The Fury (2009)
Page 9
judge sent her back?”
“Wasn’t my friend’s fault. Judge was an idiot. Can’t
luck out every time, but you can pay for the best luck
possible. Hey, and keep your head up, because they’re
salivating for scandal over at the Dispatch. ”
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“That surprises me about as much as the sun rising.”
This didn’t come as a shock to me, since Paulina
Cole had all but made it her duty to end my career. So
far the only surprise was that it hadn’t been plastered
over the front page. Since my only use for Tony Valen
tine was as a font of information, I decided to play
along.
“Out of curiosity, my man, why haven’t they moved
on the story?”
“Oh, they’ve moved on it all right,” he said, running
his hand flat along the air like a traveling car. “Right
now it’s buried on page nine. Word is Ted Allen is still
basking in their Jack O’Donnell scoop. He thinks
pouncing on you too hard will make them look vindic
tive and undercut their efforts to shut us down. So
they’re waiting until the trial gets under way, and based
on how the evidence looks, they’ll report accordingly.”
I felt a knot rise in my stomach. Ted Allen ran the
Dispatch, and since Paulina Cole worked for him, I was
never far off their radar. The evidence looked pretty
bad. Hopefully Tony didn’t have sources at the police
department that would spill details. I trusted the man as
far as I could throw his veneer, but it was always good
to be prepared for whatever came next. I had no doubt
my father would get beaten in the press, but knowing
what was coming could soften the blow.
I thanked Tony and continued on. I knew his direct
line, just in case.
Waving hi to Rita, Wallace Langston’s secretary, I
walked into his office. We both likely knew what was
coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. At least I
could be thankful that this would probably hurt us both
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equally. Wallace was wearing a brown sport jacket. I
recognized the coat. A few months ago he’d chewed his
pen too deep during a meeting and the blue ink spilled
all over the breast. He’d gotten it cleaned the next day,
but the stain didn’t wash out fully. Now a small, quartersize blue circle remained.
He didn’t seem to care, and nobody else did. We all
knew Wallace had much bigger things to worry about,
and Lord knew how many other stains and abrasions
existed where we couldn’t see. Oddly enough, we re
spected him for that. To Wallace, the work was more im
portant than the gloss, the ink more important than
anything. So we didn’t mention it.
Other than the occasional chewed-to-death pen we
left on his desk as a friendly reminder.
Wallace looked up when he saw me come in. His lips
were tight beneath the closely shaved beard. His eyes
were bloodshot, as usual. He was hardly a peppy man,
unless he was excited about a story. And bad news
seemed to take him over like a death shroud. He wore
his heart on his sleeve, and unfortunately I’d had far too
many experiences piercing that heart.
I hoped it was strong enough for one more.
“I need some time off,” I said.
Wallace nodded. I was right. He knew this was coming.
“I’m sorry about your father. But I don’t think that’s
the right decision.”
“He’s innocent,” I said. “I need to help prove it.”
Wallace nodded again. Not at the information, but
because he respected my feelings. “I imagine it might
be tough to work under those circumstances.”
“Probably right,” I said.
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“Might also help keep you focused,” Wallace said.
“I don’t pretend to know everything about you, Henry.
But I know what you live for. You take that away, even
for a little while, you forget who you are.”
“The past few days have shown me that I don’t even
know who I am.”
“If you want time,” Wallace said, “I can give you a
leave of absence. Or, you can stay on the job. Do what
you need to, but keep your nose to the grindstone anyway.
Some of the best work reporters do is during times of
crisis. If that’s too much to ask, I understand. But it might
also be good for you. Give you another outlet.”
“I don’t know,” I said, considering what Wallace was
saying. “I need to do what feels right here. And right
now I don’t know what that is.”
“What’s right to one man is wrong to another. You
over anyone should know that by now. Every villain is
the hero of their own story, Henry. If your father is
innocent, somebody killed Stephen Gaines for a reason
that they felt was justified. If you can aid his defense,
that’s a noble deed. I don’t want to sway you. But I’ve
seen too many young reporters get lost in the chaos. You
have a great career ahead of you. You end up in the
middle of trouble more than anyone I’ve ever known.
And you can either use that, work with it, or you can
let it consume you. You do what you want, Henry.”
I nodded. Wallace was right. And in the past, he’d
always stood by me. I’d like to think I’d earned his trust
through hard work, and that even if I did get myself into
the occasional—okay, regular—scrape, it would be
because I was doing the right thing.
“With Jack and I both gone,” I said, “that’s a big hit.”
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“Don’t I know it. Hey, I never said I didn’t have the
paper’s interests in mind, too.”
The way Wallace said it, he wanted me to know he
had more on his mind than a simple lack of writers. The
Gazette had been engaged in a bloodbath with the
Dispatch over the last few years, each doing whatever
it could to lure new readers into the fold. Our industry
wasn’t quite dying, but it was being forced to deal with
innumerable obstacles.
Each reader was valuable. Each demographic worth
its weight in gold. Jack had amassed a large and pas
sionate readership over the years through his columns,
his books and his numerous awards. Though I hated to
think of myself as a quantity, I got enough letters from
readers to know that there were quite a few people
tuning in to our pages to see what stories Henry Parker
had unearthed that day.
If I took a leave, I’d be pulling away one more tent
pole that was keeping the Gazette upright. I owed
Wallace. And Jack. I loved the Gazette, and if years
from now I was still cranking away on my keyboard
racking up bylines while my fake teeth were chattering
around in my mouth, I’d be a happy old codger.
And yes, blood is thicker than ink. As little as I owed
James Parker and Stephen Gaines, I
owed them my best
efforts. I had to help find Stephen’s killer, to get my
father out of prison. It didn’t look like the cops were
going to bend over backward to dig up new leads. They
had their man, and likely enough evidence to send him
away for a long time.
And perhaps send him somewhere a lot deeper than
a prison cell.
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“I’ll stay in the game, Coach,” I said. Of course, I
couldn’t be sure how effective I would be. I had no idea
where the truth about Stephen Gaines lay, or where
exactly to begin my search.
Wallace smiled.
“I’m glad to hear that. For both of us. You have my
number, Henry,” he said. “Keep in touch. Go fight the
good fight.”
“Thanks, sir,” I said.
“I mean it, Henry. Keep in touch. It’s not too much
to ask for a good story, is it?”
“No, sir,” I said. “Not at all. Thanks, Wallace.”
Wallace nodded. “You’re going through something
not many do. Stay safe, Henry. And stay smart.”
I said I would. But I wasn’t sure if I meant it.
12
Leaving the Gazette, I endured a brief man hug–back
slap from Tony Valentine. I ran my hand over my face
and checked my clothes to make sure none of his spray
tan had rubbed off on me. Some kind of sweet cologne
did seem to have made my acquaintance, smelling like
a mixture of citrus and the floor of a movie theater. A
shower was my first order of business.
I called Amanda at work. She picked up on the
second ring.
“Hey,” she said. “How’d it go?”
“I just told the boss who’d supported me at the job
of my dreams that I wanted to take some time off to look
into the death of my half brother who was allegedly
murdered by my father. Out of all the times I’ve had that
conversation, I’d say this one went pretty well.”
“You’re funny when you’re pissed off.”
“Maybe I’m pissed off when I’m funny.”
“No,” she said. “Because you’re pissed off fairly
often, but you’re really not that funny.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I said.
“Seriously, Henry. How’d it go?”
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I rubbed my forehead. “Felt like crap,” I said.
“Wallace convinced me to stay on the job, but I can’t
help but feel he’s disappointed in me. With Jack gone,
they can’t spare to lose a lot of writers. But he also
knows how important this is. I can’t let him down.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“Now?” I said. “Start at the beginning.”
Gaines was found murdered in Alphabet City, near
Tompkins Square Park, according to the papers. The
park itself was bordered by Tenth street on the north
and Seventh street on the south, and lay between
Avenues A and B. It had a tumultuous history, dating
back to the 1980s when it was a petri dish for drugs and
homeless people.
An infamous riot occurred in 1988 when the police
attempted to clear the park of its homeless population,
and forty-four people were injured in the ensuing chaos.
Since then the park had been closed several times for
refurbishment, and between that and the increasing gen
trification of the neighborhood, it was now a pleasant
place to hang out, play basketball and just enjoy a nice
summer day.
I took the 6 train down to Union Square, then trans
ferred to the El, which I rode to First Avenue. First
bordered Peter Cooper Village, or Stuyvescent Town, a
woodsy enclave largely populated by recent college
grads who liked the cheap rent, younger families who
enjoyed the well-tended parks, and older residents
whose rents were stabilized and who hadn’t paid an
extra dime since New York was the capital of the Union.
As I approached the park, it was hard to believe a
murder could occur in such a pleasant area. Parks
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seemed to be the one place where all the stress and hos
tility emptied out of the city. Where families became
instant friends, children ran around while their parents
watched approvingly, and young men and women
played sports and chatted without playing the stupid
mating games that choked you to death at any bar.
I wondered what in the hell Stephen Gaines was
doing here when he was killed. If he lived here, did his
habit go unnoticed? When I saw him on the street, he
looked as if he was on the tail end of a ten-year bender.
In an area geared toward family, I could hardly imagine
he was a welcome sight. Chances were if someone saw
him stumbling around like I witnessed him doing,
they’d call the cops.
I realized as I approached the park that I had nothing
to show people. Not a photo identifying traits, or per
sonality quirks. All I knew about Stephen Gaines was
the image of him on the street, and then on the slab in
the medical examiner’s office. I hoped the trusty New
York City newspapers were more up to speed than I
was.
I stopped at a small bodega that had a cartful of
newspapers out front. I bought three papers—the
Gazette, the Times, and even the Dispatch. When it
came to finding my brother’s killer, I wasn’t above sup
porting the competition if it meant getting the informa
tion I needed.
Thumbing through the papers, I was pleasantly sur
prised to find that the Gazette was the only one that
printed a photo of Gaines. It looked like a driver’s
license shot. He was looking straight into the camera,
serious yet a little confused, as though he didn’t quite
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understand what he was doing there. His hair was much
shorter than when I’d seen it, and the man looked about
ten years younger as well. Clearly he wasn’t the kind
to show up in a lot of photographs, and I had a feeling
combing through MySpace and Facebook likely
wouldn’t yield many, either.
The article was brief. Though it did mention my
father.
Stephen Gaines, 30, was found shot to death in his
Alphabet City apartment late Monday night. At this
time one arrest has been made in the killing, one James
Parker of Bend, Oregon. Parker is alleged to be the es
tranged father of Gaines, though the police have not
made any comment on Parker’s motivation or why he
was in New York City the night of Gaines’s death.
Referred to Detective Sevi Makhoulian of the
NYPD, the officer said simply, “I have no doubt that
the district attorney’s office will be prosecuting Parker
to the fullest extent of the law. As for details of the case,
those are pending and will become available as the
trial progresses.”
There was no photo of my father, and the snippet did<
br />
not mention me. I wondered if the paper should have
done so, or if this was another example of Wallace pro
tecting me. I only hoped he knew I’d repay the effort.
I ripped out the picture from the Gazette and tossed
the rest of the papers in the trash.
I was no detective. My career thus far had progressed
almost solely on instinct. Seeing a thread, no matter
how thin or frayed the strand, and pulling on it until
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something larger unspooled. At this point, though, I
had no thread. There was nothing to pull on. No leads,
no witnesses. Nothing.
So I started where any reporter or cop would when
they had nothing.
When in doubt, talk to everybody.
I walked straight into Tompkins Square Park looking
for young families and older pedestrians. I figured those
were people most likely to come to the park because
they lived in the vicinity. And if they lived nearby, there
was a greater chance they might have seen Stephen
Gaines at some point.
But what if they had seen him? That hardly meant they
saw him being killed, or even knew who he was, what he
did, or anything about him. Still, it was the best shot I had.
Walking around, I noticed a couple in their early
thirties sitting on a bench. A baby stroller sat in front
of them. I hated bothering nice people who looked like
they just wanted to spend their afternoon relaxing with
loved ones, but I hoped they’d understand.
Of course not too many people could sympathize
with trying to hunt down the man who’d killed your
brother, while your father sat in prison.
I approached the couple in as nonthreatening a
manner as possible. Smiling, even. They paid no atten
tion to me until I got closer and it was clear they were
my targets. The husband looked up at me, and I noticed
his hand slowly plant itself on his wife’s leg. Guarding
her. Nobody trusted young people these days.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I said, putting my hand
out in apology. “I was wondering if you happened to
have seen this man in the area.”
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I showed them the picture from the paper. They
looked at it long enough and with enough confusion to
show they didn’t know him.
The wife said, “No, I’m sorry.”
I thanked them for their time. Then it was on to the
next stop.
I approached an older black man sitting at a chess