When One Man Dies. Dave White

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.

Chapter 4

      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 a bouncer.”

      “Why do you think he’s cheating on you? To my knowledge, all bouncers smell that way and stay out late. It’s in the job description.”

      She shook her head. “Don’t patronize me. It’s just something I feel. And I need to know.”

      Time to give her the speech. “Jen, I’m sure it’s just that. A feeling. A lot of women come in here with the feeling, and I follow their husbands around for days and find nothing. Save your money. You don’t want to know anyway. It’ll just mess up your life.”

      I don’t know why I decided to give her the speech. I needed the money. I could take the case on, follow her husband around at night, and still have time to dig into the Gerry thing. But this woman looked shell-shocked, and I didn’t want to screw her over.

      She stared me straight in the eye. “You ever get a thought in your head and you couldn’t get it out? It just keeps gnawing at you? That’s what’s happening here. I have to know, no matter what the consequences. It’s been bothering me, in my head for the past few days. I can’t get it out. I’m losing sleep. I can talk to my husband, but I can’t just flat out ask him. I have the money. What do you care? Why won’t you just allow me to hire you?”

      “Because I don’t like seeing people get hurt.”

      “I appreciate that you have a heart. But I want to do this. I’m a grown woman.”

      I opened the desk drawer. Pulled out a contract. “You’ve convinced me.”

      “So,” she said, “how do we do this?”

      “Well, first things first, Jen. I need to know your full name, your husband’s full name, where he works. A place I can catch him to tail him, that sort of thing.”

      “My name is Jen Hanover. My husband’s name is Rex, same last name. I have a picture.”

      “That’ll help,” I said, writing the information down.

      She went into her purse and dug out a wallet-sized photo. Handed it across the desk to me. I took it, gave it a once-over.

      Rex Hanover was a thickset guy, wearing a tight black T-shirt with a logo in script writing over a breast pocket. His arms bulged in the sleeves, and he wore black jeans. Looked like a bouncer, close-cut hair, strong cheek bones. Tan.

      “Where does he work?”

      “At Billy’s in Morristown? It’s a club or a bar. Off Two Eighty-seven.”

      “You have directions?”

      “Just a business card.” She dug that out and handed it to me as well.

      “I’ll MapQuest it,” I said.

      “He’s working every night this week. I’ve never known anyone who does that. I go to work during the day, come home about seven, and he’s just heading out. He doesn’t get home till three, sometimes four in the morning.”

      “Let me ask you something. When he gets home, does he smell like cigarette smoke?”

      She thought about it, eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “No. He doesn’t smoke. Well, on the weekends he smells that way. But not during the week. So many people to watch outside, he still gets that smoke smell, even with the no smoking law.”

      “Maybe it’s just not that busy during the week,” I said, not wanting to push her expectations either way.

      She shifted in her seat, as if she was searching for something to say.

      Finally she came up with, “He used to smell that way even during the weekdays.”

      “Any idea who he might be having an affair with? If he’s having an affair.”

      She shook her head. “What’s your address?”

      She gave me an address in Morristown. “Why come down here?”

      She scratched her nose. “My husband knows a lot of people. If he knew I hired a private investigator up there, if word got out, I’d be in trouble. He doesn’t know people in this area.”

      I nodded. “Okay, we’re almost done. I charge seventy-five bucks an hour plus expenses. I also require a retainer. Say five hundred?”

      She nodded, took out her checkbook.

      We finished the paperwork, shook hands,