Blind to Sin Read online

  And anything to try to get away with doing something wrong.

  “She wanted to be with me,” Cole said. “After you went away, she couldn’t be alone. And I was there for her. You knew that might happen.”

  “I knew you always hated that she cared more about me.”

  Cole shifted in his seat. Felt the heat on his cheeks. Like the spotlight during the first curtain call on opening night. What play was it? Twelve Angry Men. The applause washed over him like warm water. The best feeling, almost as good as when he directed Peter Pan in college, and the cast brought him on stage for the final curtain call.

  “Your plan,” he said. “It’s led to some dicey times in my home.”

  “Tammy doesn’t want to be in the game anymore.” Kenneth flared his nostrils.

  “We’re getting old. She’s—” Cole looked at the front counter. A cop sauntered in and the cashier waved at him. “Sick.”

  Kenneth nodded. “But I’m working on Matt. I just saw him at your place.”

  “I’m not there anymore.”

  “We’re going to get caught if we keep meeting like this.”

  “Once this is over with, we can go on our merry way.”

  The cop ordered a cup of coffee, stuck his thumb in his belt and looked around the restaurant. After the cashier handed over his coffee, he left.

  “Imagine this. How famous we will be. The ones who pulled off the greatest heist of all time.”

  “They never caught the people who stole the Iraq money.” Kenneth took a bite of a hash brown. “They aren’t famous. They’re rich.”

  “The Turkish government did it, I’m sure. People will know our names. And they still won’t get to us. We’ll be in the wind.”

  Kenneth nodded.

  “Why do you trust Jackson Donne?”

  Kenneth said, “He’s my puppet. I kept him alive. He owes me. Adrik can vouch for him too. I do my background work. I vet.”

  “He worries me. He’s been in the paper too much.”

  Grinning, Kenneth said, “Yeah, living out your dream. Front page news.”

  Digging into the McMuffin, Cole chewed to cover the frustration burning inside him. His muscles tensed like they wanted to tear through his skin and pull Kenneth through the table. No one talked to him that way.

  “It’s not the same,” Cole said after swallowing.

  Kenneth finished the hash brown and turned to his coffee. The restaurant was thinning out, with only a few senior citizens left over. Probably finishing breakfast before mall walking. Cole nearly choked on his sandwich when that thought passed. He and Kenneth were senior citizens too.

  “You came to see me a lot when I was away,” Kenneth said. “They’re on to you, I’m sure. We’re probably being watched now. The cops, the Corrections Department, they notice that shit.”

  Cole shook his head. Aguilera would make sure no one was on to him. The money was too good.

  “We’re fine,” he said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Trust me.”

  Cole stared at him over the rim of the coffee cup. He took a long pull. Steam rose in front of his eyes.

  “You don’t trust Jackson. I can see it in your eyes. How can I give you that courtesy?”

  The air in the restaurant had the heaviness and odor of the french fries or—at this time of day—maybe hash browns. The grease stink would be caught in Cole’s nose for hours after this. They should have met in a Starbucks. But Kenneth thought the cops would use a McDonald’s drive-thru. Not walk in. He was wrong.

  Kenneth was wrong about Donne as well.

  But Kenneth kept talking before Cole could vocalize that thought.

  “I have an idea. We work the plan, you and me, together. But the rest of the prep is separate. You train your guys. I take care of Jackson and getting Matt on board.”

  Cole squinted his eyes. “Your recruiting is terrible. Two private eyes. A former military brat and a former cop.”

  “Your group ain’t exactly Al Capone’s crew. Times change. Old-fashioned thieves are hard to come across. You ask me, I prefer to trust family.”

  Cole laughed. He couldn’t resist. “I don’t know why. Your family doesn’t have the best track record. Your wife walked to me ten seconds after you went away.”

  Kenneth Herrick went red as ketchup. “You got me out.”

  “I did.”

  “So I won’t kill you.”

  “If I were you, I’d worry more about Jackson Donne than me. About Matt. From what I’ve heard, he’s not so fond of you either. Again, you and your family don’t have the best track record.” Cole wiped his nose. “Be careful with the choices you’re making.”

  Kenneth stood up. “From now until go time, try to stay off the Time Square Billboards.”

  “Dreams do come true, Kenneth. But I’m one you can trust. None of that will happen until the job is done.” He exhaled. “But Jackson is going to be a problem. Maybe your son too.”

  “Fine,” Kenneth said. “You’re so worried about it, we’ll keep separate until game time. You get your men busy and keep an eye on Tammy. It’ll be easier for me to plan if the police aren’t looking for coincidences like the two of us meeting up.”

  “My men are already busy. You’ll see,” Cole hissed.

  Kenneth didn’t say anything. He turned on his heel and walked out of the place. Cole finished his sandwich and got another coffee. No hurry.

  Just waiting for confirmation from Manuel that Jackson Donne was dead. That should be going down soon.

  Until then, a little cream, a little sugar and some grounds.

  In less than a week, he’d be on billboards everywhere. And it wouldn’t matter, because he’d be in the wind by that point.

  Gone.

  But not forgotten.

  JACKSON DONNE sat in the stands of the high school football field, on the top bleacher, binoculars in hand. He didn’t look at the track team making their way through their dashes, though. He wasn’t even looking at the field.

  Behind him, the traffic on Route 17 buzzed by. One of New Jersey’s busier highways during the week, it was quiet on a Sunday. Bergen County still abided by blue laws, closing everything that didn’t sell food. But Donne wasn’t eyeing the traffic either.

  No, he was looking to his left, across an entrance lane to the highway, and directly into the Federal Reserve Campus. Technically, the building was called the East Rutherford Operations Center, an arm of the New York Federal Reserve. No one called it that. It was just the Federal Reserve building. Some people liked to say “the one in New Jersey.” Or, after having read the article Kenneth had given him, “The one that lost the money in Iraq.”

  The campus was locked down, of course. A short metal, spiked fence surrounded the block, save for gated road entrances. Beyond a few armed guards dressed in military gear, there wasn’t much action.

  Kenneth had called this an initial scouting mission. Donne wasn’t supposed to take down any notes. No routines, no information. Just get a lay of the land. The building was only a few stories tall, boxy and gray concrete. The rest of the campus was tough to see, as he had to look between a car dealership and corporate bank to get a view. The high school bleachers did not go high enough.

  Donne exhaled. What was he doing here? It wasn’t the first time he asked himself that question. Kenneth had left him for the day, saying he was going to “work on” Matt. Donne could have left him right then, disappeared. He was out of prison, against his will, and not on the run.

  But, if he stayed with Kenneth, he would be a part of a major crime. One that had nearly no chance to succeed. You didn’t go up against the military and expect to get away scot-free. That didn’t seem to matter to Kenneth, however. All that mattered was getting the money to Elliot Cole.

  Staying with Kenneth, Donne was likely signing a death sentence.

  The thought didn’t send a chill through him. It passed without any kind of biological reaction. It was funny; Kenneth kept him aliv
e in prison, and now would likely be the cause of his death on the outside.

  Donne took another look at the campus through his binoculars. Nothing stood out. It was just a bland, big building. Like the prison. Kenneth wanted to break back in.

  An armored car drove out of the campus and no one made a peep. It turned left and then merged onto the highway.

  After replacing the binoculars in their case, Donne stood and made his way down the stairs of the bleachers. A coach blew his whistle, and a few of the students started running. Sunday practice—not something Donne expected to see. He nodded at the coach and exited the stadium.

  The bus stop was up on Hoboken Street about half a mile away from where he was, but Donne wasn’t ready to go back to the NYC hotel they were staying in. Neither he nor Kenneth wanted to be in that dinky room longer than absolutely necessary. The little cash they had landed them a place that smelled like rotted meat and had walls the shade of mold.

  Instead, he walked to a pizza restaurant about a block away from the stadium. Restaurants were allowed to stay open even under the blue laws. It was starting to hum with a lunchtime crowd. Donne considered going in to try and bum a beer off someone, but didn’t. Instead he turned right and walked toward the Federal Reserve.

  This wasn’t his neck of the woods. If he had to be out, he wanted to be in New Brunswick, or even better, Vermont—the two places he’d lived the longest. Instead, he was shuffling from Manhattan to East Rutherford to Paterson and back, all for some ham-fisted idea of a plan. If there even was a plan.

  He walked the length of the Federal Reserve campus, the back of the building. Besides a vent, the building was completely bare. No windows, and nothing but concrete. The fence was solid except for one wide gate with a dirty road that led around the side of the building. A sign indicated that was for the fire department.

  He wondered how thick the concrete was and what the people who worked inside looked at. Seemed claustrophobic, and if the walls were extra thick, could even a bomb blow through there? If they blew a hole in the wall, he wondered how much time they’d have to get in and get out before their bodies were bullet ridden. If not by the MPs guarding the place, then by the police and SWAT team that would undoubtedly show up minutes later.

  Donne didn’t have a mind for this type of stuff. He saw no way in, and he didn’t even know how much cash they had on hand. Wasn’t it all digital now? Maybe Kenneth planned on walking in with a thumb drive and leaving with millions. He hung left and climbed a big hill toward Hoboken Street.

  The bus squealed to a stop in front of him.

  The ride into the city was a quick one.

  It seemed that no one in the world wanted to be outside today. Donne spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the city.

  To him, each step signaled another minute closer to the end. No, he intended to tell Kenneth this was useless. There was no way to escape and no way to get away with the money clean. Again, no reaction to the thought of death. His hands didn’t shake, sweat didn’t form at his brow. Death was inevitable. Why worry about it? He’d been surrounded by death his entire adult life. This was just another day.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d lived this long anyway.

  Donne looked around the bus. Over his shoulder, the big man from Elliot Cole’s house stared back at him.

  TAMMY STRETCHED her arms out and felt the dull pain across her chest. She yawned and focused on the wall, the one with the painting of the fisherman on the Manasquan lagoon, until the pain subsided. She wished for a window instead, but the painting would have to do. The beach painting was nicer than the forest reality anyway.

  She pushed herself out of bed, the same recliner she was in in Paterson, and walked across the room. Her stomach rumbled and she smiled. Hungry for the first time in a week. Across the room was a full-length mirror, but she didn’t dare look at it. Her damaged and thin body wasn’t how she wanted to remember herself. At least not until chemo was over with.

  Instead, Tammy walked to the waist high bookcase. When she got there, she rested her hand on top and caught her breath. As a twenty-five-year-old, she could run from the cops like she was running the New York Marathon. Now she could barely keep from throwing up, despite the hunger. She leaned down and skimmed through the titles. Nothing she recognized, but they were all true crime. Her favorite genre. She pulled a book off the shelf and started to read the back cover copy.

  “Amazon does wonders for a book collection.”

  She shook, startled at the words. It was Elliot, his voice calm and cool like an evening breeze. She hadn’t expected him. The momentary jitter sent some pain back into her chest. She counted to five until it subsided again, and then turned to face him.

  “How can you afford all these books? How can you afford to buy two men out of prison, but you can’t get us to Cuba?”

  Elliot sat on the bed. He smiled at her.

  “First of all,” he said, “those are all used. They cost me, like…a penny a piece. Amazon has this weird used book sale. Next, please don’t worry about money. The stress will only wear you down. Come sit.”

  She shook her head. “I just got up. And you haven’t answered my question. We’re running around. You have a place in Paterson. A place—” she waved her hand around “—wherever the hell we are. Long Valley?”

  “It’s pretty here, isn’t it?”

  “You’re infuriating.”

  “Part of my charm.”

  Elliot got up off the bed and walked over to her. He put his hands on her hips. Tammy could smell the Axe body spray. Ages ago it was the finest cologne, now it was Axe. He smelled like a frat boy. Maybe he couldn’t afford the good stuff anymore. She missed that scent on him. She put her hands on his.

  “I can’t tell you everything,” he said. “I don’t even tell Manuel.”

  Tammy turned and faced Elliot. “I’m your wife.”

  “What do you want me to say? I’m a private person, you’ve always known that about me.”

  Fire burned through Tammy’s stomach. “I’m your wife and I’m dying. You have me hooked up to that chemo machine every day. According to you, going to Cuba can save my life, and you don’t want to keep me informed of your plans? How callous are you?”

  Elliot’s phone rang, and he let go of her to check the call. He held a finger up. “I have to take this.”

  Tammy went back to the bed and sat down. Her breath was now ragged and her chest ached like a rhino was sitting on it. The scar from her surgery throbbed. She wondered if, eventually, she’d be able to tell when it was going to snow.

  In Cuba, she wouldn’t have to.

  She could hear Elliot, who’d moved into the hallway, talking to Leon, Manuel’s partner.

  “I sent him out for business. I’m sure he’s fine.” Elliot coughed. “He’s working, Leon, that’s why he’s not picking up his phone.”

  Tammy went back to the true crime novel. The style was devoid of voice, and if it didn’t pick up and sing soon, she’d find another book. Life was too short.

  “Okay, okay, Neil. I’ll call him.” There was a beep, and then Elliot ended the call.

  He poked his head back into the room. “I have work to do.”

  “We will continue this later. I will not forget.”

  Elliot nodded. “You think I don’t know that about you?”

  He disappeared into the hallway, his feet clomping against the hardwood floor. Tammy read another sentence and then threw the book across the room.

  A prisoner. She was a damned prisoner.

  DONNE GOT off the bus in Port Authority and took the elevator to the first floor near Heartland Brewery restaurant. His stomach cried out for him to stop, and Donne took a deep breath, seriously considering it. His consideration ended when he turned left and saw Elliot Cole’s bodybuilder buddy approaching him.

  “You got on that bus later than I thought. I figured you would have gotten on the first stop by the stadium,” the guy said.

  “What’s your name
again?”

  The guy squished up his face, like he smelled a bad fart. “Manuel.”

  “Right.” Donne turned away from him and started walking toward the street.

  “Whoa, hold up. You ain’t walking away from me that easily.”

  Donne kept heading toward the doors, but slowed his step so Manuel could catch up with him. “What if you missed me?”

  Manuel sucked his teeth. “There’d be other chances. I’d find you. Even in this city.”

  “It’s New York, there’s always a witness.”

  “I learned from a guy who doesn’t care about that sort of thing. We’ll work it out.”

  Donne pushed the door open and stepped out onto the pavement. The smell of dirty waters dogs wafted in his direction. Manuel was right behind him.

  “What do you want?” Donne asked.

  Manuel put a hand on Donne’s shoulder and squeezed the muscle tightly. It forced Donne to stop his pace. They stood on the corner, and Manuel leaned in closely. His breath was hot against Donne’s ear.

  “Well, since I found you, I’m going to kill you. Today. Right now.” The words had a tone not unlike someone ordering lunch.

  Donne’s stomach went cold, the remnants of breakfast.

  “Usually, when someone says that to me, they jam a gun in my ribs. Or, at the very least, a knife.”

  “Like you said—witnesses. Walk with me.” Manuel’s grip got tighter and he directed Donne downtown.

  Donne did as he was told and followed. Had he even been out of prison forty-eight hours yet? Already his life was in jeopardy. They pushed through the light Sunday afternoon crowd, and Donne wondered where you took someone you were going to murder in a city like New York. They turned west and headed toward the Javitz Center.

  “Are we going to a convention?”

  “Shut up,” Manuel said. He’d taken his hand off Donne’s shoulder, but now it rested on his back, gently pushing him along.

  “I don’t know how much Cole spent getting me out of jail, but isn’t killing me a waste of time and resources?” Donne’s breath was even, his heart rate a drum keeping time.