When One Man Dies (9 page)

Dressed in my best suit, then missing the puncture hole from the switchblade, I showed up, stone-cold sober. Jeanne was laid out in the black dress she wore to her first job interview. I had joked it was the reason they hired her. Around her neck was the silver locket I had given her for our second year together, and it rested open on her chest, revealing the small picture of the two of us together in a park. Memories of her flooded back to me, and I felt my knees wobble. Then I saw her face, the thick makeup washing out any sign of life. Her eyelids were stitched closed, and while people couldn’t see the stitches, I always noticed them. It wasn’t the woman I had spent the last three years with, the woman I slept with, the woman I shared secrets with. It wasn’t the woman I loved. It was an imitation.

My vision clouded, my knees gave way, and I could feel myself falling. Jeanne’s father caught me, sat me in a seat, much like the ones in the funeral home today, and got me water. I don’t remember any more of the wake. The funeral the next afternoon, I remember it poured, much like it was doing now. I remember going to the bar afterward and going on a bender, waking up in my office days later, mouth dry and head pounding.

I had an empty feeling in my stomach now, and I sat in one of the chairs trying to clear my brain. Gerry’s death wasn’t the same as Jeanne’s death. There were secrets, and they were gnawing at my insides. But the solutions weren’t here; I wasn’t going to find them. I sat and waited for Tracy to finish so I could drive her home. I was determined to find Hanover and find out who had run over Gerry. Then it was time to get on with my life, get away from the past. I didn’t want to come to any more wakes for any more murder victims.

Tracy popped her head in the doorway and called my name, snapping me out of my daydream. Her hair and clothing had dried in the office, and she had redone her lipstick. She’d also run a comb through her hair.

Fleming stood in the background, his arms crossed in front of him. He tapped his foot.

“How’d it go?” I asked.

“Good. We’re going to have the wake tomorrow, two to four, and seven to nine. Can we come back tomorrow? Drop off a suit for them to put on Gerry?”

There was a moment of silence during which I noticed a spot of mud on my left sneaker. I tried to wipe it off on the carpet.

Fleming jumped in. “That shouldn’t be a problem. If you need to, you can drop the clothing off early tomorrow morning. Will that be acceptable?”

Tracy looked at me. “I just want someone to come with me.”

“I should be able to take you. If not, Artie will.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I’m sure you will find the arrangement quite satisfactory, Ms. Boland. You will be pleased with all of your choices.”

Fleming extended his hand and shook Tracy’s. Then he shook mine, the same limp, pale handshake as before. The guy played the part of the funeral director well; I had to give him that.

We exited the funeral parlor, back into the easing rain and more rush-hour traffic.

Ten minutes into the car ride, Tracy said, “Feel like taking a walk?”

“It’s raining.”

She winked at me. “It’ll stop.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Drop me at my car and follow me to Asbury.”

***

An hour or so later, she was right. The rain had stopped. The boardwalk was empty and dark. Few streetlights illuminated the area, and only briefly did headlights flash behind me. Faintly, waves kissed the beach forty feet away. The smell of salt water filled the air, and though I couldn’t see them, I could hear seagulls squawking above me. The breeze came off the ocean. It was colder here than in New Brunswick. High fifties, I’d say.

I had a windbreaker on, over a polo shirt, hiding my Glock. I zipped the windbreaker up about halfway, high enough to keep me a little warmer, low enough that I could still get to the gun. Two black guys in long football jerseys and sideways basketball caps sauntered past, giving me a look. I made eye contact. One of the guys called me a fag, and kept going. God forbid someone be polite in this neck of the woods.

There used to be a running merry-go-round on the boardwalk, and Skee-Ball and all the food you could imagine. But no more, they had long since closed down. Some of the painted advertisements were still there, the one I was standing next to, a faded clown smiling maniacally and thumbing over his shoulder toward the shore.

Tracy approached me, smiling.

“Nice night,” she said. “I can only give you about an hour. Then I have to get to work.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a musician.”

We walked up the thick wooden boards and made a right, the beach to my left. The smell of the salt was stronger now, and sand blown by the wind onto the boardwalk crunched as we walked.

“Do you sing?”

“No, I play tenor saxophone. I have a gig at a bar in Sayreville tonight. Starts at ten.”

“Cool. Not playing at the Stone Pony?”

She tilted her head, crossed her eyes, like saying “Come on.”

“I think only Springsteen plays there. Rehearses just before he plays twenty straight nights at Giants Stadium or whatever it is.”

“Not a fan?”

“Please. I’d take Sinatra and Bon Jovi as New Jersey’s signature musicians before I’d take Bruce.”

“Bon Jovi?”

“Yeah.”

We walked in silence for a few seconds. Tracy watched her feet.

She was right: even though it was a little cool, it was a nice night. The sky was clear, a half moon crested above the ocean, and the sea air always added something to an evening. I reminded myself, however, not to get sucked in by it. At any moment, my nerves screamed, I could be ambushed. What if the two thugs from my office had followed me?

“You really don’t remember me, do you, Jackson?” I looked at her.

She laughed. “I used to see this guy, Pablo. We hung out at Artie’s bar. One night we had a fight. You were there.”

“I remember.”

Memories swirled at the edges of my brain. There was some familiarity to the story, but it was hazy. Four years ago, I was so coked up I hardly remember anything. Except for the few weeks when Jeanne and I were separated. Right before I proposed.

“Then why didn’t you say so in the bar?”

“I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Artie.”

The memories started to come into focus. I could see Tracy’s face, a little younger, drinking a mixed drink. Doing a line of coke with me. Kissing her.

“Tracy, I—”

“We never slept together.”

“I know,” I said. “But my fiancée thought we did.”

She slowed a step. The buildings on our right were cracked and broken, rotting wood holding them up. It was quiet, not another soul around. To our left the waves crashed a little louder.

“I was the reason you two separated?” I nodded. “Among other things.”

“But you got back together?”

“When I cleaned up.”

“I’m a different person now. I don’t do coke anymore. I’m with a guy. I’m happy.”

“I’m different, too,” I said.

She nodded. “You know what’s funny? That guy Pablo, he and I became best of friends. We broke up that night. But we’re really close. He married one of my best friends. What about you? The woman you were with?”

“Jeanne passed away.”

The waves seemed to crash a bit harder, louder. Made it hard to hear.

“I’m sorry,” Tracy said. “Thanks.”

I was suddenly aware of how easy it was to talk to Tracy. I was able to let myself go and give up information I usually kept close to the vest. Not to mention how easy she was to look at.

Then, “I should call Pablo. I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“You mention him more than your boyfriend.”

“Pablo’s a good friend. I miss him.”

We walked in silence for a few minutes. I had asked my questions. The waves continued to crash, hypnotic. We reached the end of the boardwalk and turned around, continuing to walk in silence.

Eventually she said, “I love it here at night. It’s not as dangerous as they say. I come here alone before a gig, just to listen. It’s like a concert of its own, the water crashing around like that. I find it inspiring.”

“It is soothing.”

She gave me one of those smiles you give a small child.

“So, where in Sayreville are you playing tonight? I might come and listen.”

She sighed. “You won’t appreciate it.”

“You hardly know me.”

We were back at the intersection. She walked away from me, toward what I assumed was her car. Unlocked the door, pulled it open. Turned back to me.

“Thanks for walking with me. If you are really going to listen, it’s a place called Jacob’s Jazz. I don’t know the name of the road it’s on, but you can Google it. That’s how I found it.”

“I’m glad we met up,” I said.

She closed the car door and drove off into the darkened streets. I exhaled a deep breath, turning over in my brain some new information, thankful that I hadn’t been shot at.

Chapter 16

It took Bill Martin hours to get through to the Madison police detectives. He would dial, get put on hold, and hang up in frustration. Finally, a Detective Blanchett got on the phone. He sounded exhausted, but gave Martin the rundown on Donne.

“Did you arrest him?” Martin asked.

“No. We couldn’t hold him on anything,” Blanchett said. “To be honest, I don’t think he did anything. Just wrong person to follow, wrong time.” A pause. “Why are you interested?”

Martin expected the question.

“Guy’s a scumbag. He fucked up our whole department a few years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised he was caught up in a murder or two.”

“Oh. He doesn’t have the best record as a PI either, does he? Been involved in a lot of shit.”

“Follows him around. Too bad you couldn’t put him away.”

“Sorry I can’t help you out.”

Martin laughed and said, “Maybe next time.”

Hanging up, he thought, I’m glad he got out. Leave him to me.

When he came back to his office with a cup of coffee, Jesus Sanchez was sitting at his desk.

“How’d you get in here?” Martin asked. Get the fuck out of my seat, he thought.

“What you mean?” Jesus balanced a pen on his outstretched index finger. “I just walked in. How you think?”

Martin shook his head. Just what he needed. He finally gets an important case, and this known drug dealer just strolls right into his office. He could almost hear Kevin Haskell yelling for his demotion. “This is a hell of an office you got here. I only got some litter and empty boxes at mine.” Jesus laughed like he was one of Johnny Carson’s writers. “Then again, my office be a street corner.”

Straightening his tie, Martin thought it was a good time to look professional. Christ, what if someone wanted to check on him?

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Man, it’s time I help you out. I talked to Michael Burgess.” The pen fell from Jesus’s finger to the ground. He bent to pick it up.

Martin didn’t want to wait, moved around the desk, grabbed Jesus by the collar, and yanked him up.

“Yo, man, what the fuck?”

“Worry about the pen later.” Martin was nose to nose with Jesus, but he kept his voice calm. Talking as if he were a happy telemarketer. “Tell me what Burgess said.”

“He said he would talk to you. Though I don’t know why.” Jesus pulled himself from Martin’s grip and straightened his collar. “Must be my charming personality.”

Jesus told him to expect a phone call from Burgess to set up particulars. He actually used the word particulars, which told Martin that Burgess must have told him to say that. Didn’t matter. This case was finally getting somewhere.

“Thanks, Jesus.” Martin patted him on the back.

Jesus stood to leave, made it to the door, when a thought hit Martin. As much as he hated to admit it, Donne was not a stupid man. He would make connections. In fact, Martin wanted him to. He wanted to cross paths with Donne again. But he didn’t want Donne ahead on the case.

“Just do me a favor. If Jackson Donne runs into you, you tell him none of this. You do not connect him with Burgess.”

Jesus shrugged. “Whatever, yo.”

As he left, Martin thought about it. He didn’t trust Jesus any farther than he could throw him. The guy was an informant and a drug dealer, plain and simple. He’d bend to anybody.

Martin had to talk to Donne himself. Before Donne even thought about going to Jesus.

Chapter 17

Jacob’s Jazz was on a small street off Route 535. I didn’t Google it; I called information and they gave me the address. A small bar, smoky and loud, with a ton of people standing in the back and sitting at small tables. I grabbed an empty stool at the bar as a small guy in thick black-framed glasses stepped away.

After ordering a Brooklyn lager, I turned to see Tracy fiddling with her saxophone as her bass player soloed. The drummer, stationed directly behind Tracy, was using brushes, the song slow, melodic, even with the solo going on. A guitar player strummed chords. Tracy was the only woman onstage. When the bass player finished, he got a round of applause from the audience as Tracy picked up the melody again. I didn’t recognize the song.