The Guilty - Jason Pinter [103]
Amanda leapt from her seat without turning the screen off,
threw on her coat and fled the office, running into the New
York night where the lonely streets awaited her.
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I walked to my desk without stopping for any hellos, any
questions, queries or anything. I ignored everybody. I sat
down at my desk knowing eyes were watching me, waiting
to see what would happen, debating whether to offer support,
taking mental wagers on who would be the first to break the
seal and open conversation. I turned on my computer and immediately ran a search for the words Quien es and Billy the
Kid.
I found several matches. And that vague Spanish line took
on a whole new meaning.
When Pat Garrett allegedly killed Billy the Kid, the Kid's last
words were Quien es. They were supposedly uttered in the dark,
before Garrett put a bullet through Billy's heart. Words spoken
from Billy to Pat Garrett, and now William Henry Roberts to
me.
I was his Pat Garrett. The man who would make Roberts
famous.
Quien es.
Who was this killer?
I opened up my files on William Henry Roberts.
From the corner of my eye I could see someone approach -
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Jason Pinter
ing. Turning, I expected to see Jack, but was surprised to see
Frank Rourke standing in front of me.
"Hey," Frank said. He had a day's beard growth, red eyes.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry about your girl."
"Thanks," I said.
"And I'm sorry about the dog shit, too. That was pretty low."
"Don't be. It was funny."
"Right," Frank said. "Funny. Listen, if you need anything--"
"Gotcha," I said, then turned away.
Frank took the hint and left.
Mark Rheingold. The famous pastor. I didn't buy that he
was at the Roberts ranch simply for evening tea.
As I scanned the articles, I looked at the framed picture at
the right of my desk. Amanda and I had taken it last fall after
a concert at Jones Beach. Her hair was wet; the skies had
opened during the encore, rain and thunder making the music
seem that much more powerful, one of those nights you
wished would never end. We were glistening wet, arms
wrapped around each other, smiles big and bright. That night
we went home and made love for hours. When the photo was
developed Amanda pinched my butt, told me we needed more
of those nights, especially if they all ended like that.
I turned the frame facedown. I couldn't have Amanda
watching me. I couldn't think about her. I had to lose myself
in the work. Finally, I had to listen to Jack. Which was apt,
because Jack was heading toward my desk.
I stopped typing, turned around. Jack was wearing a suit
that looked recently dry-cleaned, and breath that smelled
recently minted. There was no red in his eyes or his cheeks,
so the previous night was likely spent solely in the caffeinated
company of his friend Juan Valdez.
The Guilty
301
He took up his familiar perch on the side of my desk. My
face was blank. I didn't want him to be there; didn't want
him to leave. I was ambivalent about his entire existence at
that moment.
"How you holding up, kid?"
"How's what holding up?"
Jack's mouth twitched. "Come on, Henry, you know what
I mean. How's Mya?"
"She's in the hospital with a hole in her head and pins
in her hip."
"Heaven help us," he whispered, running his hand over his
beard. "Are you okay?"
"I'm just peachy."
"You don't sound peachy."
"Trust me, I'm peachy."
My face must have conveyed emotions that were definitely not peachy.
"Look, Henry, about that talk we had a while back--
about Amanda..."
"She's out of my life. You did your job. You were right."
"That's not my point, I know you kids had a good thing
going..."
"I'm not your kid, Jack. I'm not your boy, sport, tiger, son
or anything. I work with you. If you want to give me advice
on how to do the job better, I'm all ears. If you want to tell
me how to live my life, save it. I've heard it. It's done. Now
unless you want to help me figure out what the hell Mark
Rheingold was doing at the Roberts residence the night it
burned to the ground, I have nothing to say to