want your help, at least not in the way you’d think.”
“So what do you want, Henry? I told you I ain’t giving you no money.”
There was a pause. Mauser waited, fingernails grinding into his skin.
“I want you to hate me,” Henry said softly. “I want to hear that poison from your mouth again. I want your hateful bones to say everything you’ve said over the years, because I’m tired, too, Dad, and I need something to keep me going. I need to know that it’ll be worth it to dig myself out of this hole. I want you to lay it on me, no holds barred, no punches pulled, because that’s all you’re worth to me now.”
“You want me to say I hate you?” Henry’s father said. “Fine. I hate you. You ruined my life. I had to work my skin to dust to pay for our family. We’ve had to wait on you hand and foot since you were a damn baby and what have I gotten in return? Worries and misery, that’s all.”
“Keep going,” Henry said softly.
“I had to give up the life I wanted when you were born. You think that’s fun? I never had a say. You think when your mother was pregnant she said ‘Honey, are you sure you want a baby?’ No. She never said shit. Nine months later out you came, and nothing’s been the same since.”
“More,” Henry said, his voice stronger now. Mauser felt the venom in the older man’s voice, reverberating through the speaker. Such hatred, almost unfathomable for one’s child, even one on his way to hell.
“That’s all you’re getting, Henry. I’m tired and you’re keeping me awake. What else do you want?”
“Nothing, Dad, that’s all I wanted.” Henry paused. “But in case you or Mom, or anyone else is interested, I’m in NewYork.”
“New York, huh?”
“Yeah, the big city. In fact, I’m inside a building right now, on 80th Street and East End. Big brown thing, looks abandoned. I’m on the third floor. They gutted the apartments so the space is open. I’m just sitting here. The view of the water is really stunning. I’m glad I came here, Dad, because this is something I would have never gotten the chance to see if I let my genetics decide my fate.”
“Well, that’s just marvelous,” Henry’s father said, sarcasm dripping.
“Yeah, it is. Anyway, there’s this thing everyone thinks I stole. Well, I didn’t steal it, but I did find it. I’m looking at it right now and I can understand why people want it. And if anyone wants it, they’d know where I am.”
“Don’t hold your breath waiting for me.”
“I won’t, Dad. I won’t.”
Mauser heard a click and then a dial tone.
“Jesus,” Denton said. “Kid just told us where he is.”
Mauser scratched his chin.
“Could be a trap,” Denton said. “Kid might be waiting with an AK or something. Shit, and he has the package of drugs he stole from the Guzmans.” Mauser looked at him. They both knew the improbability of Parker being armed. Denton patted down his pants, again quite vigorously.
“They really driving you nuts, huh?” Mauser said.
“You have no idea.”
They took the FDR exit, threading past motorists doing the speed limit. It was after midnight and the streets of New York were still packed. Unbelievable.
They got off at 96th Street, turned left and headed toward East End Avenue. Mauser could see what Parker was talking about; the river looked absolutely beautiful. Dark blue, the surface glittering like a million silver dollars were resting at the bottom. A cold fear ran through Mauser’s body, but he couldn’t quite place it. The hunt was almost over. John’s death so close to being avenged. Parker was waiting for them, the taste sour like metal in his mouth.
“I don’t want the NYPD there until we’ve had our shot,” Mauser said. “I want a fifteen-minute lead time. Call Louis, tell them we need backup at 14:30. That’ll give us some time. I don’t want Parker in custody until we’ve seen him first.”
“They’re not gonna want to wait, Joe. They want blood as bad as you do.”
“Tell Carruthers he doesn’t have a fucking choice,” Mauser spat.
“It’ll only do so much good,” Denton said. “They’ll come whether we tell them to or not. This is NYPD jurisdiction now. Louis is keeping us in the loop.”
“So step on the goddamn gas and get us there faster.”
“You got it, Joe.” Denton dialed in the order. He heard Louis’s voice, accommodating. Denton clicked the phone off.
“We have fifteen minutes. They’ll have a small army ready at two-thirty, but not a moment sooner. Lou understood. Said if he were you he’d ask for fifteen minutes, too.”
Minutes, Mauser thought, were unnecessary. One moment was all he needed.
The car accelerated, the headlights blurring into one long illuminated strand. He looked at Denton, who smiled, spoke earnestly.
“Hey, I want my shot, too, Joe.” He grinned. “Getting Parker could be my big break.”
Mauser nodded as the car sped into the night, leaving only a cloud of exhaust in its wake.
39
Angelo “Blanket” Pineiro admired the room, one of the few times in recent memory he’d had time to fully soak it in. He listened closely when their man made contact, but he soon found his mind wandering. He scanned the gorgeous oil portraits of Michael’s family that lined the cherry-red walls, the lineage dating back multiple generations. There was something romantic about them, and Blanket hoped one day he’d be remembered like that, having lived a life worthy of such a painting. Surely he was on his way.
With its high windows, marble columns and authentic Persian rugs, Michael DiForio’s penthouse was truly a museum of modern art. Blanket watched the man himself, sitting in his Salerno leather chair, eyes staring up at the ceiling as if waiting for divine intervention. The voices over the phone were full of static, barely understandable. When the line went dead, Blanket waited for Michael’s response. He received only silence.
“You hear all that, Mike?” Blanket could almost see the gears turning in Michael DiForio’s head. No doubt the police would be at the scene in mere minutes, forget the fact that the goddamn loose cannon Barnes was nowhere to be found. Blanket knew Barnes as well as a man could know a ghost. The killer was a thoroughbred, unstoppable, and a hugely valuable asset when his blinders were on. But somewhere along the line he’d run off the tracks. To Barnes, recovering the package now seemed incidental, and that was the problem.
“Call the Ringer,” DiForio finally said, rising up and striding around the ornate wooden balustrade. “I want to give that asshole one last chance.”
Blanket could see the man’s knuckles were white from gripping the chair. He knew how badly Michael needed that package, how much time and money had been spent accumulating the treasures inside. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could set operations back years, maybe decades. Michael would lose his best-perhaps his only-chance to own this miserable city.
Fucking Gustofson. Guy’d been on his last legs when DiForio bailed him out with that assignment. Then the junkie fuck went and blew it all in spectacular fashion. For whatever reason, the middleman-Luis Guzman-never received the album. Now John Fredrickson was dead and a shit storm the size of the tri-state area looked ready to rain down at any moment.
“Boss, you want me to take some guys down to that building, try to find Parker?”
Michael shook his head, his eyes still closed. “By the time you get there, the building’ll be swarming with cops and Feds. If we just send Barnes, at least there’s a chance for him to slip in and slip out. Your crew? Like a bunch of retarded children trying to work a bulldozer.”
Blanket held his hands out, pleading.
“Mike, I don’t think Barnes still has his heart committed to, you know, the cause. I think he wants Parker dead, and I don’t think our package is on his list of priorities anymore.”
DiForio ran a hand through his hair. Blanket considered Michael’s thoughtfulness a source of pride for the
