'That line. From Perez's second book. Just made himself another ten K in royalties right there.'
I shook my head as Perez continued. 'What we do know at this time is that the shooter is most likely a lone assailant, the murder weapon a high-powered rifle which was discharged from the roof of a building several blocks away from the club where Ms. Paradis was performing that evening. We have taken casts of footprints discovered at that rooftop, and are matching them with known offenders as we speak.'
Bullshit, I thought. Officer Lemansky told me the rooftop was covered in gravel. Unless they developed some way to detect footprints in rocks, they're throwing us a hollow bone.
He continued. 'We have many unfortunate witnesses to the crime itself, but as of yet nobody has come forward who has been able to positively identify the assailant.'
At this point Costas Paradis moved a half inch closer. His eyes seemed to be burning a hole through Mayor Perez's neck. The mayor swallowed. He held his hand up, index finger extended.
'Let me assure you that the NYPD is using every available resource to find this heartless and soulless coward, and the NYPD will not rest until the assailant has been brought to justice.'
Perez's eyes became sorrowful and he lowered his head.
'At this time I would like to express my sincerest condolences to the Paradis family. I have known Athena's devoted father, Costas, for many years, and suffice it to say his daughter's death is not only felt by the Paradis family, but is felt by his family and friends both in this city and around the world.
Justice will be served.'
Hotel Paradis, Paradis Park, Paradis Skating Rink, I thought. Not only was there a murderer loose, but there were millions, perhaps billions of dollars at stake. Maybe Perez should quote a few more lines from his book. Catching
Athena's killer was not only a moral and legal priority, but one the mayor needed to help pay for those campaign reelection ads with spiffy production values.
Perez went on for another few minutes. He spoke a great deal but said very little.
'I've seen mimes more eloquent,' Jack said. He leaned in closer. 'Listen, I've got a contact in the medical examiner's office. As soon as this little soiree breaks up I'll have him on the phone. I want you to talk to him before we file any copy.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'He owes me a solid. After you talk to him, I want you to go back and canvas the area around the Kitten Club. People don't like talking to cops. Answering questions makes them feel like they're being accused of something. Too many freaking Law amp; Order spin-offs. Anyway, tell them who you are. A newsman, their voice, the voice of the people. You make 'em believe it, they'll let you hold their newborn.'
'Got it.'
At that moment, Mayor Perez said, 'And now I'd like to turn the podium over to Police Commissioner Alan Bradley, who will answer further questions.'
'Might be worth leaving now,' I said. 'Get a head start.'
'Not yet,' Jack said. 'Leaving early is how you miss the big stuff.'
Commissioner Bradley, a stocky bald man in his early fifties, shook hands with the mayor and Costas Paradis. He stepped to the podium with a look of gravity and sincerity.
Then I noticed something strange.
Joe Mauser was flinching. He brought his hand up to his eyes, as if shielding the sun. I took the binoculars, followed his line of sight. He was looking at a building across the way.
Then I saw what he saw-a faint glimmer of light off of… something- and then all hell broke loose.
Mauser dove to his left a millisecond before the air was shattered by a deafening crack. I saw a fountain of red explode by the podium, and suddenly hundreds of people were screaming and running and cursing and fleeing.
I heard someone yell, 'He's been shot!' EMS workers sprinted up the stairs. I watched in slow motion detachment, arms and legs pummeling me as they flew past. A man and a woman in white knelt down beside a fallen person atop the stairs. Police had their guns drawn and were yelling into walkie-talkies. Their eyes were all looking up, guns drawn.
At the rooftops. Where the gunshot had come from.
I looked through the binoculars to get a better view of the carnage.
I could see a group of cops ushering the mayor and Costas
Paradis inside city hall. An ambulance was trying to get through the pandemonium but was having no luck. The cops were shaking, ready to fire at an instant's notice.
I saw the EMS crews working as fast as they could on the downed officer, but through the binoculars I could see one of them shake her head. Watching fingers of blood drip down the steps, I knew what she was thinking. This one can't be saved.
As they placed the cop on the stretcher, I increased the magnification. I could just make out the face.
My breath left me. I dropped to my knees. Panting. Felt
Jack's hand on my shoulder. Felt the world swimming away.
Saw the face again. Saw his brother in-law's face. Both men lying in a pool of their own blood.
The downed cop was Detective Lieutenant Joe Mauser.
She was lying on her back. Propped up against three pillows.
One more across her chest. One more by her right arm. She felt warm, safe, comfortable. Henry made fun of her for this. Said she was building a fort every night. Yet when the lights went out, after Amanda had burrowed into her pillow castle, she would push the pillows aside and gently lay her head on his chest.
She would listen to Henry breathe. Listen to his heart beat.
She knew when he was thinking about a story-his heart beat a little faster. She knew if the day had been long and challenging, or fast and invigorating. All this from his heartbeat.
She would glide her finger down his chest, tickling his side.
She knew he was sensitive, but he never told her to stop.
Sometimes she would run her finger along the scar where the bullet had come so close to ending his life. She knew that in some way she was responsible for that scar. For some reason, despite the pain it had caused Henry, she was glad it was there.
She knew he was awake. His breathing was shallow.
Henry's eyes had sunk. His body looked as though it had been sapped of all energy, like one of those video game characters after some evil shaman sucks their soul right out of their body then yells something cheesy like 'Fatality!'
Another death. Reporters weren't supposed to see lives end in front of them. Henry wasn't off in a tank in Iraq. How much more could he take?
Henry's breathing had grown steadier. Maybe he had fallen asleep. She hoped so.
And then the shrill noise of Henry's cell phone broke the silence, and Amanda kicked herself for forgetting to change the ring tone.
Henry didn't stir, so Amanda reached over to the nightstand and picked it up. She expected to see Wallace Langston or Jack O'Donnell calling about some urgent scoop.
But no, it was Mya Loverne. Undoubtedly calling again in the desperate and pathetic hope that her old boyfriend would return her affection. That some previously severed synapses would again begin firing.
Amanda stared at the phone and felt a terrible pressure beginning to settle behind her eyes. She pressed and held the power button until the phone went dark. Then she gathered all the pillows, held them close to her chest and hoped sleep would arrive soon.
For both of them.
9
The Boy sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees. Feet planted on the floor. He read the newspaper again. Third time he'd done so. Then he put it on the chipped wooden nightstand and turned off the light.
