When One Man Dies (23 page)

I went down to my knees. My legs were jelly as another punch landed on the back of my head. My office circled, spun, and tilted on its side before my eyes like I was on some sick roller coaster. Again I tried to push my way to my feet, almost subconsciously, as if my limbs had a life of their own. This time a foot to my side put me down.

My joints were stiff and my bones ached as I tried to roll over onto my back. A copper taste settled in my mouth, a good sign I was bleeding.

“Oh fuck,” I heard myself mumble.

The lights were out in my office, the blinds closed, and I had no idea what time it was. The door opened and closed, and someone was standing over me. Not the same build as the guy who’d beaten the shit out of me. He backed away and sat behind my desk.

“You got the shit kicked out of you,” the man said. His voice was gruff, the way someone who’d survived throat cancer would speak.

“You should see the other guy.” I managed to sit up. “I did,” he said. “You took a hell of a beating.”

I turned my head slowly, trying to get a feel for the room. Other than the man behind the desk, I was the only one in there.

“Where is our huge friend?” I asked.

“Outside. I want to talk to you alone before he finishes the job.”

“And you are?” I wanted to stand up, or at least make it to my knees.

“You’ve been looking for me, I understand. You’ve certainly got my attention.”

“Who are you?”

“Michael Burgess. You injured two of my men, hospitalized. Probably won’t ever work for me again. You took five thousand dollars of mine.”

His outline in the chair was slim; I could see his face, but not clearly, as it was in shadow. I could see the trim of a goatee and big hair.

“What do you want with me?” he asked.

“Nothing. Not anymore.” I spit blood onto my carpet and wiped my mouth.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“I’m not looking into you anymore. I don’t care about you or Rex Hanover.”

‘You’ve done your homework if you know he’s involved with me. What do you know?”

“I know bits and pieces. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve retired.” it.”

He laughed and stood up. “Too bad you won’t be able to enjoy And with that he left the room. Closed the door. Seconds later it swung open again and Rex Hanover filled the frame.

Chapter 40

I wasn’t hurt enough to miss the contradiction.

A few days ago Hanover had shown up, beat the shit out of me, and told me to tell Burgess not to look for him. Now he was here with Burgess. But before I could get my thoughts in order, a right hook connected with my jaw.

The world tilted again, but I didn’t black out. In fact, I found myself getting to my feet.

“Dumb move,” Hanover said, stepping inside my stride, catching me with a jab to the stomach.

Gasping for air, it struck me that this wasn’t a fight, it was a boxing match. Or at least Hanover was treating it like one. I decided it was time to fight dirty, make it a street fight. Already bent over, my legs pushed as hard as they could and I wrapped Hanover up like a linebacker. Caught off guard, he toppled over, crashing to the ground.

I rolled over and tried to connect with a right cross of my own. It worked, knocking Hanover’s head back into the paneled floor. He grunted.

I got off him and stepped back, leaning against my desk. I expected him to get up again, but he didn’t. He lifted his head up, glared in my direction.

“It’s over,” I said. “Fuck you, it’s not.”

“I mean, I’m not investigating anything anymore. I’m done. I came up here to call my client.”

Hanover sat up. “Who is it?”

“You know who it is.”

“I know who it isn’t,” he said. “It’s not Burgess.”

The world tilted again. I hadn’t recovered yet, and needed to find the corner of my desk to brace myself.

“You told me to tell him to stay away from you,” I said. “Things changed.”

He found his way to his feet. The way my knees were wobbling, I was pretty sure he’d do me in.

“Your wife,” I said. “I was going to call Jen.”

“Damn it. You stay away from her.”

“It’s over. I’m not a private investigator anymore. Get the fuck out of here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I just said.”

“I don’t buy it,” he said. “I don’t give a shit.”

“I could kill you.”

“At this point,” I said, “I know it.”

Running my arm across my lip, I felt blood. Hanover was doing the same. We mirrored each other. He didn’t find any blood. My punch wasn’t as powerful as I’d thought.

Hanover’s teeth were gritted, and he paced back and forth. “What did you tell my wife?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Until the other day, I didn’t know shit. In fact, I’m not sure I know anything now.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

I forced a shrug. “You can. I’m in no shape to fight anymore. But I’m done with this case. With all cases.”

“You were going to call her tonight?”

“Now,” I said.

“Do it. Put it on speakerphone. Tell her you couldn’t find me. Tell her you can’t work the case anymore. Call her now.”

“I have to find the number.”

“I know the number,” he said, and repeated it to me.

I pressed the speakerphone and dialed. “Mrs. Hanover, this is Jackson Donne. I have to end the investigation.”

She didn’t respond.

I looked at Hanover. He rolled his hand telling me to go on.

“I am no longer a licensed private investigator. I had some trouble with the police, and it ended with me losing my job.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Jen sounded like she didn’t know what to say.

“You and me both. I’ll write up a report and mail it to you with my expenses.”

A pause. “Were you able to find Rex?” I looked at him. He shook his head. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

The only response was a click. Jen had hung up.

Hanover smiled. “Good work. If I see you anywhere near her or Burgess, you’re a dead man.”

“I understand,” was the best I could come up with.

***

The Olde Towne Tavern was my next stop. I didn’t know where else to go, and I didn’t have anyone else to call. Might as well throw a few beers back to go with my likely concussion.

Late afternoon and the bar was empty. Behind the bar, flipping through a Sports Illustrated, Artie looked like he’d had a lot of Jack last night as well. Dark circles rested under his eyes, his hair out of place. If I were to guess, I’d say he just woke up. He glanced at me when I opened the door, but didn’t say a word, went back to the magazine.

Taking a stool at the bar across from him, I said, “Swimsuit edition?”

“No.”

“Baseball preview?”

“Yeah.”

“Say anything interesting about the Yankees?”

“Season already started. What does it matter?” I shrugged. “Just curious.”

“Says on paper they’re champions. But that you don’t win championships on paper.”

“Kind of clichéd.”

“Guess so.”

I sat for ten minutes uncomfortably. Artie didn’t ask if I wanted anything. I didn’t ask about any other baseball teams.

I looked around the bar, thought about putting some money in the jukebox. Anything to end the icy silence between Artie and me.

Instead of the jukebox, I opted for, “Can I get a beer?”

“You know where they are.”

I stared at him. “You serious?” His turn to shrug.

“Like we’re fucking married,” I said.

Around the bar, I found a pint glass on ice and pulled the tap on the Sam Adams seasonal. I filled the glass and took a long pull. I topped it off.

Back at my stool, Artie finally glanced up at me. He said, “What happened to your face?” But not like he was really concerned.

I just drank my beer. No need to state the obvious.

After a while, Artie said, “You’re really not working anymore?” I spread my hands, said, “I can’t. I want to. I can’t.”

Artie got himself a Sam Adams from the tap and refilled mine as well. He put the glass down in front of me and said, “Bullshit.”

“What is? I don’t have a license. I don’t want to be arrested.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?” The beer was smoother this time, the bite of the first one gone. I wondered if it was my body adjusting to the alcohol again or the way Artie poured a beer. I’d never thought about why the second beer always tasted better than the first before.

“That you said ‘I want to.’ That’s bullshit. You don’t want to. You haven’t wanted to since the beginning. You’ve avoided the case. Anything you’ve found, you’ve found by accident. No matter how much we wanted you to look into it, you weren’t around.”

“That’s not true—that’s . . .” I couldn’t finish my thought.

“I’m sick of the bullshit excuses. Another case? Why didn’t you work on this one? Why did you stay away from it?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Yes you do. It’s the same reason you got your ass into all this trouble.” He took down the rest of his beer. “Bill Martin.”

“What about him?”

“You’re scared of him. You tried everything in your power to stay out of his way, and you still got sucked in. You’re a pussy.”

I didn’t speak.

“Tracy said it to you. She told me. I’m going to tell you the same thing. You promised us. That’s like promising Gerry.”

I finished my beer and got another one. Over the years, the alcohol and the laughter had helped my bruises ache less. I looked at the beer. I couldn’t keep my promise to Jeanne. After she died, I never stayed sober. My life was a series of broken promises.

I thought about Gerry’s wake. I thought about what I said when I knelt at his coffin. That I would find his killer. I did promise him.

I had a promise to keep.

Chapter 41

He didn’t sleep. He didn’t go to work the next day, called in sick. All Bill Martin could think about was Jeanne. A guy he knew back when he joined the force twenty years ago once asked him if he was in love with a girl he was dating.

Martin said he didn’t know.

“If you think about her all the time, that’s how you know. If she’s always in your head and won’t leave, then you love her.”

Bill Martin couldn’t stop thinking about Jeanne. He was in love with a dead woman. And she was dead because of Jackson Donne. That was one thing Martin was sure of. If she hadn’t gone back to him . . . He shook off the thought.

Martin sat in his apartment, sure he’d done what he’d set out to do. He ruined Jackson Donne. Put him out of commission.

Now it was a matter of taking down Michael Burgess. That would take his mind off her.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d memorized. Burgess was probably pissed off about what happened to his thug buddies. But he needed Burgess to stay out of the way. Donne was probably catatonic now with the news of Jeanne. Getting in Donne’s face would only wake him up.

The phone rang and rang. No answer. That made sense. The convenience store was a crime scene. There wasn’t any way Burgess was there. He let the phone ring a few more times, anyway.

Surprised, Martin heard, “Hello?”

The voice was heavily accented. Asian. The Chinaman from behind the counter.

“Tell Burgess that Bill Martin is looking for him.”

“Boss not here.”

“When you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”

“Not here. I no see him.”

Martin swore. “I know he’s not there. But you will see him and you need to deliver a message. Tell him Bill Martin is looking for him.”

“Cops here.”

“Just fucking tell him.”

Martin slammed the phone down and went into his bedroom. If these were the kinds of people Burgess employed, they’d be useless at Donne’s trial. And it was all going to depend on witnesses.

He opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and reached under the clothes. Pulling out the picture, he realized he hadn’t looked at it in years.

Jeanne stood, beer in hand, smiling at the lens. Her hair dropped to her shoulders; she wore a long wool coat and a scarf hung loosely around her neck. Behind her were the fountains and the theaters. The good side of New Brunswick. Jeanne was part of that side.

Maybe Donne hadn’t suffered enough yet.

Chapter 42

It was a tricky balancing act. Without my license for just over twenty-four hours and already I wanted back in the game. It came down to how I could find out what happened to Gerry and avoid Bill Martin at the same time. One last deal and that was it. Isn’t that what they say in the movies, on all the television shows? One last go-around and then I’d hang it up and go back to school. That’s what I wanted, why I’d sent the application to Rutgers. Now the opportunity was there.