Parker 01 - The Mark (18 page)

She threw it at me, and I thankfully managed to catch it while keeping my dignity around my waist. Inside was a shrink-wrapped package containing a fresh T-shirt, a package of underwear, size XXL, and a pair of cargo shorts that looked like a stiff breeze could undo the lining. I looked at Amanda, her eyes sparkling, anxious for my reaction. Had she gone shopping?

“Sorry about the underwear,” she said. “They were out of large and XL, and you don’t look like a medium kind of guy.”

“Large usually, but I’m not going to complain.” I paused, looked into her gorgeous eyes. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “So what do you think of the T-shirt? I felt it was appropriate.”

I shook my head. “Maybe I should get one that says ‘Fugitive’ on it. We can wear them at Halloween, maybe accessorize with a ball and chain. I’ll carry the pickax.”

“You can be Harrison Ford. I’ve always had a crush on Tommy Lee Jones.”

“I’m not sure I needed to know that. Besides, you’re much prettier than Tommy Lee Jones. And a lot less leathery.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Well, he is an attractive man,” I said with a grin. “Amanda, really, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I know, but I did it anyway.”

My smile came easily. I emerged from the bathroom a minute later feeling like I’d just taken a dozen hot showers after being stuck in a mudslide. New clothes never felt so good.

“Jesus, your leg,” she said. I glanced down. The wound was angry and yellow and deeper than I’d thought. “What happened to you?”

“A bullet…when I was running from those cops.” I made a slicing motion through the air to drive the image home. Amanda shuddered.

“We need to take care of it,” she said.

“We don’t need to do anything,” I replied, stern.

“Hold on,” she interrupted, bolting for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Before I could stop her, Amanda was gone. I sighed, in no position to chase after her, and turned the television on, flipped to CNN. Then I turned it off. I didn’t want to see the news. Everything was already too real.

What if I had just turned myself in? Surely things could have been worked out. Surely the truth would have been revealed.

Surely…surely bullshit.

The only witnesses had publicly testified to my guilt. If my case ever went to court, it was the word of a man accused of killing a cop against three people plus the entire NYPD. Hell, if I was a cop I’d want me dead, too. But my survival depended on smoking the truth out from its hiding place. The mystery package, the one both Fredrickson and the man in black wanted, held the answer.

Five minutes later the door swung open. Amanda was holding another bag. She took out a bottle of alcohol and some cotton swabs, several gauze pads and an Ace bandage. Her face had the confidence of a doctor ready to perform her very first surgery while drunk and high on methamphetamines.

She sat me down, gently biting her lip as she poured alcohol onto a cotton ball. I closed my eyes, then felt a hot, searing pain rip into my leg. I gritted my teeth, a sharp yelp escaping my lips as she increased the pressure.

“Let me know if this hurts.”

I nodded, said I would. If she hadn’t picked up that it hurt like a motherfucker, I wasn’t about to tell her.

Eventually the pain died down to a dull throbbing sensation. Her hands were fluid, swapping pads caked with dried blood for clean ones, no hesitancy about touching my wound or cleaning it. Her fingers seemed hungry, kneading my skin as though it contained some hidden antidote for her as well. As much as she was helping me, fixing me, I knew I was helping her, too.

When she finished, Amanda placed a clean gauze pad over the wound and fixed it in place with the bandage. She fastened the end with small metal clasps and gave my leg a quick pat.

“How’s it feel?”

“Hurts like hell,” I said. “Are you sure it needs to be so tight? I think you cut off circulation to my leg.”

“Better than it getting infected. If the wound gets gangrenous, an amputation might be necessary.” She winked at me.

“Maybe it needs to be a little tighter.”

Amanda washed her hands, collapsed back into bed and sighed. Her eyes closed, her chest rhythmically rising and falling. My eyes traced her delicate curves, the brown silky hair spilling over her neck. Why now, in the middle of everything going wrong, did something feel so right?

“Why are you helping me?” I asked before I could think not to. Amanda didn’t move, simply laid there, breathing.

“It’s the right thing to do,” she said drowsily.

“How do you know it’s the right thing? You just met me. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough about you,” she said softly. “Believe it or not I’m a good judge of character. I trust my instincts more than any person’s word. Those men in my house tonight, you’re not like them.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re helping me. You could go home right now, call the cops and tell them where I am. Why don’t you?”

“Don’t you get it?” she said, rising to rest on her elbows, her voice plaintive. “I’m in danger, too. And if I turn you in, no justice will have been done. We’ll never know what Fredrickson was looking for, or why the Guzmans and Grady Larkin lied, what they were protecting themselves from. I’m with you, Henry, to the end of this. No matter what.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, knowing the enormity and truth in those two syllables.

Amanda nodded. Soon her breathing steadied, her eyes closed and she fell into a deep sleep.

Watching her sleeping peacefully only made me more aware of my own body. My bones felt like they’d been rubbed against a cheese grater. I needed a long, peaceful sleep, if only to remind me of the life I used to have. But sleep never came. I just watched Amanda, hoping her dreams were peaceful. Soon, I hoped, our reality would mirror those dreams.

D
avid Morris was combing his hair—the thick, long hair that Evelyn fucking hated, god
damn
her—when the doorbell rang. Slamming down his plastic comb, David yelled at her to answer it. She didn’t respond. He heard the muffled sound of the television. Some sort of damn daytime talk show. Fuck. Couldn’t she get off her ass
once
a day?

David insisted she get a job months ago, and what did Evelyn do? Watched more television. Now that he was working full-time again, coming home late at night and sleeping until early afternoon, she had all day to be productive. Twice a week he had to make the three-hundred-mile drive from St. Louis to Chicago, arriving home long after the midnight hour, dropping into bed like a sack of bricks. And yet he still made time to get the kids ready for school, pack their lunches and drive them to soccer practice. Years ago he would wake Evelyn up for a quickie, gently tickle her neck and bite her earlobe. These days the thought of munching her ear made him sick.

Ever since they’d moved to Chicago, Evelyn had made David’s life a living hell. His salary was off the charts, but his home life sucked worse than an Eagles reunion. At least twice this month, David had seriously considered grabbing the kids from under her nose and getting out of the hellhole he called home. Throw some Hank Williams on the radio, throw his arm around David Jr. and little Cassie, and he’d be home free.

David pulled on an AC/DC shirt and trudged downstairs, leering in the direction of Evelyn’s talk show, silently cursing whichever red-faced evangelist had her attention this morning. He peeked out the side windows before opening the front door. Force of habit.

The man outside was wearing black pants and a black shirt, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He held his arm at an awkward angle, like he’d recently injured it. David was no stranger to the law—hell, his band had torn up the southwest in his younger days and he’d spent a few nights in county lockup—so he immediately knew the visitor was a cop. Sighing, he opened the door.

“Can I do for you, Officer?” The cop laughed, showed his white teeth, then removed his sunglasses, wincing as he bent his arm.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Can practically smell the gun oil through the front door.” David looked around for the squad car, saw only a beat-up rental. “Where’s your vehicle, Officer?”

“Federal Marshal, actually.”

“Fibbies drive rent-a-cars? Lemme see some ID.” The man pulled out his wallet—a handsome leather model—and flipped it open. Inside lay a government-issued ID stamped with one of those five-pointed stars sheriffs in western movies wore on their vests. The agent’s name was Spencer Bates.

“So what can I do for you, Agent Bates?”

Bates pointed to David’s truck. “That your Tundra?”

“Be a mighty coincidence if it were someone else’s.”

“Mind if I have a look?”

“Mind if I ask what this is all about?” Bates smiled and apologized.

“Mr. Morris, we’re tracking two fugitives by the names of Henry Parker and Amanda Davies. We have reason to suspect they hitched a ride out of St. Louis last night, and we’re doing a search of all vehicles we have reason to suspect may have aided in their escape.”

“I was in St. Louis all day yesterday for a meeting. What’s my truck got to do with this? I didn’t aid nobody.”

“We have a record of your E-Z Pass being charged at a tollbooth in downtown St. Louis late last night, around the same time the suspects were seen fleeing Ms. Davies’s house in that neighborhood. We’re just being thorough and following procedure. There’s a possibility they could have climbed in the back while you weren’t paying attention.”

“No way,” David said, stroking the hair flowing down the back of his neck. “I woulda seen something.”

“Maybe,” the agent said. “Maybe not.”

“Well, suit yourself, I got nothing to hide. Let’s go examine my vee-hi-cle.”

Better to get the cop off his back than give him a reason to get suspicious. Bates walked over to the truck and lifted the tarp covering the bed. He ran his finger along the metal, looked at it, nodded.

“Whaddaya got there?” David asked, squinting. He joined Bates at the car.

“If you look at the dust patterns in the flatbed…” Bates said.

“Ain’t no dust patterns in Betty. I keep her good and clean.”

Bates rolled his eyes. “If you look at the dust patterns, Mr. Morris, they’re uneven, like someone was wriggling around. You can even make out where a derriere might have lain for several hours.”

“A derriere?”

“Someone’s ass, Mr. Morris. Now let me ask you, did you examine your flatbed when you got home? Was it empty?”

Morris nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. I keep my toolbox there. Wouldn’t leave it sitting around overnight. Goddamn vagrants here’d steal it in half a minute.”

“Did you stop anywhere else last night on your way home? For gas? Food perhaps?”

David thought, put his hand to his lips. “One stop,” he said. “Gas and coffee. Some place on I-55. Ken’s something. Ken’s Coffee Den.”

David felt a surge of pride. He was assisting in a federal investigation. This shit ever made the news programs, maybe he’d get interviewed. Maybe write a book, be like that Mark Fuhrman guy, get as much money as that blond chick who screwed Scott Peterson. Plus those anchorwomen were hot. He’d ditch Evelyn for one of them in a heartbeat.

Bates took out a notepad and wrote the information down.

“Ken’s Coffee Den, you said? On Route 55?”

“Interstate 55,” David said. Bates nodded.

“Can you think of anything else? Any other stops you might have made?”

“No, nothing.”

“Any strange movements you may have noticed during the ride? Maybe a bump or a pothole, something unexpected jostle you?”

“Nope, nothing.” Bates folded the notebook up and slid it into his pocket. “Can I help with anything else, Officer?”

“Agent, actually.” Bates walked him back to the front door. David opened it and stood just inside.

“So, Agent Bates,” David said. “Let me ask you something. You find this Parker guy, people start asking who helped out with the, you know, the investigation…any chance you could drop my name? Tell ’em I might be interested in working for the, you know, federal government?”

Bates laughed. “I’d be happy to.”

“The government, they pay well?”

“Not well enough,” Bates replied with a grin.

“Doesn’t matter,” David said. “Anything to get out of this shithole. Listen, I hope you catch those fuckers. I mean that. You need anything else, give me a ring. Maybe I can help with, you know, the investigation.”

“I surely will, Mr. Morris. I surely will.”

David nodded, suddenly felt good. Really good. He’d done a good deed, and the FBI of all things owed him one. Wait’ll Evelyn heard about this.

“Just in case you think of anything else, here’s my card.” Bates reached into his pocket, fumbled around.

David heard the blade before he felt it, the thin whistle in the air right before it plunged hilt-deep into his chest. David felt his insides tearing, like a balloon was being ripped apart inside of him. Then there was a horrible burning sensation, then he felt cold, then another sharp pain as the knife was pulled from his heart. David Morris was dead before he hit the ground.

Shelton Barnes stepped over David Morris’s body and dragged it inside the house, closing the door gently.

A television was playing somewhere on the second floor. Barnes looked at Morris, blood still pumping from the three-inch gash in his chest, then slowly made his way upstairs.

“C
olumbia Presbyterian, this is Lisa speaking,” said the cheery voice. Not that I advocated people being morose, but you’d think a hospital operator would have a greater sense of gravity.

“Luis Guzman’s room, please,” I said. She put me on hold, my breath following suit. Amanda had paid for the motel room, a reasonable $39.99, in cash. We were standing on a Chicago street corner, crammed into a dingy phone booth, the afternoon sun fading away. Columbia Presbyterian was the fourth New York hospital we’d called. The first three had no record of a Luis or Christine Guzman. The newspapers hadn’t disclosed their location, so finding them came down to trial and error. Only in most trials, you didn’t have freaky men with guns breaking into your house and cops shooting you in the leg.

“Please hold,” Lisa said. Muzak pumped through the earpiece. I held it out for Amanda to listen.

“Couldn’t they play something a little more, I don’t know, uplifting?” she said. “I mean, Yanni and John Tesh, it’s almost like they want you to hang up.”

After a minute, Lisa clicked back on. “Thank you, sir, I’ll transfer you now. Have a pleasant day.”

I tapped Amanda on the arm. She mouthed
that’s it?

I nodded, put my finger to my lips.

Two rings later, a husky voice picked up. It wasn’t Luis Guzman.

“Yeah?”

“Um, hi, I’d like to speak with Luis Guzman.”

“Who is this?”

I cleared my throat.

“This is Jack O’Donnell,
New York Gazette.
Luis and I spoke briefly last week in regards to an article I’m writing based on his prison experience. He knows the name, it’s part of his parole package.”

There was muffled speaking, like someone was pressing their hand to the receiver. I heard the words
O’Donnell
and
reporter.
Amanda gripped my sleeve with one hand and crossed her fingers on the other.

“One second, Mr. O’Donnell.” I wiped my brow. After a few seconds a different voice came on the line. It sounded sickly, weak. Like the person on the other end had just run a marathon and couldn’t get a water break.

“Hullo?”

I recognized the voice instantly. “Luis Guzman?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Mr. Guzman, are you alone in your room?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, but it’s imperative I know the police aren’t present.” I waited a moment. “If they are, I won’t speak to you. Do you remember me, Mr. Guzman?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’re the one who sent Henry Parker to my house. You said if I didn’t cooperate you’d call my parole officer. Thanks a lot.”

“That’s right, Mr. Guzman. But this isn’t about that. Right now, all I want is your story—your story—to be read by millions of New Yorkers. I want them to know the real Luis Guzman and I want them to know the truth about what happened with Henry Parker. I want you to be a celebrity, Luis, a star.”

“You still want my story?”

“Absolutely. But I’m afraid I can’t promise any of that if my security is compromised. Now, Luis, are the police present?”

“They stand outside my door, man. For protection, you know? They don’t come inside unless I buzz them in or someone calls.”

“Okay then, let me get to the point.” I was growing more confident with the charade. “As you know, Luis, I have a column that’s read by hundreds of thousands of people every day, syndicated in forty-three states and twenty foreign countries. And I can make sure that every one of those people hear, from you, what
really
happened two days ago.”

A few moments passed. My heart beat faster. Luis could hang up at any moment, call the police who were just outside his door. The line could be traced instantly, my search could end before I knew it.

“All right, Mr. O’Donnell. What do you need to know?” I cleared my throat. Amanda smiled, rubbed my elbow. For the first time in days I felt that rush again.

“Luis, first off, what is your relationship to Henry Parker?”

“I never met the kid until that night.”

“That a fact?”

“Yes, that’s a fact,
amigo.
”

“Right,
amigo.
Now, the other day you went on record stating that Parker was looking for drugs, that he tried to steal them from you, and in the process beat you and your wife. Terrible, terrible thing. Just so we’re clear, how large was this stash Parker attempted to steal? And what kind of drugs were in it?”

“Hey, Mr. O’Donnell…I tell you the truth…am I going to get in trouble?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can tell you this now, but you can promise you won’t tell anyone until the story comes out, right? Until I’m out of this stinking bed?”

“Absolutely, Luis. You have my word.”
And tough shit if I don’t stick to it, you lying prick.

“There was no stash,” Luis said. “We didn’t have nothing.”

I waited a moment, let Luis think I was considering this. “So, Luis, why did Henry Parker come to you for drugs if you didn’t have any?”

Luis paused. “When I was younger, you know, a stupid kid, I dealt a bit. I’m not proud of that shit, but it’s all public knowledge. My PO says it helps to come clean. Anyway this Parker kid was probably a junkie, figured I was still into the stuff and just went nuts. You had my record, you saw my priors.”

“So you think Parker was a junkie?” I asked, my blood starting to boil.

“In my opinion, yeah.”

“So are you still dealing?”

“Hell, no,” Luis said irritably. “I haven’t touched that shit since I was a teenager. Parker was high, that’s all. Guy was looking for a rush. That’s what I told the papers and that’s what I’m telling you now.”

Wonderful,
I thought. I’d spent most of college trying to avoid becoming a pothead and now the entire world thought I was a dope fiend.

“So, Luis, you’re saying an unarmed twenty-four-year old newspaper reporter, who was high on drugs, was able to subdue an ex-convict and his wife single-handedly?”

Luis hesitated. Amanda pinched my arm. I needed to step back. I was on the offensive. Any more pushing and I could scare him away. Backtracking, I posed a new line of questioning.

“Sounds like this Parker was one messed-up kid.”

“Got that right, man.”

“All right, Luis, answer me this. Officer Fredrickson. How did he find you?” Fifteen seconds passed while I waited for a response. “Mr. Guzman, are you there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just thinking, picturing it in my head. How it happened exactly, you know? Still a little woozy.”

“Take your time,” I said, trying hard to disguise the disgust in my voice.

“See, what happened was,” Luis said, “Parker hurt my wife, Christine, and that’s when Officer Fredrickson found us. He must have heard the commotion, you know. He wanted to protect us.”

“I was under the impression your superintendent, Grady Larkin, first reported hearing these noises.”

“Yeah, that sounds right. Everything just happened so fast, you know? Hard to remember the details.”

“Sure,” I said, gritting my teeth. “So how much time would you say elapsed between the beginning of the struggle and Officer Fredrickson’s arrival?”

“Elapsed? I don’t know. A minute. Two minutes.”

“You’re pretty lucky Officer Fredrickson was in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah, guess so.”

“How long have you lived at 2937 Broadway, Luis?”

“Seven years.”

“And when did you get out of prison?”

“Seven years.”

“So you moved in right after you got out of jail?”

“That’s right.”

“Lucky that apartment was available, real estate in New York is a bitch.”

“Don’t have to tell me, man.”

“So what’s your monthly rent?”

“’Scuse me?”

“Rent, Luis. What do you pay per month?”

“Rent? I, uh, we pay I think sixteen hundred a month.”

“You think sixteen hundred or you know sixteen hundred?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s sixteen hundred.”

“Would Christine know for sure?”

Luis laughed. “Christine? No, man, she never looks at the bills. She don’t work, either, just takes care of the preparations for our baby. Me, I pay the bills. I work hard. I don’t need drugs to do that.”

Amanda mouthed the word
what?
She saw the anger in my face, but knew we were getting somewhere. I held up one finger, mouthed
wait.

“Would Grady Larkin know how much you pay in rent, Luis?” He seemed taken aback.

“Grady? No, I don’t think so. He don’t know much.” The door was left tantalizingly open, but I could tell from his voice I couldn’t press further.

“Now just to clarify, you believe Henry Parker’s motivation for assaulting your family was stealing a stash of drugs that you never had.”

“That’s right.”

I paused. “Mr. Guzman, I’m through for now. If I have any more questions, I might call back.”

“What, that’s it? You got nothing else?”

“For now, no. However I urge you not to divulge details of our conversation to anyone, including the police. If anything we’ve discussed should leak, say to another newspaper, or if I get one phone call from the NYPD, your story doesn’t get printed.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Glad to hear that, Luis. Glad to hear that.”

“One thing, Mr. McDonnell.”

“O’Donnell.”

“O’Donnell. Mr. O’Donnell, that Parker kid, he…” Luis’s voice trailed off.

“Yes, Luis?”

“Henry seemed like a good kid. He didn’t know what he was doing. In your story, when you write it, can you make sure to print that? That I don’t hate the kid or nothing?”

“Sure thing, Luis. Consider it done.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Donnell.”

“Call me Jack. Goodbye, Luis. Give Christine my best for a speedy recovery.”

I hung up. Amanda clasped her hands together and comically batted her eyes. “My smart reporter, so professional,” she cooed.

I bit my lip, thoughts running through my head like a slot machine gone haywire. “It doesn’t make sense,” I said.

“What doesn’t?”

“The money. When I asked Luis what his rent payments are, he couldn’t give a straight answer. And he got real apprehensive when I mentioned the super, Grady Larkin.”

“So?”

“Luis said he was paying sixteen hundred in rent per month for that apartment. That’s a little pricey for a security guard.”

“You think he’s lying?”

“Sixteen hundred a month over twelve months is—” I did the math in my head “—nineteen thousand, two hundred a year. Luis pulls in twenty-three grand, his wife doesn’t work and they’re trying for a child. It doesn’t make sense.” I paused. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Amanda asked.

“Unless he really doesn’t know what they’re paying.”

Amanda looked confused. “How could he not know?”

“Maybe they’re being subsidized, somebody else paying a portion of the rent.”

“You think that’s possible?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.” I picked the phone back up and dialed the operator.

“City and state?”

“New York, New York. Manhattan.”

“What listing?”

“I need the number for a Grady Larkin at 2937 Broadway.”

“Is this a residence or business?”

“Residence.”

“One moment, please.” Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Amanda bit her nails, then smiled shyly and tucked her hand back into her pocket. Finally the operator returned. “Sir, I have no listing for a Grady Larkin at that address.”

“Can you run just the name then? Leave the address blank. And extend the search to businesses.”

“One moment.” More time passed. I started biting my nails, my pulse quickening. Amanda smacked my arm and I tucked my hand into my pocket.

“Sir? I still have no such listing in Manhattan. Shall I try a different borough?”

“Are you positive?” I asked. “How did you spell the name?” She relayed it back to me, her spelling correct. Impossible. Grady Larkin lived in that building. I’d seen his name on the directory. He’d been quoted in the newspaper. Hanging up the phone, I turned to Amanda.

“What? What’s wrong?” she asked.

“The superintendent. There’s no record of him at that address.” I knew what had to be done. I said, “We need to find Grady Larkin.”

Amanda looked skeptical. “You think this rent thing has something to do with John Fredrickson?”

“Not directly, but I think it’s a thread that might tie into a larger spool. Something’s not right. Between the Guzmans lying about the drugs and this, Grady Larkin has to know something. He’d have records of payments, security deposits.”

“So tell me, Mr. Bernstein,” Amanda said. “How do we find Grady Larkin?”

There was only one thing we could do. One way to find out what was going on. One way to try and clear my name before the shadows caught up with us.

“New York,” I said solemnly. “I need to get back to New York.”

Amanda waited for the punch line, then realized there was none.

“Henry, that’s insane. You know how many cops are looking for you? All the train stations and bus terminals with your picture plastered everywhere, it’d be like dipping yourself in cow’s blood and hiding in the middle of a shark tank.”

“I don’t have a choice. It’s either that, jail or a grave.”

“You mean
we
don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t want you coming with me. You saved my life. I can’t ask anything else.”

“You don’t have to ask,” she said. “And I’m not even going to let you. I’m coming with you.”

Amanda said it with the kind of finality that let me know there was no changing her mind.

“Right now we have a slim advantage. Nobody knows where we are. The sharks are swimming in a completely different tank than us. But that won’t last long.” I took out the map. “Union Station. It’s a cab ride from here. If we can get on a train, we’ll be on our way back to New York before they even know we’re not in St. Louis. But the question is, once we get to New York, how do we keep from walking right into a phalanx of New York’s finest?”