The Evil That Men Do (19 page)

“What’s up, Artie?”

“Just checking in, making sure you were okay.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Scared?”

“I just turned in four corrupt cops, left my job, and am going to try and clean up my act, so I can get my girlfriend back. What do you think?”

There was a long pause before he spoke again.

“I’ve told you about my days in ’Nam, right?”

“Artie,” Donne said, “you barely say a word about those days.”

“I was a helicopter pilot. It took a hell of a lot of training. There was a lot of shit you had to know. One day, right when training was ending, I asked my superior a question. I asked him what you do when the bullets are flying and all hell is breaking loose and you’re scared.

“He didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh and he didn’t read something off a fortune cookie. All he said was, ‘You fly the helicopter.’”

Artie didn’t say anything else that day. The next day, Donne went into rehab. A few weeks later, he called Jeanne and won her back. No matter how briefly.

Through Susan’s sliding door he could see the EMS taking Mike Iapicca’s body out on a stretcher. Donne wondered about his wife, how she was going to take the news.

Susan pulled the door open.

“The police want to talk to you.”

“I need you to run interference for me. Give me some time to get out of here.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m going to find Franklin and get him back.”

Donne was going to fly the helicopter.

TWELVE HOURS

Susan Carter slipped Jackson the keys to her car and went back inside. The police were waiting for her. Two plainclothes who weren’t polite enough to give their names. They sat waiting, one with legs crossed and hands crossed on his knee, the other legs spread and notepad in hand.

“Ma’am, where is your—” The cop with the notebook looked at it. “Brother?”

“He’ll be in in a minute.”

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Susan took a seat in an easy chair across from the two cops. One of them had a scar at the corner of his lip. She wondered how he got it. The other cop, the one asking the questions, was plain, boring.

“I already told you.”

So far it was just a home invasion, while her brother happened to show up with one of his buddies. The guy was probably a drug addict, and a shoot-out had occurred.

“I don’t think you’re being honest with us. So maybe you should tell us again.” The plain one smiled without much warmth behind it. He didn’t buy her story, that was for sure. But she had to keep Franklin out of it.

And get the police out of here before the kidnapper — Hackett? — called again.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but one of the crime-scene guys peeked into the room.

“Hey, Johnson,” he said.

The plain cop turned around. How fitting the plain cop was named Johnson. The only way it could be better would be if his name was Smith.

“I don’t know if you talked to everybody yet, but a car just pulled out of the driveway and headed down the street.”

The cop looked at Susan, then back toward the crime-scene guy.

“Son of a bitch!” he said.

Donne drove to Rutherford doing the speed limit. Pulling up in front of his aunt and uncle’s home, he realized that he was probably the last family member who’d been there. The cops had definitely been in and out of there gathering evidence, following up clues, and searching for a reason why a gangbanger would kill two senior citizens in their home. But at six in the morning, the sun finally starting to pierce the horizon, there was no one there.

He parked his sister’s Audi on the curb, stepped out, and glanced toward the corner. Nothing. He’d driven carefully, making sure he wasn’t followed, but it never hurt to be careful.

The front door was locked. His sister probably had a key; she visited them often enough. But if she did, it wasn’t on the same key ring as the car’s. Checking over his shoulder again, the coast clear, he kicked the door with the sole of his shoe. It splintered quietly and he pushed it open. The smell of bleach hit him.

It seemed the cops had cleaned up a bit. Because Lord knows he hadn’t. And as far as he knew, his sister didn’t have the time to get over here. His aunt and uncle didn’t have children. He wondered who would take care of their funeral. Both bodies were probably still locked away in the morgue cooler.

He took the narrow wooden stairway to the second floor, ignoring the bathroom and the bedroom. He found his uncle’s office where he kept tax forms, paperwork, and other important pieces of information.

The same Thanksgiving when Uncle George told Donne how important family was, he’d brought Donne up here to show him his lockbox — and his plans for the rest of his and his wife’s lives. That day Donne sat in the old leather chair that he stood next to now, the smell of it filling his nostrils the same now as it did then. The thick stench of leather always brought Donne back to this room.

Donne remembered George pulling out his old metal lockbox from underneath the desk, sliding a small key into the lock, and popping the lid. In it were plans for adoption. He wanted Donne to see it before he told Mom and Susan. He wanted Donne to know he believed in family so much that he was going to adopt. He was going to help right a wrong by bringing someone new into their lives. Family was important. He’d say it again and again.

The boy was an Irish boy whose parents had emigrated back to Ireland from the United States. And then were killed, but Donne couldn’t remember how.

He found his uncle’s metal lockbox in the exact spot he’d remembered it, tucked under the corner of his desk. He slid it out, a cloud of dust coming with it. The lock on it was rusted now. George must not have cared too much about the security of the box as he aged; otherwise he would have gotten a new one. Donne popped the lock off after two swift kicks.

Inside were manila folders filled with old receipts, a car title, birth certificates, his aunt’s college diploma, George’s military discharge papers. Donne flipped through the folders, searching each one. After the seventh folder, he found what he was looking for: the adoption papers.

According to the paperwork, they adopted a boy named Bryan Hackett. Beneath the papers was a school photo from his first days here. He was almost a middle school student, his reddish-blond hair hanging over his eyes, ruddy freckles across his cheeks.

Underneath all the paperwork was a sloppy handwritten note. It was dated two months ago. It read, “I’m sorry for what’s about to happen. I know you tried. I know you wanted to help. But you all have to pay. The entire family. For me to live, you can’t exist. But you need to know I’m sorry. BH.”

Jesus Christ.

He folded the documents and put them in his jeans pocket. He didn’t know if it could help him track down Hackett, but taking the stuff with him couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like the police were using it. They hadn’t done a decent enough crime-scene search to come up with it. Probably wasn’t something Iapicca was looking for. The last time he’d been here, he was still under the impression it was a gangland murder.

And now he was in the morgue as well.

Donne shook the image from his head and took the steps two at a time. As he headed for the front door, he tried to figure out his next move. There had to be ways to track Hackett. Was he married? Did he have a job?

As Donne put his hand on the doorknob, the door swung open, knocking him on his ass. He sat there realizing that as careful as he’d been on his way here, he should have been just as careful leaving. He hadn’t even noticed the red and blue flashing lights through the front window until now, as they streamed through the open venetian blinds on the front window.

Two tall figures he’d never seen before burst through the door, guns trained on him.

“Hands in the air!” one yelled. “FBI!”

The feds? This kept getting better and better.

1938

Joe Tenant got Sops to pick him up the next day. He worked an overnight, got in for a nap, and Sops met him around lunchtime.

“Where are we going, Tug?” Sops asked.

“To talk to a senator.”

Sops shook his head.

Lisa Carter had given him the address before she left. She also called the local paper and set up an appointment to talk to a reporter.

Then she’d paused at the door to Tenant’s motel room and turned back to him one last time.

“When this is over, will I hear from you?”

He’d nodded. It didn’t feel like a promise if he didn’t say anything. He wanted to see her again. But it was going to be platonic. Otherwise, he’d never get Caroline back.

Sitting in the passenger seat, he couldn’t get the image of his wife out of his head. The hurt on her face when he told her what happened to their daughter. He envisioned the moment her heart broke. But that wasn’t what scared him the most.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see Isabelle’s face.

What kind of father was he?

Connor O’Neill lived three streets away from the Carter house. The senator’s was just as big, with a long front yard littered with foliage and trees. From one of the small trees a tire, attached by a thick brown rope, swung in the breeze.

Sops pulled the car to the curb across the street, the engine idling. Tenant took a deep breath, feeling the driver’s eyes on him.

“What do you want me to do?” Sops asked.

“Leave the car running and wait here.”

“You don’t want backup?” Sops smiled as if he was joking, but they both knew he wasn’t.

“You are backup. You see me come running out that front door, get ready to roll.”

“Jesus Christ, Tug, what the hell are you into?”

Joe Tenant reached across the console and put his hand on Sops’s shoulder.

“Thanks.”

He got out of the car before Sops could say anything else.

Tenant spent the walk across the street steeling himself for what he planned on doing. No longer the time to be nice, Joe clenched his fists and inhaled through his nose. The lead ball in his stomach made him want to turn around, but he’d come too far.

“He’ll be alone,” Lisa had said. “He told me at the funeral his wife would be on vacation this week. That I should stop by and say hello.”

Tenant pounded on the door with his fist. As he did, he wondered if Lisa would try to sleep with Connor O’Neill as well.

The door opened and Connor O’Neill stood before him. He was dressed down in light pants and a sweater. He wore fucking slippers. It was now or never.

Before recognition formed on O’Neill’s face, Tenant hit him flush in the nose. O’Neill grunted, stumbled back, and then fell over. Tenant stepped in the door and swung it shut behind him.

“What in the world?” O’Neill screamed. He didn’t curse, and that surprised Tenant. He was still trying to be a senator. Even with a busted nose, you had to put on a performance.

Tenant kicked him once, twice, in the ribs. He hoped he cracked one. O’Neill rolled over onto his side and brought his knees up to his chest to deflect more blows.

“Get up!” Tenant yelled.

O’Neill didn’t move, just lay in his protected position. He kept trying to say something, but with his face covered by his arms, Tenant couldn’t understand him.

“What did you say?”

Tenant crouched before the senator and pulled one hand away from his face. He slapped the exposed cheek.

“Say it again!” he ordered.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

Tenant allowed himself to smile.

“I don’t? You’re Connor O’Neill the senator. You’ve had monetary backing from Maxwell Carter for several years. He stopped backing you and suddenly he’s dead. I know more about who I’m dealing with than you think.”

Connor O’Neill didn’t speak, but his face paled, and Tenant knew he’d struck a chord. Tenant put his hands around O’Neill’s throat.

And squeezed.

O’Neill’s eyes bulged and his face flushed, his skin changing from pale white to red. The senator’s mouth opened and closed and fought for air. Tenant released his grip.

O’Neill coughed, spit flying from his mouth as he tried to catch his breath.

“You have it wrong,” he managed.

“Then tell me what’s right,” Tenant said. “Tell my why an Irishman has been threatening my family. Tell me what is going on.”

“I can’t.”

He punched O’Neill in the face, the old boxing instincts returning. He didn’t just try to punch the face, he tried to punch
through
the face. O’Neill’s head snapped back and bounced off the wooden floors. When it came back up, Tenant caught it with a left cross.

Connor O’Neill, the powerful New Jersey state senator, screamed in pain. He yelled for Tenant, the lowly overnight longshoreman, to stop. He begged for mercy.

“Tell me what’s going on!” Tenant screamed. “My daughter almost died. My wife is gone. My life is falling apart because of what I saw. I need to know the truth!”

“I never wanted Maxwell Carter dead. He was a good friend of mine.”

“But he wasn’t supporting you anymore.”

“I know.”

“Why did he stop?”

“Willy Hackett.”

“Who?”

“This Irishman. I grew up with him in Newark. He’s crazy.”

Tenant didn’t even realize he’d grabbed O’Neill by the lapels and pulled him close to his face, listening to every detail of his words.

“Why did you have Maxwell killed?”

“I didn’t!”

“Did Hackett?”

“Please don’t make me say it!”

Tenant hit him again. And again. He was screaming at O’Neill to talk. To tell him more. But if O’Neill knew any more, he wasn’t talking. Even with a broken nose and bruises swelling in his cheeks, O’Neill kept the secrets close to the vest.