Jason Pinter - The Mark

Photographs of cops and government officials. Just like the one he took of Officer Fredrickson.”

“John,” Mauser said. Parker nodded.

“Gustofson compiled a large album of these photos over the past two decades. They could have been used for any number of reasons-to blackmail city politicians, to gain better control over the cops already in his pocket, to find out which policemen were double-dipping and working for Saviano as well. Luis Guzman was a middleman. He was supposed to collect the photos from Gustofson and hold them for Fredrickson, who would deliver directly to DiForio. But the photos never made it to Luis Guzman.”

“Why not?” Mauser asked. He could feel sweat pouring down his skull, warm and sticky.

“Hans Gustofson was killed before he could deliver the photos. I know this because I found the body. And whoever killed Gustofson wanted those photos, but he’d hidden them well.”

“Jesus,” Mauser said.

“Unbelievable,” Denton added.

“Luis Guzman never received them because Gustofson was dead. Fredrickson, assuming Guzman was holding them for his own personal gain-possibly to resell to Saviano-attempted to beat it out of him. That’s when I came in.”

“You and John,” Mauser said. “You killed him.”

“Officer Fredrickson is dead,” Parker said, his voice like meat through a grinder. “But I didn’t kill him. I tried to stop him from hurting the Guzmans, and somewhere in the struggle his gun went off. But I didn’t pull the trigger. And if you talk to the Guzmans, really talk to them, they’ll corroborate my story.”

Mauser said, “And this photo album, where is it now?”

“It’s safe, along with the negatives,” Parker said. “I don’t want it to get into the wrong hands any more than you do. But I can put the pieces together and help make things right. All I want in exchange is my life back.”

“That’s not possible,” Mauser said. “There’s a whole city wants you dead.”

“The city doesn’t know the whole story.” He paused. “What do you want?” Parker asked. Mauser lowered his head, his shadow cast long across the wall. Then he looked up.

“I want justice for my brother. I want whoever’s responsible to pay.”

“I want that, too,” Henry said. “And I can help.”

Parker took a step forward, Mauser watching, but then he heard it. A slight sound. The fluttering of wings.

The birds had been disturbed again.

Somebody was coming up the stairs.

“Get back,” Mauser said urgently, shoving Parker toward the window. He and Denton whipped around and aimed their guns at the door, crouching to create a smaller target.

Soft footsteps, but Mauser could hear them clearly. More than one. More than two. At least three people were approaching. Maybe more.

Mauser felt the Glock in his hands, a trivial reassurance of protection. He looked quickly at Denton, nodded. Then a tremendous explosion shattered the silence, then another, and another. The room lit up like a firecracker had gone off, thunder echoing through the building, tortured screams from below.

“Jesus Christ!” Mauser yelled. “What the fuck is that?”

Another explosion rocked the building, and then there was silence. The police didn’t fire those shots, Mauser thought. They were shotgun blasts. Four in total. And from the intervals, it sounded like one person had fired them. Then Joe heard it.

Footsteps coming up the stairs. Just one set now, deliberate. He saw Parker, fear etched on his face, backed into the corner.

A shadow crept into the doorframe. Mauser saw the barrel of the gun before he saw the man.

As he entered the room, Joe Mauser recognized his face.

Shelton Barnes.

The man’s pants and shirt were dark black, but in the moonlight Mauser could see red, like a dozen paintballs had exploded on his chest. Other men’s blood. Then Barnes spoke, his voice even.

“All I want is Parker,” Barnes said, his shotgun at chest level. “For Anne.”

Mauser looked at Denton, then back at Barnes. Joe stood up, gun outstretched.

“You’ll get nothing and like it, Barnes,” Mauser said. “Now drop the fucking weapon.”

Then Denton stood up, his eyes locked with Barnes. Mauser felt a shiver sweep down his spine as a cold grin spread across his partner’s face. A tremor swept through Joe’s body as a hard truth entered his brain, one moment too late.

“They say you gotta make your own luck,” Denton said, before pumping three bullets into Mauser’s chest.

I watched the cop go down in a heap, a stunned look in his eyes. The man in the doorway, Barnes, didn’t move. The other cop, Denton, stood there staring at the body, a sick smile on his face.

The stench of blood and gunpowder soiled the air, death lingering like steam, and it was blowing my way.

“Better to take him out of the equation, leave it to the three that matter,” Denton said, looking at the assassin in the doorway. “Name’s Leonard Denton. Bet you don’t remember me, do you?”

The assassin flinched, his shotgun wavering.

“I just want Parker,” Barnes said, but his voice sounded unsure now, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

“Come on, Shelton. You remember, don’t you? That night in your loft? That pretty wife of yours? Or maybe you’d remember better if I had a hood on. Your first and last warning, asshole.”

Barnes’s arm went slack. The gun dropped to his side. With his other hand he gently touched his chest, as though making sure something was still there.

“Anne…” Barnes said, his voice tremulous. I couldn’t move. Something was playing out here, an old wound being reopened between these two men.

Denton nodded. “That’s right,” he said.

“DiForio,” Barnes added. Denton nodded.

“Sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to get ahead in this world. When I was a rookie, I said, ‘Hey, what’s the big deal if I take a few bucks, kill some low-level punk who needed killing?’ You pissed off the wrong guy, my friend, and Michael made it my job to fix you. Problem was, Shelton, you didn’t die. Your wife died like she was supposed to, bless her heart, but you didn’t take the hint. You came back and killed everyone else, somehow missed out on me. My good luck, I suppose.” Barnes’s gun hand shifted, the shotgun stirring slightly. “Your wife-Anne was her name, right? She was a pretty thing. Shame it had to end that way for her.”

Without warning, Denton raised his gun, three more explosions ripping through the room. Barnes flew backward against the wall, the shotgun coming to rest on his knee. I heard a ragged breath escape his mouth, then he lay still. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. But then it snapped into my head. The puzzle came together.

“You killed Hans Gustofson,” I said to Denton, stepping into the light. “You were the one who tried to steal the album.”

“Guilty,” Denton said, raising his hands above his head. “And back up, will you Parker? I need to wait until the cops get here before I do this. Can’t just sit on a body for ten minutes, you know?”

“Why?” I asked. Denton sighed, but his body remained solid.

“You know, I guess I’m just like every other nine-to-five schlub. Just didn’t see my career progressing the way I wanted,” Denton said. There was a hungry ambition in his eyes that chilled me to the bone. All’s fair, they say. No matter whose life has to be destroyed.

Or ended.

“Working for Michael DiForio has its perks, but I genuinely did enjoy law enforcement. Problem was they don’t want to give you a break unless you make a major case, and I wasn’t as fortunate as our friend Joe here.”

“So you steal the album, pretend you’re the hero.”