Jason Pinter - The Mark

Joe Mauser dug his nails into the armrest as he felt the landing gear below the plane. The pilot announced the landing preparation, so Joe took another sip of scotch from his flask, held on so tight his knuckles turned white. Why couldn’t Parker have just hid at the Marriott?

Denton sat next to him, chirping into an Airfone and scribbling away on a cocktail napkin. The call sounded important. Maybe there was some good news. Joe was praying for that. Parker had fucked with them long enough. And Joe couldn’t bear another call from Linda until justice had been served. John’s killer had been on the loose for long enough. It was time for retribution.

Denton hung up the phone, nodding toward Mauser’s silver flask, engraved with the letters JLM.

Joseph Louis Mauser.

Joe always told people he’d been named after the boxer Joe Louis. It was bullshit, of course. His grandfather had been named Louis and his godmother Josephine. Didn’t matter. Everyone who knew the truth had passed away a long time ago.

“Grab a nip?” Denton asked. Mauser handed him the flask without saying a word. He peered out the window, watching the thousands of tiny lights dotting the New York landscape. Everyone going on with their lives, blissfully ignorant to the soulless murderer in their midst. A slight shudder ran through Joe’s body as the liquor took hold. When Denton finished his plug Mauser downed another take.

“Take it easy there, chief,” Denton said. “I got some news that’ll warm you up better than any drink.”

“This is Glenlivet, aged twelve years,” Mauser said. “You better have some pretty fucking incredible news.”

“Don’t worry.” Then he said, “NYPD has a beat on Parker and the Davies girl.”

“No shit?”

“Nope. Some old man claims he saw Parker and the Davies girl sitting in a coffee shop up in Harlem. The uniform who took the report was skeptical as hell, said the witness looked like he was a heartbeat away from death itself, but both descriptions fit. The diner’s chef corroborated his story, saying he’d seen Parker’s picture in the newspaper that morning.”

“So Amanda Davies is alive.”

“Guess so,” Denton said. “But why would he kill Evelyn and David Morris, and not kill Amanda? Could he be keeping her as a hostage?”

“You know how hard it is to carry a hostage a city block, let alone cross country? Personally, I think she’s in it with him.” Then something clicked in Mauser’s head. “You said they spotted Parker up in Harlem. Where in Harlem?”

Denton looked at the soiled napkin.

“Says here the place is called Three Eggs and Ham. Cute. It’s on 104th and Amsterdam.”

“104th and Amsterdam. That’s right by…”

“The building where Fredrickson got whacked.” Mauser glared at Denton, who seemed to realize his poor choice of words. “Sorry, Joe, where he was murdered. Anyway, NYPD’s combing the neighborhood. It took the witness a good fifteen minutes to call 911-had to change his Depends, I guess-so Parker could be anywhere, but they’re giving it due diligence.”

“I don’t want due diligence,” Mauser said, seething. “I want them to pin Henry Parker to a wall. I want to look into his eyes as I put my gun under his chin. I want to see the fear in his eyes right before I blow due diligence out the back of his head.”

Mauser felt the plane shake and tilt starboard. He gripped the seat tighter and closed his eyes, wishing the liquor would just let them stay closed until landing.

“I want that as much as you do, Joe, trust me on that.”

Mauser, his eyes still closed, said, “I don’t think you do, Len.”

He opened his lids, looked at the younger man next to him. He could sense an anger boiling within Leonard Denton, but a quiet one. This anger lived within his blood, didn’t depend on heated circumstances to boil. That was the most dangerous kind.

“So why do you think Parker came back?” Denton asked. “Why risk returning to the scene of the crime? You think it might be the drugs, the package he stole from the Guzmans? Maybe he went back for it?”

“Honestly, Len?” Mauser said. “I don’t give a shit. I’m not gonna waste my breath on theories about why Parker did this or why Parker did that. That’s up to the courts, if he ever sees the inside of one. If we find the drugs, hoo-rah.”

“What about Shelton Barnes?”

Mauser detected a hint of fear in Denton’s voice. Was it possible the man was still alive? Joe was still in the dark as to how and why this dead man had ended up armed at the Davies residence in St. Louis.

Fuck it.

It didn’t matter. Nothing did. As long as he found Henry before the NYPD or Shelton Barnes. There were so many wild cards in the deck it was getting difficult to juggle. But it would all be worth it if he was granted just one second alone with Henry Parker.

“So what’s the plan then?” Denton asked.

“I’m willing to bet Parker’s still on the island. He wouldn’t have come back without a damn good reason. Maybe it was the drugs. I want the NYPD to question every doorman, tourist, subway station attendant and dog walker within a one-mile radius of that diner. But I don’t want Henry taken into custody before we get there. I have my agenda and it’s not changing.”

“We have the same agenda, Joe. Don’t forget that.” Mauser looked at Denton, the man’s eyes bright, a small spark behind the pupils. There was a tangible anger there, bolstered by fear, and it would have to be dealt with when this was over.

Joe lowered his voice, allowing the alcohol to temper his emotions.

“Len, I know you’re pissed you haven’t moved up in the department faster. But believe me when I say that half this job is luck. You get a good lead, a case breaks, and that’s your career right there. And as soon as we catch this soulless prick, everyone at the bureau will know I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I appreciate that, Joe, I really do,” Denton said, a faraway look in his eye. “But sometimes you need to make your own luck.”

“Yeah,” Mauser said, relaxing into his seat as the plane righted itself. “Sometimes you do.”

I couldn’t stop shivering. I was pretty sure mys going numb. I wrapped my arm around Amanda’s waist as we walked downtown. Just another couple strolling at night on the clean-swept streets of Manhattan. Nothing to see here.

Jack O’Donnell’s voice sounded in my head like a church bell gone haywire. Those two words were beyond frightening, beyond rational thought, terrifying and inconceivable.

What had I gotten myself into?

Michael DiForio.

I knew that name, heard it bandied about the newsroom like an acid-coated breath mint. People stopped and stared when you said it, raised their eyebrows and listened closely for what they expected to be a gruesome tale. Only people like Jack O’Donnell stayed quiet. They were the ones who knew the most. Who knew the reality of the man’s savagery.

We’d all heard stories that could keep you up at night, make you tuck your children in a little more snugly, double-check the windows and bolt the doors. The breathless rumors of an army silently brewing beneath the city’s surface.

Now I knew why Luis Guzman was dressed up that night, why he looked like a man waiting for the executioner’s song. Luis Guzman was supposed to deliver something-drugs, arms, who knows-to John Fredrickson. This was the mysterious package everyone assumed I’d stolen. And somehow it was linked to the most dangerous man in the city.

Ten ex-convicts, all paying meager rent to live at 2937 Broadway, payments decreasing through the years. I tried to piece it together. It seemed like car insurance: if drivers stay accident-free, their rates decrease. These ex-convicts had done something to justify the decreases. And one option made perfect sense.