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 at something big, they might stab him in the back, too.
He’d let that happen to him once. Not again.
“You know how to get in touch with this guy?” Martin asked. “Nah,” Cramden said. “But you’re smart, I’m sure you’ll find him.”
Martin dropped his cigarette butt into the trash. “Thanks, Paul.
You’re a big help.”
Richardson shot Cramden a look. Then turned back to Martin. “Bill, there are a few guys who messed with Burgess a couple of months ago. Had to talk to him about something. Harry Lance and Mike Johnson. Ask them.”
Martin thanked them.
“No problem, Bill. You deserve to get back on the horse.” Martin nodded and turned his back to go up again.
“Oh, shit. Bill, wait. Did you hear?”
Martin looked at the two detectives. “Hear what?”
“That asshole, what’s his name . . . Jackson Donne, he got taken in by a few cops in Madison last night. Got caught up with a dead body by Drew University.”
“Have you been inside yet?” I asked Tracy, standing outside Gerry’s house.
She was staring at the front door, hands in her jeans pockets. “No,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Do you want to take a look?”
“How long does it take to get to the funeral home?”
A breeze cooled the air, making the temperature perfect for a light jacket. Off to the west, some dark, thick clouds hung. April showers were probably about to roll in. But for the moment, above us the skies were still clear, a few birds circling, squawking and singing.
“About twenty minutes. Depending on traffic on Eighteen.” Tracy stood, eyes closed. It seemed she was either making a decision or trying to build up some courage.
I waited, putting my hands in my pockets. My Glock rested in the shoulder holster pressing against my arm. After
