'Man, there was blood everywhere. I was right near her, man!'
'She…they think she's dead. Oh God, does that mean her album won't come out on time?'
I saw Wallace Langston talking to a cop and jotting down some notes on a spiral pad. Wallace didn't get out of bed for many stories. He left that to his city desk. But this wasn't just
New York front-page news, this was a national headline. The kind of tawdry story that Paulina Cole and the Dispatch would be sopping up with a biscuit and squeezing dry.
I hadn't seen Paulina Cole in months, and I prayed she wasn't here tonight. I didn't need any distractions. Paulina
Cole had once been a top reporter at the Gazette but left after penning a series of controversial yet shockingly popular articles where she insinuated that my murder accusation was merely the next story in a succession of young journalists whose names always ended up in brighter lights than their stories. Didn't matter that my murder rap was bogus. The articles enabled Paulina to jump to the New York Dispatch, the Gazette' s biggest rival. She got more money, more perks, and of course the chance to hoist her name among brighter lights.
Covering Athena Paradis's murder would be tricky. If we played catch-up to Paulina and the Dispatch's muckraking, they would dig a grave and bury us in a pile of our own moral righteousness.
Above the Kitten Club was perched a gigantic neon sign in the shape of a kitten. And not just any run-of- the-mill kitten, the kind of kitten that apparently wore a halter top and stockings and every few seconds tipped back some sort of pink cocktail that probably cost more than my pants and contained less alcohol than a glass of seltzer. Appearances. Atmosphere. That's what Kitten Club patrons came for. And last night they got it. In the form of Athena Paradis, world-famous socialite, erstwhile fashion model, nubile actress, soon-to-be recording artist, and, depending on who you asked, either your personal hero or the bane of your existence.
I had nothing against Athena personally, but a few weeks ago a colleague forwarded me a leaked demo of her first single. Not even three straight hours of Bruce and Dylan could rinse that stain off.
You'd think my generation would have more to offer. I'd like to say they do, but lying to yourself is pretty pathetic.
Within hours all those people soundly sleeping in their beds would wake up to find out that one of the most famous women on the planet had been murdered. That the suspect was still at large. That there would be a city- wide manhunt that would put all other investigations-including my own- to shame. Not to mention the resources that Athena's father- Costas Paradis-would likely contribute. Bottom line, if your finger pulled the trigger, you were a marked man. But as soon as the killer fired that round, the reverberations created a news story. It was my job to see all the ripples.
Problem is, New York is a city eight million strong. If you want to disappear-and don't have a pile of mush instead of brains-you could disappear. Hundreds of crimes and dozens of murders went unsolved every year. All this guy did was raise the stakes. Raised them to a level that would scare off pretty much anyone without a death wish, but raised nonetheless.
I saw Wallace, approached him. The editor-in-chief of the
New York Gazette was a tall, slender man. He wore a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with gray, and though his stature was hardly imposing, his intelligence shone through.
He wore a light jacket, hands tucked into the pockets. Wallace and I acknowledged each other with a brief nod, then turned back to the scene.
A line of police tape had cordoned off a thirty-foot radius around the spot where Athena's body had fallen. Even against the dark red of the carpet, I could make out a darker, more gruesome shade. The body had been removed from the scene, but forensics had taped off the angle at which her body had fallen. Several areas were marked with flags, presumably for ballistics and blood spatter experts. Some of the spatter appeared to be as far as ten feet from where Athena had fallen.
Only a high-caliber slug could cause that much damage. I saw a flag on the carpet, in front of a piece of chipped pavement.
Quite possibly where the bullet had lodged after exiting
Athena's skull.
The other bars in the district had been emptied out by the cops. The music had been turned off. The only sounds were the sirens and the cops, but the fear was louder than all of it.
'Warm out tonight,' I said. Wallace nodded, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as though reminded to.
'Gunman shot Athena from a distance. Goddamn sick coward.'
'Just what I was thinking,' I said. I looked around. 'Guy would have been noticed on the street,' I said. Wallace lifted his head, looked at the rooftops, didn't need to say more.
'How do you shoot a woman like that?' Wallace said, to nobody. 'Disgusting, that's what it is.'
'Athena wasn't just a woman,' I said. 'You get that famous, you become bigger than yourself. Become an ideologue or something.' Wallace looked at me, knew we were both thinking about what happened to me last year. When people thought I'd murdered a cop, I was no longer Henry
Parker. I stood for something evil. And even when I was vindicated, the stench lingered. Athena lived in that spotlight every day of her life.
Police were questioning several young men and women who were sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against an ambulance. They looked visibly shaken. Eyes red, heads down.
Confidence sucked out of them. Several were crying. I wondered whether they were crying due to the horror they'd just witnessed, or because the world had been robbed of
Athena Paradis.
'Cops aren't going to get anything from witnesses who were inside the club,' I said. 'Figure at least fifty paparazzi outside, all those strobe lights, every single eye was focused on her.'
'How can you be so sure?' Wallace asked.
''Cause mine would be. You tell yourself you could care less about celebrities like Athena Paradis, but it's damn hard to turn away. And this was her scene.'
I thought of Mya. Wondered if she was near here when she called. I hoped she'd made it home safe. I debated calling her just to be sure.
'This is page one,' I said to Wallace.
'We're too late for the print edition,' he said. 'I want your copy on the Gazette website in an hour. And I want updates by the time Al Roker is smiling his way through the weather report.'
'Awful generous deadline of you.'
Wallace looked at me. 'We mishandle this story in any way, the Dispatch will cannibalize our circulation rate and spend all winter bragging about its superior reporting.'
'They couldn't report their way out of the 6 train,' I said, expecting a laugh, but receiving none.
'Doesn't matter,' Wallace said softly. 'Story like this, it's all about how sensational you can make it. Who runs the cover photo of Athena in the most revealing dress. Gets the best quotes from her exes. Finds the most salacious angle to play up, even if it turns out to be bogus later on. You know Paulina will be all over this.'
'So what do you want me to do?'
'You know the sign I keep by the elevators to all our news divisions, right?' I nodded. The sign Wallace was referring to was simply titled The Three Types of Reporters. It was a piece of paper containing four short, handwritten sentences.
Some reporters are always one step behind.
Some reporters always keep pace.
Some reporters are always one step ahead.
What kind of reporter are you?
'Good. Then Evelyn will be expecting your copy in sixty minutes.'
'I'm a lucky man.'
Evelyn Waterstone was the Gazette' s battle-ax of a Metro desk editor. All stories that focused within the five boroughs were doled out by her, met with her approval, and she had final edit. She was notorious for fighting for front-page space, claiming that New York was the country's central nervous system, and that most relevant stories stemmed from there.
