rest of the beer went down a bit easier. I had a full buzz going on now.
“The cops can handle it. I don’t want to do this. I want to focus on getting this college shit straightened out.”
“You said you’d have to pay your way somehow.”
“I can do some insurance work. They’re still calling me.”
I spun the empty bottle on the bar. Artie caught it, took it away. The bar door swung open, one of the regulars stuck his head in.
“Cops are gonna be in to ask questions in a few, guys.”
Artie looked at me, said, “I don’t trust the cops, Jackson. But I do trust you.”
“Why do you care about this at all?”
“Why are you trying to act like you don’t care? You know Gerry came in here every day. Even after he stopped drinking. Even after his son died. He has no one else. We’re as close to family as it’s going to get. I think we owe it to him.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “All right. I’ll look into it. But first, get me another beer.”
Artie reached behind the bar. “I want to pay your standard rate. Draw up a contract and everything.”
“Fine,” I said, not willing to argue anymore.
Bill Martin stood on the curb watching the officers work the crowd. He puffed on a cigarette, which he knew he’d catch hell for, but didn’t care. He missed the days when Leo Carver was still in charge. He could do whatever the hell he wanted then.
The body of the old man was long gone, but the chalk outline was there. The street was closed off, and he could hear the horns of cars being forced to detour. A hit-and-run could only make this town more congested.
Martin got called in late, after the officers had started questioning witnesses and letting them leave the scene. Back when they originally thought it was an accident. It wasn’t until more than one witness said they thought the car aimed at the victim that he was summoned.
He hadn’t worked a homicide in a long time. In a town like this, only detectives and uniforms, usually the cops in good standing, got the homicides. Martin was stuck with robberies.
But it’d been an unusual week in New Brunswick, with two drive-by shootings and a college kid pushed down a frat stairway. So Martin was the only detective left on duty when this call came in. He was glad it got him out of the office.
He wasn’t sure what the crime-scene guys would find here. There were some drops of blood splattered along the pavement, but that was about it. Maybe some paint chips from the offending car? Like that would help. Pounding the pavement, getting descriptions, that’s what would help. Maybe someone had been quick enough to catch a plate number.
Martin did a quick scan of the faces in the crowd, the dumbfounded looks. There wasn’t anyone quick enough.
He waved over Officer Franklin, the first one on the scene. The short guy, hat tilted wrong, sweat pouring off his brow. He didn’t make eye contact.
“Yes, Detective?”
Martin grinned, loved intimidating the rookies. ‘You talk to everyone here?”
“Most of them.”
“Start letting some witnesses go?”
“Yeah,” Franklin said. “After we talked to them, we told them to go home.”
“Make a list of the people you talked to? Contact information?”
“Yes, sir.”
Martin waited. Figured Franklin would get the hint and give him the list. But Franklin stared at something on the sidewalk.
Martin cleared his throat and Franklin’s head snapped up. “The list?” Martin said.
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Franklin fiddled with his pockets and pulled out a piece of paper folded into fourths. Real professional.
Martin took the paper, lit another cigarette, and looked over the names. It was the third name that jumped out at him as if it’d been outlined in neon. It was a name he hadn’t uttered in years, but thought about every day. Memories clouded his thought process. He barely remembered the hit-and-run.
All he saw was the name that nearly ended his career. And he knew which witness he’d be speaking with first.
Jackson Donne.
By the time I got back to my office, after being interviewed by three different patrolmen, a dull throb radiated behind my eyes. I sat behind my desk massaging my temples, eyes closed. I called Lester Russell. I used my office line to call his cell, got his voice mail. I left a message for him to call me back.
There was a knock at my office door. Probably Artie checking in. I splashed some water on my face, came back from the bathroom, and opened the door. It wasn’t Artie.
It was a woman.
She looked at me between strands of brown hair that fell over her gunmetal eyes.
“You Jackson Donne?” She pronounced it “Doan.”
I corrected her and said, “That’s me. Can I help you?”
“I’d like to hire you.”
I stepped away from the doorjamb. Said, “Come on in.”
She walked past me, wearing a white New Jersey Devils T-shirt and jeans with a tear in the ass. She was wearing white underwear. She also had a wedding ring on her finger.
She took a seat in the chair set up for prospective clients, facing my desk. I circled around and joined her, crossing my hands on my desk, like a perfect student. Ready to listen.
“What can I help you with, ma’am?”
She pulled her long hair back into a ponytail. “Please, my mother’s a ma’am. Call me Jen.”
“Okay, Jen.” I returned the smile. Mine probably was a little more natural. “What can I do for you?”
She played with the ring on her finger. “I think my husband is cheating on me.”
“I see.”
She twisted the ring to the tip of her nail, pressed it back on. “He comes home late. He doesn’t call. He smells like alcohol and perfume.”
“How long have you been married?”
“About a year.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s
