me, I was coked out of my mind. So was she. “Thanks,” I said. “Have you started making the arrangements for Gerry?”
Artie put a cup in front of her. I hoped it wasn’t filled with Jack. “Working on it,” she said. “I’m hoping to have the wake on Wednesday.”
“Where?”
“Place on Milltown Road in East Brunswick. What was the name of that home, Artie?”
Artie laughed. “Why? It’s not like he’ll show up.”
I kept quiet, let Artie have his moment. Tracy arched her eyebrows at me. I ignored her and flipped the paper open. There was an article about last night’s murder. According to the third paragraph, the dead woman’s name was Diane Peterson.
Artie must have rethought what he said, because he opened his mouth again. His voice was sullen. “Rinaldi’s Funeral Home.”
“That’s right. Rinaldi’s. I have an appointment with the funeral director this afternoon,” Tracy said.
“What time?”
“Four o’clock.”
I checked my watch. It was nearing noon. If I headed back to my office to make some phone calls regarding the Hanovers, I could be done in time to give Tracy a ride.
“Artie, you opening the bar tonight?” He nodded.
“Cool. Tracy, do you want me to give you a ride to the home?”
“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”
“It’s a date, then,” I said. “Yeah.” She laughed. “A date.”
“Sounds good. Meet you at Gerry’s quarter after three?”
“I’ll see you then.”
My office was as organized as it could be. There was a filing cabinet with alphabetized copies of the contracts of my former clients pushed into the corner near the window. There were two chairs facing the desk, high wooden backs to the door with the glass window. To the left of the desk, pushed against the far wall was an end table on top of which was the all-important coffeemaker, filters, Styrofoam cups, and sugar. Next to that was a minifridge where I kept cream, milk, and a few beers for special occasions or boredom.
Early afternoon, sitting behind the desk, I flipped through Hanover’s address book. Best to go in alphabetical order. While dialing I half listened to classic rock on the radio. The first two numbers turned up answering machines, and I left polite messages explaining who had hired me and what I was doing. The police had probably already been to a few of these, if Jen Hanover had given them some of the same information, and if that was the case, I didn’t have to worry about being discreet. If Jen hadn’t given them the numbers, the cops wouldn’t track down these people for a while.
My guess was the cops would talk to all the bouncers at Hanover’s bar, see what they could come up with. They’d also identify the corpse and talk to the people close to the dead girl. I would do the same thing if I could find out who the girl was. What I wanted was a hit, someone who had talked to Hanover, someone who had seen him just after the murder. It was like building a pyramid or a house, you start with the foundation and keep adding. With any luck, I’d get to the top, finish it off, and end up with Hanover’s location.
The third call was an actual voice. The address book said Michael Burgess. The voice was gruff, like someone who had spent the morning yelling. The moment I identified myself, he hung up. So much for Mr. Burgess. I’d have to take some time and visit him personally if nothing else clicked. Then again, there was only a phone number in the book. No address.
I tried four more numbers. All answering machines. That didn’t surprise me. It was midafternoon and most people had day jobs. I left messages, sat and waited. No one called back.
At three o’clock, it was time to pick up Tracy.
I left my office, down the steps toward George Street. Two guys the size 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
