The Evil That Men Do (15 page)

“Hackett. Over here,” Marshall said.

Spotlights, illuminating the crime scene, reflected off the agent’s skin. What did Jill call the color? Oh yeah, café latte.

Hackett stepped under the yellow tape and gave Marshall a firm handshake.

“Want to go sit?” Marshall asked.

Hackett nodded. He’d rather go to one of the open bars. But this was going to be a long night. And he still had to get back to Franklin Carter.

Just throw them off long enough to get the money.

They crossed the street and entered a Starbucks that was being kept open for the benefit of the cops. Sitting at the small table, Hackett didn’t place an order. He wasn’t a coffee guy and found the fact that everyone drank it maddening. People were lemmings, following social expectations. No one really liked coffee, they just watched everyone else doing it. Marshall drank tea with lemon. Maybe he was his own man.

“Fertilizer bomb,” Marshall said. “Diesel fuel, paper, cotton. Just a ton of that shit. A small patch of C4 connected to the battery port of a cell phone. Dial the number and ka-boom.”

Hackett’s stomach turned. Marshall said the bomb was something only an inside man could do. He regretted mentioning he worked at Ploch’s now.

“Anyone could get that stuff,” Hackett said. “I thought you said it was an inside job.”

“Remember the name Michael Garibell?”

This was a bad idea. Hackett had been off the force. There wasn’t any reason for him to be here. Just say no.

“No,” Hackett said. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“One of our most popular undercover names. Generic, but not Smith or Jones. Could pass for anyone, whatever we needed it to.”

“Uh-huh,” Hackett said. Had to sound like you were listening and learning new things. Make sure it didn’t look like this information rang any bells.

“Nothing?” Marshall asked. “Well, the Ryder truck, we found its license plate. It was registered to a Michael Garibell out of New Jersey.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of Michael Garibells out there.”

Marshall nodded. “We’re looking into that.”

“But you think it’s an inside job?”

“Well, the thing is, we think the bomb was set off with a remote.”

“You think?”

“There’s no evidence supporting that yet. Just the blast radius meant it couldn’t be on a fuse. We don’t think the guy could have gotten far enough away if he set up a burning fuse.”

“So?”

“How many normal people you know can get a remote to set off a bomb?”

“Terrorists were going to use Gatorade, shampoo, and cell phones.”

Marshall nodded but didn’t speak. He swirled his cup of tea.

They have more evidence, Hackett thought. But they weren’t ready to share it with him yet. No way. Marshall was out to get him.

“I’m sick of this fucking Starbucks,” Marshall said. “Been in it six times today.”

“Should have gone to a bar.”

Marshall laughed. “I wish. You going to help?”

Say no. Go home, fuck with Carter for another seventeen hours, get your money, and get the hell out of Dodge.

But there was an opportunity here. Getting fired by these assholes was the reason this whole thing started. He needed the money. Jill needed the money.

Now was a chance to fuck with them right back.

“Yeah,” he said.

Iapicca and Donne met with Krewer on Delawanna Avenue. There were three police cars, lights flashing, cordoning off the street. Traffic backed up toward Route 3 and down toward the river. Spectators lined the streets to get a look at the sheet that covered a child’s body. They’d parked on one of the side streets and walked three blocks to get to the scene. Trying to avoid the traffic and the spectators behind it, an ambulance sounded its siren and pulled into the oncoming lane.

“I’d just gotten out of the city,” Krewer said. “My boss called me and asked what the kid I interviewed looked like.”

“It’s Carlos, huh?” Iapicca asked.

“Yeah.” Krewer lit a cigarette. “Fucking what — fifteen years old?”

Iapicca pressed his fingers against both sides of his nose and let out a deep breath.

“What happened?” Donne asked.

Krewer and Iapicca turned toward Donne. It was like they’d forgotten he was there. Or didn’t want him there.

“Far as we can tell, Carlos was standing along the curb and a car pulled up and somebody shot him.”

“That’s it?”

“What the hell else do you want to know?” Krewer sucked his cigarette.

“Come on. Go easy. He’s just trying to help,” Iapicca said.

Krewer glared at Donne, then turned his back and started walking toward the crime scene.

As they followed, Krewer spoke. “We think Carlos knew whoever shot him. He walked right up to the person and was shot in the forehead. We think the killer was in an SUV, because the angle of the shot came from above Carlos, as if he were looking up. There are tire marks on the road, but no footprints. Carlos was facing whoever shot him and fell backward after the impact of the bullet.”

Against the curb, thirty feet to their left, the sheet covering the body fluttered a bit in the breeze. Yellow crime-scene tape formed a perimeter around him. A few CSI guys took pictures.

“The first shot killed him, most likely. The second was just to make sure,” Krewer said.

They stood at the police tape, unwilling to cross that line into the official crime scene. Krewer probably didn’t want them to fuck up anything. Across the tape, two guys in white shirts and khaki pants dug through the grass with rubber gloves on.

The EMS stood over the body, waiting for the okay to take it away. The detectives had gotten what they could at the scene, but would be taking the body back for an autopsy very soon.

“Any ideas?” Krewer asked.

Iapicca said, “No.”

“Kid found a gun. Could it be the owner coming to get it back?”

“Was Carlos in a gang?”

Krewer nodded, but his eyes were far away. “It could be just a gang initiation. We get a lot of that around here, near Paterson. Not that we have a lot of murders, but when we do, usually gangbangers just fucking around. The double tap bothers me, though. Too professional.”

Krewer said to Iapicca, “Come talk to me for a second.”

Donne started to follow the two as they walked toward the curb. Krewer held up his hand.

“Not you.”

Donne stopped. The lights from the police cruisers flashed, reflecting off the backs of Krewer and Iapicca. Krewer rested his hand on Iapicca’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. To Donne’s left, Carlos’s body was still covered by a sheet and on the ground. Donne put his hands in his pockets and turned away.

Stupid kid.

Iapicca tapped Donne on the shoulder.

“Time to go,” he said.

They started off for his car.

“I’ll send the evidence we got from the Rutherford shooting over to you,” Iapicca said to Krewer. “Maybe we’ll find a match.”

“Sure.” Krewer shook his head. “Fuck. Such a good night, too. He even closed with ‘Love and Mercy.’”

1938

“She was where?”

Caroline dropped a glass and it shattered against the kitchen floor. Shards littered the ground, and Joe Tenant had to watch where he stepped as he tried to get closer to his wife.

An hour earlier, he’d brought Isabelle in and quietly put her to bed. He didn’t want Caroline — who was still sleeping — to know she’d been gone. Isabelle had calmed down a bit on the ride home, Uncle Sops helping out with a five-dollar bill and the promise of a lollipop the next time he saw her. As soon as they were home, Tenant got the girl under the covers and poured himself a shot of scotch.

And waited for Caroline to wake up.

When she came down, dressed in a robe and a calm smile, he let her take a glass for her orange juice and told her flat out.

“The men who are after me came in last night and took Isabelle. They left her on the Pulaski Skyway.”

The glass crashed and Caroline yelled. Tenant closed his eyes and let the heartbreak, fear, and shame wash over him.

“Is she okay? They were in our house? Oh my God, Joe. I was asleep.”

All Tenant could do was nod.

“Where is she? Where is my daughter?”

“Upstairs.”

Caroline ran out of the room. Joe Tenant drank some more scotch and listened to the sound of footsteps go up the stairs and into Isabelle’s room. Caroline’s voice carried to the kitchen. Soon, Tenant was sure he heard crying.

He downed the rest of the scotch and walked to Isabelle’s room. As he climbed the stairs, he stopped for a minute to look at the family portrait they had taken after Caroline and Isabelle were allowed to leave the hospital. In the photo, he stood behind a chair, his hand on Caroline’s shoulder. She was sitting, Isabelle in her arms, smiling. He remembered the picture was originally supposed to be taken outside, but it had rained that day.

Tenant turned into Isabelle’s room and found Caroline crying and cradling the girl in her arms. Isabelle was awake and had wrapped her small arms as far around her mother as she could.

He stood in the doorway until Caroline turned toward him. He’d never seen such hate in her eyes.

He took a step forward.

“Get out,” Caroline said.

Without another word, Joe Tenant went back downstairs. He sat in his easy chair and waited. Not knowing what was going to happen next was the worst part. He wanted another drink, but at the same time, he wanted to be clearheaded when Caroline decided to talk to him.

The minutes ticked by. No sound came from upstairs anymore. Isabelle would not be going to school today. She was late already. Joe Tenant just listened to the ticking of the old grandfather clock he’d inherited from his father, and waited.

Ten minutes later, Caroline appeared. She stood at the foot of the stairs and didn’t speak.

Joe held her gaze for a long time, waiting. Nothing.

“You have to go to your mother’s,” he said, not being able to take the silence anymore. “It’s not safe here.”

“When she wakes up,” Caroline said.

“Good.”

He wanted to say something to make it all okay. There had to be a way to fix this. But as he sat there, Joe Tenant realized he wasn’t smart enough to come up with a solution.

Caroline, however, seemed to figure one out.

“How could you bring this into our family, Joe? How could you do this?”

Now was the time to apologize, but nothing came.

“It’s not safe being with you,” she said. “I love you, but it’s not safe.”

Joe Tenant balled his hands into fists. Knowing what was coming didn’t make it any better.

“I want you to pack up your things and be out of here by breakfast. You just have to leave.”

“Caroline, please—”

“No, Joe. You put our daughter in danger. You put me in danger.”

“It’s not—”

“They were in our home! Do you understand that? They took our girl! They tried to kill her! They told you to stay away, and you can’t do that. Not even for your own family.”

The bell in the grandfather clock began to chime. It was eight in the morning. He’d always remember what time it was.

“I can’t be with you anymore.”

“I — I’m—”

Anything he could say wouldn’t stop this from happening. And even while he tried, no words would come. He never wanted this.

“We’re leaving, Joe. And when we come back from my mother’s, you’d better be gone.”

It took Caroline an hour to pack her a suitcase. Then she woke up Isabelle. Five minutes later, she pulled out of the driveway. Caroline didn’t even let Isabelle say good-bye.

Joe went upstairs and sat on Isabelle’s bed. Across from him was her bookcase. He reached out and pulled the tattered book from four years ago. The one about the bear with the skinned knee. He stared at the cover — bear fur peaking out from behind a bandage — for a long time.

SIXTEEN HOURS

When the rope finally snapped free, Franklin Carter’s right arm swung so far in front of him, he thought he might hit himself in the head. Blood from his wrist splattered against his forehead. But that didn’t matter; he was loose.

He tried to stand, but both legs had fallen asleep. He stretched them out in front of him, letting the blood flow. He couldn’t afford to be slowed down.

Finally, the feeling subsided. Standing was an odd sensation, like balancing on a tightrope. He felt as though each step might cause him to fall over. Instead, he hit his head on the ceiling. He blinked, trying to force the sharp pain from his skull.

He could barely see, but he was afraid to turn the light on. Who knew who he might alert. Across the room was a table with nothing on top of it. Other than the chair, it was the only furniture in the basement. He heard skittering again and decided it was time to go up the stairs and get the hell out of there. He hardly noticed he was holding his breath.

Stepping through the puddles, Carter reached the stairs. The wood creaked with each step, bending but not breaking. The sound was deafening, like when he used to sneak home to his parents’ after a night of drinking in high school. Ten minutes, that’s what he gave himself. Ten minutes to get the hell out of this place, get to the police, and tell them all he knew. Ten minutes before they came back. He didn’t know why, but he was sure of it.

Finally reaching the landing, Carter allowed himself to exhale. He was so damned close to getting free. And that meant getting his life back. Explaining everything to Susan, telling Donne to fuck off, and rebuilding the restaurant.

He grabbed the metal doorknob. At first, the sensation was just like his legs waking up, pins and needles. But suddenly the feeling was wrong — a wave pulsed through his skin. Carter smelled something burning and a current coursed through his body. He pulled his hand back, screaming.