An Empty Hell Page 7

  Nothing but the motel site again.

  Donne smiled before taking a sip of coffee. Mario was just as good at hiding himself as Jeanne was. Low profile, no Internet footprint. Maybe Mario wasn’t his real name.

  Which meant, besides the coffee and the muffin, the risk of the Internet café was not worth the reward. He logged off, ate quickly, and left. Donne took the coffee with him.

  Doris Terwilliger would have more information.

  THE HOUSE Doris lived in was on the corner, about three blocks away from the center of town. Her property was lined with trees which had already shed their leaves, and grass that had turned brown. A tattered American flag swayed from a pole near the driveway. Her old Nissan was parked in the driveway itself.

  He rang the doorbell and waited. He’d finished his coffee on the walk over, using it to warm himself against the weather. Clouds had formed overhead, and it was likely one of the first snowfalls of the season was imminent.

  No answer.

  He rang the doorbell again and heard no movement. No rustling.

  A tremor went through him, a familiar sensation—almost a sixth sense. He’d been here before, too many times. Ringing a doorbell, looking to talk to someone about a case only find they’d gotten to that person first.

  The smell of death was always strong, cutting through wood and aluminum siding. But Donne didn’t find that now, didn’t sense it. But something was wrong, had to be.

  He took a step back, ready to land a crushing kick into the deadbolt. Preparing himself for the inevitability of a dead body on the floor, knife sticking from her gut, or a sucking chest wound.

  His muscles tensed. He took a deep breath.

  And the door opened. Doris Terwilliger gave him a smile.

  “Did you find him?” she asked.

  The air went out of Donne, replaced by fire through his blood.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t know where to even start looking.”

  A hand went to Doris’s mouth, and her eyes glistened.

  “Is he dead?” She staggered and Donne reached forward, catching her before she fell.

  “No. No,” he said. “I don’t think so. Let’s go inside. Let’s talk. I need your help.”

  Doris rested her head against his chest for a minute, her small hands gripping his arms tightly. Donne could feel the strength return to her as she pushed off him.

  “I need you to help me, Doris,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Tell me everything you know about Mario. Tell me why they’re after him.” He almost said “after me.”

  “I promised him…”

  “The more I know, the more I can use to track him down.”

  Doris shook her head. “There’s just … there’s just so much blood on his hands.”

  They went inside.

  DONNE TOOK the wool cap off and tossed it on top of the chair his jacket rested on. Doris was in the kitchen, been there for too long, doing who knew what. The room was overcrowded with pictures of cats, family, plastic flowers, and Christmas ornaments. The furniture was plaid and the carpet was dark brown. The room smelled of Pine-Sol.

  “Mario—I don’t even know his real name,” Doris called. “It took me forever to get him to talk to me.”

  Donne sat on the couch and stared at his jacket. There were dust and dirt stains on the elbows, artifacts of the work he did for Mario. Cleaning a jacket was a luxury for the money he made, but now he wished he’d gotten rid of the stains.

  “He was like you,” she said, as she emerged from the kitchen. She didn’t carry anything, food, coffee, water. Her hands were wet. “He showed up and started working. Doing odd jobs for people, saving money, finally bought the motel. I think that’s why he liked you.”

  Doris shook her hands and a small spray of water caught the light. Leaning against the only part of the wall without a picture or a decoration on it, she kept talking.

  “He never came downtown, except to buy groceries. That’s where I saw him. Every week, on Tuesday, at nine fifteen, he’d stroll down the street, grab a cart, and go into the Stew’s. He started with produce. Is that what you do, Jackson?”

  Donne shook his head. “I start with the beer.”

  Shaking her head, Doris said, “That stuff ruined our state.”

  Donne disagreed.

  She waved a hand at him. “Anyway, that’s how Mario and I got to talking. We talked about strawberries and then pears, and then our favorite coffee. Then I started asking him about the motel and business. He was quiet. Didn’t like to talk, gave me one-word answers. I think it took a whole year before we actually had a conversation about more than just produce.”

  She picked up one of the ornaments, a snow globe, and shook it. For a moment she watched the snow fall.

  “But eventually we got to talking about business. How much it picked up once the snow started falling. He was from New York City, and he hated the snow. How it would turn all gray and black with the exhaust fumes and people’s dirty shoes. But here, he said he loved it. It was pristine. He and Emma used to come up and ski, he said. Emma was his wife.

  “I didn’t ask him about Emma. Not for a long time. Even though I stared at those pictures behind the desk. I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t bring myself to. You know the feeling?”

  Donne shifted his weight on the chair. “Very much so.”

  “You want to know why he was on the run?”

  Donne nodded.

  Doris put a hand to her mouth and still stared at the snow globe. “The mob killed her. Emma. And then Mario killed one of them.”

  Donne felt his cheeks flush.

  “He owed them money. He didn’t call them mobsters.” She laughed. “He called them colleagues. He ran numbers and wasn’t hitting his quota—I don’t even know if that’s the right term. He couldn’t pay when they asked. They broke his wrist. He still couldn’t pay. So they killed her.”

  Doris put the snow globe down, then wiped her eye.

  “He didn’t tell me how he killed the one that killed her. Whether it was that night or if he tracked the guy down. He never said. But he killed that man. And then he ran.”

  The house creaked against the wind outside. Somewhere, chimes tinkled. Doris crossed the room and sat next to Donne. She put a hand on his knee.

  “You came. Mario knew immediately who you were. He told me.”

  Donne took a deep breath. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I was framed.”

  “Then why did you run?”

  “It’s complicated,” he said. “I’m sure they know I didn’t do it. Forensices don’t lie. But I like it here. I like hiding.”

  “You don’t follow your case?” Doris said. She paused and looked at the ceiling.

  Donne rolled his shoulders.

  “You have to save him,” Doris said.

  “I was there when the guy came in. I could have.”

  “You were all over the news for a while. You look much different now. Older, grayer.” She reached toward his beard, but stopped. “I know things have been hard for you. They were hard for Mario too. But you’re right. You could have.”

  “Was Mario worried about the cops?”

  “Of course.” Doris shook her head. “There was a man who worked the case, but he moved on. He wasn’t a member of the NY police force anymore. He went to New Jersey. That’s when Mario finally felt safe.”

  Hair on Donne’s neck prickled, so he asked, “Who?”

  “His name was—” She snapped her fingers, trying to remember. “It was an odd name. Leo—”

  Donne’s stomach went cold. Waited a beat. It couldn’t be.

  “Leo—”

  Donne spit it out. “Carver?”

  She pointed at Donne. “Yes!”

  Carver’s image flashed through Donne’s brain. Snorting coke at a party after the latest bust, morphing into Carver passing out the remains of the drug money they confiscated. He was the New Brunswick Narc Division ringleader. The city’s biggest scandal i
n years. The one that pushed Donne out of the force.

  “It can’t be him. It’s too big a coincidence.”

  “Why not?”

  “I put him in prison years ago. He was a bad, bad man.”

  Donne got up. His mind was static, his hand jittery. He tried to swallow, but his tongue went dry. He grabbed his jacket and his hat. He left without saying goodbye.

  If there was one thing he’d always hated, it was a coincidence. And this one was too big.

  He thought he’d gotten away from it all. Instead, he brought the past right back to him.

  MATT HERRICK fought through the pain. It wasn’t much, he told himself. Just a flesh wound. He wasn’t going to sit around and mope over a voice mail either. There was work to be done.

  And so, at lunchtime, he found Alex Robinson at his favorite Fairlawn haunt: Johnny and Hanges. It wasn’t a pub or a bar or a famous New Jersey diner. Johnny and Hanges was one of New Jersey’s unsung restaurants. The hot dog joint. Johnny and Hanges was known for their Texas Weiners, also known as a chili dog with raw chopped onions and mustard.

  When Herrick spotted Robinson, he’d just sat down at a booth and bitten into his first dog. Herrick got two dogs of his own and joined him at the table. Robinson nearly choked.

  “You can’t sit with me,” he said.

  Herrick tilted his head. “You’re my client.”

  “I don’t want anyone to see us together.”

  “You’re kidding, right? The last time we met in a bar.”

  “Yeah, a Jersey City dive bar with one wino sitting in the corner. I’d be stunned if he even remembered us. People love this place, you never know who can walk in.”

  Herrick shook his head and then took a bite of his hot dog. He wiped chili from the corner of his lip after swallowing, then said, “You shouldn’t have such a predictable schedule then.”

  Robinson pointed at his hot dog. “How could I resist?”

  “Weekly?”

  Robinson spread his hands. “What do you want?”

  “Wait, back up a second. Why are you so nervous about people seeing me with you?”

  “You got mugged last night?”

  Herrick’s hand went to his side. Each swallow of his meal exacerbated the dull ache.

  “Yeah,” Robinson said. “That wasn’t a mugging. That was someone trying to take a shot at you. Because of Donne. They know you’re looking for him.”

  “Alex, how do people know?”

  Robinson ate a fry draped in cheese and brown gravy. “It’s New Jersey, man. This state is the equivalent of high school, you know that. Everybody knows everybody and everything. That’s why we shouldn’t be seen together.”

  “And…” Herrick waved his hand, trying to get Robinson to speed up the pace.

  “People know what you’re doing.”

  “They also probably know you hired me.”

  Robinson shook his head. “That’s on my end. I’m taking care of it.”

  Behind them, the servers yelled out orders. Soda machines whirred, trays rattled, and a couple of people made polite conversation about the New Jersey Devils. Another normal day. No one knew what Herrick was talking about. Herrick found Robinson’s paranoia both curious and annoying. It was tough to decide which feeling held more weight.

  Herrick finished off his hot dog and said, “Who came after me last night, Alex?”

  Robinson said, “Whoever is trying to kill me?”

  Herrick slapped his hand down on the tabletop. The plastic tray rattled and the cacophony of background noise momentarily silenced. The vibration from the slap went directly into the knife wound, and Herrick’s breath caught in the back of his throat.

  When air came back to him, and the pain settled, Herrick said, “Then why are you having me try to find Donne? You said Donne was trying to kill you.”

  Robinson shook his head. “Are you stupid?”

  Herrick was beginning to wonder the same thing about Alex Robinson.

  “You think Jackson Donne is just waltzing into people’s homes and shooting them? Or running them over with cars? Is that what you think? He’s hired people. Sounds like it’s two guys. Two famous guys.”

  Robinson coughed into his hand and grabbed another fry. Herrick thought he could actually see the chili congealing on the hot dog Robinson hadn’t touched yet. Over his shoulder, out the window, two minivans pulled into the lot. They parked and the drivers—one male, one female—got out and let out their minions. Kids, a ton of kids. It was about to get very loud in here.

  “The Mosley brothers,” Robinson said. He sat back, eyes wide.

  Herrick waited. Ate his hot dog. Robinson stared at him.

  Finally, he sighed and said, “I wonder if you even grew up in this state.”

  Herrick hadn’t. Not all of his childhood, anyway. His parents were a sore subject, so still he waited for Robinson to continue. Not a topic he was going to bring up today. If he could help it, he wouldn’t bring it up any day.

  “Most of the bounty hunters in this state are meatheads. Failed linebackers who couldn’t get through the Monmouth College offensive line and found a career beating the shit out of husbands who ran out on their wives.”

  The—by Herrick’s count—nine kids amped the volume of the restaurant up to ten. He leaned in to make sure Robinson could hear him as he spoke.

  “This guy was thin, man. Not a linebacker.”

  Robinson held up his hand. “Wouldn’t be. Not these two. They’re smart. They mess with the guys they’re after. A couple of psychos. Lucas, man, he gets into your head, figures out what you’re scared of. And Steve? He just has a way with words.”

  Herrick guessed which one he’d been talking to.

  “Rumor has it, Donne hired them.” Robinson popped another soggy fry.

  “And he’s on to me that quickly?”

  Robinson shrugged. “Who’d you talk to yesterday?”

  “Your old boss and—” Herrick froze. “Donne’s brother-in-law.”

  “You think the family doesn’t know where he is? They’ve been running the state cops and the Feds off the scent for months. They’ve been waiting for this.”

  Robinson finally picked up the second hot dog and devoured it.

  “You couldn’t have told me this the other day,” Herrick said.

  “I’m just trying to save my own ass.”

  “You need me to accomplish that.” Herrick finished his meal. “So maybe next time, if someone is going to come and try and take a swing at me, you can keep it in mind. Let me know in advance.”

  “Find Donne,” Robinson said. “You do that, this is all over quick.”

  “I’m trying.” Herrick pushed away from the table and left Robinson with the rest of his meal.

  HERRICK PEELED out of Fairlawn, directing his car back toward Montclair. Odds were Franklin was long gone, but Herrick needed to know. Traffic was light, most people back in their cubicles post-lunch. The chili dogs gurgled in Herrick’s stomach as he accelerated.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled back into the Montclair mansion’s driveway. It was empty. Herrick got out and walked up to the front door. It was fashioned with a Realtor lockbox, one of those that were impossible to break. Without the matching computer chip, the lockbox wouldn’t open and reveal the key. However, that didn’t mean Herrick couldn’t break the door down.

  Of course, that would attract attention anywhere, especially this area of Montclair. After Donne had the area shot up a few years back, the town amped up its police presence. A cruiser could pass any minute.

  Herrick made his way back around the house. The backyard was pristine, trimmed and edged. There was a stone patio with an area for a permanent gas grill. The Carters must have taken theirs with them. Herrick made his way to the back window, one that stood at waist height. He peeked into the kitchen and saw no one.

  Herrick pulled out his ASP nightstick, flicked his wrist, and extended it. Cops better not find him now. ASPs were illegal in New Jersey. With
a quick swing, he shattered the glass. Waited. No one yelled. Nothing moved. No sirens.

  He climbed inside.

  The kitchen smelled musty. Small motes floated in front of him. Some of the cabinets were still open. Herrick inspected a few, finding them—unsurprisingly—empty. He left the kitchen, going through the house room by room.

  There wasn’t a sign of anything, no hints of the former residents, no signs of Jackson Donne. Herrick didn’t know what he expected, but the house wasn’t giving off any vibes. No clues. The Carters hadn’t made a mistake, didn’t leave behind any evidence of Donne’s whereabouts. They didn’t leave anything behind at all.

  The house hadn’t been sold yet, but it was certainly move-in ready, needing only a sweeping. In what must have been one of the bedrooms, Herrick tried the floor panels, looking for secret compartments. He checked the house from head to toe, and came up with nothing but clothes covered in dust.

  The ding-a-ding from his cell phone signaled a text message. He took a quick look out the second floor window to the street to make sure the house wasn’t surrounded by a SWAT team before grabbing his phone. The street was empty. The text, however, was chilling.

  Unknown Number.

  Didn’t matter. The words were all he needed.

  Shouldn’t you be practicing right now? Doesn’t your team need you?

  Herrick sprinted for his car.

  HE GOT to St. Paul’s early, before the school had dismissed. He did a lap of the school and saw nothing out of the ordinary. No one stood out. No one limped. The cop that would patrol during practice hadn’t even gotten there yet. He signed in in the office and went to see Sarah.

  He leaned against the wall in the hall outside her office, waiting for her to finish with a student. Five minutes later, the girl wiped her cheeks as she left. She gave Herrick a quick glance and then turned the other way down the hall.

  He waited a beat, then knocked on Sarah’s door.

  “How’s the kid?” he asked, nodded toward the hallway.

  “How’s the cut?” she asked back.

  “Aches, but not too bad. Flesh wound and all that.”

  “You probably should have taken the day off. Couldn’t Charlie run practice?”