The Evil That Men Do (5 page)

“The restaurant business has treated you guys well, I see,” he said. “We do okay.” Susan didn’t make eye contact.

He sat on the couch and ran his hand through his wet hair to push it out of his eyes. Outside, thunder crashed.

“They just said on the news the explosion wasn’t terrorism, but it was a bomb,” Susan said.

“What did Franklin say?”

“I haven’t talked to him. He came home after I fell asleep last night and just kissed me on the cheek. Didn’t say anything. He left before I woke up.”

“Where was he going?”

“I don’t know,” Susan said. “Oh my God, Jackson. Between this and Faye and George… and Mom. How are we going to deal with this?”

He didn’t answer right away. The old grudge still throbbed inside him.

“We?”

“The family. You, me, Franklin? Maybe we should try and get in touch with Faye and George’s son.”

“Their son? Susan, that was a long time ago. An adoption. You know it didn’t work out.”

“Still, he should know.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“No.”

“Well, I don’t have time now.
I’m
going to find out what’s going on. I need to talk to Franklin. And soon.”

“Call him.”

“You’re going to have to give me his number.”

She did. Donne saved it to his contacts list.

“What about the Montclair restaurant?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are the police concerned about it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Like I said, I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to Franklin. All the information I’ve gotten came from the news reports. And they’re all focused on New York. I know they opened the bridges and tunnels late last night. That’s it.”

She paced the living room with balled fists. It was as if she was attempting to puncture holes in her palms with her nails.

“You have to sit,” he said. “Pacing like that isn’t going to help. You need to try to go about life, and relax. If you keep worrying, it’s just going to make time go slower. And the worry is going to build up until you burst.”

“How did you deal with it? When Jeanne died? When you shot that guy in New Brunswick?” she said. “You sank into the bottle, that’s how. I’m sorry, Jackson, that’s not going to be me.”

It was only then he realized how much he wanted a drink. How he would rather be sitting in the Olde Towne Tavern talking to Artie about the Yankees or Mets. Pint glass after pint glass.

“You know it’s true,” she said.

He stood up.

“I’ll call you later,” he said. “I have work to do.”

As if she regretted her outburst, Susan said, “Be careful.”

“I will.”

He stepped out into the thunderstorm. It looked like this weather wouldn’t ever let up.

Franklin Carter took an early break from Carter’s on Church Street. The waitresses were setting up for lunch, the finances were in order, and his hostess kept asking annoying questions about the bombing. So, instead of politely not answering her questions, he decided to ignore her totally and go for coffee.

He ordered a coffee and sat facing the street. As far as he could tell, no one from the FBI was staked out near Carter’s. He exhaled and took a sip of coffee as the door swung open and a burly man entered.

The man, ruddy faced, with freckles and red hair, sat across from him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Carter asked.

Hackett laughed. “I have a message for you.”

Franklin leaned across the table and his chest tapped his coffee cup. He caught it before it spilled everywhere, but some of the brown liquid splashed onto the tabletop. There went any shot of being intimidating.

“You look nervous, Franklin. Stressed. Is everything okay?”

Carter said nothing.

“Oh, that’s right, I’ve been watching the news. The bombing.” Hackett leaned back. He had a pale smooth face, clean shaven. “That’s gotta suck.”

“It was you.”

“Pay up. I asked you for money months ago. You didn’t listen. Next time, the restaurant might not be empty.”

Hackett stood up, straightened the collar of his polo shirt, and exited back into the rain. Carter put his head in his hands and tried to breathe deeply.

There was no way he was going to pay.

“They’re dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Maybe now you should find out what happened to the witness. What did he look like?”

Delshawn described him. Jackson Donne, a bit earlier than expected.

“You want him out of the picture?”

Hackett let the question linger a moment.

“No. It’s not time for that yet.” Hackett chose his words carefully. “Just slow him down a bit.”

“A’ight.”

Hackett snapped his cell phone shut.

DONNE’S NEXT STOP WAS ONLY A MILE AWAY. HE
took Upper Mountain Road to Bloomfield, where you had to pay a meter. He parked, paid, and walked around the corner.

Along Church and Bloomfield, Montclair was an integration of all three parts of the city’s population. It seemed to Donne that the poor made their way south toward the discount shoe stores and fast-food restaurants. The college kids worked their way along the old record shop and toward sushi restaurants. And the wealthy members of the population checked out antique shops and Carter’s. Even in the pouring rain.

The town struck him as less segregated than New Brunswick, where the rich hung out in the restaurant and theater districts, the poor stayed north of the theaters, and the students kept mostly on campus. Montclair seemed integrated and more modern. Or maybe he was just cynical about his own city.

He stepped under the purple canopy of Carter’s, its name written along the sides in script, and knocked on the glass door. They wouldn’t open for lunch for another ten minutes, but he hoped Franklin was there.

Instead, a short blonde who didn’t look a day over twenty pushed the door open. She wore a white button-down shirt, black dress pants, and a name tag that read “Kate.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t open until noon.”

Donne checked his watch. “Well, it’s almost noon, Kate.”

Hearing her name threw her off for a second, but she put on a great condescending smile and said, “Almost isn’t noon. I’m sorry, sir.”

Kate started to close the door, but he put his hand in and pulled it from her hand. The condescending smile set him off.

“Hey,” she said. “You can’t do that.”

“I’m looking for Franklin Carter. Is he in?”

“No,” she said, trying — but failing — to pull the door closed. Donne now had his foot stuck between the door and the jamb. “He won’t be in until after noon.”

“Well,” he said, grabbing the door again. He pulled it wide open. “I guess I’ll just have to wait for him.”

“You can’t—” Kate said as Donne stepped past her into the restaurant. “Who the hell are you?”

“That’s not very professional.”

He walked toward the hostess table, noticing the dark maroon wallpaper with dark mahogany-trimmed walls. The tables in the middle of the restaurant were wooden as well, all set with paper napkins and silverware.

“I don’t care how professional it is. You can’t just come barging in here.”

Donne took a seat at one of the tables. Not very comfortable. The wooden back of the chair was solid and straight. He couldn’t settle into it. They probably wanted the customers uncomfortable so as to move them in and out quickly when the place was busy.

“I’m working for Mr. Carter,” Donne said. Then he gave her his best condescending smile. “And I’m his brother-in-law.”

He was pretty sure someone put the air-conditioning on at that moment. Kate’s stare could have frozen fire.

“Oh,” she said. “You.”

“Yep, me. Do you think I could get lunch?” He glanced at his watch again. “It is noon now.”

Kate’s face flushed. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Beer?”

“We don’t have a liquor license. Most of Montclair is bring your own.”

“I see. I’ll just take an iced tea, then.”

“Very well,” Kate said. “Your waitress will be right with you.”

“You’re not my waitress?”

“I’m just the hostess, sir.”

“That’s a shame.”

She disappeared through a curtain into the kitchen. Through the front window he watched the rain splatter and traffic pass. A few people with umbrellas stopped and checked the menu, then moved on.

A tall brunette, dressed the same as Kate but with a name tag that read “Lauren,” put a glass of iced tea in front of him and asked if he was ready to order. He told her he’d have a steak sandwich. She gave him a more genuine smile than Kate had and also disappeared into the kitchen.

Framed on the walls were news reviews of Carter’s, autographed pictures of a few B-list celebrities who’d frequented the place, and one picture of Franklin Carter standing around a bunch of waitresses posed as if it were a family portrait. He looked happy as hell. Donne had never seen him that way.

“Hey, Lauren,” he called.

She poked her head out through the kitchen door.

“Yeah?”

“Has Franklin been in today at all?”

She walked over to his table, leaned over, and spoke in a whisper. “He was here this morning but left to grab some coffee when
somebody
annoyed him.” She crooked her head back to the kitchen as she spoke.

He couldn’t imagine Kate annoying anyone.

“He’ll be back soon, I’m sure,” Lauren said. “Your food will be right out.”

“Thanks.”

She started back toward the kitchen, but he stopped her.

“So,” he said. “What’s the buzz on what happened in New York?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Come on,” he said. “I’m sure Kate told you that I’m working for Franklin. That I’m kind of a detective. How am I going to figure anything out if I don’t ask and you don’t tell?”

“Kate said you were working for Franklin’s wife. Something about her mother.”

Jeez, word got around quick. He wondered what other gossip Franklin had let drop in the past two days.

“Well, you never know what might be related,” he said.

“I honestly don’t know anything except what’s been said on the news.”

“Has Franklin been acting strange lately?”

“Nothing more than usual. A few arguments with Kate, but that happens all the time when you have co-owners. There’s always restaurant drama. I hate this place.”

“Well, listen, if you hear anything, give me a call. I like drama.” Donne dropped his old business card on the table. Other than the location of his now-defunct office, the information was up to date.

She picked it up and said, “Let me get your sandwich.”

The front door opened and Carter stepped inside. He was soaking wet and looked pale. He made eye contact with Donne. Donne didn’t think it was possible, but Carter went even more white.

“Hi, Franklin,” Donne said. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“More talk is the last thing I need,” he said.

Carlos took the gun down to the alleyway across the street from Rutt’s. Now that the rain had stopped, he could finally get outside to try the thing. The cars from Route 3 would be loud enough to cover the sounds of the gun, he thought. He wanted to fire it in the alleyway, just to see what it was like. That would be so fucking gansta.

He stood like they did in the movies. The bad guys, not the cops, relaxed with the gun held sideways, and leanin’ back like Fat Joe in that video. He pulled the trigger and the thing went off. It sounded like thunder, and his ears were ringing. The recoil from the gun knocked him on his ass. He didn’t expect that.

It was fucking cool, though. Too bad school was out.

“What the hell was that?” he heard someone yell.

Shit. Route 3 was nowhere near as loud as he needed it to be.

He shoved the gun into the waistband of his jeans and ran up Delawanna.

FRANKLIN CARTER RUBBED HIS FACE IN HIS HANDS.
He sat across from Donne and refused to make eye contact. Droplets of water soaked into his shirt at the shoulders, and his hair was matted down from the rain.

He took a deep breath, bit his lip, and said, “I thought you were dealing with your mother. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

“I want to know what happened in the city.”

“What’s there to know? A truck pulled up and blew up. Now there’s nothing. But no one got hurt. That’s what happened.”

“Who did it?”

He finally met Donne’s eyes. But Carter looked at Donne like Donne was an idiot. “Terrorists? Someone deranged? I don’t know.”

Lauren came out of the kitchen with the steak sandwich and placed it, a bottle of ketchup, and a glass of iced tea in front of Donne. He took a sip of the tea.

“The FBI said it’s not terrorists. And it seems very interesting that someone ‘deranged’ picked your restaurant to blow up. At three in the morning. When no one could get hurt.”

“Deranged people are called deranged for a reason.”

Donne took a bite of the steak sandwich. Better off taking his time and letting Carter sweat. He appeared shaken up and angry. That wasn’t like the Carter he knew. Then again, his restaurant had just been bombed. That had to be hard to take.

Donne said, “It just seems like a huge coincidence that your restaurant blows up and two of my relatives are murdered.”

“Susan told me they were dead. Nothing else. She was too upset. What happened?”

Donne told him the story, and Carter noticed the bruise on Donne’s head from the gun. As Donne finished the story, Carter buried his head in his hands.

“Can you leave, please?” he asked.

“I’d like to finish my sand—”

“Get out!”

Donne put the sandwich down, fixing the silverware into the perfect place setting. He took a twenty out of his wallet and left it on the table. Carter said nothing during the process. Donne stood up and left the restaurant.

Outside the rain had stopped, and he walked to his car slowly. There was no hurry. He wanted to mull over what had just happened.

It could be that Carter was just having a bad day. At the same time, Donne’s instinct was telling him otherwise. Carter knew something. He knew why people were dying. And though they hadn’t spoken much, Donne remembered that Carter had been the rock for his sister at tough times. When Donne had gone into rehab. When Jeanne died.