Blind to Sin Page 3

  Aguilera offered Donne a seat. There was sweat sparkling off his bald head. The office had to be eighty degrees. The last thing Aguilera wanted was to cost the state a dollar more because he had to put the air conditioning on in April.

  “You are an interesting man, Mr. Donne,” Aguilera said.

  Donne didn’t respond. Aguilera was toying with him, but Donne could wait it out.

  “And I’ll be honest, you made the right friend.”

  Silence is your friend, Donne thought.

  Aguilera spread his hands. “You’re not going to say anything?”

  Donne took a breath. “Not until I can figure out what you mean.”

  Aguilera touched the side of his nose. “You’re smarter than I give you credit for. I thought you were just living off your friendship with Mr. Herrick.”

  Donne shrugged.

  “Well, maybe you are. It seems Mr. Herrick has powerful and wealthy friends.” Aguilera got up and walked over to the air conditioner. He turned it on. A gust of cold air washed over Donne. “And they are willing to make a large donation to the prison. Help us make things a lot better.”

  Donne rubbed his face.

  “This is all off the record, of course, Mr. Donne.”

  “What are you talking about?” Donne finally asked.

  Aguilera sat back behind his desk and grinned.

  “How would you like to be a free man?”

  HERRICK DROVE back to his Hoboken apartment and lucked into a parking spot on the street. He parallel parked, and then climbed the stairs to his abode. He tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. His chest filled with warmth.

  Sarah Cullen had Crosby, Stills and Nash going on the computer. He could see her behind the kitchen bar working at the stove. Her back was to him, and she was swaying gently to the music. Something Herrick couldn’t recall the title to, despite the familiar harmony. The smell of onions and spices filled the air.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She didn’t jump, instead turned toward him and grinned.

  “Tacos,” she said. “You want a margarita?”

  “No, thanks.” He flared his nose. “How many have you had so far?”

  She flipped him the bird. “Can you count?”

  Herrick tossed his keys on the table and sat on the couch. “You know, there’s probably something to be said about you fixing my dinner and a drink when I get home from work. Something about gender stereotypes.”

  “Or, I got home first and I like to cook.”

  Herrick leaned forward and rubbed his face with both hands. “Weird day.”

  “Kyrie’s workout was a bust?” Something sizzled on the stove and Sarah turned the knob down.

  Herrick shook his head. “That went great.”

  Crossing her arms, Sarah said, “Don’t make me wait.”

  So he told her. When he was done, she said, “Jesus Christ.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  The microwave timer went off, and the music streaming service shifted into an advertisement at the same time. Sarah went to the stove and started fixing plates. Herrick went over and closed the laptop.

  “When was the last time you saw your mom, Matt?”

  Herrick shrugged. “Before I went to Afghanistan. My parents are the reason I enlisted. I was orphaned and couldn’t afford college.”

  Sarah put the taco in front of him. The refried beans steamed on the plate.

  “You’re not an orphan. We’re talking right now about your mom and dad. They’re alive.”

  Herrick said, “I guess I’m being metaphorical.”

  Sarah kissed him on the cheek. “Wise man.”

  “When I was seventeen, my dad got arrested and my mom ran off with Elliot Cole. My dad’s old partner.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  Herrick sat back and ran his hand through his hair. The taco sat heavy in his stomach. Sarah was eating hers in a salad, and she nibbled on some lettuce.

  “Adrik is not funding my father’s release. He doesn’t even seem to be in the game anymore.”

  Sarah kept nibbling. “Why don’t you go talk to your father?”

  “He’s in solitary. He killed a guy, and they won’t let him see anyone.”

  “So why would they let him out?”

  Herrick rubbed his index finger and thumb together. “Cash money.”

  An hour later, the plates had been cleared. Herrick had the Mets on, but wasn’t really listening to them. Baseball wasn’t his thing, it was just background noise. The NBA playoffs weren’t starting until later, and Herrick’s mind was racing. He wouldn’t be able to focus on the roundball anyway.

  Sarah sat next to him with a glass of wine, a cabernet. She sipped it.

  “Gave up on the margaritas?”

  “Pain in the ass to make.”

  Herrick said, “I’m going to have to talk to Elliot.”

  Sarah took another sip of wine. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

  “I’m full of good ideas. Sometimes the one I need takes a while to get to the top.”

  Sarah didn’t respond.

  “I haven’t seen my mother in so long. I wonder if she and Elliot are still together.”

  Sarah leaned in and kissed him. “I’m sure you’ll find out.”

  Herrick’s heart beat a little faster, but it wasn’t from the kiss. He couldn’t find the words to continue the banter. Instead, he returned her kiss.

  They went to bed.

  TURNED OUT Elliot Cole wasn’t all that difficult to track down.

  It wasn’t because he had a Facebook or LinkedIn account. Nor was he listed in the phone book. In fact, Herrick didn’t even have to start asking around about him. Nope. All Matt Herrick had to do was just show up at his office the next morning, brew some coffee and take a minute to peruse the sports section.

  Because fifteen minutes after he did that, a man walked in with a gun.

  Herrick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of him. “Can I help you?”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  The guy held a revolver in his left hand. He was a big Latino guy in a tracksuit. His features didn’t register with Herrick, mostly because the gun took up most of his attention.

  “Where are we going?” Herrick asked.

  “Elliot Cole wants to see you.”

  Herrick grinned. “He could have called.”

  “Let’s go.” The guy waved the gun toward the door. The traffic on Washington ground by outside the window.

  Herrick stood up. “Listen, you don’t need that thing. I want to talk to Elliot too, and I’m not armed anyway. I hate guns.”

  “I’m doing my job.”

  Herrick walked around the desk and kept his hands where the gunman could see them. “Where are you parked?”

  “I’ll show you when we get outside.”

  Taking a breath, Herrick said, “Do you know where we are?”

  The gunman took a step forward. The gun was inches from Herrick’s chest. “Hoboken. You think I’m an idiot?”

  “I think you’re about a quarter mile from the PATH train. There are cops and jittery people going to work in Manhattan streaming through these streets. You walk outside with a gun out in the open, they will swarm around you. You’ll be in prison before either of us can blink.”

  The gunman’s nose squinched up and he gritted his teeth. His gun arm extended. Herrick grabbed him at the wrist and snapped it left. The gun clattered to the floor. Herrick kicked it away.

  “Okay. Now let’s go see Elliot Cole,” he said.

  Before the full name could come out of his mouth, the gunman reared back and punched Herrick in the face. Herrick fell backward and crashed into the desk. He felt a warm liquid spill from his nose. Using the back of his hand, he slowed the blood.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” the gunman said. “Now let’s go see Elliot Cole.”

  “Okay,” Herrick said. His nostril throbbed.

  After retrieving the gun, th
ey both left the office and found the gunman’s car a block away on Willow. No one called the cops.

  HERRICK’S NOSE stopped bleeding by the time they parked in Paterson. They were in the middle of a rundown neighborhood—broken glass on the ground, cars on blocks and a couple arguing. The road was otherwise empty, no pedestrians or traffic. The gunman told him to get out, and Herrick complied. No need to restart the blood.

  The gunman led him to a two-story walk-up and opened the door. Not the kind of neighborhood Herrick expected Cole to live in. He stepped through the door anyway.

  The inside was completely different. Shiny wood floors, art on the walls. The smell of Pinesol. The gunman pointed down the hallway. Herrick followed it. The gunman remained behind. Herrick snuck a peek at him. Leaning against the door, arms crossed, he appeared to be snarling.

  Herrick made it to the corner of the hallway and found Elliot Cole, complete with stark white hair, goatee and rail thin build, standing in the doorway. He wore khakis and a black polo shirt.

  “You didn’t have to threaten me, Elliot,” Herrick said.

  “You’ve been snooping around. Adrik told me. Manuel was doing his job.”

  “Why are you buying my father out of jail?” Herrick put his hands in his pockets.

  “Cut right to the chase, huh?”

  Herrick shrugged. “I need an answer. My dad took the fall for you and now you want him out? And Jackson Donne too?”

  “You get a lot of information quickly.”

  Cole stepped out of the way and let Herrick into the room. There was a bed, and next to it medical machines beeped and whirred. Herrick moved in closer and his heart rate tripled. His mother lay on the bed, sleeping.

  “She’s very sick, Matt. And I need your dad’s help to save her.”

  HERRICK APPROACHED the bed. The air smelled like old roses and rubber. It was the kind of odor that would imprint itself in Herrick’s brain. He could tell already—a whiff of rubber would likely send this day, this moment, crashing back to him.

  His mother was asleep. An IV trailed from her arm up to a bag hanging from a metal pole. Next to her was a heart rate monitor. It beeped in slow rhythm. Herrick tried to match his breathing to it.

  The body in the bed was certainly his mother, but it’d aged ten years. The familiar blonde in her hair was now fading, and she was showing gray at her roots. There were lines on her face where there hadn’t been before. She was straw thin. Herrick reached out to touch her.

  “Don’t wake her,” Cole said. “She just had surgery and she’s going through chemo. She needs her rest.”

  Herrick pulled his hand away and turned back.

  “She didn’t sleep last night. I told her about your father.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Cancer. Stage four in her lung. But we’re waiting on results of the segmentectomy tests. We don’t know if it’s spread yet. This is her second round of treatment.”

  Herrick put his hands in his pockets. “Why don’t you take her to a hospital? Sloan Kettering?”

  Cole tilted his head toward the hallway. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

  They walked down the hall. Manuel’s hulking figure shaded some of the sunlight that seeped in. Herrick nodded in his direction. The nod wasn’t returned.

  Inside the kitchen, Herrick took a seat at a bare wooden table. The rubber and rose smell faded, replaced by coffee and dish soap. Cole poured himself a cup and then offered one to Herrick.

  “Have orange juice?” He didn’t want to get jittery.

  “This isn’t a hotel,” Cole said, but then found a carton and poured a glass full.

  “It’s been a long time, Elliot.”

  “Not long enough. I wish we didn’t have to talk.”

  Herrick took a breath and stared at the glass Cole had placed in front of him. He tried to remember the last time—maybe the only time—he and Cole had spent alone together. A time without Adrik or his parents around. Cole wasn’t even his babysitter. There was only one moment that came to him.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Lattieri Park,” Herrick said.

  “That fucking day.” Cole chuckled. But the grin quickly faded. “Your parents were on the outs with me then. Can’t remember why I pissed them off. I think our heists were getting more and more dangerous. But they left me to babysit you. That day.”

  “I thought you might remember. I beat your ass at HORSE.” Herrick took a pull of juice.

  “Who didn’t you beat?” Cole tapped his fingers on the countertop.

  “Why are you buying my father out of prison?”

  Cole shook his head. “He’s going to help.”

  “Help with what?”

  Cole shook his head. “You’re going to help too. But it is your dad’s job to tell you. Not mine.”

  Herrick took another drink of the orange juice. Too pulpy.

  “You’re going to walk away from me and wait to hear from your dad. If you care about your mother, you’re going to forget you even saw us. Let your father walk from prison and then help him.”

  “I don’t even know what it is.”

  “It’s better that way.”

  “Plausible deniability?” Herrick tried.

  They sat for a few minutes. Herrick drank his orange juice and waited for Cole to fill in the blanks. Cole let his coffee sit and watched the steam float away from it.

  Finally, Herrick said, “What about Jackson Donne?”

  Cole sat back and spread his hands. His cheeks flushed.

  “What about him?”

  “You’re buying him out too.”

  Cole stood up from the table and leaned against the counter. The guy liked to lean.

  “You know more than I thought you did.”

  Herrick nodded. “Might as well tell me everything.”

  Cole grinned. “Go home, Matt. Go coach your team.”

  “It’s the off-season, I’m bored.”

  “Work out Irving. Or go sleep with your girlfriend. Then wait for the news from your father.” The words were sharp.

  “I don’t want to see him again. Ever again.”

  Herrick’s chest burned, and the fire rose up his throat into his face. He counted to ten, forcing himself to stay in his seat.

  “You know a lot too.”

  Cole took a breath. “Your father,” he said. “Your father forced me to get Donne out too. I’m not happy about it.”

  Herrick didn’t say anything.

  Manuel came into the kitchen, glared at Herrick and then turned his attention to Cole.

  “She’s up,” he said.

  Herrick stood up. “I want to see her.”

  Cole said, “Get him out of here. Be gentle. Somewhat.” Then to Herrick, “You were never here.”

  Before Herrick could make a move, Manuel grabbed him by the collar and tugged. Herrick’s feet went out from underneath him and he felt his momentum shift and gravity take hold. Manuel silently dragged him down the hall to the doorway, Herrick swatting at the big man’s paw the entire time.

  His struggle was to no avail and he found himself back in the backseat of Manuel’s car.

  Forty-five minutes later, he was alone on Washington Street in Hoboken.

  JACKSON DONNE sat on his cot and stared at the wall. He wondered if Kenneth was doing the same thing in solitary.

  They were getting out.

  Tomorrow.

  But, the funny thing was, Donne didn’t want to leave. It was his fault he was here in the first place, pleading guilty to murder. It was his penance. And other than being nearly beaten to death the first six months after he’d gotten here, it’d been pleasant.

  He leaned back on his cot and fell asleep. That was the one thing he was able to do here no matter what. Sleep.

  The past few years on the outside, it never came easily.

  THEY PROCESSED Donne rather easily the next morning. He didn’t have many items with him—most of his stuff was still in Vermont or thrown out when
everyone thought he had killed a state senator. It’d been that kind of stretch for Donne. He wasn’t supposed to see daylight for ten years.

  But now he stepped out into the asphalt parking lot, the spring sun shining down and nearly blinding him. He used his right hand to shade his eyes and saw Kenneth Herrick leaning against a cab. He smiled at Donne and gave a little wave. Donne walked over to him.

  “So, this is a bit unexpected, huh?” Herrick stuck out his hand.

  Donne took it. “This isn’t right, Kenneth.”

  Kenneth Herrick shrugged. “I told my friend I wasn’t leaving without you. Come on, the meter’s been running for about twenty minutes.”

  He pulled open the back door to the cab and got in. Donne walked around to the other side and did the same.

  “What’s this about?” Donne asked.

  Kenneth shook his head. The driver of the cab pulled out onto Woodbridge Road. They didn’t speak in the car.

  An hour later, they pulled into a parking lot on the edge of West Orange. The parking lot was for a legendary pizza place known as the Star Tavern. Kenneth smiled like it was Christmas morning.

  “Come on,” he said to Donne. “I’ve been waiting years for this.”

  He paid the cab driver with a stack of bills he pulled from a white postage envelope.

  They went inside. The place was basically a long bar with tables scattered throughout and a few booths up against the opposite wall. They took a corner booth. Kenneth ordered an iced tea. Donne ordered a Flounder Genevieve IPA. Local beer, according to the waitress.

  And the first beer he’d had in over a year.

  When the waitress sat it down in front of him, Donne watched the sweat drip from the pint glass and pool in a little circle around the bottom rim. He counted to ten before taking a sip. When he did, the hops and malt washed over him, and he felt something unlock between his shoulder blades. His taste buds must have gone soft in prison, because the hops were extremely bitter and had lost some of their citrus notes.