“What about that package the Guzmans mentioned? The drugs? Christine Guzman said he stole a bag of dope, carried it out in some sort of briefcase or knapsack. She said he left the crime scene with it last night.”
“We don’t even know if he still has it. Parker could have stashed it anywhere, a train station or bus terminal locker,” Mauser said. “The dope is secondary. Once we have him, we’ll find it.”
Denton didn’t seem relieved by this. “John was killed over that dope, Joe. Maybe if we find it we’ll get a lead on Parker.”
Mauser shook his head.
“Right now, we’re looking for Henry Parker, not a fucking dime bag. We’ll find the dope, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Elvis, JFK and any other shit he stole once we get him. But right now Parker has precious few friends and seems smart enough not to give himself away. We’re going to have to be creative.”
Denton nodded, headed for the door. Mauser’s arm lashed out, catching the younger man’s shoulder. Denton whirled around, caught by surprise. Mauser’s grip tightened, feeling Denton’s bones shift beneath the skin. “But make no mistake. Right now, Amanda Davies is a possible accomplice to murder. If I think they’re heading west, I want to be in the air before the next commercial break. If anyone gets to Henry Parker before we do…”
Denton’s face paled. Mauser could tell he understood.
“They won’t,” he said. “We’ll be there first.”
When Denton left the room, Joe locked the door and picked up the phone. He took a long breath, felt a weight descending behind his eyelids. He dreaded this, dreaded every second speaking to her. Parker had done this to him. He’d made the simple activity of talking to his sister an event to be feared.
After a moment, when his breathing slowed, he dialed. Part of him hoped nobody would pick up. Out of sight, out of mind. His heart fluttered when he heard her voice answer with a tired, “Hello?”
“Linda. It’s Joe.”
“Joe,” his sister said, her voice heavy. She sounded sedated. “How are you?”
“I’m okay, Lin.”
“It’s good to hear your voice, Joe. These people won’t stop calling. Newspapers and reporters. Goddamn vultures.”
“Maybe you should book a hotel for a few days,” Mauser said. “The department will pick up the tab.” He could almost hear her shaking her head on the other end.
“The kids need to be able to reach me. I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to upset their lives any more than they already have been.”
“The kids’ll be fine, Lin. You need to take care of yourself.” He heard a wistful laugh on the other end. Then Linda began to sob. Joe felt his cheeks go flush as his sister wept for her lost husband.
“Linda?” he said, his chest contracting, hot tears filling up his eyes. “Lin, please talk to me.” She blew her nose, a pitiful rattle.
“Funny,” Linda said. “It was always John who said he’d take care of me. He never said anything about me taking care of myself. I guess I just believed he’d always be there, and I wouldn’t have to worry. Why’d he have to leave me? Jesus, Joe. I loved him so much.”
Mauser felt a tear slide down his cheek, sobs racking his throat.
“I know you did, Lin. I did, too. I know it’s no consolation, but I’ll be there for you. Now and always.”
“Thanks, Joe. I know you will.”
“You want me to come over?”
“No,” she said with an air of finality. “I need to be alone right now. I know that sounds selfish since he was your family, too-but I need this. Do you understand? Please tell me you do.” Mauser said he did.
“Can I do anything for you? Bring you anything?”
“You can do one thing for me,” Linda said. Mauser felt a chill run down his spine.
“Name it.”
“I want you to kill the man who killed my husband. I don’t care what it takes, Joe. You find him and you fucking cut his head off.”
“Lin…”
“I know, I know,” she said. “Thanks for calling, Joe.”
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
“I love you.”
The words leaked from his mouth like a balloon’s final gasp of air. “I love you, too.”
Mauser put the receiver down. He dropped his head into his hands as convulsions of sadness and rage seized his body. When Joe looked up, his vision was streaked, his eyes burned.
For Linda, he thought.
For me.
17
The Ringer sat baking in his car, going over the conversation in his head. He’d just spoken with the Arab deli owner, confirming that the man had, in fact, seen and scared off Henry Parker that morning.
“Just picked up my bat,” the man said, smacking the wooden mallet against his palm. The Ringer held his hands up in mock surrender. “And the cocksucker ran outta here lickety-split. You know one of the greatest things about this country is baseball. This Parker fellow probably saw it in my eyes. If I was born here I woulda made the majors. I would’ve thumped him a good one.”
The Ringer placated the man for a minute, then returned to his car. He tuned the radio into 1010 WINS, where a rumor was circulating that the cops had found Parker-and lost him-in the area nearby Columbia’s campus.
Mya Loverne. The cops were all over her by now. Why had Parker gone uptown and risked capture? There had to be a reason besides the girl. He was resourceful. There had to be another angle.
Parker was born with a pedigree that had been run over by a Mack truck, but still managed to work himself into an Ivy League school, pulled good grades and landed a job at one of the country’s most respected newspapers. He was a pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps archetype. The Ringer hated them, hated chasing them. If forced into self-reliance early on in life, one’s abilities in that regard would only mature with age. Knowing this, it was probable Parker had fled the city and the cops were searching for a needle in an empty haystack. That boded well. At least he was on equal footing with the cops.
He opened his notebook and wrote down every conceivable route out of New York he could think of. He crossed off the airports and bus terminals. It was impossible for Parker to get past security. Subways were a problem, but they could only take him within the five boroughs. From what DiForio and Blanket said, Parker had no reliable contacts in New York other than his employer and girlfriend.
His employer was Wallace Langston, editor in chief of the New York Gazette. The same paper that had, reluctantly, he was sure, run a front-page story about John Fredrickson’s murder that morning. In a letter from the editor, Langston himself referred to Parker as a “young employee who’d met their hiring expectations with flying colors and had exhibited no hostile, let alone homicidal, tendencies,” then adding, “The Gazette will do anything and everything possible to bring all the facts to light, without any bias or prejudice.”
If Langston made any attempt to aid Parker, his paper would be in jeopardy. The Ringer knew these newsmen. Most of them considered themselves noble, even altruistic, but in truth they lusted for fame, the glory of the byline. Hungry writers were no doubt chomping at the bit to write the Henry Parker/John Fredrickson story. Betraying friendships for the sake of notoriety.
Columbia. It didn’t add up.
The Ringer picked up the phone and dialed Information, asking to be connected to the Columbia University directory. A sweet lady, her voice young and slightly timid, answered the phone. The Ringer asked to be connected to whatever office handled student transportation.
This time, a gruff man, sounding like he hadn’t trimmed his beard in several months, answered.
“Hi, my name is Peter Millington,” the Ringer said. “And I’m thinking about coming to Columbia for grad school. I live in California and I was wondering if you could tell me what forms of transportation there are for students on campus.”