Authors: Dave White
Martin took the paper, lit another cigarette, and looked over the names. It was the third name that jumped out at him as if it’d been outlined in neon. It was a name he hadn’t uttered in years, but thought about every day. Memories clouded his thought process. He barely remembered the hit-and-run.
All he saw was the name that nearly ended his career. And he knew which witness he’d be speaking with first.
Jackson Donne.
By the time I got back to my office, after being interviewed by three different patrolmen, a dull throb radiated behind my eyes. I sat behind my desk massaging my temples, eyes closed. I called Lester Russell. I used my office line to call his cell, got his voice mail. I left a message for him to call me back.
There was a knock at my office door. Probably Artie checking in. I splashed some water on my face, came back from the bathroom, and opened the door. It wasn’t Artie.
It was a woman.
She looked at me between strands of brown hair that fell over her gunmetal eyes.
“You Jackson Donne?” She pronounced it “Doan.”
I corrected her and said, “That’s me. Can I help you?”
“I’d like to hire you.”
I stepped away from the doorjamb. Said, “Come on in.”
She walked past me, wearing a white New Jersey Devils T-shirt and jeans with a tear in the ass. She was wearing white underwear. She also had a wedding ring on her finger.
She took a seat in the chair set up for prospective clients, facing my desk. I circled around and joined her, crossing my hands on my desk, like a perfect student. Ready to listen.
“What can I help you with, ma’am?”
She pulled her long hair back into a ponytail. “Please, my mother’s a ma’am. Call me Jen.”
“Okay, Jen.” I returned the smile. Mine probably was a little more natural. “What can I do for you?”
She played with the ring on her finger. “I think my husband is cheating on me.”
“I see.”
She twisted the ring to the tip of her nail, pressed it back on. “He comes home late. He doesn’t call. He smells like alcohol and perfume.”
“How long have you been married?”
“About a year.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a bouncer.”
“Why do you think he’s cheating on you? To my knowledge, all bouncers smell that way and stay out late. It’s in the job description.”
She shook her head. “Don’t patronize me. It’s just something I feel. And I need to know.”
Time to give her the speech. “Jen, I’m sure it’s just that. A feeling. A lot of women come in here with the feeling, and I follow their husbands around for days and find nothing. Save your money. You don’t want to know anyway. It’ll just mess up your life.”
I don’t know why I decided to give her the speech. I needed the money. I could take the case on, follow her husband around at night, and still have time to dig into the Gerry thing. But this woman looked shell-shocked, and I didn’t want to screw her over.
She stared me straight in the eye. “You ever get a thought in your head and you couldn’t get it out? It just keeps gnawing at you? That’s what’s happening here. I have to know, no matter what the consequences. It’s been bothering me, in my head for the past few days. I can’t get it out. I’m losing sleep. I can talk to my husband, but I can’t just flat out ask him. I have the money. What do you care? Why won’t you just allow me to hire you?”
“Because I don’t like seeing people get hurt.”
“I appreciate that you have a heart. But I want to do this. I’m a grown woman.”
I opened the desk drawer. Pulled out a contract. “You’ve convinced me.”
“So,” she said, “how do we do this?”
“Well, first things first, Jen. I need to know your full name, your husband’s full name, where he works. A place I can catch him to tail him, that sort of thing.”
“My name is Jen Hanover. My husband’s name is Rex, same last name. I have a picture.”
“That’ll help,” I said, writing the information down.
She went into her purse and dug out a wallet-sized photo. Handed it across the desk to me. I took it, gave it a once-over.
Rex Hanover was a thickset guy, wearing a tight black T-shirt with a logo in script writing over a breast pocket. His arms bulged in the sleeves, and he wore black jeans. Looked like a bouncer, close-cut hair, strong cheek bones. Tan.
“Where does he work?”
“At Billy’s in Morristown? It’s a club or a bar. Off Two Eighty-seven.”
“You have directions?”
“Just a business card.” She dug that out and handed it to me as well.
“I’ll MapQuest it,” I said.
“He’s working every night this week. I’ve never known anyone who does that. I go to work during the day, come home about seven, and he’s just heading out. He doesn’t get home till three, sometimes four in the morning.”
“Let me ask you something. When he gets home, does he smell like cigarette smoke?”
She thought about it, eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “No. He doesn’t smoke. Well, on the weekends he smells that way. But not during the week. So many people to watch outside, he still gets that smoke smell, even with the no smoking law.”
“Maybe it’s just not that busy during the week,” I said, not wanting to push her expectations either way.
She shifted in her seat, as if she was searching for something to say.
Finally she came up with, “He used to smell that way even during the weekdays.”
“Any idea who he might be having an affair with? If he’s having an affair.”
She shook her head. “What’s your address?”
She gave me an address in Morristown. “Why come down here?”
She scratched her nose. “My husband knows a lot of people. If he knew I hired a private investigator up there, if word got out, I’d be in trouble. He doesn’t know people in this area.”
I nodded. “Okay, we’re almost done. I charge seventy-five bucks an hour plus expenses. I also require a retainer. Say five hundred?”
She nodded, took out her checkbook.
We finished the paperwork, shook hands, and she headed toward the door. I told her I’d let her know as soon as I had any information.
After she left, my cell phone rang. Lester Russell, the caller ID said.
“What’s up, Jackson? You aren’t in prison again, are you?”
“Think I’d have my cell phone with me?”
“Good point. Why are you calling me when I’m in trial? You knew I wouldn’t get back to you until now.”
“Out already?” I said as I looked at my watch. Close to four. “I only have a few minutes.”
“I need a favor.”
“Of course you do.”
I told him about Gerry. Told him I wanted some information from the cops.
“Jeez,” Lester said. “I’ll make a few calls. See what I can find out. But not until the trial is out this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Lester.”
He sighed. “I can’t keep doing this stuff for you. I’m a lawyer, not a snitch, not an informant. I think it’s time you made nice with the boys in blue.”
“There are two sides to that coin,” I said.
Bill Martin nodded at the woman coming down the stairs. She didn’t seem to notice him. That was fine.
He flicked his last cigarette of the pack onto the ground, crushed it with his shoe, and hiked to Donne’s office. The glass door was opaque and had his name inscribed in black lettering. Beneath it said PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. Should have said Traitor.
Or even better, Asshole.
Martin didn’t bother to knock.
Donne was hanging up the phone. He looked up and froze. “How’s it going, kid?” Martin asked.
“Bill.”
Martin took the chair in front of the desk, flipping it around so he could sit with his arms resting on the back.
“I’ve heard,” Donne said, “that sitting that way means you’re intimidated by women.”
He fired back. “If you knew what I’ve done, you wouldn’t bring that up. I’ll tell you someday.”
“Why are you here?”
“You were at the tavern today, right? Saw what happened with Gerry?”
“You’re investigating the case.” He wasn’t asking a question. Martin shrugged. “So, what did you see? What happened?”
“I don’t think I’m going to talk to you about this.”
Martin allowed himself a wry smile. Getting Donne to talk to him was half the reason Martin was looking forward to this. It was a challenge. Finding a way to screw Donne over in the process was the other half.
“I guess reminding you that you were my partner is out of the question, so how about helping me find the killer of someone you drank with.”
Donne shifted in his seat. “I don’t need your help.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re investigating the case, aren’t you?” Donne stayed silent, now motionless.
“Listen, the best thing you can do for this guy is leave it to me. I’m a cop. You know the resources we have at our disposal. What are you going to do, pound the fucking pavement and hope someone tells you who did it?”
“Come on, Bill. You never believed in that CSI shit.”
“I just want to find out who killed Gerry Figuroa.”
The air smelled musty, as if Donne hadn’t cleaned or even aired out his office in months. How did Donne get clients to sit here and explain their problems? Place stank to shit.
“I don’t know anything,” Donne said. “I sat in the bar, I heard tires squeal. By the time I got outside, the car was gone and Gerry was dead.”
“That’s your story?” Martin felt heat in his stomach. Rage building. His cheeks flushed.
“That’s all I’m telling you.”
“My old partner, and he won’t help me find his friend’s killer.”
“It was a hit-and-run. Could have been an accident.”
“Hit-and-run,” Martin said. “Still a murder in my book, kid.”
“Since when did they let you work homicides?”
Martin’s cheeks probably turned cherry red, he was so pissed. “You always were an asshole, Donne.”
“If it wasn’t for me, you’d be in jail.”
“If it wasn’t for you, things would still be the way they were.”
Donne stood. “I think you should go.”
“Probably right.” Martin found a business card and dropped it on the desk. “I have a new number. You change your mind, want to tell me what happened, call me.”
“Sure.”
Martin stepped out of the office. Once on the street, he smiled. This was going to work out just fine.
Not only did he get a chance to solve a murder, he was going to get a chance to fuck Donne over as well.
Yeah, this was going to work out perfectly.
Three Heinekens and a few hours later, my watch read ten after eight. I had my MapQuest directions and a picture of Rex Hanover in the car, so I decided not to stop at my apartment. I already had everything I needed. I headed up route 287. Traffic was light and 287 takes you through a section of the state the opposite of Newark and the turnpike. While the turnpike is full of smog and rusted metal, the Morristown-Madison area is very wealthy, with large houses spaced out among trees, mountains, and parks. The smog and factories of northeast New Jersey were only a scant twenty miles away, but felt like hundreds.
I took the exit for Madison Avenue as per my directions and saw Billy’s on my right. I parked the car in a supermarket parking lot next door, took my picture, and went inside. Apparently it was too early for a cover charge, but the bouncer at the door, who was two inches shorter than me and probably twenty pounds heavier, told me to tuck in my shirt. “Dress code,” he mumbled. His name tag read JEFF.
I did as he said, not wanting to make waves, and then found a seat at the nearly empty bar. The bartender, a thin woman with huge breasts and long black hair, asked, “What can I do for you, hon?”
I debated several answers before simply saying, “Heineken.” The buzz was wearing off from the three I’d had earlier.
By the time she put the bottle in front of me, I was holding the picture of Hanover out. “You know this guy?”
“Four-fifty for the beer,” she said, and took the picture from me. Examined it close to her face.
I put six on the bar.
“This is Rex,” she said, taking the money, dropping the picture. “He works here.”
I drank some of the beer. “He here tonight?” She looked toward the door. “Is he in trouble?”
She ran her hand through her hair. There was another guy, younger than me, at the other end of the bar, staring at her ass. When he saw me notice him, he winked.
“He’s not in trouble, I just want to ask him a few questions.”
“You a cop?”
I didn’t answer the cop question. It was just as well she assumed I was a cop.
She waited a moment, then said, “I don’t see him. He’s usually in only on the weekends. Sometimes Wednesdays. Well, if I see him, who should I say is looking for him?”