Jason Pinter - The Mark

DiForio looked at him with contempt. “If I need a fat asshole to walk up behind a deaf and dumb guy and hit him in the back of the head with a crowbar, I’ll let you know. I need to chase down a fugitive thirty years younger than us, something tells me I’ll need a guy who can see his toes.”

“Mike?” Blanket said.

“The package from that junkie shutterbug,” DiForio said. “Where is it?”

Blanket’s heart caught in his throat. He blinked rapidly, felt sweat leaking through his pores. “The cops don’t have it. It wasn’t at the scene.”

DiForio slowly turned around, taking two steps away from Blanket. Then in the blink of an eye, he spun around and slapped Blanket across the face.

Spit flew from his lips. He tasted salty blood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took it in stride.

“So, would you find it safe to say that since Luis Guzman doesn’t have my package, and the cops don’t have it yet, either…you see what I’m getting at you stupid fuck?”

Blanket spit a cluster of blood and phlegm onto the concrete. “Parker,” he said. “He must have taken it last night when he ran.”

DiForio nodded. “Blanket?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Call the Ringer.”

Blanket felt a shiver, an electrical pulse, course through his body. A smile crept over his busted lip. He felt no pain, only a sense of satisfaction. At that moment, Blanket wouldn’t have traded places with Henry Parker for all the riches on earth.

Federal 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.”