When One Man Dies (19 page)

Bill Martin came through the door, cigarette going, coffee in his hand. His tweed jacket was on, but the tie was loosened around his neck and the top button of his shirt was open. He slammed the coffee on the desk so some splashed over his hand. Took a drag off the cigarette, leaned across the table, and let all the smoke out into my face. I did my best not to cough.

“What the fuck, kid?” Martin said. He hadn’t called me kid since the first couple of months we were partners.

“Lawyer,” I said. It worked in Madison.

“Shut the fuck up. You know I’m not calling your lawyer.”

“Lawyer.”

“Talk to me. What’s going on here? Does this have to do with Gerry Figuroa?”

He wasn’t getting answers from me. I sat back, but couldn’t cross my arms. I wanted to look like an angry child.

“All right. Let’s start from the beginning here, kid. You’re looking into Gerry’s death, right? So are we. No matter what you might think, we are.”

He stood back, took another drag on the cigarette. Eyed me up and down.

“So, where do we find you?” he asked. “In a fucking convenience store that our department has known about for years as a hot spot for drug dealing. And you’re there with two guys beaten to shit. The one who was shot is lucky to be alive. One in a car that was filled with marijuana and LSD and a gun. That’s the good news.

“The bad news is we find you, gun at your feet, in front of an unarmed guy bleeding from the head. No idea who the fuck he is. And it looks to me, hell, it looks to all of us, like you beat the crap out of him, too. So, why?

“And what does this have to do with the Figuroa case?”

I had a plan. I was going to wait him out. I was going to sit and not say a word until he got so fed up he stormed out. Then they could come in and drag me to Rahway and throw away the key. I wasn’t going to give Martin the satisfaction of a response.

But Martin invoked Gerry’s name, and instead I said, “This doesn’t have to do with Gerry.”

Martin took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked it across the room. “You expect me to believe that?”

I nodded.

“Then what does it have to do with?”

“Another case I’m working on.”

“And what case is that?” Time to keep quiet again.

“Come on, kid. I mean, with the shit we’ve found in Gerry’s apartment. You saw it. This whole thing smells like drugs. You know it and I know it. Now we find you shooting some guy in a car. What did Gerry get himself into?”

“This doesn’t have to do with Gerry,” I said. “You’re not going to tell me shit, are you?”

He wasn’t going to get anything more out of me.

“This is a mistake, kid.” He waited.

“Fine. I could have kept you out of prison. Like you did for me. I could have got you out. But you had to play ball. You never wanted to play ball.” He stopped to light another cigarette. “Maybe if you spend a night in jail you’ll think differently about telling me what you know.”

“I’ve done it before,” I said.

“Better you than me.” He turned toward the door.

“You should have been in jail a lot longer than just one night,” I said as he walked out.

Chapter 32

But I didn’t spend the night in prison. In fact, I didn’t go anywhere. I remained cuffed to the table for the better part of four hours. No one came in. There was no sign they had even remembered me. My guess? They were trying to sweat me out.

My mouth was dry, my stomach rumbled. No food, no water, that’ll do it. My eyes drooped. I fought to stay awake, but found myself dozing off. Every time I drifted away the sight of Maurice and Josh, bloody pulps lying on the ground, fluttered in front of me. The image bolted me awake again.

Martin wanted me to react. He wanted me to call for my lawyer, so he could tell me he wasn’t going to call him. He wanted me to get so frustrated I would tell them what I knew and why I shot Maurice and beat the hell out of Josh. He wanted me pissed off. And I was, but I’d be damned if I was going to give Martin the satisfaction. Christ, what I wouldn’t give to be like Anthony Perkins in Psycho. Not blinking, not moving even with a fly on my cheek. Just sit, show Martin what a crazy fuck I was. Show him how lucky he was I didn’t push for him to go down with the rest of the narcs back when.

Goddamn it.

I balled my fists and willed myself to calm down, to focus.

Four hours I sat and hummed to myself. The Stones, the Beatles, Martin’s favorite band, the Hollies. Whatever came to mind.

And still Josh and Maurice danced. I was back to square one, no leads, no way to get to Michael Burgess. Rex Hanover was probably in Germany by now. And Gerry was still dead. No leads there either. But Martin thought this was all about Gerry, and it wasn’t. Fuck, what did I do?

The door swung open and Martin came back in. No cigarette, no coffee, no jacket, no tie. A little bit more scruff on the chin.

“You going to talk?”

“Lawyer.”

He turned and walked out. This was going to be a long night.

***

Only another two hours this time. I amused myself by counting the paint chips on the wall. Now I was starting to feel a little light-headed. No food, no drink. Jesus, this was capital punishment.

Martin came in, five o’clock shadow rapidly becoming a full beard. The guy could flex and grow hair.

“Feel like telling me what happened today?”

“I could use a burger and something to drink.” Martin looked at me. “You going to talk?”

I shrugged. Which was probably more than he expected. “I’ll see what I can do, kid.” He turned and left again.

I went back to the paint chips.

***

There weren’t any more paint chips to count. I had lost track of time, my internal clock shutting down. My stomach was crying. I wanted to stand, but I was afraid if I did my legs would give out and I’d fall. My cuffed wrist ached like hell.

Martin came back in. He had a McDonald’s bag. He tossed it on the table. Put a large soda in front of me. He had a soda for himself, too. Took a sip.

“McD’s, the best I could do.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He leaned across and uncuffed me. Again, I balled and unballed my fist, trying to get the circulation going.

Martin unpacked the bag, two Quarter Pounders for me, a box of McNuggets for himself. He put a bag of fries in between us. I opened up a burger.

“Your cell phone rang. Caller ID says Tracy.” I chewed. “Where’s the good cop?”

“I sent Bob home. Not much he could do here.”

“Didn’t feel like playing?”

“Not tonight. So, who’s this Tracy?”

“Friend of mine.”

The burger tasted like it was made by George Foreman himself. I must have been hungry.

“Friend like Jeanne was a friend? Like girlfriend?” Martin asked.

He was trying to make me comfortable. “How come you aren’t out trying to solve Gerry’s murder?”

Martin smiled, waved a McNugget in my direction. “Dinner break.”

“And you sent your partner home. No leads, huh?”

“I think I have a pretty big lead.”

I took a long swig of soda. Tasted like the water had been drowned in sugar. Which was pretty hard to do, if you thought about it.

“I’m going to piss for a week after I finish this.” Martin said, “We have bathrooms.”

I finished the first burger, moved on to the second. “You’re not curious about my big lead?” Martin asked.

“Mildly,” I said. “Truth is, I’m pretty sure where you’re going with this.”

“They were dealers, weren’t they?”

“Lawyer,” I said.

“In a minute. In a minute. You want to know what I think?”

I was going to give him the minute. I wanted to finish my food. “What do you think?” I asked.

“I think you did what you did because they killed Gerry. I think he was supplying them with crystal meth he made in his apartment. I think maybe he held out or he wanted more money or he pissed them off somehow and they killed him. I think you found out and went for revenge.”

“What if Gerry’s death was just a simple hit-and-run?” My burger was almost gone.

“You and I both know it wasn’t, kid.”

“What do you know?” I asked. “Tell me.”

“The question is what do you know? What are you hiding, Jackson? For once we both want the same thing. I want to solve this case.”

“You want to get back in good standing with the rest of the force.

Trying to prove yourself after the demotion?”

“Tell me what happened,” Martin said. He rubbed his face. I wondered if he was trying to hide something from me. Hide the fact that maybe I’d hit a nerve.

“This has nothing to do with Gerry.”

“Then what does it have to do with?”

My burger was gone. My stomach wasn’t rumbling anymore. I was sick of sitting here.

“I want my lawyer,” I said.

Martin raised his hands in surrender. “We’ll call him right now.”

“He’s going to be pissed you kept me in here for as long as you did.”

“What do you mean?” Martin said innocently. “The paperwork we filled out says we checked you in here forty-five minutes ago. And you just lawyered up now.”

He smiled a smile I’d seen many times in my life. He got out of his chair and left the room.

Chapter 33

“Again?” Lester Russell said. “Jesus Christ, you and bodies.”

“Listen, Les—”

“This is bad, Jackson. This is really bad. They could get you on attempted murder. Aggravated assault at the very least. One of them was unarmed—”

“Yeah, I—”

“No, wait, I don’t want to know. If this goes to trial I don’t want to know.”

“Trial?”

“It looks like you’re up shit creek,” he said.

Martin wasn’t in the room. It was just Les and me. He was right, there was no getting around this.

“Get me out of here, Lester.”

“All right, slow down. Did you tell them anything?”

I was handcuffed again, and my wrist throbbed.

“Martin was the one who questioned me,” I said. “I wouldn’t tell him shit.”

Russell smiled despite himself. “That guy is an—ah, we might be taped. How long have they had you here? Martin said like two hours?” Russell looked up at the video camera above us. He knew that somewhere Martin was watching the feed of this conversation. He also knew that everything they had said was on tape. I remembered watching thousands of these lawyer conversations, watching Martin interrogate a witness, even once watching an unsanctioned conjugal visit on those very monitors. It wasn’t standard, but we both knew Martin did it all the time.

“More like eight or nine.”

“What? What do you mean eight or nine?” Lester was shuffling papers in front of him. “The paperwork says they checked you in—”

“All this went down close to four in the afternoon. They arrested me on the spot.”

“And you didn’t ask for me immediately?”

“I did.”

Now Russell looked directly at me. Like he was making a conscious effort not to look at the camera, not to make a connection with Martin. I knew what he was thinking, and I didn’t look at the camera either.

“So what happened?” Russell asked.

“Martin left the room. For about four hours. He was trying to sweat me out.”

“And what happened when he came back?”

“I asked for you again.”

“And then he was gone for another couple of hours?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you two talk at all?”

“A little. Two or three hours later. He brought food.”

“He’s a saint.”

Martin came through the door, smoking, looking calm and collected. A smug smile curved around the cigarette.

“How are you doing? Jackson, has Mr. Russell here talked some sense into you? Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

Russell returned the smug smile. “I’m going to get the tapes in this room, the security tapes of my client being brought in through the front door, every piece of paperwork I can find, and I’m going to use it as evidence. You probably just broke every law in the book. My client has rights. As in ‘the right to an attorney’ when he asks for it.”

Martin looked like he’d swallowed the cigarette. “What are you talking about? We brought him in an hour ago.”

“Your paperwork says two hours ago.”

“Whatever. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“You’re in deep shit if this goes to trial. You know that.”

“Me?” Martin puffed some smoke, let it out through his nose. “Your client, Mr. Donne, attempted to murder two people. You’re lucky they’re alive. Who’s to say we don’t have him on tape?”

Russell sat back. “Give me a minute to talk to my client. And don’t listen in.”

Martin spread his hands. “Take all night.”