Mauser stepped closer until he was breathing in Denton’s face. “Not like me. Understand that.”
Denton nodded. “Understood.” He paused before asking his next question. Mauser knew he was doing it out of politeness. He wouldn’t let his curiosity sit idle. “I don’t mean to pry, but how’s Mrs. Fredrickson? She’s your sister, right?”
“A mess,” Mauser said. He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and coughed loudly into it, then wiped his mouth.
“The kids?”
“About what you’d expect. Joel’s in college, thank God the kid’s already finished up the semester. Can’t imagine going through finals with your father’s murder hanging over you. You get older, somehow you’re more prepared for this kind of thing.”
“Have you seen Linda?”
“I went over to the house last night, after I left the crime scene.”
Denton spoke softly. “You’re the one broke the news to her, weren’t you?”
Mauser felt a lump rise in his throat and nodded. Tears would come in an instant. His sister’s husband. The man he’d shared so many laughs with, gotten stinking drunk with so many times. Watching ball games in front of the crappy Panasonic, cheering on their lovable loser Mets and hoping to God the Yankees got blown out of the water. One of his best friends. One of his only friends.
Mauser always considered it fortunate that Linda had married such a stand-up guy, not one of those louses who make a killing in the market and never see their families except during two-week vacations to the Poconos where they spend the entire time on their BlackBerries. If you married a cop, you did it for love. And so far, Mauser hadn’t found any woman willing to give him what Linda had given John. He admired his sister for making that choice. He’d told her just that many times.
It’s not a conscious decision, she’d told him. It’s not like I wake up every day and think “Should I or shouldn’t I be with John?” I just am. He makes me happy.
And now he was gone. Linda, alone with the kids. Joe knew he’d have to offer support. Moral. Financial. Becoming a surrogate father to his sister’s children had as seductive a ring as a colonoscopy, but he had a responsibility to the family. And his first responsibility, one that would speed up the grieving process, was to find Henry Parker and gut him like a fish.
Mauser sat down, brushed his pants. Denton looked at him expectantly. Joe said, “Let’s go talk to the girlfriend, Mya. See what the murderer’s moll has to say.”
Denton smiled. He stood up, tentatively reached out and squeezed Joe’s shoulder.
“You sure you’re up for this?”
Mauser nodded. “Let’s go quick. I want to get into this thing before it all hits me at once.”
“I’ll drive.”
“Yeah, better you do. I see someone on the street looks like the photo on that driver’s license, I’ll mow him down without giving it a second thought.”
They left the precinct, Denton pulling the Crown Victoria onto the West Side Highway. Early morning sunlight filtered through the windshield. The cold leather on the seats prick-led Mauser’s skin. Soft rock was on the radio, the DJ sounding like he’d overdosed on Xanax.
“Mya Loverne’s cell phone bill is forwarded to an apartment near the Columbia campus reserved for student housing,” Joe said. “Keep your eyes open just in case our man decides he needs a morning pick-me-up.”
“She live alone?” Denton asked.
“Yeah, why?”
Denton sniffed. “I couldn’t afford my own place till I was thirty. Fucking unbelievable.”
Mauser spoke, his voice apprehensive. “She’s a pretty girl. I’ve seen pictures of Mya with her father, fund raisers at Cipriani, fancy dinners that cost more per plate than your mortgage. Heard rumors that Loverne is going to run for district attorney. It’s kinda creepy, almost like he uses Mya as publicity t and a. She’s always wearing these low-cut dresses and the cameras always get her good side. Both of them.”
Denton said, “People almost always vote for whichever candidate’s daughters are hotter. You see Bloomberg’s daughter? Unbelievable that girl came from that guy.” Denton took the 96th Street exit, forgoing his turn signal.
“You do the talking,” Mauser said. Denton looked at Mauser, concern on his face.
“You sure you’re up for this? I can get the case reassigned, no problem.”
Joe waved his hand in dismissal. “Over my dead body. I’ll be fine once we get there.”
“Don’t say that. Parker’s body, that I can live with.”
Joe smiled. “Deal.” He lowered the window. Fresh air beat against his face. The trees shook gently, leaves rattling in the wind. He stared out the window, his eyes latching onto anything that moved.
Denton squeezed into a spot on 114th and Broadway, leaning over the headrest as he backed in. He didn’t even use the side mirrors, Mauser noticed. Guy didn’t trust anything but his own eyes. Mauser liked that.
Joe felt his knee joints groan as he climbed out of the car. Denton slid on a pair of designer sunglasses, his blond hair fitting in perfectly with the young men and women carrying thick valises who crowded the streets. Tanned and toned bodies looking healthy and vigorous in the bronzed sunlight. Ready to take their place among the proletariat of NewYork City.
“You’re gonna ruin your part,” Mauser said, pointing at Denton’s hair. Denton ran a hand through it, combed it back into place with his fingers, laughed.
“You’re a prick,” he said with a grin. Mauser felt more relaxed. Maybe the rumors about Denton were bogus. The guy was rubbing off on him. “Come on, let’s go talk to Ms. Loverne.”
Mauser admired the building’s facade, the clean red brick, like the vandals had too much respect to desecrate it with their “art.” He watched as pedestrians strolled with their heads held high, too high to see the dirt at their feet. One thing Mauser had learned over the years was that students, almost to a one, viewed the world from the inside of a fishbowl. They had the bigger points covered-genocide in Kamchatka, illegal whale hunting in the Arctic Circle, shit like that. But if you asked about anything relevant to their lives they’d look at you with glazed eyes and go right back to sipping their double-mocha lattes.
Parker was just another in a growing line of young shit-heads who felt they put on their pants two legs at a time. They gain a little fame, a little notoriety, and suddenly they’re Edward R. Murrow.
Mya Loverne’s building had no doorman, only an antiquated buzzer system with a small camera for tenants to view their visitors from the comfort of their Jennifer Convertibles. Mauser found the directory on the wall, ran his finger down until it came to a stop at M. Loverne. Apartment 4A.
Denton pressed the gray nipple and waited. Mauser shuffled around, anxiety building inside him. Every moment they waited was more time for Parker to run. Denton pressed the buzzer again. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds later, and still no answer.
“Screw this,” Mauser said. He pushed Denton aside and jammed his thumb on the call button. He held it there for a full minute, then released for five seconds, then jammed it down again. Finally a tired female voice answered.
“Who is it? Henry?”
Denton tried to stifle a laugh. Mauser elbowed him in the kidney.
“Ms. Loverne?” Denton said.
“Who is this?”
“Ms. Loverne, my name is Leonard Denton, FBI.”
“Excuse me? Why…what’s the matter?” Denton waited a few seconds to let her heart rate build up. Get her good and fearful.
Then he pressed the intercom again and said, “We need to talk about your boyfriend, Henry Parker.”
“Is there…do you have any identification or something?”
Denton held his government ID with the elegant blue FBI seal to the camera. After a moment of hesitation, the buzzer rang and Denton pulled the door open. He looked at Mauser, a blank stare on the older cop’s face.