The Fury hp-4 Page 2

  Our eyes met for one moment. His were pleading, scared, and for a moment I debated crossing back over to see what he wanted. Then I saw him reach into his pocket, put something to his nose and take a quick snort.

  That was all I needed to see.

  I turned around and headed toward the subway. If he really needed to reach me, he could call. I'd been through enough over the last few years to know there were some things you needed to turn your back on.

  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."

  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 tried to wrap my head around it. I'd never heard of a Stephen Gaines before.

  The last name did not sound familiar. Gaines.

  On the street earlier, Gaines looked older than me by four or five years. Of course, considering how strung out he looked, it could have swayed a few year
s in either direction. But if he was older, it meant he was gone from my life long before I was aware of his exis tence. I had too many questions to ask, and unfortu nately Leon and Detective Makhoulian wouldn't be able to answer them. At least not all of them.

  I stepped out at the corner of Thirtieth and First in

  Manhattan's Kips Bay. The medical examiner's office had a facade of light blue, the stone dirty, as if the building refused to modernize. It was a block away from Bellevue Hospital, one of the more notorious medical centers in the city. Prisoners from Riker's

  Island, as well as criminals from New York's central booking requiring medical attention, were among the most frequent guests. And if you happened to be in the emergency room late at night, you'd be in the company of numerous men in orange jumpsuits and chains, armed police at the ready. Just a few blocks away were a coffee shop, a bookstore and a multiplex movie theater. Scary to think that while you were busy munching on popcorn, evil lingered so close by, cloaked in formaldehyde.

  I approached the entrance tentatively. Who was I going to ID? I'd never met this man before last night, and now I was expected to point him out, feel some deep-down emotion like I'd known him my whole life?

  I'd never bonded with this person. Never done things most brothers did. Never played catch. Snuck a drink from Dad's liquor cabinet. Never smuggled dirty maga zines under our covers, or smoked cigarettes until our lungs burned. I was identifying a stranger, yet expected to act like he was my blood. Impossible.

  Pushing the door open, I went up to the receptionist.

  He was wearing a white lab coat, and didn't look a day over twenty-five. I figured he was some sort of medical intern, manning the phones while studying for his exams.

  "May I help you, sir?" he asked. His name tag read

  Nelson, Mark. He chewed on a pen while he waited for my answer.

  "I'm here to see Binky…er Dr. Binks," I corrected.

  No sense ruining the illusion that Binks was a sane and respected member of the medical profession.

  "And you are…"

  "Henry Parker," I said, taking my driver's license from my wallet. "I'm here to identify Stephen Gaines."

  The name felt foreign on my tongue, yet Nelson's eyes melted with sympathy. He looked down at his desk, pursed his lips.

  "Right," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  I didn't bother to point out Nelson's faux pas. That it was a little premature to console someone for their loss before they'd actually identified the body. Or that

  I felt no loss at all. How could I? Nevertheless, I told him I appreciated it. He asked me to have a seat while he paged Dr. Binks.

  I took a seat on a light blue couch. It was hard. There was a small table in front of me. No reading material.

  This wasn't your typical waiting room. If you were here, I supposed not even Golf Digest could take your mind off of what lurked below.

  After several minutes, I heard the ding of an elevator and out strode Leon Binks. Binks was in his late thirties, graying hair matted against his brow. His eyebrows were as messy as his hair, a collection of short pipe cleaners bent every which way. The medical examiner was perpetually disheveled, as though he cared no more about his appearance than those corpses he worked on would. His hands always seemed to be moving, offering gestures that his dialogue (and lack of social skills) pre sumably could not. I imagined that if, like Leon Binks, my whole life was spent amongst the dead, I might have some personality idiosyncrasies as well.

  "Mr. Parker," Binks said, approaching me with his hand outstretched. I went to meet him, and he shook it vigorously. An awful smell wafted off of Binks, iodine perhaps. I didn't want to ask, but I hoped he showered before attending any dinner parties. "Thanks so much for coming. Detective Makhoulian is downstairs already." Then Binky's eyes lowered, and he said, "I'm sorry for your loss."

  I sighed, thanked him. "Can I see the body?"

  "Oh, of course," Binks said. "Follow me."

  Binks led me into a gray metal elevator. He took a key chain from his pocket, inserted it into a slit next to the sole button. Once turned, he pressed the button, and the doors opened. Once inside, he pressed a button marked M. For Morgue. The doors closed, and we traveled in silence, down several flights. Finally the elevator stopped and the door slid open.

  Whatever odor had been stuck to Binks was even stronger down here.

  Outside of the elevator, the hallway divided into two separate pathways. A plaque mounted on the wall had arrows pointing in either direction. To the left, the arrow read, Morgue. To the right, the arrow read, Viewing

  Room.

  Binks began walking toward the right.

  I followed behind him as he opened a door and led me into a small room. A man was waiting for us inside.

  He was about five-eight and built stocky and muscular, like one of those NFL linebackers who had trouble seeing over the center but could deliver a hit like nobody's business. His skin was dark, a neat goatee, and he wore a dark gray suit. He looked at me as we entered.

  "Detective?" I said.

  "Detective Sevag Makhoulian," he said. He ap proached and shook my hand. "For short, people call me

  Sevi."

  "Makhoulian…what background does that name come from?" I asked stalling for time.

  "It's Armenian," he answered patiently.

  "Were you born here?"

  "I was born in Yerevan, my parents emigrated here when I was very young." His accent was noticeable but not thick, and his suit was as American as they came.

  "Gotcha, don't mean to pry."

  "I know it's your job to do just that, Mr. Parker. I do appreciate your coming down here on such short notice.

  And I must say I enjoy your work. Insightful, not to mention how nice it is to see a young man achieving success based on something other than setting fire to hotel rooms. It's a shame we had to meet under these circumstances. Curtis Sheffield speaks very highly of you."

  "How's Curt doing?" I asked.

  "Aside from the bullet in his leg? He's just peachy."

  Makhoulian said this with a slight smile. Last year Curt had taken a shot that nicked his femoral artery while looking for a family that we believed had abducted a child. He'd been assigned to desk duty since then, and

  I was lucky to have remained on his good side. Though he hated being off the streets, I think he secretly liked the attention from the opposite sex. Nothing sexier than a guy who took a bullet for a good cause. "Anyway, I'm sorry for your loss, Henry."

  "It's not really my loss," I said. "The first and only time I met Stephen Gaines was a few hours ago."

  "Well then," Makhoulian said, "if his death isn't your loss, whose is it?"

  "Someone else's," I replied. "Just not mine."

  "Somebody cared for this guy," Binks interjected. We both stared at him. The M.E. was right. Yet as much I tried to, I still didn't know what to think about every thing.

  The viewing room resembled a typical examining room, if all the machines and instruments had been removed. The only thing remaining was a long metal table. The table was covered by a sheet. Underneath the sheet was a body, about six feet long. Most likely be longing to a man named Stephen Gaines. A man who was presumably my brother.

  "Before we begin," Binks said, "be warned that there's been extensive damage to the cranium."

  "Extensive?" I said, looking at Makhoulian.

  "That's right," he said. "From the damage, we can gather that the muzzle of the murder weapon was held less than a foot from the back of his head, a 9 mm fired at near point-blank range. The apartment we found him in wasn't a pretty sight."

  "From the wounds," I said.

  "Not just that," Makhoulian said. "We found…how can I put this simply… paraphernalia. Pipes, needles.

  You name the drug, it looked like Gaines was on it."

  I took a deep breath, said, "How old is…was he?"

  "Turned thirty a month ago," Makhoulian said. Four years older than me, I thou
ght. Still a young man.

  "He's cleaned up the best we could, but…" Binks said, his voice trailing off. He knew from the look on my face that this was best done quickly, with minimal cushioning. "Anyway, here he is."

  Binks leaned over the body, took two folds of cloth between his hands and gently pulled the cover back until it stopped just below the corpse's neck. From there I could see the victim's head. Or at least what was left of it.

  Stephen Gaines was lying on the table faceup. A half dollar-size hole was blown out of his forehead. I could see the man's skull and brain, both shredded from the bullet's impact. His eyes were closed, thankfully.

  When that cover came down, I felt like everything in my body dried up. My insides felt like a black hole, my heart, lungs, my blood, all of it drained away.

  "That's him," I said. "The man I saw on the street."

  "This is your brother?" Binks said, eyes raised, curious more than sympathetic.

  "According to the detective here," I said.

  Binks nodded, his mouth still open, as though ex pecting me to relate just how this felt. The truth was I wasn't sure yet. I'd seen enough corpses, visited enough morgues to have been able to distance myself for the most part from the realities of death. A reporter could go crazy letting each individual horror pile up upon their psyche. Like a doctor, you couldn't think of blood as blood, but more a by-product of your work.

  "Where'd you say he was found?" I asked.

  "Apartment near Tompkins Square Park," the detec tive said. "Odd place for someone with your brother's seemingly…limited means to be these days. Twenty years ago, maybe. But now? That's the heart of Stuy

  Town. All young families and old folks."

  I nodded, trying unsuccessfully to process this while staring at the body.

  "That's the exit wound we're looking at," Binks said.

  "The bullet entered just below the back of the right parietal bone and exited through the forehead with a slightly upward trajectory."