When One Man Dies Page 5

  I nodded toward the tube. “What’s going on up there?”

  “They raised that terror level thing again.” Artie didn’t even look at the screen.

  “Any particular reason?”

  Artie found two mugs behind the counter and blew into them. “Best way to get the dust out,” Gerry used to say. Artie poured some steaming coffee, went digging. Came up with some half and half and sugar. “Nonspecific credible threats.”

  “The government at work. Damn fine as usual.”

  Artie found a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. Poured some into one of the half-full mugs and nodded at me. “Want a nip?”

  I shook my head.

  “Suit yourself.” He pushed my mug toward me.

  “So, you gonna tell me why you spent last night with the Madison cops? Did it have to do with Gerry?” Artie took a sip, flinched, tasting the bitter end of the whiskey.

  I looked around. “Tracy didn’t show up?”

  “She’ll be here.”

  I tapped a rhythm on the bar top. “You really want to know about last night?”

  Artie nodded. I told him about the Hanovers, the body in the carpet, and my interrogation. Then I told him about staying up and drinking scotch with Hanover’s wife. Artie stopped me there.

  “You took another job?”

  “It’s how I make a living.”

  “Fuck that. What about your friend? Your dead friend?”

  “What’s the problem here, Artie?”

  Artie downed the rest of his drink. The bar had a mist to it. The smell of musk and wood chips was thick, and it seemed like they had a physical form as dust motes floated between Artie and me, making his image cloudy.

  “The problem is you spent last night in a police station caught up in a murder investigation. You should be trying to find out what happened to Gerry. Your friend and my friend.”

  I finished my coffee, rested the mug on the bar. “I intend to do both.”

  “Yeah? How do you ‘intend’ to do that?” The words melted from his mouth. “You’ll spend all your time searching for someone who’s missing. Meanwhile your friend is dead, and it doesn’t matter who killed him.”

  “Did you drink before I got here, Artie?”

  “Fuck you. I can be pissed without drinking.” He threw the towel he used to clean the bar at me. “Asshole.”

  I leaned across the bar, grabbed Artie by the shirt, and pulled him close to me. We were nose to nose. “Don’t ever tell me that I don’t care about Gerry. I’ll find out what happened to him. But Bill Martin’s watching my ass and he’ll make it hard for me to do anything. If I’m working two cases, it’ll give me some leeway. Now, Mr. Bartender, maybe you need to lay off the booze.”

  I pushed Artie away from me. He stumbled and then gained his balance. Coughed into his hand and seemed to regain some of his composure. “I remember when I used to have to tell you that,” he said. His words slurred a little, but at least he was thinking straight.

  Behind me, sunlight flooded into the place. I turned to see a woman in the doorway. She moved carefully, as if she was working a crime scene and didn’t want to disturb anything. She crossed the room to the bar and had a seat on the stool next to me. Dropped a copy of the Star-Ledger on the table.

  She gave both of us a tight smile. “I’m interrupting something?” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “I can come back.”

  “Nah,” Artie said. “You’re fine. Jackson, you remember Tracy Boland.”

  I said yes. “Cool.”

  “You want anything?” he asked. “This early?”

  “Have something. Make Artie useful.”

  “He speaks,” she said. “How are you, Jackson?”

  “I’ve been better,” I said.

  “Well, you look a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

  Last time she saw me, I was coked out of my mind. So was she. “Thanks,” I said. “Have you started making the arrangements for Gerry?”

  Artie put a cup in front of her. I hoped it wasn’t filled with Jack. “Working on it,” she said. “I’m hoping to have the wake on Wednesday.”

  “Where?”

  “Place on Milltown Road in East Brunswick. What was the name of that home, Artie?”

  Artie laughed. “Why? It’s not like he’ll show up.”

  I kept quiet, let Artie have his moment. Tracy arched her eyebrows at me. I ignored her and flipped the paper open. There was an article about last night’s murder. According to the third paragraph, the dead woman’s name was Diane Peterson.

  Artie must have rethought what he said, because he opened his mouth again. His voice was sullen. “Rinaldi’s Funeral Home.”

  “That’s right. Rinaldi’s. I have an appointment with the funeral director this afternoon,” Tracy said.

  “What time?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  I checked my watch. It was nearing noon. If I headed back to my office to make some phone calls regarding the Hanovers, I could be done in time to give Tracy a ride.

  “Artie, you opening the bar tonight?” He nodded.

  “Cool. Tracy, do you want me to give you a ride to the home?”

  “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

  “It’s a date, then,” I said. “Yeah.” She laughed. “A date.”

  “Sounds good. Meet you at Gerry’s quarter after three?”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Chapter 12

  My office was as organized as it could be. There was a filing cabinet with alphabetized copies of the contracts of my former clients pushed into the corner near the window. There were two chairs facing the desk, high wooden backs to the door with the glass window. To the left of the desk, pushed against the far wall was an end table on top of which was the all-important coffeemaker, filters, Styrofoam cups, and sugar. Next to that was a minifridge where I kept cream, milk, and a few beers for special occasions or boredom.

  Early afternoon, sitting behind the desk, I flipped through Hanover’s address book. Best to go in alphabetical order. While dialing I half listened to classic rock on the radio. The first two numbers turned up answering machines, and I left polite messages explaining who had hired me and what I was doing. The police had probably already been to a few of these, if Jen Hanover had given them some of the same information, and if that was the case, I didn’t have to worry about being discreet. If Jen hadn’t given them the numbers, the cops wouldn’t track down these people for a while.

  My guess was the cops would talk to all the bouncers at Hanover’s bar, see what they could come up with. They’d also identify the corpse and talk to the people close to the dead girl. I would do the same thing if I could find out who the girl was. What I wanted was a hit, someone who had talked to Hanover, someone who had seen him just after the murder. It was like building a pyramid or a house, you start with the foundation and keep adding. With any luck, I’d get to the top, finish it off, and end up with Hanover’s location.

  The third call was an actual voice. The address book said Michael Burgess. The voice was gruff, like someone who had spent the morning yelling. The moment I identified myself, he hung up. So much for Mr. Burgess. I’d have to take some time and visit him personally if nothing else clicked. Then again, there was only a phone number in the book. No address.

  I tried four more numbers. All answering machines. That didn’t surprise me. It was midafternoon and most people had day jobs. I left messages, sat and waited. No one called back.

  At three o’clock, it was time to pick up Tracy.

  I left my office, down the steps toward George Street. Two guys the size of houses were coming in my direction. They filled the stairway by walking next to each other. One of them wore jeans, a black button-down shirt, leather jacket, and his hair parted to the right. The other had sweatpants, an Oakland Athletics sweatshirt, a goatee, and a shaved head. They didn’t look like they were apartment hunting.

  “Excuse me, sir. Do you know which floor a Mr.—” The guy with
hair looked at an index card in his hand. “Where a Mr. Jackson Donne’s office is?” He pronounced my name “Doan”—the second time in as many days.

  “Well, actually, I’m Jackson Donne,” I said. Might as well find out what this was about.

  Hair smiled and said, “Can we see you in your office? We’d like to discuss something discreetly.”

  Baldy nodded and crossed his arms. I couldn’t squeeze by these guys if I tried. I couldn’t squeeze a dime past these guys.

  I made a show of looking at my watch. “I do have another appointment.”

  “We won’t take long.” Hair smiled like he was posing for a photo. “It’s urgent.”

  “Follow me, then.” I turned and made my way back to the office. I didn’t like turning my back on these guys, but if they were going to hurt me, they’d do it in my office, where the odds of someone walking in on them lessened. That is, if they were professionals.

  They didn’t assault me, waited quietly as I unlocked the door, opened it, and let them in.

  I followed them in, made my way around my desk. I offered the two chairs to them.

  Hair decided to sit, but Baldy wanted to stand. Probably felt more intimidating that way.

  Hair began. “Mr. Donne, I understand that you are looking for information on Rex Hanover.”

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “We are associates of a friend of Mr. Hanover.”

  The only people who would know I was involved were probably people I called in the address book. That narrowed the number of suspects down to ten, most likely. Jen, though she hired me, so it wasn’t probable, Artie, or any of the other people I left messages for. I suppose word could have traveled quickly among others I hadn’t spoken with yet, but somehow I doubted it.

  “Ah. Not going to tell me who that friend is?” Hair shook his head.

  “Okay. And if I am looking for Mr. Hanover?”

  “Who hired you?”

  I picked up a pencil from my desk and twirled it in my fingers. “My turn to plead the fifth.”

  Hair nodded. Baldy continued to try and look mean. It’s tough to look mean in sweatpants and a bright green sweatshirt, but Baldy was doing his best.

  “Well, either way, I’m here to ask you to stop.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The police are looking into his disappearance, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, but I’m giving it that personal touch.”

  Hair shifted in his chair. Crossed his left foot over his right knee. “The police are not something to worry too much about. They’ll find what we want them to find and will shut the case, but a person on their own? My associate is concerned that you might uncover some things by mistake that he wouldn’t want uncovered.”

  I leaned across my desk. “So you’re saying you control the Madison Police Department?”

  “What I’m saying, Mr. Donne,” he said, “is that we’re willing to make you an offer.”

  He reached into his jacket with his left hand. I tensed. He came out with a stack of money, rubber band wrapped around it. The money landed on my desk, under my nose.

  “Five thousand dollars cash,” Hair said. “Don’t look into Hanover’s disappearance anymore.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  He looked at his watch. “You have an important appointment to keep. If you say no, Maurice and I will have to try other methods of persuasion. And I also have a schedule to keep.”

  “Don’t like to be late to the next leg breaking.” He laughed.

  I looked at the money on the desk. “I think I’ll take the money.”

  “Wise choice.” Hair stood and shook my hand. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Baldy and Hair let themselves out of my office, leaving me alone with five thousand dollars cash. I picked the money up and smelled it. Not that bad a smell. I flipped through the cash, counting the twenties bundled together. All there.

  I picked up the phone and called Tracy’s cell phone and told her I’d meet her at Gerry’s in ten minutes.

  The money was going to come in handy. I could use it to pay for dinners for the next few months. I could buy plenty of beer with it if I wanted. But the best option was to spend it on the expenses I would pile up on my continuing search for Rex Hanover.

  Chapter 13

  Bill Martin sat in his office, tie loosened at the neck, jacket off, not sure what the fuck to do. Five years ago he would have gone back to the corner on Easton Ave. and beaten the shit out of Jesus Sanchez. Pounded him into a pulp until Jesus broke and told him who Michael Burgess was, how to get in touch with him.

  Now, with Leo Carver rotting in Rahway penitentiary and the new blood upstairs watching his every move, Martin had nothing. Pounding the pavement, making phone calls to old contacts only went so far when you hadn’t talked to them in years.

  He rubbed his eyes and coughed. They didn’t even let you smoke in here anymore.

  Bill Martin grabbed his jacket and went down to the street. Lighting a cigarette, he noticed two other detectives—Bob Richardson and Paul Cramden—smoking as well. All good cops look the same when they’re busy: wrinkled jackets, loosened ties. It was the ones that were too clean-cut you had to watch out for. They’d stab you in the back to look good in front of the bosses.

  Just like these two.

  “How’s it going, Bill?” Richardson asked. “Heard you got the hit-and-run over on Easton.”

  “About time I got something interesting.” Cramden sauntered over. “Any leads yet?”

  Time to be careful. Martin could say too much and then be paranoid he’d lose the case. But, fuck it, these guys may know people.

  “The name Michael Burgess keeps coming up.” Richardson squinted. “You into drugs with this one, Bill?”

  “I don’t know what I’m into,” he answered. “It’s just a name that popped up.”

  He was damn well involved in drugs with this one, with all that shit he found in Figuroa’s house. Absently, he wondered if Donne knew about that. Damn, it would be fun to tell him.

  But, no, he had other plans. Other secrets.

  “Yeah, Bill,” Cramden said, “Burgess is a big drug name. In fact, if he was around and you were a narc, that would be the guy to take down.”

  “He’s big, huh?”

  “Where the hell you been, Bill? You’ve never heard of Burgess?”

  “Don’t hear about much working frat robberies.”

  “Guess not.” Richardson put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Listen, if Burgess is involved, you’ve hit on something.”

  Martin tensed just a bit and Richardson probably felt it. The hand jerked away. If these two detectives knew Martin was starting to scratch at something big, they might stab him in the back, too.

  He’d let that happen to him once. Not again.

  “You know how to get in touch with this guy?” Martin asked. “Nah,” Cramden said. “But you’re smart, I’m sure you’ll find him.”

  Martin dropped his cigarette butt into the trash. “Thanks, Paul.

  You’re a big help.”

  Richardson shot Cramden a look. Then turned back to Martin. “Bill, there are a few guys who messed with Burgess a couple of months ago. Had to talk to him about something. Harry Lance and Mike Johnson. Ask them.”

  Martin thanked them.

  “No problem, Bill. You deserve to get back on the horse.” Martin nodded and turned his back to go up again.

  “Oh, shit. Bill, wait. Did you hear?”

  Martin looked at the two detectives. “Hear what?”

  “That asshole, what’s his name . . . Jackson Donne, he got taken in by a few cops in Madison last night. Got caught up with a dead body by Drew University.”

  Chapter 14

  “Have you been inside yet?” I asked Tracy, standing outside Gerry’s house.

  She was staring at the front door, hands in her jeans pockets. “No,” she said. “Not yet.”


  “Do you want to take a look?”

  “How long does it take to get to the funeral home?”

  A breeze cooled the air, making the temperature perfect for a light jacket. Off to the west, some dark, thick clouds hung. April showers were probably about to roll in. But for the moment, above us the skies were still clear, a few birds circling, squawking and singing.

  “About twenty minutes. Depending on traffic on Eighteen.” Tracy stood, eyes closed. It seemed she was either making a decision or trying to build up some courage.

  I waited, putting my hands in my pockets. My Glock rested in the shoulder holster pressing against my arm. After this afternoon’s visit, I wasn’t going anywhere unarmed.

  “We can be a few minutes late,” she said after a deep breath. “Can we go up? Do you have a key?”

  “I know the landlord.”

  We walked onto the wooden porch, and I rang James’s doorbell. He answered. I told him what we wanted.

  James said, “The cops told me not to let anyone up there.”

  “We have to feed the cat.”

  “There’s no cat. The police said—”

  I pulled sixty bucks of the two hundred I’d taken from the stack of five thousand. Gave it to James. It was real easy to throw around.

  “You’re not going to let the cat starve, are you?”

  He unlocked the door and let us in. We had to duck under crime-scene tape.

  Climbing the stairs, I got the same smell of lemon as the last time I was there, just a bit stronger. Tracy pushed the door open.

  “I’m going to check the kitchen. I want to make sure he was eating right.” The words were laced with sarcasm, and I had the feeling she really wanted to look for bottles.

  I was confident she wouldn’t find any.

  I decided to make a sweep of the apartment. I started with the bathroom, which was crowded, small, claustrophobic. The color, a deep brown, made the walls seem closer than they actually were. There was a sink, a toilet against one wall, with about three feet between the end of the fixtures and the wall. The opposite wall held a radiator and a tall closet. A walk-in shower took up the wall opposite the door. I pushed the door closed and relieved myself.