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  Yet thinking about him, head bowed, hands behind his back, he looked less like a beast than a small dog being led somewhere he didn't understand for reasons he couldn't comprehend. He looked defeated. Lost.

  And I wondered if, somehow, my father didn't think that in some way he deserved it.

  I thought about Amanda's line of questioning, and my father's answers. According to him, Helen Gaines had called him for money to help Stephen battle his ad diction. My father said the money was for rehab, to help him kick the drugs. This was possible, I supposed, re membering the state Stephen was in when I saw him on the street. He looked like a man whose rope had been pulled as taut as possible, one more tug causing it to snap.

  But my father had admitted to holding the gun, aiming it in such a way that his fingerprints would be found on the trigger and butt. For a jury to believe he did all of that-and that Stephen Gaines had coinciden tally been murdered by a different man using the same gun on that same day-was pushing the limits of rea sonable doubt. If I wasn't his son, if I hadn't lived with the man for eighteen years, if I hadn't been able to look into those eyes, I would doubt his innocence myself.

  And deep down, a small part of me did doubt it.

  When we landed, I had a message waiting for me from Wallace Langston. I hadn't spoken to Wallace since we left for Bend, and no doubt my father's arrest would be reported in local papers. The Gazette would have to cover it, as would the Dispatch, our biggest rival. I only hoped that Paulina Cole wouldn't get a hold of it.

  Paulina Cole had actually been my coworker at the

  Gazette, but soon left for the more lucrative pastures of the Dispatch. There she became the paper's chief print antagonist, penning articles that were as loved as they were reviled, and always stirred up controversy. She'd slimed me in print numerous times, and had made it 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 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.

  Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 04

  The Fury (2009)

  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 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 my hand up. "What did you hear about 'me and my pops'?"

  "Oh, this and that," he said cryptically.

  "Oh yeah? And who are these sources of yours?"

  "Please," Tony said. "You have your channels of in formation and I have mine. Let's leave it at that. But listen, my man, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a lawyer who reps all the celebrities when they, shall we say, stray on the wrong side of the law.

  Remember how Paris Hilton got released from prison after serving an hour for her DUI? That was my bud."

  "Didn't she have to spend a month in there after the judge sent her back?"

  "Wasn't my friend's fault. Judge was an idiot. Can't luck out every time, but you can pay for the best luck possible. Hey, and keep your head up, because they're salivating for scandal over at the Dispatch. "

  "That surprises me about as much as the sun rising."

  This didn't come as a shock to me, since Paulina

  Cole had all but made it her duty to end my career. So far the only surprise was that it hadn't been plastered over the front page. Since my only use for Tony Valen tine was as a font of information, I decided to play along.

  "Out of curiosity, my man, why haven't they moved on the story?"

  "Oh, they've moved on it all right," he said, running his hand flat along the air like a traveling car. "Right now it's buried on page nine. Word is Ted Allen is still basking in their Jack O'Donnell scoop. He thinks pouncing on you too hard will make them look vindic tive and undercut their efforts to shut us down. So they're waiting until the trial gets under way, and based on how the evidence looks, they'll report accordingly."

  I felt a knot rise in my stomach. Ted Allen ran the

  Dispatch, and since Paulina Cole worked for him, I was never far off their radar. The evidence looked pretty bad. Hopefully Tony didn't have sources at the police department that would spill details. I trusted the man as far as I could throw his veneer, but it was always good to be prepared for whatever came next. I had no doubt my father would get beaten in the press, but knowing what was coming could soften the blow.

  I thanked Tony and continued on. I knew his direct line, just in case.


  Waving hi to Rita, Wallace Langston's secretary, I walked into his office. We both likely knew what was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. At least I could be thankful that this would probably hurt us both equally. Wallace was wearing a brown sport jacket. I recognized the coat. A few months ago he'd chewed his pen too deep during a meeting and the blue ink spilled all over the breast. He'd gotten it cleaned the next day, but the stain didn't wash out fully. Now a small, quartersize blue circle remained.

  He didn't seem to care, and nobody else did. We all knew Wallace had much bigger things to worry about, and Lord knew how many other stains and abrasions existed where we couldn't see. Oddly enough, we re spected him for that. To Wallace, the work was more im portant than the gloss, the ink more important than anything. So we didn't mention it.

  Other than the occasional chewed-to-death pen we left on his desk as a friendly reminder.

  Wallace looked up when he saw me come in. His lips were tight beneath the closely shaved beard. His eyes were bloodshot, as usual. He was hardly a peppy man, unless he was excited about a story. And bad news seemed to take him over like a death shroud. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and unfortunately I'd had far too many experiences piercing that heart.

  I hoped it was strong enough for one more.

  "I need some time off," I said.

  Wallace nodded. I was right. He knew this was coming.

  "I'm sorry about your father. But I don't think that's the right decision."

  "He's innocent," I said. "I need to help prove it."

  Wallace nodded again. Not at the information, but because he respected my feelings. "I imagine it might be tough to work under those circumstances."

  "Probably right," I said.

  "Might also help keep you focused," Wallace said.

  "I don't pretend to know everything about you, Henry.

  But I know what you live for. You take that away, even for a little while, you forget who you are."

  "The past few days have shown me that I don't even know who I am."

  "If you want time," Wallace said, "I can give you a leave of absence. Or, you can stay on the job. Do what you need to, but keep your nose to the grindstone anyway.

  Some of the best work reporters do is during times of crisis. If that's too much to ask, I understand. But it might also be good for you. Give you another outlet."

  "I don't know," I said, considering what Wallace was saying. "I need to do what feels right here. And right now I don't know what that is."

  "What's right to one man is wrong to another. You over anyone should know that by now. Every villain is the hero of their own story, Henry. If your father is innocent, somebody killed Stephen Gaines for a reason that they felt was justified. If you can aid his defense, that's a noble deed. I don't want to sway you. But I've seen too many young reporters get lost in the chaos. You have a great career ahead of you. You end up in the middle of trouble more than anyone I've ever known.

  And you can either use that, work with it, or you can let it consume you. You do what you want, Henry."

  I nodded. Wallace was right. And in the past, he'd always stood by me. I'd like to think I'd earned his trust through hard work, and that even if I did get myself into the occasional-okay, regular-scrape, it would be because I was doing the right thing.

  "With Jack and I both gone," I said, "that's a big hit."

  "Don't I know it. Hey, I never said I didn't have the paper's interests in mind, too."

  The way Wallace said it, he wanted me to know he had more on his mind than a simple lack of writers. The

  Gazette had been engaged in a bloodbath with the

  Dispatch over the last few years, each doing whatever it could to lure new readers into the fold. Our industry wasn't quite dying, but it was being forced to deal with innumerable obstacles.

  Each reader was valuable. Each demographic worth its weight in gold. Jack had amassed a large and pas sionate readership over the years through his columns, his books and his numerous awards. Though I hated to think of myself as a quantity, I got enough letters from readers to know that there were quite a few people tuning in to our pages to see what stories Henry Parker had unearthed that day.

  If I took a leave, I'd be pulling away one more tent pole that was keeping the Gazette upright. I owed

  Wallace. And Jack. I loved the Gazette, and if years from now I was still cranking away on my keyboard racking up bylines while my fake teeth were chattering around in my mouth, I'd be a happy old codger.

  And yes, blood is thicker than ink. As little as I owed

  James Parker and Stephen Gaines, I owed them my best efforts. I had to help find Stephen's killer, to get my father out of prison. It didn't look like the cops were going to bend over backward to dig up new leads. They had their man, and likely enough evidence to send him away for a long time.

  And perhaps send him somewhere a lot deeper than a prison cell.

  "I'll stay in the game, Coach," I said. Of course, I couldn't be sure how effective I would be. I had no idea where the truth about Stephen Gaines lay, or where exactly to begin my search.

  Wallace smiled.

  "I'm glad to hear that. For both of us. You have my number, Henry," he said. "Keep in touch. Go fight the good fight."

  "Thanks, sir," I said.

  "I mean it, Henry. Keep in touch. It's not too much to ask for a good story, is it?"

  "No, sir," I said. "Not at all. Thanks, Wallace."

  Wallace nodded. "You're going through something not many do. Stay safe, Henry. And stay smart."

  I said I would. But I wasn't sure if I meant it.

  12

  Leaving the Gazette, I endured a brief man hug-back slap from Tony Valentine. I ran my hand over my face and checked my clothes to make sure none of his spray tan had rubbed off on me. Some kind of sweet cologne did seem to have made my acquaintance, smelling like a mixture of citrus and the floor of a movie theater. A shower was my first order of business.

  I called Amanda at work. She picked up on the second ring.

  "Hey," she said. "How'd it go?"

  "I just told the boss who'd supported me at the job of my dreams that I wanted to take some time off to look into the death of my half brother who was allegedly murdered by my father. Out of all the times I've had that conversation, I'd say this one went pretty well."

  "You're funny when you're pissed off."

  "Maybe I'm pissed off when I'm funny."

  "No," she said. "Because you're pissed off fairly often, but you're really not that funny."

  "Thanks for the pep talk," I said.

  "Seriously, Henry. How'd it go?"

  I rubbed my forehead. "Felt like crap," I said.

  "Wallace convinced me to stay on the job, but I can't help but feel he's disappointed in me. With Jack gone, they can't spare to lose a lot of writers. But he also knows how important this is. I can't let him down."

  "So what are you going to do now?"

  "Now?" I said. "Start at the beginning."

  Gaines was found murdered in Alphabet City, near

  Tompkins Square Park, according to the papers. The park itself was bordered by Tenth street on the north and Seventh street on the south, and lay between

  Avenues A and B. It had a tumultuous history, dating back to the 1980s when it was a petri dish for drugs and homeless people.

  An infamous riot occurred in 1988 when the police attempted to clear the park of its homeless population, and forty-four people were injured in the ensuing chaos.

  Since then the park had been closed several times for refurbishment, and between that and the increasing gen trification of the neighborhood, it was now a pleasant place to hang out, play basketball and just enjoy a nice summer day.

  I took the 6 train down to Union Square, then trans ferred to the El, which I rode to First Avenue. First bordered Peter Cooper Village, or Stuyvescent Town, a woodsy enclave largely populated by recent college grads who liked the cheap rent, younger families who enjoyed the
well-tended parks, and older residents whose rents were stabilized and who hadn't paid an extra dime since New York was the capital of the Union.

  As I approached the park, it was hard to believe a murder could occur in such a pleasant area. Parks seemed to be the one place where all the stress and hos tility emptied out of the city. Where families became instant friends, children ran around while their parents watched approvingly, and young men and women played sports and chatted without playing the stupid mating games that choked you to death at any bar.

  I wondered what in the hell Stephen Gaines was doing here when he was killed. If he lived here, did his habit go unnoticed? When I saw him on the street, he looked as if he was on the tail end of a ten-year bender.

  In an area geared toward family, I could hardly imagine he was a welcome sight. Chances were if someone saw him stumbling around like I witnessed him doing, they'd call the cops.

  I realized as I approached the park that I had nothing to show people. Not a photo identifying traits, or per sonality quirks. All I knew about Stephen Gaines was the image of him on the street, and then on the slab in the medical examiner's office. I hoped the trusty New

  York City newspapers were more up to speed than I was.

  I stopped at a small bodega that had a cartful of newspapers out front. I bought three papers-the

  Gazette, the Times, and even the Dispatch. When it came to finding my brother's killer, I wasn't above sup porting the competition if it meant getting the informa tion I needed.

  Thumbing through the papers, I was pleasantly sur prised to find that the Gazette was the only one that printed a photo of Gaines. It looked like a driver's license shot. He was looking straight into the camera, serious yet a little confused, as though he didn't quite understand what he was doing there. His hair was much shorter than when I'd seen it, and the man looked about ten years younger as well. Clearly he wasn't the kind to show up in a lot of photographs, and I had a feeling combing through MySpace and Facebook likely wouldn't yield many, either.