The Evil That Men Do (9 page)

“Wait here,” Iapicca said.

Donne took a seat on a plastic chair and looked at the brochures on the table in front of him. Most of them regarded sexually transmitted diseases. He felt more like he was in a doctor’s office than anything else.

Iapicca was bullshitting with the cop behind the glass. They both laughed at some joke Donne didn’t hear. He checked his watch and worried some more about Susan.

A buzzer sounded and Iapicca pushed the door next to the window open. He turned his head toward Donne.

“Come on, tough guy,” he said.

Donne followed him into the back office. It looked pretty much like any office you see on TV. Brightly painted walls, and cubicles. The only difference was that the guys in the cubicles were in cop uniforms. And the box of doughnuts by the coffee machine was empty.

At the back of the office, a kid in a LeBron James jersey about six sizes too big for him, baggy jeans, and untied Timberlands sat looking pissed off. A plainclothes detective, jacket off, leaned on his desk watching him. Neither spoke until the detective noticed Donne and Iapicca.

“You look like a Rutherford cop. Greasy as hell,” the detective said to Iapicca.

“And you’re doing an impression of a police force in this town? Christ, do you even have a jail back here?” Iapicca shook the Clifton detective’s hand. “How you doin’, Krewer? This here is Jackson Donne. He’s a private detective. Or at least used to be.”

Iapicca gave him a look, and Donne realized he’d done a little research on him.

“A PI?” Krewer took Donne’s hand. “Is that why he’s all bruised?”

Cops are such cutups.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

Krewer turned from Donne and waved his hand in Carlos’s direction. “And this here is Carlos. He found a gun. Didn’t you, Carlos?”

“Fuck you. I ain’t gotta stay for this.”

Krewer smiled. “Yeah, you kinda do. Otherwise we’ll talk to Juvie. You’ve been holding on to a gun for a few days. Not supposed to do that.”

“Yo, I just found that shit three hours ago.” Carlos puffed out his chest and looked at them. “Who are these fucks?”

Krewer ignored Donne and pointed toward his chauffeur for the day. “This is Detective Iapicca from Rutherford. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Why I gotta answer more questions? This ain’t school. Take the gun. I gotta go home.” Carlos folded his arms in front of him. “Fuckin’ cops.”

“Whoa, he’s been brought up well, hasn’t he?” Iapicca said, and laughed.

“Yo, fuck you,” Carlos said. “This ain’t your town.”

Donne leaned against a desk across from the trio, deciding to watch and keep his mouth shut like Iapicca had advised. The way this kid was spouting off, the conversation that was about to happen would no doubt be entertaining.

“Make it quick,” Krewer said. “I got tickets to see Brian Wilson tonight at Radio City.”

“After all the shit that’s gone on, you’re gonna go into the city?”

“Dude, the city’s the safest place to be right now. Cops are everywhere. And he’s gonna do all of
Pet Sounds
. So get this over with.”

“Listen, kid,” Iapicca said, putting his hand on the kid’s shoulder, “we just need to ask a few more and then you can go home.”

Carlos shrugged violently. “Don’t touch me. You ain’t my father.”

“All right, all right. Calm down. How’d you get the gun?”

“I already told the other one.”

“Uh-huh. And now you’re gonna tell me.” Iapicca’s voice was no longer playful. There was a tension to it, commanding. Definitely a cop’s voice.

Carlos let out a long sigh, flared his nostrils, and leaned back in the chair. Completely defiant. But at the same time, he answered.

“I found it down by the Passaic River. Down by Delawanna. In that park over there.”

“It was just lying there?”

“Nah, yo. Some gangsta threw it out his car window.”

“Oh really?” Iapicca leaned forward. “What did this ‘gangsta’ look like?”

“I don’t know. He was black. That’s all I saw.”

“What kind of car did he drive?”

Even Donne noticed Carlos’s eyes light up. “Yo, that car was hot. It was like a black Cadillac Escalade, all pimped out. Shiny, and you shoulda seen the rims. Man, those shits were spinning the opposite way of the wheels. And he was thumpin’ some Akon on the radio. You could hear the bass, man. That shit was hot.”

“And you watched him throw the gun right out the window.”

“Well, he didn’t like throw it. He just kinda dropped it. I think he thought it would roll into the river, but he didn’t know how muddy the ground was. Didn’t even get out the car to check. Drove off like a motherfucker. Too bad, too. I wanted to hear more from the radio. I think he had on Hot Ninety-seven.”

Carlos’s legs were both bouncing up and down, and his eyes weren’t focused. They rolled from side to side. He looked like he was about to jump up and run off.

“So then what?”

“After he drove away, I went over to see what he dropped. And it was all stuck in the mud and shit, the gun. So I picked it up and thought, you know, some kid might find it.”

“Like you?”

“Nah, I ain’t no kid, yo. I’m thirteen.” Carlos sucked his teeth. “I mean, like a little kid.”

“I see. And when was this?”

“I don’t know, this morning?”

Krewer jumped in. “Right. That’s why we had reports of some kid shooting in the bushes over by Rutt’s Hut yesterday.”

Carlos didn’t say anything. If the cops were any good at their job, they both saw the answer in Carlos’s eyes — Donne knew he did. But at the same time, the kid was smart. He didn’t say anything that could get him in any more trouble.

“I’m just trying to do something right,” Carlos said finally.

“All right, kid,” Iapicca said. “Did Detective Krewer get your information?”

“Yeah. I gave him my shit.”

“Good. You answered all the questions I have.”

For right now,
Donne thought.

“That’s it? Nigga, I told him all that shit already. Waste my fucking time.”

Iapicca turned to Krewer. “You tracing the gun?”

“Of course.”

“Let me know.”

Iapicca turned back toward Donne and signaled it was time to go.

“Enjoy the concert, Krewer,” he said as they exited.

Franklin Carter blinked the sweat out of his eyes and felt it trickle across the cuts on his face. It burned like hell. And all he wanted to do was stand, but his arms were still strapped to the wooden chair.

Bryan Hackett stood before him, frowning, cell phone against his ear. The belt hung limply from his left hand.

After the beating, Hackett had reached above his head and clicked on a dim lightbulb. It didn’t do much, but Carter could at least see more of his surroundings.

Not that there was anything to see. It looked as if the place had been emptied out. The light illuminated a slop sink with a drippy faucet catty-corner from the stairs. The rest of the basement was empty except for a few pieces of rotted wood that lay on the ground.

Somehow, the dim light was comforting. He wanted to stay near it, stay where it was.

His mind traveled back, and he remembered lyrics from one of the John Mayer tunes. Something about staying where the light was. He wished that was all he had to worry about now. Kate and her fucking poor taste in music.

Hackett put the phone down and shook his head.

“This is not good,” he said.

“What?”

“Jesus. I’m surprised you’re still able to talk.” Hackett took a step toward him. “Your wife, she’s not answering the phone.”

Hackett took another step forward, this time letting the belt buckle scratch along the ground.

“Susan,” Carter said.

Why isn’t she answering the phone?
There had to be something wrong. She loved him. Something must have happened.

“Her phone isn’t even on. It’s going straight to voice mail.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why.”

“Yeah, why’s not the problem here. The problem is I can’t get anything accomplished if she doesn’t answer her phone.”

Something broke inside Franklin Carter. A well of emotion that he’d done his best to bury the past few days. Tears flowed from his eyes and a wail escaped his lips. He wasn’t a strong man, and Franklin wasn’t even sure if a strong man could deal with this.

“Oh, stop being a bitch,” Hackett said. He picked up the cell phone. “Here, if it makes you feel better, I’ll try one more time.”

He started to dial.

Carter let his head hang limp. Snot bubbled from his nose and he couldn’t even wipe it away. He came from one of the richest, most respected families in New Jersey and he’d been reduced to a bawling child by this mick. The thought made him cry even more.

“Susan,” he said. “Susan, please pick up.”

Hackett pressed the phone to Carter’s ear.

“—can’t get to the phone right now, so leave a—”

“Jesus Christ,” Carter said.

“Yeah, this does not bode well for me,” Hackett said. “Not at all.”

Franklin didn’t look up, but he could hear the belt cut through the air again. Felt the impact against his temple and then more searing pain.

“And,” Bryan Hackett’s voice was like steel, quiet and cold, “if it doesn’t bode well for me, then it sure as hell isn’t good news for you.”

Franklin Carter squeezed his eyes shut tight as he heard the familiar whizzing sound in the air again.

IAPICCA DROPPED DONNE OFF IN FRONT OF HIS SISTER’S
on Upper Mountain. After knocking and ringing the doorbell to no effect, he decided to hoof it to Carter’s. It was about a fifteen-minute walk. During the trip, he took the time to try Susan. No answer. He tried Franklin and got the same result.

Carter’s must have just opened for dinner. Donne looked at his watch and saw it was just five. The front door was propped open and three tables were set up on the street. A busboy with glasses and greasy hair put napkins and silverware on each table. He smiled at Donne when he passed.

Kate didn’t smile when he entered. In fact, Donne thought she rolled her eyes. In the crook of her arm was a pile of menus. She put them on the counter.

“What?” she asked.

Donne didn’t have time to return the sarcasm.

“Is Franklin here?”

“No.”

“Have you seen him at all today?”

“No,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday when we closed. I left and he was still doing receipts and tips.”

“What about Susan?”

She must have heard the concern in his voice, because her icy exterior melted away.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

Donne told her about the voice mails. The panic in his sister’s voice. “I haven’t heard from either of them,” Kate said.

The phone on the counter rang and Kate picked it up, saying, “Carter’s. Fine dining. This is Kate speaking, how may I help you?”

She paused to listen, playing with the name tag on her apron.

“No,” she answered. “He’s not here. He hasn’t been here all day. But your brother is here.”

She passed Donne the phone. Donne took it and said, “Susan, are you all right?”

“Oh, Jackson. Someone called me and said they took Franklin. I don’t know what to do.”

“They took him?”

When Donne said that, Kate looked at him. She seemed like she wanted to ask a question, but two customers came in the door. He turned his back to them, and Kate went to seat them.

“That’s what they said. I don’t know what happened. I dropped my phone and haven’t been able to call anyone since then.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at Mom’s. They’re letting me use the phone.” She was breathless. “Can you come up here?”

“I don’t have a car right now.”

She didn’t ask why.

“All right, I’ll pick you up at the restaurant. I’m leaving now.”

He put the phone back in its cradle. His head throbbed. He still felt the effects of the knock on the head. When he turned around, Kate was standing directly behind him.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Just peachy,” he said. “Do you have any Tylenol?”

She dug in her purse and came up with a few tablets. Donne took them dry and went to sit at one of the tables on Church Street. Susan was a good twenty minutes away at this time of day.

As he sat, Donne was overcome with the urge to get up and run away. To not stay here, not help. He’d seen it too many times before. Once he was involved people got hurt, even killed. Jeanne, Tracy Boland, Beth Deegan, Omar Hassan, Gerry Figuroa. There was no escaping it. He felt like some incurable jinx. And now his family was in danger. A family that had been safe for years when he wasn’t around.

Donne wanted to run.

And if not for the fact that he had no place to go, he would have.

Detective Mike Iapicca stopped at Rutt’s Hut for dinner. His wife was in Wisconsin visiting her brother, so it wasn’t like she was going to cook tonight. So he settled on two deep-fried hot dogs with relish. Best meal he’d had in days.

When Donne had gotten involved in the case, Iapicca looked him up and saw he used to be a PI in New Brunswick. But he was involved in a shoot-out in central Jersey and was stripped of his license. Iapicca called the Morristown PD — figuring maybe they worked the case — to talk to someone down there. He wanted to know about the shoot-out. The cops who worked the case, he was told, were actually from Madison. He tried that department and left a message.

As he bit into his second hot dog, standing at the counter looking over the dirty Passaic River, his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID, so he picked up and identified himself.

“This is Detective Daniels from Madison,” the voice said. A woman. “You called?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m working this murder case. An old man and his wife. We had a witness to the murder, and it’s somebody you know. I was looking for a little background.”

“Who’s the wit?”

“Jackson Donne. Used to be private.”

“Christ, I remember Donne.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

He heard Daniels take a deep breath.

“I actually like Donne,” she said. “He’s a good guy. And he saved some lives down at Jockey Hollow that day. But man, he can’t keep out of trouble, can he?”