An Empty Hell Page 4

  Not Horace Chandler, though. He had Duke written all over him—literally. Duke had sent him about three pairs of warm-ups and ten T-shirts. If Coach K wasn’t going to land him, he was at least going to make him a walking billboard.

  “What’s up?” Herrick asked, tossing him a towel.

  Chandler wiped the top of his head, then sniffled. “We gonna be good this year?”

  Jesus. Everyone is worried about this.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Herrick smiled. “What have I always told you guys?”

  Chandler shook his head. “Not what I meant, Coach. I mean after—” He paused and looked at his shoe. “Last year, what you told us about Afghanistan. Are we gonna be good? Do we gotta worry about you?”

  Herrick took a deep breath and then sat down on one of the bleachers. Chandler didn’t sit until Herrick patted the seat next to him. Chandler threw the towel down and sat on it. Herrick hoped the kid didn’t see the slight tremor in his eye.

  “What happened in Afghanistan happened a long time ago. I did it to save my friends and to save myself. It doesn’t affect how I deal with everyday life. Before I told you, would you have known?”

  “Nah.”

  “Meanwhile, I’m just the coach. You’re my leader. My best player. I have to count on you.”

  Chandler looked up.

  “You and Corey are my seniors. It’s your job to get everyone through practice, keep their chins up and keep them focused on the team and the games.”

  Across the court, Dan Faber was shooting threes. A freshman point guard who was pushing for a much bigger role than Herrick had planned on when he put this team together.

  “I don’t know if we can do that, Coach. The guys are—”

  Herrick held up a hand. “That’s fine. Maybe this is a lost year. I thought my Afghanistan story would motivate you. Guess not. It’s no problem. I’ll be here next year and the year after that. You have the world in front of you, Horace. You’ve seen the coaches sniffing around. Offering you scholarships. And you want to wait until May to sign. That means if you—and the team—have a big year you can go anywhere you want. But you’ve got to focus.”

  Chandler nodded.

  “I know, Coach. I know.”

  “You have a problem with something I do, talk to Corey. Talk to me,” Herrick said, and then tilted his head across the court. “But don’t let someone like him see it. Dan’s got to learn. So does the rest of the team. And they’ll learn from you.”

  Herrick held out his hand and Chandler clasped it. After the handshake, Horace Chandler left. And Herrick had some visiting hours to check on. He stood up and gathered his belongings.

  “Come on, Dan. Time to pack up,” he yelled. “I got work to do.”

  HERRICK WAS back on the road the next morning at 9 a.m. He’d spent the previous evening not out drinking—as he’d suggested to Sarah—but instead, researching. The Private Investigator’s best friend was always Google. And some other databases the average Joe didn’t know about.

  Bethlehem Institution was out Route 78 near the Pennsylvania border. Before making any more moves, he wanted to talk to Carver and get a feel for Donne when he was still on the force. If Donne had lost it and started murdering his old colleagues, maybe something from his past would lead to his hiding spot.

  It was a long shot, but info on Donne was hard to come by. The evidence from the senator’s shooting was still under lock and key. Most of those involved were dead. No, Herrick was going to have to dig deeper and look further back into the past.

  The lobby of Bethlehem Institution reminded Herrick of an old folks’ home. There were couches which were a bit worn, and tables with day-old flowers in vases on them. The scent of bleach and Pledge hung in the air. People sitting on the couches ignored making eye contact with everyone else, instead focusing on their phones, or—in the case of one older gentleman—a Robert Crais novel. There was a reception desk to the left and a long hallway ahead of him. Herrick could hear mumbled conversations, some beeping machines, and the echo of someone screaming. No wonder no one wanted to make eye contact with anyone else.

  A woman with dyed red hair, too much mascara, and a cigarette voice helmed the waiting desk at Bethlehem. She asked him who he wanted to see and Herrick informed her. The woman frowned.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Herrick looked at his watch, making a show of it. “It’s visiting hours.”

  The receptionist rested her chin on her fist. “Uh-huh.”

  Herrick took out his wallet, and then his private investigator’s license and handed it to her. She glanced over it, then handed it back.

  “Oh. Okay. Let me get you in to see the former prisoner lickity-split. Not a problem, sir.” She turned and went back to her computer.

  It shouldn’t have, but it took Herrick a second. Then he sighed. “What do you need me to do?”

  Without turning, she said, “If you need or would like to see Mr. Carver, you need to be a family member with a photo ID. Otherwise, I need written permission from a law officer.”

  “So you’re the school nurse now?”

  The woman didn’t chuckle or glare back at him. She just kept her eyes on the screen. Herrick’s skin felt warm.

  He pulled his iPhone and dialed. Working as a private investigator out of Hoboken, New Jersey—a city one square mile in size—and the head coach of a top high school basketball team, you get to know a lot of the cops in the area. From beat cops to the homicide guys, they all check in for one reason or another. Most of them to figure out if their alma mater is going to land their favorite local player. Herrick would feed them nuggets of information here or there when he could.

  Now it was time to call in a favor.

  Homicide cops in the area were county cops; they didn’t only work for a city. A letter with a county header on it might get a little more respect than a Hoboken one.

  “Tell me good news,” Wally Sandor said when he picked up. “Tell me Conrad is going to ’Cuse.”

  Conrad Jenkins, a junior small forward who been watched by Jim Boeheim’s minions from the day he set foot on St. Paul’s campus. Rutgers had been watching him too, hoping to get an early commitment. The Rutgers coaches didn’t know Jenkins’ favorite color was orange. They actually thought they had a shot.

  “He hasn’t decided yet. Coaches have been around, though. I’ll let you know.”

  “He better not freaking go to Rutgers,” Sandor said. “I mean come on. Rutgers? They haven’t done anything in— How long has it been since they did something?”

  Herrick took a short breath, making sure Sandor was done. “I don’t know, Wally. Kid hasn’t made a choice yet.”

  “It’s those goddamn AAU guys.”

  “Yeah. That’s the problem.” Before Sandor could respond to the sarcasm, Herrick said, “I need a favor. Can you write Bethlehem Institution a letter which would allow me to speak with Leo Carver?”

  “Who is Leo Carver?”

  Herrick didn’t know how honestly he should answer that question. If he gave away too much information, Wally Sandor was the kind of guy who’d pass that along to some cops who’d give him trouble. If he gave Sandor nothing, he wasn’t getting the letter.

  “A con who’s been moved out of the penitentiary. Has to do with a case I’m working on.”

  There was silence for a beat. Then, “What case?”

  “Conrad is taking an official to ’Cuse next weekend. I’d bet he likes it up there. Keep it under your hat. Rutgers has no shot.”

  Sandor laughed. “That is great news. When do you need the letter by?”

  “Can you fax it to this number?” Herrick read it off a business card at the desk as the receptionist stared at him. “In the next ten minutes?”

  Sandor agreed and Herrick hung up.

  “I can get stuff done. Once that letter comes through, I expect to be talking to Mr. Carver.” He sounded so damned smug. Act like you’ve been there before, he reminded himself.

>   Always coaching.

  The receptionist huffed and turned back to her computer again. She was playing FarmVille.

  Herrick waited.

  Nine minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, Herrick heard a phone ringing behind the desk. The receptionist looked up, and then turned her head to the fax machine. She huffed and then caught Herrick’s eye. He grinned. The machine rattled, hummed, and buzzed as it spit out paper. She caught the printing and read it over. She shook her head and Herrick’s smile widened.

  “I’ll call the doctor,” she said. “You can speak with her, and she’ll take you to see Mr. Carver.”

  THE DOCTOR—a woman with glasses, white coat, and ponytail—told Herrick all the rules. Do not give anything to the patient. Do not agitate the patient. If the patient gets upset back off and press the red button on the wall. The doctor will be right outside the door if you need help.

  “He’s very easygoing, Mr. Herrick,” she said as she turned the door handle. “We’ve had no trouble. I’d prefer you didn’t start any.”

  Herrick grinned. “You can trust me. I don’t like upsetting anyone.”

  “I’m sure.” She blinked. “Does Ms. Pentag at the front desk know that?”

  The doctor opened the door before Herrick could answer. He stepped through. It clicked shut behind him.

  A man sat on his perfectly made bed. The top of his head was full of matted silver hair. Herrick couldn’t see his face, as it was hidden behind a newspaper folded in quarters. Herrick could hear a scratching sound and the paper shook slightly. The man wore pink scrubs with Nike sneakers. His knees bounced, and as they did the bed creaked.

  Herrick cleared his throat. The man didn’t move.

  “Mr. Carver?” Herrick asked.

  Still nothing.

  Maybe he was catatonic. Other than whatever he was doing to the newspaper. All that work for someone who couldn’t speak.

  Herrick put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. The room was bare, tan-painted walls, an empty bookcase, a small coffee table, and a red throw carpet covering tiles.

  Soon, the scratching stopped. Carver looked up from the paper, showing eyes younger than his hair gave away. No wrinkles, smooth skin, and sharp gray eyes.

  “Five letter word. Sesame Street dweller. Any idea?”

  Herrick didn’t hesitate. “Oscar?”

  Carver went back to the paper, licked his lips, and wrote in the word. When he was done, he put the paper flat on the bed. He ran a hand over it, smoothing it out, then laid his pen on top.

  “I should have known that.” Carver crossed his arms. “It’s been too long. My kids are in their late twenties and early thirties. No grandkids. I don’t get to watch PBS here anyway. I’m sorry for ignoring you, but I need to finish these things when I start them.”

  “That was the last clue?”

  Carver shook his head. “Just the across.” He looked down at the newspaper, then back up again. “How can I help you?”

  “Jackson Donne,” Herrick said.

  Carver didn’t react, didn’t even flinch at the name. “That’s a name from a long time ago.”

  “My name is Matt Herrick. I’m a private investigator and I’ve been hired to find him. Track him down.”

  “He’s missing?”

  “You don’t get the news in here? You have a newspaper.”

  Carver patted the paper again. “Only the crossword. It’s all they let me have in here. They’re very uncivilized.”

  “You’re missing some great snarky headlines these days.”

  Herrick filled Carver in on the state senator stuff. That Bill Martin was dead and Jackson Donne was on the run. Herrick thought Carver might have flinched at the Bill Martin part. He couldn’t confirm it, though.

  “That is a shame,” Carver said. “But it is not a reason for you to be here.”

  Herrick nodded. “That’s true. I’m kind of going a roundabout way through my story. But I’ve been told not to upset you.”

  Holding up a hand, Carver said, “I’m a grown man.”

  “The real reason I’m here is people are dying. Two of your former men when you ran the Narc Division in New Brunswick were murdered. My client is worried. Alex Robinson. Do you remember Alex?”

  Carver said, “Yes.”

  Herrick hadn’t realized he was pacing. Back and forth, the throw carpet soft under his shoes, and the tiles slippery.

  “Alex thinks it’s Mr. Donne who is coming after them. A final act of revenge now that Martin is gone.”

  Carver chewed his lip. “And why are you telling me this?”

  “Two reasons,” Herrick said. He stopped pacing. “One: I think you should be concerned. You probably should ask for some added security. Don’t tell them why, but—”

  “Don’t tell them why? They already think I’m insane.” Carver leaned back on the bed, holding himself up by his elbows. He stared at the ceiling. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s not easy to get in here. Especially not with a weapon.”

  “Next,” Herrick said, pushing forward, “I was curious if you had any idea where he’d go to hide out.”

  The back and forth was easygoing, and Carver didn’t appear flustered. In fact, Herrick thought, he was cooler than he’d imagined. When the doctor took him to this room, there were at least three meltdowns going on in the hallway. One patient was screaming for no reason. Another had her fingers jammed in her mouth, biting hard on her knuckles as tears streamed down her cheeks. A third was rocking back and forth, mumbling over and over. But Carver seemed to be in complete control, other than the occasional quick glances at the newspaper, as if making sure the unanswered parts of the puzzle were still blank.

  “How long has Mr. Donne been on the run?” A smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “Over a year.”

  Carver nodded. “I’ve not thought about Mr. Donne in quite some time, but the fact that the police force hasn’t caught up with him yet tells me they don’t truly care to find him. And after the assassination of a state senator, that seems somewhat odd, don’t you think?”

  Herrick didn’t give an answer. “Anything you can help with would be great.”

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Matt Herrick.”

  “Matt, Jackson Donne means nothing to me. If he’s going to make an attempt on my life, let him come. He won’t get through. An attempt on my life doesn’t make any sense, though. Not really. He’s the one who put me away. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Alex Robinson thinks he snapped.”

  Carver shook his head. “People don’t just snap like that.”

  Herrick avoided an easy joke. “What do you think is going on, then?”

  “I have to get back to my crossword puzzle. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. I appreciate the warning, though.”

  Carver stood up and walked past Herrick to the door. As he passed, Herrick could see the long scar against the width of his neck. Carver knocked on the door. The doctor opened it.

  Carver turned back to Herrick.

  “We’re done here, Matt. But I appreciate the visit.”

  HERRICK AND the doctor—her name was Rettig, according to her tag—walked back toward the waiting room.

  “So,” Herrick said. “Why is he here?”

  Rettig stopped and checked a patient’s chart. The patient was lying on a bed with wheels. It was pushed against the wall. The patient appeared to be sleeping. She put the chart back and faced Herrick.

  “I don’t mean diagnosis or anything like that,” Herrick said. “I mean, he was in prison and then he was moved here.”

  “Diagnosis would be why he’d be moved here.” Rettig adjusted her glasses and then scratched her nose.

  Herrick shrugged. “Usually.”

  She took a deep breath. “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Hmph. He tells everyone.” They started walking again. “It’s not really public knowledge, I never saw
a news story on it, but a lot of the cops that come in here—they heard it.”

  Herrick waited, running some guesses through his brain. None of them passed the smell test.

  “Hurricane Sandy,” Rettig said.

  That didn’t even come up in Herrick’s thoughts. He nodded for her to go on.

  “The story goes like this,” she said. “The night of Hurricane Sandy, half the state lost electricity, didn’t they? Two years ago, I lived in western Pennsylvania, so I can only go on what he says.”

  Herrick nodded. “Pretty much what Restore the Shore was all about, yeah. Electricity was the least of our problems.”

  That wasn’t exactly true, but it sounded good in Herrick’s head.

  “Well, our friend in there says the electricity went out in his prison, and the generators were flooded by all the rain. And according to him, when that happens, all the cells open. They’re run on timers, so he said it all got frazzled and all the doors popped.”

  “Sounds like an urban legend.”

  Rettig shrugged.

  They were in the lobby now. It wasn’t as crowded. Only two people playing on their iPhones. The Crais fan was gone.

  “Anyway, the doors pop and ninety percent of the inmates storm the guards. They riot. But the other ten percent, they track down Mr. Carver. They knew he was a cop and put a bunch of people away. So they beat him to within an inch of his life. He ends up in intensive care and his lawyer starts playing up an insanity card. Gets him moved here after a year and a half of arguing. Either he was crazy and it never happened—which is the prison’s official story—or his life was in jeopardy and he couldn’t be in that prison anymore.”

  “So, he’s not crazy?”

  Rettig shrugged. “That would be getting into his diagnosis, wouldn’t it? I do know the higher-ups in the penitentiary swear this never happened.”

  Herrick stuck out his hand. She shook it. “If I have any questions,” Herrick said.

  “You can call, but I might not be able to tell you anything.”

  “I think you already told me plenty.”

  Doctor Rettig took a business card out of her pocket and handed it over. Herrick took it and noted her first name was Natalie. He put the card in his wallet.