An Empty Hell Page 22

  He took a deep breath. Warmth rushed through him, counteracting the fire in his jaw.

  “Today I finish it,” he said. “Then I can rest.”

  Sarah frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Herrick sat next to her. This time there was space between them, and Herrick didn’t expect leaning in to be taken so well. Sarah kept the cup of coffee glued to her lips. She was sipping slowly, looking at him over the rim of the mug.

  “Jackson Donne was trying to help me,” he said. “And now he’s in jail. There is a man out there who deserves to be put away and it’s not Jackson. If I can get him to talk, I can save Jackson and this will all be over with.”

  “You shouldn’t do that, Matt. Your job was to find him, and you did. What about the stuff with the assassination? The police need to look into that. Not you.”

  His stomach grumbled, and that didn’t hurt. Baby steps. Some food would help get things going. All he had in the house were fiber bars.

  “But,” he said, trying to measure the right words, “we got one of them. We got Mosley, but Jackson said something to me last night. About the guy who hired me. About the day I put my gun down. I wasn’t able to process it at the time.”

  Sarah knew the story. And she knew enough not to start talking about it. She put her cup down and waited.

  “Alex Robinson. I knew his sister. When Robinson hired me, he told me I owed him.”

  Sarah blinked. “What are you saying?”

  “That this wasn’t just about Donne. The whole time, Alex saw it as an opportunity to take me down as well.”

  Sarah said, “It’s not over for you.”

  “Not yet. Alex hung his sister’s legacy over me, forced me to take the case.”

  “What are you going to do?” Sarah put the coffee cup on the table. It was empty, but he could see the rim stained tan.

  “I’m going to go talk to him. Get him to confess and then get Donne home.”

  “Just take care of yourself. You don’t owe Donne anything.”

  “He saved my life last night.”

  “You’ve saved people before.”

  Herrick shook his head. “There was someone I didn’t save once. And it’s why all this is happening.”

  Sarah got up from the couch and walked over to him. She wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him in tight. Herrick’s heart pounded faster than the throb in his jaw line.

  “You’re a good man,” she said. “You take way too many risks, but you’re a good man.”

  “Taking a risk is one of my redeeming qualities,” he said.

  “Shut up.”

  Herrick did. He enveloped Sarah in the hug, pulling her as close as he could—despite the punishment in his gut. They stood there for a while, holding each other, not speaking. The only sounds were the morning traffic. People going about their days, just trying to pass the time and then get home to dinner or happy hour or reality TV.

  At that moment, Herrick only wanted time to stop.

  LESTER RUSSELL marched into the interrogation room, slammed his briefcase on the table, and then jammed his hands in his pockets.

  “What the hell do you want me to do, Jackson?”

  Donne folded his hands on the table and resisted the urge to put his head down. He looked up at Russell, now more gray than black, his hooknose seemingly widened over the past few years. The wrinkles in his face were deeper, and the bags under his eyes heavier. He had a gray suit on, with a white shirt and a black tie. His attire was the only thing about him that was crisp.

  “Help me,” Donne said. “I didn’t—just please help. You’ve done it before.”

  Russell pulled the chair opposite Donne out and sat down. He opened his briefcase and, while Donne couldn’t see what was in there, he heard papers being shuffled.

  “You killed a man,” Russell said.

  “I didn’t do it,” Donne said. “It was Bill Martin.”

  “Last night.” Russell slammed the briefcase shut. “You killed a man last night.”

  “He fell.”

  “They have it on videotape. Jackson, this is bad. Really, really bad.”

  The noise outside the room was dulled, but still Donne could hear clicking, someone walking on tile floor. The footsteps got louder, then faded away.

  “Is this being taped?” Donne asked.

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  Russell frowned. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Running made you look bad. They only wanted to ask you some questions. Now there’s rumors that you were in Vermont?”

  “It was nice there.”

  “They found two bodies buried in the forest near where Mosley told these guys you were hiding out. And a dead cop. And your fingerprints.”

  The air went from Donne and he slumped back in his chair. The bruises all over his body cried out in agony as he did so, but Donne willed himself not to grunt or even grit his teeth.

  “Sit up,” Russell said.

  Donne did. The bruises didn’t like that either. He coughed.

  “You sit back like that and you look guilty.”

  “You said we weren’t being taped.”

  “Like that matters.”

  Russell leaned forward, elbows on the table, and put his chin in his hands. He looked like an enraptured two-year-old. As if Thomas the Tank Engine was on TV. Or he was daydreaming.

  “Are you guilty?” Russell asked.

  “You once said you’d never ask me that.”

  Russell nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’m asking you now, though. Are you guilty?”

  “Of what?”

  Russell nodded again. “That’s what I thought. Listen, we aren’t winning a case here. Evidence from Vermont may be circumstantial, but it’s damning. Too much is out in the public. Then they have video of whatever happened in your cell last night. You’re going to prison.”

  Donne closed his eyes. He could see Bill Martin laughing. It’s what he always wanted, the tables turned.

  “Can we cut a deal?” Donne asked.

  “You’ll probably still go to prison.”

  “And if I plead not guilty?”

  “They have four bodies, one of which you killed on film. Everyone remembers the Senator Stern incident. You’ll still go to prison, just for a longer period of time.”

  Donne fought against his body giving way, but it didn’t help. He’d only gotten maybe fifteen minutes of sleep the previous night. After they dragged Mosley out of the cell, they questioned Donne for nearly two hours. He no commented everything as if he were a politician talking to a room of reporters. Once they put him back in the cell, he was able to get comfortable on the cot, but every twenty minutes or so, someone would bang on the jail door. Now he ached, his eyes were heavy, and his thoughts were traveling through his mind like a cow through mud.

  Either way, Russell’s news wasn’t good news.

  “So, what are our options?”

  As Russell spoke, he held up a finger to tick off each part of the list. “One: plead guilty, lesser jail time. Two: go to trial and try to win. Three: Go to trial and hope for a mistrial.”

  “How likely is a mistrial?”

  Russell blew air out through his nose. “I say we try for a plea deal.”

  Donne rubbed his face, his dry palms ruffling his beard.

  “It’s time to shave that thing.”

  Donne agreed.

  “So,” Russell said, “what do you want to do?”

  Donne stood up and limped around the interrogation room. There was a scratch on the far wall where some of the paint had peeled away. Donne wondered what other deals had been cut in this room. Who had fought with the cops and tried to get out. Who had come in innocent and left a prisoner. He flicked at the scratch with his index finger, while regulating his breath.

  He thought of Kate, deep in the ground because of him. Jeanne was on the run somewhere. Bill Martin was dead too. Mario. They were all gone, an
d he’d had his hand in it. Years ago, he left two bodies decomposing somewhere near Atlantic City. Jackson Donne was a good man—he always tried to tell himself that, but anytime he left the Olde Towne Tavern to work, the world went to hell. He couldn’t even keep himself in college and get his degree. He was cursed.

  He was a curse.

  Every decision he’d made since he turned on the Narcs was the wrong one. Everything had consequences, and he’d suffered the wrath. And, even worse, as he tried to save people, those people ended up suffering as well. Donne didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong out on the streets trying to put people away. Everything always went to hell.

  Donne turned around and walked back to his seat. Some of the paint he’d flicked at on the wall had stuck to his finger. He brushed it off and took a long, deep breath. Russell sat across from him, waiting, hands folded like he was praying.

  Donne said, “I want to plead guilty.”

  Lester Russell nodded. “That’s probably your best choice.”

  Donne’s eyes stung. But for the first time in a long time, he felt that maybe the demons of his past could be purged.

  Violence begat violence. But, it seemed, this was the best way to end that cycle. No family. No children.

  Only Jackson Donne behind bars.

  IT DIDN’T take much for Herrick to find Robinson. After all, he wasn’t hiding. Herrick parked in Kearny, got out of the car, crossed the street, and approached the office. As he did, he took out his iPhone and opened up the memo app. Just before opening the door to the office, he hit record. New Jersey was a one-party consent state. He didn’t have to let Robinson know anything. When he walked in, Robinson was pouring a cup of tea. There were donuts next to the teapot.

  Robinson turned, saw Herrick, and nearly spilled his tea. He regained his composure without losing a drop, though.

  “Now you?” Robinson rolled his eyes. “You want me to rearrange your face?”

  Tough guy.

  Herrick walked over to the table and picked up a donut. Took a bite. The sugary goodness went down his esophagus and into his stomach. The knife wound and the nightstick wound didn’t complain. Progress.

  Robinson was back around his desk and about to sit. Herrick shook his head.

  “We’re going for a ride.”

  “Couldn’t you two have come at the same time? It’s a hassle of a drive.”

  Again with the eyeroll.

  “We’re going to talk to Leo and we’re going to get Donne out of prison.”

  Robinson drank some tea.

  “You made a mistake dragging me into this,” Herrick said.

  Robinson put the cup down. He said, “No kidding. You’re not dead.”

  “You took advantage of all of this as a way to take care of me too?” Herrick put his hands in his pockets. The case for the ASP bounced against his leg with the beat of his movement.

  “We needed an investigator. And then to clear the path,” he said.

  “This is stupid,” Herrick said. “So, so stupid.”

  “You let my sister die,” Robinson said. “You saved everyone else, but you let her die.”

  Herrick took a breath. “Alex, we talked about this. We cleared the air.”

  “Cleared the air? Try telling that to my parents. The ones who look at the picture of their daughter in her uniform every day. The one who made them proud. That she died and everyone—everyone—else lived that day. And me? What do they see of me? A man who should have done a good job, and now I’m just a disgraced motel snoop. It’s not fair, and you could have saved her.”

  Herrick balled his left hand into a fist. “No. No I couldn’t. Do you understand, Alex? She saved us. If she didn’t get shot—” He hated saying the word and Robinson flinched at its sound. “If she didn’t, we would have never known about the boy with the bomb. Your sister—Angie—she was the first line of defense, Alex. She was a security guard. They shot her so they could get past the gate and get to us.”

  Robinson shook his head. “She should still be alive.”

  “We’d all be dead. There was no other way.”

  “You saved everyone else but her!”

  Herrick still held the donut in his hand. He wanted to take another bite just to break the tension but his stomach was starting to get upset..

  “Well, after all of this, we should be even,” Robinson said. Steam still swirled from his cup. And then it didn’t; something dissipated it quickly.

  It was Robinson’s hand. It dove out of Herrick’s field of vision, and then came back up with a knife. Herrick did the first thing he could think of. He threw the donut.

  Robinson flinched,surprised to see it coming at him. It gave Herrick enough time to dive to the ground and unsheathe the ASP at the same time.

  “Motherfucker,” Robinson said.

  He came around the desk, knife in hand. Herrick was too quick, however, and swung the ASP. It caught Robinson in the knee, which buckled. He went down to one good knee. The knife went flying and thunked into the ceiling. Someone screamed.

  Herrick rolled left and popped up, swinging the ASP as hard as he could. It connected with Robinson’s jaw. Robinson grunted, and Herrick swung the ASP back and connected with the other side of his face. Matching bruises. Robinson fell backward.

  Robinson bounced back up and swung wildly at Herrick. He only connected with the teapot. It clanked and felt off the table, spilling hot liquid into the carpet. Herrick got to his feet and took a step backward. Robinson tumbled toward him, screaming. Herrick hit him again with the ASP, this time on the back of his skull. When it connected, there was a sickening crack.

  Robinson yelled, “I hate you! I hate you!”

  The words were slow and garbled, but Herrick could make them out. As if lost in darkness, Robinson kept moving forward, each step threatening to take him down. Herrick didn’t understand how he could still even be on his feet. Adrenaline? Fear? He took another swing of the ASP, but Robinson stumbled at the last minute, and the blow missed. It connected with desk, splintering some of the wood.

  But, like a tennis player, Herrick took one more swing—a backhand. It caught him in the temple, and Robinson went down hard.

  His breathing came in fits and starts, but his eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving.

  The sirens were loud. Someone in the building had called the cops. Herrick’s gut said to run. There was too much to be finished. But that was the mistake Donne had made too many times, and Herrick wasn’t about to start getting a bad rap. He had connections, and he could talk his way out of this, he was sure of it.

  Just explain the truth. He’d play them the tape. He switched the recorder app off.

  The ASP would get Herrick in trouble. The Jersey City or Hoboken cops would overlook it because he knew them, but Kearny cops? No chance. Herrick stepped out into the hall and slid the ASP behind a radiator. Hopefully, it would blend in and he could come back and grab it later. The cops would be incessant in pulling evidence inside the office, but—Herrick hoped—maybe they wouldn’t check the hallway all that much.

  Plus, once they heard the voice memo on his iPhone, they’d have all the evidence they needed. That wouldn’t get Jackson Donne out of jail, but at least it would clear his own name.

  Two cops rushed up the stairs and burst into the room. Herrick already had his hands up in the air. They cuffed him before they asked any questions.

  Second time in less than twenty-four hours he was in handcuffs. He’d come a long way from suicide sprints on the hardwood.

  THE KEARNY Police Station was a building that took up a whole block. Two-toned gray and two stories high, it reminded Herrick of the Jersey City Police Station more than he wanted it to. Herrick expected a small outpost connected to City Hall. Instead, he got the big time.

  The cops brought him in through the garage, and no one was there to watch. That was more professional than the Jersey City cops. It wasn’t a Lee Harvey Oswald–style parade. No one watched him come in. The worst part was
the piercing smell of engine oil.

  They took him to a holding cell and uncuffed him. They’d taken his phone, wallet, belt, shoelaces, and watch. Herrick just wanted them to play the memo. The cell was the color of wet concrete and smelled like an unclean gym locker room. Just one cell, empty, and the size of a closet.

  Two hours later, a cop came by and asked if he wanted a lawyer.

  “No,” Herrick said. “I want to go home.”

  The cop nodded. “You put a man in the hospital.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No.”

  The cop leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He wasn’t angry or impatient.

  “It was self-defense,” Herrick said.

  “Can you prove that?”

  Herrick nodded.

  The cop laughed. “Go for it.”

  “On my phone, there’s a voice memo. I recorded the whole thing. It’s probably fifteen minutes long. He came after me with a knife. The one you found embedded in the ceiling.” Herrick smiled. “I threw a donut at him.”

  The cop nodded. “I’ll go get the phone.”

  An hour later, Herrick was back out on the street with orders not to leave the state, and to get a lawyer. They’d be in touch. Easiest experience he’d ever had with the cops. Most painless. Like, at this point, they couldn’t be bothered. Or maybe they realized Robinson had been the assailant that brought them to the office.

  Good to be savvy, Herrick thought as he walked back to get the ASP—and his car.

  HERRICK SAT behind the wheel and pondered his next step. Without Robinson, it was going to be tricky to get Carver to speak. He imagined at this point he’d have no problem getting in to see Carver, but talking—there was no impetus to get him to talk about what happened with Donne.

  Unless.

  Herrick called McKinny. The phone rang twice and then went to voice mail. That probably wasn’t good. Herrick dialed again.

  Five rings, then, “What?”

  “Did you let Jackson go yet?”

  “Let him go? Matt, we got him dead to rights. We aren’t going to let him out on the street. So he can run again?”

  “He’s innocent,” Herrick said.