The Fury hp-4 Page 8

  The article was brief. Though it did mention my father.

  Stephen Gaines, 30, was found shot to death in his

  Alphabet City apartment late Monday night. At this time one arrest has been made in the killing, one James

  Parker of Bend, Oregon. Parker is alleged to be the es tranged father of Gaines, though the police have not made any comment on Parker's motivation or why he was in New York City the night of Gaines's death.

  Referred to Detective Sevi Makhoulian of the

  NYPD, the officer said simply, "I have no doubt that the district attorney's office will be prosecuting Parker to the fullest extent of the law. As for details of the case, those are pending and will become available as the trial progresses."

  There was no photo of my father, and the snippet did not mention me. I wondered if the paper should have done so, or if this was another example of Wallace pro tecting me. I only hoped he knew I'd repay the effort.

  I ripped out the picture from the Gazette and tossed the rest of the papers in the trash.

  I was no detective. My career thus far had progressed almost solely on instinct. Seeing a thread, no matter how thin or frayed the strand, and pulling on it until something larger unspooled. At this point, though, I had no thread. There was nothing to pull on. No leads, no witnesses. Nothing.

  So I started where any reporter or cop would when they had nothing.

  When in doubt, talk to everybody.

  I walked straight into Tompkins Square Park looking for young families and older pedestrians. I figured those were people most likely to come to the park because they lived in the vicinity. And if they lived nearby, there was a greater chance they might have seen Stephen

  Gaines at some point.

  But what if they had seen him? That hardly meant they saw him being killed, or even knew who he was, what he did, or anything about him. Still, it was the best shot I had.

  Walking around, I noticed a couple in their early thirties sitting on a bench. A baby stroller sat in front of them. I hated bothering nice people who looked like they just wanted to spend their afternoon relaxing with loved ones, but I hoped they'd understand.

  Of course not too many people could sympathize with trying to hunt down the man who'd killed your brother, while your father sat in prison.

  I approached the couple in as nonthreatening a manner as possible. Smiling, even. They paid no atten tion to me until I got closer and it was clear they were my targets. The husband looked up at me, and I noticed his hand slowly plant itself on his wife's leg. Guarding her. Nobody trusted young people these days.

  "I'm so sorry to bother you," I said, putting my hand out in apology. "I was wondering if you happened to have seen this man in the area."

  I showed them the picture from the paper. They looked at it long enough and with enough confusion to show they didn't know him.

  The wife said, "No, I'm sorry."

  I thanked them for their time. Then it was on to the next stop.

  I approached an older black man sitting at a chess table. The other seat was unoccupied. He was studying the board, perhaps planning out moves in his head. I crouched down at the other side of his table, cleared my throat awkwardly.

  "Excuse me," I said.

  "Have a seat, young man," he said, his mouth breaking into a smile. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a cloth containing numerous chess pieces.

  "Pick your poison. Speed chess? I've got a killer Danish

  Gambit, so hold on to your hat."

  "I'm not looking for a game," I said somewhat apolo getically. "I was wondering if you might have seen this man before."

  He looked at the picture, a blank expression on his face. He said he'd never seen Gaines, and I believed him.

  I spent the rest of the day questioning every person

  I could find in the park, until by the end people started to recognize me as having pestered half the lot and they began to move away before I even approached them.

  One couple I asked twice within half an hour.

  Nobody had seen Gaines. Nobody had noticed him.

  He was a ghost in his own neighborhood. Or at least to these people.

  When people asked what I was looking for, I mumbled something about him having gone missing. If they knew I was looking into a murder, they'd clam up faster than a vegetarian at a barbecue.

  The sun began to set. So far my efforts had yielded nothing. I took a seat on a park bench. Desperation had come and gone, and I was left holding a crumpled photo of a man I barely knew, who'd lived a life seemingly nobody had known. Several days ago none of this mattered. Work was good. My relationship seemed to finally be on stable ground. And now here I was, bother ing strangers, hoping they might have happened, by some ludicrous hope, to have seen someone other than my father shoot a man in the back of the head. Or at least knew more about Stephen than I did which was next to nothing.

  I was searching for a needle in the East River, with no clue which way the current was flowing.

  I was about to give up, to try to think of a new angle to attack from, when a shadow fell over me. I looked up to see a young woman, late twenties or so, standing in front of me. She was reed thin, one arm dangling limp by her side while the other crossed her chest, holding the opposite shoulder. Her hair was red and black, mascara haphazardly applied. Perhaps twenty pounds ago she'd been attractive, but now she was a walking, painted skeleton. She was wearing a long-sleeved sweater, but the fabric was dangling off her limbs. It allowed me to see the bruising underneath. The purplish marks on her skin immediately caught my attention. My pulse sped up. Her lip trembled. I didn't have to show her the newspaper clipping. I knew what she was going to say even before she opened her mouth.

  "I knew Stephen."

  A cup of steaming tea was set in front of me. It smelled like mint. She offered me milk, which I politely declined. I watched her sit down, a cup of the same at her lips. She'd poured both from the same kettle, so I didn't have to worry about being poisoned. I began to think about how much more paranoid I'd become over the years.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "Don't mention it. I brew three pots a day."

  I nodded, took a look around.

  This woman, Rose Keller, had taken me up to her apartment after I told her who I was and what I was doing. She seemed apprehensive, but once convinced of my authenticity she was more than happy to help.

  She lived in a studio apartment at the top of a fourstory walk-up on Avenue B and Twelfth Street. The floor was covered with gum wrappers, the walls deco rated with posters of vintage album covers and artsy photographs, usually of frighteningly skinny women shaded in odd pastel light. The room smelled like patch ouli and cinnamon. Our tea rested on what appeared to be an antique trunk, covered in customs stickers from every corner of the earth. Portugal, Greenland, Syndey, Prague, the Sudan. This woman didn't look like she traveled much. Odds were she'd bought the pieces, stickers already applied.

  The bed was unmade, and I noticed a large box sticking out from underneath. She saw me looking at it, said, "Clothes. I keep meaning to donate them."

  She was lying, but I wasn't here to judge.

  "So how did you know Stephen?" I asked.

  "We used to…" She looked away from me. Then she pulled a lighter from her sock, took a bent cigarette from a drawer. "You mind if I smoke?"

  "Go right ahead."

  She took out a glass ashtray and set it on the table.

  It was crusted with old butts and ash. Flicking the lighter, she lit the cig and took a long puff, holding it aloft between two fingers.

  "We used to get high together," she said.

  "Used to?" I asked.

  "I met him when I moved to the city eight years ago.

  Wanted to be on Broadway, you know? All that kicking and dancing. I was voted 'most likely to succeed'in high school. Starred in all the drama shit. Figured I'd come here and show those Rockette girls how things are really done."

  "And then?
"

  "It's a tough gig," she said like a woman who'd given up the dream long ago and had come to peace with it.

  "Too tall. Too fat. Too short. Nose too big. Tits too small.

  There's always an excuse. So I started waitressing in

  Midtown, cool little Irish pub. Some of the actors used to go there for a drink after the shows. Then I'd come back here, get high and crash. That's how I met

  Stephen."

  "How exactly did you meet him?"

  "Funny story," she said, taking another long drag. "I used to call this guy named Vinnie when my stash needed re-upping. Well, his name wasn't actually

  Vinnie. It was kind of a global pseudonym that all the runners used, they'd all call themselves Vinnie. There were probably a dozen different Vinnies working at any given time, covering different parts of the city. So one day I'm outside on the stoop waiting, and another guy kind of ambles up and just stands around. I can tell from the way he's walking, kind of looking at the street, side to side, he was definitely a user. So I said hi. He said hi back. Vinnie rolls up half an hour later, this greaser wearing a hat turned sideways, couldn't have been a day over fifteen, and fills us both up. And since it's always more fun to see those bright lights with company, we went back to his place."

  Rose's eyes flickered to the walls, then back to the table. There was sorrow and pain in her eyes that hadn't been there a minute ago. She was trying to stay cool, but I could tell she'd cared about Stephen.

  "It was kind of funny, because Stephen and Vinnie had this little, I don't know, chat. Friendly, like two buds. I figured Stephen had used this guy before. You know how sometimes you order pizza so often, the delivery guy kind of becomes your pal? At first it's all tips and friendly hi's but then you're talking about the weather. One pizza guy actually asked me out once.

  That's when I knew I needed to learn how to cook."

  "How long did you know Stephen?" I asked.

  Rose sniffed, tapped out her cigarette until it stopped smoking. Then she placed it in the ashtray amidst a graveyard of used butts. She stared at them for a moment, like a woman who'd been trying for years to quit and realized just how addicted she was.

  "Just about seven years."

  "Were you two close?"

  "Depends on when you mean," she said. Her voice had become a little more abrasive. She had feelings for

  Stephen, but there had been some bad times, too. I imagined that when two junkies got together it wasn't exactly Ozzie and Harriet. If a relationship between two such people could be thought of as "tumultuous," it was probably the best one could hope for. I'd had enough relationships that were able to find trouble on their own without the uncertainty caused by stimulants and hallucinogenic substances.

  "Did you date?" I asked, hoping she wouldn't get offended at my prying.

  "Again," she said bitterly, "depends on when you're talking about."

  "Were you seeing each other when Stephen got killed?"

  "Hell, no," she said irritably. "See, thing is, after a while you get tired of the life. It's one thing to be irre sponsible and screwing around in your twenties. I mean, everyone does it. Most folks don't settle down by twenty-five and spend time worrying about a mortgage and a 401k. I didn't, and neither did Stephen. But then you hit thirty, and you're still renting a studio smaller than a shoe box, and guys like Vinnie stay the same age because whoever the dude is who supplies them just keeps hiring high-school kids. Funny. I must have had half a dozen dealers all named Vinnie, all under the age of twenty-one. You know how stupid you feel when you're thirty and some kid is selling to you, and you know he's still in high school and probably makes more money than you?"

  "So you were looking to go clean," I said.

  "Have been for a year now," Rose said. She stood up, picked up the ashtray and brought it into the kitchen where she tapped out the contents into a trash bin. She came back, put the tray back into a drawer like it had never been taken out. "Trying, at least. The hooks are a lot easier to dig in than they are to pull out."

  "What about Stephen?"

  Rose sighed, leaned back in her chair. A wistfulness crossed her face. "I thought he was trying to quit. He seemed like he was. See, I never really thought Stephen had that serious a problem. Just recreational crap. I mean, everyone smokes a bit. Shoots up a bit. It's all about keeping it under control. I did that, and then I quit. Stephen never quit. And in case you haven't noticed, addicts never stay even keel. They either get better or they get worse."

  "And Stephen got worse."

  "Like cancer," she said.

  I looked again at the skin under Rose's shirt. I could see the bruises weren't track lines, but destroyed veins.

  Dark blues and black, yellow skin surrounding them.

  Perhaps even an infection gone untreated. Whether drug addiction started off as a disease I didn't know, but sure as hell once those hooks dug in, the virus swam around in your system until it ate you from the inside.

  "What do you do for a living, Rose? I mean, all those drugs couldn't be cheap."

  "Graphic designer," she said proudly. "I make eighty grand a year."

  She noticed how impressed I was.

  "And your employer, they…"

  "Never knew a thing. Been working for a television studio doing Web site design for six years. They figure the geeks are wired differently than everyone else, and that we were all born in the same freaky nursery. So you come in with your hair messed up smelling like stale cigarettes and beer, they figure you were up late

  'hacking.' Most people can't differentiate between a designer and a programmer. As long as you know html, you're golden. As if they even knew what the letters stand for."

  "Stephen," I said. "What did he do?"

  The moment I said it I felt a sadness. The more I learned about Stephen Gaines the closer I got to him.

  The more I despised having never known this man at all.

  "I know he tried to write for a while. He wanted to do culture reporting, trend pieces…" Rose's voice trailed off.

  "Did he get any published?"

  "No," she said. "I'm not sure he ever really tried. He just talked about it."

  "So how did he make a living?"

  "You know," she said, furrowing her brow, "I'm not really sure. But at some point he stopped talking about writing altogether. The drugs got a hold of him worse than ever. It was all he could do to get up in the morning, and he looked like death when he did. I barely saw him after that."

  "When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.

  "A week ago," Rose said. She sighed again, but this time a sob cracked the noise. Her eyes began to water.

  As hard as this was for me, I didn't know Stephen at all. This woman had lost a loved one. A lover.

  "He said he was going to get clean," she said, the cracks in her voice becoming more evident. "He promised me. He said he was going to get help. Rehab.

  We spoke on the phone. He swore on his mother. Then he stopped returning my calls."

  Rehab, I thought. My father said Helen Gaines was looking for money to help Stephen get help. That part sounded like it was true. But unfortunately all it did in the eyes of a prosecutor was likely bolster my father's motive in Stephen's murder.

  "Did you know Helen at all?" I asked.

  Rose nodded. "They lived together. She was dirt poor, and Stephen seemed to make enough money to pay rent and keep food on the table. I met her maybe half a dozen times. Kind of quiet, like she was scared of life. Made good coffee, but never drank it with you, if you get my meaning."

  "I got it," I said. "You wouldn't by any chance happen to have her contact information, would you?"

  "I don't have a phone number or e-mail or anything like that. But when Stephen used to write, he'd always go to this cabin in the Adirondacks up by Blue

  Mountain Lake. I think Helen's parents left it to her or something. He went up there to work, and Helen usually went with him. She was quiet enough, and it's not like she had anyo
ne else. Not exactly the kind of woman who liked to be alone."

  The Adirondacks were about a four-and-a-half-hour drive northwest of the city. I'd never been up there, but knew it was a popular spot for camping, hiking and just getting away from the world for a while.

  Something a mother might do if her only son was murdered.

  "Rose," I said, "would you mind giving me that address?"

  14

  We finished the car rental paperwork by noon, then loaded the vehicle up with coffee, snacks and Amanda's iPod. I fought the good fight to bring mine, but lost despite a valiant effort. To be honest, it wasn't much of a fight since I learned early in our relationship that when it came to playing music, Amanda had the one and only vote. The only thing I could do was learn to love

  Fleetwood Mac and early Britney Spears. Though I did worry that listening to "Rumors" right after "Oops!…

  I Did It Again" might cause my head to distend like when you poured cold water on hot metal.

  It was Saturday. Hopefully we wouldn't hit much traffic, the rest of the city either sleeping off hangovers or snacking on fried dough with powdered sugar at a street fair.

  Luckily the car had an iPod dock built in. Amanda hooked it up and began scrolling through songs. I started the engine and pulled into traffic and headed toward the George Washington Bridge.

  "You know, isn't there some kind of rule stating that whoever drives gets to choose the music?"

  "I think that law was considered outdated in the

  1970s. Now the female in the car gets to choose the tunes."

  "What if there's more than one woman in the car?"

  I asked.

  "Then it goes to the most dominant female," she said drily. "If need be you lock them all in a steel cage and whoever is the last one alive chooses the music. Kind of like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome."

  "Nice to know after all these years Mel Gibson still exerts influence over all realms of pop culture."

  "Stop whining," she said. "Here. Try this one. And if I hear one reference to 'sugartits' you can walk upstate alone."