The Fury

2

I arrived home half an hour later. I left Amanda a message. We had plans to have dinner and catch a movie tomorrow night, and I wanted to order tickets in advance. New York prices being what they were, between service charges, snacks and tickets themselves, you practically had to win the lottery to afford them. A few months ago Amanda had received a nice year-end bonus, and Wallace Langston had told me to expect a promotion in the near future. Both of our salaries had crept higher over the last few years, and we'd begun to think more about where we wanted to be. This apart ment had served its purpose, but I wanted more space.

We weren't living together, but she would spend three or four nights a week here and then crash in her friend Darcy Lapore's guest room the rest of the time.

The number of nights spent next to each other had begun to creep up over the last few weeks. It was still early and we were still healing from recent wounds. Re gardless, our relationship had grown more serious and

I started to think about where our future was headed.

At some point we'd have to have one of those talks.

Where you each share your hopes and dreams. The

"where do you see yourself in five years" part of the job interview, only for a position you wanted the rest of your life. Tonight, Amanda was crashing with Darcy. I figured I'd eat dinner, pop in a movie and veg out.

Nights like that were sorely underrated.

I peeled off my clothes, stepped into a hot shower.

The day seemed to rinse right off me. I thought about that man who'd confronted me, how there was a look of genuine terror in his eyes. I began to regret turning from him. And hoped he actually did call the next day.

When I got out of the shower, I threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I was six foot one depending on the shoes, a hundred and ninety pounds of lean, mean, vendor hot dog-eating machine. My brown hair was getting a little longer, and I made a mental note to stop by Quik

Cuts tomorrow during lunch. I warmed up a plate of leftover chicken masala Amanda had cooked over the weekend. In my place, leftovers were made to last.

I sat down and began to eat, washing the food down with a glass of iced tea. I splayed a few newspapers in front of me and read while I did. The Gazette 's pages looked naked without the familiar byline of Jack

O'Donnell. I hoped wherever he was, he was getting the treatment he needed.

Dinner was a long affair. I made the pasta last, and made the newspapers last. I gorged myself on every word, fascinated at just how many stories there were within this small teeming city.

When I finished, I was getting up to put my dishes in the sink when the phone rang. I picked it up. Didn't recognize the caller ID.

I clicked Send and said, "This is Parker." I'd strug gled with my greeting for a long time. Since this was my work phone as well as personal, saying hello felt too casual. As did "Henry." I considered, "Parker, Henry

Parker," but Amanda threw a dirty sock at me the first time I tried it. "Parker" sounded nice, succinct.

"Is this Henry Parker?" the voice on the other end said.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Henry, I'm Detective Makhoulian with the NYPD.

Are you busy right now?"

I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. What the hell did the cops want with me at this hour? I wasn't working on any stories that had NYPD involvement, and I didn't speak to any cops on a regular basis with the exception of my friend Curt Sheffield.

"Detective, it's pretty late and I just got home from work. What's this about?"

"I apologize for the hour, but I was hoping you could answer a few questions."

Not wanting to appear defensive, I said, "Question away."

"Does a man fitting this description sound familiar?

About six-two, thin as a bone. Brown hair, hazel eyes, the look of a serious drug problem, among other issues, much of which involve hygiene. That ring a bell?"

I felt my pulse quicken. "Actually, a man fitting that description was waiting for me outside my office when

I left work tonight. I didn't really speak to him. A col league of mine was recently assaulted by a disgruntled reader, and from the look of this guy he wasn't much of a conversationalist."

"Interesting," Makhoulian said. And he genuinely sounded interested. "Listen, Mr. Parker, I need you to come down to the county medical examiner's office tonight. You know where it is?"

"Thirtieth and first. I've been there before. I'm a reporter with the Gazette, I've spoken with the medical examiner. Leon Binks still works there, right?"

"Yes, he does. And I know who you are, Mr. Parker.

This has nothing to do with any previous involvement you may have had with the NYPD." He didn't need to say it, but I could tell Makhoulian was speaking about

Joe Mauser and John Fredrickson, the two cops who were involved in my being hunted across the country for a murder I didn't commit. "I'm going to need you to meet me at the M.E.'s office in one hour. Will that be a problem?"

"No, but I would still like to know what all this is about. Like I said, tonight was the first time I ever saw this guy. If my night is being interrupted, please have the decency to tell me why."

"This man I'm speaking of, he was found two hours ago in an apartment in Alphabet City, dead from two gunshot wounds to the head. We have reason to believe you were the last person to see him alive."

"Okay," I said, my stomach beginning to turn. Dead?

What exactly had that guy wanted to talk to me about?

While the last thing I wanted was to get tied up in the murder of some junkie, I felt some sense of remorse. "Listen, Detective, no disrespect, but this guy probably saw one of my stories and figured a reporter might be more inclined to listen to him than a cop.

Maybe he just wanted attention. And now he's dead, and while it really is a shame, I don't know what I can offer to help the investigation."

There was silence on the other end. Then Makhou lian said, "This man's name was Stephen Gaines. Does sound familiar?"

"No, sir, it doesn't."

"That's very interesting." I was beginning to worry.

Why was that interesting? "I'm still going to need you to meet me at the M.E.'s office. One hour," Makhoulian said, "because according to his birth certificate and medical records, Stephen Gaines was your brother."