Parker 02 - The Guilty (35 page)

and the diamonds in her ears could have choked a horse.

"Baby, you want to talk?" she repeated.

"You know, I appreciate the gesture," Amanda said, "but

I'm okay. Thanks anyway."

"You don't look okay, honey darling," Darcy said. That

was another Darcy trademark--taking two NutraSweet words

and sticking them together like syrup on top of fried sugar.

"What's the matter?"

"Really," Amanda said, self-consciously pulling her V-neck

sweater up a little higher. "It's okay."

Darcy rolled a chair over, nearly knocking over a potted

plant in the process. "Is it boy trouble?" she asked with a mischievous smile, clearly hoping it would be. Though Darcy's

idea of boy trouble likely consisted of "he doesn't pay attention to me" and not the "he just witnessed his ex-girlfriend

being thrown off a roof " variety.

"Things could be better in that department," Amanda said.

She began typing on her keyboard, nothing but gibberish, but

hoping Darcy would get the hint.

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"Oh, do tell! My Greg, any time he's not performing up to

snuff I tell him. I say 'listen, honey babe, you know I love you,

but we need to get a few things straight because my chi isn't

being harnessed.'"

"Your chi?"

"Hell yes, babycakes, my chi. If my chi isn't being harnessed I need to let my man know about it. It's like a tree root.

It can go a few weeks without being watered, but unless you

want it to dry up permanently you gotta feed it some water.

Nourish that sucker."

"I think that's about all I need to know about your chi."

"Suit yourself. So what is it? Man trouble? Something

else? Come on, babypie, tell me."

Amanda stopped typing. She didn't want to talk to Darcy

but...

The truth was she had nobody else. For over twenty years,

Amanda had grown up a stranger to everyone, even those

supposed to take care of her. She was always introverted,

never talking unless being talked to. It was great for developing sardonic comebacks, but meaningful conversations

occurred as often as meaningful relationships. And that's

where the notepads came in.

She hadn't written on them in months. Since she and Henry

had gotten serious. Since she found someone who made her

feel like she wasn't a stranger anymore. Someone who felt

like he would be in her life longer than a leaf fluttering.

Someone who felt like he would stay with her forever.

And yet here she was, sitting at work at seven o'clock at

night, having finished up her daily tasks, biding the time until

everyone left and she could fall asleep on her boss's couch.

Amanda had feared early on about what would happen if

she and Henry split up, grew distant. After their first few

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297

months, she never imagined they could grow apart. She never

feared tomorrow would bring an empty bed. Today, Amanda

wondered if that tomorrow had arrived.

Amanda looked into Darcy's eyes. They were coated with

makeup, brought out by jewels, but they were also honest.

Darcy seemed genuinely interested, genuinely concerned.

Whether it was a fleeting concern Amanda couldn't tell, but if

she didn't let out some steam she would either explode or cry.

She smiled at Darcy. Opened up the web browser on her

computer. Went to the home page of the
New York Dispatch.

Clicked on the headline banner, opening up their top story

of the day.

The headline read: Murdered Politician's Daughter Critically Injured After Being Thrown From Rooftop.

"The same person who killed Athena Paradis," Amanda

said, as Darcy scanned the article. "He threw Mya Loverne

off a roof."

"That guy scares the shit out of me," Darcy said, seemingly

oblivious. "I mean, I'm not the biggest Athena Paradis fan, but

I can't say the girl deserved to die. To think there's someone

like that walking around out there... God, just gives me the

creeps."

Then Darcy's eyes stopped scanning. She was reading a

line three-quarters of the way down the page. She underlined

a sentence with her fingernail.

"Is that..."

The line read:
Loverne is also reported to have been ro-

mantically involved with Henry Parker, a junior reporter at

the
New York Gazette
who himself was the focus of a murder

investigation just last year.

Amanda felt a terrible lump rise in her throat.

"That...that's your boy trouble?"

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Amanda laughed softly, didn't know why, then nodded,

heard a patter as the first droplet hit her keyboard. Darcy's

face was a mix of sympathy and confusion.
That's your man?

Amanda leapt from her seat without turning the screen off,

threw on her coat and fled the office, running into the New

York night where the lonely streets awaited her.

48

I walked to my desk without stopping for any hellos, any

questions, queries or anything. I ignored everybody. I sat

down at my desk knowing eyes were watching me, waiting

to see what would happen, debating whether to offer support,

taking mental wagers on who would be the first to break the

seal and open conversation. I turned on my computer and immediately ran a search for the words
Quien es
and
Billy the

Kid.

I found several matches. And that vague Spanish line took

on a whole new meaning.

When Pat Garrett allegedly killed Billy the Kid, the Kid's last

words were
Quien es.
They were supposedly uttered in the dark,

before Garrett put a bullet through Billy's heart. Words spoken

from Billy to Pat Garrett, and now William Henry Roberts to

me.

I was his Pat Garrett. The man who would make Roberts

famous.

Quien es.

Who was this killer?

I opened up my files on William Henry Roberts.

From the corner of my eye I could see someone approach -

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ing. Turning, I expected to see Jack, but was surprised to see

Frank Rourke standing in front of me.

"Hey," Frank said. He had a day's beard growth, red eyes.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry about your girl."

"Thanks," I said.

"And I'm sorry about the dog shit, too. That was pretty low."

"Don't be. It was funny."

"Right," Frank said. "Funny. Listen, if you need anything--"

"Gotcha," I said, then turned away.

Frank took the hint and left.

Mark Rheingold. The famous pastor. I didn't buy that he

was at the Roberts ranch simply for evening tea.

As I scanned the articles, I looked at the framed picture at

the right of my desk. Amanda and I had taken it last fall after

a concert at Jones Beach. Her hair was wet; the skies had

opened during the encore, rain and thunder making the music

seem that much more powerful, one of those nights you

wished would never end. We were glistening wet, arms

wrapped around each other, smiles big and bright. That night

we went home and made love for hours. When the photo was

developed Amanda pinched my butt, told me we needed more

of those nights, especially if they all ended like that.

I turned the frame facedown. I couldn't have Amanda

watching me. I couldn't think about her. I had to lose myself

in the work. Finally, I had to listen to Jack. Which was apt,

because Jack was heading toward my desk.

I stopped typing, turned around. Jack was wearing a suit

that looked recently dry-cleaned, and breath that smelled

recently minted. There was no red in his eyes or his cheeks,

so the previous night was likely spent solely in the caffeinated

company of his friend Juan Valdez.

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He took up his familiar perch on the side of my desk. My

face was blank. I didn't want him to be there; didn't want

him to leave. I was ambivalent about his entire existence at

that moment.

"How you holding up, kid?"

"How's what holding up?"

Jack's mouth twitched. "Come on, Henry, you know what

I mean. How's Mya?"

"She's in the hospital with a hole in her head and pins

in her hip."

"Heaven help us," he whispered, running his hand over his

beard. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just peachy."

"You don't sound peachy."

"Trust me, I'm peachy."

My face must have conveyed emotions that were definitely
not
peachy.

"Look, Henry, about that talk we had a while back--

about Amanda..."

"She's out of my life. You did your job. You were right."

"That's not my point, I know you kids had a good thing

going..."

"I'm not your kid, Jack. I'm not your boy, sport, tiger, son

or anything. I work with you. If you want to give me advice

on how to do the job better, I'm all ears. If you want to tell

me how to live my life, save it. I've heard it. It's done. Now

unless you want to help me figure out what the hell Mark

Rheingold was doing at the Roberts residence the night it

burned to the ground, I have nothing to say to you."

"Mark Rheingold," Jack said. His eyes had strayed from

me, rolled back into his head, combing his memory. I stopped

talking. Jack knew something, heard something. Now I

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wanted him to stay. "Rheingold...Pastor, right? Had that bigass congregation down in Texas?"

"Houston," I said. "That's right."

"What house are you talking about? Is this Roberts related

to William Henry?"

"A ranch belonging to his parents," I said, "caught fire about

four years ago. The mother, father and sister were all killed,

along with Mark Rheingold. The sheriff claims William Roberts

also died, but I just spoke to the justice of the peace in Hamilton

and after some prodding he admitted William's remains were

never found. They buried a coffin with no body. So what I'm

trying to figure out is why Rheingold was there in the first

place."

"Rheingold," Jack said, "guy was making boatloads of cash,

gave about ninety percent of it to the church and various charities. Wife was a hottie, too, but that's beside the point. Big rumor

was that Rheingold was taking kickbacks from his parishioners."

"Why would he take kickbacks if he was making so

much money?"

"Henry," Jack said, shaking his head. "Kickbacks aren't

always about money. Sometimes you can get back things that

have no monetary value."

I thought for a moment. "You're saying he was sleeping

with members of his congregation."

"I'm saying a lot of people thought he was, but there was

never any proof to back it up. The women would never tell

because they were 'laying closer to God' or some bull, and

their husbands kept their mouths shut because either they

felt the same way, or didn't want the world to know their

wives were better satisfied by a man who's a servant of the

Lord."

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303

"So you think Rheingold might have been doing the

humpty Jesus dance with Meryl Roberts?"

"I don't keep a list in my pocket of all the church honeys

Rheingold might have bedded, but you put two and two

together chances are it's gonna add up to four."

"Unless one of those variables doesn't equal two."

"I was never very good at physics."

"That's math."

"I was an English major," Jack said.

"Me, too."

Jack laughed. "No wonder you work here." His smile died

with the conversation. "Give Mya's family my best. I hope

she pulls through."

I nodded thanks, and Jack walked away.

As soon as he left, I pulled up a LexisNexis search for "Mark

Rheingold" and "Meryl Roberts." It came back with four hits.

The first was an article in the
Hico News
about the second

annual Texas Steak Cookoff, sponsored by the Hico High

football team, featuring a special appearance by none other than

Pastor Mark Rheingold. Meryl Roberts, whose daughter

Martha was captain of the Hico girls' soccer team, was quoted

as saying, "Hico is proud to welcome Pastor Rheingold. We

know his presence will foster faith and support for our wonderful community, and lead these boys to the state championship."

The second and third articles celebrated the $7,000 raised

by the event to help defray the cost of new football uniforms

for the Hico Marauders. Leftover donations went toward purchasing new textbooks, as the school hadn't bought new ones

in nearly a decade. The article ran next to a photo of Hico

quarterback John Runyan. He wasn't holding a textbook, but

his uniform looked spiffy.

The fourth article was about Pastor Rheingold's return to

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Hico after a six-month absence, in which he'd been touring

around the country, speaking in auditoriums holding as many

as ninety thousand worshippers. A church spokesman called

it Rheingold's "God-appalooza" tour. He spoke at Madison