Jason Pinter - The Fury

"And you bring it up, why, as a brainteaser?"

"I'm not sure why," I said. "Just wondering if I'm the only one who thinks there's a lot more to this than a simple case of a guy murdering his son. Since, you know, another young man was just killed in the same manner as Stephen Gaines."

"The investigation into the death of Hector Guardado is under way," Sevi said. "You're a reporter, Henry, right? Can you tell me how many murders were com mitted in New York City last year?"

"Not the exact number, but I believe it was under five hundred."

"Four hundred and ninety-two," Makhoulian said.

His eyes were riveted on mine. This was not a history lesson or an attempt to belittle my knowledge. "Now, first of all, that was the lowest number of murders com mitted in Manhattan in over forty years. First time it's been under five hundred since 1963, to be precise. Thing is, even though that's low for our standards, that's still an awful lot of homicides. Now, think about that word.

Homicide. These four hundred ninety-two people were killed by someone else. They didn't step into open elevator shafts or pee on the third rail. They were killed.

Murdered. Now, you are a reporter. So it's part of your job to report crimes that are extraordinary. Like Sharon

Dombrowski, the elderly woman on Spring Street who was so convinced she was being targeted by a robber that she hooked up an electric cable to her door, so when her poor landlord came by to check on a leak and knocked he was electrocuted to death. Or Percy Whitmore who bought a studio in Little Italy using a loan from his father. Only when he didn't repay in time, Percy's dad came over and smacked his son across the face so hard ol' Percy fell and cracked his skull open on his bookshelf. Accidental? Maybe. But homicides nonetheless."

"What's your point?" I said.

"See, you write about these instances because they're one in a million. Like a shark attack, they're so gruesome and out of the ordinary that people want to hear about them just like how they slow down when passing a car wreck. What doesn't get that press are the boring murders. The two taps to the back of the head."

Makhoulian mimicked pointing a gun to his cranium, cocking his trigger finger twice to illustrate the shots.

"You know how many of those nearly five hundred murders were the result of gunshot wounds? Four hundred and twenty-eight. Now, I'm not a mathemati cian, but that's somewhere between eighty and ninety percent. So you're going to come in here and tell me, definitively, that these two murders are the result of some vast conspiracy that I'm too dumb to see?"

"I'm not saying you're dumb. But Hector called my brother that night."

"According to Verizon, the phone call lasted eight seconds. You know how long eight seconds is? Long enough to realize you've dialed the wrong number before you hang up. There are no other records of these two having ever corresponded, no other calls between the two."

"You don't see these killings as two pieces to-"

"Pieces my ass, you're reading too much James Ellroy. Know what they teach us in the academy? The rule of lex parsimoniae. Since I'm guessing you're not exactly fluent, what the Latin translates to is 'entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity.' Boil down the translation, what that means is if a man is murdered, and the fingerprints on the gun belong to someone he knows, who has access to him, and who has a motive to kill him, I'd be willing to bet my badge, my wife, my mortgage and my iPhone you put that killer in cell block

D you've got the right guy."

"You said usually," I replied. "You said eighty to ninety percent. Well, it's my job to find the exception to your rule. I've told you everything I know. I'm hoping when I walk out of here you do something with it, and don't piss it all away because of what you read in a damn textbook. Because I find that extra few percent,

Detective. Father or not, brother or not, it's just what I do."

Amanda and I stood up. Waited for Detective Sevi

Makhoulian to say something. When he didn't, we waved at the camera so the observers in the other room would unlock the door. Makhoulian nodded, a click signaled that the door was unlocked, and I left to prove to the detective I was a man of my word.

And as I walked down the hallway, Amanda's unsteady hand locked in mine, I could feel the detec tive's eyes on my back.

I was dialing the number before I even left the station house. He picked up right away, his voice not even at tempting to hide the boredom that had no doubt settled in over the past several months. Though I still harbored some guilt over what had happened, every time we spoke he'd forbid me to show any pity, either for myself or for him. To Curt Sheffield, being wounded in the line of duty was something to be proud of. He'd never wanted to be anything but a cop-and he was a damn good one at that-and he wasn't going to let some pissant reporter wallow in a pint over some spilt blood.

"Officer Sheffield," he said, practically moaning.

Curt had taken a bullet in the leg last year while helping me investigate a series of child kidnappings. The slug had nicked an artery, and it took a few surgeries to repair the wound. He'd probably never run in the

Olympics, but while he wouldn't accept anyone's pity he had told me on several occasions the injury had done wonders for his sex life. Guess chicks really do dig scars. I'd have to ask Amanda if that's why she was still with me.

"Hey, man, has your ass spread at all today?"

"S'up, Henry? Matter of fact I've been doing butt blasts at my desk. Docs won't let me go to the gym, but

I think it's a trick to get me to keep coming in so they can charge my insurance company. I swear my ass looks like the victim of an attack of cottage cheese."

"I don't want to think about anything involving your butt. What do you say to a drink after work? On me."

"I don't know man, I feel like I gotta lay low a little bit. Last time I brought you in here I caught hell from the chief of the department. You don't have a lot of friends around here these days, especially considering what's going on with your pops. At least you can be happy you got the deep end of the Parker gene pool."

"I'll let that one slide. No work talk," I said. "Just conversation. All I ask. Okay, maybe one or two ques tions, but that's it."

Curt went silent, but I could tell he was checking his watch. Sitting behind the desk for Curt was like keeping a racehorse stalled behind the starting gate. He was born to walk the streets, not type up reports. That's likely why I felt the most guilt; it was one less great cop protecting the city.

"Gimme one hour. Mixins." Mixins was a cheesy singles bar primarily frequented by law and finance professionals who felt eight-dollar beers and weak cosmos were part of the mating ritual. The bar had undergone a total renovation over the last few years, mainly due to its predilection to serving underage girls.

A friend of a friend who used to drink there said the waitstaff would grossly undercharge young women, naturally in the hopes of luring free-spending men to the bar. Soon enough the cops caught on. Though rumor had it they didn't so much as catch on, but an off-duty detective saw a group of girls walk directly to the bar once after finishing class on Friday.

The bar had been shut down, but underwent a classic change in management, and now you'd be hard pressed to find someone holding a glass who didn't take home close to six figures. Neither Curt nor I pulled in anywhere in the universe of that salary, but Curt enjoyed it because, in his words, finance girls were workahol ics in every aspect of their lives. They kept their minds and their bodies sharp, and even though he seemed to always be in a serious relationship-sometimes several at once-he enjoyed having nice views at the bar. When