When One Man Dies (13 page)

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.

Walking to the front, toward the casket, my body felt numb. My mind tried to force me back to Jeanne’s wake, but I fought against it. Put my arm on Tracy’s shoulder, leaned over, whispered a condolence in her ear. She looked up, eyes red, some mascara running. She smiled.

“You came. What happened?” She wrapped her arms around me. Stepping away, she looked me in the eye. “You promised. Where were you this morning?”

When I returned from my journey to Morristown, I charged my cell phone. I had missed seven calls. They were all from Artie and Tracy. After a minute, I had put the phone in my pocket.

“Let me say a prayer. I’ll tell you after that.”

She nodded, biting her lip, bringing the tissue to her eyes. I wondered how many times she’d done that already today. It was the first time she’d seen her uncle in years, and he was lifeless.

I walked toward the casket, taking in everything but the body. My mind wouldn’t register it. The casket was finished wood, with two gold handles on the sides for the pallbearers. In front of that was a stoop to kneel on, padded in a color that matched the wood of the casket. A framed collage of pictures of Gerry, his military photo in the middle, stood on an easel. Behind it were a multitude of flowers—yellow, red, green—a bright flash contrasting with the otherwise drab room.

As I knelt in front of the casket, I finally looked at the body. Gerry was wearing a navy blue suit with a bright blue tie and white shirt. He looked peaceful and younger, like so many years had been shaved off. He had a natural expression, eyes closed, mouth shut, hair perfectly in place, combed to the side like he always wore it. I wanted to shake him, wake him up so we could get a drink and get the hell out of here. He would have hated the quiet of the room, no one laughing, no one drinking. I could nearly hear him bitching about it.

I bowed my head, and just before I closed my eyes, I noticed his hands. The same thing happened at Jeanne’s wake, at every wake I’d ever been to. Folded over each other at his waist, I could see the makeup. That was always when it registered the person was dead, when I saw the hands. I wondered what the undertaker did with them, how careless they got with the hands. It looked like they were covered in petroleum jelly, trying to make them shine, and some of it hung off the thumb. Hands show life, they move, they twitch; Gerry’s were doing nothing.

Someone had run Gerry over with a car. The police believed it was a homicide. My friend had asked me to look into it. He didn’t trust the police to give full effort, and neither did I. Prayer wasn’t in my playbook. It wasn’t something I did regularly, and I wasn’t even sure God existed. But I could feel Gerry’s presence as I knelt. I closed my eyes. I promised to find who did this to him. I was going to find out what he had been hiding, and answer the questions his death raised. I didn’t bother to say a prayer.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to face Artie. Behind him the two men he’d been talking to were finding seats.

“We need to talk,” Artie said, keeping his voice low. “Now?”

“Yeah.” He started to walk away. “Come outside.”

I followed him. As I passed the rows of chairs, I felt Tracy’s hand touch mine. An offer of support, it seemed.

Out in the parking lot, the cars rumbled on 18, the sun’s heat burned through my suit jacket. Five feet from me Artie stood, arms crossed, stiff, teeth clenched so tight his skin wrinkled at the jaw. He was pissed. And that pissed me off.

“Where the fuck were you this morning?” he asked. “Do we really have to go through this?”

“Tracy called me in a panic. I didn’t think we’d get the suit there in time. You said you were going to fucking be there.” His hands went up in the air, waving frantically. “And then you don’t pick up your cell phone. Why, because you said you’d find out who did this?”

I realized that if I snapped back, not only would it make a scene, it would fracture whatever the hell friendship Artie and I had.

“My cell phone was dead.”

“Where did you go?”

“My client—from the other case—”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, here we go.”

“What are you, my girlfriend?” I said. “My client was in fucking trouble. I didn’t know what kind until I got to her, but I had to help her. I didn’t want to let someone else die.”

“Die? What the fuck are you—?”

“I didn’t know what was going on. Gerry’s death, fucking Bill Martin, the Madison cops, it’s all been on my fucking mind the past few days. I don’t know what to expect right now.”

“But you promised . . .” He trailed off. The conviction in his voice faded.

“I told you, no. I’m sorry I didn’t call this morning. Let’s go back inside and get through this all later. Please, I owe Tracy an apology.” Despite my new resolve to look into this again, I was not about to let Artie win this argument.

“What about me? I drove her.”

“Quit whining.”

“Fuck you.” There was still anger in his voice, but he was trying to play it off with humor.

I let him have that.

The rest of the afternoon moved by like a glacier. I felt like I was out of place. This was the kind of wake I’d normally go to for half an hour, offer condolences, and then sneak out the back. But I felt required to stay, even though whoever did this to Gerry was out there. I stood and watched as, one after another, people shuffled in and gave Tracy a hug or a kiss. They would usually whisper in her ear and she’d smile or nod, and they’d move on to the casket. The minutes ticked by, and finally it was four.

We adjourned for a few hours. Artie and Tracy went to get something to eat, and I went back to my office and made a few more phone calls from Hanover’s contact book. I got the feeling that either the police or the press had also gotten a copy of these contacts. Nearly everyone was screening their calls or hanging up on me when I identified myself. Damn. More footwork for me. I was going to have to visit these people at some point.