Not Even Past (4 page)

He and Kate liked to joke about this when they went out for dinner. In New Brunswick, it was easy to walk to a restaurant, especially in the spring and summer. Kate knew about Donne’s history with the police, and knew if they had a few drinks and there was a beat cop around, he’d be out to bust Donne for disorderly. So she would whisper “beer goggles” to him as they walked back to his apartment. It meant “Keep your eyes open” when the cops were around.

She’d be screaming “beer goggles” right now.

He came to the corner he’d rounded three or four hundred times when he worked here. The office was at the end of the hallway. As he strode, the doors to other offices closed. In the age of texting, word travels fast. He felt like he was in a bad, old comedy and had walked in to the wrong bar. The only thing missing was the scratch of a record stopping.

Donne reached the doorway and hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob. He used to have a key to this office, spent hours drinking coffee, reading files and sniffing cocaine. It was in this office that Donne had finally decided to go snitch, to give them all up.

It’s also where he tried to protect his partner.

The same partner who wanted nothing more than to see Donne completely ruined. And, three years ago, had almost succeeded.

Donne turned the doorknob.

Bill Martin looked up from his desk, blinked, and dropped the mug of coffee that was in his hand.

It rattled on the desk, and the last sip of coffee dripped out on to the carpeted floor. The liquid seeped in, joining a multitude of other coffee stains.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Martin asked.

“We need to talk.”

Martin blew air out of his mouth. Then said, “Like hell.”

“It’s important.”

“Like hell it is.” Martin turned toward his computer.

“I think Jeanne is still alive,” Donne said. The words seemed to float from his mouth. He wanted to reach out and grab them. Stuff them into his pocket. Forget this ever happened.

Martin paused, hands above his keyboard. The blue screen reflected on his cheeks, making them look pale. Donne waited. Martin put his hand on his lap and swiveled his chair back in the direction of Donne.

“Who do you think you are?” he said. “Get the hell out of my office. Now!”

D
ONNE DIDN’T
leave, though every nerve ending in him fired and tried to force him to run.

“I think Jeanne’s alive,” he said again.

Martin’s hand shook as it hovered over the desk.

Years ago, his old partner dropped a bomb on Donne, one that shook him to the core. Donne would have been lying to himself if he didn’t hope this news did the same to Martin.

“What are you talking about?” Martin said. He put his trembling hand flat on the desk to stop it and pushed himself up into a standing position. He looked like Perry White in just about every comic book drawing ever. Two hands on the desk, leaning over it, about to scream.

Donne quickly ran through the email and text message story. Martin’s mouth was parted, but he didn’t speak.

When Donne was finished, Martin said, “Gotta be a fake.”

“But I—“

Martin shook his head. “Let me see the email.”

Donne started to take out his phone.

“No, idiot. Come around to my computer and login. I can’t see anything on those screens.”

Donne did as he was told. He stepped around the desk, leaned over the keyboard, and got to his email. He opened it, then opened the email. He was about to click on the link when Martin nudged him aside. They stared at Donne in dress blues.

“I remember that picture,” he said. “That was when you were smart, kid.”

The last word came out sharp, like Martin bit the end of it off.

He grabbed the mouse away from Donne and clicked on the link. The blank website opened up with the video box in the middle. They waited. Nothing happened.

“It must have been a one-time-only deal,” Donne said.

“Are you just here to ruin my day?” Martin clicked the mouse a few times.

“You think I want to be here?”

“Then go home.”

Donne didn’t move.

Martin stood up turned away from him. He opened a file cabinet and started to flip through files.

“Think about it, Bill. I had to walk through a gauntlet to get here. Would I really come here just to pull a dumb joke?”

Martin didn’t speak, but stopped looking through his papers.

“Jesus already told me to stay away from this. I have no idea what he knows, but this is real, Bill. And I have nowhere else to turn.”

“Jesus is doing pretty well for himself these days,” Martin said. “Thought you were out of the PI business. I believe I took your license.”

Donne clenched his fists. “I keep in touch with old friends.”

“You don’t keep in touch with me.” Martin’s shrugged his shoulders.

“Enough.” Donne looked out the window and watched a car pull out of its parking spot in the deck across the way.

“Let’s say I do believe you,” Martin said. “What’s the next step for you and me?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re not working together. What do they call it in the comic books? A team-up.”

Donne smiled despite himself. Martin loved to read comics. He also liked the Hollies.

“No,” Donne said. “We’re not working together.”

“Then, I ask again, why come here?”

Because I didn’t know what else to do.
Donne wanted to shout it at him.

“I’m out of the game, you said it yourself. Investigating is not something I do any more. I don’t have any contacts—”

“You just said you keep in touch with old friends.” It sounded like Martin was speaking through clenched teeth. He turned back around to face Donne.

Getting somewhere.

Donne plowed on. “I don’t have any contacts. I can’t make any headway on this. But you—you slept with Jeanne.” He had to spit the words out. “You loved her. If Jeanne’s alive—”

“‘If’? You came all the way down here for ‘if’?” Martin shook his head. He picked the mug off the floor and kicked at the liquid, rubbing it deeper into the rug.

Donne exhaled. “Find her. Please find her.”

“The text message and that email said you were the only one who could help.”

“We’re going in circles here, Bill.”

Martin took a step toward him, and Donne tensed. Martin leaned in closer, until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Donne could smell old coffee on his breath.

“I want to punch you in the face.” The words oozed from Martin. “I want to see nothing more than you lying on my carpet creating another stain. You know how many men out there lost their jobs, are in jail, because of you?”

Without flinching, Donne said, “Do what you have to do, Bill.”

Martin pursed his lips and rolled his right shoulder. For an instant, Donne actually expected a right cross to connect with his jaw.

“I want to hear you beg.”

Donne’s shoulders slumped.

“Beg me to find her, Jackson. Do it.”

Donne took a deep breath. He hoped his smelled as bad as Martin’s. “Help me, Bill. Help me find her. I need you to find her. Make her safe.”

Martin held his position as another long puff of coffee breath exploded in Donne’s nostrils.

“Forward me the email.” He rattled off his email address. “And then go the hell home.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

“I never want to see you again.”

Martin turned and slammed the filing cabinet shut.

“When you find her, call me.”

Martin laughed. “Who are we kidding, Jackson? You’re not going to leave this alone.”

Donne didn’t say anything.

“You’re going to be out there looking too.” Martin paused. “You are the only one who actually believes what you’re saying.”

“I’m not—”

Martin waved a hand at him. “Save it.”

Donne turned and left. Seconds later, he heard the door slam behind him.

T
HE DRIVE
to the shore took just over an hour.

Bill Martin took a left turn on to a street named after some sort of tropical flower and cruised down it. Lavallette, like most Jersey Shore towns, was still cleaning up from Hurricane Sandy. There were empty lots where one-floor houses used to be. Garbage bags lined the curbs waiting for pickup. Damaged boats sat in driveways, waiting for repair.

Martin hoped his destination hadn’t been harmed. He hadn’t come this way in more than six years, not since Jeanne died. Couldn’t allow himself to. Jeanne had made her choice, choosing to go back to Donne rather than be with him. There was no reason to go to the funeral or contact her parents other than to send condolences. But now, with the news Donne had brought, seeing Jeanne’s parents was the first logical destination.

They deserved to know.

The road curved around away from the lagoon that cut through everyone’s backyards. In this area of the shore, people didn’t have lawns. They littered their front and backyards with stones. If the lagoon every crested, as it did with Sandy, the stones were supposed to be better somehow. Martin never cared to ask how.

He saw Jeanne’s parents’ home up ahead. It appeared to be in good shape. Being off the lagoon must have provided some form of security. He checked the clock on his dashboard. It was just before three, but he assumed they were home. The Bakers were long retired—both teachers—and collecting their pensions.

Good for them.

Martin parked across the street, turned the car off, and put both hands on the steering wheel. He hated that his hands had shook in front of Donne. And now the shakes were worse. He’d tried everything, giving up coffee and smoking. Eating better. More exercise.

His heart pounded hard and his breath was ragged. He closed his eyes and tensed his upper body, willing it to slow down. Once it did, he got out of the car before the tremors could start again. He crossed the street, crunched his way over the front yard rocks, and stepped onto the stoop. The doorbell played Big Ben’s theme.

Someone moved behind the door, and Martin’s heart rate picked up again. He put his hands behind his back and clenched them into fists. As the door opened, Martin focused on his breathing.

Leonard Baker stood in front of him, and the years hadn’t been kind. His once salt-and-pepper hair was completely gray. The crow’s feet that had been at the corner of his eyes now stretched out across his face.

“Bill Martin,” he said, his voice strong and full of bass.

“Hi, Leonard. Can I come in?”

“Is something wrong?”

Martin dug his nails into his palms. “We should talk.”

“Come in.” Leonard pushed open the door.

“Is your wife here?”

Leonard shook his head. “She’s out. Be back soon.”

Martin followed Leonard into the living room. The floors were tiled, with a throw rug resting under the coffee table. There were no pictures in the room, just displays of the shore, sea shells, bottles full of sand, and a craft sign that said
ON THE BEACH, IT’S ALWAYS HAPPY HOUR
.

Martin sat on the couch. Leonard took the loveseat across from him.

“How did you guys do during the storm?” Martin asked.

Leonard shrugged. “We’re still here.”

“No damage?”

“What’s going on, Bill?”

Martin leaned back on the couch. Coming here wasn’t a good idea. No matter what he said, he was going to hurt Leonard. He didn’t expect such an older man. He expected to deal with the strong man Leonard had once been. The one who accepted him when he and Jeanne started dating. And who, six years ago, told Donne to stay out of the Baker family’s life once and for all. No, Martin wasn’t really thinking when he hit the Parkway.

Martin said, “Jackson Donne came to see me.”

Leonard Baker’s cheeks fired up red, but he didn’t respond.

“He told me Jeanne’s still alive.”

Baker looked toward his front door. “That’s ridiculous.” The bass left his voice.

“He said he received an email with a link in it. When he clicked on the link—”

“Did he show you the email?”

Martin stopped for a moment. He studied Leonard and tried to pick up his body language. Leonard wasn’t looking at him, and his body went stiff in the chair. He kept staring at the front door.

“He said when he clicked on the link, Jeanne was on it. Bound and gagged.”