Читать книгу The Evil That Men Do - Dave White - Страница 17

Chapter 6

When the cops showed up, they went through the routine of frisking, cuffing, and sitting Donne in the backseat of a cop car while they checked out his story. Going through it too many times before, he had hoped this part of his life was over when his private investigator’s license was revoked.

Through the back window, Donne watched the first officer on the scene dry-heave on the front lawn. Probably a rookie, never seen a murdered body before. In a few moments, two detectives would show up and do their thing, and a bigger Bergen County city would send a medical examiner or CSI guys or whatever they were called. Worst-case scenario, the county would send someone in.

So he waited, watched as two plainclothers he didn’t recognize pulled up in a Chevy. The one in the pin-striped suit talked to the officer, and the one in a charcoal suit went through the front door while pulling on plastic gloves. Pinstripe followed Charcoal inside.

Donne settled back into the leather seat.

***

Pinstripe waited twenty minutes before he came out to talk to Donne. If there was a pool, Donne’s money would have been on having to wait half an hour. The cop must have had a date.

He opened the back door of the car and crouched in front of Donne.

“I’m Detective Iapicca,” he said. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, and with all the oil in it, Donne was surprised the hand came back dry. Then he produced a badge.

“I’m Jackson Donne.” He couldn’t move his hands. They were cuffed behind him.

Iapicca nodded. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Donne told him the entire story. Did not leave a detail out. He had learned the hard way that lying will only get you in more trouble.

When Donne finished, Iapicca said, “You expect me to believe that?”

“Well,” Donne said, choosing his words carefully, “it is what happened.” And you told me to tell you ‘what happened.’ ”

“Let me ask you something. You know how many times I’ve interviewed witnesses?”

“No. I’ve never met you before.”

“Lots of times.”

“I see.”

“And, do you know how many times they’ve told me a ‘black guy’ did it?”

“No idea.”

“I don’t have the exact specifics, but I’d go with ninety percent.”

“You don’t keep stats?”

“Listen, all I’m saying is your story sounds a bit sketchy. Most of the time someone tells me it’s the black guy in gang colors, it turns out they’re lying. Gangs are not a problem in Rutherford, New Jersey.” Donne took a deep breath. “This town is right in between Passaic, Paterson, and Newark. Three cities where gangs are extremely prevalent. And you’re telling me it’s impossible to have a gang member come in and shoot my aunt and uncle.”

“I’m saying it’s unlikely.”

The charcoal-suited cop came out of the front door. He was on a cell phone.

“Then what is likely?” Donne asked. “You did it.”

Donne nodded. Time to shut up.

“But,” he continued, “the time for that accusation will come later. Right now there’s really no evidence.” He flipped a business card on Donne’s lap. “The rookie over there is going to uncuff you and you’ll be free to go. Call me if you think of anything else.”

He winked at Donne.

“Or,” Iapicca said, “if you just want to turn yourself in.”

***

That was the fucking shit, Carlos thought, walking down the street. Cesar and James were ahead of him, laughing. Cut school and just steal shit. Best day ever. Just fucking around, havin’ fun.

“Yo, nigga,” James said, “you shoulda D-blocked that sign.”

Carlos thought about the neon Budweiser sign. That would look tight in his room, next to the Ludacris poster, but nah, he couldn’t carry it. And the police always drove by the bar. Throwing the rocks to break the window was bad enough.

“If five-oh shows up,” Cesar said, “just run. We get the hell out. They ain’t gonna catch us.”

“Nah, yo,” Carlos said, looking over his shoulder. “Five-oh come by, walk. They ain’t gonna arrest anyone who walkin’. We ain’t do nothing wrong then.”

Cesar started to laugh, but sure enough, they heard the sirens of a cop car. Carlos didn’t even flinch, just kept on walking. Cesar and James, though, they didn’t listen.

James took off first, looking like he did when he ran track at school, arms tight to the body, knees up high. Cesar flailed, arms all over the place. You could tell the panic just by the way he ran.

Carlos, though, did not hurry. Nothing bothered him. Especially not the cops.

Cesar and James were a good block and a half ahead when the car blew by Carlos. It screeched to a halt in front of his two friends. Carlos laughed and turned the corner. Walked down the street toward the river. Passaic River smelled like shit, but it was better than walking toward a cop car.

As he reached the bank of the river, he saw a big black Escalade pull off the curb back toward Route 3. Looked just like one of those cars on BET in the videos. He walked toward it, wondering if whoever was inside was somebody famous.

The Escalade was long gone by the time Carlos reached the spot where it had been parked. He looked down at the tracks in the street, like he’d spun the wheels out. He wanted to walk down closer, but man, he just got these Air Forces and he didn’t want them to get all muddy.

But something caught his eye reflecting in the light, down by the river. It was sticking out of the mud, stuck there like it had been tossed out the window. And he knew what it was.

He decided it was worth getting his shoes muddy to get a better look.

He reached down and pulled it out of the dirt to look at it. So much better than a fucking neon beer sign.

Definitely a gun.