Parker 04 - The Fury (5 page)

thirty, that means he was born in, what, 1979?"

"March twenty-sixth," Makhoulian replied.

"Then Helen Gaines was only nineteen when she

gave birth to Stephen."

"That's right."

"And my father was...twenty-six. I know he married

my mother when he was twenty-five. Jesus Christ, my

father's mistress gave birth to his child while he was

married to my mother."

Makhoulian stood there silent. I don't know what he

could have said. I rubbed my temples, still trying to

process everything. I still hadn't spoken to Amanda all

day. I felt like crawling into her arms, just sleeping for

a while, hoping this would all have been some dream

when my eyes finally opened.

"Have you contacted my father yet?" I asked.

"We've left several messages for him and your

mother at home. None of them have been returned."

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39

"Not totally surprising," I said.

"Is your father prone to ignoring calls from the

police?" Makhoulian asked.

"He's prone to ignoring any calls that aren't either

Ed McMahon with a giant check or someone offering

him a free longneck."

Makhoulian let out a small laugh, not wanting to

distort the gravity of the situation too much. "What

about your mother?"

"I think he purposely bought an answering machine

she wouldn't know how to use. Let's just say last I

heard, she didn't get many calls, didn't return many

calls."

The detective nodded. "Listen, if you do hear from

your father, tell him to call me." Makhoulian took a card

from his wallet, handed it to me. I looked it over, put it

in my pocket.

"I promise you I won't hear from him."

"But if you do..."

"If I do, I'll make sure he calls."

"That's all I ask."

"In return," I said, "will you keep me in the loop? Let

me know if you have any suspects, how the investiga

tion is going. If you catch the bastard."

"Far as it doesn't interfere with the investigation, sure.

I'll keep you informed. Again, I'm sorry for your loss."

I shook Makhoulian's hand, then watched as he

climbed into the Crown Vic and drove off. Once he was

gone, I trudged to the subway, took it back uptown to

my apartment. When I got out I called Wallace

Langston at the
Gazette.
Nobody picked up, so I left a

message on his voice mail.

40

Jason Pinter

"Wallace, it's Henry. Listen, I don't know how to say

this...a man who was apparently my brother was shot

and killed last night. His name is Stephen Gaines. I

don't know much else, but I had to let you know. I'll give

you a call when I know more but...I thought you should

know in case anyone calls for comment. Anyway, call

me back."

I hung up. Thought about it. I knew the
Gazette

would run a piece on the murder. Even though crime

was down in the city, murders still got ink. It wouldn't

be a long article. As of right now there was no suspect.

There was no conspiracy. Gaines was a junkie, likely

killed over whatever drug fiends were killed over.

Stolen stashes. Territory beefs. He wasn't famous,

wasn't some rich guy's son. Nobody knew him. Not

even his family.

It would get a paragraph, two at most. I wouldn't

write it. And unless there were future developments, my

brother's death would be just another junkie murder in

a city where you'd need a landfill for all his brethren.

Stephen Gaines's death was just as short and seem

ingly unremarkable as his life.

I entered my apartment to find Amanda sitting on the

couch. She was reading a sports magazine, but didn't

seem that interested in it. Her eyes perked up when I

entered, then narrowed when she saw that mine did not.

I took a seat on the couch next to her.

Amanda and I had met several years ago. When I was

wanted for murder, she was the only person brave

enough to help me. She trusted me despite all common

sense saying she shouldn't. I fell for her right away. It

was easy. I'm a sucker for a beautiful woman with crisp,

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41

auburn hair, a smile that will make you stop in your

tracks, wit that will keep you laughing all night and a

perfectly placed mole by her collarbone that you could

trace every night with your finger. Hypothetically.

But despite all that, I nearly lost it all. I had pushed

her away, and it wasn't until I spent time without her

that I realized just how much I'd lost. She knew that

because of the kind of person I was, the kind of job I

had, she might be put in harm's way. As long as we

faced obstacles together, she'd said, there was nothing

we couldn't overcome. Since we'd reconciled, the last

few months had been wonderful. We started our rela

tionship going backward, in a way. We went out to

dinners. We saw movies. I sent her flowers at work, she

gave the best neck massages this side of the Golden

Door Spa.

Once we restarted our relationship, I made two

promises to her. First, I would tell her everything. Even

the hardest things, she would be allowed to judge and

decide for herself. And second, every decision would

be a joint one. I would never again make a decision

about our relationship on my own. That was a hardlearned lesson. One I should have known right away.

So sitting there next to her, I knew she had a right

to know about what Detective Makhoulian told me

about Stephen Gaines. And she had a right to know

about my father.

So I told her. Everything. I told her about seeing

Gaines on the street. About the call from Detective Sevi

Makhoulian. That Gaines had been murdered, viciously.

And that my father had sired Stephen when his mother,

Helen, was just nineteen. I still couldn't wrap my mind

42

Jason Pinter

around the idea that Gaines was my brother. Certain

things you can be told and accept as gospel. This was

not one of them.

When I finished, we both sat there. Amanda looked

stunned, unsure of what to say. Putting myself in her

shoes, I'd be lost for words as well. Finally she got up,

went into the kitchen. I heard a few clanking noises,

turned to see what was going on, but the door frame

blocked my view.

Amanda came out carrying two plastic cups, and a

bottle of red wine. She sat the bottle down on the coffee

table, peeled off the foil and uncorked it. She did so

without a problem. She then poured two generous

glasses, handed one to me.

"I thought we might need this," she said.

"It's amazing how you can read my mind even if I'm

not thinking something."

She took a healthy sip, and I did the same. Then I sat,

twirling the cup in my hand.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. I shook my

head.

"I don't know what I can do," I replied. "It's a police

investigation. As far as the
Gazette,
they'll cover it, but

nothing more than standard murder reporting unless

something else breaks that gives the story legs."

"Do you feel," she said hesitantly, "I don't know...

sad?"

I thought about that. "I don't think
sad
's the right

word."

"So what is?"

"Angry," I replied. "Mad. Pissed off. I want to know

why I've lived nearly three decades without knowing any

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43

of this. If this is true, how could my father not have told

me? I mean I know he's a bastard, but this is a life he

chose to ignore. And I want to know why Stephen

Gaines, after all this time, came to me for help. He'd

lived thirty years without Henry Parker as his brother,

and all of a sudden he decides to have a family gather

ing outside my office one night? I don't buy that for a

second."

"You didn't know about him," Amanda said. "Do

you think he knew about you?"

"I honestly don't know. He knew about me right

before he died. I don't know when he learned. If Helen

Gaines told him about his family, or kept him in the dark

like my parents did with me. I wish I knew."

"So find out," Amanda said. "At least that much is

in your hands."

"What do you mean?"

"You know where your parents live. Where your

father lives. Go ask him. Make him tell you the truth."

I stood up, paced the room. "I don't know if I can do

that. I haven't seen him in almost ten years. Bend isn't

really my home anymore. I don't know if it ever was."

"Your heart might be here, but the truth is there," she

said. "Today's Thursday. I can call in sick tomorrow."

"Why would you do that?"

"To go with you," she answered. "We're going to find

out how much your father knows."

5

We woke at five in the morning having purchased

plane tickets online the night before. We threw a few

days' worth of clothing into a suitcase, then caught a cab

to La Guardia. The minute the cab pulled away I

realized I forgot my toothbrush.

Living in New York had become increasingly diffi

cult over the last few years. After some time when it

looked like Manhattan would be the only city unaf

fected by the subprime crisis, real-estate prices came

tumbling down. Of course, we were renting, and there

fore unaffected, and inflation was still rising faster than

a hot-air balloon. My salary at the
Gazette
had barely

seen a bump in my tenure, and working at the Legal Aid

Society, a not-for-profit organization, Amanda wasn't

exactly rolling in dough. At some point we would have

to make a decision about our future. Where to live,

where we could afford to live.

I didn't want to leave the city, but I also wanted to

think long-term. Many reporters commuted. Yet the

fantasy of living in New York City always captivated

me. It was one of the motivating factors that led me to

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45

the
Gazette
. And the possibility of working in the big

city, seeing things I couldn't see anywhere else in the

world, was one of the motivators that kept me going

when I could barely stand another day in Bend with my

family.

We got to the airport and loaded up on coffee, a fat

tening muffin nearly crumbling in my hands as I

shoveled it into my mouth. We stopped at the magazine

stand, where Amanda picked up her fashion and celeb

rity mags and I bought a selection of newspapers.

"I brought something else to read," she said, "but just

in case." Amanda wasn't the kind of girl who waited in

line at sample sales and had a separate closet for her

shoes, but something about reading about the hottest

beach bodies made plane rides go by quicker. Maybe I

should give Cosmo a whirl.

Sitting at the gate, I leafed through the
Gazette
. I felt

my stomach clench when I turned to page eight and saw

the two-paragraph article that started:

Stephen Gaines, 30, found shot to death in Al

phabet City apartment

by Neil deVincenzo

I'd met Neil deVincenzo about a year ago. He covered

the crime beat, had some good connections on the force.

Because of my tenuous relationship with the NYPD,

they'd often talk to him rather than me. He was a good guy,

around forty-five, and in terrific shape. He'd been a boxer

in the navy, even had the tattoo of a pugilist on his upper

biceps, though only a few of us were privy to the knowl

edge, and that only came out after a few rounds of drinks.

46

Jason Pinter

The article was brief, perfunctory. There wasn't

much to the story to report. Gaines was found murdered,

two bullet wounds in his head. There were no suspects,

no leads. And no locations or whereabouts for his

mother, Helen Gaines. Sevi Makhoulian was quoted,

saying, "No comment."

I wondered where Helen Gaines was. If she knew her

son was dead. And if so, why Makhoulian couldn't

locate her. I wondered if she knew her son was in

trouble. And I wondered if she knew about me.

Our flight had one layover in Chicago. We would

then go on to Portland, and rent a car for the drive to

Bend. The plan was to stay in Bend over the long

weekend. I didn't have any desire to spent any more time

with my father than was absolutely necessary to get all

the details about his relationship with Helen Gaines and

her son. After that, I figured it could be good for us to

spend an extra day or two in the city of my birth. It had

been the better part of a decade since I left for college,

I was curious to see how much had changed.

After a half-hour delay we settled into our seats.

Amanda took the middle, I got the aisle, and my legs

thanked me. I took out a paperback novel, a thriller to

help pass the time, and noticed Amanda reach into her