by Dave White
Then I thought about how hard I tried to keep away from mine. “Jackson?” Artie said. He reached out his hand and shook mine. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I promised.”
Acknowledgements
There are so many people I need to thank. To Allan Guthrie and Jason Pinter for taking this book and making it so much better than it was.
Jason also gets thanks—so much thanks—for creating Polis and saving this book and Jackson Donne from oblivion.
To Erin and Ben, whom I love more than anything.
My family and friends for always believing, sometimes more than I did.
Kevin Burton Smith, Victoria Esposito-Shea, and Gerald So over at the Thrilling Detective website for accepting my first Donne stories, and helping to grow the character.
The faculty, staff and administration in the Clifton Public Schools system for their constant support.
Ray Banks, Laura Lippman, Duane Swierczynski, Pat Lambe, Charlie Stella, Russel McLean, Jay Stringer, Charlie Stella, Bryon Quertermous, John Rickards, Sarah Weinman, Ed Champion, and the rest of the authors who’ve always been there: you’re the best.
Thanks, everybody.
About the Author
Dave White is a Derringer Award-winning mystery author and educator. White, an eighth grade teacher for the Clifton, NJ Public School district, attended Rutgers University and received his MAT from Montclair State University. His 2002 short story, “Closure,” won the Derringer Award for Best Short Mystery Story the following year. Publishers Weekly gave the first two novels in his Jackson Donne series, When One Man Dies and The Evil That Men Do, starred reviews, calling When One Man Dies an “engrossing, evocative debut novel” and writing that his second novel “fulfills the promise of his debut.” He received praise from crime fiction luminaries such as bestselling, Edgar Award-winning Laura Lippman and the legendary James Crumley.
Both When One Man Dies and The Evil That Men Do were nominated for the prestigious Shamus Award, and When One Man Dies was nominated for the Strand Critics Award for “Best First Novel”. His standalone thriller, Witness To Death, was an ebook bestseller upon release and named one of the Best Books of the Year by the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel.
The third book in his acclaimed Jackson Donne series, Not Even Past, will be published in February 2014 by Polis Books.
Follow Dave White on Twitter at @dave_white.
Read on for an excerpt from The Evil That Men Do, the acclaimed second novel in Dave White’s Jackson Donne series:
PART ONE
JOE TENANT
1938
Joe Tenant tied the barge to the dock. The water licked its sides, and the boat swayed back and forth. The chill of the morning air made him shiver, and he wished for the sun to rise a little faster. He pulled the knot tight, made sure it was secure, and stepped onto the wooden planks.
A few men sorted through their lunch boxes, looking for a quick breakfast before starting the day shift. Tenant always thought that odd, because, as long as he’d worked the night shift, the morning had always signaled dinner to him. Working nights was difficult, adjusting to the schedule, keeping a wife happy, but Tenant enjoyed the silence.
“Hey, Tugboat, how’s the water today?” one of the daymen asked. “They ‘re transferring me to nights next week, so I want to enjoy it while I can.”
Tenant smiled at his nickname. He hadn’t liked it at first, thought the men were mocking him, but he’d soon learned that everybody had a nickname on the water.
“How are you, Sops? Water’s kind of rocky, might be a storm later in the day.”
“Fantastic,” Sops said.
Tenant wished them a good day and headed toward the parking lot. The warehouses that surrounded the lot expelled smoke and steam, doing their best to spur the economy. The air smelled like fish and soot, and Tenant would be happy just to get home.
He reached his car and was reminded how lucky he was. In these days, it was good fate to have a car when hardly anyone did. Meanwhile those guys down in Clifton were trying to build that dog park, and doing whatever the hell else FDR wanted them to do. And all that shit out in Europe, he was living a blessed life.
He unlocked the door and got in. And as he sat down, he realized he’d left his lunch box on the barge. He sighed, got out of the car, and started the trek back to the boat. The water slapped against the dock, and it wobbled a bit. He knelt down and reached for his lunch box.
“We warned you.”
The voice was loud, rising over the water. Tenant looked to his left toward the source of the sound. About thirty feet away, two men slouched along the shore, staring downward. A thin stream of light reflecting off the river illuminated them. The light came from a docking boat farther down the river.
Tenant could tell the men were out of view to anyone in the parking lot. He’d gone down to the shoreline to fish out his shoe when a coworker played a joke on him. He knew you could be seen only from the dock he stood on.
“No, please.” Another voice. “It was only business.”
Between the two men, a hand rose out of the water, as if the person needed help standing. One of the men slapped the hand away.
“Don’t worry, Maxwell. This is only business too.”
The second man raised his arm over his head. In the light Tenant saw a thick shape, probably a blackjack. The man swung it downward, and it landed with a sickening thump. Water splashed around his arm. The man repeated the move three more times.
Tenant should have just turned and run away, but his muscles wouldn’t move. His eyes wouldn’t look away.
The other man kicked at the body in the water until the current took it. He turned his head to watch it float away, and his pale face faced Tenant, his features caught momentarily in the thin light off the river. Joe Tenant tried to memorize them. The reddish hair, freckles, the crooked smile.
If the man saw Tenant, he didn’t react. He just turned back toward land and walked off.
Tenant peered over the edge of the dock. Dark waves ebbed and flowed, and the water was deep enough here that he couldn’t see the bottom. The dock rocked again, hard enough that Tenant had to brace himself. He crossed to the other edge and peered over.
At first he didn’t notice it, he looked too far left. But once the dock rocked one more time, he looked to the right. Bile rose in his throat.
Facedown in the water, the body of a man in a pin-striped suit bobbed in the current, sleeve caught against the pier.
Tenant closed his eyes and swore.
Maybe he wasn’t as lucky as he thought.
Chapter 1
Jackson Donne hadn’t talked to his sister in years. So when Susan buzzed his apartment, he wasn’t really expecting it.
“You closed your office,” she said as she entered. “Court ordered.”
She didn’t respond, save for brushing a strand of her short auburn hair over her ear. Susan had cut her hair since the last time he’d seen her and it was boyish in style, though thick and brushed back. It didn’t fit her.
“How are you, Jackson?” she asked. “Why are you here?”
She stalked past Donne and sat on the couch. Dropping her purse on his coffee table, she said, “No small talk?”
He didn’t respond.
“It’s Mom,” Susan continued. “She’s sick, real sick. She doesn’t have much time left.”
He couldn’t help asking, “What’s wrong?”
“Alzheimer’s, dementia. We put her in a nursing home last year, now she’s in a hospice.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Would you have come help?”
It was a good point. He had separated himself from his family, just as his father had. Unlike his father, however, Donne had good reasons. At least he thought so.
“There’s a reason I’m coming to see you now. Mom, she’s been talking about stuff I never knew about. I’m not sure if it’s rambling truths or she’s making things up, but I need your help. You’re a detectiv
e.”
“Not anymore,” he said.
“Whatever,” she said. “I want your help.”
“To do what? You want me to sit by her, read her stories, talk to her?” He shook his head. “I’m busy, Susan. Not going to do it.”
“Come on, Jackson. You know how much we mean to her. She had us so late in her life. Please, she should have been in menopause and she was having kids. We should both be there for her.”
Donne shook his head.
“Damn it, Jackson. It’s time to grow up. Be a son. Be a brother. What else are you doing with your life?”
“I’m starting school at Rutgers in the fall. I’m working.”
“I want you to find out about Mom’s dad. She’s been talking about him.”
“What does it matter?”
She grabbed her purse and moved toward the door. Finally. “Peace of mind,” she said as she turned the knob. “Doesn’t that matter?”
“What kind of purse is that?” he asked. “Coach, one of those expensive kinds?”
She looked at the purse, then at Donne, confused.
“Franklin buy that for you? Drop a couple hundred on you to keep you happy?”
Her face turned red, and she took a deep breath before speaking. “Think about it, Jackson. You need to see her again before she dies. Peace of mind. I don’t think you’ve ever had it. Not with Jeanne, not with me, not with Mom. Hell, not even with Dad, and you were, what, eight when he left? Maybe you could use a little closure. Help us out.”
“No.”
“Please, Jackson. She said that our grandfather murdered someone. It’s all she’s been talking about. I need to know if it’s true.”
She pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway. He never should have allowed her up.
***
Donne worked nighttime security at a storage facility in Piscataway. It was a great job. He got in about eleven and off at seven. No one bothered him, and he could come in a little buzzed after a few drinks at the Olde Towne Tavern. He could even catch a little West Coast baseball on satellite radio or take a nap.
Which was what he was doing when Franklin Carter approached him.
“Wake up, asshole,” he said, banging a fist on the desk. Jackson sat forward, his eyes shot open, and he stifled a yawn.
Carter looked like he’d just come from work, dressed in a pinstriped suit, pale blue shirt, and striped tie. Even his loafers were polished. His dark hair was combed back, his mustache neatly trimmed. “What do you want, Franklin?” Donne asked. His tongue tasted like leather.
“Your sister came to you for help and you turned her down.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
The silence hung in the room. Behind Carter, through the swinging glass door, headlights passed. It had to be earlier than Donne thought for there to be that much traffic.
“I want you to help her,” Carter said. “She came home the other day in tears. She had just been with your mother, watching her fade away. She said she went to see you and you two argued. You’re hurting her. I won’t have that.”
Donne shrugged. “It’s not my problem.”
Franklin Carter slammed his fists on the desk again and leaned in so close Donne smelled his breath. “It is your problem! This is about your mother and your sister. Don’t you have any sense of family?”
Donne thought about Jeanne. About what he knew about her now. “No,” he said.
Carter stood back up and reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and checkbook.
“What’s it going to take?” he asked.
“I don’t do investigative work anymore.”
He took a deep breath, then said, “Everyone has a price.”
Donne sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He didn’t have any college scholarships coming in. He hadn’t been paid a salary in a long while. The storage facility was an hourly wage and it wasn’t much more than rent and drinking money.
“You always were a rich prick,” Donne said. “Even in high school. I couldn’t stand you. I never understood why our parents were friends.”
“What’s the price?” Carter said, his voice unbearably confident.
Donne gave his brother-in-law a price. Carter scribbled out a check.
***
When Carter came through the door, his tie was loosened and his hair was out of place. Susan got off the couch and wrapped her arms around him.
“How was work?”
He pressed his hand against the small of her back and pulled her close. Susan smelled the faint remains of his sweet cologne.
Carter didn’t answer her question, so she moved her head away from his neck and looked at him.
“Work?” she asked, nudging his shoulder with her chin. “You know, meals, plates, table settings, schmoozing with customers on the Upper East Side? Or at the very least in Montclair? I asked you a question.”
Carter leaned in and kissed her. “Jackson’s going to help.”
“You’re kidding. He told me he didn’t want to see Mom. He seemed pretty adamant.”
Carter shrugged. “He’s going to help.”
“Thank you.”
He smiled and kissed her again. “Anything for you, babe.”
Read on for an excerpt of Not Even Past, the third installment in Dave White’s Jackson Donne series, coming in 2014 from Polis Books:
“The past is not dead. It’s not even past.”
--William Faulkner
PART I
Jersey Comeback
Chapter 1
When Jackson Donne saw the eight year old picture of himself, he thought the email was the weirdest form of spam he’d ever gotten.
It was taken on graduation day at the Academy, and Donne was in his dress blues smiling in front of an American flag. His hat was tilted down, leaving two fingers of room between the brim and his nose, exactly as they’d been taught. Jeanne had taken it. They’d only been dating three months, and he remembered how happy she was that he’d completed training. Now, they’d have some extra time to spend together. Donne was smiling more about that than actually graduating from the Academy.
He hadn’t seen the picture in years. It was boxed up somewhere, with the rest of Jeanne’s things. Had her parents taken that stuff after she died? He didn’t remember Donne scrolled down some more and saw the text. The muscles in his shoulders tightened as if someone had grabbed him. Written in bolded italics was “Click and Watch. Her life depends on it.” Next to that a link, but not to a website Donne recognized.
Don’t click on it, he thought. Probably some virus, something that would eat up all the files on his computer. He couldn’t afford that, not now, with exams looming. Of course, the only reason he logged on in the first place was to procrastinate.
But this email tickled his brain. The picture, who had found and sent him that picture. He looked at the email address again, a string of numbers and a domain that just said “di.com.” Nothing familiar jumped out at him.
Donne quickly forwarded the email to his personal email address. Then he closed the school email, but didn’t delete the original message. Scrolled through the rest. Nothing from his professors. No study guides, no cheat sheets, no rubrics. No help at all. His time at college had been tedious, full of syllabi, Moodles, message boards, readings and essays. But, this was his life now.
No gunfire. No one dies.
Life was what it should be. Boring. Work on what you have to, have pizza and a beer on Friday night. Watch some movies. Tweet.
And now that he was so close to the end, closing out his degree, he wanted it to be even easier. Kate said he had senioritis. He didn’t disagree.
Which was why this email bothered him. Donne clicked on it again and looked at the time stamp. It’d been sent at six this morning. Now, according to his iPhone, it was ten am. Four hours that email had sat there waiting for him. The Microsoft Outlook email system Rutgers used didn’t jibe with his
phone, otherwise he might have gotten it earlier.
But no, that picture had sat there while Donne had gotten up and gone for coffee and a bagel. Surfed through some NJ websites looking at the news and overall procrastinating instead of studying.
The mouse arrow hovered over the link, turning from arrow to finger. His own finger hovered over the button.
A bead of sweat formed at his hairline.
He clicked the link. And his gut gurgled when he got the pinwheel cursor. His computer had frozen and for an instant he worried about every one of his files disappearing into some abyss of zeros and ones. About spending the next twelves hours waiting in line at the Genius Bar at the Menlo Park Mall.
The pinwheel stopped and his browser opened up. Donne stared at the screen. A black square, then a Quicktime Play Button in the middle. He clicked on the triangle and waiting as the screen buffered. It must be buffering, he though, because nothing else was happening.
There was a loud swoosh from his speakers and the screen went bright white, like sun reflecting off snow. Donne flinched and squinted as the camera adjusted to the light. The picture came into focus. A nearly empty room. Gray walls, gray floor. The camera was positioned behind two spotlights. Donne could see the tri-pods and big round head fixed on top of them. Beyond that was a chair. In the chair was a woman.
Donne leaned closer to the screen. He couldn’t tell who it was.
The camera zoomed in slowly. The spotlights were out of view. The woman wore blue sweatpants and a white tank top. She was slumped over. Her wrists were tied to the arms of the chair. Her brown hair had fallen in front of her face.
The camera pulled in tight on the torso of the woman. She was shaking and her arms appeared bruised. The bruises had occurred some time ago, however, because they had yellowed on the outside. The woman lifted her head and the hair fell away from her face. Her mouth was covered in duct tape. Her nose was runny. And her eyes looked directly into the camera.