Blind to Sin Page 9

  “You’re sunken costs, man. You were never part of the plan. You’re a wild card and we don’t need you.”

  Donne didn’t respond. Why bother? Nothing he could say would change this scenario.

  There wasn’t a convention today, and Javitz was quiet. The afternoon was beginning to turn into evening. A few of the local pubs were blaring music and gathering crowds of people who didn’t want to give up the weekend. They passed them and continued heading toward the shiny glass convention hall. The Hudson River odor wafted toward them—wet birds, salt and garbage.

  “How are you going to do it?”

  Manuel said, “You got a preference?”

  They came around the corner of the Javitz Center. There was a loading dock for trucks, and then across the pavement, just the river. No one was around. Donne looked out toward New Jersey and tried to pick out Weehawken landmarks. If he was going to die here, he at least wanted one last look at his home state.

  Fuck New York.

  Donne took a deep breath and wondered if death was warm or cold. Manuel wouldn’t be able to tell him.

  Before Manuel could make a move, Donne whirled and caught Manuel with a left jab to the gut. It was like punching a rock, but Manuel gasped for air and took a step backward anyway. Donne didn’t let the pain in his hand slow him. He moved closer and caught Manuel with a right cross.

  Manuel jerked backward and reached for his jaw. Donne moved in close and caught the beast with two more shots to the stomach. Manuel went down to one knee. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy.

  But it was.

  Donne hit Manuel one more time, hard in the jaw. A hiss went from him and Manuel slumped to the concrete. Donne waited for him to get up, but the only thing rising was Manuel’s chest as he breathed. Shallow, slow breaths. Manuel’s eyes rolled back in his head. He was down.

  “Fuck you too, Manuel.” Donne spat the words, and then tried to catch his breath.

  Donne walked to the nearest pub, threw his credit card down and ordered a shot and a beer.

  Just another day.

  THE BEER and shot sat in front of Donne. He stared at them while realizing his heart had slowed and his breathing was normal. The usual tension in his neck and back weren’t there.

  How many people had he fought in his life? And how many times had he desired a drink after it was over?

  Not today. He’d had enough. Donne took a breath and watched the head of the beer dissipate.

  “You okay, man?”

  Donne looked up to see the Irish bartender standing over him. The guy pointed at the beer.

  “You been staring at that for, oh, near five minutes. All okay?”

  Donne blinked. “I’m fine.”

  The revel of people behind him was starting to fade. The bar was emptying as people realized the weekend was over. On the TV above him, Sunday Night Baseball was entering its third inning. Time went fast when you beat the shit out of someone.

  “I’ll let you enjoy your drink, then. Let me know when you need another.”

  Donne exhaled. “I don’t think I’m going to drink this.”

  The bartender shrugged. “I’m still going to have to charge you.”

  Nodding, Donne said, “That’s fine. It’s just—”

  He thought about the Olde Towne Tavern. Artie would have just poured the beer down the drain. But Artie wasn’t here, and Donne wasn’t sure if he’d ever see him again. His best friend, and Donne had gotten his bar blown up. Artie never visited him in prison, and Donne couldn’t blame him. Always how it happened with him: Jeanne, Karen, Bill Martin and Artie. Someone always died. Someone always got hurt.

  Donne stood up from the bar and asked the bartender to close him out. The bartender came back with a receipt, and Donne left a generous tip. It wasn’t like he’d actually pay the credit card bill, but Visa wouldn’t realize that until next month. Hopefully.

  Out on the street, it took a minute for Donne to regain his equilibrium and figure out where he was. He started the long walk toward the hotel. On 58th, a police car, sirens roaring, zoomed past him. Donne barely flinched. He wondered if they’d found Manuel already, or if he gotten up and stumbled off.

  It didn’t matter. Not at the moment.

  All that mattered was moving forward. He swung around the corner and came up on the hotel. Maybe Kenneth was back already. Donne walked through the doors and nodded at the woman behind the front desk. She barely noticed him.

  He took the elevator up and got off at their floor. Each step down the hall felt like it was in slow motion. Usually, he’d be running. He was always running. But now, it was time to continue the job.

  After unlocking the door to the room, he stepped in. Kenneth was sitting on the far bed, taking off his shoes. He looked up and caught Donne’s eye. He grinned at Donne.

  “Matt is getting closer to joining us,” he said. “We’re going to have a team. I know it.”

  Donne didn’t return the grin. Instead, he said, “We’re fucked.”

  And then let the silence hang over the room.

  Nobody Runs Forever

  SHE WROTE Vernon Valley first, so that was where Matt Herrick went. Vernon Valley was popular in the winter. There were a couple of ski resorts. One of them turned into a water park in the summer, but the park had an awful reputation. Like the kind of reputation you got when you put a dummy down a water slide to test it and it came out without a head.

  So, the area was quiet. After the ninety-minute drive from Hoboken was over, Herrick stopped at a gas station. While the attendant filled his tank, Herrick texted Sarah. She didn’t respond right away, and on a Monday morning, he expected her to be in a meeting. But it was always nice to say hi.

  The gas attendant handed Herrick back his credit card, and Herrick asked him who would know things about the town.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” the attendant said.

  “When things happen in small towns like this—new people move in, dirty scandals, you know stuff people don’t talk about. Who would know about it?”

  The attendant shook his head. “Man, these days everyone knows everything. Facebook and Twitter.”

  Herrick nodded. “But I don’t.”

  “Maybe you don’t need to.”

  “It’s my job. Who can I talk to?”

  “The police?”

  Another car pulled up next to them and the attendant started to turn away. Herrick cleared his throat.

  “A barber? A bartender?”

  The attendant said, “I have no idea. It’s not 1965, man. The bar over on Park, the Everstone Inn, people go there.”

  Herrick thanked him and started the car. He put the name of the bar into his GPS app and followed the directions. Ten minutes later, he was there.

  The Everstone Inn looked like it had been built during the Revolutionary War. The foundation was cobblestone, and red siding started at about waist height. A small sign with an image of a horse and the name of the inn hung above the heavy wooden door. Herrick pulled it open and walked into the dark pub and took a seat at the bar. No one else was there. The place smelled like soap and old beer.

  He texted Sarah again, I am in a bar. Day drinking on a Monday, and added a smiley face emoji.

  This got a quick response. Better not be. Not without me. Winky emoji.

  There were rules, and not drinking on the job was one of them. Herrick didn’t do it. He wondered how Donne was able to function. When Herrick had visited him in prison a few times, Donne had told stories of old cases. Nearly all of them involved some form of booze. Herrick would spend all of his cases napping if he drank at work.

  The bartender, a heavy guy in his sixties, sidled up to him.

  “Early start today?” He put a menu in front of Herrick. “What can I get you?”

  “A club soda, a corned beef sandwich and information.”

  The bartender tilted his head. “I’m sure I can help with two of those.”

  Herrick placed his PI license on the bartop. T
he bartender looked it over.

  “Let me get you your food, and then we will talk.”

  Herrick agreed and flipped through some news articles on his phone while he waited. Slow news day. He thought again about his father’s visit. Why did Kenneth need him? How could he help? There wasn’t really a way—unless Herrick was willing to risk his entire life.

  He wasn’t.

  The bartender came back and put the sandwich in front of him.

  “Has anyone new moved into town?” Herrick asked.

  “Do I look like a realtor?”

  Herrick pursed his lips. Then he said, “I mean—have you heard any rumors of anything odd sticking out? A rushed move? Shady people come to town?”

  The bartender shook his head. “Not that I know of. I mean, people come in here and talk, but nothing’s come up. People are worried about the Board of Ed giving out those new contracts for teachers. Not worth it if you ask me. Bunch of overpaid, lazy know-nothings. The board should say no.”

  Herrick took a bite of his sandwich. “My girlfriend is a teacher, and I didn’t ask you.”

  The bartender shrugged.

  “No gossip?” Herrick tried one more time.

  “Sorry, but I haven’t heard anything at all.”

  Herrick nodded and finished his sandwich. Next stop was the supermarket. People always gossiped in supermarkets. He hoped they wouldn’t be whining about teachers.

  The glamorous life of a private eye.

  HERRICK DROVE to the supermarket, a ShopRite that shared mini mall space with a Dunkin Donuts, a liquor store and a pizza place. Across the two-lane street was a gas station. Beyond that there was nothing else but large spaces of grassy land. Vernon wasn’t the busy commuter town of Hoboken or hustling suburb like Cedar Grove. This was one of the areas where New Jersey earned its Garden State nickname.

  After pulling into a parking spot, Herrick checked his phone. Nothing. Not that he was expecting any messages, but pressing that button to check the home screen had become a habit. He got out of the car and headed toward the entrance. The lot was mostly empty, a few people pushing carts out of the building. Maybe this was a dumb idea, but his mom’s note did not give him much in the way of good ones.

  He stepped through the automatic doors and was immediately smacked in the face with the odor of produce. A few people sorted through cantaloupes and broccoli. Herrick didn’t spot a friendly face. The corned beef sandwich rumbled in his stomach, and he reminded himself to have a vegetable with dinner tonight.

  He strolled over to the Starbucks stand near the front door. Smartest grocery store idea ever. Buy a coffee and stroll the aisles. So, Herrick did. The barista looked at him crooked when he asked if she had heard any good, recent Vernon gossip. Herrick shrugged. After mixing some cream into his coffee, he took his cup and started walking the store.

  While perusing the meat section, a guy with a military haircut approached him. The guy had his chest puffed out and appeared to be in attack mode. Herrick had left his ASP in the car. Didn’t expect to need it while talking to someone in dairy. He rested his coffee cup on the edge of the meat case.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Haircut said.

  “Starting to feel like it.” Herrick rubbed his nose. “At least until you showed up.”

  “No, I mean, you know how this is going to end, so you might as well join in.”

  Herrick tilted his head. “Not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  The haircut put his hands in his pockets. “I think you do. You’re not going to find anything out asking random people in a supermarket. And if I was able to track you down this easily now, then I can do it any time.”

  Herrick’s stomach gurgled, a combination of nerves and the sandwich.

  “So here’s the deal,” Haircut continued. “You should go back to your little Hoboken apartment, call your dad and tell him you’re going to help him. Your dad is trying to help your mom. But you don’t have a relationship with her or him.”

  Herrick bit his lip. Tried to think of a retort. Stuck with silence.

  “You know your dad. Or at least you did, when you were a kid. Do you think he’s going to give up? Jackson Donne fucked up last night. That’s going to hurt your dad’s little team. Let Elliot Cole solve everything. Or you can help your dad out.”

  The guy was a trip.

  “Think you’re this big man, trying to run away from your past, Mr. Herrick. Forgetting your family. Going to Iraq and all the bullshit that happened over there. Yeah, you’re a PI, but you want to just think of yourself as a basketball coach. You’re not. Blood runs deep with your family. Nobody runs forever. Not from their past. They need you.”

  “You know all the talking points,” Herrick said. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Haircut shook his head. “Certainly not a friend. Maybe I’m just your conscience.”

  “Like Jiminy Cricket?”

  Haircut spread his hands. “If that’s what you want to call me.”

  Picking up the coffee, Herrick took a big sip. Play it cool.

  “Think about what I said. Think about what your dad is saying. Think about it really hard.. This isn’t about you. This is about your mom and her health. Elliot will fix it.”

  Jiminy Cricket turned on his heel and started walking away. He turned right at aisle ten and headed toward the cash registers. Herrick didn’t follow him. He took a deep breath.

  He pulled his phone out and texted Sarah. We have to chat about dad.

  She didn’t respond right away. After Herrick counted to one hundred, he walked out of the supermarket. No one attacked him.

  But maybe Jiminy was right.

  He couldn’t run. Not from his dad. But maybe this was the out, how to stop him. By joining in.

  Time to find out who Jiminy Cricket was.

  JIMINY CRICKET exited the supermarket fifteen minutes later, long after Herrick was supposed to be gone—back on Route 23 heading toward Hoboken. Herrick, however, had other ideas and stuck around. Sometimes you had to force things to happen, and Cricket had given him a chance to do that.

  Cricket made his way to a Ford Explorer two parking rows over. He took a look around the lot and then got in the car. Herrick watched him back out and then counted to fifteen. And then the tailing began.

  Herrick wasn’t very good at tailing people. When he was in the sandbox, it was all open land. You weren’t following bad guys—you were keeping your eyes open for IEDs. In America, on the highway, tailing was tricky because of traffic and quick speed changes. On open side roads, like he was on now, tailing was tricky because, well, there was no one else around. But Herrick tried as best he could. Cricket hit Route 23 and headed south. Herrick followed suit.

  They traveled, and Cricket seemed to know Herrick was on his rear. Cricket weaved through traffic and Herrick did his damnedest to keep up. Of course, if Cricket was actually on to him and still couldn’t shake Herrick, there was no guarantee he’d drive to his original destination. Didn’t matter, Herrick decided. He was going to follow anyway.

  They merged onto Route 46 and then Route 3 and then the Garden State Parkway south. The New Jersey way: highway-to-highway-to-highway. A spider web. Traffic was light at this time of day, and Cricket fell into a cruising speed. Herrick stayed about two car lengths behind. Cricket merged onto the Turnpike, another major New Jersey artery, and Herrick’s heart started pumping harder. Where the hell was this guy going? They’d been on the road for over an hour already. Was he just trying to drive Herrick into the ground? He checked his gas gauge and realized he’d be okay for at least another one hundred miles.

  Herrick had expected Cricket to lead him to his mother and Elliot Cole. That was the easy guess, but their direction didn’t line up with where the man was driving. They stayed on the Turnpike for another five miles and then Cricket put his blinker on. The first polite move of the last ninety minutes. He exited at Exit Nine, the exit for Rutgers, New Brunswick and a whole mess of Middlesex County. Jackso
n Donne Country. Or at least it used to be before Donne decided prison was the spot for him.

  What a week.

  Herrick kept on Cricket’s tail through the EZ Pass toll and beyond. They stayed together for the next mile or so—still heading south. At this point, Cricket didn’t seem to care that Herrick was still around. And, as the big set of brick buildings came up on their left, Herrick knew why. This was the end of the line for the private investigator.

  The National Guard base Cricket pulled into was ultra-secure. A gated community with armed guards at the entrance. Cricket pulled up and slowed at check-in. Herrick had no choice but to keep going. At the next intersection, he pulled a U-turn and passed the base again, just in time to see the Ford Explorer disappear inside the complex.

  Herrick exhaled and headed back home, his brain swimming with questions. Number one of which was: who is Jiminy Cricket? Not an easy answer to it either.

  Heading north on the Turnpike, it was a straight shot back to St. Paul’s High School. He could be back in time to work out a few of his kids for some of the coaches who were in town. He called Sarah and let her know he was on his way, in case the guys were looking for him. Sarah sighed. She told him she had appointments to keep and that he could call the principal for that.

  “Not after last year.”

  “You’re lucky you still have a job.”

  “You keep telling me that.”

  “See you soon.” The line disconnected.

  Acid burned in Herrick’s gut. Newark Liberty Airport passed on his left, and he prepared to exit. This was getting bigger all the time. The National Guard was involved. Maybe Uncle Adrik could tell him more, but it seemed unlikely. A phone call never hurt though.

  As Herrick pulled into St. Paul’s fifteen minutes later, his head was nearly spinning. He couldn’t pull the pieces together and have them make sense. Of course, his father was the key to all this. An idea for a happy medium wasn’t there yet, but Matt Herrick was going to have to reach out to Kenneth.

  As he walked through the doors into the gym, the sound of dribbling basketballs started to calm him. There was always a solace to be found. Even with all the questions. One of his players yelled out a hello to him.