Denton had requested that he partner with Mauser. Joe obliged. This would be their first time working together. And as much as a longtime partner could bring familiarity to a case, Joe wanted to be kept on his toes. Denton was six-one. A little too skinny. Probably drank too much coffee, didn’t eat much, worked out like crazy. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. Never talked about a girl, serious or just someone he was banging on the side. His life was streamlined for the job. The kind of guy you’d want to track down Henry Parker.
Joe had seen the body lying in the hallway like a sack of beef. He had to bite his lower lip and turn away, the tears of rage coming uninvited. Louis Carruthers had put his hand on Joe’s shoulder, leaning in to console him, but got violently shoved away for his efforts. Louis knew, as did the other officers, that solace wouldn’t come easily. The friendly arms retracted before Joe could brush them off. He would’ve taken a flamethrower to them if given the chance.
There was no way he’d let someone else-someone detached-be the primary on this case. It had to be his. It didn’t just need closure, but the right kind of closure. Agent Joseph Mauser had to find Henry Parker himself. Since there was the chance Parker could cross state lines, the NYPD called in the Feds. Joe demanded the case. Nobody at the marshal’s office offered any resistance. Agents with a personal stake in capturing a fugitive were dogged to the point of obsession.
Officer John Fredrickson. His brother-in-law. Dead. Shot through the heart by some twenty-four-year-old walking disease. John had served the NYPD faithfully for twenty years. His wife, Linda, was Joe’s younger sister. His death left behind two children, Nancy and Joel. Paying bills was hard enough in the Fredrickson household, Joe knew that, and now they’d lost their main source of income. Linda worked as a court stenographer-actually made a pretty decent living-but it wouldn’t be nearly enough to feed three mouths. Joel was in college, and his tuition was already hard enough to foot.
His sister’s husband, stolen from the earth by a demon with no soul.
Jesus.
Joe didn’t know if he could go to the funeral. Seeing his dear friend in a box would be too much to bear. Standing over a convex piece of earth, saying meaningless farewells, what good did it do? What’s done is done. That’s what he told himself. No amount of tears could change anything, but they came anyway.
For years Joe Mauser had dipped his hands in death, and now death had hit home. The sad sacks who wept into lined hankies, the ones he was often forced to comfort, now he was one of them. His cheeks had gone flushed last night, and he’d felt warmth spread through him like a brush fire. He fought it off, stepped outside, claimed the heat was getting to him.
John Fredrickson. His brother-in-law. Dead.
And now, Len Denton. Short for Leonard. Christ, the guy even looked like a Leonard. With his wire-rimmed glasses and stiffly parted hair, thousand-dollar suit and Gillette shave gel, designer cologne and a goddamn name that almost rhymed. He bet Denton’s parents were real proud of that.
As long as Mauser found Henry Parker, though…as long as he found Parker. Denton had something to gain, too. On some level, Mauser understood it. Respect could be as powerful a motivator as anger. Between the two of them, there was an awful lot of motivation.
“Agent Mauser?” Denton said. He extended his hand. Joe merely nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am.”
“Thanks.” He shook his hand limply.
“I know you want this case closed quickly. That’s what I’m here for. I know I don’t have the personal attachment you do, but I can promise you that…”
“Save your breath. We’re partners, fine. Don’t expect small talk, chitchat, or bullshit. You want to be my friend? Help me skewer this fuck with a chainsaw.”
Denton smiled. “I’m here to help you power it.”
“Good.” Joe pulled a manila folder from under his armpit, opened to the first page. A photocopy of Henry Parker’s driver’s license. Mauser leafed through several pages, flipping too fast for Denton to see.
“We got this from Henry Parker’s landlord, guy named Manuel Vega. Shady asshole tried to rent me a ground-floor apartment for thirteen hundred a month after I questioned him.” Mauser tried hard to mask the anger in his voice. Was it anger?
Suddenly he felt choked up, almost unable to speak. Joe coughed, wiped his eyes with the edge of his tie, showed Denton the file and flipped to the next page. “We’ve examined Parker’s checking and savings accounts and frozen his funds. As soon as he deposits one paycheck it’s gone to pay rent, phone, Internet porn, et cetera. Parker saves about a buck fifty a month.” Mauser flipped to the next page.
“Phone bill?” Denton asked.
“Cellular. We couldn’t find records for any landlines in his apartment.”
“That’s pretty common these days,” Denton said. “Especially with the younger set. A lot of people use cells as their primary lines. Assuming you get service, it’s cheaper than paying for a landline and a mobile.”
Mauser nodded. He noticed several officers walk by the office, peering in through the windows. Rage on some faces, regret on others. All of the eyes desperate to find Henry Parker and cut his balls off. Mauser closed the blinds and watched the eyes disappear.
Ordinarily Mauser would have allowed the NYPD to remain primary in a cop slaying. Not this time. Joe had to find Parker before anyone. His was a personal anger, not professional. Not like the rest of them. He respected their anger, fed off it, but couldn’t sate it. Refused to sate it.
Mauser pulled out Parker’s most recent phone bill. He passed it to Denton, who scanned it, his finger tracing several numbers that were highlighted in yellow.
“What’re these?”
“We marked any numbers that appeared on Parker’s bill more than once a week. Not a whole lot, actually. His voice mail at the Gazette- he’s a reporter there, just started a month ago. Doesn’t call out of state much. His parents live in Bend, Oregon, but we’ve only found records of two calls made there in the past six weeks.”
“That’s good,” Denton said. “Means he’s not close to his parents. One less friendly face willing to take him in.”
Mauser nodded. Denton pointed to one number that was highlighted numerous times on the list. “What’s this one?”
“Girlfriend, Mya Loverne. Law student at Columbia. Father’s David Loverne, the family’s got money squirting out his asshole. She met Parker while they were undergrads at Cornell. You know the deal. Poor boy from the Northwest meets spoiled rich girl who’s never been felt up by a guy without a trust fund. Rent any Molly Ringwald movie and you get the picture. Miss Mya graduated last May and decided to follow Daddy’s footsteps into law school.”
“At least he has good taste,” Denton said. “There’s a lot more money in law than in newspapers, unless you can figure a way to skim from Rupert Murdoch. Have you been in touch with Mya yet?”
“That’s the next ride in the theme park.”
Denton said, “I’m a Six Flags guy myself. Never got into Disney World.”
Mauser eyed him contemptuously. “You gonna small talk me? Is that what you’re gonna do?” Mauser stood up, turned to leave the room. “Fuck it. I don’t need this shit right now.”
“Joe, come on, man. I’m only…”
“You’re only what?” Mauser said, spittle flying from his lips. “You wanna get cute with me? Six fucking Flags?”
Denton’s eyes grew sorrowful and his head tilted down. He spoke solemnly and, Mauser could tell, honestly.
“I’m sorry about your brother-in-law,” Denton said. “I swear I am. But Henry Parker’s out there, and a thousand cops are walking the streets, hands on their holsters, looking for anyone under the age of thirty to pop. I’m here to help. You want me to stay quiet, fine. But I want to find Henry Parker, and I want to know why John Fredrickson died last night. Just like you.”