Jason Pinter - The Mark

“Yeah,” I said, tugging at my brand-new shirt, the fabric stiff, chafing my armpits. “I have a whole wardrobe waiting for me.”

“Gotcha.” She scribbled some more in her notebook as I tried unsuccessfully to read over her shoulder.

Traffic began to thin out as we got farther from the tunnel. I didn’t recognize where we were, but Amanda seemed confident in her bearings. The skyscrapers of New York were gone, replaced by high-tension power lines and smokestacks peppering the bluish-gray landscape. I’d never been to New Jersey. I’d never been to a lot of places. Funny that it took being wanted for murder to get me to see more of the country.

Amanda’s notebook lay open on the armrest, and I decided to sneak a look. Her handwriting was cursive, flowing in decorative, effortless loops. Surprisingly I glimpsed my name-or rather the name of Carl Bernstein-at the top of the page.

“What are you writing?” I asked.

“Just taking notes,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Notes on what?”

“You.”

“What do you mean? You’re taking notes on me?”

“Yup.”

Just my luck, I thought. Probably hitched a ride with an FBI profiler’s daughter.

“What kind of notes?”

“Just observations and stuff,” she said, without a hint of annoyance. “Personality, clothes, speech patterns. Just things I notice.”

Except for Carl’s name in large lettering, her handwriting was too small for me to make out the rest of her notes.

“So tell me. What have you observed about me in the twenty minutes we’ve known each other?”

“That’s none of your business, actually.”

“If you’re writing about me, it is my business. It’s my business very much.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Amanda replied. “See, this is my car and my notebook. I’m writing this for my own eyes, nobody else’s. What, you have a criminal record you don’t want exposed? Should I drop you off somewhere on the turnpike?”

“That wouldn’t be very appreciated.”

“Well, when I’m in your car, you can take all the notes on me you want. I won’t ask questions.”

“I’ll remember that.” She nodded, reached down and flipped the notebook closed.

Time flew by as Amanda coasted down the highway. I wondered how many other passengers she had written drive-by profiles on. Despite the temptation, I refrained from asking. The less Amanda knew about me-and vice versa-the better. She could ruminate all she wanted about Carl Bernstein, but I couldn’t let her know Henry Parker.

After an hour of complete silence, punctured only by the wailing strains of an all-girl rock band on the radio-something about “de-manning” their respective boyfriends-I decided to spark some friendly conversation.

“So, what’s in St. Louis?”

“Home,” Amanda said. “I have two months before the bar and my folks are on vacation in the Greek Isles. I have the entire place to myself to study in peace and quiet.”

“You’re in law school?”

“No,” she replied, sarcasm dripping. “I’m taking the bar exam for veterinarians.”

“Man,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It must be exciting to be so funny. And that’s my first observation about you. ”

“Touche,” she said. Then her tone turned serious. “Actually, I want to be a child advocacy council. Custody cases, abandonment. Domestic issues, you know?”

“That’s very noble of you.”

Amanda shrugged. “I don’t care if it’s noble, it’s just what I want to do. Applying for sainthood didn’t really cross my mind.” She waited a moment, then said, “What about you? What do you do?”

“I want to be a journalist,” I said. She smiled at me, and I felt a swell of pride. “I want to be the next Bo…big investigative reporter.”

“Noble,” she said, and I laughed.

“I used to think so. Now every reporter ends up their own biggest story.”

Mauser sipped a cup of scalding coffee. His calves burned from the chase that morning and the caffeine would quicken his blood flow. He wanted to retain a sense of urgency until he found Parker. If he invited a heart attack in the process, so be it. He was in decent shape for a man of years-as Linda often called him-but working out didn’t prepare you for the exertion of real life. Full speed, no timeouts, no water breaks. What kept him going was catching John’s killer. That made the pain subside.

He’d alternated hot and cold packs upon returning to Federal Plaza. Denton had phoned ahead to Louis Carruthers, who deployed NYPD uniformed officers to guard all potential subway exits for the 6 train between Harlem and Union Square.

Guarding the subway was near pointless, Mauser thought, adding more cream and sugar to his steaming brew. Parker would be long gone by the time the first cop arrived, and with so many exit points the chances that they’d catch him there were slim. All they could do was sit and wait. Wait for someone to recognize him. Wait for Parker to make a move, slip up. Expose himself.

Parker had all but run out of contacts in New York. Joe had any and all possibilities covered. A plainclothes was staking out Mya Loverne’s apartment, instructed to tail her to and from work. Another two were stationed outside the Gazette. Chances were Parker had given up on both venues, but they had to be thorough. He’d already tapped the Parker residence in Bend, Oregon, but surprisingly Henry hadn’t attempted to contact his parents. There had to be a reason for his silence. Perhaps there was an estrangement they didn’t know about.

Twenty-goddamn-four years old, Joe thought. If he’d been caught up in a shit storm like Parker’s at twenty-four, he would have thrown himself off the Brooklyn Bridge by now. Parker, though, didn’t seem to be in that frame of mind. He wouldn’t have run otherwise. Regardless, Mauser had to find the kid before some patrolman got lucky. He didn’t want anybody else to administer punishment first.

Mauser closed the folder on his lap. A mound of paper saying nothing. They were playing this game as reactionaries, responding to Parker’s movements rather than instigating their own. Just as he added a fourth packet of sugar to the coffee, Denton burst into the room. Mauser’s eyes perked up.

“Well?” he said.

“We got a hit,” Denton said. Mauser set the folder aside, looked at Denton expectantly.

“Whadda you got?”

“Parker made a phone call,” Denton said, his eyes blazing. “We’ve been monitoring all credit cards linked to Parker and his family. Scary how few there are, actually. My nephew? Kid’s thirteen, has eight credit cards. But the Parker clan, there’s three of ’em and they have two credit cards between them.”

“So let’s go, what’s with this phone call?”

“Phone company’s records show that last year Parker bought a calling card, one of those cards where there’s no spending limit, it’s linked to your credit card. You call 1-800-COLLECT or an operator, plug in the number and they connect your call. Bill comes at the end of the month.” Denton handed a printed record to Mauser, who scanned it.

“Only two charges on the card,” Mauser noted.

“One of them this morning, 8:56 a.m.”

“St. Louis,” Mauser said. “The fuck’s he know in St. Louis?”

“The number’s a cell phone, registered to one Lawrence Stein. Married to Harriet Stein. They have a daughter named Amanda Davies.”

“Wait,” Mauser said. “Is it Davies or Stein?”

Denton handed Mauser another folder. Inside were scans of three driver’s licenses, one from each of the parties.

“Amanda Davies is Harriet and Lawrence Stein’s daughter. Adopted daughter, that is. Little Amanda spent eleven years being shuttled from home to home before kindly Mr. and Mrs. Stein took her in for good. It seems our Amanda declined to have her name legally changed to Stein, kept her birth name Davies instead.”