An Empty Hell Page 18

  “Ben Franklin U?”

  The newly private university had long been a basketball school, but just started investing in big-time football.

  Sheldon nodded. Drank some more.

  “Anything else? Those BFs are on like half the cars in New Jersey.”

  “He had season tickets or worked at Ben Franklin or something.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Like I told you, when I looked through the window I saw something crumpled up on the front seat. Like a parking tag. It said Blue Lot on it.”

  Herrick stood up and opened his wallet. He counted out the money and handed it over.

  “They aren’t going to let me in there,” Sheldon said. “You gotta go in for me.”

  “Get yourself something to eat.”

  “Not hungry.”

  Herrick turned around and walked away. The knot in his stomach eased as he did so. Money was one thing, but he wasn’t going to up this guy’s blood alcohol level even more.

  “Hey, you promised!” Sheldon yelled at him.

  Herrick didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up the pace. The next stop was down the shore. Forty miles on the parkway was a little low, mileage wise, but the BF magnet was corroboration.

  And he was going to have to call in a major favor once he got there.

  HERRICK PULLED into the Mauve Lot. It was adjacent to the Emory Green Athletic Center, affectionately known as the GAP, a trapezoid-shaped building where the team played basketball. He made his way through the parking lot to the front door and pulled it open. Practice was going on, the sound of dribbled basketballs echoing in the rafters.

  The hallway and smell of old popcorn brought him back years. His father used to bring him here when he was a kid, instilled the love of basketball in him. It was a father-son journey—they’d go once a year, sit in the rafters, and do the dumb cheers with the students. Until his dad went away.

  Ambling up to the glass divider, Herrick leaned over it and watched lay-up drills. Coach was yelling at them to go faster, but the speed didn’t increase much. One of the assistants looked up toward Herrick and gave a little wave. Herrick counted two seconds before the coach realized who he waved at, stopped what he was doing, and jogged up the stairs in his direction.

  Herrick was a top high school basketball coach, AKA hoops royalty. Craig “Boots” Marrone hit the lobby and headed toward him, big smile plastered on his face. He held out his hand and Herrick shook it.

  “What are you doing here, Coach?” Boots said.

  The nickname came ten years ago when he was a rising assistant coach at UCLA pounding the pavement trying to bring in the best recruits in the country. Any time he entered a high school gym, coaches would say “Boots on the ground!” It stuck. Last year, Ben Franklin had hired him to fill out the assistant staff for the new coaching regime. So far, they’d made a dent with AAU coaches on the recruiting trail. Mostly due to Boots.

  Herrick shrugged. “You asked me to come check out a practice.”

  Boots frowned. “You’re supposed to call first.”

  “I actually need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  Herrick held out his private investigator’s license. “It’s about a case.”

  Boots laughed. “Really? How did I not know this about you?”

  Herrick shrugged.

  “Can you get me out of a parking ticket?”

  Herrick shook his head. “Suspect of mine had a Ben Frankline U magnet on his car.”

  “You can get those anywhere.”

  Herrick shook his head. “They’re sent from the ticket office here, mostly.”

  “Yeah, and…?”

  Herrick put his hands in his pockets. “He also had a Blue Lot tag. I want to look through your mailing addresses.”

  “C’mon, man. I can’t do that.”

  A whistle blew from the court below. Shoes squeaked on the floor, and then the noise stopped. The head coach addressed the team. Herrick couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying.

  Herrick took a breath. “If I can look through those addresses, you get an in-home with Chandler.”

  Boots paused. “You serious?”

  “I can probably get him here on an official too.” College recruits got five official visits. Jersey kids never took official visits to schools like Rutgers or Ben Franklin, because they could just show up whenever they wanted. Having an official on-campus visit would create a buzz in the recruiting circles.

  “You’re a hard-ass, you know that?”

  “You know it. But can you afford to say no? Your boss face to face with Chandler. You know he’ll have a shot.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Herrick was sitting in front of a computer scrolling through the names of every football and basketball season ticket holder for the university. One of the ticket guys told Boots to be careful, that if something like this leaked out, Ben Franklin would be screwed in the papers and legally, of course.

  Herrick said, “You’ve been through worse.”

  Boots lightly punched Herrick in the shoulder. “Don’t tell anybody.”

  Scrolling in alphabetical order, Herrick slowed when he hit the M’s. No Mosleys. He pulled his phone and dialed Alex Robinson. It rang and went to voice mail. He put the phone down. Boots was tapping his foot.

  “Shouldn’t you be running the second team?” Herrick asked.

  “Think I’ll stay here.”

  Herrick ran it back in his head. He knew he was here on a whim and a long shot. He scrolled backwards to the C’s. No Carvers. Not that there would be a Leo anyway. No reason for a locked up dude to hold on to seasons. He went back up through the R’s, and that’s when a name caught his eye.

  “Couldn’t be,” he said.

  He took out his phone and did a quick search in Google. The results surprised him. An address that’d been plastered all over the news for six weeks in the summer.

  He waved Boots over and pointed at the name on the screen. Boots leaned over his shoulder and squinted. A few seconds later he said, “Yeah, and?”

  “That’s not his address. It’s the address of a dead guy.”

  Boots said, “People buy tickets and die mid-season. Sometimes their family keeps the names on the list so they don’t lose the points. Kind of morbid, if you ask me. If you transfer them over, the points go with them.”

  “Yeah, this guy’s been dead for over a year. It was a big news story.”

  “I’m new to the state.”

  Herrick stood up, turned to the ticket broker, and thanked him. The guy shrugged and asked him not to say anything. Herrick told him not to worry.

  He went back out to the lobby. Down on the floor the team was stretching or getting up some extra shots. Herrick watched for a moment, trying to process what he’d read on the computer screen. He couldn’t make the connection, but it was such a big coincidence he couldn’t let it go.

  “So,” Boots said, “Chandler?”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Herrick shook Boots’ hand again, but his mind was elsewhere. He gave a wave down to the court and Coach waved back. Probably didn’t even know who he was waving at, but a good college coach was a good networker.

  Herrick walked out of the GAP into the parking lot. The sun had dipped behind the buildings, and the wind picked up. Class was letting out, and traffic was backing up on Ambulance Road. It would take Herrick forty minutes to get to the address, according to the Google Maps. Didn’t matter. He had to check it out.

  The tickets were under a name that had to have been hanging over Donne’s head for the past year.

  Herrick wanted to see why Alex Robinson had football season tickets labeled with Bill Martin’s home address.

  THE DRIVE to Bethlehem Institution was a quiet one. Robinson fiddled with the radio occasionally, sometimes settling on sports talk, other times on Top Forty. Every time he reached for the knob, Donne cleared his throat to make sure Robinson knew the gun was t
here. Donne’s palm sweat made his grip a little slippery.

  They pulled into the institution and Robinson found a parking spot. After putting the car into park, he turned to Donne and exhaled.

  “Two things. One: I can’t even guarantee we’ll see him.”

  Donne wiggled the gun. “This will make sure you get us in.”

  Robinson held up his hands. “And two, you bring that thing in, you’re going to bring a shitload of cops down on you. You know that, right?”

  Donne pursed his lips. He knew. He could keep it tucked in his jeans and hidden under his jacket, but that wouldn’t keep Robinson quiet. He’d sell Donne out the minute they came near a security guard.

  Beyond that, he could leave the gun in the car, but that left too many variables. Best bet was the jean tuck.

  “Let’s go,” Donne said. “You say a word, draw any attention to me or the gun, and when everything goes to hell, you’ll have a hole in your chest.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to kill me.” Robinson smiled. “Well played.”

  They got out of the car, Donne tucked the gun, and they made the long walk through the cold air toward the building. There was a small covering of snow on the ground. The air was raw and crisp. The last of the leaves from an oak tree floated to the ground. They crunched underneath Donne’s steps.

  The lobby smelled like a funeral parlor. Lilacs and death hung in the air like meat at a butcher’s. Someone was singing a song from West Side Story out of tune. Robinson eyed the receptionist, who nodded at him. He walked toward the doors that led to the main area of the building. Donne followed. With each step his insides knitted tighter together.

  “Wait.”

  They both turned. The receptionist pointed at Donne. “Who’s he?”

  “Part of the deal,” Robinson said.

  The receptionist nodded again. As Donne started to turn back, he watched her pick up the phone and say, “He’s going to be in for testing.”

  THE CROSSWORD puzzles.

  One of the details that had fled from Donne’s memory in the haze of booze and coke. Carver sat on his bed in white pajamas, working out of a crossword puzzle book. Still in pen. He always worked on the puzzles in pen.

  When Carver looked up from the book, Donne felt like he was twenty-two all over again. He wanted to stand at attention and salute. It was because of Carver’s eyes. The stone-like stare saying you weren’t doing what you were supposed to.

  “What is he doing here?” Carver directed his question toward Robinson. His voice was even, acting like a confused party host. Maybe the E-vite went to the wrong person.

  “We need to talk,” Donne said.

  “He has a gun,” Robinson said. “My gun.”

  Carver didn’t say anything.

  Donne gave Robinson a glare, but didn’t go for the gun. He’d come too far.

  “Might as well get it over with,” Carver said. He held his hands up in the air. “You killed Bill. Finish the job.”

  “I didn’t kill Bill Martin.”

  “Must be a coincidence then. You were there with him. On top of a building. With a gun. A rifle. After you shot a state senator. He was a cop. I’m sure he tried to stop you.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  Carver looked at Robinson. “You disappoint me.”

  “Stop,” Robinson said.

  “Expected more of you, friend. I can’t believe you brought him here.”

  Carver threw the crossword book against the wall. It bounced off and landed on the desk with a thud. He turned to Donne.

  “You want to shoot me? Go ahead. It seems to be the way you solve problems. But I made my peace with you.”

  Donne said, “I should go.”

  “You always run, don’t you. Remember? Last in?” Carver shook his head. “No, you probably don’t. You don’t remember anything from back then.”

  Shaking his head, Donne said, “You said you made your peace.”

  “God,” Carver said. “You were more screwed up than I thought. You were a sweaty nervous mess.”

  Robinson was leaning back on the chair, and it was up on two legs. Donne glanced at him, and he nodded.

  “Way I remember it,” he said. His voice wasn’t as steady as before.

  Carver nodded. “I kept tabs on you. Don’t you get it yet? You’re an unreliable fuck-up with a trail of dead bodies in your wake. I was going to be nice. I promised myself. But now you’re here.”

  He looked out the window on the closed door. Patients and nurses walked by not bothering to peek into the room. In fact, it seemed that the employees’ walking speed picked up once they came into view. Carver was a special case. He ran this place. Donne had no idea how. Sweat formed at his brow.

  Carver noticed it.

  “There’s nothing you can do to me that won’t be a blessing. Or, at the very worst, destroy your life even more.” Carver shrugged. “Win-win for me, I’d say.”

  Donne threw a curveball, turning to Robinson. “What about Herrick? What’s his deal?”

  The chair dropped to the ground. The sound of it echoed in the room. “It’s time to go,” Robinson said.

  “You hired him to find me and protect you. But I don’t think that’s the real reason. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Robinson stood up. “Let’s go.”

  Donne said, “I thought we were just getting comfortable.”

  Carver said, “You might as well tell him. You’ve messed up enough today.”

  Robinson screwed up his face, twisting his lips into a scowl. “Ask him about his team. Ask him about the one time he finally put his gun down.”

  Donne paused. Something about the words stuck with him. His mind traveled back to Vermont, and the time he had to ruminate. Violence begets violence.

  “It’s time to go,” Robinson said.

  He went to the door and pulled it open. Donne wasn’t ready yet. He wanted Carver to open up more, tell him how he was getting the word out. What connections he made. He stood up and grabbed Robinson’s arm. Robinson whirled and caught him in the jaw with a right cross. A rocket of pain traveled up into Donne’s brain as he toppled backward. His vision clouded.

  Carver apologized. The door swung shut and Robinson was gone. Donne grabbed his jaw. He could feel a lump beginning to form already.

  Donne stood up, but lost balance and went down to one knee. Robinson was probably gone already, in the parking lot, rushing toward his car. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.

  The gun was tight at his hip. Donne reached down for it. He patted it and took a breath.

  A trail of bodies.

  He walked to the front desk. There, he called a cab. Twenty minutes until pick-up. While he waited, he let everything Carver said stew over and over in his brain.

  No chance he was right, Donne told himself.

  The muscle spasms in his back and throbbing pain in his jaw said otherwise.

  HERRICK PULLED up behind the black SUV with the Ben Franklin magnet on it. The truck was parked. Herrick took his phone out and took a picture of the license plate. He texted the photo to a cop friend and asked him to run the plate. Hopefully, he’d hear back soon, but if the cop was off-duty, it’d be a while.

  Bill Martin’s apartment was just upstairs. Herrick recognized the view from all the news reports. He watched the windows for a while, looking for movement or some sense that life was there. He saw nothing. No one peeked through the curtains, nothing fluttered. Before driving over, Herrick had done a quick Internet search of the address. It appeared no one had rented it out since Martin died. For a while, it was considered a crime scene. Then the cops held on to it. Perhaps it was one of those local budget things, the state or city kept paying the rent and no one knew why.

  But the fact that the SUV Sheldon had described was sitting outside it made Herrick think otherwise.

  A text message came in. It was simple, but the words made Herrick’s blood go cold. BILL MARTIN. And the address was exactly where
he sat now. Martin had been dead nearly a year and a half. Even if he had no family to deal with, his registration would have expired by now.

  Herrick pulled the ASP from the console and attached the case to his belt. His heart was thudding harder than he expected. Whatever was going on in that SUV or in that apartment wasn’t what he’d expected.

  And Herrick didn’t like when things went against expectations.

  But, as Herrick had told his team so many times, “You can’t control what happens to you, you can only control how you react.” He dropped that phrase often, something he once heard a college coach say during a clinic. Any time he uttered it, he thought of the boy and the bomb. Today was no different.

  He got out of the car and approached the SUV. Better to check that first, make sure it was empty. Last thing he needed was to head to the apartment only to be attacked from behind because the driver was just getting out of the car. He made his way around to the passenger’s side, cold wind searing his face as he went. The driver would be able to see him in the rearview, but would still have to crawl across the seats to get to him.

  Hand on the ASP holster, he crept up to the passenger’s side window. He paused, counting to three. Nothing happened. He leaned forward and looked in the window. The car was empty. He tried the door, but it was locked. No one was ever that lucky.

  He snapped the ASP open and swung it at the passenger window. It shattered, and the alarm went blaring. Herrick ignored it, reached inside and unlocked the door. He opened the door and then the glove compartment. He started to dig through paperwork. Everything belonged to Bill Martin. All the expected paperwork. Herrick’s heart pounded harder.

  If Donne was here, Herrick wondered how he’d react. How had no one noticed this? The police had to have been all over that place, they had to have seen Martin’s body, they had investigated everything. Bill Martin couldn’t have faked his death.

  The alarm stopped with a squeak. Herrick wrapped his hand around the ASP tight.

  “Excuse me,” a familiar voice said.

  Herrick turned around. A tall, thin man stood on the doorstep of the apartment.