When One Man Dies Page 12

  I got dressed and gave Tracy a call. She didn’t pick up. It was still early and she was probably still asleep. I left a message on her voice mail and dialed Henry Steir at the Star-Ledger. He picked up on the third ring.

  “Got a story for me?”

  “No, got a question, though.”

  There was a pause, like he’d taken the phone away from his face. Then, “What’s up?”

  “Where does Diane Peterson sub teach?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you said she was a—what was it? You said she was a nobody girl. Nobody knew her, no one talked to her.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “If she substitute taught, maybe the principal knew her. Maybe some teachers. I want to get a feel for her.”

  “You trying to solve this murder?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Taft High School in Madison.”

  “Madison? Isn’t that a rich town?”

  “Very much. Why do you care about that?”

  I could hear car horns and other people talking. He was probably still camped outside Jen Hanover’s door. She hadn’t called me since yesterday morning, so I was assuming everything was okay. Still, I thought I should probably call her, find out if she knew how Rex was able to find me.

  “Because,” I said, “I figured you’d say a Newark or Paterson school. You know, the ghettos.”

  “Ah.” I could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Very PC of you, Jackson. What else do you need to know?”

  He was trying to get some bits and pieces to craft into an article. I wasn’t going to give it to him.

  “Thanks, Henry,” I said, and hung up.

  I dialed information and got the number for Taft High. I talked to the secretary and told her I needed to set up an appointment with the principal. When she asked what it was regarding, I explained I was an investigator looking for information on Diane Peterson.

  “The police were here already,” she said. Her voice was syrupy. “Just a follow-up, ma’am,” I said.

  “Dr. Halberg will be in this afternoon. Is one o’clock good for you?”

  Chapter 27

  Bill Martin’s cell phone rang. He stood in the middle of the convenience store trying to ignore the smell of rotten pears.

  “Yo, I just got back from Jackson’s place. Tol’ him what you want me to,” Jesus said, some words broken by a weak signal.

  The Chinese guy stood behind the register counting money again. The coffee on the counter was cold. As he spoke on the phone, Martin stared at the register trying to signal the guy to make more.

  No reaction. Fucking rocket scientists at work here.

  “How’d he react?”

  “He was askin’ all about that sub teacher who got killed last week. But I planted the seed like you say. I could tell it clicked with him.”

  “Good,” Martin said, and turned his phone off.

  He strolled to the back room, and the scene was exactly the same as last time. Michael Burgess sat, relaxed. The big man leaned against the wall, tough looking. Josh and Maurice were nowhere to be seen.

  “Detective Martin, forgive me if I don’t quite trust you, but I’d rather you didn’t use your phone in my store.”

  Martin grinned. “I thought this was a legitimate business.”

  Just by admitting the man was uncomfortable with a police officer present showed Martin there was more trust than last time. Burgess was willing to admit some semblance of illegal activity.

  “Yes, well, please heed my requests.” Martin shrugged. Whatever.

  “Now, Detective, the reason I asked you here again is so I can make the first request in our partnership.”

  Christ, Martin thought. How the hell did this guy become a drug lord and not a CEO? The only thing missing were finger quotes when he said partnership.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’d like my business on this block to be run hassle free.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “No police should be on this block when I’m trying to do business. No patrol cops, no detectives, nothing. I shouldn’t have to worry.”

  Martin felt the beginnings of a stomach cramp. Maybe this was how he was sucked in the last time. One block at a time.

  “And how do you expect me to do that?”

  Burgess spread his hands. The big man hardly flinched. “That’s why it’s your job.”

  “I’m not sure I have enough power to do that. It’s going to take some time to get that to work.”

  “Just do it.”

  Bill Martin could work this. He could drag it out until he wasn’t involved with this shithead anymore. By the time Burgess expected results, Martin would have taken him down. And Donne, too. And then he’d be a fucking superstar on the force.

  He’d have reached his dream.

  “Well, Detective, I have an appointment to keep, but before you leave . . .”

  Martin arched his eyebrows to show he was listening.

  “I asked around about that man who died the other day. The case you were looking into?”

  “What case?” Martin asked.

  “Gerry Figuroa.” Burgess frowned. “There’s nothing on the street about him. No word.”

  “Oh,” Martin said, “yeah. Thanks.”

  Gerry Figuroa. Martin had forgotten about him. Just some old man, dead in a hit-and-run. No one cared about old men.

  Ruining Jackson Donne was important.

  Taking down Michael Burgess from the inside, that was important.

  And, if he could swing it, killing both birds with one stone would just be icing on the cake.

  Chapter 28

  I found an open visitor’s spot in the expansive lot for Taft High. The building was three stories high and inclined up a hill. Tan bricks surrounded blue metal frames outlining the windows.

  Walking toward the front door, I noticed a sign welcoming visitors and noting the mascot was a general. A janitor mopped the tiled floor, a plastic gray trash can on wheels next to him. He whistled to himself and didn’t acknowledge me. The main office was across the hall from the lobby. I could see through the wired window a secretary typing on the computer while holding the phone between her shoulder and chin. I walked in and she held up her hand toward me, asking me to wait a minute.

  I did, looking at a bulletin board advertising the April break and the prom that would take place at the end of the month.

  Behind me, I heard, “May I help you, sir?”

  I turned. The secretary had black-framed glasses, a red sweater, and a sweet condescending smile. I returned it.

  “Jackson Donne. I called earlier?”

  She looked around her desk, which seemed to be a ton of unorganized papers. Sifting through a few, she found a small pink Post-it. “Yes. You’re right on time,” she said. She was a professional, and ignored my bruises.

  I smiled, making sure it was dripping with sweetness. “Let me buzz Dr. Halberg.”

  She picked up the phone again and said something I couldn’t make out. Then nodded. I continued to smile, hands in my pockets, rocking back and forth on my heels like Carson.

  “Okay, sir. You can go in.” She motioned to her left, a thick wooden door, open, leading to an office. I wondered if I could still get myself suspended.

  Inside, a middle-aged man in a three-piece pin-striped suit stood smiling at me. Graying hair, crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, gold wedding band, and dirt under his fingernails. I wondered if the only thing the janitors did in the school was mop. This guy was probably a workaholic. Over his shoulder were diplomas from William Paterson University, Rutgers University, and a SUNY college. I couldn’t read which one. The lighting was bad.

  “Mr. Donne.” He held out his hand. I took it and we shook. “Do you mind if I ask for some identification?”

  I took out my wallet and showed him my private investigator license. I liked that he and hi
s secretary were more interested in who I was, and not why I looked like I just lost a boxing match. He examined it. He looked at me. Looked back at my wallet. Looked at me again. “I was under the impression you were a policeman.”

  “I was at one point.” I tried the same smile I’d given the secretary. “I told your assistant on the phone that I was an investigator.”

  “And she took it to mean you were an investigator for the police.”

  I shrugged.

  “Very clever. Why are you here?”

  His desk was a lot neater than his secretary’s. You could see the wooden finish. There was a computer resting on the corner—its screen saver running—two framed pictures, a telephone, and a small calendar.

  “I’m working a case and Ms. Peterson’s name came up. I did a little research and saw what happened on the news. I would like to know more about her. See how she related to my client.”

  “I see.” He handed back my wallet. Went back to his desk and sat. Held out his right hand, offering me a chair on the other side.

  I took it.

  “Well, Mr. Donne, why should I talk to you?”

  “Because of my undying urge to fight for truth, justice, and the American way?”

  He smiled. “Christ. You’re worse than the kids.”

  I shrugged. “I walked in here and got nothing but an attitude. If I was a real cop, I would have arrested your secretary.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “On what charge?”

  “Annoying me with a condescending smile,” I said. “Listen, I just want to ask you a few questions, get a feel for who Ms. Peterson was, take my ball, and go home. Maybe bring my client some good information.”

  “I apologize for the attitude. It’s been a rough few days. Teachers don’t usually die on us, never mind get murdered. I was finally able to chase the press out of here this morning. The kids are taking it hard. The rest of the staff is taking it hard.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” I said. “I lost a friend in the past week as well.”

  “It’s been a busy week in New Jersey, hasn’t it?”

  “You referred to Ms. Peterson as a teacher. I was under the impression she was a substitute.”

  “She was, but she was good. She was working on getting her master’s degree and her teaching degree, but she came here every day and subbed. When a teacher was going to be absent long-term, we trusted Ms. Peterson to come in and take over. We considered her a member of the faculty.”

  “What about the students? Did they like her?”

  “Most of them loved her. She knew their names, said hi to them. She came to the school play. She would stay late and help the students if they asked. She was dedicated. As soon as she got her certification, I was going to hire her.”

  “Did she have any enemies? Any teachers dislike her? Students threaten her?”

  Halburg took some air in audibly. Closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temples. “If a student had threatened her, I’m sure she would have reported it to one of our vice-principals. As for the teachers, I try to stay out of that. The teachers sometimes need time to vent, so I don’t know all that goes on in the faculty rooms. No one has ever brought any problems of that kind to my attention.”

  Perfect teacher, I thought. Just the kind that could slide under the radar, dealing drugs in the parking lot, finding moments to sneak marijuana or cocaine or crystal meth to a student when no one was looking. Giving assignments and guidance when everyone was watching. Still, kids talk, and someone must have known something.

  “I appreciate your time, Dr. Halburg, but I have one more favor to ask.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was hoping to get your permission to talk to some of your faculty.”

  Halburg shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  I had to be careful, play it just right. “It might help with the case.”

  “Are you trying to solve her murder?” He rubbed his eyes. “Jesus, who would murder Diane?”

  “My case might coincide with the murder. I’m not trying to solve it, but if I somehow cross wires with the actual murder investigation, I will turn the information over to the right authorities.”

  Halburg leaned across the desk and smiled. This was a genuine smile. ‘You’re good. Let me show you where our faculty cafeteria is.”

  ***

  The faculty cafeteria was small, adjacent to the students’ cafeteria. Halburg knocked on the frosted window of the wooden door. Behind him the cafeteria was quiet, another janitor lifting plastic chairs on top of tables. There were scraps of leftover lunch, spilled milk cartons, and a few empty trays on the floor. The janitor had a mop next to him.

  “Knocking?” I asked.

  Halburg nodded. “I don’t usually come in here. Sometimes teachers need to vent. This is the place for that. I have an office.”

  I nodded as a small woman in a short skirt and tight white sweater opened the door. She was probably in her thirties, and her eyes opened wide looking at Halburg.

  “Yes, Dr. Halburg?”

  “Ah, Reggie, this is Mr. Donne. He’s an investigator looking into the case of Diane’s murder.”

  “Oh, um . . .” She trailed off.

  “Mr. Donne is going to ask some questions, if you don’t mind.” He peeked his head into the room. “That okay with you guys?”

  I heard a mumbling of “Okay”s. Halburg turned to me, said, “They’re all yours.”

  He turned around and walked away. I found a seat at a round plastic table in the middle of the room. It was quiet, as if I’d just walked in on a bunch of people talking about me behind my back.

  I looked around the room, eyeing each of the five teachers: one guy grading papers, not making eye contact; two women sitting at another round table, legs crossed, eyeing me up and down; Reggie, still standing by the door; and another man leaning on the arm of a couch. I tried to look intimidating.

  “So,” I said. “Who wants to start?”

  No one answered. Blank faces trained their gazes on me, and two teachers looked down at notebooks. This was going to be fun. Part of me wanted to say, “I know one of you is the killer, and I’ve gathered you all here to share that.” But I didn’t. I wanted to wait them out, but if the bell rang and they had to move on, I’d be out of luck.

  “All right, listen, I know most of you knew Ms. Peterson, so why don’t you help me out. Tell me a little about her.”

  Nothing. Then one of the crossed-legged women, a younger lady with auburn hair, black pants, and a blue button-down blouse, said, “Jesus Christ. They can’t fix the clocks, but they can get someone in here to keep us from doing our job? Shouldn’t you be out trying to solve her murder?”

  “Excuse me?” I looked up at the clock hanging over a bulletin board, saw that it was an hour off.

  “Shut up, Nancy,” the teacher across from her said. She had blonde hair, with dark roots, and wore a yellow pullover and a khaki skirt. “I’m sorry, Mr.—what did you say your name was?”

  “Donne.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Donne. We’re all a little stressed.” I nodded.

  Nancy said, “Yeah. I’m sorry. It’s been a rough time. And I’m flipping out about little things.”

  “Did you know her?” I asked. “Yeah. She was nice.”

  “Nice?”

  “She—I don’t know—she was tough to explain. She was always smiling, always positive about the kids. Didn’t seem to get down if she had a bad day.”

  “Yeah,” the guy doing the grading said. “So fucking positive.”

  “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t want to be a teacher. She came in every day and subbed, talked about how great the kids were, like she knew everything about teaching, but it wasn’t like she ever talked about being a teacher.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie Phillips.”

  I made a note of it. “Dr. Halber
g said she was going to school to get her teacher’s degree.”

  “I think she just told him that to keep him happy.”

  “How do you think she’d have been as a teacher?”

  Keep asking questions, I told myself. Try to get a flow for this conversation. I didn’t want to ask tough questions too early, and I didn’t want to send people running from the room. If I could get them talking to each other as well as me, I might be able to get to something deeper. When people get comfortable and start a real conversation, they’re more willing to let things slip.

  “I never saw her in the classroom,” Phillips said, “but the kids always said hi to her in the halls, slapped her five. But if she had to discipline them they’d listen. They liked her, they respected her. But I don’t know how she actually taught. Couldn’t say if she’d make a good teacher.”

  Reggie stepped away from the door. Showed me she was getting a little more comfortable. “I think she would have made a good teacher.”

  “Why do you say that?” Nancy asked.

  “She was an aide in my class a few times. You know, when Janet took one of her many sick days.” Reggie made quote marks with her fingers. “And she was always willing to work with the kids, help them, but not give them the answers. She really knew how to guide the kids. Let them build their own knowledge.”

  “Ah, those buzzwords,” Phillips said.

  Reggie glanced at him, giving him half a smile. The kind of glance that told me there was more going on between them than just kidding around.

  I, however, was more curious about the one man who wasn’t talking, the guy leaning on the couch. He was stoic. His face didn’t change, he just stared at me. Didn’t even appear to be listening. I wondered if he resented my being here.

  “Did anyone ever talk to her privately? Like in here?” I asked. There were a few murmurs. Each teacher looked at the others, waiting for someone to speak.

  Finally Reggie said, “She never came in here.”

  “What do you mean?”