When One Man Dies. Dave White
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of houses were coming in my direction. They filled the stairway by walking next to each other. One of them wore jeans, a black button-down shirt, leather jacket, and his hair parted to the right. The other had sweatpants, an Oakland Athletics sweatshirt, a goatee, and a shaved head. They didn’t look like they were apartment hunting.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you know which floor a Mr.—” The guy with hair looked at an index card in his hand. “Where a Mr. Jackson Donne’s office is?” He pronounced my name “Doan”—the second time in as many days.
“Well, actually, I’m Jackson Donne,” I said. Might as well find out what this was about.
Hair smiled and said, “Can we see you in your office? We’d like to discuss something discreetly.”
Baldy nodded and crossed his arms. I couldn’t squeeze by these guys if I tried. I couldn’t squeeze a dime past these guys.
I made a show of looking at my watch. “I do have another appointment.”
“We won’t take long.” Hair smiled like he was posing for a photo. “It’s urgent.”
“Follow me, then.” I turned and made my way back to the office. I didn’t like turning my back on these guys, but if they were going to hurt me, they’d do it in my office, where the odds of someone walking in on them lessened. That is, if they were professionals.
They didn’t assault me, waited quietly as I unlocked the door, opened it, and let them in.
I followed them in, made my way around my desk. I offered the two chairs to them.
Hair decided to sit, but Baldy wanted to stand. Probably felt more intimidating that way.
Hair began. “Mr. Donne, I understand that you are looking for information on Rex Hanover.”
“May I ask who you are?”
“We are associates of a friend of Mr. Hanover.”
The only people who would know I was involved were probably people I called in the address book. That narrowed the number of suspects down to ten, most likely. Jen, though she hired me, so it wasn’t probable, Artie, or any of the other people I left messages for. I suppose word could have traveled quickly among others I hadn’t spoken with yet, but somehow I doubted it.
“Ah. Not going to tell me who that friend is?” Hair shook his head.
“Okay. And if I am looking for Mr. Hanover?”
“Who hired you?”
I picked up a pencil from my desk and twirled it in my fingers. “My turn to plead the fifth.”
Hair nodded. Baldy continued to try and look mean. It’s tough to look mean in sweatpants and a bright green sweatshirt, but Baldy was doing his best.
“Well, either way, I’m here to ask you to stop.”
“Why’s that?”
“The police are looking into his disappearance, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but I’m giving it that personal touch.”
Hair shifted in his chair. Crossed his left foot over his right knee. “The police are not something to worry too much about. They’ll find what we want them to find and will shut the case, but a person on their own? My associate is concerned that you might uncover some things by mistake that he wouldn’t want uncovered.”
I leaned across my desk. “So you’re saying you control the Madison Police Department?”
“What I’m saying, Mr. Donne,” he said, “is that we’re willing to make you an offer.”
He reached into his jacket with his left hand. I tensed. He came out with a stack of money, rubber band wrapped around it. The money landed on my desk, under my nose.
“Five thousand dollars cash,” Hair said. “Don’t look into Hanover’s disappearance anymore.”
“And if I refuse?”
He looked at his watch. “You have an important appointment to keep. If you say no, Maurice and I will have to try other methods of persuasion. And I also have a schedule to keep.”
“Don’t like to be late to the next leg breaking.” He laughed.
I looked at the money on the desk. “I think I’ll take the money.”
“Wise choice.” Hair stood and shook my hand. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Baldy and Hair let themselves out of my office, leaving me alone with five thousand dollars cash. I picked the money up and smelled it. Not that bad a smell. I flipped through the cash, counting the twenties bundled together. All there.
I picked up the phone and called Tracy’s cell phone and told her I’d meet her at Gerry’s in ten minutes.
The money was going to come in handy. I could use it to pay for dinners for the next few months. I could buy plenty of beer with it if I wanted. But the best option was to spend it on the expenses I would pile up on my continuing search for Rex Hanover.
Bill Martin sat in his office, tie loosened at the neck, jacket off, not sure what the fuck to do. Five years ago he would have gone back to the corner on Easton Ave. and beaten the shit out of Jesus Sanchez. Pounded him into a pulp until Jesus broke and told him who Michael Burgess was, how to get in touch with him.
Now, with Leo Carver rotting in Rahway penitentiary and the new blood upstairs watching his every move, Martin had nothing. Pounding the pavement, making phone calls to old contacts only went so far when you hadn’t talked to them in years.
He rubbed his eyes and coughed. They didn’t even let you smoke in here anymore.
Bill Martin grabbed his jacket and went down to the street. Lighting a cigarette, he noticed two other detectives—Bob Richardson and Paul Cramden—smoking as well. All good cops look the same when they’re busy: wrinkled jackets, loosened ties. It was the ones that were too clean-cut you had to watch out for. They’d stab you in the back to look good in front of the bosses.
Just like these two.
“How’s it going, Bill?” Richardson asked. “Heard you got the hit-and-run over on Easton.”
“About time I got something interesting.” Cramden sauntered over. “Any leads yet?”
Time to be careful. Martin could say too much and then be paranoid he’d lose the case. But, fuck it, these guys may know people.
“The name Michael Burgess keeps coming up.” Richardson squinted. “You into drugs with this one, Bill?”
“I don’t know what I’m into,” he answered. “It’s just a name that popped up.”
He was damn well involved in drugs with this one, with all that shit he found in Figuroa’s house. Absently, he wondered if Donne knew about that. Damn, it would be fun to tell him.
But, no, he had other plans. Other secrets.
“Yeah, Bill,” Cramden said, “Burgess is a big drug name. In fact, if he was around and you were a narc, that would be the guy to take down.”
“He’s big, huh?”
“Where the hell you been, Bill? You’ve never heard of Burgess?”
“Don’t hear about much working frat robberies.”
“Guess not.” Richardson put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Listen, if Burgess is involved, you’ve hit on something.”
Martin tensed just a bit and Richardson probably felt it. The hand jerked away. If these two detectives knew Martin was starting to scratch