The Fury - Jason Pinter [68]
exactly fluent, what the Latin translates to is 'entities
must not be multiplied beyond necessity.' Boil down the
translation, what that means is if a man is murdered, and
the fingerprints on the gun belong to someone he
knows, who has access to him, and who has a motive
to kill him, I'd be willing to bet my badge, my wife, my
mortgage and my iPhone you put that killer in cell block
D you've got the right guy."
"You said usually," I replied. "You said eighty to
ninety percent. Well, it's my job to find the exception
to your rule. I've told you everything I know. I'm hoping
when I walk out of here you do something with it, and
don't piss it all away because of what you read in a
damn textbook. Because I find that extra few percent,
Detective. Father or not, brother or not, it's just what I
do."
Amanda and I stood up. Waited for Detective Sevi
Makhoulian to say something. When he didn't, we
waved at the camera so the observers in the other room
would unlock the door. Makhoulian nodded, a click
signaled that the door was unlocked, and I left to prove
to the detective I was a man of my word.
And as I walked down the hallway, Amanda's
unsteady hand locked in mine, I could feel the detec
tive's eyes on my back.
24
I was dialing the number before I even left the station
house. He picked up right away, his voice not even at
tempting to hide the boredom that had no doubt settled
in over the past several months. Though I still harbored
some guilt over what had happened, every time we
spoke he'd forbid me to show any pity, either for myself
or for him. To Curt Sheffield, being wounded in the line
of duty was something to be proud of. He'd never
wanted to be anything but a cop--and he was a damn
good one at that--and he wasn't going to let some
pissant reporter wallow in a pint over some spilt blood.
"Officer Sheffield," he said, practically moaning.
Curt had taken a bullet in the leg last year while helping
me investigate a series of child kidnappings. The slug
had nicked an artery, and it took a few surgeries to
repair the wound. He'd probably never run in the
Olympics, but while he wouldn't accept anyone's pity
he had told me on several occasions the injury had done
wonders for his sex life. Guess chicks really do dig
scars. I'd have to ask Amanda if that's why she was still
with me.
202
Jason Pinter
"Hey, man, has your ass spread at all today?"
"S'up, Henry? Matter of fact I've been doing butt
blasts at my desk. Docs won't let me go to the gym, but
I think it's a trick to get me to keep coming in so they
can charge my insurance company. I swear my ass looks
like the victim of an attack of cottage cheese."
"I don't want to think about anything involving your
butt. What do you say to a drink after work? On me."
"I don't know man, I feel like I gotta lay low a little
bit. Last time I brought you in here I caught hell from
the chief of the department. You don't have a lot of
friends around here these days, especially considering
what's going on with your pops. At least you can be
happy you got the deep end of the Parker gene pool."
"I'll let that one slide. No work talk," I said. "Just
conversation. All I ask. Okay, maybe one or two ques
tions, but that's it."
Curt went silent, but I could tell he was checking his
watch. Sitting behind the desk for Curt was like keeping
a racehorse stalled behind the starting gate. He was
born to walk the streets, not type up reports. That's
likely why I felt the most guilt; it was one less great cop
protecting the city.
"Gimme one hour. Mixins." Mixins was a cheesy
singles bar primarily frequented by law and finance
professionals who felt eight-dollar beers and weak
cosmos were part of the mating ritual. The bar had
undergone a total renovation over the last few years,
mainly due to its predilection to serving underage girls.
A friend of a friend who used to drink there said the
waitstaff would grossly undercharge young women,
naturally in the hopes of luring free-spending men to the
The Fury
203
bar. Soon