The Evil That Men Do (4 page)

He opened the back door of the car and crouched in front of Donne.

“I’m Detective Iapicca,” he said. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, and with all the oil in it, Donne was surprised the hand came back dry. Then he produced a badge.

“I’m Jackson Donne.” He couldn’t move his hands. They were cuffed behind him.

Iapicca nodded. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Donne told him the entire story. Did not leave a detail out. He had learned the hard way that lying will only get you in more trouble.

When Donne finished, Iapicca said, “You expect me to believe that?” “Well,” Donne said, choosing his words carefully, “it is what happened. And you told me to tell you ‘what happened.’”

“Let me ask you something. You know how many times I’ve interviewed witnesses?”

“No. I’ve never met you before.”

“Lots of times.”

“I see.”

“And, do you know how many times they’ve told me a ‘black guy’ did it?”

“No idea.”

“I don’t have the exact specifics, but I’d go with ninety percent.”

“You don’t keep stats?”

“Listen, all I’m saying is your story sounds a bit sketchy. Most of the time someone tells me it’s the black guy in gang colors, it turns out they’re lying. Gangs are not a problem in Rutherford, New Jersey.”

Donne took a deep breath. “This town is right in between Passaic, Paterson, and Newark. Three cities where gangs are extremely prevalent. And you’re telling me it’s impossible to have a gang member come in and shoot my aunt and uncle.”

“I’m saying it’s unlikely.”

The charcoal-suited cop came out of the front door. He was on a cell phone.

“Then what is likely?” Donne asked.

“You did it.”

Donne nodded. Time to shut up.

“But,” he continued, “the time for that accusation will come later. Right now there’s really no evidence.” He flipped a business card on Donne’s lap. “The rookie over there is going to uncuff you and you’ll be free to go. Call me if you think of anything else.”

He winked at Donne.

“Or,” Iapicca said, “if you just want to turn yourself in.”

That was the fucking shit,
Carlos thought, walking down the street. Cesar and James were ahead of him, laughing. Cut school and just steal shit. Best day ever. Just fucking around, havin’ fun.

“Yo, nigga,” James said, “you shoulda D-blocked that sign.”

Carlos thought about the neon Budweiser sign. That would look tight in his room, next to the Ludacris poster, but nah, he couldn’t carry it. And the police always drove by the bar. Throwing the rocks to break the window was bad enough.

“If five-oh shows up,” Cesar said, “just run. We get the hell out. They ain’t gonna catch us.”

“Nah, yo,” Carlos said, looking over his shoulder. “Five-oh come by, walk. They ain’t gonna arrest anyone who walkin’. We ain’t do nothing wrong then.”

Cesar started to laugh, but sure enough, they heard the sirens of a cop car. Carlos didn’t even flinch, just kept on walking. Cesar and James, though, they didn’t listen.

James took off first, looking like he did when he ran track at school, arms tight to the body, knees up high. Cesar flailed, arms all over the place. You could tell the panic just by the way he ran.

Carlos, though, did not hurry. Nothing bothered him. Especially not the cops.

Cesar and James were a good block and a half ahead when the car blew by Carlos. It screeched to a halt in front of his two friends. Carlos laughed and turned the corner. Walked down the street toward the river. Passaic River smelled like shit, but it was better than walking toward a cop car.

As he reached the bank of the river, he saw a big black Escalade pull off the curb back toward Route 3. Looked just like one of those cars on BET in the videos. He walked toward it, wondering if whoever was inside was somebody famous.

The Escalade was long gone by the time Carlos reached the spot where it had been parked. He looked down at the tracks in the street, like he’d spun the wheels out. He wanted to walk down closer, but man, he just got these Air Forces and he didn’t want them to get all muddy.

But something caught his eye reflecting in the light, down by the river. It was sticking out of the mud, stuck there like it had been tossed out the window. And he knew what it was.

He decided it was worth getting his shoes muddy to get a better look.

He reached down and pulled it out of the dirt to look at it.

So much better than a fucking neon beer sign.

Definitely a gun.

I SHOULD BE WITH MY SISTER.

Sitting in Parkway traffic, Donne pulled out his cell phone and called his job instead. He was supposed to be clocking in in an hour. There was no way he’d get there in time. And deep in his bones, he knew he wouldn’t be back there at all.

His boss, Rick Manning, picked up.

“I quit,” Donne said.

“What? What are you talking about? You’re supposed to be here.”

“I quit,” Donne said again. He thought about the check from Franklin Carter.

“You can’t quit.”

“I’m not coming in tonight. I have to take care of things. I won’t be in again.”

“Why not? What happened?”

Rick’s neck muscles were probably taut with anger. Donne didn’t hear what he said next. He hung up the phone.

I should be with my sister.

Two hours later, Donne was six beers deep at the Olde Towne Tavern. As Artie filled his pint glass with a seventh Bud, Donne’s mind spun through the list of dead that had surrounded his life. Their faces were blurry, as if they were faded into the distance and only the alcohol kept them around. He took the glass from Artie.

Donne didn’t want them to leave, either.

Artie watched him take a slug from the pint glass. Before Donne could put the glass to his lips again, Artie said, “All right, what’s the problem?”

“I quit my job,” Donne said.

Artie nodded.

“My mother has Alzheimer’s. She’s dying.”

He took a sip of beer. Artie said nothing.

“My brother-in-law’s restaurant blew up.”

Another sip. Still nothing.

“My aunt and uncle were murdered and the cop at the scene thinks I did it.”

Artie turned around and started to walk away from him. Donne finished off his beer and said, “Where are you going?”

He stopped at the taps, took two more pint glasses and filled them. Then he found the bottle of Jack and two shot glasses.

“We’re both going to have to drink.”

He put the glasses down and started pouring the Jack Daniel’s. He tried to keep his face straight, but when he made eye contact with Donne, he broke into a huge grin and started laughing.

“Man,” Artie said. “When the shit hits the fan for you, it really hits the fan.”

After today, his neck tense, the buzz of the alcohol swirling through him, he couldn’t help himself. Donne laughed too.

They did a shot, and toasted Donne’s aunt and uncle.

“So, what happens tomorrow?” he asked.

“I get back to work.”

“Thought you said you quit.”

Donne took a deep pull from the pint glass, draining half of it. The beer went down smooth. He was flying high. After the next beer, he wouldn’t feel anything until tomorrow morning.

“I have a new job,” he said. “I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.”

Franklin Carter needed to call his wife. He’d spent all day in the city, and his cell had been ringing nonstop. But he didn’t have time now. Special Agent Sam Draxton sat across the table from him. They were in the local Starbucks. Draxton was on his third cup. Carter bit into a black and white cookie.

“So,” Draxton said. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

Draxton took a sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving Carter.

“You and I both know this isn’t terrorism.”

The cookie suddenly tasted stale. He placed it on the napkin. “It isn’t?”

“No. Terrorists want casualties. They’re not going to blow up a restaurant at three in the morning. So, what’s going on here?”

“Why would I know?”

The coffee shop was empty. No one wanted to be in the area. Franklin Carter had never seen the streets this empty. The silence in the neighborhood was eerie.

Draxton’s cell phone rang. He answered and quickly said, “Yeah, you can tell ’em. And get the tunnels and bridges open.”

He closed the phone and said, “We know things we can’t let on. We know this isn’t Al Qaeda or any of those organizations. They would have taken credit. So now we have to interview suspects.”

“Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

Draxton spread his hands. “I’m saying you probably know something.”

“I don’t.”

Now the agent nodded. “I’m sure you don’t. Let me ask you something. Are there people out there who dislike you?”

“I’m sure there are people who aren’t happy with me. I’m sure someone didn’t like a dish that was served there. Customers are unhappy all the time.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“What would you like me to say? I haven’t a clue what’s going on. I’m fucking tired and I want to go home to see my wife.”

“Have you been in competition with any other restaurants?”

“There’s always competition.”

“Friendly?”

“Yes. When we opened, the Chicken Roost owners came down to eat at our restaurant. Brought a bottle of wine, spent a fortune, tipped our waitress great. But then they asked us to come eat there. I never went. We’ve been rivals ever since. But nothing like this would come of it.”

Carter shifted in his seat. The damned Starbucks stools were the least comfortable chairs he’d ever sat in. They should have gone for the couches. But Carter was pretty sure Draxton wanted them to sit in these seats for some reason.

“When can I go home?” Carter asked.

“We’ll get someone to drive you home now,” Draxton said. “Just one more question.”

“What’s that?”

“Do we have any reason to be worried about your Montclair restaurant?”

Carter shifted again. What should he tell them? There was every reason to be worried about it. But if he said yes, the feds would want to know
why
he was worried. And he couldn’t tell them that.

He took a deep breath.

“No,” he said. “There is absolutely no reason to be concerned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to let my wife know I’ll be home soon.”

HIS MOTHER WAS AWAKE WHEN DONNE VISITED
her the next morning. She was still lying in the bed, but her eyes were focused as she took him in. Her mouth opened to speak, and he braced himself.

“Jackson?” she said with a hoarse voice.

He reached over to a cup of water and helped her sip some.

“Yeah, Mom. It’s me.” Today she didn’t think he was her father. Progress.

“I want to go home,” she said, her voice loosening up a little. Donne wondered when she last spoke. Was it yesterday when he was visiting?

“I know,” he said. “Maybe soon.”

“Thank you. I miss my house.”

She sipped some more water.

Outside the room, Donne could hear a woman screaming. She wanted to go home too. She just announced it more forcefully.

“I miss you too, Jackson,” she said.

Donne didn’t know how much time he had before his mother’s focus faded into oblivion. He wanted her to know what happened. But it could completely mess her up, set her back.

She put her hand in his.

His mother should know. She was still human, she was still alive. She should know about her own brother.

“Mom, I have some bad news.”

His mother didn’t speak. She blinked.

“Aunt Faye and Uncle George died yesterday. Someone shot them.”

Outside the screaming woman stopped. In the hallway, the only sounds were the beeping of medical machines. His mother leaned back in the bed and shut her eyes. Donne wondered if she understood.

“Daddy,” she said.

He squeezed her hand, sure he’d lost her focus. The news was too much for her to handle. He had sent her back into the abyss that her life had been swimming in. A small tear trickled from the corner of her left eye. She returned the squeeze.

“This is all your fault, Daddy,” she said.

“What?” he asked. “Mom, what did you say?”

Behind him one of the nurses entered. She wore blue coveralls and held a clipboard in her hand. She gave him a brief smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s time for her medication. You’ll have to step outside.”

“Is the medicine going to put her to sleep?”

The nurse didn’t expect such a question and glared at the clipboard, as if consulting her notes.

“She normally sleeps after she takes it, yes.”

“You can’t give it to her now. I need to talk with her some more.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but this is the scheduled time. We can’t mess up the schedule. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She stepped past him and put his mother’s hand back on the bed. “Hi, Isabelle. How are we doing today?” she asked with a saccharine voice.

As he left the room, his mother’s words echoed in his head.

This is all your fault, Daddy.

Donne’s sister’s home was on Upper Mountain Road, a sprawling brick home with a long driveway hidden behind a gate and two large bushes. He parked on the street and walked across the front lawn, hurrying to avoid as much rain as possible.

Susan answered in pajama pants and a Montclair State University T-shirt. Her hair was out of place, there were dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were ruddy. He could tell she’d been crying.

“Oh, Jackson,” she said, and wrapped him up in her arms. They stood on the porch in the rain, hugging. Donne couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged his sister. For a moment, the past melted away and they were just two people in mourning.

When Susan broke the embrace, the dampness of her tears streaked down both their faces.

“Come inside,” she said.

Donne followed her into the living room, which had two leather couches, a black leather easy chair, a glass table, wall-to-wall shag carpet, and what had to be a fifty-inch flat-screen TV. The TV was turned to the news.