The Fury - Jason Pinter [28]
clear that her mission was to bring our paper down. Last
year she'd penned an expose on my mentor, Jack
O'Donell, exposing his rampant alcoholism, shaming
the man to the point where he'd left the paper and dis
appeared. I heard several rumors testifying to his where
abouts. They usually ran the spectrum of "he's in rehab
in Colorado" to "he threw himself off the Verrazano
Bridge."
I missed Jack deeply, the newsroom felt as if it were
missing its most important gear with him gone. Yet I
knew the man needed time to heal. I only hoped he
would, and that the Jack O'Donnell who'd single
handedly brought the Gazette to journalistic promi
nence would return to his old, worn desk.
In my heart, I knew what I had to do. The cops had
my father. They had physical evidence he was not only
at the scene of the crime, but had actually handled the
murder weapon. They had proof of his travel; no doubt
airline bookings and credit-card receipts would show
his travel plans.
And the most damaging piece of all, they had a
motive.
Odds were my father would be made to stand trial by
the grand jury, and he certainly wouldn't be able to
afford a lawyer worth a damn. His freedom--maybe his
life--would be in the hands of whatever public defender
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happened to have a clear docket. I'd like to say my
contacts in the press might get my father someone with
a little more experience, a little more court savvy,
someone who would maybe even take a pro bono case
or two. Unfortunately that wasn't so. Law-enforcement
officials--except for a scant few--weren't big fans of
mine. They still harbored a grudge for one of their own
who died, and right or not, they blamed me for his death.
James Parker didn't just face an uphill climb, he
faced a sheer cliff slick with ice.
When we landed, I called Wallace Langston at the
Gazette and told him I'd be there within the hour.
Amanda and I stepped into the taxi line.
"What are you going to do?" Amanda asked. I
pocketed the phone as a cab pulled up.
"Only thing I can do," I said. "I need to prove he's
innocent. And then find at who killed Stephen Gaines."
11
The newsroom of the New York Gazette felt like home.
And after leaving Bend, a place I never truly thought of
as one, I needed a new home. Many of the reporters I
considered friends, and even those I clashed with, like
Frank Rourke, had started to attain a certain grudging
respect for me. I'd started here under the worst circum
stances imaginable. Fresh out of college, anointed the
golden boy right off the bat, and immediately embroiled
in a scandal that threatened not only the integrity of the
paper but my life. It's no secret which of those things
most reporters considered of predominant importance.
I exited the elevator and made my way down the hall.
Evelyn Waterstone saw me rounding the corner. I gave
a halfhearted wave, and she snorted like I'd just pulled
my pants down in the middle of the cafeteria. Evelyn
was never one for endearing gestures.
Making my way to Wallace's office through the sea
of dropped pens, smells of ink, paper and clothing still
fresh from its wearer's most recent smoke break, I
looked up to see Tony Valentine approaching.
Tony's face erupted in a toothy smile as he sped up
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to meet me. I took a breath, prepared for whatever
verbal bath I was about to get. Tony was wearing a blue
pin-striped suit with a yellow tie. His face looked extra
orange today. Either he'd fallen asleep in the tanning
bed, or his mother had mated with a pumpkin.
That wolf's mouth open in a wide smile, perfect,
gleaming teeth. Nobody in their life had ever been so
happy to see me.
It was impossible to avoid him, so I sucked it up and
prepared myself.
"Henry!" Tony shouted with the glee of a man who
found a rolled-up hundred in his pocket. "Listen, my
man, it's good to see you back here. I've heard some bad
things about you and your pops, and you always assume
the worst. So I'm glad to see you're okay, my man."
"Wait," I said, holding