Blind to Sin Page 2

  Herrick scratched the back of his neck. “I’m still not sure what’s going on.”

  “Your dad killed someone. I don’t think he deserves to be out on the streets after that. Do you?”

  Herrick shook his head.

  “But when a lot—and I mean a lot—of money is in play, especially through back channels, things can go wonky.”

  “If it’s through back channels, how do you know about it?”

  Mack touched his ear. “Hear things.”

  Herrick stood up, went over to the padded wall and picked up a free basketball. He dribbled it out to the foul line. Balance, eyes, elbow, follow through. He swished a free throw.

  “Come on,” Mack said. “Help me out.”

  Herrick didn’t respond. Instead, he swished another free throw.

  Mack said, “There’s one more thing.”

  Herrick rebounded the ball and dribbled back to the free throw line.

  “Cole is trying to buy Jackson Donne’s way out of jail too.”

  Herrick bricked the shot.

  AFTER CALLING Sarah and telling her he’d be out late, Herrick drove to Alpine. It was an upper crust town in Northern Bergen County, full of celebrity houses, great schools and enormous mansions. What it didn’t have, however, was highways. One of the few towns in New Jersey not near a major artery, drivers had to navigate a series of side roads to get into the town.

  Herrick completed his journey over an hour later, stopping in front of the kind of house seen only in movies. A huge lawn, a fountain and two Bentleys in the driveway.

  Do as the rich do, he guessed.

  This was not Elliot Cole’s house. This was someone Herrick was sure Mack didn’t know about. Not for the reason Herrick was there, anyway.

  Herrick rang the doorbell, and then scuffed his shoes on the welcome mat. A man in a smoking jacket and turtleneck answered, and looked Herrick up and down. Good thing he’d changed out of his basketball shorts.

  “Mr. Vavilov?” Herrick extended his hand.

  Adrik Vavilov did not accept.

  “And you are?” The thick Russian accent Herrick remembered as a kid had faded to almost nothing.

  “Matt Herrick. Kenneth’s kid.”

  Vavilov’s eyes lit up and he pulled Herrick into a massive hug. “Matt! You look just like your father. And none of this Mister, stuff. It’s Uncle Adrik! Let’s have a drink! Come in!”

  Herrick went in. The foyer was a large, tiled room with a winding staircase to his right and a giant glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He followed Vavilov—Uncle Adrik—through it into a pristine kitchen.

  On the long island was a glass, half full of clear liquid, ice and a lemon.

  “Can I get you something? Your father preferred bourbon, but I only have rye. Pig Whistle.”

  Herrick was a fan of both bourbon and rye. One of the tastes passed down through genes. But not while he was working. Rule number one.

  “I’m okay.”

  Uncle Adrik took a sip of his drink. Then he grinned. “You’ve grown.”

  Herrick shrugged. “Time passes. You used to have a big Russian accent.”

  “To what do I owe the honor?”

  Herrick passed his license across the counter top. Uncle Adrik took it and looked it over.

  The faint smell of a roast wafted in the air.

  Uncle Adrik passed the license back, took a drink and smacked his lips.

  “Well, Mr. Private Investigator Herrick, I am still confused as to why you are here.”

  “First off, if I’m calling you Uncle, you’re calling me Matt.”

  “Not Nephew Matt?”

  Herrick shook his head. “My father.”

  Uncle Adrik finished the drink. Waited. Herrick said nothing. There were lines along Vavilov’s chin, but Herrick wasn’t sure if it was wrinkled skin or scars.

  “Mr. Herrick, I am not a mind reader. Perhaps you want to talk to me instead of dropping two word phrases and then leaving me to parse the meaning.”

  Herrick took a deep breath. His uncle went over to the freezer, grabbed a handful of ice cubes and dropped them into his glass. He then pulled a bottle of tonic from the fridge and a bottle of gin from a cabinet. He came back to the counter and mixed his drink.

  “You used to bankroll my father’s schemes. Now Elliot Cole is trying to buy my dad out of prison. Doesn’t take much to put two and two together and talk to you.”

  Uncle Adrik pursed his lips. His cheeks flushed. “That has nothing to do with me.”

  A woman—in her twenties, blonde and wafer thin—walked into the kitchen and stopped at the oven. She pulled it open and the smell of roast grew. She glanced at them, opened her mouth, then shut it, turned and left.

  “My wife,” Uncle Adrik said. “Knows her place.”

  Herrick wasn’t sure if he wanted to call him uncle anymore.

  He took a breath, then said, “Great. You don’t know anything about my father being bought out of prison? I find that hard to believe.”

  “If your father can find freedom, that is wonderful for him. No matter the way it has to happen. But I haven’t dealt in the world of Mr. Herrick or Mr. Cole in a very long time.”

  The old man took another sip.

  “Explain,” Herrick said.

  “When your father went away to prison, he did a very brave thing. He didn’t mention me. He didn’t mention Mr. Cole. He kept his mouth shut. He didn’t even mention…” He trailed off and stared at the ceiling. It didn’t feel like a family reunion anymore.

  Herrick waited, but the atmosphere in the room had shifted. He felt a small pain somewhere deep in his gut.

  “When that happened, I took it as a sign. No more crime for me. The Italian mob, those Verdereses, was starting to make their move in New York, and it was too much to compete with anyway. This was, as I said, years ago. Before the Intrepid. Before the craziness, but I could see it all coming. So I stopped. I invested my money. Wisely.”

  Herrick’s uncle finished off the second drink. His cheeks were red.

  “So, no. I haven’t spoken to or about your father in nearly ten years. The same goes for Mr. Cole. You were smart to come and talk to me, Mr. Herrick. But not smart enough. I’m not involved in this.”

  Herrick shifted his weight. “You haven’t heard a thing?”

  “Not a peep.” Then the old man tilted his head and yelled, “Elena! Is it time for dinner?”

  A thick Russian accent came back, “Ten more minutes.”

  “You can show yourself out?”

  Herrick got off the chair. He spoke through gritted teeth. “I like the smoking jacket look. It still fits you, Uncle Adrik.”

  A smile. “You remembered.”

  “Other than time passing, you don’t look different. Same—tall, thin, priestly.”

  Vavilov laughed now. “Priestly? I like that. You mean still?”

  “Calm.”

  He brushed his hair with his hand. “When did you last speak with your mother?”

  The pain in Herrick’s gut started to spread. His ribs ached, and felt cold.

  “Been a while.”

  Uncle Adrik nodded. “Maybe it’s time. Good night, Matt.”

  Herrick walked out of the house. By the time he got to his car, it felt like his entire torso was covered in ice. But maybe Uncle Adrik was right.

  It was time to track Mom down.

  ELLIOT COLE looked at himself in the rearview mirror and brushed his hair to the side. He licked his thumb and used it to fix his eyebrows. He got out of the car and walked into the prison.

  A chill ran down his spine as he walked through the door, and it wasn’t from the initial blast of an air conditioner, because there wasn’t one. He passed his ID through, and took a glance up at the security cameras. The appointment had been made weeks ago, the warden expected him, but he didn’t want to be seen here.

  Flying too close to the sun. This must be what “edging”, as the kids said, is.

  Cole patted his
thigh while he waited to be called. The guard behind the desk stared at the computer, the soft blue glow reflecting on his face. Cole sniffled. This was taking too long. Didn’t they know who he was?

  No. Not exactly.

  The guard finally nodded at him and called his name. Cole stood up, tugged at the lapels of his jacket and walked to the door. The guard buzzed him in and then stepped around the counter.

  He escorted Cole down a long, sterile hallway with plain doors on either side. Cole assumed they led to offices, but didn’t know for sure. Didn’t care, actually.

  The guard stopped at one of the doors, pushed it open and pointed for Cole to enter. He did.

  Fred Aguilera sat behind the desk, and wiped his brow. He nodded at Cole.

  “Hot in here, right?”

  Cole grinned, and felt the warmth under jacket. He didn’t dare take it off. There might be pit stains.

  “Too hot,” Cole said.

  “That’s why you’re here, right? I mean, it’s April, and I’m already breaking a sweat. I got this stupid box fan, and a couple of wall units in my office and meeting room and that’s it. The guys are suffering out there.” Aguilera ran his sentences together. “I’m not even ready to turn mine on yet. I mean, it was forty friggin’ degrees last week.”

  Cole nodded. “Too soon.”

  He wanted to get this moving, but he had to slow play it. Aguilera was the warden of this joint, and Cole had to let him play it out.

  Aguilera sniffled and put the handkerchief he’d used to wipe his face on the desk. He leaned back in his chair and it creaked underneath him. His bald head glistened.

  “The governor called me this morning.”

  “Did he?” Slow. Play.

  “Yeah. And I asked him what it would take to get central air put in this building. And he said, with infrastructure and the pension costs—all that? It would be a while.”

  “Did you remind him it was the twenty-first century?”

  Aguilera smiled. “We go through this every summer. They send more box fans. A few more wall units. But they refuse to go central. He said I’d have to find a way to raise the money myself.”

  Cole licked his lips and waited.

  “Remember that dinner we were at a few years ago? The fundraiser?”

  Cole blew air out his nose. “We met there. I don’t forget meeting power brokers.”

  “You and your lovely wife. How is she?”

  Cole looked to the ground. The tiles were grimy. The place needed a mop, a bucket and a hell of a lot of soapy water. It was worse than the first row house he’d looked at in Paterson.

  “Not something you want to talk about, I get it.”

  “The governor,” Cole prodded.

  “Oh, right. Right.” Aguilera wiped his nose. “Well, I told him I could probably raise the money if he did me a favor.”

  Cole nodded. Here we go.

  “Now, you know him. Money from a private source? That’s his sweet spot. So he asked how, and I told him about Kenneth Herrick and Jackson Donne.”

  “How much will the renovations cost?”

  Aguilera told him.

  Cole nodded. “I can do that.”

  “The governor said he would pardon them. On the down low. No news story. No press conference. He’d sign off real quick and his guys would bury it. Make sure no one even sends an email.”

  “Emails often get him in trouble.”

  Aguilera laughed. “He’s got to vet better.”

  Cole agreed. He was putting together an army back home. And Kenneth Herrick was a key piece. And Kenneth wanted Donne. Vetting, though, was the key to putting this army together. Having the right men. The ones who wouldn’t turn on him or screw things up. He’d done enough background checks in his years, during all of the plotting and the planning. He’d never made a mistake.

  Maybe that was why he still felt a chill, despite the heat.

  “You’ll have the money no problem. Just like every other donation I’ve made. To clean up your ‘gambling’ history from the internet.” He made air quotes.

  Aguilera swallowed. “It-it will come from a third party, of course. Having the cash trace back to you would be bad form.”

  Cole nodded. “Like always.”

  “Good. There’s one other thing you should know, Elliot.”

  Now Cole felt the sweat at the back of his hairline. He reached back and wiped the beads away before they could ruin his sport coat. A little electricity ran through his body. The kind of zip he enjoyed. Made everything worthwhile.

  “Kenneth Herrick is currently in solitary.”

  Cole leaned forward.

  “He killed a guy.”

   “Can I see him?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? He’s in solitary.”

  “The gambling can be brought out into the open at any time. Leaked to NJ dot com, perhaps?”

  Aguilera sniffled again. “When this is over, we’ll both have something on each other.”

  “Cost of doing business,” Cole said. “But, as long as you stay in line, we’ll be fine.”

  “Let’s go,” Aguilera said.

  “ARE YOU insane?” Cole asked.

  Kenneth Herrick sat on the cot in the solitary cell. They were both dripping with sweat. None of the wall units were used in this wing of the prison. The hallway smelled like old shit, and puke.

  “It had to be done.”

  Cole jammed his hands in his pockets. “Why?”

  “We need Donne alive.”

  “I don’t trust him. I’ve looked him up.”

  “I do. He’s my guy. He’ll do what I say.”

  Cole took a deep breath through his mouth. He could taste the odors, they were so viscous and horrid.

  “He’d better.”

  “How long?”

  “A day or two. Keep your mouth shut.”

  “It’ll be good to be out.”

  Cole grinned. “We’re old now. The world is different.”

  Kenneth shook his head. “Get us out of here.”

  Cole called for the guard.

  JACKSON DONNE’S stomach was in a knot. It was only twenty minutes until breakfast, and Kenneth Herrick was somewhere off in solitary, which, ironically, left Donne very much alone.

  Sure, the man who’d killed Kate and had made an attempt on Donne’s life was now dead, but that didn’t mean he was any safer. Too many people knew his name now. Too many people had heard what he’d done, and how he’d kept himself out of prison while putting away a ton of other people.

  Donne sat up on the small cot. He’d made it through the night, and that was a bonus. But Herrick had been the law of the land around here, and that was why Donne had been untouched.

  Now, though—Donne was an exposed nerve, just waiting to be touched.

  The first days of his sentence were horrible, a blur of verbal and physical assault. He’d had his arm broken, and been concussed twice. But then Matt Herrick gave him Kenneth’s name, and things changed. Donne had a friend. Someone who’d been behind bars long enough to hold respect amongst the rest of the crooks.

  Sometimes Herrick would have to send a message. But never like he did with Luca. He’d never killed someone. He’d busted a few heads. Sent a threatening message or two. But killing seemed over the line. And Kenneth Herrick, for the year that Donne had known him, never seemed to be the one who would step over the line.

  Inmates were just starting to wake up, and the noise level was increasing. Shouts, yells and cursing all echoed off the walls. Donne’s chest and back tightened, like someone had reached inside him and put a tight fist around his muscles. The white noise of prison voices always caused him to tighten up. He took a deep breath.

  Breakfast was announced, and the inmates started to line up to head into the cafeteria. It reminded Donne very much of high school. He got in line between two Muslims who’d been at his side since Herrick got carted off. Zuti put his hand on Donne’s shoulder.

  “Today, two men have been asking
about you,” he whispered.

  Donne said, “The day is barely an hour old.”

  “They are impatient, it seems.”

  Donne felt the fist in his chest grip tighter.

  “What are they asking?”

  The other man, Yousef, grinned. “Are you the man from Narcotics in New Brunswick?”

  Donne nodded. “Long memory. What did you tell them?”

  Zuti shook his head. “We don’t know you. Let’s eat.”

  They moved into the kitchen area of the cafeteria. Donne could smell eggs and bacon. The workers behind the counter scooped the food onto a tray, didn’t ask what you wanted and didn’t care.

  Yousef passed his tray across. “Don’t give me the bacon.”

  The worker put two strips on his tray anyway.

  “Mother fucker,” Yousef said.

  Donne picked the two pieces off the tray and placed them on his own. “More for me.”

  “There are a lot of people talking about you, Jackson.”

  “I’m sure it’s all good.”

  Zuti shook his head. “Mostly, people can’t understand how you’re still alive.”

  “That seems to be the essential question of my life.”

  They sat at a table in the corner. One where Donne could survey the room, and few people could sneak up on him. Zuti and Yousef weren’t protecting him, so much as giving him a head’s up that shit might go down. That was exactly how Zuti explained it fifteen minutes after Herrick went to solitary. I am not stepping in front of a shiv for you.

  Across the room, two black guys stared at his table. Donne tried to search his memory for recognition, but found nothing. Could be a coincidence. He took a bite of the soft, watery eggs. Forced it down.

  And then a spoonful of scrambled eggs splattered against his shoulder. Scanning the room, Donne couldn’t tell who it came from. The room erupted in laughs.

  A guard walked over to Donne and said, “Choke that food down and come with me.”

  “I never question a man in uniform,” Donne said. He finished eating as fast as he could.

  The guard took him from the cafeteria to the warden’s office. That was different. Donne hadn’t seen Fred Aguilera since the day he’d been brought in. Kenneth told Donne the more someone was out of that office, the better. Fred, whose full name was Fedele, was nicknamed Fe-Deadly by the guards. He never failed to fire or punish someone as harshly as he could. Donne was half surprised Herrick wasn’t put to the chair after killing Luca Carmine.