Parker 04 - The Fury (11 page)

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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Jason Pinter

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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91

"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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Jason Pinter

"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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93

"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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95

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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Jason Pinter

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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97

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

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.