When One Man Dies Read online

  “You’re going to give out parking tickets?”

  I thought I had pushed him far enough. His face turned beet red and he gritted his teeth together, baring them. I thought he was going to take a swing at me. I wanted him to. That would give me the opportunity to swing back, something I had wanted to do for years.

  But he stepped away. Looked at my Honda. I heard him breathing hard, working the muscles of his mouth into a sneer. “One of these days, I’m gonna tell you something. Man, it’s going to blow your mind.”

  “Yeah?” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  He pointed to my car, and I could see a little glimmer of metal in the streetlight. “Looks like you might have kicked up a stone or something on the highway. You could try to buff the scratch out, or a dab of the right paint will take care of it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  “I only ever wanted to help you, kid. No matter what you wanted.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “We’ll get the guy who got your buddy. We’re cops. We’re the good guys.”

  He stepped into his car, parked on the corner, and started it up. As he pulled away, I realized I’d been warned off two different cases by two different people in one day. It was something to put on the résumé. Too bad Martin didn’t come carrying cash. I would have taken it from him just as easily as I had from the hoods. I made it up to my apartment and found my bed.

  ***

  Six in the morning, someone was buzzing on the intercom. I stumbled out of bed, in boxers and a T-shirt, and found the speaker. I asked my visitor to identify himself.

  “This is Detective Daniels, Mr. Donne. Detective Blanchett is with me. Can we come up?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Apartment Two Thirty-seven.”

  I hit the buzzer and went to find another shirt and a pair of jeans. Minutes later, I was opening the door for the two detectives.

  Daniels had one of those Styrofoam trays with three cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in her hands. Blanchett looked like he hadn’t gotten any sleep since I’d last seen him, bags under his eyes, unshaven. Daniels looked great. Her eyes were sparkling and aware, pressed suit, crisp and professional.

  “Cream and sugar?” she said.

  I nodded, thinking I probably looked more like Blanchett, groggy and out of sorts. Daniels took a large cup out of the tray and handed it to me.

  “Do you mind if we sit?” Blanchett asked. “Go for it. To what do I owe the honor?”

  “We’ve got a couple of questions, and Daniels here thought it’d be nice if we came down to visit you. Ya know, instead of making you suffer through rush hour, she thought it’d be cool if we did.”

  “I appreciate that.” What they really wanted was to come early and catch me asleep. Though Daniels did bring coffee. She couldn’t be all bad.

  Daniels said, “I’m glad someone does.”

  I popped the top on the coffee, took a long sip. “What do you want to ask me about?”

  Daniels leaned across after giving Blanchett his coffee. “Who was the girl Hanover carried out of the apartment two nights ago?”

  “The paper said Diane Peterson.”

  “The papers did say that. Are you saying you don’t know her?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Could be anybody?”

  “Sure.” I loved the rapid-fire approach, made me feel like I was just as smart as them, that I was able to answer questions as quickly as they asked them. Like I was a step ahead, knew what was coming. “Come on, Donne. We looked you up, we talked to New Brunswick. We know what you did here,” Blanchett piped in, proving that my lawyer was right about what they were doing when they were out of the room. “They don’t like you down here. Let me tell you, the cop we talked to was hoping we’d arrest you for the murder. So give up the act and tell us what you know about the dead woman.”

  My stomach knotted a bit, and it wasn’t from the coffee. Daniels and Blanchett were getting at something. If they were asking me who the woman was and expecting me to know, that meant they thought I should know. Maybe she was someone who had popped up in a crime before, most likely back when I was on the force. But where? Did it have to do with drugs? How much research had Blanchett and Daniels done since I’d last seen them? Maybe Blanchett really hadn’t gotten any sleep, and Daniels looked so good because she was a freak of nature. I felt as if I was missing a huge piece of the puzzle, like I had walked in in the middle of a movie and was expected to give a recap of the first half.

  “I really don’t know anything about her,” I said. “My job was to find out if Hanover was cheating on his wife. I did that.”

  “So you left it at that, then?” Daniels asked.

  I nodded. I wondered if I’d be able to manipulate the conversation with my answers, direct them to telling more about the dead woman. Because they weren’t about to volunteer the information, and I was getting really curious.

  “Why did you visit with Jen Hanover after we went to see her?” Blanchett asked.

  I hesitated too long before speaking. I tried to cover, saying, “I wanted to inform her of what I’d seen. She should know that I was doing my job. She was my client and I felt that I should be the one to tell her about her husband. I didn’t know you had gotten there already.”

  Daniels said, “Come on. You didn’t really think we’d leave that place unwatched, did you? If Hanover was going to run, we thought maybe he’d at least try to contact his wife. But it seems like he’s smarter than that. We haven’t seen him in the area, but we have the place staked out.”

  “Tap the phones?” I asked.

  “Working on it,” she said. “We don’t get many murders in Madison, but we intend to solve the ones we do get.”

  “Better than some of the cops in this town,” I said. “Mr. Donne, what did you have to say to Jen Hanover?”

  “I told you already.” The last thing I wanted was to let these cops know I was working on the case. If they knew I was trying to get to Hanover before them, they’d shut me out completely.

  “You’re done working for her?”

  “I told her that if she needed my help with anything, finding a lawyer, legal issues, to call me. I would help her with that. I also had a drink with her and gave her a chance to cry on my shoulder.”

  “You haven’t heard from her since?” Blanchett said.

  “No.” That wasn’t a lie, at the moment. But I was going to call Jen as soon as they got the hell out of my apartment, hopefully before the phones were tapped.

  “And you don’t know who the dead woman is, Mr. Donne?” Daniels said.

  Trying to catch me off guard, come back to a topic I’d thought we left already. “No. I have no idea. Do you guys know?”

  “Mr. Donne, we’re asking the questions,” Daniels said. She had to know she sounded like an episode of Dragnet when she said it.

  “Call me Jackson,” I said. “Mr. Donne was my father.”

  It was an old saying, and not true. I remembered again why I took the case from Jen. My mother sitting on the couch crying after my father had walked out on her. I never knew if he preferred to be called Mr. Donne. I never really knew anything about him.

  “I’m Sarah,” Daniels said. “And this is Harry. But we prefer to be called Detective. Or at the very least, Mr. and Ms.”

  Daniels was showing me a sign of respect. She trusted me enough to let me in on the personal sides of their lives. Just a little. The last bit, however, showed me she still intended to be professional.

  “I still don’t know anything about the woman.”

  “Thank you, Jackson. But if you know anything, if you’re holding back on us—”

  “I will call you,” I said.

  They weren’t out the door three minutes when I picked up the phone and dialed Jen Hanover.

  She sounded like she’d been up for a while. It bothered me that I was the only one sleeping. Everyone was a step ahead, it felt like.

  “Have you heard from Rex?” I
asked. “No. Can you come down here?”

  “Now? Is everything okay?”

  There was silence between us, and all I could hear was a hiss on her line. I hoped it wasn’t a phone tap.

  “I need some help,” she said.

  Chapter 19

  The phone rang early in the morning. Bill Martin didn’t know what time it was. He just knew he had a Jameson headache and a slight sense of failure. How the hell could Donne not be working the case anymore? That was complete bullshit.

  On the phone, a voice said, “If you want to meet with Mr. Burgess, meet us at the corner store, Easton and Hazel. One hour.”

  Click.

  Getting Donne back on the case was something to worry about later.

  ***

  The corner store was a mess. Shelves weren’t level and the soup cans and small packets of macaroni were strewn everywhere. The air smelled like old coffee and rotten fruit.

  He stood and waited. Hearing the second hand on his watch tick.

  Two thick guys came from the back room and said something to the Chinese cashier. The Chinaman locked the register and went out the front door.

  Thick guy number one was bald, with a goatee, wearing track pants and a tank top with the words GOLD’S GYM emblazoned on it. He looked like a professional wrestler. If it came down to it, a quick shot with his boot heel to the instep would take him down easy, Martin figured.

  The other guy was a bit trickier. Not a professional wrestler type, he looked more like a model. Button-down blue silk shirt, pressed khakis, steel-tipped loafers. He had a way about him. Slick, fast, like he’d stab you and not even blink. Martin would have to play it careful with this guy. Let him talk, eye him, find his weakness.

  Again, if it came down to it.

  The model spoke. “You Martin?” Martin shrugged.

  “All right, then, cop,” the model said. “Assume the position.”

  Doing as he was told, Martin felt the wrestler’s hands pat his waist. They moved up his sides, until they felt his shoulder holster and Beretta. The wrestler spun him around, reached into his jacket, pulled the gun, checked the clip, and handed the weapon to the model. The wrestler completed the frisking and stepped back.

  “Most action I’ve gotten in months,” Martin said. “Thanks.”

  “Fuck you,” the wrestler said.

  “You want to see Mr. Burgess, you’re gonna keep your mouth shut,” the model said.

  Martin shut up.

  “Good,” the model said. “Follow us.”

  ***

  The back room was immaculate compared to the shelves in the front. Boxes were neatly stacked, the floor looked like it’d just been waxed, and a big guy leaned against a spotless mirror, arms folded.

  Martin didn’t bother to size the big guy up. If the shit was going to go down now, he was a dead man. He couldn’t take on the model, the wrestler, and the new guy all at once. Not to mention Michael Burgess, who he assumed was the guy sitting behind a desk to his left. “Josh, Maurice, thank you,” the guy behind the desk said. “Leave Detective Martin’s gun on my desk and make sure business in the front is being run legitimately.”

  The model and the wrestler did as they were told.

  “Have a seat, Detective. I’m Michael Burgess. I don’t usually hold audience with police officers, but I’ll make an exception in your case. I’ve done some homework and it seems you have an interesting past.”

  “My past has nothing to do with why I’m here.” Martin sat in a creaky wooden chair. The back was splintered, and he could feel shards pressing through his shirt into his skin.

  Burgess nodded. “Then why are you here?”

  “Gerry Figuroa.”

  Burgess spread his hands as if the name meant nothing to him. Smart man.

  “Old guy, killed in a hit-and-run a few days ago?”

  The big guy hadn’t moved. Never a good sign. He obviously thought he was quick enough to catch Martin even with his arms crossed. The guy looked Hispanic. He also looked like he’d been brought up in the military. Thick, but quick.

  “I read about it in the papers. Why come to me about it?”

  Martin realized then what a bad idea this was. The only way to get Burgess to talk was to tell him what evidence there was. Ultimately, that would give Burgess the upper hand. Martin didn’t like that idea and knew then how out of practice he really was. Thank God evaluations didn’t always involve “on the job” observations.

  He thought about getting up and leaving, but didn’t expect to get to the door alive. Best to play it straight.

  “When I investigated Figuroa’s house, I found he had a lot of suspicious items in his possession. Batteries, Sudafed, matches, coffee filters, that sort of thing.”

  Burgess looked at the big guy, then back at Martin, a bemused look on his face. “So, are you asking me if this man shopped in my store?”

  “You and me both know what I’m asking.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Did Gerry Figuroa work for you?”

  “Are you saying my work here is less than legal?” Burgess was practically busting a gut now. Like he was having trouble holding in his laughter.

  Martin’s face flushed. “I’m saying the entire city knows what you do.”

  “Which brings us back to your past, Detective Martin. I know why you were demoted. I know why, for a time, you were suspended. I know about Jackson Donne.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Martin didn’t like this one bit.

  “You were involved with drugs. You and your crew practically kept the drug industry in business back when New Brunswick had a narc squad. Until Donne turned you all in, you were the drug lords of this town.”

  “That’s not me anymore. That’s not why I’m here.”

  Burgess sat back. “I’m going to make you an offer. That’s the only reason I agreed to see you. Gerry Figuroa’s name is something I saw in an obituary page. Nothing more.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Every instinct told Martin to run. Get the hell out. Still, he stayed.

  “I’m offering you a chance to work for me,” Burgess said.

  Chapter 20

  It was seven-thirty, traffic was moving slowly on 287, and I had just realized I had forgotten to charge my cell phone. An A.M. radio morning-show DJ was talking about having to pay for a missed doctor’s appointment because she hadn’t given a seventy-two-hour cancellation notice. The story was supposed to be humorous, an example of the cynical eye of the New Yorker or New Jerseyan, but all it did was remind me of my promise to help Tracy Boland this morning. No way I’d make it back in time. Especially if Jen Hanover was in trouble.

  She hadn’t said much else before I’d hung up. I asked her to call the police if she was in immediate danger and that I’d be there as quickly as possible. No idea what she needed help with, I got dressed and shot out the door with only my keys, my wallet, and my gun.

  Traffic on 287 North was brutal. The traffic report which interrupted the DJ said there was an accident about ten miles ahead of me. I couldn’t swerve, I couldn’t drive aggressively. All I could do was sit and wait it out. There was too much going on, and the fear that Jen Hanover could be in trouble and there wasn’t anything I could do about it didn’t help matters. I hoped she would be smart and call the police. Her safety was more important than covering for her husband, or even seeing her husband before the police did. The image of my bald friend from yesterday hovering over her wouldn’t leave my mind.

  Miles of red in front of me, brake lights shining and reflecting in the early-morning sun caused me to grip the wheel tightly. I spun the radio dial trying to find a song or something relaxing and came up with nothing. I hated this feeling, the lack of control.

  I thought of Bill Martin. When I was his partner, when he was training me to be his successor, he used to talk about this moment. The powerless feeling. He said it came often when you were a cop, but mostly, he said it came on the stakeout. Th
ose moments when all you could do was sit in a car on the street and wait for your suspect to do something. Some cops dealt with it by eating and drinking. Some listened to music or an audiobook. Martin never felt either of those was productive. “Either give you a fat ass or a headache,” he used to say. What Martin did was go over what he knew, make sure he had all the evidence correct, that he had the right guy. He said these moments when you had no control over what happened next normally came at the end of a case, and you’d figure it out if you took it slowly.

  Except, as far as I knew, neither of the cases was anywhere near its conclusion. I had only snippets of information.

  The traffic rolled a little and I was able to pick up speed, got the car to about thirty. At least we were moving. Nearly five minutes later I could see flashing lights, police cars, and flares in the right shoulder. A few cops were milling around on foot next to a twisted piece of metal. I didn’t see an ambulance, but I also didn’t see any civilians walking around. That told me the ambulance had come and gone already. Someone wasn’t having a good morning.

  Beyond the accident, the brake lights winked off. I floored the pedal, swerving in and out of traffic, trying to make up the time I had lost. The Morristown exit was still twenty miles away. I had a dead woman, I had two guys paying me off, and a wife in trouble. As far as I knew, as far as the phone book had told me, as far as Jen had told me, Rex didn’t have relatives, didn’t have anyone in New Jersey or New York to run to. What did it all add up to? Did it even add up? There was a sign telling me the Morristown exit was two miles away. I still had nothing. I hadn’t reached any conclusions. All I had was a knot in the pit of my stomach to go along with my nerves and my sore neck.

  Turning off the exit, I tried to find my way through the roads back to the Hanover home. The morning before I had gotten to the home on autopilot, half-asleep. The houses didn’t look familiar, the streets all looked the same, and I was lost. The clock on my dashboard said eight-fifteen. If Jen was in trouble, serious trouble, and she was counting on me, she’d be dead by now. The radio went to a news update, and that’s when how to find the house became clear.