“Think I’d have my cell phone with me?”
“Good point. Why are you calling me when I’m in trial? You knew I wouldn’t get back to you until now.”
“Out already?” I said as I looked at my watch. Close to four. “I only have a few minutes.”
“I need a favor.”
“Of course you do.”
I told him about Gerry. Told him I wanted some information from the cops.
“Jeez,” Lester said. “I’ll make a few calls. See what I can find out. But not until the trial is out this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Lester.”
He sighed. “I can’t keep doing this stuff for you. I’m a lawyer, not a snitch, not an informant. I think it’s time you made nice with the boys in blue.”
“There are two sides to that coin,” I said.
Bill Martin nodded at the woman coming down the stairs. She didn’t seem to notice him. That was fine.
He flicked his last cigarette of the pack onto the ground, crushed it with his shoe, and hiked to Donne’s office. The glass door was opaque and had his name inscribed in black lettering. Beneath it said PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. Should have said Traitor.
Or even better, Asshole.
Martin didn’t bother to knock.
Donne was hanging up the phone. He looked up and froze. “How’s it going, kid?” Martin asked.
“Bill.”
Martin took the chair in front of the desk, flipping it around so he could sit with his arms resting on the back.
“I’ve heard,” Donne said, “that sitting that way means you’re intimidated by women.”
He fired back. “If you knew what I’ve done, you wouldn’t bring that up. I’ll tell you someday.”
“Why are you here?”
“You were at the tavern today, right? Saw what happened with Gerry?”
“You’re investigating the case.” He wasn’t asking a question. Martin shrugged. “So, what did you see? What happened?”
“I don’t think I’m going to talk to you about this.”
Martin allowed himself a wry smile. Getting Donne to talk to him was half the reason Martin was looking forward to this. It was a challenge. Finding a way to screw Donne over in the process was the other half.
“I guess reminding you that you were my partner is out of the question, so how about helping me find the killer of someone you drank with.”
Donne shifted in his seat. “I don’t need your help.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re investigating the case, aren’t you?” Donne stayed silent, now motionless.
“Listen, the best thing you can do for this guy is leave it to me. I’m a cop. You know the resources we have at our disposal. What are you going to do, pound the fucking pavement and hope someone tells you who did it?”
“Come on, Bill. You never believed in that CSI shit.”
“I just want to find out who killed Gerry Figuroa.”
The air smelled musty, as if Donne hadn’t cleaned or even aired out his office in months. How did Donne get clients to sit here and explain their problems? Place stank to shit.
“I don’t know anything,” Donne said. “I sat in the bar, I heard tires squeal. By the time I got outside, the car was gone and Gerry was dead.”
“That’s your story?” Martin felt heat in his stomach. Rage building. His cheeks flushed.
“That’s all I’m telling you.”
“My old partner, and he won’t help me find his friend’s killer.”
“It was a hit-and-run. Could have been an accident.”
“Hit-and-run,” Martin said. “Still a murder in my book, kid.”
“Since when did they let you work homicides?”
Martin’s cheeks probably turned cherry red, he was so pissed. “You always were an asshole, Donne.”
“If it wasn’t for me, you’d be in jail.”
“If it wasn’t for you, things would still be the way they were.”
Donne stood. “I think you should go.”
“Probably right.” Martin found a business card and dropped it on the desk. “I have a new number. You change your mind, want to tell me what happened, call me.”
“Sure.”
Martin stepped out of the office. Once on the street, he smiled. This was going to work out just fine.
Not only did he get a chance to solve a murder, he was going to get a chance to fuck Donne over as well.
Yeah, this was going to work out perfectly.
Three Heinekens and a few hours later, my watch read ten after eight. I had my MapQuest directions and a picture of Rex Hanover in the car, so I decided not to stop at my apartment. I already had everything I needed. I headed up route 287. Traffic was light and 287 takes you through a section of the state the opposite of Newark and the turnpike. While the turnpike is full of smog and rusted metal, the Morristown-Madison area is very wealthy, with large houses spaced out among trees, mountains, and parks. The smog and factories of northeast New Jersey were only a scant twenty miles away, but felt like hundreds.
I took the exit for Madison Avenue as per my directions and saw Billy’s on my right. I parked the car in a supermarket parking lot next door, took my picture, and went inside. Apparently it was too early for a cover charge, but the bouncer at the door, who was two inches shorter than me and probably twenty pounds heavier, told me to tuck in my shirt. “Dress code,” he mumbled. His name tag read JEFF.
I did as he said, not wanting to make waves, and then found a seat at the nearly empty bar. The bartender, a thin woman with huge breasts and long black hair, asked, “What can I do for you, hon?”
I debated several answers before simply saying, “Heineken.” The buzz was wearing off from the three I’d had earlier.
By the time she put the bottle in front of me, I was holding the picture of Hanover out. “You know this guy?”
“Four-fifty for the beer,” she said, and took the picture from me. Examined it close to her face.
I put six on the bar.
“This is Rex,” she said, taking the money, dropping the picture. “He works here.”
I drank some of the beer. “He here tonight?” She looked toward the door. “Is he in trouble?”
She ran her hand through her hair. There was another guy, younger than me, at the other end of the bar, staring at her ass. When he saw me notice him, he winked.
“He’s not in trouble, I just want to ask him a few questions.”
“You a cop?”
I didn’t answer the cop question. It was just as well she assumed I was a cop.
She waited a moment, then said, “I don’t see him. He’s usually in only on the weekends. Sometimes Wednesdays. Well, if I see him, who should I say is looking for him?”
“Don’t