The Guilty - Jason Pinter [60]
"Where are you?"
"I'm on my way back from the airport. I should be in the
city in twenty minutes."
"Are you okay?"
How could I answer that?
"I'm fine," I said.
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"You don't sound fine. Talk to me."
"I have to go right to the Gazette. They're going to want
to know what the hell is going on."
"Babe, I want to see you, are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," I said, this time my voice barely masking the
irritation, then hating myself for talking to her like that. "I
don't know when I'll be home, but I'll talk to you then. I found
a lot in New Mexico. I think I have a line on who the killer
is. Or thinks he is."
"Well, I have to work late, but if you need anything please
let me know. Hen, I'm so sorry about this. I know how close
you were to that family."
It took a moment to gather myself.
"Henry, you there?"
"Yeah...listen, I'll call you when I know more. I might
need one of those cyanide pills they give to soldiers in case
they're captured."
"Don't say that."
"I'm kidding."
"Call me when you know more. Talk to Jack, I'm sure he
can help. I'll see you at home. I love you."
I paused for a moment, letting those words sink in.
"I love you, too."
As soon as I hung up I called Jack's private line. There was
no answer. I cursed and left a brief message.
"Jack, it's Henry. Listen, I have something you need to
hear. I know why the killer is using that gun. Call me as
soon as you get this. I'll need your help before I go into
the buzz saw."
As my cab veered toward the Grand Central Parkway, the
sun began to dip below the clouds, turning New York a beautiful dark blue. I could feel sweat dripping down my neck.
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181
Putting Loverne's murder aside, I had new information that
would be vital to the reporting on this story. I just hoped it
would be heard through all the noise.
The fare was thirty-five bucks. I tossed two twenties at the
driver and raced into the Gazette office. There were two other
days I'd felt this kind of queasy apprehension about going to
work. My first day in the office, where I met Wallace and
Paulina and nearly offered to polish Jack O'Donnell's shoes.
My first day back on the job after running for my life from
Joe Mauser and the assassin Shelton Barnes. And now today.
I entered the silent lobby, heard my shoes clacking on the
marble floor. The security guard nodded hello and went back
to reading his newspaper. From his polite demeanor, I guessed
he hadn't read Paulina's article.
I swiped my pass and went to the Metro floor. The doors
opened, and standing right there was Evelyn Waterstone.
Short, cold, mean--I couldn't tell if her reaction to my
presence was based on general surliness or was simply her
normal countenance.
"Parker," she said.
"Hey, Evelyn," I replied.
"Nice reporting on the ballistics story with Jack."
"Thanks," I stammered, trying to remember the last time
Evelyn had offered a pleasantry.
"Hope you're still around tomorrow," she added, before
walking away.
As I threaded my way toward my desk, I noticed that every
reporter, stringer and editor had stopped what they were doing
to watch me. I couldn't look them in the eye.
Once again, I was the story.
I barely had time to sit down when Wallace was standing
over my desk. His eyes were tinged with red and the indents
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on his nose meant he'd stayed at the office overnight without
removing his glasses. His hair was askew, tie loosened, like
a school kid roughed up by the classroom bully. He pressed
his lips together and said, "Come with me."
I felt eyes boring into my back as we walked to the elevator.
I didn't have to ask where we were going. Wallace pressed
the button, then shoved his hands back into his pockets. Then
he looked at me.
"That was good work you did for Jack," he said.
"I think there's much more to these murders than the bal listic report," I said. "I've been in New Mexico, I--"
"Later," Wallace said. The doors opened. "Let's go."
My stomach surged upward with the motion of the elevator. I wondered