The Fury - Jason Pinter [6]
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."
The Fury
23
"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,
24
Jason Pinter
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."
3
There are times in your life when you walk forward
despite knowing that something unexpected, even dan
gerous, lies just around the corner. This allows you to
steel yourself; to prepare for it. You go over the different
permutations in your mind, positive and negative,
weighing how each might impact you. Then when the
blow comes, you're able to soften it a bit. Retaliate if nec
essary.
When Detective Makhoulian said those five words--
Stephen Gaines was your brother--they hit me,
knocked the wind out of me. I had no time to prepare,
no time to soften the blow.
At first I didn't believe it. Or I didn't want to. But
I'd heard the name Makhoulian before. I'd spent enough
time with cops, mainly my buddy Curt Sheffield, that
it rang with a modicum of familiarity. If Curt men
tioned him, that was a good sign. The man spoke ear
nestly, a minimum of sympathy. Like a cop.
Sitting in the back of a taxi, I