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.
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.
