The Evil That Men Do (17 page)

Hackett turned around and started walking. The subway station, only a block away, was his destination.
Act like you’ve been there before. They won’t stop you
.

“Hackett.” Marshall’s voice echoed off the canyon of buildings. Hackett didn’t realize until that moment how empty that area of New York was. How one act of violence could shut the whole damn thing down. He hated to admit it, but the feeling of power was amazing. Probably like Oswald felt that day in Dallas. He could do anything and no one could stop him. He clenched his hands into fists and forced himself not to smile.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do the right thing here.”

“Yes, sir.”

He made his way down the stairs, finding the number 6 train pulling up to the station. Timing was everything.

The house on Upper Mountain Road was high-class shit, that was for sure. Delshawn Butler pulled his Escalade up across the street in front of another huge brick house. The street was filled with them.

Back when he dealt, he knew a couple of guys from Montclair, but there was no way they lived up in this area. Maybe down on the other side where those apartment buildings were. Butler felt more comfortable there. Here he stuck out like a black man at a Klan meeting. Some Neighborhood Watch asshole might see the truck and try to be a hero.

Butler would have to make things happen quickly. Hacket said not to mess with the girl, which meant he couldn’t go inside. She’d see him. Get the guy out into the open, take him down with one shot, and get the fuck out of here. Assuming he was inside.

Delshawn Butler got out of the car and walked across the street toward the house. He felt his gun, heavy, at his side.

Susan Carter found the bills and began to pore through them. Looking for numbers, loopholes, anything that showed her husband had a lot of money she could access. Thus far, she had no idea what she was looking for. Deep down, she hoped she’d come across a piece of paper that read, “FREE ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS HERE.”

The coffeemaker percolated in the otherwise quiet kitchen. The pale light above the wooden table felt as bright as the sun on the beach at noon. She squinted and kept flipping papers.

Nothing.

She stretched and walked to the living room, wondering when Jackson and the detective would come back. She found herself liking Iapicca, even though she knew the police shouldn’t be involved. They related well to each other, and he’d been through the same things she had.

She peeked through the front window and froze. Parked in front of the house was a black Cadillac Escalade.

Donne’s phone rang, shattering the silence in the car. Save for a few homeless people, they hadn’t seen anyone on the streets. It was too late at night, even for criminals.

He looked at the caller ID and put it on speaker.

Susan said, “Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but there’s a car parked outside my house. Well, not a car, a truck. I’ve never seen it on this block before.”

Iapicca glanced over at him.

“What kind of truck?” Donne asked.

“Like a Cadillac. One of those Escalades you see on MTV.”

Donne clutched the cell phone a little tighter. She wasn’t being paranoid.

“Don’t go outside. Lock the doors. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“We’re catching a break,” Iapicca said.

“Looks like it,” Donne said. “As long as he doesn’t get to her first.”

1938

A month had passed, and Joe Tenant was living in a motel. He made enough money for food and the room. The rest he sent to Caroline and Isabelle. He never heard from them. He didn’t hear from anyone except when he worked with Sops.

He walked to work, two miles every night, because he’d left Caroline with the car. No phone, no contact. Nothing. Joe was afraid that if the Irishman couldn’t find him, then he’d go after Isabelle and Caroline. He asked Sops to check up on them, and he reported they were fine.

Two weeks ago, he’d written Lisa Carter a letter and told her he wanted a response. Gave the address of the hotel so she could write back. It was a Tuesday morning when she replied. It wasn’t in the form of a letter.

He’d been asleep for the better part of two hours when he was awoken by a knock at the door. Joe Tenant got out of bed, dressed in only boxer shorts, lifted the fire poker off the table, and peeked through the peephole. Lisa Carter stood by herself, looking over her shoulder, as if she was waiting to be spotted.

He pulled the door open and let her in, embarrassed he was nearly naked. Joe watched Lisa Carter scan his body.

She smiled and looked at the fire poker on the table.

“You don’t have a fireplace in this room,” Lisa Carter said.

“No.”

“What’s it for?”

“Protection. I brought it here from work.”

“I got your letter.”

She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. She wore a long skirt and white blouse. She peeled the long black gloves off, placed them on her lap. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun. She looked like she was going to a funeral. Maybe she was still in mourning.

Joe found a pair of slacks and pulled them on. Then he sat at the desk across from her.

“Why was Connor O’Neill at your husband’s funeral?”

“You don’t make small talk, do you?”

Joe Tenant shook his head. “Not when my family is threatened.”

“My husband used to donate to O’Neill’s campaigns. O’Neill came to offer his condolences.”

“Used to?”

Lisa nodded. “I don’t get into my husband’s affairs, but Connor was a friend of the family. I know my husband and he went out on fishing trips, out for dinner. We’d even been to the O’Neills’ home for holiday parties. But in the last year that all stopped.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did O’Neill say anything to you at the funeral?”

“Just that he was sorry for my loss.”

Joe Tenant walked over to the bed. He wasn’t sure why. He was drawn there somehow.

“Is it an election year for O’Neill?”

Joe didn’t follow local politics unless he was going to lose his job because of one of the president’s plans to jump-start the economy.

“Yes,” she said.

“Did your husband donate to a campaign?”

“He didn’t tell me. He was very secretive about it this year.”

“You need to go to the press with this. Say he did. Say it’s what got him killed.”

“I can’t do that. I would be lying.”

“That doesn’t matter. You just need to get their attention.”

“And if they come after me?”

“They won’t. I’ll take care of it.”

Joe nodded. Things were making sense. He was glad she came.

“I’m sorry about what happened at your home last month. I was worried about my family.”

Lisa Carter stood and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“You’re a very interesting person, Joe Tenant. Your wife kicks you out of your home, and yet you’re still protecting her.”

She knew more than he’d told her. Lisa Carter had looked into his life.

“Not being able to protect her is what got me kicked out. It’s why I’m here. I don’t want to be. I love my family.”

She ran her hands down his bare chest. What was she doing? And why was he letting her do it?

“I miss my husband.”

Because it felt good, that’s why.

“We’ve only met once,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“You want to help.”

She shook her head.

“No. It’s more than that.”

She stood on her toes, angled her head, and kissed him on the lips. The kiss was soft, and the message behind it was evident.

He didn’t want this. He wanted to be back with Caroline. But Lisa was attractive. He wondered if she missed her husband like he missed Caroline. He wondered if she was making this happen for the same reasons he was going to let it happen.

They kissed again, her mouth opening. Her hands ran across his stomach, then found the button of his pants.

He pushed her away.

“I can’t,” he said.

Her eyes met his. “Your wife?”

“And daughter.”

She nodded. “I like you, Joe. You seem like a good man.”

“I’m trying,” he said.

BRYAN HACKETT DIDN’T GET OFF THE TRAIN IN
Hoboken. He took the PATH to Exchange Place, then caught the Light Rail into Bayonne. While it wasn’t the safest time of night to make this journey, he thought he could risk it. He wanted to take one last look before he and Jill ran off.

The feds wouldn’t be after him this quickly. Not if they wanted him to think they needed his help.

He walked down Avenue A, the air still warm even at three in the morning. A homeless guy sauntered across the street, pushing a shopping cart. Otherwise, the street was empty and silent. Hackett tried to look like he belonged.

He reached the end of the road, the Starting Point bar on the corner, a left turn to nowhere the only option. The Bayonne Bridge to Staten Island, lit up in red, white, and blue, hovered in the distance. To Hackett’s right was a grassy marsh area. A quarter mile beyond that a train carried freight toward Port Newark. He could smell the dead fish, shit, and sewage from the Hudson and Hackensack Rivers. It smelled like the world’s biggest toilet.

Texaco used to own this land. A new ethanol company was supposed to be moving in.

Hackett’s anger made his hand shake. This whole area was bullshit, unused and untouched. Soon, the government would have its control of this area, trying to slow the ethanol company down.

But that didn’t matter.

It should have been his.

Delshawn Butler did a lap around the house, checking for open doors, easy entry, and any way to escape. Everything was locked. Butler saw the woman sitting in the kitchen, poring over papers. Damn, it was late, her husband wasn’t home, and she was up paying the motherfucking bills. His target wasn’t around.

For now.

He sat back, pressed against the brick house, waiting. He needed a plan, a way to get his target here. What did Hackett say his name was? Donne? Yeah, that was it. Part of the fucking family.

He thought for a while. Hackett told him not to hurt the girl. But he didn’t say not to scare her. Or use her as bait.

Butler could go in there, scare the girl into calling Donne. Get him here. Kill him.

He could leave the girl alive.

No, shit, that wouldn’t work. Because then the girl would recognize him. Shit, shit, shit.

A car rolled down Upper Mountain slow. Butler tensed and watched as it passed. Nothing to worry about.

But, watching the car, he realized his plan would work. He could kill Donne, let Hackett finish whatever he had to do with the girl, and then Butler could come back and kill her.

A hit man just starting out needed practice.

“I’m going to call it in,” Iapicca said.

“No. Don’t. I want to handle this.”

“Bullshit. This is someone’s life. Your sister’s life.”

“You gave me eight hours.”

“Unless things got fucked up. Which they are now.”

“What are you going to do? Call your Rutherford buddies? And fuck up your career?”

Iapicca hesitated before answering. “No, I’ll call Montclair.”

“And say what? There’s a suspicious SUV sitting outside a house on North Mountain? It’ll take fifteen minutes for them to get there. We’ll be there by then.”

“Fuck.”

“You’ve come this far with me.”

Iapicca didn’t respond. He didn’t radio anyone, either.

The car sped up. Donne appreciated what Iapicca was doing, breaking a lot of rules to do what was right. He wondered if he would have done the same thing when he was a cop. Probably not. He turned in his own partners. What did he care about some random guy?

No, Iapicca wasn’t like him.

“I don’t like this,” Iapicca said.

Donne blinked and turned toward him.

“You can’t call it in. I need to handle it. We’ve come this far.”

Iapicca said slowly, “We’re ten minutes out.”

“I know. Thanks for all of this.”

Iapicca shook his head. “I just want the good guys to win.”

Delshawn Butler followed the house around to the back deck. Before climbing the deck, he checked the kitchen window and saw that the sister had left the room. Where the hell had she gone?

The way he thought it, he’d get into the house by getting her to answer the tapping at the sliding door, and take her there. But if she wasn’t in the kitchen, she might have decided to go to sleep. Odds were she wouldn’t even hear a tapping at the glass door.

Tugging at the handle confirmed that the door was locked. Shit, he wished people still left their doors open. He was going to have to do this the hard way.

Butler pulled his gun, holding it by the barrel. He brought it down like a hammer, watching the glass shatter when he made contact.

The screaming started before he was able to step through the door.

FOURTEEN HOURS

They pulled up to the house, and Donne was out of the car before Iapicca was able to shut the engine off. His instinct was to rush the house, get to Susan, and get her the hell out.

Good thing Iapicca came along.

“Wait,” he said.

Donne froze at the edge of the grass.

Holding a finger up, Iapicca walked to the SUV. He placed his free hand on the hood.

“Been here awhile,” he said. “And he’s not in the car. He could be anywhere.”

“You knew that hood would be cold.” It had to be cold. Susan had called twenty minutes ago.