When One Man Dies Read online

  “Maybe,” I said. Acting tough to a bouncer usually gets you tossed out of the bar. But what the hell, we were already outside.

  “Why are you looking for Rex?”

  “I need to ask him a couple of questions.”

  He was standing about three feet away, towering over me, his arms crossed.

  “He in trouble?”

  “Should he be?”

  He suppressed a smile and said, “Damn. That guy gets scheduled for every Tuesday night. Then he calls up and switches with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Doesn’t say. Just tells me he’s going to this chick’s apartment in Madison. It’s up on Elm Street over by the university. Original name, Elm Street Apartments.”

  “Why did he tell you this?”

  The bouncer’s face went red. “He takes my shift on Thursday nights.”

  “Ah, do you go to the same place?” The bouncer shut his mouth.

  “Why don’t you go on Tuesdays and he can go on Thursdays?” The bouncer didn’t say anything.

  “Listen,” I said. “I don’t give a shit about you. Just him.”

  “The chick I like is only there on Thursdays and Sundays.” I nodded. “What apartment?”

  “Thirty-seven C.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “What made you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. When Rex called me, he didn’t sound happy. Something in his voice. Something wrong. I don’t trust the guy. Got a fucking temper like you wouldn’t believe. I saw him take this drunk one day, toss him into the parking lot, kick him in the head until we had to pull him off. I’m worried.”

  “What’s your name?” He hesitated.

  “In case I need to contact you.” He sighed. “Eddie Fredricks.”

  I opened my car door. “Do me a favor, Eddie.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Rex shows up tonight, don’t mention me.”

  I gave him my card, told him to call me if he thought of anything else. We shook hands and he went back toward Billy’s.

  I started my car, pulled out onto Madison Avenue. I forgot to get directions. I’d stop at the next gas station.

  ***

  I found the Elm Street Apartments, just across from Drew University, a small, private university in Madison. Brick buildings, quaint and relaxed, surrounded by a tall metal fence. I parked, sat for a few minutes. I wasn’t sure that Rex was in there, I didn’t know if I’d missed him, but if I just went up and knocked on the door I would blow my cover. Ah, the catch-22s of being a private investigator. One thing I did know, sitting here and doing nothing would only lead to boredom. So I dialed information, found the number for the nearest pizza place that delivered, and ordered a large pepperoni. I’d have to wait forty minutes.

  After thirty-five minutes of thumb twiddling, I got out of my car, crossed the street, and got a better view of the apartment door.

  A few minutes later the delivery guy pulled up. He stepped out of his dented, gray Corolla, carried the pizza to the apartment door. He rang the doorbell. He checked his watch as the door opened. Rex Hanover, bulging biceps, crew cut, and all, filled the doorway. The delivery guy was looking at his receipt and Hanover was shaking his head, probably saying he didn’t order a pizza. The delivery guy said a few words and Hanover shook his head some more. The delivery guy slumped his shoulders and turned back toward his car. The door to 37C closed behind him. The guy got back in his Corolla, his tires squealing as he pulled off the curb.

  Hanover was in there, but I wasn’t sure with whom. If I went on what Eddie said it was probably a woman. My next hope would be to catch Hanover saying good-bye on his way out. Hopefully it’d be a woman, or hell, even a guy, and Hanover would give the person a kiss, I’d take a picture and collect an easy paycheck. But as another hour passed, my hope for an easy evening and an easy paycheck slipped away.

  I decided standing on Elm was more comfortable than sitting.

  About eleven-forty, my bladder was throbbing, trying to get rid of the Heineken my liver hadn’t soaked up. I took a leak through the fence, not worrying about onlookers. A car hadn’t passed on the street in twenty-five minutes. When I zipped up and turned back, 37C’s door was open. Hanover stepped out of the doorway. He didn’t turn around to kiss anyone good-bye, no one was standing in the doorway, but he had a huge rolled-up carpet dragging behind him. Carpets are heavy, but the way he pulled it, struggled with it, my stomach flipped. He dragged it like it was a deadweight.

  I found my camera and scooted out of sight around the corner behind one of the brick posts of the fencing surrounding the university. I snapped two photos of Hanover with the carpet. Hanover moved slowly but confidently, as if no one was watching him and if they were, he didn’t give a damn. He would drag the carpet a few feet, then stop, and then drag it another few feet. He pulled the carpet all the way across Elm. I took another set of photos. I hoped the streetlights would be enough in the darkness, because I didn’t want to risk using the flash.

  A breeze was picking up, and cool sweat pooled on my neck. Hanover pulled the carpet in front of the high iron gate that opened to the university’s road. He dropped the carpet there, as if he wanted it to be found, turned, and walked back across the street, wiping his forehead. He returned to the apartment. I snapped a picture of him going around the corner to the rear of the building, and another of him behind the wheel of a maroon Honda CR-V pulling out of the driveway, making sure I had the license plate in my viewfinder.

  The car turned right onto Elm and disappeared down the road. I waited a few seconds, my knees stiff and my stomach tight. I knew I was going to go over to the rolled carpet and open it. I had an idea of what I was going to find. Once the CR-V was out of sight, I walked toward the carpet. The closer I got, I could see it wasn’t rolled that tightly, and it was already starting to unravel.

  By the time I was half a block away, I could see an arm peeking out from beneath the lime green fabric.

  Chapter 7

  “Hands in the fucking air!”

  I raised my hands sky-high. Said, “My name’s Jackson Donne. I’m a pri—”

  “Shut the fuck up! Keep your hands up!”

  Two cops had hopped out of a patrol car and apparently seen the arm protruding from the carpet first. The guns were unholstered immediately and trained on me. It wasn’t the most pleasant feeling, two gun barrels pointed in my direction.

  “Against the fence. Assume the position,” the taller one said.

  I did as I was told, saying, “I have a camera in my pocket and a Glock under my jacket.”

  The cop frisked me down, took the Glock, took the camera. “What are you doing with this?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he meant the gun or the camera.

  “I’m a private investigator. I was hired to follow someone, and he dropped the carpet off in front of the university here.”

  “Hands behind your back.”

  I followed his instructions and allowed him to handcuff me. “I have ID in my wallet,” I said.

  He took my wallet and opened it. “Okay. You are who you say you are. You’ll still have to wait for the detectives to get here.”

  He ushered me into the back of the car. Both cops went to take a closer look at the carpet. One of them looked like he was about to be sick. I peered harder and could see the face of a woman, someone I’d never seen before.

  ***

  I must have sat in the cop car for nearly an hour, watching an ambulance pull up, unmarked cop cars, photographers, an ME, and every other initial you could think of. Two detectives came over, one man, one woman, eyed me up. With the window closed, I couldn’t hear what they said when they turned to the two cops who had first happened on the scene. All I knew was the cops got into the car and pulled out on the street.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “The detectives want to talk to you, but they want to do it at the station,” one of the uniforms said.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”


  “Do I have a choice about this?” The cruiser stopped at a red light.

  I nodded at the unspoken answer. In the back of the car, sitting at the red light, I lawyered up and didn’t say another word until I saw him.

  ***

  Lester Russell showed up two hours later in a wrinkled shirt and tie. He was still rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his left hand, and held a cup of coffee with the other. His briefcase rested on the table I was sitting behind. There was another chair, empty, next to the table.

  “Have you charged my client?”

  Russell was talking to the two detectives I’d seen on the scene earlier in the evening. I’d since learned the woman was named Daniels and the male, Blanchett. They stood across from me looking at Russell.

  “No,” Daniels said. “We just thought it’d be easier to get some answers out of him down here rather than out on the street.”

  “According to my client, you didn’t even give him the option.”

  Blanchett shrugged. “He was already cuffed. We figured, what the hell?”

  He smiled, tried to play it off as a joke, but Russell jumped all over it.

  “We can sue. That’s all sorts of illegal.”

  “Listen, Mr. Russell—” Daniels said, giving Blanchett the evil eye. “Don’t ‘Listen’ me, Detective. I’m taking my client out of here.”

  Blanchett swore. He was probably in his midthirties, but the bags under his brown eyes aged him. His blonde hair was uncombed and hung over his forehead, with a cowlick in the back, as if he’d spent all day running his hands through it. He wore black pants and a white shirt. He opened his collar and loosened a red tie, which was frayed around the end.

  Daniels said, “If you take him out of here now, it’s just going to make us more suspicious. We can arrest him. Illegal concealed weapons charge. That won’t go over too well. We just want to ask him a few questions, get some answers, and we’ll overlook the gun. We understand you’re a private investigator, Mr. Donne?”

  Looking at me now, I saw she had black hair pulled back into a bun, and wore a crisp gray suit with pants. Her skin was dark, like caramel, and her eyes matched. High cheekbones, thin lips, she was more a model than a cop. It surprised me. Most cops wear the job on their face, in their clothes, in the way they hold themselves. She was professional.

  Daniels waited for me to speak. I didn’t say a word.

  “Not only can we give you a hard time about the gun, we can take away your license.”

  She kept looking at me. Blanchett rubbed his face. I stared at his frayed tie. Like he didn’t take care of his clothes. Like he had nothing else, no time to buy clothes, no time for anything but the job.

  “Let me consult my lawyer for a minute.” Daniels nodded.

  “In private?”

  Daniels sighed. Blanchett swore. Again.

  “Can’t believe this, Donne. You’re being stupid,” he said. “Ten minutes.”

  Daniels nodded toward the door, and Blanchett followed her out of the room. He slammed the door behind him. Russell looked at his watch.

  There was only silence in the room as Russell waited for me to speak. When I pushed my chair back, the squeak off the tiles echoed from the ceiling.

  “I want to talk to them,” I said.

  “Not a good idea,” Russell said, pulling out the other seat and sitting.

  “Why not? They have my camera, all they have to do is develop the film and they’ll see who did it. They’ll know it’s not me. It’s going to be suspicious if I don’t tell them what’s on it.”

  “They might find a way to use it against you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re cops. That’s what they do. What if this guy—this Rex guy—runs? If they can’t find him, these guys will turn back to you. I guarantee Daniels or Blanchett is on the phone with the New Brunswick Police Department right now getting background on you. You know the New Brunswick cops aren’t saying good things.”

  “More reason for me to be honest. If I’m up-front with them, they can stop wasting their time on me and find Hanover.”

  Russell leaned back in his chair. Letting his client talk to the police probably went against everything he stood for. “Suit yourself,” he said. He looked at his watch again. “They’ll be back in three minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Russell took his briefcase off the desk, put it on the floor next to his chair. “That thing with your friend. The one who got hit by the car.”

  “Gerry. Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have a chance to say so on the phone.”

  “Thanks.” I told him about Martin.

  Russell nodded. “They put him on that case, huh? Jesus.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Stay out of it.” Russell opened his briefcase, closed it again, as if his hands needed to be doing something. “If Martin’s involved, stay out of the whole damn thing.”

  I didn’t say anything. If Russell didn’t know any more about it than I had already told him, and I got myself into trouble, he could plan a defense better. Not that I was planning on getting into trouble. One night in an interrogation room was plenty for me.

  Russell could tell my answer anyway. “You play him wrong, he’ll put you away. My professional suggestion is let the police do their job.”

  I didn’t get a chance to respond. The door opened, Blanchett and Daniels came through. Blanchett had now taken his tie off, and his sleeves were rolled up. The missing tie said a lot about him. With all the swearing, the frustration he let show through, I respected him more than Daniels. He cared about the job.

  Daniels’s suit was neatly pressed, nothing out of place. She cared more about appearances, to me. She was great to look at, long legs, great hips, breasts pushing against her shirt and the jacket, but there was something about her. She put up a professional front; something came between her and me. Blanchett, the frayed tie, the out-of-place hair, he put it all in the job. All in the solution. He let it get to him; Daniels didn’t.

  They looked at me expectantly. “I want to talk,” I said.

  “You’re going to confess?” Blanchett asked.

  “I’m going to tell you who did it and what’s on my camera.”

  Daniels looked at Blanchett. He looked like he wanted to high-five her.

  “Are you cold, Mr. Donne? I am. Mind if I turn up the heat?” She moved toward a thermostat on the wall near the door.

  “You want to tape-record me, go ahead. Just don’t play games.” She smiled, reached out, and turned the thermostat.

  “So what’s on your camera, Mr. Donne?” Blanchett asked. “There’s a photo of a man named Rex Hanover. He’s dragging the carpet, the one that has the body in it, across the street to the university steps. He came from one of the apartments opposite.”

  “Rex Hanover? Gimme a break.” Daniels this time. “As far as I was told.”

  “Why were you there?” she asked.

  “My client thought he was cheating on her. She wanted me to find out how Hanover was spending his nights.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  I hesitated. It was a natural instinct of mine to protect my client, to use discretion, even though it was inevitable the police would find out now.

  “If your client wanted to find out if Hanover was cheating on her, we can narrow it down quickly. You know that,” Blanchett said. “So save us the trouble. It’s either a wife or a girlfriend. Just give us the name.”

  “Jen. His wife.”

  Daniels was writing in a small notebook. “How did you find Rex?” she asked.

  “I went to his job. Someone was covering for him. The guy told me Rex was sleeping around and was spending the night with his girlfriend.”

  “Where’d Hanover work?” Blanchett asked. “Billy’s. The bar?”

  “I know it well. What did Hanover do? Bartend?”

  “He was a bouncer. When you see the pictures, you’ll see the size of this guy.
He was huge.”

  “Gotta be to carry a body across the street,” Daniels said.

  “He dragged it,” I said. I wanted to be consistent. I wanted to keep my story straight and not give them a chance to say I was contradicting myself.

  Daniels smiled like she did when I told her it was okay to record me. “Okay,” she said, “we’re almost done here. But we’re going to have to keep your camera as evidence.”

  I’d figured as much. I was giving them Hanover on a platter. They asked me a few more questions—where Hanover lived, what I knew about the victim, things of that nature. They then found variations of the same questions to ask. I was consistent.

  All in all I got out pretty early. Lester Russell offered to give me a ride to my car. The clock on his dashboard said it was just after three in the morning.

  Chapter 8

  Bill Martin expected Gerry Figuroa’s house to smell worse than Donne’s office. Old men who lived on their own were rarely clean, and, he suspected, their ability to smell probably went even before hearing did.

  Climbing the stairs to the top floor of the two-family, he was surprised. The fresh scent of lemon wafted in the air, and everything was pretty much in place. As if Figuroa was rarely even here. He’d shown the landlord his badge to get in. Now, he could hear the landlord’s TV playing an old episode of Sanford and Son. Three-thirty in the morning and he was watching reruns. Go to bed, Martin thought. Get a real job.

  It wasn’t necessary to make the old man’s floor a crime scene. It was a hit-and-run, but Martin liked the idea of coming up here and getting a feel for the victim. To see how he lived. He liked knowing who he was investigating.

  And making it a crime scene would keep Donne from getting up here. And the idea of that little pissant being completely frustrated at the front door made Martin chuckle a bit to himself.

  He checked the kitchen first, wanting to know what the man ate, if anything. The fridge was bare; only a bottle of milk, some eggs, and a half-eaten leftover sandwich. He looked at the oven. It was spotless and looked like it had just been delivered from Fortunoff. He went through the drawers one by one: plates, glasses, paper towels, silverware, trays. Underneath the kitchen sink he saw a ton of coffee filters and even more boxes of matches.