The Evil That Men Do (16 page)

As the electric current caused some of his muscles to spasm, he tumbled backward. He reached out for the railing, but the decaying wood snapped in his grasp.

Each step stretched and warped beneath his body. He reached out one more time but couldn’t break his fall. The pain was enormous, rising through his back and shooting down his legs. Every muscle constricted and felt like softballs beneath his skin. His arms scraped against the wood as he clawed for a handhold.

He was still tumbling when the room went black.

Donne sat in the car with Iapicca as he drove aimlessly through Clifton. They went around the Allwood Circle and crawled up past Mt. Prospect toward Broad Street. Donne read the street signs as they went, trying to familiarize himself with the area. At Broad, they turned onto the road and passed a place called Ploch’s, which sold gardening items.

“Where are we going?” Donne asked. “What did Krewer say to you?”

Iapicca turned left at a fire station onto Van Houten Avenue. Alongside the road were houses, a school, and several small restaurants. Clifton seemed to try to pack everything into one small space — living, eating, learning, and faith. All you needed in walking distance.

“One eighty-seven Harris Street. Paterson,” Iapicca said.

“What’s there?”

“Delshawn Butler.”

“Who’s that?”

Iapicca turned right on Valley Road. Condos lined the left side of the street. To his right Donne could see the New York skyline.

“Krewer tracked the gun. It belongs to a Delshawn Butler, one eighty-seven Harris Street,” Iapicca said.

“You think he’ll be there?”

“What kind of guy is this? He’s driving around killing people in his Escalade, and he has his gun registered under his own name and address? I don’t know if it’s really him.”

“Maybe he’s the dumbest killer ever. Maybe we’re going to get lucky.”

Iapicca shrugged. “Maybe it’s a fake name.”

“Could be that, too.”

They stayed on Valley Road, passed over Route 80, and then went past St. Joseph’s Hospital. He hated to admit it, but Donne could tell they were in Paterson by the condition of the streets. Garbage littered the side of the road, a stray dog was pissing on a fire hydrant, and all the houses could use a paint job.

Paterson used to be a hub for the Industrial Revolution, one of the North’s most important cities. Factories pumped out all kinds of different products, spewing steam and smog into the air but keeping the nation’s economy going. Over the years, however, it had fallen apart. Age had taken its toll. The buildings began to deteriorate and closed, and people moved out.

Now it was a haven for gangs, drugs, and the poor. While downtown was the center of the county, holding the courthouse and a few state buildings, most of the city was decrepit. Recently, it was most famous for a school in need of such help that a principal had to come in, chain the doors shut, and carry a bat and megaphone. The story had been made into an uplifting movie. But no one liked the principal. He was fired, and last Donne had heard he was a warden of a prison somewhere. Maybe the two jobs weren’t that much different.

“Paterson’s really done well for itself, huh?” Donne asked.

Iapicca looked at him and laughed. “Yeah, they really cleaned it up nice. Safest city in New Jersey.”

“You know where we’re going?”

“Yup.”

“Krewer didn’t send anyone over there?”

“I promised you eight hours. I’m calling in every last favor I have.”

“You got a gun, just in case it’s not a fake name?”

“Yup.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, technically you shouldn’t even be in the car, but since I’m off duty and you’re not even a licensed PI, we’ll just write it off as two buddies stopping by an old friend’s house.”

The mention of his revoked license hit home. Iapicca had really done his research on Donne. He wondered who Iapicca talked to. The fact that he seemed to trust him led Donne to believe it wasn’t his ex-partner.

“And you’re armed.”

They stopped at a red light. Some deep instinct in Donne wanted Iapicca to run it.

“Did you kill Faye and George?” Iapicca looked at him, his face unreadable.

Maybe he did talk to the New Brunswick cops.

“No,” Donne said, meeting his eyes. “I told you I didn’t.”

“I believe you.”

“Well, that’s good.”

The light turned green and Iapicca made a left. Donne missed the street sign. Maybe there wasn’t one. Spaced between the decaying houses were a few boarded-up warehouses, dive bars, and strip clubs with blinking neon signs. He could only imagine you needed to make sure you had a complete supply of antibiotics ready when you left one of them.

“Yeah, it is good. For you and me,” Iapicca said.

“Why’s that?”

“I have a spare gun in my trunk. I’m gonna let you hold on to it.” Iapicca kept his eyes on the road. “You know, just in case this isn’t as friendly a meeting as I would hope.”

DELSHAWN BUTLER COULDN’T GO HOME JUST YET.
His body was pumping with adrenaline. He was wired like he’d drunk three cups of coffee. Now would be the perfect time to find that guy he beat the shit out of in the bar. Kill two birds with one stone.

Literally.

He turned up the radio, letting Akon scream through the speakers. He had no idea where the guy was. He wasn’t at Mountainside this morning. No dice.

Now he had no idea where to look.

He called Hackett.

“What?” the motherfucker said when he answered.

Jesus Christ, if he wanted things done, he was going to have to hear about it.

“I took care of the kid.”

“Don’t tell me about that now. Is that why you’re calling? I’m fucking busy over here.”

“No.”

“Get on with it, then.”

This time of night, there was no one on the road. Delshawn pushed the gas to go as fast as he wanted. No one was going to pull him over.

“That guy I beat up in the bar—”

“Jesus Christ, I told you—”

“I think he knows that Carter family you been messing with.”

“Uh-huh. His name is Jackson Donne. He’s part of the family.”

There, Delshawn had his attention.

“Where they live? He might be there? I could, you know, take care of him then.”

Hackett sighed, then said, “Six ninety-seven Upper Mountain Road. Montclair. Don’t hurt the girl.”

Delshawn hung up the phone.

Montclair? Shit, that was right around the corner.

One eighty-seven Harris Street wasn’t as bad as Donne expected. The lawn was clean, minus one stray Crunch Bar wrapper. The bags of trash were in trash cans, and tidy along the driveway. The house itself wasn’t falling apart and even had aluminum siding instead of peeling paint.

Before they approached it, Iapicca handed Donne his backup weapon. It had been months since he held a gun, and when he hefted it, it was lighter than he expected.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to use these,” he said. Then he shook his head. “I am getting fired tomorrow. I know it.”

Donne nodded, remembering his days on the force. Something must have convinced Iapicca Donne was trustworthy. At the same time, Donne wasn’t even sure how much he trusted Iapicca. Something happened when Iapicca and Susan talked, and now he seemed more dedicated to solving this situation than Donne did.

Something nagged at Donne. The police never really wanted to help. They just wanted their cut.

On the porch, Iapicca took the lead. He pulled the screen door open and pounded on the inner door with his fist. He held his badge, but not his gun. Donne had tucked the gun in the waistband of his jeans and made sure his shirttail covered it.

After a few minutes of banging, the door opened and a short black woman, hair in braids, and wearing white pajama pants and a pink tank top, stared at them.

“Who the hell are you, knockin’ down my door at one in the morning?”

Donne hadn’t realized how late it was. That made it sixteen hours until Franklin’s zero hour. They needed a big break.

Iapicca held out his badge, then quickly pocketed it. “Police, ma’am. We’re looking for Delshawn Butler.”

“Oh, hell no. What do you want him for?”

“Just want to ask him a few questions.”

“Usual police bullshit,” she said, and started to close the door.

Iapicca put his hand flat against the door and held it open.

“This would be a lot easier for both of us if you’d just cooperate. I really don’t want to have to go wake up a judge and get a search warrant. And I’m sure you don’t want me knocking this door down and tearing up all your possessions looking for anything that I can arrest you with.”

Iapicca was bluffing. A Bergen County cop had no jurisdiction in Passaic County. He would catch shit if Donne fired his weapon. He could also catch a ton of shit if anyone found out he was here tonight.

The woman hesitated.

“Delshawn ain’t here.”

Iapicca nodded. “Any idea where he is?”

“Nah. He out working.”

“And what does he do for a living?”

“Takes care of people on the streets.”

“Any place in particular?”

“All over. He don’t tell me.”

“Okay. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Shemiah.”

“Last name?”

“Washington.”

Shemiah Washington yawned.

“How are you related to Mr. Butler?” Iapicca asked.

“He my man.”

“You two married?”

“Hell no. We don’t believe in that shit.”

“Well, thank you, Ms. Washington. You can go back to sleep now.”

“When he comes home, you want me to tell him you looking for him?”

“No,” Iapicca said. “He’ll turn up. No need to bother him.”

Shemiah shut the door, and Iapicca turned toward Donne.

“Working the streets, huh? He’s not a prostitute, so that leaves drugs,” Donne said.

“Yeah. She thinks he’s a drug dealer.”

“You don’t?”

Iapicca shook his head. “Dealers don’t kill a couple of senior citizens in my town for no reason. I think he’s a hit man.”

“And he used a gun registered under his own name and address?”

“I didn’t say he was a good one.”

“What now?” Donne asked.

“Would you recognize Delshawn if you saw him?”

“Yeah.”

“Feel like cruising the streets of Paterson?”

“Not really, but I don’t think we have much choice.”

Iapicca looked at his watch. “Fifteen and a half hours. Yeah, not much else we can do.”

Franklin Carter felt his cheek saturated in water and realized he’d fallen the entire stairway. He was on his stomach and couldn’t get his arms under him to push himself up. Sharp pain shot through his elbow as he tried to move his left arm. It had to be broken.

He gritted his teeth and used his right arm to push himself over onto his back. Now he felt the puddle soak through his hair.

The last of his adrenaline coursed through his veins and allowed him to turn over. Once he did, Carter took a second to catch his breath. Some of the muscles in his legs and right arm spasmed.

Motherfucker electrified the doorknob somehow.

He’d known Hackett for years, but he never thought he was this sick. He’d never thought it would go this far.

Should have paid up years ago.

For the first time, Carter realized this was his fault.

Carter had always gone with his instincts. And the one time they were wrong, everything fell apart. There was no way out now. It was too late to pay. Hackett was going to win.

And, lying on the cold floor, Carter knew he was going to die.

FIFTEEN HOURS

Bryan Hackett stood next to Jason Marshall, staring at the gaping hole in the building. Answering Delshawn’s call earlier had given him a moment to think about what was going on here. Marshall let him talk, thinking it was Hackett’s wife. The best part was Delshawn was an idiot and Hackett was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to actually kill Donne, but he’d probably cause some more chaos, keep him off Hackett’s trail.

Marshall jammed his hands in his suit pocket, looking relaxed and unaffected. Hackett stood straight, trying to show confidence, but not liking the situation he’d gotten himself into. They watched an FBI agent break away from a crowd of investigators and walk their way.

The agent was clean-cut, gelled hair pushed to the side, clean-shaven. Hackett wondered how long the guy had been on the scene. Couldn’t have been long. Unlike Marshall, this guy looked like he’d gotten some sleep.

“This the guy?” the agent said to Marshall.

“Special Agent Sam Draxton, meet Bryan Hackett.”

They shook hands.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to tell you which guys I used to work with who might have done this?”

Draxton nodded. “That would be very helpful. I assume Detective Marshall explained everything to you?”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable giving up that information. I mean, these guys were my colleagues.”

They knew. Somehow, they knew Hackett was involved. Nothing added up. Why was Marshall — a New Jersey state trooper — on a crime scene in New York? Where were the New York cops? They had to have one of the best bomb squads, crime-scene guys, and police in the country, but they weren’t here. The FBI was here, even though it had been decided it wasn’t a terrorist attack. They knew Michael Garibell was Bryan Hackett.

Hackett wondered how far he could get if he took Marshall’s gun and killed them both. Not very. His best bet was to beg out of here, finish the job with Carter, and get the hell out of the country with Jill. Start over.

“We’re talking here about something on a par with a terrorist attack, Mr. Hackett. Anything you could do to help, we’d really appreciate it.”

This is how they’d get one of their own. They’d come smiling, asking for help, and then you’re in the back of the car, cuffed. Hackett was not going to let them have their way.

“I’m going to need some time to think about it.”

Draxton shrugged.

“Not too much time,” he said.