The Evil That Men Do (3 page)

Jill came up behind him, dug her hands into his shoulder muscles, and kneaded. He closed his eyes and rolled his neck.

“It went good,” she said. “How long before we get the money?”

“These things take time,” he said. “This was only the beginning.”

She stopped massaging. Hackett turned to face her.

“You already talked to Carter. He knows you’re serious. He didn’t give you the money the first time you asked. Now he damn well better. And fast.”

“It’s going to take more time. You’re right, he knows I’m serious. But knowing him, he’s going to try and show me he’s serious too. We’re going to have to get to the wife.”

“You still think you’ll need to go through with the whole thing.”

Hackett smiled. “I’m
hoping
I need to go through with the whole thing.”

“We need the money.” Jill crossed her arms and pouted. “Soon.”

“I know when the plane leaves. We’ll have it by then.” Hackett brushed a blond lock of hair behind her ear. “But things might get worse before then. I want you to go to your mother’s.”

“What? No.” She stepped back from him.

“You have to. It’s not going to be safe here.”

“I want to be a part of this. I want to be there when you get the money.”

Hackett nodded. “I’ll call you. You’ll be in the loop every step of the way. But it’s better this way. You won’t be hurt.”

“This isn’t a good idea.”

He wrapped her in his arms and held her tight. Jill’s hands never touched his back. She kept them at her sides.

“Please,” he said. “I love you.”

“Only if you promise to call.”

“I promise.” He felt her finally return the hug. “Now go pack.”

Jill broke the embrace and went up the stairs. Watching her go, Hackett thought it almost felt like he hadn’t blown up a building only hours before. Just another day of marriage.

But the plan was in motion. One more thing had to be taken care of.

Hackett picked up the phone and dialed Delshawn. When the call was answered, all Hackett said was “Make it happen.”

1938

Joe Tenant knew his wife would be worried sick. It wasn’t like him to be this late. He didn’t go out for a drink after the night shift like the other guys. He went home and walked his daughter to school, kissed his wife, and slept for six or seven hours. It wasn’t exciting, but it was his life and that was how he liked it.

After talking to the police, he hoped he could put this behind him and get back to living his life. Three hours had felt like an eternity.

He sat in his car and started it, letting it warm up. The engine rattled and he hoped it wasn’t on the verge of breaking down. While he was lucky enough to have a car in these hard times, he wasn’t lucky enough to be able to afford fixing it.

“Joe Tenant,” a voice behind him said. An Irish brogue, thick and rough.

Before Tenant could turn around, he felt cool metal against his chin. Whoever was behind him was pressing a knife against his skin.

“You saw us, didn’t you? That’s unfortunate for you.”

Tenant had to swallow before he spoke. He felt the saliva curl down his throat and he wondered if it would be the last thing he tasted.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The knife pulled against his skin, and he felt a sharp pain along his jawline.

“Ah, you’re not gonna be asking any more questions, okay?”

“Please,” Tenant said.

“Now, listen to me, and I won’t have to dig this blade any deeper. Do I have your attention?”

“You have my attention,” he said.

“Good. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go home today, back to your wife, and tell her you love her. You’re going to sleep and you’re going to come back into work tonight. You’re going to live your life, do you understand?”

Tenant said yes, though he didn’t understand at all.

“What you’re not going to do,” the Irishman continued, “is go back to the police. You’ll know nothing of this day. It didn’t happen. The police have the body now and their investigation is under way. You did the right thing. But you’re not going to help anymore. You can’t help. You didn’t see anything else. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“We do business a certain way, Mr. Tenant. No one was supposed to find that body. It’s unfortunate it surfaced when it did. And that you were there. And it’s unfortunate you’re going to have a scar from this knife. But let me tell you something: A scar is a small thing compared to what we can do. Have a nice day.”

The back door of the car opened and slammed shut. Tenant rubbed his chin, feeling blood on his fingers.

His family was too important. He was going to keep his mouth shut, and they were going to leave him alone.

DONNE CRUISED OVER THE PASSAIC RIVER, ACROSS
Route 21, and got off at Park Avenue. Normally, with traffic it was about a twenty-five-minute drive. Today he was going to make it in twenty, and that felt long. He made the requisite turns and found the little Cape Cod home Faye and George lived in.

He wondered if they would remember him. The next thing he wondered was, what did two senior citizens need a black Cadillac Escalade for? The enormous SUV was parked on the curb outside their house. He parked his car across from it and looked at the open front door. This was not a good sign. He immediately reached in the glove compartment for his Glock, then remembered he didn’t carry it anymore.

One of the changes Donne was going to have to get used to, no longer being a licensed private investigator.

He crept across the front lawn and pressed himself against the gray siding. The grass needed cutting. Envelopes overflowed in the mailbox next to the front door.

He peeked through the slightly open front door but couldn’t see anything except an empty hallway.

The first gunshot sounded like a firecracker. A loud firecracker, but a firecracker nonetheless. Donne hit the dirt because of instinct, but he was immediately on his feet again and moving quickly to the front door. There was no mistaking the second gunshot.

Call the police,
he thought. But this was a quiet suburban town. Someone was home and would hear the shots and call the cops. A tall black man dressed in gang colors emerged from the front door as Donne reached for the knob. The man didn’t register Donne, and Donne hit him hard, wrapping him up like a linebacker.

“What the fuck?” he said as he hit the ground. “Get off me, nigga.” Donne tried to push him hard in the grass by his shoulders, but the guy rolled and hit him in the cheek with something metallic. It was Donne’s turn to grunt as he hit the grass.

While Donne was trying to shake off the pain, the guy got into his Escalade. He was down the street before Donne was even able to sit up. A bright blue shirt. What gang was that? When he was a cop, Donne used to know these things, but years away from the force and the shot to the head had slowed him down.

He sat on the grass for a minute, trying to clear his head and let the world come back into focus. As it did, he remembered the two gunshots and pushed himself to his feet.

The inside of the house was quiet, and cleaner than the outside. Everything was neat and dusted. The TV played
The Price Is Right
. He stepped past a brown recliner and through a doorway into the kitchen. The kitchen was not so neat.

Faye and George were strewn across the kitchen tile on their stomachs. Blood stained the tiles, pouring from their heads. They’d both been shot twice in the back of their skulls. Executions. No point trying to resuscitate them. They were undoubtedly dead.

Whatever had happened in here, it was quick, and his aunt and uncle hadn’t put up a fight. They probably got to their knees believing that act of submission would save them. They probably believed they would live.

In less than twenty-four hours, two of his relatives were dead and his brother-in-law’s restaurant had been blown up. He was going to have to talk to Franklin Carter again.

In the distance he heard police sirens. After a quick sweep of the house, Donne found that nothing seemed to be missing. There was money and jewelry on the dresser in their bedroom. The TV and radio were still there. Even the lockbox in his uncle’s office remained intact. He was careful not to touch anything as he stepped out of the room and back onto the front lawn. Standing on the grass, he let it all sink in. The house was so familiar, pictures on the mantel, the piano they’d had for years but he’d never heard played. He remembered having Thanksgiving dinner here when he was ten, two years after his father left.

They sat at the table, Aunt Faye and his mother next to each other across from Susan and him. Uncle George at the head of the table, carving knife in hand, turkey in front of him. It was all smiles that day, the promise of another family holiday ahead of them. The sides had been passed, a full plate of mashed potatoes, carrots, peas, and green beans for everyone. Per tradition, the orange and lime Jell-Os sat untouched. Apparently, his great-grandmother passed the recipe down, but not the original taste. All that was left to pass was the bird. The play-by-play of a football game added an extra rhythm to the meal.

It was a regular Norman Rockwell moment.

Uncle George sank the knife into the turkey. He smiled as he got a whiff of the aroma and said, “Faye, I can tell already you’ve topped yourself.”

Aunt Faye smiled back at him but didn’t say anything.

Mom and Susan were engaged in an argument about blue jeans, but there wasn’t any anger in the argument. Mom was laughing.

George turned to Donne and asked if he wanted white meat or dark meat.

“Both,” Donne said.

“Thattaboy.” He laughed. “You know, one day you’ll be doing this for your own family. And for us too, I hope.”

“You think so?”

“Think? I know it. Look at the way you take care of your mom and sister since your dad — Well, just look. You do a good job of it.”

“Thanks, Uncle George.”

“Remember that when you get older, okay? Remember moments like these.”

“I will,” Donne said with a ten-year-old’s enthusiasm.

“Family,” he said. “It means everything.”

Donne nodded. At the time, he believed him.

After dinner, George took him aside. “Remember what I said. Our family has been through a lot, even before you were born. And sometimes you’re going to have to fix what the people before you did wrong.”

“What do you mean, Uncle George?”

“There’s something I’m trying to put right. It might take a few years, but your aunt and I are going to fix it. Maybe I’ll even tell you about it one day.”

The police sirens grew louder, snapping Donne back to the present. He felt his legs give out. Before today he hadn’t seen his mother since he left to spend a year at Villanova. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Faye and George. Now his mother was in a bed holding on to life and confusing him with her father. His aunt and uncle were dead, lying motionless on kitchen tiles.

He tried to fight it down, and did, barely. He sat on the grass and waited.

Susan Carter sat on her couch, glued to the TV. She wondered if this was how the families of 9/11 felt during those first few hours watching as their loved ones were trapped inside the two burning buildings. Hoping, praying there was a way out, some way they were still alive.

No, she decided. They felt much worse. Everyone Susan knew was okay, no one was hurt, and no one was killed. It was just her husband’s business in ruins. And even then, they still had the restaurant in Montclair. The original Carter’s.

The reporter on Channel 4 stood in front of two fire trucks, talking about an “all-too-familiar scene on the Upper East Side.” In between the trucks behind the reporter, Susan saw Franklin talking to a man in a suit. Franklin was hunched over and looked exhausted. She wondered what they were talking about. Why would terrorists blow up their restaurant with no one inside? Why hadn’t the FBI said anything yet?

The news switched to a traffic report explaining when the bridges and tunnels would open again. All this because of her husband’s restaurant. Again, she came back to the question: Why? Things like this didn’t happen to her. At least, they didn’t before she met Franklin.

The phone rang, startling her. She picked it up. It was Jackson, and she expected an update on Faye and George, to hear what they knew about her grandfather. That wasn’t what he told her.

Jackson said that Faye and George were dead.

Shot, he said. Murdered.

She didn’t hear the rest, because she dropped the phone. Her entire body tingled and she felt herself racked with sobs so crippling she collapsed on the floor.

WHEN THE COPS SHOWED UP, THEY WENT THROUGH
the routine of frisking, cuffing, and sitting Donne in the backseat of a cop car while they checked out his story. Going through it too many times before, he had hoped this part of his life was over when his private investigator’s license was revoked.

Through the back window, Donne watched the first officer on the scene dry-heave on the front lawn. Probably a rookie, never seen a murdered body before. In a few moments, two detectives would show up and do their thing, and a bigger Bergen County city would send a medical examiner or CSI guys or whatever they were called. Worst-case scenario, the county would send someone in.

So he waited, watched as two plainclothers he didn’t recognize pulled up in a Chevy. The one in the pin-striped suit talked to the officer, and the one in a charcoal suit went through the front door while pulling on plastic gloves. Pinstripe followed Charcoal inside.

Donne settled back into the leather seat.

Pinstripe waited twenty minutes before he came out to talk to Donne. If there was a pool, Donne’s money would have been on having to wait half an hour. The cop must have had a date.