Parker 04 - The Fury (19 page)

story, I'd have to explain the stolen briefcase. And then

I'd have to explain how I got there, how I'd followed

Scotty, and why I was doing all this in the first place.

The goal, of course, was to find Stephen Gaines's

killer and free my father. That would likely have to wait

until I had the full picture. If I went in with half a bird

in hand and the other half hiding in the bush, they'd

laugh me off and then possibly arrest me. Neither of

which sounded particularly appealing.

I picked up the cell phone. It wasn't as fancy as mine

or many of the newer models, and didn't look to have

photo or video capacity. There was no flip top, just a

dimly lit LCD screen and chunky buttons that looked

old and worn. Clearly, this phone was meant for one

thing, and one thing only. And whoever was using it

didn't need all the excess accoutrements.

The phone was still on. The screen said there were

five missed calls. I checked the log, and saw they'd all

come from the same number. I didn't recognize it, and

rather than a name popping up it was just the number.

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Most likely it was the kid whose briefcase I'd stolen

calling from a pay phone, praying someone would pick

up. It was only a matter of time before the phone was

disconnected.

Though somehow I didn't think there was a high

probability of the owner calling the cops to report it.

On the LCD screen, there was a "contacts" line

directly above a flat, rectangular button. I pressed it.

Immediately a roll call of the kid's contacts came up.

I scrolled through the names, hoping for something.

Then I saw two names that
did
ring a bell.

Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans.

Scotty and Kyle from this morning.

It didn't shock me that they were listed in the kid's

contacts list. They did share the same "occupation,"

and odds were Scotty and Kyle had this kid's number

in their database as well. I kept scrolling.

Then a name appeared on the list that made me

catch my breath.

"What?" Amanda said. "What it is?"

I showed her the phone, my finger underlining the

name.

"Oh my God," she said. "Why would he be..."

I looked at her. We both knew why he was there.

Halfway down the lists of contacts was the name

Stephen Gaines.

"He knew my brother," I said. "Wait a second..."

I exited the contacts list and returned to the main

menu. I knew what I was looking for but didn't know

if it was there.

I hoped it wasn't.

I pressed the send button to bring up the list of the

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most recent calls from this cell phone. There were

several from a name marked Office. I clicked edit to see

the number. It was from a 646 area code in Manhattan.

I wrote it down, then kept on scrolling.

None of the names were recognizable.

But then, at the very end of the list, was the one

name I'd hoped not to see.

"He called Stephen," I said to Amanda. "He called

my brother the night he died."

19

The next morning, Amanda and I took the subway to

100 Centre Street, which housed the New York County

Correctional Facility. My father was being held there

before his grand jury hearing, and we were on our way

to show support, discuss his court-appointed lawyer.

And ask him some questions to which I hoped he would

hold the answers.

Amanda and I had spent the previous night talking

and thinking about the Gaines family, Rose Keller and

Beth-Ann Downing. Drugs seemed to be the only link

between the four people. Two of them were dead,

Stephen Gaines and Beth-Ann. And the stash of narcot

ics from the stolen briefcase was hidden inside my

laundry hamper. I figured if anyone were to break in, the

stench itself might deter even the most hardened thief.

Stephen used to date and party with Rose Keller.

She claimed they'd met randomly. But I had to wonder.

Stephen's name was in the kid's cell phone I stole.

Which meant one of three things.

First, the two were merely friends. Which was

highly unlikely.

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Second, that Stephen was the kid's client. That one

was a possibility.

Third, and perhaps the most frightening yet the most

plausible, was that Stephen Gaines was a dealer himself.

Perhaps Stephen, before he died, was one of the

faceless suit monkeys who entered that office building

in midtown for re-ups. Perhaps had I gone there another

day, I would have seen my brother enter with an empty

briefcase and exit with a full load of narcotics.

Helen Gaines had somehow befriended Beth-Ann

Downing after relocating from Bend to New York City.

They both had children--though I had no reason to

suspect Sheryl and Stephen had met, unless Stephen

happened to have sold to Sheryl's mother. Sheryl was

likely gone by the time Helen and Stephen settled in.

And at some point along the line, both Helen and BethAnn had developed drug addictions.

Chances were Stephen discovered the path to his

own demise through his mother. Anytime you grow up

in a household in which such evils were not only

common but encouraged, it was just a matter of time

before you followed in step.

In my relatively short time on this planet, I'd learned

that there were two types of people. Those who were

doomed to follow in whatever footsteps had been laid

out for them, and those who were strong enough to

carve their own path.

Amanda and I were lucky. I could have turned out

like my father, with a general disregard for decency

and an attitude toward women that could be described

as combative on a good day. Amanda could have been

swallowed by her grief as a child, stifled by the tragic

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deaths of her parents. She never grew close to Lawrence

and Harriet Stein, her adoptive family. She feared that

she would never truly be close to another person again.

She began to write in diaries. There were hundreds of

them, each one chronicling every waking moment of

her life, cataloging every soul she met on her aimless

journey. A moment-to-moment timeline of loneliness.

After we met and later began seeing each other, she

stopped writing in them. I like to think that, in each

other, we found a path through the darkness. She found

someone who would be with her every night and every

morning, and I found a woman strong enough to show

me my weaknesses as well as my strengths, beautiful

enough beneath the skin to make me want to smooth

over the rough edges.

And there were a lot of them.

Stephen Gaines never found that path. He'd never

had a chance. Between his mother and her friends, the

darkness was too much for him to bear.

I gripped the handrail tight as I approached my des

tination. My childhood memories of my father were of

this great and powerful man who never feared anything.

He was an omnipotent tyrant, a man unconcerned with

convention or emotion. I never saw him cry, never saw

him beg. Even when I knew our finances were dwin

dling and my mother was as distant as the sunset at

dusk, he stood rock solid, impenetrable. Seeing him

today would be the opposite of everything I knew as a

child. He was the negative in my life's photograph. And

I wasn't sure if I was prepared.

The New York County Correctional Facility had

several outlets, and as a prisoner your stay was largely

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dependent on a combination of luck and just how many

criminals were waiting their turn before your case came

to the docket. Some ended up on Riker's Island, but

many, like James Parker, were relegated to the facility

known affectionately as the Tombs.

The Tombs had actually been the name for several

locations over the years, beginning in 1838 back when

it was called the New York Halls of Justice and House

of Detention (or NYHOFJAHOD for short. No wonder

they called it the Tombs).

After numerous successful escapes and the dete

riorating quality of the cells themselves, the old building

was merged with the Criminal Court building on

Franklin Street, separated by what was called the Bridge

of Sighs.

In 1974 much of the old Tombs had finally been shut

down due to health concerns. Currently the Tombs

consists of two facilities connected by a pedestrian

bridge, with a prisoner capacity nearing nine hundred.

Ironically, in 2001 the Tombs were given the official

name of the Bernard B. Kerik Complex, though in 2006

after Kerik pled guilty to ethics violations (including

several violations of infamous book publisher Judith

Regan in an apartment near ground zero that was

supposed to be used for the rescue effort) the moniker

was removed.

Currently my father was awaiting a grand jury

hearing on the charges of first-degree murder. Accord

ing to Amanda, the prosecution was surely in the

process of collecting evidence to convince the jury that

there was "reasonable cause to believe" that my father

might have killed Stephen Gaines. We both admitted the

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likelihood of a trial at this point, so time was becoming

more and more precious. We had interlocked several

pieces, but we couldn't see the whole puzzle.

The 4 train took us to Canal Street. For some reason,

passing by the massive pillars and intricate scrollwork

adorning the Supreme Court building reminded me I

hadn't yet served jury duty since arriving in New York

a few years ago. I could already imagine the tremendous

sense of irony I would feel upon signing that jury slip.

Maybe if I was lucky it'd be juror appreciation day. Get

a free coffee mug and everything. Leave this mess with

something memorable.

The Manhattan Criminal Courthouse towered above

the city skyscape, with four towers encircling a larger

center with floors in decreasing size, as though you

were viewing a staircase to the sky. In front were two

massive granite columns, and the whole structure was

designed in an art deco-style.

We entered the lobby through glass doors and made

our way to the security stand. We showed our identifi

cation, which the security guard scrutinized intensely

and matched to his logbook before writing us passes.

After that we passed through a series of metal detectors

and, after a search of my bag and Amanda's purse, we

were headed toward the Manhattan Detention Complex,

aka the Tombs.

A tall guard in a neatly pressed blue uniform accom

panied us to an elevator that looked like it was built into

a brick wall. I noticed he did not have a gun on his

holster. Instead, there was a Taser, a can of Mace and a

thin cylinder about a half inch in diameter and six inches

long. The guard noticed I was staring at it.

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"Expandable baton," he said. "Officers have been

complaining about the longer ones for years. They're

heavy as my mother-in-law and an incredible nuisance.

These puppies are compact and pack a hell of a punch."

"Can I try it?"

"No."

We got on the elevator and the guard pressed Down.

We waited just a few moments before the doors opened

up.

"Not a lot of elevator traffic," I said.

"Anytime I see the elevator going up from the lower

levels and I'm not in it," he said, "we've got problems."

"I hope that's not a regular occurrence."

He didn't answer me. I'd begun to get used to people

tuning me out.

By staring straight ahead I wasn't sure if he thought

that was a stupid statement, or one that struck a nerve.

As much as I hated embarrassing myself with silly

comments, I hope it was the former.

Once the elevator opened, the guard led us through

a long, musty tunnel. At the end was a series of metal

bars, not unlike those on an actual jail cell. Beyond we

could see several more guards, and the unmistakable

orange of prison jumpsuits. The guard took a key card

from his pocket, slid it onto a keypad and unlocked the

door. Opening it, the guard ushered us into a smaller

room lined with metal benches. Guards took both of our

bags and patted us down. Guards with shotguns and

handcuffs adorned the walls, their eyes traveling the

length of the room and back again, dispassionate.

Security cameras with weapons.

We sat down at a table at the end of the room. There

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165

were two other people seated at a table twenty feet from

us. An older balding man wearing an orange prison

jumpsuit, thick glasses and a thick paunch sat, chin in

his hands, while a bejeweled woman many years

younger (with many half-priced plastic surgeries under