Not Even Past (6 page)

“Hello?” he said.

“Come on, I’m downstairs.”

“Bill?”

Who the hell was Bill?

“Yes, asshole. Turns out, I think you’re right. We have work to do.”

“Who is that?” Kate asked.

Jackson looked her, his face flushed. She couldn’t read his expression. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his nostrils flared a bit when he inhaled.

“I have to go.”

“Go where? Is this about Jeanne?”

“I—” he said. “I have to go. I don’t know where.”

After putting his hand on the doorknob, he turned back toward her. She felt the muscles in her back relax for the moment she thought he was going to stay.

“I’ll call you,” he said. “I promise.”

Jackson pulled the door open and left. It closed with a soft click behind him.

Kate looked at the piles on the table in front of her and finished her beer. Once she was sure Donne was gone, she picked up her phone and called her father.

Myron Ellison picked up on the third ring.

“You better not be calling in sick tomorrow. Opening statements are next week,” he said in a nasal whine.

“No, Dad,” she said. She took a second to try to catch her breath. Working for your father was a pain in the butt. When he hired her, it was supposed to be an easy job while she studied for the bar. Now it took up all her time.

There must have been something in her voice she didn’t realize, because the bounce went out of Dad’s. “Tell me,” he said in a hushed tone.

She did. About the way Jackson was acting. The intercom conversation. The email. He took it all in, asking for clarification here, a bit more description there. She obliged, trying to not to rush. It was like a client interview, each detail pored over until she had it right.

Clients hated the process. And now Kate knew why. It was tedious, down to the color of the intercom. At one point she asked her dad if he wanted to know how many scratches were on it.

“Not this second,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later she was done, and exhausted. She waited while Dad hummed. He was thinking. He always hummed Neil Young while he thought. Depressing.

“Can you blame him?” Dad finally asked.

Kate waited.

“Let’s just say you had a guy you really loved ten years ago.”

“I was an undergrad.”

“So’s he.” Dad chuckled. “Just listen. You’re going to get married to this guy, but you know, he dies.”

“Dad,” she said.

“Then all of a sudden he’s back. He might be alive. What are you going to do?”

“I get it.” She could feel the burn of the beer at the back of her throat.

“Good, then you’re not allowed to be mad at him.”

“That’s not why I’m calling you. I can be mad at whoever I want, whenever I want.”

“Great,” he said. She heard papers shuffling.

“I need to find him.”

There was a moment of silence. Kate stared at the door, willing it to open, willing Jackson to come in and explain everything. Instead, she heard Mrs. Mullins from upstairs shuffle past with her shih tzu.

“You think he’s coming back tonight?” Dad asked.

“No.”

“I’m sorry. You want to come stay here?”

Kate clutched the phone tighter, but didn’t respond.

“You have to let him deal with this, Kate.”

“I want him to talk to me. How can I find him?”

“You don’t want to go down this road.”

Myron’s voice was scratchy and soft now—the whine gone. It reminded her of bedtime when she was little. He used to read her a book, basically whispering it until she nodded off. She wanted him to whisper her to sleep again. Do what dads do and make everything okay again.

“Please, Dad. What can I do?”

More paper shuffling. “I’ll get back to you. Stay put.”

“I’m nervous, Dad.”

“It’ll be okay.”

Kate put the phone down. The stabbing pain in her skull said otherwise.

M
ARTIN DROVE
for miles without speaking. They cruised south on Route 18, out of New Brunswick, through East Brunswick, and into Old Bridge. He pulled off the highway and tracked through backroads Donne didn’t recognize. Soon they pulled into Union Beach, a town that had been hammered by Superstorm Sandy.

“Where are we going?” Donne finally asked, unable to wait out the silence anymore.

Martin didn’t speak, and his eye remained fixed on the road. Donne wasn’t sure why he’d even gotten into the car in the first place. Martin said they had work to do, and that seemed like enough for Donne at the time.

“Come on, Bill, tell me what’s going on.”

Martin stopped at a traffic light and reached down into his cup holder for his coffee cup. Took a long sip. The light changed green. Donne’s ears burned.

Three blocks later they parked in front of a one-story cape. It was the typical Jersey Shore house, right down to the rocks on the front lawn. Donne got out of the car and immediately smelled the salt from the sea. It brought back memories of Jeanne and his first vacation to Cape May. They only stayed three nights—it was all they could afford. But they hit every hot spot at night, and burned their skin to a crisp during the day.

“Come on,” Martin said. He walked up the front walk to the door and knocked.

“I think I’m owed an explanation,” Donne said.

Martin looked at the sky. “You think I’m going to drag your ass down here and keep quiet the whole time?”

“You didn’t say much on the ride.”

Martin said, “I’d rather focus on the road than listen to you prattle on.”

The door was answered by a woman in shorts and a T-shirt. It wasn’t Jeanne. This woman was older, and her shorts didn’t fit right, as if they’d shrunk in the wash. She was blond, her hair cut short.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Hi.” He motioned for Donne to come up with the walk.

Bill went into the house. As he passed the woman, his hand grazed her hip. Donne followed. The hallway smelled like old pipe tobacco and caramel.

“This is Eileen,” Martin said. “Eileen, Jackson Donne.”

Eileen blinked, then looked at Martin. Donne’s skin prickled. Not his favorite feeling.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Eileen said. “You’re going to log into your email and show me what Bill here was talking about. I’ll take a look and tell you where it was sent from.”

“Just like that?” Donne asked.

“Shut up and do what she says.” Martin shook his head. Eileen gave him half a smile. “You’re a two-year old.”

They followed Eileen into a room full of computers. Hard drives hummed, wires were taped to the wall or strewn across the carpet. Donne counted three modems and five monitors.

“Who are you?” Donne asked.

Eileen looked at Martin and said, “You’re right—he is two. Mr. Donne, have you read about the people in the government who’ve been tracking your Internet and phone records? I used to do that professionally. Now I do it privately.”

“You mean illegally.”

Eileen shrugged. “I still feel like a patriot.”

She gestured for Donne to sit down at the computer. He did. She told him to bring up his email. He did. Then she rolled Donne and his chair out of the way. She leaned over the computer and clicked around with the mouse. Occasionally she’d type on the keyboard. Donne tried to follow the flashes on the screen, but they flickered away too fast.

“I got a text too,” Donne said. He reached for his phone.

“I see that. I assume you don’t mean the one from Kate.”

Martin laughed. Donne glanced toward Martin. He wasn’t smiling. Donne rubbed at his wrist. The prickly feeling moved from his arms to the back of his neck.

“There’s a bodega in Perth Amboy,” Eileen said.

Donne turned back to her and saw Google Maps open on his screen.

“The email was sent from there.” Eileen shook her head. “Maybe not. This email is connected to that place.”

Donne didn’t even try to venture a thought as to what that meant.

“What about the website and the video? Can you tell where that was filmed?” Martin put his hand on her shoulder.

“Not yet. Working on it.” Eileen clicked a few more keys. “ I can see the code of it, when your computer connected to their camera. It was shot this morning.”

“Jesus,” Bill said.

Donne’s mouth ran dry. “Why would the video come from a bodega?”

Eileen sighed. “Here’s what I can tell you. The email was encrypted and pretty well. If I wasn’t so good at what I do … Listen, they sent it from a computer, and they’re professionals. They really didn’t want you to know where it was sent from. I’m still not 100 percent sure.”

“Then why did the text say I was needed?”

Eileen blinked. “Bill’s the detective.”

Another gust of sea air came through the window, and Donne flashed to Jeanne in Cape May. She was in a bra and panties, lying on the bed of their hotel room. She beckoned him.

Someone was beckoning him again.

“Maybe a couple of years ago, the kid would have figured it out,” Martin said.

Donne said, “It doesn’t matter. What’s the address of the bodega?”

Eileen started writing on a Post-it note.

P
ERTH
A
MBOY
was once a bustling shipping and resort town. History, however, hadn’t been kind to Perth Amboy. The streets started to crumble, and tourists left for the more scenic Jersey Shore.

Today, it was much like the area of New Brunswick beyond the theaters. Untouched, unloved, and falling apart. People sat on stoops, drinking from bottles in paper bags. Martin accelerated at every yellow light to beat the change.

Gentrification hadn’t hit downtown Perth Amboy yet. The government wanted to focus on the ports and bay area. And the media was focused on an ongoing battle toward privatizing the schools. Downtown was littered with bargain stores, bodegas, and caged windows.

Martin parked the car. Donne’s neck seized as if he’d slept on it funny. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, he whirled around and looked across the street.

No one around. His old cop instincts were firing.

He rolled his shoulders and glanced at Martin who’d just stepped on to the sidewalk. Martin didn’t seem to notice.

“What’s the deal with you and Eileen?” Donne asked.

Martin turned and glared at him.

“I saw you touch her back. She laughed at your jokes.”

Martin shrugged. “A friend.”

“That’s all?”

“Come on,” Martin said.

“You would think a ‘friend’ would have made you relax a little.”

The bodega was on the corner, the first floor of a three-story apartment building. The awning was yellow, and the name of the store, Convenience, was written in both English and Spanish. They advertised coffee, newspapers, lottery tickets, and cigarettes.

Donne didn’t follow Martin. Instead, he glanced up the street and saw two men in suits walking their way. They stuck out like chocolate chips on a pizza.

“Bill,” Donne said. “We have visitors.”

“Oh. Nice.”

Martin stepped up next to Donne and watched the guys walk. They looked like linebackers, and the seams of their suit were struggling to hold on.

When they were two feet away, they stopped. One guy went for folded arms, the other went for hands in pockets. Other than skin color, the guys looked alike. Close cropped hair, sunglasses, and muscles. Military, Donne guessed.

“Jackson Donne?” the black guy asked.

“Uh-huh.” Donne’s witty banter had gone the way of the rest of his investigative skills.

“Mind coming with us?

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“I’m afraid we insist.” He nodded down the block. “Now, if you’ll follow us.”

“Boy,” Martin said. “You two are flat-out Shakespearean in your conversational skills.”

The two pro wrestlers glanced at each other, as if Martin was an alien.

“Sir?” the white guy said. “Can you get back in your car, please?”

“Yeah …” Martin flashed his badge. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. Do you men have some identification we can see?”

The black guy leaned in close to the badge. “We’re in Perth Amboy. You don’t have jurisdiction here.”

Martin sighed. “You think I can’t make a quick phone call and get ten Perth Amboy comes here tout suite?”

As the man stood back up, Donne could hear the fabric of his suit stretch. The white guy cracked his knuckles.