd landed on her

back or head, she would either be paralyzed or dead. At least

now she had a fighting chance. And I knew Mya was a

fighter. I
knew
it.

"Hey. Henry."

I turned around. Curt Sheffield was standing in the doorway. He was dressed in full uniform. The blue clashed against

the white walls. I noticed the gun on his belt, holstered, safe.

For a moment I thought about grabbing it, marching into the

street and stalking around the city until that bastard Roberts

showed his face. And then I would show him the same mercy

he showed everyone else. None.

Curt gestured for me to join him outside. I nodded, stood

up. Watched Mya's chest rise and fall.

I went into the hallway, followed Curt toward a small

waiting area. We both took seats.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's got a battle ahead of her."

"She looks like the kind of girl who's fought a lot of battles

recently." I nodded, knew many of them were my fault.

"She's tough," I said. "Her hip will be fine. It's her head

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they're concerned about. They won't know how much

damage there is until the swelling comes down."

"Jesus," Curt said, shaking his head. "Thing like this, kind

of makes you want to become an atheist."

"Actually I've never prayed more in my life. But I'm pretty

sure God is considering revoking my baptism right now."

"You know this isn't your fault, right?" Curt watched me,

waited for a response. I didn't answer him. I couldn't.

Because it wouldn't be the answer he was hoping for. "Henry,

you know that, right?"

"Amanda," I said. "Have you..."

"She's staying with a co-worker tonight. You know she's

worried sick about you, man," Curt said. "Amanda's a hell of

a catch. It hurt her to see Mya like that. She just doesn't want

it to break you."

"It won't break me," I said. "But it might have broken us."

"Do you love her?" he asked. I said nothing. "I said do

you love her?"

"Yes," I said. "I do."

"Then don't do this. You're a selfish prick you don't at least

call. You think you're the only one hurting?"

"I can't see Amanda ending up like that," I said, pointing

toward Mya's room. "That girl is in there because of me.

Because of who I am and what I do. I can't control anything,

man. I can't help myself from taking these punches, but I'll

be damned if Amanda needs to feel them, too."

"You don't think she's feeling it right now?"

"Not the same way Mya is. Emotional pain hurts, yeah. But

physical pain can kill. I'd rather her be devastated than dead."

I looked up at Curt. "Have you come any closer to catching

this guy? Please tell me they've found the son of a bitch."

Curt took a deep breath. I saw a twitch as his hand went

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to his holster. I knew what he was wishing, because I felt

the same way.

"No," he said. "NYPD is tripping over themselves to get

at this guy, but the mayor's made everyone scared. Too many

young guys in this city, too many potential suspects. One

person gets an itchy trigger finger, Roberts is forgotten about

and we have a crisis on our hands."

"So what then, we wait until he kills someone else, falls

asleep at the scene?"

"First off," Curt said, "there's no 'we.' You're not a cop.

You do your job, keep digging up leads, write shit people care

about. We'll do ours and eventually we'll catch this guy."

"Bang-up job so far," I said.

"You know what, Henry? Go fuck yourself. You're not the

only one hurting. Four people are dead and your ex is banged

up bad. You want to vent? Go ahead. But don't crap on the

only people left who give a damn about you."

"I don't need this," I said. "I have work to do. I have to

find this guy."

"Yeah, right."

"You gonna stop me?"

"Stop you?" Curt said, laughing. "Why would I do that?

Hell, I'll even walk you out. But listen, man, Carruthers is

going to make another statement tonight." He took a breath.

"They found another quote. Where he pushed Mya."

"Jesus."

"Thought you'd be better off hearing it from me instead

of the tube."

"Thanks for small favors. What did it say?"

"Was addressed to you," Curt said.

"To me?"

Curt nodded. "Said, 'Henry:
Quien es?
'"

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"Quien es?"

"It's Spanish," Curt said.

"I figured that," I said. "What's it mean?"

"Means 'who is it?'"

"He asked me 'who is it?'"

"Guess he's not done with you, yet. Be careful, my friend."

Cindy Loverne passed us in the hall. She grazed my

shoulder with her hand, gave a weak smile.

"Gimme a minute to talk to Mya's mom," I said. "Then

I'll head out."

"Take your time," Curt replied. "That family needs you

more than I do."

I nodded, clapped Curt on the back, entered Mya's hospital room. Cindy was kneeling on the floor. She was

holding Mya's hand, stroking it gently. I heard her whispering close to her daughter's face. I hadn't entered quietly. I

watched Cindy speak to her daughter for several minutes

before she stood up, walked to an empty chair and flung

herself down.

"How are you, Mrs. Loverne?"

The woman's expression didn't change. She had a dreamy

look in her eyes, slightly glazed. She was likely on some sort

of sedative. If these things had happened to my husband and

daughter I'd want to be knocked out, too.

"I'm okay," she said, her voice slow and deliberate.

"How've you been, Henry? It's been such a long time."

"I'm doing okay," I said.

"I see your name in the newspaper a lot. So proud that

you're doing so well for yourself."

I said nothing. Felt proud of nothing. And receiving compliments made me feel worse.

"I'm so sorry about Mya," I said. "But she's going to make

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it and come out a hundred percent. She's going to recover and

be a great lawyer. She's going to make you proud."

"That'd be nice," Cindy said. "David always said Mya

had the brains in the family. I sure believed him. Did you

know David used to watch 'Cops' every night? And those

'When Animals Attack' videos? I always said to him,

'David, how can such an educated man watch such tripe?'

You know what he said?"

"No, what did he say?"

"He said every smart person needs some stupidity to take

their minds off of life."

"Mya used to always make me watch videos of people

getting tricked," I said. "Candid camera-type stuff."

"Oh!" Cindy said, clapping her hands together. "Like the

one where someone drops a fake spider onto the shoppers

at the mall."

"She almost burned out my DVD player at school, making

me watch that."

Cindy's face was red, her smile long and genuine. She

looked over at her daughter, her head swathed in bandages,

and the smile quickly disappeared. "I hope you get to watch

those with her again sometime," she said. "Henry?"

"Yes, Mrs. Loverne?"

"Would you like to watch those videos with me and Mya

sometime? When she gets out of this place?"

"There's nothing I'd rather do more," I said. And I meant it.

"Henry, would you mind giving me some time alone with

my daughter?"

"Of course not," I said. "You have my cell phone number

in case you need anything, right?"

She held up her phone. "It's been programmed in here for

a long time."

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293

I smiled. "Please call me. For anything."

Cindy only nodded, and went back to staring at her

daughter. I stood up, went over to Mya, kissed her lightly on

the forehead. Cindy was beaming as I stood up.

"Take care, Mrs. Loverne."

"You, too, Henry. Such a handsome boy. I'm so glad my

baby dated a boy with such ambition."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Loverne."

I left the hospital and met Curt outside. Then I caught a

cab to Rockefeller Plaza.

Roberts had to have left a trail somewhere. Pastor Mark

Rheingold. Something about him wasn't right. And where

better to find a trail to heaven than to start with a man of God?

47

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Amanda spun around. Darcy Lapore was standing by her

desk, arms folded as though expecting an easy yes. Darcy was

married, in her early thirties, made less than thirty grand a

year, yet never came to work wearing an outfit that cost less

than the net worth of the average Colombian drug czar. Her

husband--a sweet man named Greg who just happened to

work at a hedge fund--lavished expensive jewels and Caribbean vacations on her like the Gulf of Mexico might dry up

at any moment. Despite this, Darcy still gave out her phone

number to any suitor who asked. Always off by one number,

though, and thankfully men were pretty stupid.

Amanda had never been to the Bahamas. Or Mexico. She'd

never been outside the continental United States. It wasn't that

Lawrence and Harriet never tried to take her on family

vacation, but they would always be that: Lawrence and

Harriet. They would never be her parents--her family. She

never had any desire to go away with them. It was like going

away with a roommate you didn't particularly get along with.

Children found themselves at odds with their parents all the

time, but there was always an inherent love, a binding that sur-
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passed most animosity. She never had that bond. So the animosity lingered.

It wasn't hate, they were good people after all, but there

was never any desire to spend more time with them than she

had to. Brief chats at the dinner table, superficial discussions

about homework, friends, occasionally boys and the future.

Amanda loved to talk about the future.

Darcy was constantly stuck in the present. The "what now."

Which is why Amanda liked her.

Today Darcy was wearing a stylish Versace pantsuit and a

maroon tank top underneath. Her buoyant cleavage was

visible above the lapels. Appropriate attire for a not-for-profit

organization. A thin string of pearls danced around her neck,