An Empty Hell Page 2

  Robinson passed him another paper.

  “You’ve been keeping this place up?” Mosley tore both papers in half. They were maybe thirty yards from Kennedy’s grave.

  “Got it in a will. It will do. You get the car too. Keys in kitchen cabinet. Take your time, but get it done,” Robinson said.

  Mosley didn’t respond. He stopped to admire the Eternal Flame. Robinson kept walking.

  “MATT, I’M in trouble and I need your help.”

  “C’mon, Alex. You know I scale back the business this time of year. The season’s about to start and my kids aren’t near ready. I have a ton of practicing—”

  “Forget high school basketball. This is serious.”

  Matt Herrick leaned back on the barstool and looked over at Alex Robinson. Two New Jersey private investigators just out for a drink. Last thing Herrick expected was to be pitched a job.

  “Talk to me,” Herrick said.

  “Two of my friends, my old colleagues, are dead. Murdered. Drew Issler was shot and Ethan Moore was involved in a hit-and-run.”

  “I don’t do murders, Alex.” Matt reached for his drink. Club soda. The ice tinked against the side of the plastic cup. “Talk to the police.”

  Robinson gulped Coors Light. Then said, “Would you listen to me?”

  Herrick nodded once.

  “You don’t recognize those names?” Robinson asked.

  This time, Herrick shook his head. God forbid he interrupted again.

  “They’re guys I worked with. Got caught up in the same Narc deal I did eight-nine years ago. Got turned in to Internal Affairs. We were lucky. Our boss got put away, we got probation.”

  Herrick eyed up the pub they were in. No one else was around. No parents drinking away their lunch. No administration. No reason not to have one himself. Except, as always, there were rules. He was working. And it was eleven in the morning. The club soda fizzed under his nose as he sipped.

  “Now I’m worried, Matt. Whoever did this is coming for me.” Robinson took another gulp of beer and signaled the bartender. “No. Screw that. I know who did this.”

  Herrick waited.

  “And I want you to find him.”

  “You’re not listening to me, Alex. I don’t do murders. Basketball season is coming up. Call the cops. You’re a PI. Catch him yourself.”

  Robinson shook his head. “I’m screwed with the cops. Between my”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“‘criminal’ past and the amount of cops I’ve busted sleeping with people other than their wives. And I can’t do it myself. I go after him, he’ll get to me even sooner. I’m not going on the offensive.”

  Maybe the beer was getting to Robinson.

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “I just want you to find him and bring him to the police.”

  Herrick shook his head. “You tell the cops to find him if you think your life is in danger.”

  “You’re not listening to me. The guy who’s doing this … the cops have been looking for him for almost a year now. And they can’t find him. Of course, I’m not sure how hard they’re looking anymore. But, damn it, they should be.”

  The bartender brought another Coors Light. After setting it on the bar, she grabbed Herrick’s glass and filled it with more ice and club soda. She smiled at him as she dropped a fresh lime wedge in. Herrick thanked her.

  “Don’t you get what I’m talking about, Matt?” Robinson took another slug of the beer. Some of the white head made a milk mustache on his upper lip. He licked it off. “This is all Bill Martin’s fault. He started this, and now here we are. The guy is on a rampage.”

  “Bill Martin? I’m guessing we’re not talking baseball.”

  “Remember that name? The senator? All over the news last year too.”

  The pieces started to come together for Herrick. “If the cops can’t find him, what makes you think I can?”

  “You’re good at your job.” Robinson wrinkled his nose. “You won’t scare him. You’re not violent. You don’t use a gun. You just—you get the job done.”

  Herrick drank his club soda in one long swig.

  “Define not violent. Because you’re getting on my nerves.” Herrick smiled as he spoke.

  “Find Jackson Donne before he can kill me, Matt. Find him and bring him to the cops.” Robinson gave a lazy grin. Two Coors Lights and Robinson was sloshed. “You owe me. You owe my family and you know it.”

  Herrick put the cup down. His stomach went cold, and he had to force memories out of his head in order to focus again. The flash of sand and burst of gunfire echoed in his brain. He took a deep breath. Memories faded.

  Robinson had him by the balls with two sentences.

  Herrick took the case.

  ROBINSON NEEDED money, and fast.

  That was the thing about hiring hit men—no, wait, bounty hunters—you legitimately had to pay them. And the thing about the PI game was this—no one wanted to hire him. Occasionally, some drunk would come in and complain about his wife cheating on him, and he’d make an hourly rate for working an hour. One of the local lawyers liked using him, but that was enough for keeping an office in Kearny, a weekly lunch at Johnny and Hanges, and other necessities.

  Not paying off two guys who would settle some old scores. Finally.

  Robinson’s head swirled a little bit from the beer, but he got into the car anyway. He had someone he needed to talk to, and the courage to do it.

  BETHLEHEM INSTITUTION was just off Route 78, near the Pennsylvania border. Robinson parked, his car taking up two parking spaces. He took two deep breaths, looked at himself in the rearview, and then popped a breath mint.

  The receptionist saw him and nodded. He didn’t sign in. As he passed, the receptionist picked up the phone and said a few words. Just like every other time.

  Robinson walked up the hallway—white and tiled like a kitchen—as if he owned the place. An orderly nodded at him. The beer pounded in his head, its power seeping away and leaving only a dull ache. This was a bad idea.

  The door on his left was beige, and had one square window in the center. Robinson turned the doorknob and stepped inside. Leo Carver put his crossword puzzle down and said hello.

  Robinson didn’t return the pleasantry, instead saying, “I’m doing it. Finally.”

  Carver brushed something off his white scrubs and pulled his legs up onto the bed he sat on.

  “Doing what?”

  “Taking care of old business. That Donne just let Bill Martin die, it’s the last straw.”

  Carver looked around the room. “Show me your phone,” he said.

  The dull ache behind Robinson’s eyes grew sharper as he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. He made a mental note to ask the receptionist for Advil before he left.

  Carver took the phone, pushed some buttons, then put it next to him on the bed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Carver asked.

  Not the response Robinson expected. “I’m going to put Donne down.”

  “That was so many years ago, Alex. I’m glad you come to see me sometimes, but I’ve moved on. You should too.”

  Robinson worked his jaw. “I need money.”

  Carver looked around the room again. “I’m in a mental institution, Alex. Where am I going to find money for you?”

  “You have it,” he said.

  Outside the door, someone screamed the words to “Living on a Prayer” without any semblance of a tune. Someone else screamed for the singer to shut up.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Boss, you should be in a prison. That’s where he put you. And now he killed your best friend. Put a bullet in his chest. We can stop this. Things were good until he ruined it.”

  “It was eight years ago, Alex. I’m past it.”

  “Let me ask you something, boss.”

  Carver spread his hands.

  “Why do you love crossword puzzles?”

  Without missing a beat, Carver said, “Complica
ted perfection.”

  Robinson scratched his chin. “What does that mean?”

  “Think about it, Alex. To solve a crossword puzzle, everything has to go perfectly. One wrong letter can mess up the whole thing. One mistake can build on another and another and another.” Carver rubbed his hands together. “But there are tricks too. Shortcuts—solving a crossword puzzle is figuring out a pattern. I love that.”

  “Reminds me of my dad. From the old days anyway. When we were kids—my sister and I—he used to be really into Rube Goldberg and making those contraptions. We’d come downstairs and have our waffles delivered to us by something I never could understand. Plastic, marbles, and string. We’d have to wait and watch it come our way.”

  “And now?”

  “Not anymore. Because of Matt Herrick.”

  Robinson rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d do anything for a glass of ginger ale or Gatorade or something right now. His old boss was so calm, so even. And yet here he was in a mental institution.

  “This is the best I’m going to do in my life. What happened to us was a shame, what happened to Bill was even worse—but I’m moved on.”

  “Because you’re not in the state pen anymore you won’t help?” Robinson felt heat on the back of his hands. Sweat formed behind his ears. “Donne is not the only thing worth taking care of.”

  Carver was frozen in the lotus position. His expression never changed. “Who else?”

  “Matt Herrick.”

  Carver shook his head. “Once a month you come here to visit, and you talk to me. I appreciate it. But this? You know what they say about revenge, Alex.”

  “This is already in motion. I thought you’d be proud of me.” Robinson tugged at his chin. “I went to see her in Arlington yesterday. I miss her so much.”

  Carver said, “Of all the guys, you’re the one I worried about the most.”

  “The rest of the guys are dead, boss. All of them. This is already in motion.” Robinson wanted to punch a wall. “I need money for help.”

  Carver took a deep breath. “What did you do?”

  “It’s too late. I’m trying to make everything right.”

  “You were the lucky one, Alex. You and Drew and Ethan got away.”

  Robinson said, “Donne killed those two too. This week.”

  He prayed Carver would believe him. He hated lying to his boss, his mentor, but there was no other way. He needed help.

  Carver went pale. “He’s back?”

  “Or he hired someone to do it.”

  “You have proof?”

  “I need money. I’m going to find him and kill him. I’m going to make you proud.”

  Carver waved Robinson over to him. Robinson stood up and walked across the room. He leaned in close.

  After a moment, Carver whispered, “If you do this, you do it right. And it doesn’t come back to me. Never.”

  Robinson pursed his lips tight, letting the words pass through his frontal lobe. Then he said, “You can count on me.”

  “I have a trust fund.”

  The baseball in Robinson’s gut dissipated. He put a hand on Carver’s shoulder and thanked him. Carver asked for a few days’ time.

  On the way out, he got his Advil, but was pretty sure he wouldn’t need it.

  HERRICK GOT to the State Police Headquarters in Bridgewater in under an hour. The traffic gods must have been looking down upon him and smiling, because Route 287 was nearly empty. He hoped to be able to make at least two stops today before practice, and get his investigation started.

  First stop, talk to a State Police detective about the Jackson Donne case. They probably wouldn’t tell him much, but Herrick had to do due diligence. The cop in charge of the investigation—Christopher Parsons—was usually stationed in Trenton, but had a meeting in Bridgewater. They put him in touch with Herrick and he agreed to meet on his lunch.

  Herrick left his ASP in the car, locked in the console. Last thing he needed was a wandering trooper to spot it. He checked in in the lobby, and the guy behind the desk directed him toward the cafeteria. A laminated pass that said “guest” on it was passed across the desk to him. Herrick pinned it to his shirt.

  Parsons waved at him as soon as he stepped into the cafeteria. A few cops in uniform were scattered at different tables, eating off plastic trays, but it was closer to one, and most cops had gone off-shift or back to work. Parsons was the only guy in a suit. And Herrick’s jeans, button-down, and guest pass gave him away.

  “You want something to eat?” Parsons asked. “On me.”

  Herrick declined as he pulled the wooden chair out and sat.

  Parsons had gray hair, and the suit to match. His skin was tan for this time of year, and the lines digging into his forehead stuck out because of it.

  “Looking for Jackson Donne, huh?” Parsons said. “You got a license I can see?”

  Herrick nodded and showed it. “Best Cracker Jack prize ever.”

  “They still make Cracker Jacks?’” Parsons sniffled. “Where were you a cop before this?”

  “I wasn’t,” Herrick said. “I was in the sandbox.”

  “For five years?”

  “I was an MP for five years. Was there for seven.”

  Parsons took a bite of his sandwich, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “My son was there for three. Why’d you leave?”

  “Wasn’t my thing anymore.” Herrick felt a pain in the back of his skull, like a memory was trying to poke its way out with a knife.

  “I completely understand. My son basically said the same thing.” Parsons took a sip of water. “So, Jackson Donne. That case is over a year old. Why now?”

  Two troopers took a table one over, but ignored them. The smell of eggs wafted their way.

  “Someone hired me to find him. I wanted to see if you had any leads.”

  Parsons held the sandwich in front of his mouth, but didn’t eat. “You think I’m just going to hand them to you?”

  Herrick spread his hands. “Worth a shot.”

  Parsons laughed and took another bite. While chewing, he said, “I like you. You got balls.”

  “Learned it over there.”

  “We don’t really have any leads. That girl died, Kate Ellison, Donne’s fiancée—she was probably the only one who could have helped us. He had some friends at a bar in New Brunswick, but they clammed up when we walked in.”

  “So New Jersey’s most wanted is still in the wind?”

  After swallowing, Parsons said, “Well, that’s the thing—I’m not sure how ‘wanted’ he actually is. And he was a cop, so he probably knows this. We only want to question him.”

  Herrick blinked.

  “This is all off the record.”

  Herrick said, “I don’t have a tape recorder anyway.”

  “Jackson Donne didn’t fire the kill shot on the senator. There were powder burns all over Bill Martin’s hands.”

  “Did Donne shoot Martin?” Herrick tried to remember the details of the case. The first day or two were crazy, with wall-to-wall news coverage. As the details started to come out, the news faded away, and people’s interests diverged.

  Parsons shrugged. “Like I said, he’s wanted for questioning. We’ve even leaked that part to the press, to smoke him out. But forensics doesn’t support Donne being the shooter. He’s gotta know that.”

  “But he’s still hiding,” Herrick said.

  “Yeah.” Parsons’ sandwich was gone. “Wonder why.”

  “That’s why you want him for questioning.”

  Parsons laughed. He reached across the table and shook Herrick’s hand. “You find him, you’ll bring him right to us.”

  Herrick said, “You’re gonna use me as cheap labor?”

  “With the people in charge in Trenton, I’ll take every break I can get.”

  “I’ll be in touch. What was the bar he liked?”

  Parsons took out his phone and scrolled through it. “Olde… Queens? No. Olde Towne Tavern. That was it, the one that was o
n that TV show. Yeah. The owner’s name was Artie.”

  Herrick made a mental note. “That will be my next stop.”

  “Good luck.” Parsons got up and walked away.

  The two cops next to Herrick started talking about a hockey game. Herrick didn’t stick around to find out if they were discussing the Devils or the Flyers.

  At least New Brunswick was on the way back to practice.

  TWO GUYS sat at the bar drinking some kind of light beer. The bartender fiddled with one of the taps. Herrick pulled out a stool and took a seat. He eyed the selection of bourbons against the mirrored wall. Decent selection, but he’d probably stick with Bulleit.

  Jeez. He needed to stop working cases that put him in bars all day.

  The bartender came over to him and asked what he needed. Herrick ordered a ginger ale. Twenty seconds later, he had a full glass.

  “You’ve never been here before,” the bartender said.

  Herrick looked around at the tiles, the TVs, the Jersey celebrity pictures hanging on the wall. The outside of this place said “dive bar,” but the inside had been remodeled and looked like a ’50s diner. Chrome, tile, and very New Jersey.

  “No. Saw it on TV and thought I’d give it a try.”

  “You know we don’t serve food, right?” The bartender scratched at something on the bar top.

  Herrick nodded and took a sip of ginger ale.

  “Sure you don’t want something stronger?”

  “Do you know Jackson Donne?”

  The bartender stopped scratching. Herrick passed his ID across to him. The bartender looked it over and put it back.

  “I thought you coached high school hoops. I watched your games on NJ 1 last year. Chandler is going to be a player.”

  “I’m moonlighting. And yeah, he is a player. Jackson Donne?”

  “I did. You’re about a year late.”

  “Sometimes I get new cases. When was the last time you heard from Donne?”

  The bartender looked toward the two guys and their beers. The glasses were still full. His shoulders slumped.

  “I don’t want to do this again.”