by Dave White
“I found ways.”
“But Steven, we kept in touch, even when I was out in Ohio. He said he hadn’t seen you. He couldn’t remember you.”
“I loved them both so much. Steven. Gerry. Why couldn’t he clean up? Why couldn’t we all be together?”
“Aunt Anne—”
“No. I miss him. He ruined my life, but I miss him. I couldn’t even go to the funeral. It wasn’t right for me to be there. I wanted to be. But I couldn’t go.”
Anne shook her head, buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and she didn’t say any more. Tracy sat next to her, put her arms around her shoulders.
I looked at the pictures some more, wondering why they weren’t out the last time I’d been here. Maybe Anne was about to dust that day and she put the pictures away before doing it.
All of the pictures were old. All were in black-and-white. Except for one. It was tucked away, around the corner nearly behind the TV, where people wouldn’t see it unless they looked carefully. I was trying to keep my eyes averted from Tracy and Anne’s moment, so I’d glanced around several times. I stepped closer and looked at the picture.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through my body. Anne Backes standing with another woman. It could have been taken yesterday.
There was a reason the pictures weren’t out a month ago. Anne Backes didn’t want me to see them.
***
Anne didn’t want anyone to know. So while I drove Tracy back to Asbury, I didn’t say anything. Maybe Tracy actually did know. Either way, it wasn’t my place to say.
I parked in front of the house and walked Tracy to the front door. We looked at each other. Tracy’s face was still red from crying.
“Thank you, Jackson,” she said.
She leaned in to kiss me. I let her. It was a light kiss; none of the earlier passion, a fire that was lit again for only an evening or two and burned out quickly after that. I can’t say I felt the same as she did. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to know her again.
And this time remember the entire relationship. “It’s too bad things didn’t work out for us,” she said.
I gave her a hug. “We both know they wouldn’t have,” I lied. “Give Jesus a hug.”
We stood for a moment watching each other. An awkward silence rested between us, as if we didn’t know the right way to end things. The right way to say good-bye.
“Any help you need,” I said. “I can get you into a rehab.” Tracy said, “Good luck, Jackson.”
“Good-bye, Tracy.”
I kissed her on the cheek, and turned back to my car. That seemed as good a way to leave as any.
Chapter 55
Things were looking up.
At first, his superiors were pissed that Bill Martin went over their heads and out of district on the case. They told him it wasn’t a movie, he wasn’t Dirty Harry. That if he wanted to be a trusted member of the police, he had to be a team player.
Then the press got hold of the story and ran with it. Martin was a hero, saving a woman from certain death. Running through a hail of bullets, shoving two innocent people into a car, and driving off. Having a hand in taking down the biggest drug dealer in the state. And his superiors had no choice. They promoted him to detective first grade.
Not being able to get the assault charges on Donne to trial was somewhat a disappointment. Though once Martin was considered a hero, there was no way Donne was getting his private investigator license back. No way was Martin going to let that happen. So he fought Daniels and Blanchett and showed all the evidence and he won.
He sat in his office and felt empty. He kept the picture of Jeanne with him all the time now. And he often stared at it. As he did today.
***
Three weeks after she stopped calling, Jeanne came to visit him in his office. He didn’t speak until she did. He stared at her. Tears streaked her face.
“I’m sorry, Bill,” she said. Martin refused to speak.
“Jackson called,” she continued. “He went into rehab. He sobered up.”
“And you went back to him?” Martin forced the words out.
She nodded and cried, digging through her purse for a tissue. Every instinct in his body screamed for Martin to go to her. To wrap her in his arms and hold her. But he sat at his desk, folded his hands together, and waited.
“I had to, Bill,” she said. “I love him. I’ve always loved him. He just fucked up, that’s all. And now—”
“Now what?” He slammed his fists on the desk, and rage filled him. For the first time the rage was directed at her.
She shuddered at the sound. But she wiped her eyes, didn’t leave.
“Now he’s working as a private investigator. He’s making something of himself. I need to be there for him.” Tears streamed down her face. She no longer tried to stop them.
“Then why are you here?”
“I had to talk to you.”
Something in her voice softened. There wasn’t sadness. Martin let instinct take him. He got out of his chair, went around his desk, and put his arms around her. The floral fragrance of her perfume overtook him. He had to fight back his own tears.
“I went to the doctor today,” she said. “There was something wrong with me. I was late.”
“What?”
“Bill, I had to talk to you.” She fiddled through her purse, but didn’t come out with anything. “Because the doctor told me I’m pregnant.”
“Oh my God.” He could no longer fight off the tears. He pulled her closer to him.
“The baby is yours, Bill. Jackson and I, we haven’t slept together. Not since I went back.”
“Does he know?”
“No. I haven’t told him. I don’t know that I will. I have to talk to him tonight. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”
Doesn’t know what she’s going to do? He pulled her close, felt her hands on his back.
“You’re going to tell him you love me,” Martin said. “I can’t do that, Bill. I don’t know what to do.”
“I love you, Jeanne.”
“I know.”
“And you love me.”
She said, “Let me have tonight. I want to talk to Jackson when he gets back from his case. I will call you tomorrow.”
Jeanne Baker pushed herself away from Martin. She kissed him gently on his cheek, turned his back on him, and walked out the door.
***
Bill Martin never saw Jeanne again. Hours later a drunk driver collided with her car and killed her.
There was no investigation. There wasn’t an autopsy.
Jackson Donne never knew. And Bill Martin never told him. He put the picture back in his desk. He hadn’t thought of that moment in years. He had put it away, hidden it, like he’d hidden the picture.
Maybe it was a mistake to tell Donne about their affair. Because now Martin remembered everything.
And he couldn’t put it away.
Chapter 56
Saturday I sat in Scott Hall and took a six-hour test. I hadn’t filled in that many circles since my first and only semester at Villanova. I had to write an essay, do complicated math, and answer questions about a Spanish short story. It was a very mundane and mind-numbing way to pass the time. But without a job, and needing to earn some scholarships, I had to deal with it.
When I finished, I took my newly acquired carpal tunnel syndrome and hopped on Route 287. The leaves were fully bloomed now; the sides of the road looked like thick forests. I exited in Morristown and drove to Jen Hanover’s house. It had been weeks since I’d seen her, the news vans had since exited, and her story was old news. I, however, had one last piece of business with her.
She let me in wordlessly, as if she’d expected me. We sat in the living room, and I had the familiar sensation of smelling steam. I thought of my mother, and how my father had left her, my sister, and me alone.
Jen looked as if she’d lost about ten pounds. There were dark bags under her eyes, and her cheeks were sunken.
“Have you been sleeping?” I asked without much sympathy.
“It was a mistake to hire you,” she said. “But you’ve been paid what you were owed. Why are you here?”
“I’d like to sort a few things out.”
“There’s nothing to sort out. If I hadn’t hired you, my husband would still be alive.”
The living room was a mess. There were dust bunnies floating around the room. Old newspapers and empty coffee cups were left on the kitchen table. A few scraps of paper were strewn across the floor.
“Why did you hire me?”
“To find my husband and bring him back to me before the police got to him,” she said evenly.
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why would you hire me to find the man who killed your father?”
“What?”
I was very slow in answering, letting my words process in my head. Like a lawyer, I wanted to make everything very clear.
“Anne Backes is your mother, isn’t she?”
“What? I—no.”
“I was at her home two days ago. There were many pictures of Steven and his cousin. There was one color picture. It was of you and Anne sitting in a park.”
“You’re lying.”
“It’s time to own up.”
She spoke too quickly, not thinking about protecting her identity. “She told me the pictures were put away.”
“If,” I said slowly, “Anne is your mother, that makes Gerry Figuroa your father. Your husband was a hit man for drug dealers.”
“My husband is dead!”
“I know. And that’s not what you wanted, is it? I mean, why hire me to follow him after he killed your dad, unless you wanted me to find him?”
“Shut up.”
“You asked your husband to kill Gerry. You wanted it to look like an accident. But almost immediately the police didn’t buy it. So you were screwed.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“I’ve figured most of it out, Jen. But you have to help me fill in the holes. What happened when you heard it wasn’t being looked at as an accident? That was in the papers, wasn’t it? Or did Pablo tell you?”
“I don’t have to tell you. You’ll put me in jail.”
This was the tough part, the reason I didn’t come here directly after seeing Anne Backes. If I called the police on this, then Burgess’s trial would be skewed. My testimony wouldn’t be worth anything and there’d be a chance I’d go to jail. And a drug dealer might go free. I wasn’t willing to let that happen. As much as it burned me, as much as she was responsible for the death of my friend, she was the lesser of two evils.
I sat back on the couch. “You’re not going to jail. I just want to know the truth.”
She looked me in the eyes.
“You have my word. I have nothing to gain by putting you in jail, Jen. I just want to know. And I’m sure it’s driving you nuts, keeping it bottled up.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“What happened? You asked Pablo to kill Gerry. Your own father. Why?”
“He wasn’t my father!” She took a deep breath. “My mother and I were the only family I had. He destroyed my mother, made her crazy. She left my brother with him because she couldn’t think straight. He had her so hopped up on drugs, she didn’t think to take Steven. She only took me when she realized she hit rock-bottom. She went to clean up and she only took me. She started to use the excuse that he had to learn to be a father on his own. Tough love bullshit. He ruined our family, and he couldn’t even clean up for it.”
I nodded. There wasn’t a flow to my questions, I just asked them when they came to mind. “Did you know you married a hit man?”
Jen Hanover shook her head. “At one point, when I was seventeen, a friend went into a tailspin. She slipped up and got back on heroin. She must have gone through Burgess. She met Pablo. She introduced him to me as Rex. I fell in love with Rex. She cleaned up not long after. He helped her. She always seemed scared of Rex. I never knew why, until . . . until . . .”
“When did you find out?”
“When Steven died, I called Gerry. I wanted to talk to him. He told me he was cleaning up. Stopped drinking. Stopped smoking. All that. I was so angry. Why did he have to wait until one of us died to clean up? I was so mad. Rex thought it would pass. That I would get over it. But I didn’t. Finally, a few months ago, he said—” She gagged. Caught her breath. “He said he would kill Gerry if I wanted. And I was so mad. I said yes. That’s when Rex told me everything.”
The room was still and quiet. The enormity of her words hung in the air as she took deep breaths. There were more questions to ask, but sometimes it was better to let people talk. Once she got her breathing back to normal, I was confident she would continue. Jen needed to talk; the words were spilling out of her now.
“I told Rex to make it look like an accident, but he drove off. There were too many witnesses. And the more I thought about it, the more I started to hate him as well. Now that I knew his business, he let me hear everything. I knew when people were going to die. I knew about that woman at Drew.”
I nodded. “So you decided to hire me. To find him, to stop the killings?”
“No. I wanted you to catch him for killing Gerry. When I had talked to Gerry, he was mad that I didn’t come to Steve’s funeral, wanted to know where I was. That even his private investigator friend showed up. I remembered that and looked you up.”
Rubbing my chin, I asked, “But what if he was captured. Wouldn’t he implicate you?”
“Maybe I didn’t think things through. I trusted he loved me, would do anything for me. But by then, I didn’t love him. I hated him.
Part of me didn’t even care if he did turn me in. Gerry would still be dead.”
I thought about the first time I saw Najera, when he hung me out the window. “Did he know what you were doing?”
She shrugged. “I never told him. Never even saw him. Never got to say good-bye.”
“I think he did.”
“Why?”
I told her about him acting like Burgess had hired me. Pablo Najera put me on Michael Burgess’s tail to keep me away from his wife’s. Burgess acted surprised when I told him who hired me, but Najera knew all along.
“How far did you go to make sure Gerry’s death wasn’t your fault?”
“What do you mean?”
“The police found the ingredients of crystal meth all over his apartment, like he was making it to sell. Did you plant it there? Make it look like he was back in the drug business?”
She thought about it for a moment. “No,” she said. “I had nothing to do with that.”
I wanted her to say yes. Gerry was supposed to be the lovable old guy in the bar, the guy who’d tell jokes and you could laugh with. He wasn’t supposed to be making drugs to survive. But Jen had no reason to lie now. She was telling the truth. Gerry was selling again.
Jen gagged some more.
I stood to go. “One last thing. Did your cousin Tracy know you were Gerry’s daughter?”
“No. When we became friends, in college, Tracy was already too deep into drugs, she was a mess.”
“You met up with her in college?”
“I knew about her long before that. I wanted to know my family, even though my mother didn’t. I found out where she went to college and I applied. When I got in, I looked her up and we became friends.”
I nodded and moved to the door.
“You’re really going to let me be?”
I was afraid that not pinning Gerry’s death on Burgess would give the defense a cause to question the entire case.
“A major drug dealer is going to go to prison because of all of this,” I said. “You’re small-time compared to that.”
“So I’m going to be innocent.” It was a statement, not a question.
Staring at her, I said, ‘You’re the one who has to live with setting up the death of
your father and being involved in the death of your husband.”
I walked to the front door. “Wait,” she said.
I turned back.
Her eyes were nearly black, her face flushed. She looked so small in the easy chair she sat in, so alone. Which, I suppose, is what she wanted to be.
“When I married him, Rex promised he’d never hurt me.”
“I think he tried his best to keep that promise,” I said.
***
At six in the evening the Olde Towne Tavern was quiet for a Saturday. A month ago, Gerry would have been sitting at his usual stool in the corner, sipping his coffee, telling some college kid a war story. Or an acting story. Any kind of story. But now the corner seat was empty.
The college kids who’d usually eat up those kind of stories were playing darts. I sat at the bar drinking Amstel, watching Artie wipe the bar down.
“How was the test?” he asked. I shrugged. “Pointless.”
“Gotta do what you gotta do.” He smiled. “It’s over now? That Burgess guy killed Gerry because he was selling some drugs to make rent?”
I thought about telling him everything. But it was time to let the case die. Time to leave Gerry’s memory alone. “Yeah. That’s what happened.”
“Fucking old man. He could have come to any of us for help, for money. He was our friend.”
I finished my beer. The college kids finished playing darts and moved on to the pool table. As they racked them up, I wondered how close they were to each other, what kind of friends they were, how far they’d go for each other. Or if they were only drinking buddies hanging out because they were all free tonight.
Artie got me another. “I never got to say thank you, Jackson. And sorry.”
“For what?”
“For thinking you weren’t doing your job. For getting you involved in this. You didn’t want to, from the start. But I forced you into it. And you lost your license. And found out a bunch of shit we both probably didn’t want to know. I’m sorry for being such an asshole.”
I took a long drink from the new bottle of Amstel and thought about how far Pablo Najera went for his wife. Thought about how far Anne Backes went to try and get Gerry to clean up. How far she went to make her family whole. I thought about all the promises people made every day, and how far they went to keep them.
