I looked at the brownstone being eyed by the tech. Checked my watch. Under an hour to find a story. Didn't have to be the whole ball of yarn, just a strong thread. Sometimes a thread was all you needed.
4
I pushed my way through the throng of eager reporters. Felt more than one elbow jab my ribs. I wasn't naive enough to think they were accidental. Much of the NYC press corps still burned because of the publicity I'd received from my murder rap. Grizzled vets who resented the book and film deals I'd turned down. It was a Catch-22. They would have hated me just as much if I'd taken the money. The spotlight of fame exposed every jealous and spiteful emotion from those who wished they had it, and from those who wanted nothing to do with it.
I saw Curtis Sheffield on the cop side of the tape, holding back photographers and issuing "no comments" like they were going out of style. Curt Sheffield was a young black officer, two years out of the academy and the kind of cop who'd be one of New York's finest for years to come. Fit, tall, with a smile that got female witnesses offering more than their side of the story. I'd interviewed Curt a few months ago for a story on the NYPD's developing new body armor, how the upgrade was long overdue, and how based on gunshot wound studies the new vests, when implemented across the country, would likely save up to thirty lives a year.
Curt was glad the department finally kicked in the dough to save lives, but offered sincere remorse for the lives that had already been lost. He'd been honest and eloquent, and it was clear the public good was his passion. The department had recognized this-and recognized that his face would look good on a poster-and within weeks Curt was the centerpiece of a new NYPD recruitment campaign.
Despite our naturally combative professions, I considered
Curt a friend. He was a great source because he knew any information he passed along would be treated with respect. A few weeks after the recruitment drive started, Curt admitted that most cops weren't big fans of do I know you looks. They don't like getting recognized in movie theaters or getting asked for autographs. So we had something in common.
Curt saw me as I battled the wave of gawkers barricaded behind police tape. He walked over fast, a stern look in his eye.
"Hey, back off," he said, approaching a grizzled paparazzo trying to sneak his camera beneath the tape. He eyed me, popped his head to the left. Come over here.
I followed him off to the side. Another cop held back the masses so we could talk in private.
"You believe this shit?" Curt said. "Don't know what's worse, cleaning up this mess or having Athena Paradis's stupid song stuck in my head while her blood is drying on the sidewalk."
"I'd say they're both pretty bad."
"Yeah. Pretty bad," he said, distracted. He was chewing gum. His jaw was working overtime, anything to keep his mind occupied.
"So you assigned to this mess?" I asked.
"You aren't assigned to shitstorms, they just happen to rain when you're walking by." Curt smacked his gum.
"Big story," he continued. "Not just any girl got killed here tonight."
"Don't I know it." I leaned in. "Listen, man, if I had to guess, Athena was killed by a high-powered rifle. Highcaliber slug." I pointed at the outcropping of rooftops surrounding the Kitten Club. "Your killer shot from the roof of one of these buildings. Guess it's up to your forensics and spatter people to figure out the angle and trajectory."
"Like Deadwood out here. Everybody saw everything, but nobody saw nothing. Know what I mean?"
"Yeah. Figure some sick asshole with a video cell phone will upload this to YouTube any minute now." I looked around, saw half a dozen half-drunk and half-asleep club goers fiddling on cell phones and BlackBerries. "Maybe sooner than later."
Curt kept chewing, nodded. "You see that building over there?" He flicked his head north.
"Which one?"
"Don't know," he said, eyes locked on to mine. "Maybe redbrick or something."
I looked again. There was a redbrick building two blocks north and one block west of us. I could make it out through the early morning haze.
"Seen a lot of my boys in blue checking it out. Trying not to cause a stir."
"That right?"
Curt nodded. "Hate to see those cockroaches at the
Dispatch get the brass ring. You know they had a reporter over here from their gossip section, offered to write me up as one of NYC's hottest bachelors if I planted a bug in our briefing room? Fucking parasites."
"Hell, you'd be lucky to break the top hundred."
"Yeah, tell that to my girlfriend. I'd be on patrol with a GPS monitor up my ass the second she thinks my eyes start wandering." Curt looked around, coughed into his hand.
"Can't say I was a fan of Athena's, you know, work, but
Christ, the girl was only twenty-two."
"No kidding," I said. We stayed silent for a moment, then
I remembered my deadline. "Hey, drinks on me this week. If
I don't hit my deadline which is in, oh about six minutes, I'll be out of work and you'll have to pick up the tab."
"Then get the hell out of here." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Take it easy, Parker."
After saying goodbye I hung back for a minute. I didn't want to let anyone else know I had a possible scoop. Then I waded back into the soup of reporters, stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed north.
Two patrolmen jogged by me. I slowed down. There were several cops huddling outside of the redbrick building Curt had pointed out. As I got closer I heard radio activity. I stopped at the corner and peeked around.
A cop stood by the awning, a walkie-talkie in his hand. A plainclothes cop, probably from Forensic Investigation, strode up and spoke to him for a minute, then ducked inside. I took a breath, waited until the cop was alone, then rounded the corner and approached him.
"Help you?" he said. Nothing to see here, move along.
"Henry Parker, New York Gazette. " I showed him my press credentials. Might as well have been a slab of lemon, the way his face scrunched up.
"Go on, get out of here."
"Something going on inside this building?" The cop locked eyes with me, then spoke deliberately.
"You know you don't have a whole lot of fans in the law enforcement community."
I nodded. Even though charges had never been brought for the murder of Officer John Fredrickson, if not for me he'd still be alive. And even though he was dirty as sin, that was something no cop or Fed would ever forget.
"Crime scene is over on Thirteenth." He jerked his thumb back where I'd come from. "You want a better view of the crime scene, might I suggest walking to the middle of the
Brooklyn Bridge and then jumping off."
I laughed, pretended it didn't affect me. "I saw several officers entering and exiting this site."
"You saw wrong."
"Officer…" I said, looking at his badge. "Officer
Lemansky. I know this is the building the killer shot Athena
Paradis from. You and I both know this murder is going to make both of our lives a living hell until the killer is caught.
All differences aside, the story is huge, and it won't go away just because you tell me to. Whether it's the Gazette, the
Dispatch or the National Enquirer, you're going to have reporters up your ass until this psycho is caught. Do you read the newspaper?"
He nodded. "So what?"
"So you must have read that story the Dispatch ran last week. Detective Pedro Alvarez, killed in the line of duty. Did you know him?"
Lemansky's silence was an affirmative.
"So you know the Dispatch ran a front-page story two days after his death. About his mistress. Lena something, right?"