The Fury - Jason Pinter [66]
out. He came to me because something about my pro
fession, my line of work, could have helped him, thrown
him a lifeline.
I sat down, my butt immediately becoming stuck to
the seat by a clear substance I hadn't seen before. The
joys of traveling on the MTA. Unfolding that morning's
copy of the Gazette, I put all thoughts of Gaines and
Willingham out of my mind until I got home. Perhaps
good old-fashioned newspaper reporting would help
me out. Clear my mind.
But when I saw the story on page eleven, I nearly
threw up.
Man, 27, Shot to Death in His Apartment
A photo accompanied the article. I recognized the
man in the shot. I'd seen him just recently.
It was the guy whose briefcase I'd stolen. He was
found last night, murdered, shot twice in the back of the
head.
23
I couldn't think of any words. My mouth was dry, my
head throbbing. Amanda and I were sitting in a cold
room in the Twenty-eighth Precinct on Eighth Avenue
between 122d and 123d streets. On the table in front of
us were several items: an empty briefcase, several
thousand dollars' worth of various types of narcotics;
and one cell phone.
The man's name was Hector Guardado. He was
twenty-seven years old. Lived alone in Spanish Harlem.
According to police reports, Hector had less than a
thousand dollars in his bank account. But upon search
ing his apartment, they found nearly fifty thousand
dollars in cash stuffed underneath a fake floorboard in
his kitchen.
Hector was not some young kid with no education
dealing to make ends meet. He had an MBA. A freaking
business degree. Yet despite the degree, despite the
hundred thousand dollars he spent to attain it, Hector
Guardado had not been able to find employment since
returning to New York City, his hometown.
The other day I'd stolen Hector's briefcase to learn
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Jason Pinter
more about his dealings, to learn more about this group
of misfits that my brother may or may not have been a
part of. And now the man was dead, murdered in cold
blood. Another young man killed like a piece of meat,
shot twice in the back of the head, surely by someone
who knew him.
Because of that, I called Amanda the moment I got
out of the subway. Stopping at the apartment first to pick
up the briefcase and its contents, I headed straight for
the police. No more clandestine detective work. No
more hiding my hand until all the cards were dealt. A
life had been taken.
It made me sick to my stomach to think that Hector
Guardado's life might have been taken because of his
stolen briefcase, but two days ago he was alive. Two
days ago the briefcase, along with the drugs and his cell
phone, were in his possession.
And now today he was dead, and the drugs were
in police custody. I wasn't willing to write it off as a
coincidence.
"You okay?" Amanda asked. I didn't nod. I wasn't
the one on a slab somewhere, or being written about in
the newspaper. She seemed to get this, because she
didn't ask again.
Soon the door opened and a familiar face walked in:
Detective Sevi Makhoulian.
Makhoulian sat down in a chair across from us.
Looked me over, then looked at the items on the table.
He took a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket, spread
open the black folds of the suitcase and peered in.
"This everything?"
I nodded.
The Fury
197
"And this was all in Guardado's possession when
you took it from him."
I nodded again. "You can fingerprint it," I said. "I
never touched the stuff." I nudged Amanda slightly with
my elbow, giving her a silent thanks for the advice.
Makhoulian sighed and leaned back in his chair. He
folded his arms behind his head as though deciding
what to watch on television. He didn't look the least bit
concerned with anything.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Frankly," he said, "I'm not sure yet. Unfortunately
we can't charge you with theft, because Mr. Guardado
would have been our only witness, and frankly it would
be a waste of time. Because, though I don't know you
that well, anytime a person willingly brings half a pound