The Guilty - Jason Pinter [6]
righteousness.
Above the Kitten Club was perched a gigantic neon sign
in the shape of a kitten. And not just any run-of-the-mill
kitten, the kind of kitten that apparently wore a halter top and
stockings and every few seconds tipped back some sort of
pink cocktail that probably cost more than my pants and contained less alcohol than a glass of seltzer. Appearances. Atmosphere. That's what Kitten Club patrons came for. And last
night they got it. In the form of Athena Paradis, world-famous
socialite, erstwhile fashion model, nubile actress, soon-to-be
recording artist, and, depending on who you asked, either
your personal hero or the bane of your existence.
I had nothing against Athena personally, but a few weeks
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Jason Pinter
ago a colleague forwarded me a leaked demo of her first
single. Not even three straight hours of Bruce and Dylan
could rinse that stain off.
You'd think my generation would have more to offer. I'd
like to say they do, but lying to yourself is pretty pathetic.
Within hours all those people soundly sleeping in their
beds would wake up to find out that one of the most famous
women on the planet had been murdered. That the suspect
was still at large. That there would be a city-wide manhunt
that would put all other investigations--including my own--
to shame. Not to mention the resources that Athena's father--
Costas Paradis--would likely contribute. Bottom line, if your
finger pulled the trigger, you were a marked man. But as
soon as the killer fired that round, the reverberations created
a news story. It was my job to see all the ripples.
Problem is, New York is a city eight million strong. If you
want to disappear--and don't have a pile of mush instead of
brains--you could disappear. Hundreds of crimes and dozens
of murders went unsolved every year. All this guy did was raise
the stakes. Raised them to a level that would scare off pretty
much anyone without a death wish, but raised nonetheless.
I saw Wallace, approached him. The editor-in-chief of the
New York Gazette was a tall, slender man. He wore a neatly
trimmed brown beard flecked with gray, and though his
stature was hardly imposing, his intelligence shone through.
He wore a light jacket, hands tucked into the pockets. Wallace
and I acknowledged each other with a brief nod, then turned
back to the scene.
A line of police tape had cordoned off a thirty-foot radius
around the spot where Athena's body had fallen. Even against
the dark red of the carpet, I could make out a darker, more
gruesome shade. The body had been removed from the scene,
The Guilty
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but forensics had taped off the angle at which her body had
fallen. Several areas were marked with flags, presumably for
ballistics and blood spatter experts. Some of the spatter
appeared to be as far as ten feet from where Athena had fallen.
Only a high-caliber slug could cause that much damage. I saw
a flag on the carpet, in front of a piece of chipped pavement.
Quite possibly where the bullet had lodged after exiting
Athena's skull.
The other bars in the district had been emptied out by the
cops. The music had been turned off. The only sounds were
the sirens and the cops, but the fear was louder than all of it.
"Warm out tonight," I said. Wallace nodded, wiped his
forehead with a handkerchief as though reminded to.
"Gunman shot Athena from a distance. Goddamn sick
coward."
"Just what I was thinking," I said. I looked around. "Guy
would have been noticed on the street," I said. Wallace lifted
his head, looked at the rooftops, didn't need to say more.
"How do you shoot a woman like that?" Wallace said, to
nobody. "Disgusting, that's what it is."
"Athena wasn't just a woman," I said. "You get that
famous, you become bigger than yourself. Become an ideologue or something." Wallace looked at me, knew we were
both thinking about what happened to me last year. When
people thought I'd murdered a cop, I was no longer Henry
Parker. I stood for something evil. And even when I was vindicated, the stench lingered. Athena