The Evil That Men Do Page 6
“Does the name Maxwell Carter mean anything to you?”
“No. Never heard of it.”
Lacey tapped his pen on the table. “That’s the man whose body you found the other day. You’ve never heard the name before.”
Tenant spread his hands. He wondered if Lacey could see the nail marks on his palms.
“You don’t read the newspapers? Listen to the radio?” This was infuriating. “What the hell are you getting at?”
“Maxwell Carter is—I should say was—probably the richest businessman in Northern New Jersey.”
Tenant smiled. Then he started to laugh.
Lacey waited. Didn’t say a word, but Tenant could tell the detective didn’t understand.
“Well, then,” Tenant said, “I wish I hadn’t found him dead. If he was alive, I could have asked him for a loan.”
He stood up. The cops weren’t going to help. All they were going to do was throw the names of the dead at him.
Like he wanted a hand in any of this.
It was all being forced on him. He just wanted protection for his family.
But what was it his old boxing trainer had told him? The best protection is a good attack?
Yeah. Tenant liked the sound of that.
Chapter 13
Jackson Donne woke up in a bed and immediately asked where he was.
“You’re an asshole. And you’re at Mountainside Hospital. You have a knock on the head, but they want to check you out, make sure it doesn’t get worse. Plus you were drinking, so they want to hydrate you.” The white room came into focus. Donne was in a bed, slightly inclined. Then he realized he wasn’t in a room at all, but instead a cubicle-like area enclosed in a white curtain. Iapicca was the only one with him.
An IV tube extended from Donne’s left forearm. It pinched his skin, and pain stabbed up his arm into his shoulder. He didn’t want to move it.
“Gotta be honest,” he said. “I’m starting to believe you.”
“What are you talking about?”
Donne’s head throbbed, and he wanted to go back to sleep.
“I think there really was another guy in there with your aunt and uncle. We found some fingerprints that aren’t yours. The lab guys found tire tracks by the curb that aren’t matched up with your car.”
As if the gods had been watching, a nurse came through the partition in the curtain, holding a clipboard. She smiled at him, then turned to the detective.
“Would you mind excusing us for a moment?”
He grinned back at the nurse, then shot Donne with his thumb and forefinger.
“We’ll talk about this later, buddy,” he said, and disappeared through the partition.
They wanted to hold Donne overnight, just to keep an eye on him. What choice did he have?
***
Franklin Carter turned off the lights and locked the door. Being the last to leave the restaurant was a rarity for him, but today he found it to be a refuge. He didn’t have to talk to Susan about what had been going on. He didn’t have to worry about paying off anyone. The FBI wasn’t bothering him. He could just sit and count bills and reflect on how this restaurant was something he’d built, something he created. And it wasn’t a pile of rubble in New York City.
After he finished tallying tips, checking time sheets, and calculating expenses, he put all the receipts back in the register, checked all the silverware was put away, and made sure the oven was off. The last thing he needed was a gas explosion here.
Carter noticed the irony of the thought and stepped through the door onto the sidewalk. It was after midnight and the street was nearly empty. A few college kids spilled out of the bar up the street. To his right, on the corner of Church and Bloomfield, a homeless guy eyed him up and started to walk toward him. The last thing Carter wanted to do was hand out money.
So he turned his back to the homeless guy and headed toward the college kids. He whistled a John Mayer song to himself as he walked, then stopped and cursed the song. It was stuck in his head after Kate made sure she put the CD on the restaurant stereo. On repeat. The worst part was that the speakers were turned so low you didn’t even know you were listening to it until three hours later, when all you could think about was how her body was a fucking wonderland.
The waitresses didn’t understand music. There were good bands out there, smaller bands that played the same type of music as John without the overdone radio play. Amos Lee, Band of Horses, The Format—Christ, anything but John Mayer.
He turned into the parking garage, thinking that tomorrow he’d bring his iPod. The music would be much more eclectic.
Carter paid the parking fee, a measly two bucks, and started up the stairs to the second floor. He heard footsteps descending above him and thought he’d stay as far to the right as he could when he reached the first landing. The person coming down was definitely moving quickly, maybe one of the college kids late in meeting his boys for shots.
Turning on the landing toward the next flight of stairs, Carter kept his head down and saw only the black boots of the person he was trying to avoid. The feet were coming directly for him, and he looked up much too late.
Pain erupted from the side of his head, and like he was a spectator in his own body, Franklin Carter felt himself slip to his knees. Another shot to the head; the world didn’t go completely dark, but Carter was dazed. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew he was being dragged along the concrete steps.
He fought to stay conscious and to focus on what was happening, but everything was fuzzy and muddled. He couldn’t think clearly. Hearing sliding doors close and feeling rope being tied around his wrists didn’t mean much to him. He couldn’t put it all together, no matter how he tried to fight through the pain in his head.
The only thing he could think about was John Mayer waiting on the world to change.
God damn John Mayer.
***
As she typed the code into the lock, Susan Carter decided she was going to have to get used to it. With all the shit that was going on in their lives, there would be nights when Franklin wouldn’t come home. And they definitely wouldn’t be able to visit her mother together. He was a busy man.
So when he hadn’t come home last night, after his late night earlier in the week, she’d just figured this would be par for the course.
That hadn’t kept her from almost being sick in the bathroom when she noticed his side of the bed hadn’t been disturbed.
She also found it odd that she hadn’t heard from Jackson yesterday.
But Susan put it all aside and plastered a smile on her face when she entered her mother’s room.
The nurse smiled at Susan and said, “She’s awake today. And she seems to be pretty aware.”
“Is she getting better?”
The nurse frowned. “No, but it’s encouraging that you might be able to talk to her for a while. It can’t hurt.” She left them alone.
Susan had to fight to keep the smile on her face. The woman in bed wasn’t her mother anymore. It was a facsimile. The body was the same, albeit thinner and more pale. But inside it wasn’t Isabelle Donne. Even though her mother blinked and smiled when Susan sat, there was a void behind the eyes. There wasn’t the same recognition. It wasn’t the woman who yelled and grounded her when she took the car without asking. It wasn’t the woman who wept in front of her and Jackson when their father ran off one morning.
“Hi, Mom,” Susan said.
“Hi.” The voice wasn’t even the same. There wasn’t any strength or conviction behind it.
“Did Jackson come by?”
Her mother nodded. “Jackson looks good.”
“When? This morning?”
The question clearly confused her. She squeezed her eyes shut and frowned.
Susan didn’t want to push. “I saw him the other day too, Mom. You’re right. He does look good.”
If you consider the stench of alcohol on him and the lines at his eyes that shouldn’t be there good.
“Daddy’s long gone,” Susan said.
“This is his fault. Everything is Dad’s fault. I remember. The car outside. The water.”
Her mother’s voice trembled and the strain reappeared. A tear appeared at the corner of her eye.
Susan kept fighting to keep her composure. Her eyes burned. She put a hand on her mother’s arm.
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s going to be okay.”
“Dad should have stayed away. I told him. We told him.”
Susan let her own tears flow. Nothing made sense, and it hurt to watch. She wanted so desperately to just be able to have one more normal conversation with her mother. Just some time to say good-bye and have her mother know she was loved.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Her mother had disappeared months before.
“Maxwell Carter,” her mom said. “Maxwell Carter.”
The name sounded so familiar. Was it a relative of Franklin’s? Why had she heard it before? “Who are you talking about, Mom?”
But her mother just shook her head slowly and leaned back against the pillow. The grip she’d had on Susan’s hand relaxed. There wasn’t much more to talk about today.
“I love you, Mom,” Susan said, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Just hang on a little longer. I know Jackson wants to tell you too. You need to hear it. And he needs to say it.”
Susan left the room, then reached into her bag. Taking out her cell phone, she checked it to see if Franklin or Jackson had called. She’d had it on silent so she could talk to her mother without interruption; now she turned the ringer back on. No one had called, but the phone rang almost immediately. It was a number Susan didn’t recognize.
She answered anyway.
“Listen to me carefully,” a voice said. “I have your husband. He is safe. For now. Instructions will follow. No police.”
And like that the line went dead.
PART TWO
SUSAN CARTER
Chapter 14
Jackson wasn’t picking up his phone. Susan Carter dialed again and got his voice mail again. Where the hell was he?
The parking lot closed in on her, or at least that’s how it felt. The cars were too close and she couldn’t see her own. She was wandering in circles. Her BMW had to be here somewhere. She had gotten here somehow.
“This is Jackson Donne. I can’t get to my phone right now. Please leave a message.”
Beep!
“Jackson, this is Susan. Where are you? Call me, please.”
Her hands shook hard and she couldn’t close her cell phone. It was getting hard to breathe. The corners of her vision started to fade. She called Jackson again.
“This is Jackson Donne. I can’t get to my phone right now. Please leave a message.”
Beep!
“Please, Jackson. This is an emergency. Call me back.”
His cell phone wasn’t on. Where was he? She was getting lightheaded now. They’d taken her husband.
They? Who was they?
And now Jackson was missing. Had something happened to him too? The sounds of traffic from Berdan Avenue rattled in her ears. Tears flowed from her eyes. She couldn’t breathe. It felt like an elephant was standing on her chest.
Beep!
“Jackson! Pick up your goddamned phone!”
She hadn’t even realized she’d called again until she heard the beep. Susan didn’t know what else to do. Now she felt the asphalt tilt beneath her, and her vision clouded completely. She couldn’t fight it anymore. She was going to pass out.
“Oh my God!” someone yelled. “Are you okay?”
But she couldn’t answer. Susan couldn’t shoulder any more tragedy. She crashed into the asphalt.
***
Carlos figured he’d try the gun one more time. But there weren’t any quiet parks. It was too fucking nice out. Kids were out on the swings. Moms were walking their babies. He even saw one of his asshole teachers out walking his dog. No place to just go and shoot the thing.
And like hell if he was just going to wait for the next rainy day, or fuck that, even wait for nighttime. The gun was fucking boring anyway. None of his friends wanted to come and play around with it. And it’s not like he’d ever really shoot someone. So he was just going to have to get rid of it.
Maybe dump it back by the river?
Nah, yo, there were always a ton of cops down there. The last thing he needed was to be seen dropping a gun off on a riverbank. They might arrest him and put him in Juvie for that thing yesterday.
Carlos wondered what happened to Cesar and Joseph with the cops. They were probably all locked up. Man, if Cameisha had seen them, she’d laugh her ass off. Running away like that, she wouldn’t respect that. No, Carlos had her respect. At least he thought he did, the way she smiled at him and laughed when he made fun of her.
But she always liked it in school when he told on the real punks. Like that time Kurt stole Ms. Caruso’s wallet. And Carlos told her what happened. Cameisha said that was good of him. Even kissed him. It wasn’t a blow job, but it was something.
Maybe he could get a blow job out of her if he did the right thing. The gun. Maybe if he took the gun to the cops and then told her about it.
He knew snitches got stitches, but yo, this was a shot at a blow job from Cameisha.
There was no question. He would walk down to the police station and turn the gun in. Tell the cops he found that shit and he didn’t want any elementary school kids to get hurt playing with it.
A fuckin’ blow job!
Chapter 15
Franklin Carter was sure he was tied to a wooden chair in a basement. The air was moist, and droplets of water dripped down the concrete walls into puddles. Wooden stairs led to a metal door. The door opened and a figure paused at the top of the stairs, light behind him.
Now the figure was at the bottom of the stairs. Carter could hear feet plop through a puddle as it approached, blanketed in shadow.
“Mr. Carter, you didn’t pay like I asked.”
“We only talked yesterday.”
“We’ve talked before that! I came to you, nicely! Your family owes mine! You know that.”
“What happened is in the past. It’s not my fault.”
Bryan Hackett undid the belt around his jeans and began to slide it out of the loops. Carter didn’t like where this was going.
“Blood runs deep, Franklin. It’s as much your fault as anyone’s.”
“This is stupid, Bryan.”
The belt buckle caught him across the face. Carter felt skin tear away from his cheek, felt the sharp sting, and then the drop of blood down his cheek.
“No,” Hackett said, his voice even. “This is not stupid. After all that’s happened, paying me money means you get off easy.”
Carter heard the whiz of the leather and metal through the air, and his head snapped to the side before he realized he’d been hit again. This time from the left. Both of his cheeks were bleeding now, and sweat dripped from his brow, burning into the cuts.
“Well, now you have me, what are you going to do? Kill me?” Carter had to spit the words out.
“Maybe.”
Hackett circled Carter’s chair. The buckle of the belt scratched the concrete floor slowly as he went.
“Why kill me?” Carter asked. “You kill me, you’ll never get your money.”
“Oh, I’ll get my money.” Hackett leaned in toward Carter’s ear from behind. His voice was soft. “But I’m going to have some fun first. And if you die? Well, not only will I have to find a different way to get my money, but I’m also going to consider you a pussy. Understand me, boyo? You’ll go out a pussy.”
The belt buckle caught him in the back of the head this time, right behind the ear. Carter grunted in pain.
“Your wife will pay me. She’ll pay to see you alive. And if not, she’ll pay to get your body back for the funeral.”
“No. Not S
usan.” Carter squeezed his eyes shut. “Keep her out of this. She has nothing to do with this.”
The belt came quick this time. Three shots to the head. Carter tried to roll with the shots, but he couldn’t guess the direction they came from. He tried to force the pain out of his head. He thought of music. Guggenheim Grotto. “A Cold Truth.”
He sang through clenched teeth. He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t plead. And he most definitely would not be a pussy.
Hackett was in front of him again. Carter, refusing to look in his eyes, could tell from the direction of his voice.
“That’s the thing, Franklin,” he said. “Susan has everything to do with this.”
***
The closest police station in Clifton was in Styretown. Clifton had a hell of a lot of police stations.
This wasn’t really a big police station, it was just an office where some cops sat. It was next to a bank and a Coconuts. Carlos thought that was gangsta. He could drop the gun off and then go D-block the latest Akon CD. That shit was hot.
He pushed the glass door open and felt like he was entering a dentist’s office. His mom used to take him to Dr. Scott’s office, and it was just like this. A few metal chairs, a table, and shitty magazines scattered over it. Against the far wall was a thick glass window, behind which a cop shuffled papers.
Carlos sat down and felt the barrel of the gun press into his hip. He’d kept it there for the past two days. He’d almost forgotten it was there. And now it was fucking uncomfortable.
The cop behind the glass, a fat guy with a porno mustache and brown hair combed over, looked up at him. His hair was too long and it made him look like an asshole. He should get a shape-up. Which reminded Carlos—he had to go get a haircut himself soon.
“Can I help you?” the cop asked.
“Yeah.” He stood up and walked to the glass. “I found something down by the Passaic River. I didn’t want to leave it there or anything. Some kid could find that shit and hurt somebody.”