Authors: Dave White
“Yo, just the word on the street. This teacher thing is bad news. You got some powerful people mad at you.”
“Burgess?”
“You know him? Big-time man, I compete with him and he’s got me beat.”
“He deals drugs?”
“More like supplies them. He’s like a distributor or some shit, I don’t know. He got dealers on the streets, gives them shit to sell.”
“But how do you know about the teacher?”
“Shit, she was a dealer, yo! Sub teachin’. Dealin’.”
“What are you saying? I’m not following here.”
Maybe it was the headache and the way the words spilled from Jesus’s mouth quicker than I could drive. I felt like I was missing something that I’d normally pick up easily. It was frustrating, and I could feel my body grow tense again. I wanted to punch something.
“The sub teacher, she was on Michael Burgess’s payroll. And now she’s dead.”
“That’s Burgess’s first name? Michael?”
Something was ringing at the back of my neck. I thought of the thugs who came to my office. I thought of the five thousand dollars I’d been spending.
“Yeah, yo. Where you been? When you were a cop, you knew all this shit.”
“I’m not a cop anymore.”
“You got to talk to me more often.” Jesus smiled like he had all the secrets of the world in his head.
“Tell me more about Burgess.”
“Whachu want to know, son?”
“Who is he? Where does he live? Can I contact him?”
“I don’t know where he lives. Shit, he’s tough to talk to. Fuckin’ need to go through like three, four different people to even get him to notice.”
“You’ve met him before?”
“Shit,” Jesus said, acted like he was thinking. “Once. Couple of years ago. He wanted to do a deal. Bring me in with him.”
I rubbed my eyes. My headache still registered on the Richter scale. “Did you work with him?”
“Nah, yo. That would have pissed off the guys who get my stuff. But you never know who could work with him. Maybe people you don’t even suspect.”
I nodded, wondering who he was talking about. I thought of all the items in Gerry’s cabinets.
“Do you think you could get in touch with Burgess now?”
“Shit, I could try. Why?”
“When I call, I get hung up on.”
“He knows who you are. Probably not gonna hang up now.”
“You’re right. But I’m trying to show him a little respect.”
Jesus shrugged.
“You know, more polite. Willing to listen.”
“A’ight, a’ight. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
“Be careful, yo.”
I smiled. “You know anything about the sub?”
“Just that she dead and that she dealt.”
“You don’t know where she subbed?”
“No.”
“Okay. Thanks, Jesus.”
He looked at his watch. “I gotta get the hell outta here. Duty calls.”
My head hurt too much to ask him again why he came. We didn’t know each other well enough for him to help me out. He was Martin’s boy. Martin had to have something to do with it.
He left me there, my apartment quiet and dark.
I took another shower. The smell of last night’s alcohol still hung in my nose, and I was going to do all I could to get it out. It wasn’t easy. I was in the shower for a good ten minutes. When I got out, the smell had faded along with the bar of soap I used. I debated shoving the bar up my nose. Common sense prevailed.
I got dressed and gave Tracy a call. She didn’t pick up. It was still early and she was probably still asleep. I left a message on her voice mail and dialed Henry Steir at the Star-Ledger. He picked up on the third ring.
“Got a story for me?”
“No, got a question, though.”
There was a pause, like he’d taken the phone away from his face. Then, “What’s up?”
“Where does Diane Peterson sub teach?”
“Why?”
“Because you said she was a—what was it? You said she was a nobody girl. Nobody knew her, no one talked to her.”
“Yeah. And?”
“If she substitute taught, maybe the principal knew her. Maybe some teachers. I want to get a feel for her.”
“You trying to solve this murder?”
“No.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not.”
“Taft High School in Madison.”
“Madison? Isn’t that a rich town?”
“Very much. Why do you care about that?”
I could hear car horns and other people talking. He was probably still camped outside Jen Hanover’s door. She hadn’t called me since yesterday morning, so I was assuming everything was okay. Still, I thought I should probably call her, find out if she knew how Rex was able to find me.
“Because,” I said, “I figured you’d say a Newark or Paterson school. You know, the ghettos.”
“Ah.” I could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Very PC of you, Jackson. What else do you need to know?”
He was trying to get some bits and pieces to craft into an article. I wasn’t going to give it to him.
“Thanks, Henry,” I said, and hung up.
I dialed information and got the number for Taft High. I talked to the secretary and told her I needed to set up an appointment with the principal. When she asked what it was regarding, I explained I was an investigator looking for information on Diane Peterson.
“The police were here already,” she said. Her voice was syrupy. “Just a follow-up, ma’am,” I said.
“Dr. Halberg will be in this afternoon. Is one o’clock good for you?”
Bill Martin’s cell phone rang. He stood in the middle of the convenience store trying to ignore the smell of rotten pears.
“Yo, I just got back from Jackson’s place. Tol’ him what you want me to,” Jesus said, some words broken by a weak signal.
The Chinese guy stood behind the register counting money again. The coffee on the counter was cold. As he spoke on the phone, Martin stared at the register trying to signal the guy to make more.
No reaction. Fucking rocket scientists at work here.
“How’d he react?”
“He was askin’ all about that sub teacher who got killed last week. But I planted the seed like you say. I could tell it clicked with him.”
“Good,” Martin said, and turned his phone off.
He strolled to the back room, and the scene was exactly the same as last time. Michael Burgess sat, relaxed. The big man leaned against the wall, tough looking. Josh and Maurice were nowhere to be seen.
“Detective Martin, forgive me if I don’t quite trust you, but I’d rather you didn’t use your phone in my store.”
Martin grinned. “I thought this was a legitimate business.”
Just by admitting the man was uncomfortable with a police officer present showed Martin there was more trust than last time. Burgess was willing to admit some semblance of illegal activity.
“Yes, well, please heed my requests.” Martin shrugged. Whatever.
“Now, Detective, the reason I asked you here again is so I can make the first request in our partnership.”
Christ, Martin thought. How the hell did this guy become a drug lord and not a CEO? The only thing missing were finger quotes when he said partnership.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’d like my business on this block to be run hassle free.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“No police should be on this block when I’m trying to do business. No patrol cops, no detectives, nothing. I shouldn’t have to worry.”
Martin felt the beginnings of a stomach cramp. Maybe this was how he was sucked in the last time. One block at a time.
“And how do you expect me to do that?”
Burgess spread his hands. The big man hardly flinched. “That’s why it’s your job.”
“I’m not sure I have enough power to do that. It’s going to take some time to get that to work.”
“Just do it.”
Bill Martin could work this. He could drag it out until he wasn’t involved with this shithead anymore. By the time Burgess expected results, Martin would have taken him down. And Donne, too. And then he’d be a fucking superstar on the force.
He’d have reached his dream.
“Well, Detective, I have an appointment to keep, but before you leave . . .”
Martin arched his eyebrows to show he was listening.
“I asked around about that man who died the other day. The case you were looking into?”
“What case?” Martin asked.
“Gerry Figuroa.” Burgess frowned. “There’s nothing on the street about him. No word.”
“Oh,” Martin said, “yeah. Thanks.”
Gerry Figuroa. Martin had forgotten about him. Just some old man, dead in a hit-and-run. No one cared about old men.
Ruining Jackson Donne was important.
Taking down Michael Burgess from the inside, that was important.
And, if he could swing it, killing both birds with one stone would just be icing on the cake.
I found an open visitor’s spot in the expansive lot for Taft High. The building was three stories high and inclined up a hill. Tan bricks surrounded blue metal frames outlining the windows.
Walking toward the front door, I noticed a sign welcoming visitors and noting the mascot was a general. A janitor mopped the tiled floor, a plastic gray trash can on wheels next to him. He whistled to himself and didn’t acknowledge me. The main office was across the hall from the lobby. I could see through the wired window a secretary typing on the computer while holding the phone between her shoulder and chin. I walked in and she held up her hand toward me, asking me to wait a minute.
I did, looking at a bulletin board advertising the April break and the prom that would take place at the end of the month.
Behind me, I heard, “May I help you, sir?”
I turned. The secretary had black-framed glasses, a red sweater, and a sweet condescending smile. I returned it.
“Jackson Donne. I called earlier?”
She looked around her desk, which seemed to be a ton of unorganized papers. Sifting through a few, she found a small pink Post-it. “Yes. You’re right on time,” she said. She was a professional, and ignored my bruises.
I smiled, making sure it was dripping with sweetness. “Let me buzz Dr. Halberg.”
She picked up the phone again and said something I couldn’t make out. Then nodded. I continued to smile, hands in my pockets, rocking back and forth on my heels like Carson.
“Okay, sir. You can go in.” She motioned to her left, a thick wooden door, open, leading to an office. I wondered if I could still get myself suspended.
Inside, a middle-aged man in a three-piece pin-striped suit stood smiling at me. Graying hair, crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, gold wedding band, and dirt
under his fingernails. I wondered if the only thing the janitors did in the school was mop. This guy was probably a workaholic. Over his shoulder were diplomas from William Paterson University, Rutgers University, and a SUNY college. I couldn’t read which one. The lighting was bad.
“Mr. Donne.” He held out his hand. I took it and we shook. “Do you mind if I ask for some identification?”
I took out my wallet and showed him my private investigator license. I liked that he and his secretary were more interested in who I was, and not why I looked like I just lost a boxing match. He examined it. He looked at me. Looked back at my wallet. Looked at me again. “I was under the impression you were a policeman.”
“I was at one point.” I tried the same smile I’d given the secretary. “I told your assistant on the phone that I was an investigator.”
“And she took it to mean you were an investigator for the police.”
I shrugged.
“Very clever. Why are you here?”
His desk was a lot neater than his secretary’s. You could see the wooden finish. There was a computer resting on the corner—its screen saver running—two framed pictures, a telephone, and a small calendar.
“I’m working a case and Ms. Peterson’s name came up. I did a little research and saw what happened on the news. I would like to know more about her. See how she related to my client.”
“I see.” He handed back my wallet. Went back to his desk and sat. Held out his right hand, offering me a chair on the other side.
I took it.
“Well, Mr. Donne, why should I talk to you?”
“Because of my undying urge to fight for truth, justice, and the American way?”
He smiled. “Christ. You’re worse than the kids.”
I shrugged. “I walked in here and got nothing but an attitude. If I was a real cop, I would have arrested your secretary.”
He leaned back in his chair. “On what charge?”
“Annoying me with a condescending smile,” I said. “Listen, I just want to ask you a few questions, get a feel for who Ms. Peterson was, take my ball, and go home. Maybe bring my client some good information.”