The Evil That Men Do Page 3

  He wondered if they would remember him. The next thing he wondered was, what did two senior citizens need a black Cadillac Escalade for? The enormous SUV was parked on the curb outside their house. He parked his car across from it and looked at the open front door. This was not a good sign. He immediately reached in the glove compartment for his Glock, then remembered he didn’t carry it anymore.

  One of the changes Donne was going to have to get used to, no longer being a licensed private investigator.

  He crept across the front lawn and pressed himself against the gray siding. The grass needed cutting. Envelopes overflowed in the mailbox next to the front door.

  He peeked through the slightly open front door but couldn’t see anything except an empty hallway.

  The first gunshot sounded like a firecracker. A loud firecracker, but a firecracker nonetheless. Donne hit the dirt because of instinct, but he was immediately on his feet again and moving quickly to the front door. There was no mistaking the second gunshot.

  Call the police, he thought. But this was a quiet suburban town. Someone was home and would hear the shots and call the cops. A tall black man dressed in gang colors emerged from the front door as Donne reached for the knob. The man didn’t register Donne, and Donne hit him hard, wrapping him up like a linebacker.

  “What the fuck?” he said as he hit the ground. “Get off me, nigga.” Donne tried to push him hard in the grass by his shoulders, but the guy rolled and hit him in the cheek with something metallic. It was Donne’s turn to grunt as he hit the grass.

  While Donne was trying to shake off the pain, the guy got into his Escalade. He was down the street before Donne was even able to sit up. A bright blue shirt. What gang was that? When he was a cop, Donne used to know these things, but years away from the force and the shot to the head had slowed him down.

  He sat on the grass for a minute, trying to clear his head and let the world come back into focus. As it did, he remembered the two gunshots and pushed himself to his feet.

  The inside of the house was quiet, and cleaner than the outside. Everything was neat and dusted. The TV played The Price Is Right. He stepped past a brown recliner and through a doorway into the kitchen. The kitchen was not so neat.

  Faye and George were strewn across the kitchen tile on their stomachs. Blood stained the tiles, pouring from their heads. They’d both been shot twice in the back of their skulls. Executions. No point trying to resuscitate them. They were undoubtedly dead.

  Whatever had happened in here, it was quick, and his aunt and uncle hadn’t put up a fight. They probably got to their knees believing that act of submission would save them. They probably believed they would live.

  In less than twenty-four hours, two of his relatives were dead and his brother-in-law’s restaurant had been blown up. He was going to have to talk to Franklin Carter again.

  In the distance he heard police sirens. After a quick sweep of the house, Donne found that nothing seemed to be missing. There was money and jewelry on the dresser in their bedroom. The TV and radio were still there. Even the lockbox in his uncle’s office remained intact. He was careful not to touch anything as he stepped out of the room and back onto the front lawn. Standing on the grass, he let it all sink in. The house was so familiar, pictures on the mantel, the piano they’d had for years but he’d never heard played. He remembered having Thanksgiving dinner here when he was ten, two years after his father left.

  They sat at the table, Aunt Faye and his mother next to each other across from Susan and him. Uncle George at the head of the table, carving knife in hand, turkey in front of him. It was all smiles that day, the promise of another family holiday ahead of them. The sides had been passed, a full plate of mashed potatoes, carrots, peas, and green beans for everyone. Per tradition, the orange and lime Jell-Os sat untouched. Apparently, his great-grandmother passed the recipe down, but not the original taste. All that was left to pass was the bird. The play-by-play of a football game added an extra rhythm to the meal.

  It was a regular Norman Rockwell moment.

  Uncle George sank the knife into the turkey. He smiled as he got a whiff of the aroma and said, “Faye, I can tell already you’ve topped yourself.”

  Aunt Faye smiled back at him but didn’t say anything.

  Mom and Susan were engaged in an argument about blue jeans, but there wasn’t any anger in the argument. Mom was laughing.

  George turned to Donne and asked if he wanted white meat or dark meat.

  “Both,” Donne said.

  “Thattaboy.” He laughed. “You know, one day you’ll be doing this for your own family. And for us too, I hope.”

  “You think so?”

  “Think? I know it. Look at the way you take care of your mom and sister since your dad—Well, just look. You do a good job of it.”

  “Thanks, Uncle George.”

  “Remember that when you get older, okay? Remember moments like these.”

  “I will,” Donne said with a ten-year-old’s enthusiasm. “Family,” he said. “It means everything.”

  Donne nodded. At the time, he believed him.

  After dinner, George took him aside. “Remember what I said. Our family has been through a lot, even before you were born. And sometimes you’re going to have to fix what the people before you did wrong.”

  “What do you mean, Uncle George?”

  “There’s something I’m trying to put right. It might take a few years, but your aunt and I are going to fix it. Maybe I’ll even tell you about it one day.”

  The police sirens grew louder, snapping Donne back to the present. He felt his legs give out. Before today he hadn’t seen his mother since he left to spend a year at Villanova. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Faye and George. Now his mother was in a bed holding on to life and confusing him with her father. His aunt and uncle were dead, lying motionless on kitchen tiles.

  He tried to fight it down, and did, barely. He sat on the grass and waited.

  ***

  Susan Carter sat on her couch, glued to the TV. She wondered if this was how the families of 9/11 felt during those first few hours watching as their loved ones were trapped inside the two burning buildings. Hoping, praying there was a way out, some way they were still alive.

  No, she decided. They felt much worse. Everyone Susan knew was okay, no one was hurt, and no one was killed. It was just her husband’s business in ruins. And even then, they still had the restaurant in Montclair. The original Carter’s.

  The reporter on Channel 4 stood in front of two fire trucks, talking about an “all-too-familiar scene on the Upper East Side.” In between the trucks behind the reporter, Susan saw Franklin talking to a man in a suit. Franklin was hunched over and looked exhausted. She wondered what they were talking about. Why would terrorists blow up their restaurant with no one inside? Why hadn’t the FBI said anything yet?

  The news switched to a traffic report explaining when the bridges and tunnels would open again. All this because of her husband’s restaurant. Again, she came back to the question: Why? Things like this didn’t happen to her. At least, they didn’t before she met Franklin.

  The phone rang, startling her. She picked it up. It was Jackson, and she expected an update on Faye and George, to hear what they knew about her grandfather. That wasn’t what he told her.

  Jackson said that Faye and George were dead. Shot, he said. Murdered.

  She didn’t hear the rest, because she dropped the phone. Her entire body tingled and she felt herself racked with sobs so crippling she collapsed on the floor.

  Chapter 6

  When the cops showed up, they went through the routine of frisking, cuffing, and sitting Donne in the backseat of a cop car while they checked out his story. Going through it too many times before, he had hoped this part of his life was over when his private investigator’s license was revoked.

  Through the back window, Donne watched the first officer on the scene dry-heave on the front lawn. Probably a rookie,
never seen a murdered body before. In a few moments, two detectives would show up and do their thing, and a bigger Bergen County city would send a medical examiner or CSI guys or whatever they were called. Worst-case scenario, the county would send someone in.

  So he waited, watched as two plainclothers he didn’t recognize pulled up in a Chevy. The one in the pin-striped suit talked to the officer, and the one in a charcoal suit went through the front door while pulling on plastic gloves. Pinstripe followed Charcoal inside.

  Donne settled back into the leather seat.

  ***

  Pinstripe waited twenty minutes before he came out to talk to Donne. If there was a pool, Donne’s money would have been on having to wait half an hour. The cop must have had a date.

  He opened the back door of the car and crouched in front of Donne.

  “I’m Detective Iapicca,” he said. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, and with all the oil in it, Donne was surprised the hand came back dry. Then he produced a badge.

  “I’m Jackson Donne.” He couldn’t move his hands. They were cuffed behind him.

  Iapicca nodded. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Donne told him the entire story. Did not leave a detail out. He had learned the hard way that lying will only get you in more trouble.

  When Donne finished, Iapicca said, “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Well,” Donne said, choosing his words carefully, “it is what happened.” And you told me to tell you ‘what happened.’ ”

  “Let me ask you something. You know how many times I’ve interviewed witnesses?”

  “No. I’ve never met you before.”

  “Lots of times.”

  “I see.”

  “And, do you know how many times they’ve told me a ‘black guy’ did it?”

  “No idea.”

  “I don’t have the exact specifics, but I’d go with ninety percent.”

  “You don’t keep stats?”

  “Listen, all I’m saying is your story sounds a bit sketchy. Most of the time someone tells me it’s the black guy in gang colors, it turns out they’re lying. Gangs are not a problem in Rutherford, New Jersey.” Donne took a deep breath. “This town is right in between Passaic, Paterson, and Newark. Three cities where gangs are extremely prevalent. And you’re telling me it’s impossible to have a gang member come in and shoot my aunt and uncle.”

  “I’m saying it’s unlikely.”

  The charcoal-suited cop came out of the front door. He was on a cell phone.

  “Then what is likely?” Donne asked. “You did it.”

  Donne nodded. Time to shut up.

  “But,” he continued, “the time for that accusation will come later. Right now there’s really no evidence.” He flipped a business card on Donne’s lap. “The rookie over there is going to uncuff you and you’ll be free to go. Call me if you think of anything else.”

  He winked at Donne.

  “Or,” Iapicca said, “if you just want to turn yourself in.”

  ***

  That was the fucking shit, Carlos thought, walking down the street. Cesar and James were ahead of him, laughing. Cut school and just steal shit. Best day ever. Just fucking around, havin’ fun.

  “Yo, nigga,” James said, “you shoulda D-blocked that sign.”

  Carlos thought about the neon Budweiser sign. That would look tight in his room, next to the Ludacris poster, but nah, he couldn’t carry it. And the police always drove by the bar. Throwing the rocks to break the window was bad enough.

  “If five-oh shows up,” Cesar said, “just run. We get the hell out. They ain’t gonna catch us.”

  “Nah, yo,” Carlos said, looking over his shoulder. “Five-oh come by, walk. They ain’t gonna arrest anyone who walkin’. We ain’t do nothing wrong then.”

  Cesar started to laugh, but sure enough, they heard the sirens of a cop car. Carlos didn’t even flinch, just kept on walking. Cesar and James, though, they didn’t listen.

  James took off first, looking like he did when he ran track at school, arms tight to the body, knees up high. Cesar flailed, arms all over the place. You could tell the panic just by the way he ran.

  Carlos, though, did not hurry. Nothing bothered him. Especially not the cops.

  Cesar and James were a good block and a half ahead when the car blew by Carlos. It screeched to a halt in front of his two friends. Carlos laughed and turned the corner. Walked down the street toward the river. Passaic River smelled like shit, but it was better than walking toward a cop car.

  As he reached the bank of the river, he saw a big black Escalade pull off the curb back toward Route 3. Looked just like one of those cars on BET in the videos. He walked toward it, wondering if whoever was inside was somebody famous.

  The Escalade was long gone by the time Carlos reached the spot where it had been parked. He looked down at the tracks in the street, like he’d spun the wheels out. He wanted to walk down closer, but man, he just got these Air Forces and he didn’t want them to get all muddy.

  But something caught his eye reflecting in the light, down by the river. It was sticking out of the mud, stuck there like it had been tossed out the window. And he knew what it was.

  He decided it was worth getting his shoes muddy to get a better look.

  He reached down and pulled it out of the dirt to look at it. So much better than a fucking neon beer sign.

  Definitely a gun.

  Chapter 7

  I should be with my sister.

  Sitting in Parkway traffic, Donne pulled out his cell phone and called his job instead. He was supposed to be clocking in in an hour. There was no way he’d get there in time. And deep in his bones, he knew he wouldn’t be back there at all.

  His boss, Rick Manning, picked up. “I quit,” Donne said.

  “What? What are you talking about? You’re supposed to be here.”

  “I quit,” Donne said again. He thought about the check from Franklin Carter.

  “You can’t quit.”

  “I’m not coming in tonight. I have to take care of things. I won’t be in again.”

  “Why not? What happened?”

  Rick’s neck muscles were probably taut with anger. Donne didn’t hear what he said next. He hung up the phone.

  I should be with my sister.

  ***

  Two hours later, Donne was six beers deep at the Olde Towne Tavern. As Artie filled his pint glass with a seventh Bud, Donne’s mind spun through the list of dead that had surrounded his life. Their faces were blurry, as if they were faded into the distance and only the alcohol kept them around. He took the glass from Artie.

  Donne didn’t want them to leave, either.

  Artie watched him take a slug from the pint glass. Before Donne could put the glass to his lips again, Artie said, “All right, what’s the problem?”

  “I quit my job,” Donne said. Artie nodded.

  “My mother has Alzheimer’s. She’s dying.” He took a sip of beer. Artie said nothing. “My brother-in-law’s restaurant blew up.” Another sip. Still nothing.

  “My aunt and uncle were murdered and the cop at the scene thinks I did it.”

  Artie turned around and started to walk away from him. Donne finished off his beer and said, “Where are you going?”

  He stopped at the taps, took two more pint glasses and filled them. Then he found the bottle of Jack and two shot glasses.

  “We’re both going to have to drink.”

  He put the glasses down and started pouring the Jack Daniel’s. He tried to keep his face straight, but when he made eye contact with Donne, he broke into a huge grin and started laughing.

  “Man,” Artie said. “When the shit hits the fan for you, it really hits the fan.”

  After today, his neck tense, the buzz of the alcohol swirling through him, he couldn’t help himself. Donne laughed too.

  They did a shot, and toasted Donne’s aunt and uncle. “So, what happens tomorrow?” he asked.

&n
bsp; “I get back to work.”

  “Thought you said you quit.”

  Donne took a deep pull from the pint glass, draining half of it. The beer went down smooth. He was flying high. After the next beer, he wouldn’t feel anything until tomorrow morning.

  “I have a new job,” he said. “I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.”

  ***

  Franklin Carter needed to call his wife. He’d spent all day in the city, and his cell had been ringing nonstop. But he didn’t have time now. Special Agent Sam Draxton sat across the table from him. They were in the local Starbucks. Draxton was on his third cup. Carter bit into a black and white cookie.

  “So,” Draxton said. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Draxton took a sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving Carter. “You and I both know this isn’t terrorism.”

  The cookie suddenly tasted stale. He placed it on the napkin. “It isn’t?”

  “No. Terrorists want casualties. They’re not going to blow up a restaurant at three in the morning. So, what’s going on here?”

  “Why would I know?”

  The coffee shop was empty. No one wanted to be in the area. Franklin Carter had never seen the streets this empty. The silence in the neighborhood was eerie.

  Draxton’s cell phone rang. He answered and quickly said, “Yeah, you can tell ’em. And get the tunnels and bridges open.”

  He closed the phone and said, “We know things we can’t let on. We know this isn’t Al Qaeda or any of those organizations. They would have taken credit. So now we have to interview suspects.”

  “Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

  Draxton spread his hands. “I’m saying you probably know something.”

  “I don’t.”

  Now the agent nodded. “I’m sure you don’t. Let me ask you something. Are there people out there who dislike you?”

  “I’m sure there are people who aren’t happy with me. I’m sure someone didn’t like a dish that was served there. Customers are unhappy all the time.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  “What would you like me to say? I haven’t a clue what’s going on. I’m fucking tired and I want to go home to see my wife.”