Jason Pinter - The Guilty

"I assume you read the Gazette this morning," Bynes said.

"Fucking online edition," Paulina said, taking another sip, feeling that delicious warm tingle. "Read only by cheapos and kids without the attention span to click the 'Next Page' button.

Their print edition didn't have anything we didn't, that's all we should be concerned about."

"Tell that to Ted Allen," Bynes continued. "The man is pissed.

He thinks we got scooped, and he's looking to point the finger."

"We did get scooped," Paulina said. "But that's like saying we got stabbed by a toothpick at the start of a knife fight. What

Henry Parker wrote this morning won't be a blip on the radar tomorrow after Perez's press conference. So tell him if that finger goes anywhere near me I'm cutting it off."

Bynes smirked. "Why don't you tell him that?"

"Well, it's your job, but I'd be happy to. I'll e-mail him right now." She pulled out her keyboard and began typing.

Bynes placed his hand over the keys.

"That was a hypothetical question," he said.

She stopped typing. "Don't ever ask me a hypothetical question again, or I'll hypothetically strangle you with your shoelace. I call every bluff I see. Remember that."

Bynes swallowed, flicked his eyes down to his wingtips.

"So what do I tell Ted Allen? He's pissed this Parker kid got to the cops before we could."

Paulina leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes. This

Parker kid. This Parker kid.

Her eyelids flew open.

"This Parker kid is a good reporter. Give me pages four through seven tomorrow for coverage of the murder."

"That's a lot of copy. Are you sure you'll have enough to fill that space?"

"Don't ask me that again. I could give a rat's ass what you do with pages eight, nine and sixty-nine. Oh, and get Tamara

Finnerman to do a write-up of David Loverne's speech at the

Alzheimer's event last night. When my story runs, I don't want people thinking we've had it in for him. Tell her to use prose so syrupy and purple I'll be able to see the Crayola logo.

Tell Allen that between these two stories, the Gazette will be limping within weeks."

Bynes laughed, then wiped a loose dribble of saliva from his mouth.

"I'm not going to tell him that. What, you think covering a story we've already been scooped on will suddenly have

Wallace Langston quaking in his Doc Martens?"

Paulina smiled at him, crossed her legs.

"Every war begins with an opening volley. Parker's scoop this morning was the Gazette' s opening volley. I'm not simply returning fire, I'm coming back with a Howitzer up their ass.

You know my ex-husband was a state prosecutor. One thing

I learned from him, other than that men are as useful as dirty bathwater, is that nobody remembers how you won, they remember if you won. We simply take what Parker has, know what he's going to know, and make it our own. Henry's a great reporter, but after last year he's nervous, twitchy, and doesn't want to rattle the cage any more than he already has. I have someone who'll shadow him closer than his beard stubble, and I'll be waiting to lay down the copy."

Bynes smiled. "I thought you said Finnerman was the one who wrote purple prose."

"Trust me," Paulina said. "It'll look better on paper."

I was walking toward city hall alongside Jack O'Donnell, nearly having to sprint to keep up. And his legs had an extra thirty years of mileage. I dialed Amanda, figured I'd say hi before radio silence. She picked up on the second ring. "Hey, hon, can't talk for long, just wanted to say hi. I'm heading to the press conference with Jack. Think I can smell the mayor's cologne a mile away," I said into the cell phone.

"Hey, babe. No problem," she said. "I'm about to go into the library and I think they've starting arming the cell phone police with automatic weapons."

"Good thing you finally learned how to use the vibrate button." Jack elbowed me. Amanda, I mouthed. He raised his eyebrows. Girlfriend. He opened his mouth to say ah. Then he ran his thumb across his throat. Cut it off. "Anyway, I'd better turn this off. Jack is giving me dirty looks. I'll call you as soon as this circus is over."

"Is it a three-ring circus, or does Athena Paradis warrant four?"

"You know, I think they might green-light the ever-elusive five-star circus. Just for Athena."

"The news ran video of Costas Paradis getting off his private jet this morning. I've never much sympathized with billionaires, but you have to feel for the guy."

I said nothing. Didn't have to.

"Give Jack my best. Knock the story out of the park, Henry."

"Will do," I said. "Stay quiet." I hung up. Jack was holding back a thin smile. "What?"

He allowed a small chuckle. "Like two sweet jaybirds, you two," he said. "Hope you don't mind my taking amusement in the love rituals of the young and naive."

I eyed Jack's hand, barren of any rings or jewelry other than a swank Omega wristwatch. I knew he'd worn a ring, years ago. He never showed any desire to discuss it.

I took my press pass out of my pocket and looped the lanyard over my head. Jack did the same. We rounded the corner and immediately became two small fish in the biggest school I'd ever seen. There must have been five hundred members of the press corps standing outside of city hall.

Dozens of cameras, many of them live, along with Brylcreemed reporters and onlookers peeking out of open office windows for blocks in every direction. Millions of people would be watching this conference, whether live or on the evening news. Which made our jobs near impossible. How do you find a shadowy corner when there are hundreds and thousands of eyes scanning every inch?

We ducked under a rope and tried to push our way to the front.

"Easier to dig to China," Jack said. "Screw this. I don't need to be close to hear Perez."

"He'll have the text up on his MySpace page within an hour anyway."

"Perez has a MySpace page?"

"Facebook, too. Wants to hit the young voters."

"Do young voters like him?" Jack asked.

"I wouldn't vote for him," I replied. "A little too much selfpromotion for my tastes."

Jack pulled a pair of folding binoculars out of his pocket.

He stared through them, peered along the dais and around the surrounding area. When he was done he passed them to me.

I took in the scene. The marble steps leading to city hall were polished a gleaming white. The podium was empty, waiting for Mayor Perez and, I assumed, Costas Paradis.

Three uniformed police officers stood on either side of the podium. They stood straight, arms at their sides, guns visible.

I swung the binoculars from right to left. When I saw who was standing directly to the left of the podium, I nearly dropped the binoculars.

"I saw him, too," Jack said. "He's not here for you. Be a professional."

"Professional," I said, my mouth dry. "Right."

Standing to the left of the podium was Detective Lieutenant Joseph Mauser. One year ago, Detective Joe Mauser had chased me halfway across the country, shot me in the leg, and barely escaped with his life after taking three bullets in the chest.

I had followed Mauser's recovery over the months. Visited his guarded hospital room and was turned away by the very cops who'd wanted me dead before they found out the truth.

After two months in the hospital-fully recovered, minus one spleen, two ribs and twenty pounds-Joe Mauser transferred from the FBI to the NYPD. He attributed the transfer as a tribute to his fallen brother-in-law and in-arms, John

Fredrickson. The man whose death I was responsible for, indirectly or not. Mauser wanted to be closer to his sister, Linda,

John's widow. In various interviews, Mauser insinuated that he held no ill will toward me. That given the circumstances he would have defended his life and honor, as well. But a wound is a wound, no matter how it's caused, and the simple fact was his brother-in-law would still be alive if not for me.