Parker 02 - The Guilty (2 page)

"Ladies and gentlemen, kittens, cats and lions of all ages,"

he said. "It is my pleasure to introduce you to the Queen of

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17

all Media, her royal highness herself, the woman whose debut

album drops
this Tuesday,
give it up, show your love, for the

beautiful Athena Paradis!"

The crowd roared as Athena waved, blowing imaginary

kisses, flaunting her body and striking glamorous pose after

pose. She was a god among mortals. She knew it, they knew

it, and they all loved it.

Suddenly a deep, throbbing bass began to reverberate

through the club. Squeals of joy leapt from the lips of heavybreathing men and women. Then, after a dozen bass thumps,

the synthesizer kicked in, and the club came alive.

The sweaty bodies congealed into a solid mass as the

expertly arranged rhythm sent ripples through them, electricity making every person sway, every person bounce, every

one of them belonging to her.

Sweat coated Athena's upper lip. She licked it, shuddered

at the sensation, and knew the night would be a memorable

one. The blue Missoni dress clung to her body, the fabric

matted on her curves like tissue paper. The dress had been airmailed by Ottavio Missoni himself, specifically for Athena to

wear tonight.

She could feel DJ Stix's eyes drinking her in. He didn't

even pretend to look away. Even Shawn Kensbrook couldn't

help but steal an eyeful as she danced and spun to the beat.

Athena looked at them with a seductive grin, then raised the

volume a few notches, the bass thumping harder.

The music consumed the night. And then Athena jumped

on top of the turntables.

The crowd stopped dancing, stared at her, cheered her on.

She ran her hands over her body, made every one of them feel

like they could be her lover.

Athena
owned
them. Every single one.

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Jason Pinter

Somebody handed Athena a clear glass. She drank it in two

gulps. Vodka tonic. With a hint of lime. She could feel the

ecstasy tab kicking in. The whole world became a velvet

dream, soft, wet and inviting. She kissed the air, watched as

her lips sent waves of passion through hundreds.

When the song ended, Stix took Athena's hand and

escorted her back to her nine hundred pounds of bodyguard.

The lips pleaded with her to stay, reaching and pawing as she

was led through the crowd.

Shawn Kensbrook ducked through the prying arms.

Athena's lead guard recognized him, parted the way. Shawn

was dripping with sweat. She envied that he could experience

such ecstasy while sober. He threw his arms around her. Whispered into her ear.

"Athena, hon, that was off the
charts.
"

"No," she said. "Come Tuesday, that's number one on the

charts." Shawn smiled, nodded.

"Look at this, I mean, will you
look
at it? All these people

here for you...what's that feel like?"

She smiled at him, flicked her tongue into his ear. She felt

him shiver. Felt him grow hard in an instant.

"You'll never know."

Shawn watched as the bodyguards whisked her away. The

bouncers parted the curtains, flung open the doors. Her limo

waited just beyond the red carpet. It would take her to Nikos's

SoHo loft, where he'd have champagne, strawberries and

other goodies waiting. They'd do it all night before passing

out naked on his satin sheets. Tomorrow she would see her

photo in newspapers across the city.

Athena stepped onto the red carpet and waved to her fans.

Her new fans. Her old fans. Fans who would give anything for

her. She took one step onto the carpet. Smiled. And then a crack

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19

of thunder filled the air, and a bullet smashed through her

skull.

And just like that, her blood staining the carpet an even

darker red, the Goddess Athena died.

2

I woke up thinking that Amanda must have hijacked my cell

phone. That's the only way my ring tone could have been

changed from the standard and satisfying triple beep to an

electronic version of that awful new Athena Paradis song, "I

Want UR Love."

And the only thing worse than hearing that song come

from a tinny cell phone speaker was being woken by it at three

in the morning.

Amanda grumbled. Her arm was thrown over my chest, but

her sleep hadn't been interrupted. Figures I'd be the only one

disturbed by her diabolical creation.

I reached across to the nightstand where I kept the phone,

careful not to dislocate my shoulder since my other arm was

pinned under Amanda. There are worse things in the world

than having your arm stuck underneath a beautiful woman

who loves you.

I covered the speaker with my thumb and checked the

incoming number. Christ, not again; this was becoming a

routine. It was Mya, my ex-girlfriend. Two-thirty in the

morning. The third time this week Mya had called in the wee

hours. I was having a hard time putting an end to it. I knew

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since last year Mya had been on a slippery slope. Calling from

a bar, no doubt. I could practically smell the Stoli through the

mouthpiece.

Mya and I dated for several years in college, a time I could

hardly remember. When we met, I was smitten. She was tall,

beautiful, with confidence like no girl I'd ever met. And for

some reason she'd picked me. I don't know if I ever loved her,

or simply loved being with her. Loved being with a girl I knew

would
be
somebody.

We'd broken up a year ago. Right before my life had

changed forever. Our relationship was probably doomed

whether or not I'd been accused of murder, but after I nearly

died and became a minor New York celebrity, she'd had a

change of heart. Suddenly she wanted to give our buried love

life another go.

She didn't love Henry Parker anymore. At least not the

Henry she'd met years ago. Not the Henry Parker she used to

kiss behind the stacks in the Cornell library. She loved the

Henry Parker that had been invented by the newspapers and

magazines. The indestructible one who'd survived a three-day

manhunt, only to live and regain his job at the city's most

prestigious newspaper. Not the Henry Parker who could

barely run without feeling the pain in his side from where the

bone shards punctured his lung. Or the Henry whose heart

beat fast every time he heard a police siren or a car backfire.

That was the Henry that only Amanda knew. And I was happy

she knew it. It felt real. Like it could last forever.

Mya loved the other Henry Parker. But that wasn't me.

That Henry was a creation, a monster created by ink. I wanted

nothing to do with him.

At the same time, the year Amanda and I had been together

had seen incredible changes. When I'd first met Amanda--

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Jason Pinter

when I'd lied to her to save my skin--she'd been as lost as I

was. Her entire life existed in a trunk full of notebooks she'd

kept since she was a little girl. Notebooks she used to catalog

every single person she met, writing down superficial details,

mirroring the abandonment in her real life.

When she picked me up in her car, thinking I was a student

named Carl Bernstein, Amanda wrote down her thoughts

about that nonexistent man. I wanted her to know life wasn't

something to be cataloged. With me, she could actually experience it. Soon after she moved in, the notebooks disappeared. One night, after making love, I'd asked about them.

She said she didn't need a stupid pen and paper anymore. She

said real memories were good enough. And that's what I

promised to give her. Even if it meant her playing practical

jokes with my ring tone.

I clicked the answer button and waited. I could hear

breathing on the other end. It was the fifth time this month

Mya had called after midnight, in addition to the myriad

calls to my office, always from unlisted numbers or pay

phones. At night, I could chalk it up to her being drunk.

During the day, I didn't know what to make of it. A week ago

Mya had called at 3:30 a.m. She asked if I'd meet her for a

drink. To talk about stuff. We'd never really had a chance to say

goodbye, she'd said. I told her we did. And still she kept calling.

"Hehlo? Izzis Henry?"

"Yes, Mya," I whispered, watching to see if Amanda

would wake up.

"Where are you?"

"At home."

"Why are you at home?"

"I was sleeping."

"Why are you sleeping?"

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23

"Because I have work tomorrow." I waited. She said nothing. "Listen, Mya, you need to stop calling me."

"Oh, stop it," she said, and I could picture her waving her

hand dismissively. "You're not sleeping now. It's early, silly.

Come out for a drink."

"Mya, there's no way..."

"Who is that?" I felt Amanda stir, her eyes fluttering open.

"Is someone on the phone?"

"It's me," I said softly. "Go back to sleep. It's Mya again."

"Again? Does she think you deliver pizza or something?"

Amanda said through a yawn. "Tell her to call Domino's and

get out of our life."

I waited a moment until Amanda's breathing evened.

"Listen, Mya, I'm going back to sleep. Please. Stop calling."

"I miss you, Henry." Her voice had changed, choked up. I

closed my eyes. Tried not to think about the last time I'd hung

up on Mya late at night. I couldn't do it again. She had to

choose to let it go.

"Come on, Mya, I'm with someone else now. You know

that. Please. Hang up the phone. Go back to your friends."

"I have no friends. Please, Hen. I really want to see you."

"Good night, Mya. I have to go. You
should
go."

"Fine," she said, and then I heard a dial tone.

I swallowed. Felt Amanda stir. Wished Mya hadn't gotten

so screwed up after the whole mess last year. Wished she

could be happy.

And then the phone rang again. Amanda bolted upright.

"Don't bars in this city have a closing time? I swear you

need to get a restraining order. If you answer it you're sleeping

on the couch."

"I don't fit on the couch."

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Jason Pinter

"Then you get the refrigerator. I have an eight-thirty tomorrow. It's hard to convince a child that their future is in good

hands if their counsel shows up looking like Morticia Addams."

I pressed Answer. "Mya, I told you I'm with someone--"

"That's none of my business or concern, Henry, but if it

makes you feel better Jack asked me to blow you a kiss."

Crap. It was Wallace Langston, the editor-in-chief of the

New York Gazette.
My boss. And he definitely wasn't calling

because he missed me. Wallace was a good man, had hired

me out of college, but I learned quickly that New York had a

way of chewing up and spitting out its good men. Few

newsmen were more respected, but readers didn't care much

about professional courtesy. They wanted juice, gossip, and

sadly often the lowest form of both. And that was one thing

Wallace refused to give.

I'd gotten used to late-night calls from the office. Jack

O'Donnell--my colleague and professional idol--was prone

to doing it just for kicks. Like Mya, sometimes late at night

I could smell the Seagrams on his breath through the phone.

Jack worked late. He was unmarried, had no children. He just

needed to hear a friendly voice, I supposed, because there

weren't many in his life. So I didn't mind. And thankfully

Amanda slept like wood.

"Wallace, what's up?"

"I need you at Thirteenth and Eleventh. Right away."

"I'm guessing this isn't so we can spend nine bucks on a

beer at one of those clubs in the meatpacking district."

He ignored me. "Just get in a cab. There's been a homicide

at some swanky shindig called the Pussy Club, I need you to

cover it. I'd send Jack but he hasn't set foot in anything but

an Irish pub since the seventies."

"Pussy Club...you mean the Kitten Club?"

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25

"I mean it's 2:33 a.m. and if you're not here in ten minutes,

we're going to get scooped by the
Dispatch,
the
Observer
and

those crummy papers they give away for free on the subway

platforms."

"Why me? Who's on night shift?"

"You're the only guy who's even remotely young enough

to even understand this stuff. Now get dressed."

"What stuff? I don't follow."

"Athena Paradis was shot to death this morning. Looks like

it might have been some sort of execution. Single shot, from

a distance. I'm going out on a limb and saying you're more

familiar with her, er, resume than Jack is."

I was stunned. Athena Paradis. The world's most famous

socialite. Famous for, well,
something.
She averaged three

page ones a month at the
Dispatch.
Wallace refused to give