An Empty Hell Read online

  “Are you Artie?” Herrick asked.

  The bartender nodded. “You do some checking up on me too?”

  “Not really. Someone told me your name in relation to Donne.”

  Artie closed his eyes. “I used to serve him beer. That was it.”

  One of the two guys gulped down his beer and signaled to Artie. He nodded in return and went to fill up a fresh pint glass. Herrick drank the rest of his ginger ale.

  Artie came back after delivering the fresh beer.

  “What’s it going to take to get you out of here quickly?” he asked.

  “I like this place.”

  “Thanks. But I really don’t want to be talking about Jackson anymore.” Artie put his hands in his pockets. “When all his crap went down, all sorts of people were in here day and night, and not to drink, just to talk. And, no offense, but you’ve only ordered a ginger ale.”

  Herrick nodded. “I’ll be quick and get the most important question out of the way. Do you know where he is?”

  “You think you’re the first to ask that?”

  “No, but if I didn’t and you did know, how dumb would I look?”

  “I can’t believe the cops haven’t tracked him down.” Artie poured himself a Coke from the fountain. Took a sip. “I don’t know where he is.”

  Herrick’s turn to nod. He pushed his empty glass to Artie, who refilled it.

  “Know anyone who might?”

  “His sister? Brother-in-law? Susan Carter is someone to talk to. Do you watch the news?” Artie grinned. “Jackson got involved in a lot of shit the past few years. Not just the senator stuff.”

  “I don’t have a Jackson Donne Google alert set up, if that’s what you mean. I was away in the desert. Only got back two years ago. I missed a lot of local stuff. Tell me about Jackson.”

  Artie said, “A year ago? Man, he had his shit together. He was going to get married. And then—well, you saw the news. But that wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been. He was a good guy who made a lot of bad decisions. Except he was trying to do the right thing. Just happened that when he did, stuff blew up.”

  Herrick laughed. Artie didn’t.

  “Not kidding.”

  Herrick cleared his throat. “Is there anyone else I could talk to? Anyone else who would know him?”

  Artie finished his Coke and checked out the two guys at the end of the bar. They were still nursing their beers.

  “This place gets busy at five. These two will sit here and drink maybe four beers until then. As soon as the Happy Hour crowd starts to filter in, they’ll leave. That’s what Jackson was like. Hated to be here when it got crowded. Always worried about running into someone from his old life. I mean, he’d hang out here late sometimes, but it irked him.”

  “His old life?”

  “The days on the force. He turned in a guy, Leo Carver, and the whole case sent him spiraling.”

  Herrick jotted Carver’s name down in the notes section of his iPhone.

  “Where’s Carver now?”

  Artie shrugged. “Prison? Not my thing, man. I don’t know.”

  Herrick wrote his name and number on a napkin. “If you think of something, call me. Don’t call the school. They hate that.”

  “Good luck this season,” Artie said.

  “We have a real good shot to win the Tournament of Champions.”

  Artie shook his head. “Not if you’re distracted by my friend you won’t.”

  Herrick dropped a couple of bucks on the bar for the drinks and left.

  HERRICK CALLED Sarah Cullen at St. Paul’s High School in Jersey City. The parkway was empty, so he probably had time, but it never hurt to check in with Sarah. When she answered, her voice rang through the speakers of his stereo. Herrick loved Bluetooth. He’d rather listen to Sarah’s voice than anything on the radio these days.

  “I’m might be late to practice. Can you tell the guys?”

  Sarah didn’t respond right away. Then, “It’s the third practice of the year.”

  “I know. And I’m not canceling it.”

  “You miss this and our boss is going to be pissed.”

  Herrick put more pressure on the gas pedal. “When we win state again and keep the doors open, he won’t be.”

  “I hear practice helps.”

  “I’ll be there. I just have a job to take care of first.”

  He crested a hill and came to a red light. Two kids who should have been in school were arguing on the corner. One was pointing toward the drug store parking lot behind them. Herrick remembered arguing with one of his players on the corner of the street. Pleading with him to go home. And taking him at his word.

  Then never seeing him again.

  Life on the street.

  The light turned green and Herrick passed the kids.

  “You have a case?” Sarah asked. It sounded like she bit the words off as she said them.

  Herrick said, “Something I can’t turn down.”

  “Can’t your assistants tell the boys?”

  “They like you.”

  “I don’t make them run suicides every afternoon.”

  “Good point.”

  Herrick crossed the Passaic River and started through Nutley. The GPS said he was fifteen minutes away from Montclair. He’d be back in time for practice.

  “Don’t be late.”

  “Thanks, Sarah.”

  She hung up and sports talk radio came back through the car speakers. Herrick should have had a drink at lunch.

  A QUICK iPhone Google search after leaving the bar sent Herrick to Montclair. Like Artie said, allegedly shooting a state senator wasn’t the only ruckus Donne had been involved in. A few years back, he’d worked a case that involved his sister and her restaurant mogul husband. Artie didn’t have their address, but Google did.

  Herrick parked the car on the curb and looked across the lawn. The “For Sale” sign had a SOLD tag on it. There was one car in the driveway, a Beamer. Its trunk was open and there were two cardboard boxes in it. Herrick waited. On the radio, Mike Francesa yelled at a Yankees fan who wanted to make a trade.

  The front door of the house—maybe better described as a brick mansion—opened and a man carrying another cardboard box sauntered out. He stopped, hefted the box again, and made his way to the car. Herrick got out and started across the lawn.

  The man looked in Herrick’s direction. It was Franklin Carter, whose picture had been prominently featured in the news article Herrick had Googled. He looked a bit older now, flecks of gray in his hair, some wrinkles along his neck. But it was a Long Island kind of old, relaxed and ready to take out the yacht for the weekend.

  “Mr. Carter?” Herrick called. “My name’s Matt Herrick. Can I ask you a question or two?”

  After putting the box in the trunk and slamming it shut, Carter said, “You with the media? I thought this was over with.”

  Herrick shook his head. “I’m a private investigator.”

  Carter leaned back against the trunk and crossed his arms. His left eye twitched. “What’s the matter? A year goes by and everyone else gives up?”

  Herrick shrugged. “I can only do what I’m hired to do.”

  “I’m just wrapping up packing. I have a long trip ahead of me. There really isn’t time for this.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Apartment in the city to drop this stuff off.”

  “Is your wife around?”

  Carter popped up off the trunk and began to walk to the driver’s side door. “She’s in Sacramento. Been there for almost a year now. You should really update your records. We opened a new restaurant out there and she’s been running it. Ah, you don’t care about that.”

  Herrick shook his head. “Not true at all. I’ll listen to you talk all day if you want. Are you two separated?”

  Grinning, Carter said, “Aren’t you forward? No. Now that the housing market is bouncing back, I was finally able to get rid of this place. I come out here on weekends to check up on t
he restaurants. Spend most of my time on the coast with her.”

  “What made you decide to open up a restaurant in California?”

  “Untapped market?” Carter spread his hands and exhaled. “That’s bullshit. We needed a reason to get out of New Jersey. Get away from all this nonsense. Susan couldn’t take it.”

  The sun ducked behind the trees across the street and the temperature noticeably cooled. Sunset was still nearly two hours away, but in November that didn’t matter. The world was a little darker.

  Herrick shrugged against the cold. “You haven’t heard from him, have you?”

  Now Carter laughed. “Jackson? Do you think he’s stupid?”

  “Wouldn’t have been able to hide for over a year if he was, I guess.”

  “He didn’t do it.” Carter zipped up his jacket. “At least Susan doesn’t think so. But after all the crap he’s been through, I think he just snapped. Bill Martin—Susan used to talk about Bill all the time when she talked about Jackson. Mentor, and then sent him the wrong way. Once Jackson turned everybody in, Martin couldn’t let it go. I’m sure he needled Jackson to the point of breaking.”

  Herrick tightened up. There were more guys Donne worked with? Possibly more targets for him. “Thanks, Mr. Carter. Only one more question.”

  Carter opened the door of the car. “I don’t know where he is, Mr. Herrick. Don’t have any idea where he would go. Probably Canada. They have good beer and snow up there. Jackson never liked beaches.”

  “When Susan talked about Jackson, did she ever mention who his boss was when he was on the force?”

  Carter nodded. “Leo Carver. Weird name. She only said it once. I think he’s in Rahway.”

  Herrick relaxed. Tough to kill a guy in prison. Maybe even tougher to get in to talk to him, though.

  PAYDAY.

  For the past year, Monday was Joe Tennant’s favorite day. It was payday. After Mario went through his profits for the previous week and then inventoried the work Tennant did, he counted out bills and passed them across the counter. Tennant never counted it, not in front of Mario. But he always shook Mario’s hand before he left.

  The fact that Tennant was able to find a reliable cash-only job was a miracle in itself. But Mario—a New York native—must have taken pity on Tennant’s Jersey accent and offered cash only. A gentle soul. Tennant didn’t ask if Mario paid the other employees of the Vermont Scenic Motel in cash. He did his job, took his money, paid for rent, groceries, and Heady Topper. And maybe a paperback novel, if there was any left over.

  After a weekend of chopping wood for the stove Mario’s restaurant used to cook pizzas, not to mention fixing two leaky sinks, a shower, and the heat in room 105, Tennant expected a decent payout. Maybe two novels this week. Or a second case of Heady? No way he’d be that lucky.

  Tennant pushed open the door to the office where the front desk was. Mario looked up and rubbed his bald head.

  “You’re just in time, Joe.”

  Tennant nodded, and reached into his pocket to retrieve the piece of paper he used to keep track of his work. Mario reached across the desk, took it, and looked it over.

  Nodding, he said, “Productive week.”

  “Well, your place is falling apart.” Tennant gave a short laugh.

  “Twenty-five years and eight months. Still here. Still packed every winter.”

  “Busy season coming soon.” Tennant looked over Mario’s shoulder and examined the two framed pictures of a woman posing at the top of a mountain. In one she wore a snowsuit and held ski poles. The other was taken from behind, with the woman halfway down the hill.

  Tennant looked at the pictures each week. He never asked about the woman. Mario never offered either, though he must have noticed the staring.

  “You going to get a cell phone come December, Joe?” Mario had begun counting cash on the desk, lining the bills up like he was going to play Solitaire with cards. Tennant tried not to count.

  “No. Not my style.”

  “Be worth it for you,” Mario said. “Any time something goes wrong, I could give you a call. Throw a little extra work your way. What else are you doing with your life?”

  “Reading. Drinking some Heady.” Trying not to focus on the past. Move forward.

  Mario pushed a stack of bills across the counter. Tennant picked it up, folded it in half, and pocketed it.

  Tennant looked at the picture of the skier one more time. He would ask one day.

  “Got any work for me today?” Tennant asked, returning his gaze to Mario.

  Mario wasn’t looking at him, however. His mouth had gone slack and he was looking over Tennant’s shoulder, unblinking.

  “Not today,” Mario said. His voice was far away somehow. “Maybe you need to walk away right now. Go out the back.”

  Tennant turned back toward the front door, and didn’t understand A black car had pulled into the lot. A tall, thin man in a black suit and long topcoat got out.

  “Walk away, Joe. Don’t run.” Mario’s voice was somewhere in the haze.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tennant’s insides were screaming at him to run. Something about Mario’s tone of voice. It caught him deep in the gut and set off the fight-or-flight instinct.

  “He’s not here for you, Joe.”

  Tennant looked back at Mario to see him still staring out the window, standing nearly at attention. His palms were flat on the counter.

  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he said. “I knew this would happen one day. But once I got up here, I just didn’t care.”

  “Come on, Mario. I can help.” He jammed his hands in his pockets.

  “You have your own problems. Go.” Mario’s face was ashen.

  “Thank you.” Tennant didn’t have any other words.

  “Remember. They never stop looking for you.”

  Tennant turned and walked past Mario, the echo of the words ringing in his brain. He cut through the back room. Another picture of the woman hung on the wall. Tennant ignored it and pushed the door open. Cold air slapped him in the face.

  He headed for the hill.

  As the ground inclined, Tennant took wider steps, still fighting the urge to run. None of them called after him. No one asked him to stop and wait. Most importantly, no one called him by his real name. The name he tried desperately to force out of his head.

  No one wanted Jackson Donne.

  Not today, anyway.

  The wind cut through Tennant like an icy knife. The trees rattled, and as the forest grew thicker along his walk, some of the branches gave up their final leaves. He had been hiding here in this cabin for a year now, confident no one would track him down.

  So confident, in fact, he was no longer armed.

  He’d gotten stupid. Complacent.

  What had Mario done that someone had tracked him down after all this time?

  Or worse, Tennant thought, when would they come for him?

  He’d followed his own case here and there, but never believed what was in the press. They needed to talk to him. One day they’d find him, but until then, all he could do was climb the hill.

  AFTER ADDING Carter’s contact information to his phone, Herrick left a message with Rahway State Penitentiary—which wasn’t called that anymore, but most New Jerseyans weren’t quick to change. He told them who he was, who he was looking for, and that he hoped to set up a meeting. As he pulled into St. Paul’s school parking lot near the gym, he still hadn’t heard back.

  He was a full three minutes early for practice.

  The bounce of basketballs off a parquet floor, along with a few “Hey, Coach” shouts, greeted him. Herrick told them to be ready in five minutes, after he got changed. Sarah Cullen gave him a short wave from the bleachers.

  Five minutes later, he emerged from the locker room clad in black shorts, a gray St. Paul’s T-shirt, and a whistle around his neck. Sarah leaned against the door, arms crossed, flashing a crooked smile. She filled her red blouse and black pencil sk
irt well. Her brown hair hung at her shoulders.

  “You’re on time.” She looked at her watch. “Basically.”

  “And you doubted me. Tsk, tsk.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Grow up.”

  “Drink later?”

  “Can’t. I have a date.”

  A wave rolled through Herrick’s chest. “On a Monday?”

  “You wanted to drink on a Monday.”

  Touché. “Have fun.” He hoped the words didn’t sound hollow.

  The reverberation of dribbling petered out. They were watching Sarah and Herrick talk. Herrick blew his whistle and called out for suicides.

  That elicited groans all around.

  “You should have listened to me,” Herrick said. “And kept shooting around.”

  “Hey,” Sarah said. “Are you going to have a good year? Lots of people rely on this team.”

  Herrick shook his head. “If I’m allowed to push them the way I need to, we’ll be fine.”

  Sarah nodded. “We’ll get that drink later this week.” She tapped him in the chest. “Pal.”

  Herrick watched her leave. When he turned around, the team hadn’t started their suicides yet. Instead, they hit him with a chorus of “oohs” and playful “damns.”

  They ran extra suicides.

  TWO HOURS later, Herrick dismissed the team. As the players packed up—some calling for a ride on their cell phones, others checking the bus schedule—Herrick checked his own messages. There was one from the prison. Herrick listened to it.

  “Mr. Herrick, thank you for your interest in our population. Unfortunately, I cannot facilitate a meeting between you and Mr. Carver, as he is no longer a prisoner here. He has been moved to Bethlehem Institution.”

  The speaker left a phone number.

  Herrick put the phone down and rubbed his chin. Leo Carver was in the nut house. That was unexpected.

  “Coach, you got a minute?”

  The sweat that glistened on Horace Chandler’s shaved head reminded Herrick he had to call the boosters and try to raise money to add showers to the locker room. Along with filling the scholarship pot. Herrick had a good track record of getting kids full rides to some big-time colleges, but not every kid made it. And not every kid could afford not to make it.