by Dave White
Carter’s must have just opened for dinner. Donne looked at his watch and saw it was just five. The front door was propped open and three tables were set up on the street. A busboy with glasses and greasy hair put napkins and silverware on each table. He smiled at Donne when he passed.
Kate didn’t smile when he entered. In fact, Donne thought she rolled her eyes. In the crook of her arm was a pile of menus. She put them on the counter.
“What?” she asked.
Donne didn’t have time to return the sarcasm. “Is Franklin here?”
“No.”
“Have you seen him at all today?”
“No,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday when we closed. I left and he was still doing receipts and tips.”
“What about Susan?”
She must have heard the concern in his voice, because her icy exterior melted away.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
Donne told her about the voice mails. The panic in his sister’s voice.
“I haven’t heard from either of them,” Kate said.
The phone on the counter rang and Kate picked it up, saying, “Carter’s. Fine dining. This is Kate speaking, how may I help you?” She paused to listen, playing with the name tag on her apron. “No,” she answered. “He’s not here. He hasn’t been here all day.
But your brother is here.”
She passed Donne the phone. Donne took it and said, “Susan, are you all right?”
“Oh, Jackson. Someone called me and said they took Franklin. I don’t know what to do.”
“They took him?”
When Donne said that, Kate looked at him. She seemed like she wanted to ask a question, but two customers came in the door. He turned his back to them, and Kate went to seat them.
“That’s what they said. I don’t know what happened. I dropped my phone and haven’t been able to call anyone since then.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at Mom’s. They’re letting me use the phone.” She was breathless. “Can you come up here?”
“I don’t have a car right now.” She didn’t ask why.
“All right, I’ll pick you up at the restaurant. I’m leaving now.” He put the phone back in its cradle. His head throbbed. He still felt the effects of the knock on the head. When he turned around, Kate was standing directly behind him.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Just peachy,” he said. “Do you have any Tylenol?”
She dug in her purse and came up with a few tablets. Donne took them dry and went to sit at one of the tables on Church Street. Susan was a good twenty minutes away at this time of day.
As he sat, Donne was overcome with the urge to get up and run away. To not stay here, not help. He’d seen it too many times before. Once he was involved people got hurt, even killed. Jeanne, Tracy Boland, Beth Deegan, Omar Hassan, Gerry Figuroa. There was no escaping it. He felt like some incurable jinx. And now his family was in danger. A family that had been safe for years when he wasn’t around.
Donne wanted to run.
And if not for the fact that he had no place to go, he would have.
***
Detective Mike Iapicca stopped at Rutt’s Hut for dinner. His wife was in Wisconsin visiting her brother, so it wasn’t like she was going to cook tonight. So he settled on two deep-fried hot dogs with relish. Best meal he’d had in days.
When Donne had gotten involved in the case, Iapicca looked him up and saw he used to be a PI in New Brunswick. But he was involved in a shoot-out in central Jersey and was stripped of his license. Iapicca called the Morristown PD—figuring maybe they worked the case—to talk to someone down there. He wanted to know about the shootout. The cops who worked the case, he was told, were actually from Madison. He tried that department and left a message.
As he bit into his second hot dog, standing at the counter looking over the dirty Passaic River, his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID, so he picked up and identified himself.
“This is Detective Daniels from Madison,” the voice said. A woman. “You called?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m working this murder case. An old man and his wife. We had a witness to the murder, and it’s somebody you know. I was looking for a little background.”
“Who’s the wit?”
“Jackson Donne. Used to be private.”
“Christ, I remember Donne.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
He heard Daniels take a deep breath.
“I actually like Donne,” she said. “He’s a good guy. And he saved some lives down at Jockey Hollow that day. But man, he can’t keep out of trouble, can he?”
“How come he ain’t licensed anymore?” Iapicca asked between bites.
“He beat the shit out of a few guys in New Brunswick. After he helped us out, my partner and I tried to get it reinstated. No luck.”
Iapicca picked at an onion ring as he thought. The damn things were falling apart and staining the counter with grease, but they were still delicious.
“So you’re saying I should call New Brunswick?”
“Not if you want to know the real Donne.”
“What do you mean?”
“They hate him down there. He used to be a cop there, but he turned the entire Narc Division in for stealing drugs. If you want to get the real scoop on Donne, stay away from talking to the New Brunswick cops.”
“So, what do you think?”
“I would trust him. He can be stubborn as hell, but he means well. He’d probably help you.”
“Yeah, that was my vibe too. Thanks, Daniels.”
“No problem. If you need to know anything else, don’t hesitate.” Iapicca hung up. He finished his hot dogs and onion rings. Listening to Daniels had made him feel good. It was always a bonus to know your instincts about someone were right.
Iapicca picked up his phone again and called headquarters. A tail on Donne could only help solve the case quicker.
1938
Joe Tenant was tired. He should have been home sleeping, but instead he sat in his car watching a funeral. It was Maxwell Carter’s funeral, and Tenant was trying to find Carter’s wife.
He’d read about the funeral in the obituaries the night before at work. It was slow at work, nothing to dredge up from the river. Nothing reported missing, no boats clogged in the mud. It was easy. So when he saw the article about the funeral, he decided to find out who Carter was.
The priest was talking as rain dripped from the sky. Tenant watched through a wet windshield, wondering what he was saying. The tribute to this murdered man was probably glowing. He was someone very important in the state, no doubt. Someone everybody should be proud of, and it was unfortunate that he had to be taken from them in this way.
But he was in a better place now. Now he was with God.
A few men held umbrellas over themselves and the women standing next to them. Some of the women dabbed at their eyes with tissues. The men remained stalwart. In the center a woman sat between two young children. That must have been Carter’s wife. What did the paper say her name was? Lisa. And the two children. Burt and Claudia.
Lisa held the hands of Claudia and Burt until the funeral broke up. Only then did they stand, after the crowd had dispersed, and lay three roses on the casket. If Lisa was crying, she wasn’t showing it. She escorted the children into a car and it slowly drove away.
Tenant followed it. The roads were bumpy in Saddle River, but passable. No one was out in the weather and the street was empty. Tenant thought Lisa Carter might know she was being followed. Then again, it being the day of her husband’s funeral, odds were that the thought of being followed was the last thing on her mind.
The car made a right turn onto Holly Avenue, where most of the cars from the funeral were parked in front of an enormous brick house. The wake was probably there. Tenant parked on the corner and waited for Lisa and the children to go inside.
He f
elt dirty, and knew this was the wrong thing to do. He’d even lied to his wife, telling her he had to talk to the police again. And he was wearing his suit because he wanted to look professional in front of them. He didn’t know if Caroline believed him, but she hadn’t argued when he left.
He thought about Lisa Carter sitting, holding the hands of her children at the cemetery and imagined Caroline doing the same thing with his own child. He had to know more about what was going on. He had to know who the Irishman was who’d threatened his life. Who’d threatened his family.
And the only way he could think of doing that was by talking to Lisa Carter. After she disappeared inside the house, he straightened his tie and counted to ten. Slowly.
When he finished, he got out of the car and approached the house. The door was open and he stepped inside. Most of the people congregated in a large, carpeted living room. The fireplace had a mantel, and on it a large portrait of Maxwell Carter. The same portrait that was a picture in yesterday’s paper.
A couple of guys were sipping beer from longneck bottles and discussing whether or not Dimaggio and the Yankees could win a third straight World Series. And who would be facing them from the National League, Brooklyn or Chicago. Two women sipped wine and discussed whatever the hell was going on in Europe. He didn’t see Lisa Carter.
Again, he felt wrong being here and was about to leave when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see Lisa Carter standing in front of him.
She caught him.
“Thank you for coming. Can I get you anything?” She had long auburn hair tied in a bun. She had soft cheeks and full lips, and reminded Tenant a little bit of Rita Hayworth.
“I was looking for a beer,” he said. “Come with me.”
She walked down a short hallway into the kitchen, where a chef in white sliced some sort of roasted meat and two maids in black outfits poured wine. Lisa Carter took one of the beers off the counter, popped the cap, and handed it to Tenant.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I don’t recognize you. Are you one of Maxwell’s friends?”
Tenant took a long swig to delay the answer. Lying wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t be the right thing to do, not after she’d just buried her husband. So he decided on the truth.
“My name’s Joe Tenant. I’m the one who found your husband.”
“Oh,” she said, putting her hand to her throat. She turned toward one of the maids and asked for a glass of wine. Now it was her turn for a long sip.
“I just came to offer my condolences, Mrs. Carter. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you,” Lisa said. “And you may call me Lisa.”
“Do you have any idea why your husband was killed?”
He blurted it out. It had been on his mind for days, and it just came out. He instantly regretted it when Lisa’s face turned pale.
“I imagine it had something to do with his business, but I wasn’t aware of anything along those lines. I never asked my husband about his work.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just—I want to know who did it.”
“I do too.” She finished her wine and passed the glass to the maid, who refilled it. “But why is it so important to you?”
“An Irishman threatened me the night I found your husband. He put a knife to my throat and told me to stay away from the police. And now he’s threatened my family.”
“My God.” And the wine disappeared from the glass as quickly as it had been filled.
Tenant drained his beer, not wanting to fall behind. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about what happened to my husband. I told the police everything I knew. He got up early Tuesday morning, kissed me and went off to work. I didn’t see him again.”
“If you do know something, it would be best if you went to the police. Or at the very least, the newspapers.”
“And in your best interest as well,” she said.
Tenant took another beer and popped the cap. It was early, only one o’clock, and he would be two beers deep and still have to work.
“Why did you really come here?” Lisa asked. “To help my family. To keep them safe.”
“And you thought coming here could help that?”
“It was the only thing I could think of doing.”
Lisa Carter took his hand in hers and whispered, “I wish I could help you. I wish I could whisper to my husband’s soul and ask him what happened. I want to know why he was killed as well. He was a nice man. A wonderful father. It’s not fair to us that he was taken. And it’s not fair that you were involved in this. For that I am sorry.”
“I think I’ll be on my way, then.”
“No,” she said. “Stay. Have something to eat. You are welcome here. Without you, he may never have been found. And we wouldn’t have been able to say a proper good-bye. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to make sure my children are okay.”
She walked back the way they came. Joe stood there, beer in hand, and watched her.
An hour later, he’d eaten and talked Yankees baseball. No one he spoke to had an Irish accent. No one talked to him about Maxwell Carter. And no one asked why he was there.
He left without saying good-bye. He was pretty sure he’d never see Lisa Carter again.
He strode down the street quickly, trying to avoid the steady rain but not doing a good job. Caroline was going to ask how it went with the police, and he would have to use the ride home to come up with a believable answer.
“Wait!” a voice yelled behind him.
Joe Tenant turned to see a man in a black suit and tie jogging toward him. The man was thin and tall and looked like he used a lot of Brylcreem to push his hair to the side. Tenant stopped and let the man approach. He was pretty sure he hadn’t spoken to this man at the repast.
“I understand you found Maxwell’s body.” Tenant nodded, his neck and arms tense.
“I also understand you’ve been threatened a few times.” Now Tenant balled his hands into fists.
“I wanted to talk to you, but not in there. Out here is better, where no one can hear us. You better watch your step,” the man said.
“Who are you?”
The man squinted, confused at the question. “The more you know, the worse it will be for you.”
“I just want my family left alone.”
“Then you shouldn’t be here. You should be with your family.”
Joe Tenant didn’t wait to respond. He swung his right arm and connected perfectly with the tall man’s jaw. The man went down into a puddle, water soaking through his jacket. Joe kneeled in front of him and grabbed him by the collar.
“Tell me what’s going on!” he yelled. “I don’t want to be involved in this!”
The man spit blood on the ground. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“Who are you?”
Tenant hit the man again. His head snapped backward and bounced off the street. Tenant prepared to hit him again, but the man put his hands up.
“Don’t you read the newspapers?” the man asked, his face bloody. “Don’t you vote? My name is Connor O’Neill. I’m one of your New Jersey state senators.”
Tenant’s eyes widened and he let go of the man. Looking up, he saw a few other men rushing from the house toward them. One of them was the pale face he saw on the dock. Tenant didn’t wait for them. He jumped into his car and pulled away.
The senator was right. Tenant knew it. He may have just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Chapter 18
There wasn’t a speck of dust in Susan’s house, not a stain on the table from a glass, not an out-of-place newspaper. The Susan Donne he knew was a slob, someone who couldn’t keep her dresser organized. She wouldn’t even put her own laundry away.
Granted, this was twenty years ago, but he still assumed she and Franklin hired out to keep the place this clean. Few people changed their habits, and Donne couldn’t picture his sister being one of them. After all, he hadn’t.
He sat on the edge of an
easy chair staring at the beer she gave him, still thinking of running. Probably not. And that meant people were going to die.
Susan sat across from him in a rocking chair, next to the landline phone. She rocked back and forth, but it didn’t look like the movement relaxed her. She had her arms crossed in front of her, and she stared at the phone.
“How do I deal with this, Jackson? He could be dead.”
“You don’t know that. If these people who took him want something, then he’s not dead.”
“I’ll bet you weren’t this calm when you were waiting to hear about Jeanne.”
It was a low blow, and Donne felt a chill run through his body. Sitting back in the chair, he said, “Jeanne was sudden. I didn’t have to wait. I was with her father when the phone rang.”
“Jackson,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. But Jeanne is the core of everything with you. And you lost her. And I need to know how it felt.”
Susan was torturing herself, sitting here and thinking about Franklin being dead. She wanted to know what was going to come, how it would feel, and he couldn’t tell her. He didn’t want to tell her.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Jeanne wasn’t everything I thought she was.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“God, if Franklin’s . . . Is that why you left us, Jackson? Why we didn’t speak after Jeanne died?”
This definitely wasn’t the time to have a conversation about Jeanne. His fingers tingled at the thought of continuing. But he spoke anyway.
“I couldn’t talk to anyone.”
“So you threw away your family?”
“I threw away everyone, Susan. I don’t talk to her parents anymore. Not even after Jeanne died. All I did was get drunk. I’m lucky I didn’t fall back into coke.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want anyone to see me like I was, I guess.”
“I don’t think that’s it at all,” Susan said. “I think you were afraid of what could happen if you got too close to anyone else. You isolated yourself because you couldn’t afford to get hurt again.”
