Parker 01 - The Mark (7 page)

F
ederal Plaza felt like 3:00 a.m. during a graveyard shift, everyone walking around like zombies. Many of the agents knew the man who died last night. And they were all looking to Joe Mauser to bring Henry Parker to justice.

Mauser banged open the office door. The younger agent, Leonard Denton, was already there. Clean shaven, smelled like a bottle of Drakkar Noir threw up all over him. Joe offered an imperceptible nod and sat down at the table. He sniffed, grimaced, the younger man’s aftershave reeking like holy hell. Hygiene be damned, Joe didn’t care much about anything at this point. Parker was still out there. Goddamn NYPD had the kid pinned like a rat and let him squirm away.

Leonard Denton had a squeaky clean rep in the department, squeaky to the point where people almost assumed he would flip out one day and go postal. He was efficient and by-the-book, admirable qualities. But being admired and having admirable qualities were two totally different animals. Denton requested this case for that very reason, to prove to the rank and file that he would take down a man who killed one of their own. When it came to tracking down a fugitive cop killer, you set the book on fire and laughed at it while it burned. And Mauser could tell from Denton’s face that the man was completely prepared to do that.

Denton had requested that he partner with Mauser. Joe obliged. This would be their first time working together. And as much as a longtime partner could bring familiarity to a case, Joe wanted to be kept on his toes. Denton was six-one. A little too skinny. Probably drank too much coffee, didn’t eat much, worked out like crazy. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. Never talked about a girl, serious or just someone he was banging on the side. His life was streamlined for the job. The kind of guy you’d want to track down Henry Parker.

Joe had seen the body lying in the hallway like a sack of beef. He had to bite his lower lip and turn away, the tears of rage coming uninvited. Louis Carruthers had put his hand on Joe’s shoulder, leaning in to console him, but got violently shoved away for his efforts. Louis knew, as did the other officers, that solace wouldn’t come easily. The friendly arms retracted before Joe could brush them off. He would’ve taken a flamethrower to them if given the chance.

There was no way he’d let someone else—someone detached—be the primary on this case. It had to be his. It didn’t just need closure, but the right kind of closure. Agent Joseph Mauser had to find Henry Parker himself. Since there was the chance Parker could cross state lines, the NYPD called in the Feds. Joe demanded the case. Nobody at the marshal’s office offered any resistance. Agents with a personal stake in capturing a fugitive were dogged to the point of obsession.

Officer John Fredrickson. His brother-in-law. Dead. Shot through the heart by some twenty-four-year-old walking disease. John had served the NYPD faithfully for twenty years. His wife, Linda, was Joe’s younger sister. His death left behind two children, Nancy and Joel. Paying bills was hard enough in the Fredrickson household, Joe knew that, and now they’d lost their main source of income. Linda worked as a court stenographer—actually made a pretty decent living—but it wouldn’t be nearly enough to feed three mouths. Joel was in college, and his tuition was already hard enough to foot.

His sister’s husband, stolen from the earth by a demon with no soul.

Jesus.

Joe didn’t know if he could go to the funeral. Seeing his dear friend in a box would be too much to bear. Standing over a convex piece of earth, saying meaningless farewells, what good did it do? What’s done is done. That’s what he told himself. No amount of tears could change anything, but they came anyway.

For years Joe Mauser had dipped his hands in death, and now death had hit home. The sad sacks who wept into lined hankies, the ones he was often forced to comfort, now he was one of them. His cheeks had gone flushed last night, and he’d felt warmth spread through him like a brush fire. He fought it off, stepped outside, claimed the heat was getting to him.

John Fredrickson. His brother-in-law. Dead.

And now, Len Denton. Short for Leonard. Christ, the guy even looked like a Leonard. With his wire-rimmed glasses and stiffly parted hair, thousand-dollar suit and Gillette shave gel, designer cologne and a goddamn name that almost rhymed. He bet Denton’s parents were real proud of that.

As long as Mauser found Henry Parker, though…as long as he found Parker. Denton had something to gain, too. On some level, Mauser understood it. Respect could be as powerful a motivator as anger. Between the two of them, there was an awful lot of motivation.

“Agent Mauser?” Denton said. He extended his hand. Joe merely nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am.”

“Thanks.” He shook his hand limply.

“I know you want this case closed quickly. That’s what I’m here for. I know I don’t have the personal attachment you do, but I can promise you that…”

“Save your breath. We’re partners, fine. Don’t expect small talk, chitchat, or bullshit. You want to be my friend? Help me skewer this fuck with a chainsaw.”

Denton smiled. “I’m here to help you power it.”

“Good.” Joe pulled a manila folder from under his armpit, opened to the first page. A photocopy of Henry Parker’s driver’s license. Mauser leafed through several pages, flipping too fast for Denton to see.

“We got this from Henry Parker’s landlord, guy named Manuel Vega. Shady asshole tried to rent me a ground-floor apartment for thirteen hundred a month after I questioned him.” Mauser tried hard to mask the anger in his voice. Was it anger?

Suddenly he felt choked up, almost unable to speak. Joe coughed, wiped his eyes with the edge of his tie, showed Denton the file and flipped to the next page. “We’ve examined Parker’s checking and savings accounts and frozen his funds. As soon as he deposits one paycheck it’s gone to pay rent, phone, Internet porn, et cetera. Parker saves about a buck fifty a month.” Mauser flipped to the next page.

“Phone bill?” Denton asked.

“Cellular. We couldn’t find records for any landlines in his apartment.”

“That’s pretty common these days,” Denton said. “Especially with the younger set. A lot of people use cells as their primary lines. Assuming you get service, it’s cheaper than paying for a landline and a mobile.”

Mauser nodded. He noticed several officers walk by the office, peering in through the windows. Rage on some faces, regret on others. All of the eyes desperate to find Henry Parker and cut his balls off. Mauser closed the blinds and watched the eyes disappear.

Ordinarily Mauser would have allowed the NYPD to remain primary in a cop slaying. Not this time. Joe had to find Parker before anyone. His was a personal anger, not professional. Not like the rest of them. He respected their anger, fed off it, but couldn’t sate it. Refused to sate it.

Mauser pulled out Parker’s most recent phone bill. He passed it to Denton, who scanned it, his finger tracing several numbers that were highlighted in yellow.

“What’re these?”

“We marked any numbers that appeared on Parker’s bill more than once a week. Not a whole lot, actually. His voice mail at the
Gazette—
he’s a reporter there, just started a month ago. Doesn’t call out of state much. His parents live in Bend, Oregon, but we’ve only found records of two calls made there in the past six weeks.”

“That’s good,” Denton said. “Means he’s not close to his parents. One less friendly face willing to take him in.”

Mauser nodded. Denton pointed to one number that was highlighted numerous times on the list. “What’s this one?”

“Girlfriend, Mya Loverne. Law student at Columbia. Father’s David Loverne, the family’s got money squirting out his asshole. She met Parker while they were undergrads at Cornell. You know the deal. Poor boy from the Northwest meets spoiled rich girl who’s never been felt up by a guy without a trust fund. Rent any Molly Ringwald movie and you get the picture. Miss Mya graduated last May and decided to follow Daddy’s footsteps into law school.”

“At least he has good taste,” Denton said. “There’s a lot more money in law than in newspapers, unless you can figure a way to skim from Rupert Murdoch. Have you been in touch with Mya yet?”

“That’s the next ride in the theme park.”

Denton said, “I’m a Six Flags guy myself. Never got into Disney World.”

Mauser eyed him contemptuously. “You gonna small talk me? Is that what you’re gonna do?” Mauser stood up, turned to leave the room. “Fuck it. I don’t need this shit right now.”

“Joe, come on, man. I’m only…”

“You’re only what?” Mauser said, spittle flying from his lips. “You wanna get cute with me? Six fucking Flags?”

Denton’s eyes grew sorrowful and his head tilted down. He spoke solemnly and, Mauser could tell, honestly.

“I’m sorry about your brother-in-law,” Denton said. “I swear I am. But Henry Parker’s out there, and a thousand cops are walking the streets, hands on their holsters, looking for anyone under the age of thirty to pop. I’m here to help. You want me to stay quiet, fine. But I want to find Henry Parker, and I want to know why John Fredrickson died last night. Just like you.”

Mauser stepped closer until he was breathing in Denton’s face. “Not like me. Understand that.”

Denton nodded. “Understood.” He paused before asking his next question. Mauser knew he was doing it out of politeness. He wouldn’t let his curiosity sit idle. “I don’t mean to pry, but how’s Mrs. Fredrickson? She’s your sister, right?”

“A mess,” Mauser said. He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and coughed loudly into it, then wiped his mouth.

“The kids?”

“About what you’d expect. Joel’s in college, thank God the kid’s already finished up the semester. Can’t imagine going through finals with your father’s murder hanging over you. You get older, somehow you’re more prepared for this kind of thing.”

“Have you seen Linda?”

“I went over to the house last night, after I left the crime scene.”

Denton spoke softly. “You’re the one broke the news to her, weren’t you?”

Mauser felt a lump rise in his throat and nodded. Tears would come in an instant. His sister’s husband. The man he’d shared so many laughs with, gotten stinking drunk with so many times. Watching ball games in front of the crappy Panasonic, cheering on their lovable loser Mets and hoping to God the Yankees got blown out of the water. One of his best friends. One of his only friends.

Mauser always considered it fortunate that Linda had married such a stand-up guy, not one of those louses who make a killing in the market and never see their families except during two-week vacations to the Poconos where they spend the entire time on their BlackBerries. If you married a cop, you did it for love. And so far, Mauser hadn’t found any woman willing to give him what Linda had given John. He admired his sister for making that choice. He’d told her just that many times.

It’s not a conscious decision,
she’d told him.
It’s not like I wake up every day and think “Should I or shouldn’t I be with John?” I just am. He makes me happy.

And now he was gone. Linda, alone with the kids. Joe knew he’d have to offer support. Moral. Financial. Becoming a surrogate father to his sister’s children had as seductive a ring as a colonoscopy, but he had a responsibility to the family. And his first responsibility, one that would speed up the grieving process, was to find Henry Parker and gut him like a fish.

Mauser sat down, brushed his pants. Denton looked at him expectantly. Joe said, “Let’s go talk to the girlfriend, Mya. See what the murderer’s moll has to say.”

Denton smiled. He stood up, tentatively reached out and squeezed Joe’s shoulder.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

Mauser nodded. “Let’s go quick. I want to get into this thing before it all hits me at once.”

“I’ll drive.”

“Yeah, better you do. I see someone on the street looks like the photo on that driver’s license, I’ll mow him down without giving it a second thought.”

They left the precinct, Denton pulling the Crown Victoria onto the West Side Highway. Early morning sunlight filtered through the windshield. The cold leather on the seats prick-led Mauser’s skin. Soft rock was on the radio, the DJ sounding like he’d overdosed on Xanax.

“Mya Loverne’s cell phone bill is forwarded to an apartment near the Columbia campus reserved for student housing,” Joe said. “Keep your eyes open just in case our man decides he needs a morning pick-me-up.”

“She live alone?” Denton asked.

“Yeah, why?”

Denton sniffed. “I couldn’t afford my own place till I was thirty. Fucking unbelievable.”

Mauser spoke, his voice apprehensive. “She’s a pretty girl. I’ve seen pictures of Mya with her father, fund raisers at Cipriani, fancy dinners that cost more per plate than your mortgage. Heard rumors that Loverne is going to run for district attorney. It’s kinda creepy, almost like he uses Mya as publicity t and a. She’s always wearing these low-cut dresses and the cameras always get her good side. Both of them.”

Denton said, “People almost always vote for whichever candidate’s daughters are hotter. You see Bloomberg’s daughter? Unbelievable that girl came from that guy.” Denton took the 96th Street exit, forgoing his turn signal.

“You do the talking,” Mauser said. Denton looked at Mauser, concern on his face.

“You sure you’re up for this? I can get the case reassigned, no problem.”

Joe waved his hand in dismissal. “Over my dead body. I’ll be fine once we get there.”

“Don’t say that. Parker’s body, that I can live with.”

Joe smiled. “Deal.” He lowered the window. Fresh air beat against his face. The trees shook gently, leaves rattling in the wind. He stared out the window, his eyes latching onto anything that moved.

Denton squeezed into a spot on 114th and Broadway, leaning over the headrest as he backed in. He didn’t even use the side mirrors, Mauser noticed. Guy didn’t trust anything but his own eyes. Mauser liked that.

Joe felt his knee joints groan as he climbed out of the car. Denton slid on a pair of designer sunglasses, his blond hair fitting in perfectly with the young men and women carrying thick valises who crowded the streets. Tanned and toned bodies looking healthy and vigorous in the bronzed sunlight. Ready to take their place among the proletariat of NewYork City.