Not Even Past

by Dave White

  “I’d like to speak to Senator Stern, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Martin presented his badge.

  “You’re well out of your jurisdiction, officer.”

  “Detective, and I still need to talk to him.”

  “What’s this in regard to?”

  Martin had mulled this question over as he’d driven this morning. No lie seemed like it was going to work. The best he came up with had to do with the merger.

  “I want to know how New Brunswick and Rutgers are going to benefit from this merger.”

  “I believe I can answer that,” the receptionist said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Rutgers.”

  Martin sighed. He didn’t want to do it this way. “Go back there and tell him I know Jeanne Baker.”

  “Detective, he’s very busy. And he doesn’t take unannounced visitors.”

  “Just tell him.”

  She rolled her eyes and reached for her intercom. Then stopped. Instead, she stood up, smoothed her skirt, and walked through the door behind her desk. Martin could hear muffled voices going back and forth. The deeper one spoke very quickly. Her voice came in short, clipped sentences.

  The receptionist came back out and pulled the door closed. Her smile was tighter than the band holding her hair back.

  “He’s on the phone. He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  “Great,” Martin said. He would wait this out.

  He sat in a plastic chair, like the ones kids sat in at grammar school. Taking out his phone, he texted Leonard Baker, asking if he’d heard from Jeanne yet. It was a daily ritual now. The first two days he’d done it, Leonard responded with “I wouldn’t tell you that.” Now he didn’t even respond at all. But it made Martin feel like he was doing something, so he kept it up.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Martin said, “Long phone call.”

  The receptionist didn’t look up. Said, “Politics. Important work.”

  “That your stock answer?”

  She didn’t respond. It’d been happening to Martin so much lately, he thought he should be getting used to it. The hair on the back of his neck still stood up.

  He got through level 147 of Candy Crush on his phone. One of the young cops busted his balls about that game every day. “You can’t figure out your email, but you can play Candy Crush.”

  “Go be an Angry Bird somewhere else,” was Martin’s reply.

  The response was met with mostly silence. Someone used an app to play a cricket sound on their phone. He couldn’t banter with the young kids anymore. Didn’t mean he was going to stop trying.

  His phone buzzed. It was a text. He checked the ID, it wasn’t Leonard Baker. It was his boss.

  I need to see you in my office this afternoon. Then a second text. I don’t care if you have Ebola. Get here.

  His cheeks burned red, and he gripped the phone tight. The shaking returned hard. And he thought he was over that nonsense.

  The receptionist’s phone rang. She picked it up and said no, then paused. Then she said yes. The smile wasn’t as tight now.

  “The senator will see you now,” the receptionist said.

  “Of course he will.”

  Martin stood up and walked to the office door. He stopped, his trembling hand on the doorknob.

  “Do you like your job?” he said to the receptionist.

  “I do.”

  “So did I.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Don’t dip your pen in the company ink,” Martin said.

  “Excuse me?” There was a bite in her voice.

  “Your hair is all out of place. Your lipstick is smeared. I’m surprised all your buttons are correct. And you boss left you out here to dry. He wasn’t nice enough to tell you. And isn’t Senator Stern twice divorced? Must be a great guy. The Star-Ledger would love a story like this.”

  The receptionists hand went to her lips. “How dare you?”

  Martin shrugged.

  Before she could respond, Martin opened the door and walked into Stern’s office. The senator was sitting behind his desk, hands folded in front of him. He looked like a schoolmarm.

  “How are you, detective?” Stern’s voice was the epitome of ice.

  “Not as good as I was twenty minutes ago.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Let’s chat.”

  Stern nodded. “I understand you’re friends with a former colleague of mine.”

  “According to her, you’ve caused her some stress.”

  “If we’re talking about the same person, I’m pretty sure she passed away some time ago.”

  Martin shook his head. “Let’s stop this crap and get down to it.”

  The senator laid his hands flat on the desk. His ear twitched.

  “What are you getting at, detective? Come out with it.”

  Martin walked over to the couch against the wall. He sat.

  “I think you’re the one who has to do the talking. Tell me all of it.”

  BABY STEPS.

  That’s what Donne’s life was now. Baby steps. He could push himself, covered in sweat, to cross a room. But it took twenty minutes. And Luca had to help him back to bed. His legs felt like sandbags, barely getting off the ground and then smashing back into the tile as he tried to keep his balance.

  His shoulder was stiff, but the chest wound hurt. Hot iron seared across his pecs and barbs dug into his abs. It made air hard to come by, and breathing was the worst part of his day.

  Donne still couldn’t get his left arm over his head. He was able to lift it about six inches off his hip. The doctor hadn’t come to see him in what seemed like forty-eight hours, and that was bothersome. Maybe Stern and company just wanted him healthy enough. But Donne knew if he didn’t get help and physical therapy, he might never have movement again.

  The first time Luca saw Donne try to lift his arm, he said, “I don’t know how you’re going to beat me one-on-one if you can’t keep your hands up.”

  Donne grunted in response. He was curious about Luca. His reaction to Donne’s accusations were minor. Yeah, he acted pissed at first, but now he had calmed to the point where he was acting like nothing had happened.

  That didn’t sit well with Donne. It’s tough to plan an escape when you can barely walk. It’s tough to plan an escape when you don’t know where you are. Donne thought he could get outside no problem. But after that, what next? There was enough traffic passing by that he thought maybe he could flag down a car.

  After Luca helped him back into bed, Donne asked, “Do you have my cell phone?”

  Luca laughed.

  Donne said, “Worth a shot.”

  “You don’t get reception down here anyway.”

  “Then how are you in touch with Stern?”

  “I said you don’t get reception. iPhones suck. I have a Droid. I can talk to anybody anytime.”

  Donne exhaled. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  “I think you’re delusional.”

  “Probably a sign I’m getting better.” Donne settled into his pillow. “Let me ask you something.”

  Luca shook his head. “You already asked enough.”

  “Are you married? Girlfriend? How the hell are you able to stay here, five days straight, never leaving? You just sit around, watch TV, and shoot hoops all day.”

  “All part of the life,” Luca said.

  Donne tried to wrap that around his mind. A step slow, he kept reminding himself. He was still a step slow.

  “Gangbanger?” That didn’t seem right.

  “Give me a break. No class there. No class.” Luca waved his hand at him.

  “Who are you, Luca?”

  “If I had my way, you wouldn’t be here right now. I don’t want you to know me. So shut up, before you get yourself in more trouble.”

  “All right, all right. I’m sorry,” Donne said. He didn’t want to take it too far and set off Luca’s inner alarm. The guy was willing to talk a bit. Donne
needed to allow that. “Let me sleep, then.”

  Luca nodded and Donne shut his eyes. There was no sound for what felt like a few minutes. Donne tried to regulate his breath and make it seem like he was sleeping. He felt like a kid trying to get out of going to school.

  Donne heard footsteps that faded. When he opened his eyes, Luca was gone. Probably to the TV room in the back.

  Donne lay there, letting it all roll through his head. After a moment, he heard talking. Not TV talking, but Luca. Donne tried to focus in on the sounds, make out the words. Luca was clearly using his superior Droid. He hadn’t heard conversations before, and had assumed Luca had been communicating with Stern through texts.

  “Hey, baby,” he heard. It was like trying to eavesdrop on someone in a library.

  “No, no. It’s gonna be okay.”

  Come on, Donne thought. Give me something.

  “Marie, I told you it’s going to be fine. This is going to pay off, I promise.”

  The gears started to link up and click together.

  “If I do this, we’re gold, baby.” Luca coughed. “Uncle Tony would be proud of me.”

  There was silence for a few minutes. At first, Donne thought Luca had hung up.

  “I’m not my uncle. I’m not stupid, babe. Keep it small. I’m not going to try to blow up New York just so I can be the boss. This is enough.”

  And finally, Donne got it. It took him way longer than it should have. The Italian mob of New Jersey had been a black hole for the last year or two. Donne tried to follow some of it, but the news was scattered.

  After the lead New Jersey guy—Tony Verderese—tried to take a run at New York last year, and then died in the process, the FBI was happy. The mob was shattered in both states. A power loss. Donne wasn’t sure who stood up to fill that void, but someone must have.

  “What do you mean ‘asking about me’?” Luca’s voice echoed off the high ceilings. “What did you tell her?”

  Get some sleep, Donne told himself. Rest now, you’re going to need your strength.

  “I knew Stern was wrong. We should have killed her. He let her ride in the van. And then he let her go.”

  Donne’s eyes snapped open. He was talking about Kate. The barbs in his stomach morphed into butterflies and acid. He needed to sleep, now.

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  The room tilted left, and Donne felt like he was drunk. He squeezed his eyes tight and tried to right himself. He dug his hands into the mattress and his shoulder lit up again.

  “No. No, you did the right thing. I love you, babe.”

  Donne realized, through the blinding pain in his shoulder, that he had no other choice. Whatever else happened, he needed to get out of here.

  Tonight.

  USUALLY, THE “Tell me all of it” threat worked. Of course, for Bill Martin, it worked on junkies and scared college kids. The tension in his voice, the unflinching stare, the fact that his targets had been sitting in an empty room for nearly three hours before he finally got to them.

  They were ready to spill the beans.

  But not Henry Stern, a politician long practiced in the art of, well, politics. It was Martin who felt strung out, still thinking of the text from his boss, the timing of it.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Stern said. “I haven’t seen Jeanne Baker in a long time.”

  Martin leaned back in his chair and tried to think of the right question. A subtle one that would lead Stern to say too much.

  “Six years ago, Jeanne Baker died in a car accident.”

  Stern nodded. “I believe the police report said her body was burned so badly, they were unable to recover it. They had to get DNA from a tooth.”

  “Dental records,” Martin said. “How do you know that?”

  Stern spread his hands. “I had just become a state senator. I had friends in the department. I asked around.”

  “What did you and Jeanne work on together at Rutgers?”

  “We were in different departments.”

  Outside the protesters had started up a chant. It was said in a sing-song, but the words were muffled by the walls of the building. If Stern heard them, he didn’t react.

  “So how did you know each other?”

  “We worked on the same campus. We crossed paths.” Stern looked down at his desk, then back up.

  Martin sighed. “Come on, Henry. We’re talking one of the biggest colleges—excuse me—universities in the country. You don’t just ‘cross paths’ with people.”

  “You’re right,” Stern said. “We did work together on a few projects.”

  “Like what?”

  Stern pursed his lips, and his nostrils twitched. “We worked on how public education ties into political science. Local governments, taxes, and whether the public education system works.”

  “Oh. Is that all?”

  Stern leaned forward. “You can find our research in the stacks of Alexander Library. Do you want directions?”

  The senator’s phone rang, and Stern held up a finger. He picked it up and told his receptionist he was fine and Mr. Martin would be leaving shortly. After he cradled the phone, Stern raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Are you finished?”

  “You left Rutgers shortly after working with Ms. Baker, didn’t you?”

  “I ran for office.”

  “What prompted that decision?”

  “I’ve told the story many times.”

  “Once more would be great,” Martin said.

  “After Jeanne and I completed our research, I decided I want to effect real change. I wanted to end the waste of taxpayer money in our state.”

  “Uh-huh,” Martin said. “If I remember correctly, you worked with our esteemed governor to cut pensions and health care in education.”

  “Right. One of our finer accomplishments.”

  “I’m sure some people would disagree.” Martin didn’t mind when they went after education. But when they went after cops, it got annoying. “And now you’re embroiled in this University of New Jersey and Ben Franklin College thing.”

  “Rutgers is New Jersey’s big public research university. Every state needs one. But now, if we can merge UNJ with Franklin, and create a larger private university, think of what it what it can do for our budget. Your taxes.”

  Martin nodded. “I’m sure you’ll find a use for the money. I’ll ask you flat out: What does Jeanne know about you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stern looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I gave you a good chunk of my time, but I have appointments to keep.”

  “I don’t like you, Mr. Stern.”

  Stern nodded. “That’s a shame. I shouldn’t have to answer your questions.”

  “I’m a cop.” Martin stood up and pushed his chair in.

  “Are you?”

  Martin shook his head at the strange question. “For the record, you didn’t really answer my questions anyway.”

  “I’m good at what I do,” Stern said.

  He reached across his desk and shook Martin’s hand. The grip was limp and sweaty. Martin then noticed a bead of sweat on Stern’s lapel. The air-conditioning was pumping in the room, but this guy was sweating.

  Martin winked at him before leaving the office.

  THE DRIVE back to New Brunswick was gridlocked with slow traffic, which did nothing for Martin’s trembling hands. But he got to the station eventually, even hitting several green lights in a row on Route 18 in East Brunswick.

  He needed a break in this case. He needed to find Jeanne. There wasn’t time for a meeting at the station, but he couldn’t come up with a good reason to skip it. He missed the office anyway, the bustle, the jokes—hell, the coffee. He needed to stop in and check his mail, check his files. Maybe see Russell Stringer, especially after the Ebola text.

  He could explain his absences.

  As he hit the button on the elevator, he took a deep breath. After this was over, he was going to a doctor. Time to get the shakes checked out.
It had to be nothing, just too much caffeine for a guy his age. He wasn’t sleeping well at night either.

  That was it.

  The elevator doors opened and two of the younger cops stepped out. They nodded his way.

  One said, “Hey, look who it is.”

  Martin nodded back, but didn’t retort. Thirty seconds later, he was walking down the hall toward Stringer’s office. His hands were in his pockets, and he felt like a kid on the way to the principal’s office.

  Stringer saw him coming and got out of his chair. He stepped around his desk and went to the door.

  “Get in here,” he barked, though the volume was low.

  Martin obeyed.

  “You’re late,” Stringer said after he closed the door.

  “I didn’t know I was expected at a certain time.”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Martin debated bringing up the traffic, but decided it wouldn’t help. Even with his hands in his pockets, he was sure Stringer could see the shakes. Probably looked awkward. He went to the chair across from the desk.

  Stringer said, “Don’t bother. This will be quick.”

  Martin sat anyway. The sounds of the office, a TV playing, phones ringing, and some chatter were muffled by the shut door. He was on the outside of it all.

  “We’re cutting our budget. Dead weight,” Stringer said. “We’re letting you go.”

  “You can’t do that,” Martin said. “The union—”

  Stringer shook his head. “You can talk to the union, but they’re not going to help.”

  “I—” Martin wished his hands weren’t shaking so hard. He wished his cheeks weren’t burning.

  “The union really stuck their neck out for you back when Donne turned everyone in. You were the only one who kept a job. Not this time.”

  “I worked in parking and transportation.”

  Stringer leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “It was a job. But now it’s time to move on.”

  “I’m not ready.” Martin’s heart could run a mile in four minutes. “I’m two weeks away from a pension.”

  “You’ve been out a week. No doctor’s note. You don’t even look sick. You’ve just been out.” Stringer crossed his legs at his ankles. “If this job is so important to you, why aren’t you here?”