Authors: Dave White
“No,” she said, smiling. “Didn’t you?”
I shook my head. “Tell me about Gerry.”
“I told you, I don’t know anything.”
“Tell me about when he was in Korea or when he was acting. Or about when you left him.”
We were dancing, verbally. Neither of us wanted to give away a weakness. I didn’t want to tell her too much, because she might cover up what I wanted to know, using clues from my questions. She didn’t want to tell me anything because she was suspicious of me. That led me to believe she knew things. Important things.
So we kept dancing.
“You know a lot about Gerry’s past already,” she said. “Not enough.”
“I haven’t seen him in years. At least twenty. What do you want me to say?”
“Just tell me what you do know.”
“That’s very broad, isn’t it?”
“Okay. Why did you leave Gerry?”
“Because he was a terrible father.”
“You left your son with him.”
“Maybe I wasn’t the best mother, either.”
“You weren’t there when your son died. You weren’t at the funeral.”
“How the hell do you know where I was?”
“I was at the funeral. I didn’t see you.”
She smiled, mirthless. “You didn’t see me because I didn’t want anyone to see me.”
“Why so secretive?”
“Because I didn’t want Gerry looking for me.”
And Gerry had obviously gotten that message long before he’d met me. He never mentioned Anne. Never said anything. If he’d wanted to find her by the time he’d met me, he’d have asked me to look for her.
We sat silently for a moment. I formulated my next question; she looked at an ashtray on her coffee table. It was the only item on the table.
“Gerry was an addict,” she said.
“Drugs?” I asked, surprised she’d volunteered anything.
“Not exactly. I mean he smoked weed, but he was an addict. Anything he did he was addicted to it. The army? He didn’t even come home on leave. Acting, at every rehearsal, staying late. Never sitting out, even a matinee. Anything he worked at, he went all the way.” She shook her head.
“Is that why you left him?”
She wiped her mouth. Then she picked up the ashtray and looked at the bottom of it. The ashtray didn’t look used and the room definitely didn’t smell like smoke.
“He never saw our kid . . .” She wiped again, as if trying to catch the words. “Our son. Gerry never saw him. We argued about it all the time, and eventually Gerry got violent. So I left. I wasn’t a good mother, I wasn’t thinking straight. I left him with our son, so he had no choice but to spend time with him. It seemed right at the time. Now I know it was wrong.”
I didn’t want to touch that. Sometimes I hated asking questions; you got answers you didn’t want. I wanted to know about Gerry’s background in drugs. I wanted her to say she left Gerry because he was making crystal meth to support their family.
I should have asked outright. Instead, I said, “Is that why you said you were a bad mother? Because you abandoned your child?”
Anne slammed her hand down on the tabletop, palm flat. “I did not abandon my children.”
“Children?”
She paled. “Child. I did not abandon Steve.”
Her hands shook, and I took it as a sign of nervousness and not age. Now was the time to ask, throw the change-up. Catch her off guard.
“How did you and Gerry do on money?”
“We were fine.” Her voice was cold and stiff. “Acting paid well?”
“Why?”
“Because when I knew him, Gerry didn’t have too much money. He kept his head above water, but he didn’t have to support anyone then. At least until Steve got cancer.”
“We were fine.”
“Did Gerry have to work two jobs?”
She eyed me again. “What are you getting at?”
Time to lay it out on the table. “You said he was an addict. I want to know if that involved drugs.”
“He smoked weed.”
“That’s it?”
She looked at me and didn’t say anything. Her eyes were a pale blue, like a clear sea. Besides the nail polish, she wasn’t wearing any makeup.
“I feel like you’re trying to lead me somewhere,” she said, “but I have no idea where. Why don’t you just come out and say it?”
“How deep into drugs was he?”
“He wasn’t a person likely to end up in rehab, if that’s what you’re saying. We smoked weed on the weekends, that’s all.”
“Did Gerry sell drugs?”
“What?”
“When you knew Gerry, did he know how to make drugs? Did he sell drugs to help your family make money?”
Anne didn’t look surprised, and she didn’t look away either. Her gaze held mine, didn’t even flinch.
“No.”
But she did answer too quickly. And she didn’t ask what I was talking about. There was no surprise in her answer.
“Did Gerry know how to make drugs?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you, Ms. Backes.”
“I don’t care.”
I wasn’t going to get any farther with her. Taking one last glance around the room, looking for any sort of visual clue, I stood and shook her hand.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Backes.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
We walked to the door together. She smiled. “I hope I never have to see you again.” At least she said it as sweetly as possible.
I stepped out into the spring air. She started to close the door. Quickly I turned back.
“One more thing, Ms.”
“I don’t watch Columbo.” She held the door, and I noticed dark scars on her forearms.
I smiled. “Neither do I. But I do watch the news. And read magazines. I remember seeing a story on the History Channel. Something about soldiers in Vietnam learning how to make drugs and smuggling them in canteens.”
Anne squinted. “Your point?”
“Ah,” I said. “I think you know. I’m just curious if the same thing could have happened in Korea.”
“I have no idea,” she said. Closed the door.
I had other questions. Like why—after leaving him and going through a ton of trouble to hide from Gerry—was she protecting him now?
I unlocked my car, figuring those questions would have to be answered later.
Bill Martin sat in his office. Burgess had come up with the perfect plan. Martin didn’t care whom it involved.
All that mattered was that Donne would soon be dead.
I was driving south on 287, about ten miles from New Brunswick, when my cell phone rang. “Oh, thank God you picked up,” Tracy said. “What’s the matter?”
“Can you get to Asbury?”
“When did you go back? I’m like an hour out.”
Brake lights were flashing, the first signs of Sunday night traffic clogging up the highway. If that kept up, I’d be more than an hour out. Anyway, I didn’t even know what she wanted. No need to say anything more about New Jersey traffic.
“Pablo was here.”
“Rex?” Somehow I still couldn’t bring myself to call him Pablo. “What happened?”
“I—well, I came home to see my boyfriend.” The words stung more than I expected.
“And well, Pablo came by, just to see if anyone had been asking about him. My boyfriend said to tell Pablo about you. Pablo flipped, he hit me. He took Jesus.”
“Took him?”
Her voice cracked, broke, and she spoke through sobs. “He punched me. He took Jesus. He said—oh my God. It doesn’t make any sense.”
But it was starting to click for me. “Your boyfriend’s name is Jesus?”
There was a pause on the other end. Then, “Yeah. Why?”
“Jesus what?”
“Sanchez.” She was still sobbing, but the breaths were coming farther apart. More like she was scared and confused. I thought about her saying she needed to get away from drugs.
Fuck. Why did Rex take Jesus? Still, I wanted to be sure. New Jersey has a high Hispanic population, and there were probably several Jesus Sanchezes around.
“What does Jesus do for a living?” I asked. “I don’t need to answer that.”
“He’s a drug dealer, isn’t he?”
Traffic slowed to a crawl. I wanted to lean on my horn. I wanted to drive in the shoulder. I wanted to scream. Natural feelings for most drivers in traffic now pushed to a fever pitch.
“Can’t you help me?”
“Call the police.”
“You know what he does. You just said it. The cops aren’t going to help.”
I thought about facing Rex again. I thought about facing Burgess again, the beating I took the last time. The fact that I had no idea where they were. I wasn’t a PI anymore. I was only helping out a friend. But I couldn’t resist Tracy.
“I’m on my way,” I said. “But traffic’s bad. I’ll get there when I can.”
There were pieces of the events of the past few days lying strewn around my brain, and they were starting to find their connectors. From what Martin said, from what Jesus had said, from what Blanchett and Daniels had shown me, it was all there. And now it was starting to come together.
***
Most of the homes in Asbury Park were falling apart. Paint chipping, long grass, broken fences. Like a line of Anne Backes’s house. I pulled in front of a burnt orange home, Tracy Boland sitting on her stoop watching cars pass. She didn’t wave when she saw me. She hardly flinched.
Rounding my car, I could see that her front door was knocked off its hinges, leaning against the wall haphazardly. I couldn’t see through the frame, couldn’t see how much of the house was destroyed, but Tracy had lied to me. Rex Hanover didn’t come here nicely, make idle chatter, and flip out at the mention of my name. Things went bad from the start.
Tracy walked toward me, keeping me away from the house. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face flushed.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded. Her eyes were red and her nose ran a bit. Her face looked a bit sallow. The changes were subtle, but I noticed them. Years of experience.
“You still do a little coke?” I asked. “Please,” she said. “This is hard. It’s scary.” Now wasn’t the time for a lecture.
I took her by the shoulders and looked her dead in the eye. “Tell me what happened.”
“I told you—”
“No,” I said. “Not that bullshit. What really happened.” She brushed at her hair.
“Pablo. He wanted to talk to me, but he was scary. Banging on the door. Asking if Jesus was there. I told Jesus to stay quiet. I said why do you want to talk to him? No answer, just wanting to come in. I was scared. Jesus said to go away. Pablo, he knocked the door down.”
She was crying again and fell into my arms. I held her for a while. “Please,” she whispered between sobs. “Please help me.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“You’re looking for Pablo, find Jesus. Save him. Help me by saving him.”
I held her still, tighter. I thought about the consequences of getting further involved. In too far, if I ran into Martin I was screwed. That was a risk already. “Let’s go inside. Get you a glass of water. So you can calm down.”
I found the kitchen and poured a glass of water. The room hadn’t been disturbed by Pablo or Jesus or Tracy.
Back in the living room, Tracy sipped at the water, clutching the glass with two hands. Unlike earlier in the afternoon at Anne Backes’s, there were pictures all over Tracy’s room. Tracy playing saxophone at a jazz club. Tracy with some other sax player. Tracy and Jesus at Liberty State Park. Funny, I never placed Jesus as a date kind of guy.
“How long ago were they here?” I asked.
Hands shaking, she checked her watch. “Two hours? I don’t know exactly.” She wiped her face. Took another sip of water. “Shit. I’m not helping. I’m not.”
“Okay. Relax,” I said. “Let’s take this slow. I need you to think.”
“I can’t right now. Oh my God. They took him.”
She was shaking harder now, and I could tell the enormity of the situation was beginning to sink in. It was beginning to sink in with me as well. Why would Burgess kill Diane and only kidnap Jesus? Something didn’t jibe.
Tracy’s cell phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the caller ID display. “Pablo,” she said.
“He’s calling you from his own number?”
“Yeah.”
I closed my eyes, thought for a moment. “Answer it. Don’t let him know I’m here.”
Her eyes filled but she didn’t cry. The phone kept ringing. If she didn’t pick it up soon, the voice mail would. Tracy took a deep breath. Hit a button.
“Pablo?” she said. Pause.
“No, no, I—” She stopped. “I’m listening.”
I couldn’t hear Pablo, if that’s who it was. Tracy hadn’t taken her eyes off me.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
She put her hand on her head.
“What do you expect me to do?” she said. Still she stared at me. Her eyes grew wider.