When One Man Dies Page 13

Nancy jumped in. “She didn’t like to. She liked to keep to herself. She didn’t take a prep period, they would always find a place for her to cover. And at lunchtime, she’d go out. By herself, as far as I could tell.”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna agree on that one. I have hall duty sixth period. One of the lunch periods, and I’d see her leaving by herself,” Phillips said. “She’d always say good-bye to me, though.”

  “She was a recluse,” Reggie said, chuckling. Then, as if remembering Peterson was dead, she stopped. “She, uh, didn’t talk to anyone unless she had to. What time is it?”

  I looked at my watch. “One-forty.”

  “Shit,” Nancy and Phillips said. They started gathering up their stuff.

  “I hope we helped,” Reggie said.

  All but one cleared their stuff and moved out. The intercom buzzed, which I assumed was the bell. I sat there for a few moments. The guy on the edge of the couch stood up and walked over to my table.

  “Why do you care about Diane?”

  I looked him over. Not a big guy. Not intimidating. His face was pale and flaccid.

  “It’s my job.” I sat back in the chair, put my hands behind my head. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “Because I didn’t want to talk about Diane in front of the rest of them.”

  I nodded. “And you are?”

  “Paul Rockford. I teach freshman math.”

  “You sound like you spoke with Diane.”

  “A little. She kept to herself.”

  “So they said. What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, where she lived, what she wanted to do with her life.”

  “What was that?”

  “She said she wanted to do nothing. She wanted to be a nobody. To disappear.”

  There it was again, that idea of a “nobody girl.”

  “She say why?”

  “Nope.”

  I took a breath. Thought for a second. “You know anything else about her?”

  Rockford tapped his fingers on the table. Smiled. “I know what kind of car she drove.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. A black Beamer. Stylish. The kids loved it. They always came up to her window to slap her five or shake her hand at the end of the day or early in the morning. Take a few minutes to talk to her about it, I guess.” He looked at his watch. “Listen. I just don’t like talking about people in front of others. Feels wrong. Even though she’s—well—even though she’s dead, it feels like we’re talking behind her back. Enough gossip goes on in this place, we don’t need that. I have to get to class. Good luck.”

  I shook his hand. Probably not the same kind of handshake that Diane gave the students when they came to see her Beamer. I didn’t pass anything to Rockford. I figured that’s how Diane was dealing drugs. I wanted to talk to the students about it, but I didn’t know which ones.

  Rockford was opening the door to leave. “Mr. Rockford?” I asked.

  “Yeah?” he said, stopping.

  “What time does the day end here?”

  He checked his watch again. “Two-thirty. After this period.”

  “Thanks.”

  The door clicked shut, and I sat in the empty teachers’ room, listening to the sounds of student footsteps and conversation in the hallway.

  Chapter 29

  The bell for dismissal must have rung, because suddenly students were streaming out of the doors like ants escaping a smashed anthill. I was across the street, sitting in my car trying not to doze off.

  I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. Some sort of exchange between students and someone inside a car, a high five between a kid and an adult, anything remotely suspicious. It felt like I was getting somewhere with this case, had some sort of lead and didn’t want to lose it. Unfortunately, with Diane Peterson being dead, I wasn’t sure that a new dealer had taken over this spot yet. But I didn’t have anywhere else to be.

  I watched the crowds ebb and flow, come together in different groups. All the kids dressed the same, but each group had its own stereotypical attitude: jocks, nerds, and stoners. The stoners, the ones I was trying to keep an eye on, circles under their eyes, hunched over, slouched against the school wall, smoking cigarettes and looking like they were trying to disappear.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. The caller ID read: Tracy. “Hey.” She sounded tired.

  “How’d it go this morning?”

  “Well,” she started, “it was a funeral, so it wasn’t fun. But it was a good send-off for him. There were some people there that didn’t come to the wake. The priest gave a nice sermon. Talked about his acting. Mentioned Korea. It was nice.”

  “Did you guys go to the tavern for lunch?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  A car pulled up. It was a silver Mercedes, and it was wrong. This neighborhood, the Mercedes would be shiny, clean, but down to earth. The one that pulled up to the curb had fancy hubcaps, the kind that spin the opposite way of the wheel. The windows were tinted and the music was loud.

  “I mean, Artie, he had caterers in, but they had it at the bar. He didn’t cook.”

  “He drank, though.”

  The Benz idled at the curb and a few of the students glanced at it. Yet they didn’t go toward it. I could hear Tracy in my ear, but I was starting to lose what she was saying.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “I said, I know he’s giving you a hard time, but you have to give him a break. He lost a friend. A close friend.”

  “And his best customer.”

  All the members of the stoner group turned their heads toward the car. Casually, they turned back toward their group. A few of them dropped their cigarettes. They didn’t want to look interested in the Benz, but years of experience told me they were. Be cool, they were probably telling each other. Make sure the fuzz ain’t around. Or the cops. Or the pigs. Or whatever the hell the current lingo was.

  “Why do you have to say that? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  She exhaled. “What are you doing?”

  “Working.”

  “Gerry?”

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  A few of the stoners made their way off the wall, checking over their shoulders. They strolled, hands in their pockets, toward the Benz. Bingo.

  “About last night,” she said. “I can’t do it, Jackson. I had too much to drink. The wake, everything. I just slipped.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I just wanted to be clear.”

  “Crystal.” It sounded like she was trying to convince herself. One of the taller stoners, a guy with long greasy brown hair, made his way to the driver’s-side window. The window rolled down and I made out the shadow of a profile. A hand came out of the window to slap five. Just slow enough that money and drugs could change hands.

  If they knew cops were watching, they never would have done it that way. They would have taken the money and made the kid go somewhere else nearby to pick up his stuff. But this was small-time. Who was going to catch them? A janitor?

  “I’m going to stay in New Brunswick a few more days. I need a short getaway anyway, and Gerry has a few more things that need to be taken care of. Are we cool?”

  “Sure.”

  I clicked my cell phone shut, got my gun out of the glove compartment, tucked it in my pants, got out of my car, and headed toward the Benz.

  As I moved across the street, I heard a voice from inside the car. I still couldn’t make out a face.

  “Oh shit, look who it is,” the driver said. The doors of the car unlocked.

  Through the window, I finally could see my old friend and his bald buddy Maurice. They smiled and nodded at me. Like they were glad to see me. I made sure my jacket hung open so they could see the gun. I pulled the back door open and slid into the backseat.

  “Gentlemen,” I said.

  “Mr. Donne, how are you?” the model said.

  “Fuck
it, Josh, he broke our deal. Let’s kill him,” Maurice said.

  I pulled the gun from my waistband, laid it on my lap. “Yeah,” I said. “In front of three hundred teenagers. Where’d you learn murder? The School for Eyewitnesses?”

  “Hysterical. Didn’t we pay you five thousand dollars?” Josh adjusted the rearview mirror.

  “I used it to buy bullets.” Josh nodded. “Good idea.”

  “You saying I’m going to need them?” Josh shrugged.

  Maurice had been watching, slack jawed, and finally said, “Would you two shut the fuck up?”

  Josh turned toward him. Then back to the rearview mirror. “So what do you want, pal?”

  “I want to talk to your boss.”

  “We don’t have a boss.”

  I scratched my head. “Then who paid me?” I wanted to add “moron.”

  Maurice and Josh moved their attention to some passing teens, ignoring me.

  “All right, let me put it this way,” I said. “I want to see Burgess. I’d like you to take me to him.”

  “Why should we do that? Why don’t we just drive the fuck out of here and put a bullet in your head?”

  No real reason, I thought. “The fact that I’d take at least one of you with me?”

  Maurice smiled. “Motherfucker, think you’re tough?”

  I shrugged, glanced out the window. Most of the kids had cleared the area, and there were only a few still milling around away from the car.

  “Get out of the car,” Josh said. “Let this go. We take you to see Burgess, you are going to be in a shitload of trouble.”

  Again, I shrugged. Didn’t move toward the door. Josh shrugged as well. “Guess we’ll take you.” Maurice smiled. “Your funeral.”

  ***

  It was about a forty-minute drive from Madison to New Brunswick. Josh pushed it in thirty-five. I had no idea where we were going, but we were up north on Easton Ave. North of Rutgers, north of my office, north of the tavern, more like Highland Park. We were on the outskirts, where the houses were nicer.

  We turned onto a side street, Hazel, and pulled up to a small convenience store. Josh parked in front of a hydrant, left the car idling. Maurice rolled his window down and yelled at two guys playing dice by the side of the building.

  “Hey. Mike inside?”

  One guy in a hooded 76ers sweatshirt, caramel skin, and thin mustache looked up. “Nah, he just left.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t know. He don’t tell us.” He went back to dice. Josh’s eyes reflected at me in the rearview mirror.

  Maurice said, “I guess you’re fucked.” He turned toward me, revolver in his hand. “Give me the gun. I don’t see any kids around. Now I can kill you.”

  They say the best defense is a good offense.

  I picked up the gun like I was going to give it to him, my scraped hand still hurting from the night before. He was stupid, didn’t realize I was holding it the wrong way. I hesitated just a second like I was balancing the gun, then shot him. The bullet tore through the back of the seat and blood sprayed against the windshield. He didn’t die, he just dropped the revolver as his eyes widened. I guessed the bullet slowed as it moved through the fabric. He choked as blood poured from his shoulder. Like he was trying to talk. Finally, he let out a huge scream.

  Josh didn’t seem to know what to do. He kept looking from the writhing Maurice back to the steering wheel. I opened the back door and stepped out. The air was cool on the layer of sweat forming on my skin.

  I yanked Josh’s door open, unclicked the seat belt, wrapped my forearm around his neck, and dragged him from the driver’s seat. Pushing the barrel of the gun into his temple, I forced him toward the sidewalk. The guys playing dice were staring at us. The dice clattered harmlessly on the ground.

  “Oh, shit,” one of them said. “Oh, shit. Call the fucking cops.” Time to move.

  Josh was choking, trying to catch his breath under my grip. I was cutting off his air supply.

  “I will fucking kill you,” I whispered to him. “Where does Burgess have an office? Inside this place?”

  Josh choked out a yes.

  “Take me to where he keeps his records.” I pushed him ahead.

  The dice players rushed the car behind me. One of them was on his cell phone to 911, telling them a crazy fucker had shot up the street. There was a guy bleeding and, yes, he was still breathing but, oh fuck, there was blood everywhere. I could hear him talking, but the sound was coming to me in slow motion, just like everything else.

  Not being able to hear sirens yet, I figured I still had time. Josh was leading me through the front of the convenience store. The clerk thought he was getting robbed and his hands went up in the air. There weren’t any customers in the place. It smelled like old cheese and rotted fruit.

  “Take the money,” the clerk said. “Shut the fuck up.”

  Josh led me up the snack-food aisle, knocking Tastykakes off the shelves. We went through a back door into a room, Josh’s feet sliding on the wet tile floor. The room was dark with a desk, one lamp, and a whole bunch of food stock—chips, snack foods, soda, juice, fruit—not cooled. The place was a health hazard. Behind the desk was a filing cabinet.

  I pushed Josh ahead, letting go of his neck. He stumbled and caught himself against the desk, able to keep his balance. Massaged his neck, tried to catch some air. I trained my gun on him. I could squeeze the trigger and kill him. Easy.

  “You are fucking crazy,” he said with a hoarse voice.

  “I want to see Burgess’s files. What does he have to do with the girl? She his dealer? You guys all his dealers?”

  Josh said, “Shoot me, I’m not going to say shit. You shoot me, you’re back at square one. Now with the fucking cops after you.”

  “Why did Rex kill her? What does he have to do with all of this?”

  “You think he tells me? Who am I? Some thug.” Josh smiled.

  I stepped forward and hit him in the temple with the butt of my gun. Josh crumpled to the floor. I hit him again. The metal vibrated in my hand.

  “What’s in the files?”

  He grumbled something, and I hit him again. Blood poured from a split lip.

  “Talk to me!”

  Hitting him one more time, Josh’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he passed out. His chest still rose and fell slowly. He was bleeding. He was hurt, but he was alive.

  I tugged open the top drawer of the filing cabinet, now trying to ignore the pain in my fingers. Folders filled with papers were stacked neatly, end to end. Pulling a few out, I dropped them on the desk.

  I glanced at them. They appeared to be order forms from food distributors. All the shit that was lying around back here. I pulled open another drawer, the same thing. And the bottom one, too.

  Now I could hear the sirens, loud, like they were down the block. Seeing Josh prone on the floor, I realized I had no way out. The cops were going to take me in.

  Chapter 30

  The phones were ringing off the hook. His cell phone, the desk phone, nonstop. The police band crackled with reports of gunfire on Easton Avenue. It didn’t take much to deduce that some type of shit just hit the fan.

  The caller ID on his cell read Michael Burgess. The desk phone was probably some upper-level cop telling him to get his ass to Easton.

  He picked up the cell phone.

  “Detective, what is going on at my store?”

  “I have no idea.” His store?

  “One of my employees just called me. Said there were gunshots!”

  Things were starting to click in Martin’s head, just a little, like the pieces of a puzzle coming together.

  “I’ll look into it.”

  Burgess hung up without saying anything.

  He picked up the desk phone. It was Paul Cramden. He talked about the shooting, too. Again his synapses fired, recognizing a link. “Thought you’d want to know about it,” Cramden said. “Maybe you can catch the case.”

  “Why
the fuck would I want it?”

  “Don’t you know who’s down there? Who did the shooting?”

  The entire picture became clear in his head. He reached for his jacket before Cramden was able to confirm the news.

  “Jackson Donne,” the cop said.

  Donne shooting up a bodega? Burgess’s bodega? He needed to be on this case. He rushed out the door, down the stairs to the street.

  This was it. This was what Martin had been waiting for. He would make sure he got his chance with Donne.

  Endgame.

  Chapter 31

  I stood there. Gun at my side.

  My brain screamed, “Get the fuck out of there.” My muscles would not respond in kind.

  The sirens were loud now. They were probably right outside. Like they were jolted by electricity, my muscles jerked and I dropped the gun. It clattered but didn’t go off, a stroke of luck.

  There was screaming—“Get down”s and “Shut up”s and “Move”s—coming from the front of the store. The sirens remained, and I could see quick, flashing red lights coming through the doorway. The cops were here. Instinctively my hands went up.

  They came through like Patton’s army, four guys, guns drawn, telling me to freeze. I was already frozen. I tried to say my name. I tried to tell them who I was. No sound would come out.

  “Turn around! Against the wall, motherfucker!”

  I did as I was told. They kicked my feet farther apart, frisked me, and didn’t find anything. My arms were pulled behind my back and cuffed. As they dragged me out toward a squad car, I heard one of the cops left in the back giving the address through his radio.

  “There are two men down. Requesting an ambulance. Jesus Christ.”

  ***

  For the second time in three days I was sitting in an interrogation room. The grooves in the wall had gotten a bit deeper, the paint had faded, but I’d been in this room before. Only this time my wrist was cuffed to the table.

  The room smelled like old coffee. Realistically I should have been in a holding cell somewhere in the police station, but I wasn’t. And I knew whom I had to blame for that. I wasn’t sure if I was lucky or about to step in even more shit.

  And no matter how hard I tried, all I saw was Josh and Maurice’s blood whenever I blinked.