Heaven's a Lie

by Wallace Stroby

  “Comes with the territory. You’re not back at Rutgers selling pot to frat boys.”

  “Don’t knock it. I made a lot of money back then, moved a shit-ton of weed. That business degree paid for itself. Then, when X and Molly came in, forget it. Twenty-eight years old, I had so much cash coming in I didn’t know what to do with it. That’s how I financed this place.”

  “And every scumbag in Jersey wanted a piece of your action. Until you met me.”

  “I never said otherwise, T. I owe you.”

  “I handled things then. I’ll handle them now.”

  “Nothing gets to you, does it?” Cosmo says. “You take everything in stride. This was supposed to be a straight-up money deal. Invest, recoup, make a profit. Now where are we?”

  “What’s done is done.”

  “And when Chano’s people figure out what happened, and come after us?”

  “Let them,” Travis says.

  * * *

  He watches the Escalade pull off the Parkway into the rest area. It drives past empty spots, parks near his truck. The man who gets out is wearing a suit and overcoat, but his shaved head, thick neck and Oakley sunglasses scream cop.

  “Let’s make this fast,” he says when he gets in the truck. “I’m on duty soon.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “Accident report.” He takes folded papers from an inside pocket, hands them over.

  New Jersey State Police letterhead. Two typed sheets of notes, a third page with a diagram of the accident, then printouts of color photos—a burned-out car from different angles, close-ups of skid marks on the road. The car is black and gutted, but he recognizes Tommy’s BMW.

  The trooper pushes his sunglasses up on his scalp. “Nice truck. Looks new. What’s it go for stock, about thirty-five?”

  Travis looks through the pages. “There’s not much here.”

  “It’s what Cosmo asked for.”

  “Is this public record?”

  “It will be when the investigation’s finished.”

  “So why am I paying you?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, brother. I owe Cosmo a favor. Only reason I’m here.”

  “Glove compartment.”

  The trooper opens it, takes out the white envelope, checks the money inside. Five hundreds.

  “Tell me about this woman,” Travis says. “The witness.”

  “Harper? Nothing to tell. She works at that motel, saw the whole thing.” He puts the envelope in a coat pocket, shuts the glove box.

  “You talk to her?”

  “No. The troopers who responded did. Her statement’s in there.”

  “So you weren’t at the scene.”

  “Didn’t have to be. No mystery there. Driver was bleeding out from an abdominal GSW, lost control, hit that abutment doing forty, forty-five. They did a crash reconstruction afterward.”

  “He was dead when the EMTs arrived?”

  “That’s what it says. They pronounced him there.”

  “Anything else inside the car?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything unusual.”

  “You see anything in the report?”

  “I’m asking if there’s anything wasn’t in the report.”

  “Why are you so interested in an MVA?”

  Travis doesn’t answer, looks at the photos again.

  “We done here?” the trooper says.

  Travis folds the pages, tucks them between the seat and console. “Yeah, we’re done.”

  “Tell Cosmo we’re square.” He gets out. Travis watches him walk back to the Escalade.

  Everybody’s got their hand out, he thinks. Cops, too. Risk everything—their careers, their freedom—for some extra cash, and the feeling they’re getting over on the world.

  He waits until the Escalade is gone, then pulls the truck out onto the Parkway and heads north.

  * * *

  In Jersey City, he finds the body shop from memory. It’s in a warehouse area a few blocks from the new town houses and high-rises on the waterfront. He can see the Statue of Liberty in the distance.

  The shop’s closed, metal gates pulled over the windows. He drives by slow. They’ll have cleaned up in there. No need to go inside.

  He heads south again, tracing the route Tommy would have taken back through Monmouth County. Dark now. Leaving the Parkway, he turns south onto Route 34, passes strip malls and car dealerships, then business parks, sand and gravel companies. Woods spring up on both sides of the highway. Signs advertise land for lease and sale.

  He can see the motel now, ahead on the left. An ancient neon sign lights up the lot. Just past it is the bridge.

  He pulls onto the shoulder, looks across at the motel. A single car is parked outside the attached A-frame office. Through the front window, he can see a woman at the counter.

  No reason to wait. He swings the truck back onto the road, cuts across both lanes and pulls into the lot.

  TEN

  Joette watches the big black Chevy truck pull in, park beside her Subaru. She takes the remote from the counter, mutes Oprah.

  The driver takes his time getting out. He’s in his thirties, longish dark hair, wearing jeans and boots, a brown work jacket over a black T-shirt.

  The chimes sound.

  “Can I help you?” she says.

  “Hope so.” He gives her a crooked smile. He’s attractive in a rough way, unshaven. His eyes look blue at first, but as he comes up to the counter she sees they’re pale gray.

  “I’m working a construction job down here for a few weeks. I’m looking for a place to stay that’s close by.”

  “Just you?”

  “Just me. I’ve been commuting from up in Paterson.”

  “That’s a drive.”

  “Feels even longer when you have a ten-hour day, starts at seven in the morning. And the Turnpike traffic on top of that. Decided it would be easier to get a place around here for the duration. I drove by, saw the lot, figured you had some rooms available.” The smile again.

  “It’s seventy-five a night,” she says. “Ninety-five on Friday and Saturday. The weekly rate’s five hundred. Monthly’s fifteen.”

  “A little steep for this time of year, isn’t it? Doesn’t look like you’re doing much business.”

  “I don’t set the prices. All the rooms are efficiencies. Air conditioning, kitchenette with refrigerator and microwave.”

  “I didn’t see a pool.”

  “We don’t have one. But there’s a picnic area out back, with a propane grill guests can use. Vending machines on the side.”

  He looks at the curtained doorway. “Is it just you here?”

  She puts the clipboard with the registration forms on the counter, sets a ball-point pen atop it. “Why don’t you go ahead and fill that out.”

  He looks at the clipboard but doesn’t pick it up. “Old-school. No computer. This place is classic.”

  “I’ll need a driver’s license and credit card.”

  “Just looking, remember?”

  He scratches his flat stomach through the T-shirt. There’s a spiderweb tattoo on the back of his right hand. His wrists are thick.

  “Where’s the job?” she says.

  “On Route Thirty-Three, where the old drive-in used to be?”

  She knows the site. Undeveloped for years, now just weeds coming up through blacktop, rows of decapitated speaker poles. She saw construction vehicles there last week, has been caught in slow traffic passing the site, one lane blocked off with cones.

  “What are they building?”

  “Condos. What else.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Whatever they need. Run equipment mostly. Bulldozers, front-end loaders. I do it all.”

  “Must pay well.”

  “The truck? Hell, the bank owns most of that.”

  “What outfit you work for?”

  “Ankrum Brothers.” She knows the name, has seen their equipment around.

  Maybe you’
re just paranoid, she thinks. Your nerves are shot.

  “Anything else you want to know?” he says.

  “I have to ask. We don’t get many walk-ins this time of year. And the owner doesn’t like to rent to transients.”

  “I don’t blame him. You must see a lot of crazy stuff here.”

  “Not really. Usually it’s pretty quiet.”

  “Heard you had some excitement the other day, though.”

  “Excitement?”

  “An accident out front. Car caught fire, but someone pulled the driver out. Was that you?”

  “Where did you hear that?” Watching his face.

  “Local news station, 101.5. All the driving I do, I listen to the radio a lot. I heard about the accident, remembered the name—Castaways. It hit me as I pulled in that this was the place.”

  “I didn’t know the name was in the news stories.”

  “It was, in the one I heard, at least. Didn’t realize it was a secret.”

  “No secret. Just a surprise to hear we were mentioned.”

  He massages his knuckles. “You see it happen? The actual crash?”

  She looks past him to the highway, aware of how alone she is here. “I did.”

  “Guy must have been drunk or high or something, smash up a car like that.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Pretty bad shape when you got to him, I imagine. Was he alive?”

  A dark Denali with smoked windows pulls in, hip-hop music thumping inside. She feels a sudden wave of relief. It parks outside room four, and Brianna and Cara get out. At the room, Brianna turns and waves to the driver. He gives a quick double tap on the horn, then swings around and drives off, the music fading.

  “So this place isn’t empty after all,” the man says.

  “I’ve got some things to tend to. I don’t mean to be rude, but if you’re not interested in a room…”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to take up your time.”

  “Fill out that form, and it’ll be ready to go if you decide to come back.”

  “I’m good for now, thanks.”

  When he’s at the door, she says, “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Didn’t give it.” He grins again. “See you again soon, maybe.”

  As he gets in the truck, she picks up the pen, drops it, retrieves it just as he pulls onto the highway. She writes the license number in the margin of the registration form. Her hand is shaking.

  * * *

  Driving back to Keansburg, Travis plays it through in his mind again. He watched the woman’s eyes, trying to read her reaction, wondering if she’d bought his story. He drove by that construction site on Route Thirty-Three a few days ago, saw the Ankrum Brothers name on equipment there.

  It rattled her when he said he’d heard the name of the motel on the radio, a straight-up lie. He sensed the wariness then, her drawing back.

  In his apartment above the hardware store, he gets a Heineken from the refrigerator, drinks it at the breakfast counter, reads the state police report again. There’s not much to her statement. She described the accident, pulling Tommy from the car. No way to know how long he lived, if he said anything to her before he died. When she got him out of the car, he might already have been unconscious, either from blood loss or the accident. He went up there looking to make the biggest score of his life, ended up gutshot and dying by the side of the road.

  But there was something about her, the way she played it close with him. It might just be nerves from the accident, or something she wasn’t telling him, hadn’t told the state police.

  He doesn’t like it. He needs order, to know where things stand. The woman bothers him.

  Who are you, Joette Harper? he thinks. And what are you hiding?

  ELEVEN

  F​orget it, Jo,” Noah says. “No way.”

  She’s standing at the office window, looking out at the highway, cell phone to her ear. “Why not? You do it all the time. When you pull someone over, you run their plates, don’t you? See if they have any warrants or priors?”

  “Yeah, when I pull somebody over. Then it’s procedure. But just to check up on someone, get their personal info? That has to go through a supervisor, and you need a good reason for asking. This isn’t. And I’m not sure what the issue here is. You didn’t rent him a room.”

  “He didn’t want one.”

  “Well, if he comes back and he does, don’t give him one. Make up some excuse. What was it about him got under your skin, anyway?”

  “Just a feeling. I thought you could run the plate, get his name. Maybe he has a criminal record, something that would flag him in your computer system. That’s not much to ask, is it?”

  “If that’s all you have to go on, yeah, it is. And an invasion of privacy at that. You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “You’re still a little shook up from the other day. Sounds to me like you’re getting worked up over nothing.”

  “Like a woman?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But it’s what you meant.”

  “Listen, Jo. Odds are you’ll never see him again. If you do, and he gives you a hard time about anything, call me. If you’re scared or think you’re in danger, call 911.”

  “Jesus, this isn’t much help.”

  “As much as I can do for you at this point. Guy’s done nothing wrong, or even suspicious, from what you say. I get the vibe thing, but I think you might be a little hypersensitive right now.”

  Her thumb hovers over the End key. “I shouldn’t have called.”

  “You want, I’ll go over to that jobsite, talk to him. Not sure what it’ll accomplish, but if it’ll make you feel better…”

  “No. Don’t do that. Forget about it.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  You have no idea.

  “Maybe you’re right. Delayed reaction from the accident.”

  “Happens that way. Things catch up with you. I’m on until midnight, but I can swing by the trailer afterward if you want, pick you up. We can get a late drink somewhere.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I’m up for it tonight. Some other time.”

  “Might be good, unwind a little. You change your mind, let me know.”

  “I will,” she says.

  * * *

  A sharp tap on the glass. Joette jumps. She’s been nodding at the desk, drowsy from the warmth of the heater, the TV on low. Brianna is shivering outside the door, wearing a thin leather jacket, yoga pants and a Metallica T-shirt.

  Joette buzzes her in, looks at the clock. Nine-thirty already.

  “Cold out there,” Brianna says.

  “Don’t you have a winter coat?”

  “It’s on my list. The one that keeps getting longer.”

  Joette waits, knows what’s coming.

  “I know I’m late,” Brianna says. “And I know I said it wouldn’t happen again. It’ll just be a few more days, though. Malcolm’s promised me shifts all weekend. I can have the whole month’s rent for you on Monday, or bring some by on Saturday, whatever I have, cash. Hand it right over to you.”

  “Singh hasn’t asked me yet. But he will. Have you thought about what you’ll do this summer?”

  “K-Rock says he’ll help us find a place. Hopefully soon.”

  “K-Rock?”

  “Keith. Everybody calls him K-Rock. When he dropped us off, I wanted him to come in, say hello. Told him how good you’ve been to me and Cara. He was in a hurry, though, said next time. He’s a decent guy, really.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “He’s at Home Depot, you know the one on Sixty-Six? His boss likes him. They don’t care that he did a little time. A lot of places do. It’s not fair. Someone gets out, wants to make a new start, they should get the chance.”

  “He have kids?”

  “A boy, Cody. Younger than Cara, but they get along. He lives with Keith’s mom. We want to find a place we can all be together.”


  Joette thinks about the ten thousand in the trailer, what it would mean to Brianna, what it could do for Cara.

  “What about Cody’s mom?” Joette says. “She in the picture?”

  “Not anymore. Good thing, too. She wasn’t much of a mother.”

  Joette’s not sure what to say but has to say something, what she’s been holding back.

  “I hope it works out for all of you. I worry about you two, especially Cara. Being around this place all the time, it’s not good. Not healthy.”

  Brianna looks away. When she turns back, her eyes are wet. “You think I don’t know that?”

  Joette feels bad, like she’s overstepped. She wants to apologize, then stops herself.

  “Give me what you can Saturday, even if it’s a little. I’ll cover for you on the rest until you can come up with it. I won’t tell Singh.”

  “I’ll get it all to you as soon as I can. Promise.”

  After Brianna leaves, Joette feels a vague depression settling over her. She shuts off the TV, watches headlights pass on the highway. Wishes she were anywhere but here.

  * * *

  The gas station is a quarter mile south of the motel, on the opposite side of the highway. It’s closed for the night. Parked alongside the building, Travis has a clear view of the motel lot, the Subaru. He’s been here an hour already, watched the traffic thin.

  At 10:15, a station wagon passes him, the muffler loud, turns into the motel. A man lumbers inside the office. After a few minutes, the Harper woman comes out, gets into the Subaru. She turns north out of the lot, away from him.

  He starts the engine and pulls onto the highway after her, headlights off. The truck rattles across the creek bridge.

  She’s easy to follow. The Subaru’s right taillight lens is cracked, white light showing through. After a mile, he turns on his lights, but hangs back. He’s not worried about her getting too far ahead. The truck can close the distance in seconds.

  She gets on Route 18, heading east. Few cars here, so he has to stay farther back. But when she exits in Eatontown, the highway’s busy with traffic coming off the Parkway. This stretch of road is brightly lit, lined with hotels, commuter lots and chain restaurants.

  He follows her onto Route 35 South, has to slow when her brake lights go on. She pulls into a strip mall lot. A handful of cars are parked outside a storefront with a sign that reads VICTORY BAR & LIQUORS. The rest of the lot is empty. There’s a nail salon on one side of the bar, a deli on the other, both dark.