The Darkness - Jason Pinter [8]
something major, and for some reason its employees have
shorter shelf lives than a chicken at KFC. So you think
we should start by looking into 718?"
Jack put his thumb to his lip, tapped it as he thought.
26
Jason Pinter
Then he shook his head. "You don't get a story by meeting it head-on. You need to confront the big dogs with
facts, not accusations. We need to poke around. Find out
who and what exists at the peripherals. We..."
Just then my cell phone rang. I noticed that the red
message light was blinking at the voice mail on my desk.
Whoever was calling had tried to reach me at the office
and was now calling my cell.
My first thought was Amanda, but she was likely on
her way to the office. I took the phone from my pocket;
the number on the caller ID made my stomach lurch.
There's no way he'd be calling this early in the morning
unless something had happened. Something bad.
I answered the phone. "Curt?" I said.
"Henry," Curt Sheffield said. Curt was an officer with
the NYPD. A good buddy and dedicated cop. He'd helped
me with numerous cases over the last few years, often
giving me scoops ahead of other papers because he knew
I'd do the right thing with them. A lot of other news outlets,
not that I'd name names, would takes quotes out of context,
make officers who stuck their necks out look bad.
The thing you learned in the news business was that
the cops needed you almost as badly as you needed them.
If the cops needed to swing public opinion on a certain
topic, or if they needed help from the community in
catching a perp, they turned to the papers and television
anchors. It wasn't enough for them to come up with a
sketch of an alleged rapist--they needed a medium to get
the guy's face in front of millions of people. Curt understood that. He wasn't looking for fame, or to see his name
in the paper. He didn't have the sense of rebellious pride
most sources had. He was just trying to be a good cop.
"You should come down here right away," the cop said.
The Darkness
27
"Where are you?" I said. "What's going on?"
"There's been a murder. Just dredged the body up
from the East River this morning," he said. And something in Curt's voice told me this wasn't just any run-ofthe-mill domestic quarrel or guy jumping off the Triboro
Bridge kind of death. "We've identified the body. His
name was Ken Tsang. We checked his records, and
Henry...the guy was Hector Guardado's roommate."
"Jesus," I said, my heart pounding. Jack's eyes were
wide open, imploring me to tell him what was going on.
Hector Guardado, I believed, worked as a drug courier
for 718 Enterprises. He was a colleague of the men who
killed Stephen Gaines, one of the anonymous suits who
delivered their drugs to buyers in their homes.
Guardado was killed just a few days ago. And now his
roommate was dead as well.
"I'll be right down there," I said. "Where are you?"
"Eighty-fourth, by the East River, on the promenade,"
Curt said. "You might want to bring some antinausea
medication."
"Why?" I said. "What happened?"
"Whoever killed Ken Tsang," Curt said, "wanted his
corpse to have more in common with a boneless chicken
than a human being. Somebody broke every single one
of his joints. Turned his toes, fingers, arms, legs and
finally neck in all sorts of ways they ain't supposed to go."
3
By the time Jack and I arrived at the East River, the smell
of vomit was choking the air. The view from the promenade was breathtaking early in the morning. The sun glistened off the river, as New Yorkers jogged, walked their
dogs, sat in silence admiring the beauty. Normally you
would see fishing poles out. Today's catch must have
driven them away.
The scene on this day, though, had the promenade at
a standstill. There were no bystanders going about their
business; they were all being held back by the same
yellow police tape that would soon cordon off my colleagues and competition.
I could see three cops who, by the look of them, were
a breakfast short and still green around the gills. They'd