She looked at me as if in shock that I could be asking such a trivial question.
'Please. It's important. Think. '
'It…it looked like something out of a movie. Not a recent movie, something old. And the way he held it, like it was fragile.'
'What about what the gun looked like?'
'The handle was brown…'
'Could it have been made from wood?' I asked. She nodded.
'There was this terrible explosion…' She stopped.
'Please, I can't do this right now.'
'Can you tell me anything else about it? Was it one barrel or two?'
'I don't know! I've never seen a real gun before in my life, now please leave me alone.'
Just then a cop seemed to take notice and jogged over to us. He separated me, whispered, 'Get the fuck out of here, scum.' Then he said, 'Miss, did you see the shooter?'
As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder long enough to see her nod and then collapse in his arms.
Ten feet from the carnage, a man clicked open his cell phone. Sweat was streaming down his face. He'd thankfully skipped lunch. Breathing heavy, he pressed Redial and waited for an answer.
'Hello?'
'Miss Cole?' He mopped at his brow with a shirtsleeve.
'It's James Keach. You'll never believe what just happened.'
17
I arrived home tired to the bone. After spending hours writing my piece on the Jeffrey Lourdes murder, my fingers ached, and my head throbbed. I'd had enough death for a lifetime, and I was growing tired of seeing it up close. I tossed my wallet and keys on the table, fell into the couch next to Amanda. She put her hand on mine. I squeezed it with whatever energy I had left.
We sat there. Tried to talk. Conversation came in bits and pieces. Amanda had ordered dinner for both of us. I wasn't hungry, just watched her poke at a salad. I stirred my pasta with a disinterested fork. All I could think about was Jeffrey
Lourdes, and how ironic it was that the first time I ever saw him in person, his most recognizable feature had been reduced to blood and bone.
Betty Grable's words still rang in my ears. Between what
Curt Sheffield told me about the ammunition used to kill both
Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser, and her description of the weapon used to kill Jeffrey Lourdes, there was no doubt in my mind that the killer was using a rifle that took magnum bullets, and he was using that weapon for a reason. And somehow I had to find that reason, and use that to find the killer.
'How's work?' I asked Amanda. It was just a conversation starter, something to break the mood. Death was an inevitable part of reporting, but it had no place at the dinner table.
'The judge is still being a dick on the Mary Westin case,' she said. 'Three abuse complaints from the neighbors, two cigarette burns and Judge Jellyfish still doesn't realize it's in
Mary's best interest to be taken the hell away from her sickass parents.'
I nodded, picked at a piece of penne. On many nights I'd told Amanda how proud I was of her-both her work ethic and choice of profession. After graduation, Amanda had passed her bar exam and achieved high enough marks to warrant a position in the Juvenile Rights Division of the New
York Legal Aid Society. The caseload for lawyers working for the Legal Aid Society had increased nearly a hundred percent in the last few years, mainly due to some high-profile cases of child abuse and neglect that resulted in the horrific death of children who had slipped through the cracks. The Legal
Aid Society had taken a beating in the press for their alleged inability to protect children whose parents were already the recipients of numerous abuse complaints. Because of this they were looking for fresh blood, cowboys and cowgirls who wouldn't stand for red tape.
Amanda worked long hours, alongside several other lawyers who were appointed 'law guardians' by the court. It was incredibly enriching work for her, I knew. But spending all day every day around troubled and abused children took its toll.
Sometimes she would come home, crawl into bed and appear on the verge of tears. She was too strong for that, though. She knew her tears were trivial compared to the reality of the situation. And her energy was better focused outward than in.
'You know, I sit there sometimes,' she continued, 'and I want to scream. Not that I really hate the guys I work for, but in these cases you need to throw the book against the wall and just holler. Right and wrong doesn't stem from legal precedent.'
I felt her staring at me, waiting for a response. I didn't want to talk about my day, but had to bite my tongue not to erupt. I hated making Amanda feel like my troubles were any more important than hers, but I couldn't focus on anything but this story.
'I have a lot of work for tomorrow,' I said. 'I'm pretty sure whoever's responsible for these murders is using an antique rifle or a replica, something that hasn't been used in a long time. There are thirty-two gun shops in the five boroughs alone, so I have my work cut out for me.'
'You should talk to Agnes Trimble,' Amanda said, sighing, wiping her mouth as a tomato spurted juice onto her plate. 'She was my American History professor at NYU. Brilliant woman, but she scared the hell out of us during student conferences.
She kept half a dozen model guns in her office, you know, like some people keep snow globes or toy fire trucks. She knows more about guns than Al Gore knows about the environment.
Belongs to the NRA, all that good stuff. I can call her if you'd like, she should be in the city for the next few weeks and I'm sure she'd be happy to talk to you. Who knows, maybe she can help.'
'Actually, yeah. That'd be a huge help,' I said. 'Thanks.'
Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 02
The Guilty (2008)
'No problem.'
We sat there in silence as I listened to Amanda chew.
'Did you see him die?' she asked me. There was a corner of lettuce sticking out of her mouth.
'No,' I said. 'I just saw what happened afterward.'
Amanda chewed more.
'You don't want to know,' I said.
'No,' she replied. 'Guess I don't.'
As I got up and tossed the rest of my dinner into the garbage, the buzzer rang.
'Are you expecting anyone?' she asked. For a moment, my heart hammered. I could picture Mya waiting downstairs.
'No,' I said. Amanda looked at me for a moment, surely knew what I was thinking. We walked to the window.
Though we had no doorman to announce visitors, our apartment overlooked the building's entrance vestibule. Handier than an eye slot.
I grunted and heaved the window open, reminding myself to wipe down the grease and grime later, and poked my head outside. Looking down, I saw a man wearing a gray trenchcoat and hat. He looked up.
'Let me the hell up, will you?'
'Who is it?' Amanda asked.
'It's Jack,' I said with more than an ounce of relief. I closed the window and pressed the door release button.
'Doesn't he have his own home? What's he doing here at this hour?'
'I have no idea.' I'd worked with Jack for over a year, and never once had we seen each other's apartments.
