When I first moved to New York, I would often find myself wandering the streets at night. Walking for blocks and blocks for no real reason other than to soak in the city, bask in the dimming sun and reflections off the towers. I dreamed of being part of this town, and like a lover I wanted to caress and explore every inch of it.
I would walk down to the South Street Seaport, breath in the salty air, stroll along the historic district with ports that looked like a relic from a Melville novel, made you forget it was a city with 3.2 coffee shops per square block.
I would walk all the way west to the Hudson, then down to Chelsea Piers, watching young teenagers skateboarding and couples bowling while a mammoth cruise ship took young lovers around the Hudson, down past where the World
Trade Center once stood, around the East River where they could see the majestic arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, the grace of the Statue of Liberty.
Most of these sojourns took place while my relationship with Mya was deteriorating. In prior months we would have spent every moment of every evening together, cuddled up on a couch, watching a movie. Mya would wear one of my Jason Pinter sweatshirts, purposefully drop popcorn all over my lap. Eventually we'd fool around and pass out, start the next day fresh.
Then our relationship dimmed, and we began to avoid each other at all costs. Then after I met Amanda, after I nearly died, Mya and I lost touch completely.
I didn't mind. I loved Amanda. It may have been cruel to leave Mya hurting, but it would have been worse to lead her on.
Ordinarily walking the streets alone at night wouldn't have been such a big deal. I wouldn't have thought twice about it.
But tonight I was walking alone, knowing Amanda was somewhere else. Not because my relationship with her was similar to my relationship with Mya-a Band-Aid slowly being peeled off-but because it had been painfully ripped away.
Suddenly I looked up and I was standing at the apartment building of Linda Fredrickson. I hadn't planned it, at least not consciously.
Linda Fredrickson was Joe Mauser's sister. Her husband,
John, had died from a gunshot wound after I confronted him.
If John had never met me, Linda would still have a husband.
After it was revealed that John Fredrickson was a dirty cop and I was exonerated of the murder charges, I attempted to contact Linda. At that point I wasn't really thinking about whether or not she would forgive me. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
A year ago I had come to this very apartment building, gone upstairs and knocked on her door. She opened it and stared at me with a befuddled look, the kind you might give a Jehovah's Witness who simply won't stop soliciting you. I told her I was sorry. She slapped me hard across the face. She slammed the door and I left.
For uncertain reasons, tonight I felt I had to speak to Linda.
If anyone could understand what was happening, she could.
Mya was in the hospital. I had to cut Amanda from my life before she got hurt. I had nobody to turn to.
But this wasn't about me. Linda had her own life. She was still grieving over the loss of her brother.
I stood in front of the awning, debating whether to call on
Linda Fredrickson. The doorman sighed and walked over to me. He knew I didn't live there. His eyes were raised as if to say either come in, or get the hell out of here.
"May I ask who you're here to visit?" He wore a red uniform and a square hat with gold tassles. I could see several newspapers littering his tiny counter; the flicker on the glass told me he kept a small television set to pass the time.
"Nobody," I said. "Just walking around the neighborhood."
"All right then," he said, with a suspicious tone. He left me and went back inside, immediately picking up the newspaper. He raised the cover and for a moment I had a terrible sense of deja vu. On the cover was a police sketch of William
Henry Roberts. It looked both exactly like him and nothing like him. He was a young man. Like thousands of others in this city. Like me.
I wondered if the doorman had been paranoid, thought I could be the killer.
I hurried away.
The entire city was being combed for William Henry
Roberts. Yet as the noose tightened, the picture was becoming clearer. I knew Roberts thought he was the great-grandson of
Billy the Kid. I knew he'd killed his entire family. The problem was I had no proof. The proof had been reduced to ashes four years ago.
I begged Wallace to let me run the story, knowing full well my claims couldn't be fully supported by facts. They were unsubstantiated, and I offered to provide full disclaimers and
editorialize much more than usual. In the end Wallace nixed it. And rightly so. But that didn't mean I couldn't try to print it elsewhere. Or let someone else print it.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one number I swore I would never call again.
The phone rang and the operator picked up.
"This is the New York Dispatch, how may I direct your call?"
"I'd like Paulina Cole's desk."
"One moment."
I held my breath, waited for the call to go through. Paulina screened her calls. One of the benefits of having worked beside her for a few months. Unsurprisingly it went to voice mail.
"This is Cole. Leave a message."
"Paulina, this is Henry Parker. Meet me at Ollie's diner in an hour. I have a story for you. No tricks, just business."
I hung up and began walking toward the diner.