When One Man Dies Read online

“And now our top story, we’ll hear from our reporter live in Morristown, New Jersey,” the DJ said.

  “Thanks, Susan. We’re here outside the home of a man wanted by police for questioning. He is wanted in connection to a murder that occurred outside Drew University, just down the street here, in the next town over, Madison.”

  I turned off the radio and drove through the streets, circling, U-turning, looking up and down side streets, trying to find the circus. After about twenty minutes, I saw a blocked-off side street. Towering above a clutch of houses was a satellite dish attached to a news van.

  I drove past the roadblock, a police cruiser sitting near it, lights flashing. Taking the next right, I parked on the street and got out. A strip of houses led to a dead end on the street. I climbed a fence, into a yard, and peered between the houses. The media was camped in front of a house. I had to cross three more yards, climbing another fence. If the police saw me, I’d be arrested immediately and I didn’t need that. At the same time, I didn’t want a throng of news reporters questioning me.

  The lawn hadn’t been cut in weeks. The grass was long, coming up over my sneakers, leading to a concrete patio with a picnic table on it. There was a spotless grill perpendicular to the house. I walked toward the patio and the glass sliding door. Through the door Jen Hanover sat at a kitchen table, dressed in a neat business suit, sipping coffee and reading the paper. If I hadn’t heard the throng of reporters talking on cell phones, screaming about the position of their camera compared to other cameramen, it would look like a normal morning scene. I tapped gently on the glass.

  Jen jumped before she looked up. She peered through the window at me, recognition crossing her face. She came to the door, slid it open.

  “You scared the hell out of me,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

  “I had to call in late to work. I’ll probably lose my job. But I’m afraid to go out there. If I went out by myself they probably wouldn’t let me out of my driveway.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I didn’t know who else to call. Have you dealt with reporters before?”

  “It’s best to avoid them. Do you have your blinds shut in the front room?”

  “I didn’t open them when I went to bed last night. I went out for the paper this morning and all the news vans were there.”

  “Did you say anything to them?”

  “I said, ‘No comment,’ and slammed the door.” I laughed. “You’re a natural.”

  She smiled, too. It brought a light to a face that looked exhausted. The light showed me what Rex saw in her. She probably hadn’t done much sleeping these past few nights, sitting by the phone praying her husband would call. I wondered how much she really knew about him.

  “Have you heard from Rex?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Not a word. Not a phone call. Nothing. Jesus Christ. I hope he’s all right.”

  “It’s probably better he doesn’t call. The police are going to tap your phone,” I said. “If they haven’t done so already.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure your husband is fine.”

  What was I saying? I watched this man carrying a dead body rolled in a carpet across the street. You don’t do that if you haven’t killed someone. But I was helping his wife cover his trail. Telling her it was better if he didn’t call.

  I’ve killed three men in my life. Two of whom the police don’t know about. Two bookies who were trying to kill a client of mine. I cornered them in an abandoned hotel in Atlantic City, shot them both in cold blood. I drifted them out in the bay behind the building. Whether they deserved it or not was a question that woke me up in a sweat in the middle of the night. I could still smell the blood, see the look of fear on their faces. I hid their deaths from the law. Hid them from the police. Now I was helping a killer hide until I discovered him.

  And the most frightening part: No matter how weak my knees were just thinking about it, I wasn’t going to stop. I wanted to get to Hanover on my own. I had sat outside while he murdered a woman. I let it happen. It didn’t matter to me that I didn’t know it was going on. I was close enough to stop it and now I wanted to catch Hanover, let him talk to Jen one time, and turn him over to the police. If I was trying to make up for my past mistakes, so be it.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m all right.”

  “Listen, I need a ride to work. Do you think—?”

  “Say no more,” I said. “We’re going to have to go out the way I came in.”

  “Thank you. I get out at seven, but I’ll call a friend. I didn’t know how to deal with this.”

  “Stay out of view if you don’t want to answer any questions.” She looked toward the front door. Though we couldn’t see them, we could feel their presence. “I’ll try.”

  She gathered her things, locked the front door, and we went back through the yard to my car. She had to climb the fences, too, but refused my help. My stomach was still tight, my knees still weak, but I did my best not to show it. We got in the car and pulled out into traffic.

  We didn’t talk much during the ten-minute ride, she only speaking to give me directions, and I to acknowledge I understood. I pulled up to a two-story office building. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek before she exited the car.

  Chapter 21

  When the cops don’t like you, it pays to have connections with the press. Outside of cops themselves, nobody has more inside information about police work, people in the public spotlight, and dark dirty secrets, than newspaper writers. I don’t know anyone with the big New York papers or networks, but I do know two local reporters who work the crime beat. One, Albert Spater, used to write for the Record and was currently between jobs. The other, Henry Steir, wrote for the Star-Ledger. I counted on Steir being outside the Hanover home.

  I drove back and parked across the street from the blocked intersection. I could see the crowd milling about on the lawns, outside Jen Hanover’s home. It was after nine. Too early for the afternoon news, too late for the morning shows. Unless something major happened and they decided to go live, the TV field reporters weren’t very busy at the moment. Some were drinking coffee, others were writing in notepads, probably what they wanted to tape for the twelve o’clock report. Most of them just looked bored.

  The print reporters were a different animal. They stayed away from the TV people, huddled across the street. Most of them knew they were a dying breed, the days of the newspaper fading in their minds, but they stuck with it because they loved it. Instant media and information was causing newspaper reporters to work harder to find angles that TV didn’t know about. The Internet and TV were instantaneous, and with so much put into the thirty-second sound bite, they could get by with just the facts. Newspapers had to work harder. Most of the reporters were on their cell phones, probably getting in touch with their contacts to see what little extra they could find out.

  Like I assumed, Henry Steir was there. He was a little older than me, early thirties, just out of Columbia grad school. I don’t know how he rose through the newspaper ranks so quickly. He had some highprofile stories over the past year. My best guess, he was an ass kisser.

  I stood at the roadblock, trying to look like a casual observer. The last thing I wanted was to be caught on camera by someone taping a report for later in the day. There were a few other people, dog walkers and senior citizens, watching the media circus as well. The cop watching the block was standing next to the hood of the car, arms crossed, trying to stay alert. I doubt he expected any of us to rush the barrier.

  My plan was to make eye contact with Henry and get him to saunter over. But he was busy watching the front door and didn’t turn my way. I wasn’t sure I’d get past the roadblock on good looks. Having Henry’s number on my cell phone helped, but the guy’s voice was louder than most people I knew—too much yelling questions at press conferences, he always said—and that might draw too much attention this way. And m
y phone was dead, anyway. It didn’t look like I had any choice.

  I walked up to the cop, knowing this was going to be a pain in the ass, for both of us.

  “How you doing today?” I asked.

  The cop looked me up and down. Who’s this asshole? He was uniformed, my height, and fat. He had a thin brown mustache, a squint, two chins, and a name tag that read LIEBOWITZ. I had to refrain from making any doughnut jokes.

  “What can I do for you?” he mumbled. “Any chance I can get through?”

  He finally got to earn his paycheck. “Not unless you’re a resident of this street or you have press credentials.”

  I pointed toward Steir. “That’s my boss over there. I forgot my press ID in his car. It’s parked down the street. The red Nissan.”

  “You must be shit out of luck today, huh?”

  “Not going to let me in?”

  Liebowitz gave me a look, then checked out all the other observers, most of whom had gotten bored watching nothing happen and had started to leave. He sighed loudly, then said: “Go.”

  I stepped around the barrier and headed toward Steir at a near jog. I tried to keep my back to the TV people, making sure no one caught me on camera. The last thing I needed was my male model friend and his buddy catching me in front of the Hanover house while waiting for Jeopardy to start.

  Steir hung up his cell phone, looked up, and saw me hustling his way.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Shut the fuck up. Keep your voice down.”

  If he tried to hug me I was going to deck him. Then the gears in his head started to work. “You have something to do with this shit, don’t you?”

  I shook his hand. “Can we get a cup of coffee?”

  “I can’t leave. What if she comes out? Decides to give everyone the scoop?” He smiled. “Dumb as it sounds, some people do that. People are dumb.”

  “She won’t.”

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “She’s not at home right now.”

  “Oh fuck, man.” He could hardly control his glee. Steir tried to do three things at once: find a pen and notebook and grab the tape recorder out of his jacket pocket. He didn’t really succeed at any of them, dropping his pen and accidentally hitting Rewind on the recorder instead of Play. His first question was, “What the hell do you have to do with this?”

  “Put the tape recorder away. Take me for a cup of coffee before your snake-in-the-grass pals get suspicious and put me on camera.”

  “It’ll be good publicity for the business.”

  “I didn’t put my makeup on today.”

  He laughed, but still didn’t budge.

  “If they put me on camera, they’ll get the scoop before you.”

  He put the tape recorder in his pocket and eyed up the networks. “I hate those fucks.”

  “I always thought you’d be jealous. They get the story out there first.”

  “Nah. I make more than they do. I hate ’em. But no way in hell am I jealous.”

  ***

  We found a Dunkin’ Donuts in the center of town. I sat with a large coffee. Henry Steir had a medium and a corn muffin spread out on the table between us. Next to the food was an open notebook, a ballpoint pen, his cell phone, and a pager.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, midchew.

  “I was following Rex Hanover the night of the murder.”

  “Who hired you?” He didn’t have the tape recorder out, but he was scribbling faster than I could talk.

  “I’m not going to get into that right now.”

  He sat back in his seat. “I thought we had a thing, Jackson.”

  “I’ll give you the story.”

  “When?”

  “When it’s over.”

  “That’s bullshit. When it’s over, everyone else will have the story, too. It’ll be everywhere.”

  “Yeah, but will they have an exclusive from the guy who found the body?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Not really. And you know I’ll only talk to you.”

  “What about that guy from the Record?”

  “He’s not there anymore.”

  He got rid of half his coffee in one gulp, without wincing. “All right. If you aren’t going to tell me anything yet, why are you here?”

  “I want to know what you know.”

  He laughed. “Fuck.” Took a chunk of the corn muffin. “I know less than you, probably.”

  “How did you guys know to go to the Hanovers’?”

  “The cops released a statement last night. They told us about Diane’s murder, told us Rex was on the run. I think they want to use us to find him.” Wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “Who is the girl, Diane? The cops came asking me about her like I should know.”

  “You don’t?”

  I shook my head.

  “So you want me to tell you?” I nodded.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I told you, the story.”

  “And?”

  “I already bought you coffee and a muffin.”

  “Get me a refill?”

  “When we’re done.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Isn’t what you’re doing to me unethical? Making me pay you for information that’s going to be in the paper tomorrow anyway.”

  “You want to wait till tomorrow?”

  Plus, he might keep things out of his article. And the TV would tell me her name, that’s it. Whatever would fit in a shocking sound bite.

  “Who is she, Henry?”

  A line had formed at the counter, the small storefront suddenly busy. Probably a bunch of local workers on their coffee break. Some of them talked about the previous night’s baseball games. The others discussed some reality TV show. Water cooler talk.

  Steir flipped through his notebook. “Diane Peterson. Unmarried. Twenty-three, just out of college.”

  “What did she do for a living?”

  “Substitute teacher.” He turned the page. “Christ, the public is gonna love this. I’ve been on the phone with the Madison Board of Ed all day trying to get a statement.”

  “They give one?”

  “Yeah. ‘No comment’ ”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Neither am I. But that’s it. She was a nobody girl. No one cared about her. She didn’t make much money. What do substitutes make a day? Eighty, a hundred bucks, maybe? No one really knows anything about her.”

  “Did you talk to her landlord?”

  “I gave him a call. He probably had a written response.” Steir read off the notebook. ‘“She was quiet. Always paid the rent on time. I didn’t bother her. I didn’t ask her about her life.’”

  “The cops tell you anything about her?”

  “Just enough to suck us in. The a1l-American innocent girl, murdered. Told us her job. That’s it. They gave us a picture of Hanover, told us more about him.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Where he lived. That he was married. That they had evidence he was worthy of an arrest. That he was on the run. They want us to flush him out. The networks show his picture on TV, if we’re lucky he’s on the front page, someone sees it and calls them. They come and make the arrest. All of America breathes a sigh of relief, another murderer off the street.”

  “You’re not cynical, are you?”

  “Nah, I’m too young to be cynical.”

  I had more questions about Diane, but not anything I wanted to ask Steir. He was smart enough on his own. I didn’t want to direct him to answers before I was able to find them myself.

  “You know what bothers me, Jackson?” He looked at his notes. “She’s a substitute teacher. No family supporting her, but she’s able to afford a place in Madison, just across from the university. Prime real estate. How?”

  “I have no idea, Henry.”

  I looked at my watch. I had to be at the wake at two. It was already past ten. I still had to
get back to New Brunswick, shower, and shave. Already I missed my appointment to pick up Tracy.

  I stood up to leave.

  “So, I’m going to get an exclusive?”

  “You know I’m good for it.”

  “And?”

  Ten minutes later, Henry Steir dropped me off at my car, holding another medium coffee in his right hand.

  Chapter 22

  Back at the station, Bill Martin’s hands trembled for the first time since Jackson Donne had been his partner. Toward the end, when he’d been paranoid about Donne every second of the day, just waiting for the kid to flip, his hands shook. Uncontrollably.

  And now they were doing it again.

  The way he figured it, agreeing to side with Burgess could work out in his favor. It would give him an in with the drug element. He’d have his ear to the ground, know what was going on before it happened. He’d be able to move up in the ranks on the force. Having the leading drug lord in New Brunswick as an informant. No one else would have that.

  Burgess insinuated Martin would be working for him. Fuck that. Martin picked up the phone and dialed the number they’d given him.

  “I’m in,” he said.

  Placing the telephone on its cradle, he wondered: Is this how it started last time?

  Chapter 23

  There weren’t many cars in the funeral-home parking lot. Artie was parked about three spaces in, two other cars I didn’t recognize sandwiching his. It was still early, only two-fifteen; the spaces would probably fill in later.

  Inside, a man in black suit and tie greeted me. He was heavy, sweat dripping off his brow. He had a five o’clock shadow, greasy hair, looked like he hadn’t showered recently. He smiled and asked whom I was here to view. After I told him, he directed me to a long room on the right. The same one I had sat in yesterday.

  Tracy was sitting in the front right corner seat, clutching a tissue. There were rows set up, much like the day before. It looked as if nothing had been done except a casket had been lugged into the room, Gerry in it. I succeeded in avoiding the body when I entered.

  Artie was standing near the American flag set up next to the casket, talking to two men I didn’t recognize. Both older, graying hair, hunched in pinstripes, they may have been war buddies of Gerry’s. In the last row sat Gerry’s landlord, Devon James. He was the only person to make eye contact with me, nodding a greeting. I was glad he came. Tracy didn’t turn around. If Artie saw me, he didn’t acknowledge it.