Parker 04 - The Fury (15 page)

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were found at Gaines's apartment. Whoever killed him

took them to prevent analysis, but left the gun itself.

Somehow I don't see my father on his hands and knees

picking up spent shell casings, or digging a bullet out

of the wall. And why would they leave the gun?"

"Someone out there has the answer," Amanda said.

"We need to find Helen Gaines," I said. "She has to

know what's going on. And something has to be fright

ening her enough to stay away from the cops."

"If someone doesn't want to be found," Amanda

said, "they won't be found."

"Not necessarily. If you have the resources, anyone

can be found. The trick isn't going from point A to

point Z. There are stops in between. Each one will lead

you closer. We need to find the next step, even if it only

takes us a little bit closer."

"So who knew Helen Gaines besides Stephen and

Beth?" Amanda said. "And who knew Stephen besides

Rose Keller?"

"The question isn't necessarily who knew Helen and

Stephen," I said, "but who else knew Rose and Beth?

Beth-Ann Downing had a daughter. Sheryl Downing,

who now goes by the name Sheryl Harrison. She's

thirty-five, and according to the Indian Lake officer

who spoke to Sheryl, she and Beth hadn't spoken in

nearly ten years, ever since Sheryl moved to California.

For there to be that kind of estrangement, something

had to have driven mother and daughter apart."

"But it could be anything," Amanda said dubiously.

"Maybe Beth disapproved of her daughter's husband.

Maybe Sheryl didn't like her mom's cooking."

"Or maybe there was something else," I said. "It

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took a lot more than burned meat loaf to make me want

to leave a burning trail of rubber when I left Bend."

"So how do you plan to get in touch with Sheryl?"

"She lives in Sherman Oaks. We have her name.

She's on her way to New York, but will likely still be

checking her messages. Give me one minute."

I went to my laptop and booted it. Opening Internet

Explorer, I went to 411.com. I plugged in Sherman

Oaks as the city, then entered the name Sheryl Harrison.

The page loaded for a few seconds, and then three

names popped up, along with their phone numbers.

"Let's hope this works."

I called each of the three numbers. The first Sheryl

Harrison picked up. I told her I had a question about her

mother, Beth. She said her mother had died years ago.

I thanked her and hung up. Neither of the next two were

home. One of them might have been the right one. I had

no idea if they were, or which one. But I left them both

the same message:

"Hi, Sheryl, my name is Henry Parker. I'm so sorry

for your loss. I have a question about your mother. I

don't mean to pry, and I know this is a difficult time for

you, but I wouldn't be contacting you if this wasn't of

the utmost importance. If you can, please call me back

at the following number."

I left my number on both machines, and thanked them

again for their time. One Sheryl would call me back. I had

to believe that.And to believe that, all I had to do was wait.

After a quick slice of pizza, I threw off my clothes

and stepped into the shower. I immediately noticed there

were no towels hanging on the racks. Either we'd used

them all and they were in the laundry waiting to be

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shipped off, or Amanda had purposely taken them all out

so I'd have to beg for one. I had a feeling it was the latter.

For some reason she got a kick out of seeing me open

the bathroom door just a crack, then squirt through the

apartment naked looking for something to cover myself

up with. She called this game "hide and peek," and I'd

be lying if I said she was the only one who enjoyed it.

For some reason, I was too scared to play it on her.

The water felt wonderful, hot and nearly scalding. A

long shower would do my body good, just to take my

mind off everything. We had to start up again soon, but

every brief respite was a moment to be savored.

After that, I threw a pair of shorts on while I airdried, then went to the bed and passed out. Amanda was

already asleep, surrounded by enough pillows to build

a fort big enough for both of us. No reason to ask where

all my towels were. Sleep came easily.

It must have been several hours later when a shrill

ring woke me up from the darkness. I blinked, noticed

Amanda was no longer on the bed. I groped around for

the phone, forgetting where I'd placed it. Then I heard

Amanda from the living room.

"Henry, your phone is ringing!"

"Who is it?" I replied, picking crust from my eyes.

"Check the caller ID."

"I don't know, but it's an 818 area code."

Eight-one-eight. That was a California area code.

I leaped out of bed, toppling half a dozen pillows

onto the floor. I was wearing nothing but a towel. Not

like whoever was calling would notice. Then I bolted

out of the bedroom--stark naked, the towel fluttering

to the floor--and made a beeline for the phone.

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Amanda was standing there, holding it in one hand

while trying to stifle a laugh with her other.

"Sweet dreams?" she said, looking south.

I scowled at her, crossed my legs, grabbed the phone,

looked at the ID and pressed Send.

"Hello?" I said, hoping I'd made it in time.

"Is this...Mr. Parker?" It was a woman's voice I did

not register in my memory.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Sheryl Harrison. I had a voice mail from a Henry

Parker asking to call back at this number. Something

about my mother."

"Yes, Mrs. Harrison, thank you
so
much for calling

me back. I was wondering if I could talk to you about

your mother, Beth. Do you have a few minutes?"

"I'm leaving the church right now. My mother's

funeral is tomorrow. I have an hour before my appoint

ment with the florist, that's all the time I can give you. If

you can meet me on Twenty-seventh and Third, you'll

have whatever time is remaining before my appoint

ment."

"I'm leaving right now," I said, looking around to see

where I put my pants.

"Just so we're clear, I know who you are, Mr. Parker.

You're a reporter. To be honest, I really want nothing

to do with you, and you're not going to get much more

than a 'no comment.'"

"This isn't for my job," I said. "It's personal. It's

about my father. He's linked to this crime. You'll under

stand when I see you."

"Is that right. So none of this will end up in print."

"Not a word."

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127

"In any event, everything that passes between us is

officially off the record."

"I understand," I said. "You have my word."

"So if any word of our conversation ends up in print,

I'll own your newspaper, your apartment and every pen

and pencil you've ever held."

"I swear on my life, this is personal."

"We'll see." She hung up.

I looked up to see Amanda standing there holding a

pair of slacks and a clean blue shirt.

"If you're not out this door in three minutes," she

said, "I'm going down there to meet Sheryl Harrison in

your place."

16

The good and bad thing about New York is that if you

don't have time to sit stuck in traffic while your cab

racks up forty cents every one-point-two blocks, you

can pick from myriad transportation options. There are

dozens of subway and bus lines that crisscross the city

like a drunk doctor's stitching, and even if the Second

Avenue subway remains a figment of the city's imagi

nation, there's always a way from point A to point B.

Of course, even though there happens to be a large

public transportation system, it was still as spotty ser

vicewise as your average Wi-Fi connection. Which is

why I stood sweating in a dank station for nearly half

an hour before the 4 train rumbled to its stop. By the

time I took a seat across from a heavily tattooed couple

playing tonsil hockey like they were trying out for the

Rangers, my nice blue shirt was soaked through with

sweat and my pressed slacks looked like they'd been

crumpled in a ball in a Russian steam bath for a week.

Thankfully, the one place in New York that was airconditioned was the subway cars, so when I transferred

to the 6 and got off at Twenty-eighth and Park, my

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129

clothes looked only mildly rumpled. I couldn't decide

whether this appearance would make Sheryl Harrison

more or less skeptical of my motives.

Hustling over to Twenty-seventh and Third, I saw an

attractive black woman standing on the corner. She was

finishing the last of what appeared to be a sandwich or

a wrap, and held a gigantic iced coffee in her other

hand. The smart yet subdued suit she wore seemed to

work for someone in mourning, yet keeping her ap

pointment book up-to-date.

Just as I approached, she strapped her purse to her

shoulder and began to walk away.

Sprinting across the street, I yelled, "Miss Harri

son! Sheryl!"

She turned to look at me, the expression on her face

unchanging. Panting, I caught up to her, composed

myself. "Mrs. Harrison, Henry Parker, so sorry, the

subway, I--"

"I'm on my way to the florist. I don't have time to

stop and chat. You're welcome to walk with me, but as

soon as we get there we're done."

"I understand," I said, falling into step with her.

It was a dry, sunny day, and pretty soon I wasn't even

thinking about the trip down. Sheryl Harrison walked

west down Twenty-seventh, and I followed.

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

"I doubt that," she said. "Though the police did tell

me you found her. Is that right?"

"That's right," I replied. Sheryl nodded, kept

walking. She was tall, about five-ten, with an almost

regal walk. Her hair looked professionally done, her

makeup highlighting her natural features rather than

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trying to add some that weren't there. She took long,

gallant strides, and though I wasn't a short guy I found

myself expelling quite a bit of energy just to keep step.

To my surprise, Sheryl did not ask a follow-up

question. Not about the circumstances in which I found

her mother, if she had any last words, nothing. If she

was in mourning, she hid it. If she had any feelings for

her mother, they were worn far below the sleeve.

Without Sheryl prompting, I told her about Stephen

Gaines, about my father's arrest for his murder. I also

told her how Rose Keller had pointed me in the direc

tion of the cabin at Blue Lake Mountain, and how I was

working to prove my father's innocence. She listened

without saying a word. I couldn't tell if she was merely

aloof, distracted with everything that had gone on, or,

more distressingly, not surprised at all.

"Were you two close?" I asked. A rhetorical

question, but what I hoped would be a baby step in

finding out more about Beth-Ann Downing and her re

lationship to Helen Gaines.

"I hadn't spoken to my mother in almost ten years,"

Sheryl said, her gaze straight ahead. She spoke as if I

was asking her about her previous employment. And I

noticed she used the past tense--
hadn't.
Most people,

when discussing a recent death of a friend or family

member, would slip up, say
haven't
as though the

person was still alive. Somehow I got the feeling this

was a day Sheryl Harrison was prepared for.

"Did she ever try to reach out to you?" I asked. "Or

mention friends, associates, anyone?"

"Mr. Parker," Sheryl said, a hint of annoyance

creeping into her voice. "I answered your question. My

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131

mother and I were not close. Not even before I left the

city. Yes, she did try to reach out once or twice. I didn't

return her phone calls."

"Why not?"

"Perhaps you're too young to have experienced this,

but when someone hurts you so badly--I'm not talking

about a faulty relationship or bad argument--I'm

talking about hurts you in such a way that decimates

you, your confidence, your life in such a way that the

only chance you have to life is by cutting off a diseased

limb, you don't care or make an effort to reconnect. If

anything, you stay away from it."

"What did your mother do to you?" I asked. This

came out less incredulous than expected. If I didn't

grow up with a father whose mission in life seemed to

be to alienate his family, this kind of revelation from

Sheryl might have taken me aback. Instead, I under

stood, maybe even empathized with her.

"What didn't she do." Sheryl sighed.