Shred of Evidence

March, 1998

Lyle Brockington was the kind of guy who wore a smoking jacket and laughed with clenched teeth. There weren’t many of those types of guys left, the Hugh Hefners of the world, but here was one sitting in front of Detective Bill Martin. Relaxed and cocky, the guy wore the jacket and slippers at work. Sure, he was the head of a major New Jersey banking company, but Martin still felt that was the height of affectation.

Martin and his partner Jackson Donne sat across from Brockington’s huge desk, studying the man over the backs of framed pictures. The office, in the only tall building in New Brunswick, Easton Bank, looked over the Raritan River. Early March, and Martin could still see a few chunks of ice floating south.

“Drugs?” Brockington chuckled. “Officer Donne, Officer Martin, I don’t do drugs, unless you count smoking a pipe.”

“Depends on what’s in the pipe,” Martin said, not bothering to correct Brockington’s use of titles.

“Mr. Brockington,” Donne said, “we have you on surveillance buying a brick from a known dealer. Bricks of cocaine aren’t exactly cheap, and people who can afford to buy them can’t afford to do a lot of jailtime.”

Donne wasn’t the subtle one of this partnership. But sometimes his ability to be upfront would rattle a suspect. Depends how smart Brockington was. If he knew they couldn’t possibly tell what was in the brick, then he would know they couldn’t hold them to anything.

Brockington leaned back in his chair, and paled. Martin suppressed a smile.

“You gentlemen think we can talk about this? Is there anything we can do about this?”

Martin leaned forward. “I’m not sure. This is a big deal.”

“Listen, I always keep some extra cash in my office. You know, in case of emergency.” All the smugness was gone. Just another addict, scared of prison. They were all the same to Martin, whether homeless on the street scrapping for the next hit or in the Easton Bank Building over looking the river, rich enough to get high whenever they wanted.

“Are you offering us a bribe?” Martin asked. He noticed Donne sit back.

“No, no. Not at all.” Brockington forced a smile. “Just a reward. A ‘thanks for the hard work’ kind of thing. Don’t you have some sort of police fund?”

“And how much would you be offering the fund?”

“How does nine hundred dollars sound?”

Martin looked at Donne. “Well, the Policemen’s Ball is coming up.”

“And we do have to buy streamers,” Donne said.

“Twelve hundred. It’s all I got.” Brockington looked like he was about to puke.

* * *

Ten minutes later, riding the elevator to the ground floor, Martin’s pocket was a lot heavier. Donne stood next to him, hands in his pockets, brown hair out of place. Martin always told him to comb it, look a little more professional, but the kid never listened. At least he wore a shirt and tie. It was a start.

They exited the building and headed toward the unmarked. Martin lit up a cigarette.

“That was easy,” Donne said.

“Yeah, well guys like that—it’s supposed to be easy.”

“Does it really matter?”

“Does what matter?” Martin asked, watching the smoke escape from his mouth.

“Whether we call it a reward or a donation to the police fund. It’s still a bribe.”

“I don’t care. I just wanted to tweak the guy a little more. That guy’s more of a scumbag than any of the other assholes we deal with.”

“Why does a guy like that have that much cash on him? Shouldn’t it all be invested or in a bank somewhere? Doesn’t a guy like this just work in stocks, bonds, and checks?”

“When he wants to buy, when he gets that itch. You think he wants to pay a drug dealer with a certified check?”

In the car, Martin said, “Four hundred to you, four hundred to me, four hundred to Carver. How’s that sound, kid?”

“Pretty good. I think that completes the fund for the ring.”

Martin looked at Donne. “The ring?”

“Yeah. All this cash, I figure it’s got to go for something good, right? I’m going to ask Jeanne to marry me.”

“Really?” Martin smiled.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“You think so? You sure about this? Tough being married to a cop. She going to be able to handle it okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she know about this?” He shook the money in the air.

Donne didn’t answer.

“Did you tell her about this?” Martin asked.

Donne didn’t turn his head. “She knows there’s some extra money coming in. She doesn’t know how.”

“Be careful.”

“I am.”

“You love her?”

“More than you know.”

Martin let that slide. Maybe she didn’t know anything. He’d never met Jeanne, and didn’t want to start knowing her now. In this business wives were trouble. They held you back, made you tentative.

“Let me give you a bit of advice then, kid.”

“What’s that?”

“Never get married in the morning.”

“Why not?”

“It’ll ruin the rest of your day.”

* * *

After dropping the kid off, Martin pulled up to a coffee shop on Easton Ave. This late in the afternoon, there weren’t too many people inside. Leo Carver, the head of the Narcotics Division, however, was one of the few. He sat at a table doing the crossword from the Ledger, a steaming cup next to him. It didn’t have a lid and as Martin approached, he wasn’t surprised to see tea in the cup.

“We need to find a new place,” Martin said.

“Why?” Carver was filling in an across. He didn’t even make eye contact.

“Can’t fucking smoke in here.”

“Get yourself a cup of coffee, then come talk to me.”

Martin got himself a regular coffee, filled it with half and half. Went back and sat opposite Carver.

Carver wasn’t holding up that great. Martin’s age, he already had a combover, wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, and bags under his eyes. They came up through the Academy together, back when the Academy meant something. Martin stuck to the streets though, and Carver took the office job. Martin liked the streets, but he also thought Carver was a pretty big kiss-ass too. That’s why he kept getting promoted. When Carver got promoted to start up the division, Martin was the first guy brought over.

“How’d it go today with Brockington? You have to show him the video?”

Martin smiled. “No the kid brought it up and Brockington nearly shit himself.”

“Shat.”

“Whatever. Don’t give me that pompous crap.”

Carver smiled. “The kid did good, huh? Whassisname?”

“Donne.”

“Right.” Carver filled in a down. How the hell could he concentrate on the puzzle and listen to everything Martin had to say?

Martin slid a manila envelope across the table.

“How much?” Carver asked, taking it off the table.

“Four hundred.”

“How much did he offer you?”

“A grand. Said it was all he had. You should have seen him. Scared out of his mind. I’m sure he could see the news reports in his head. Me and the kid took three hundred each.”

“You gave the kid an even share?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“He’s saving to buy his girlfriend a ring. He scared the shit out Brockington. I figured what the hell.”

“Donne’s playing ball then?”

“So far.” Martin burned his tongue on the coffee.

“This broad gonna be a problem?”

“To be honest—”

“That’s what I expect.”

Martin coughed. “To be honest, I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“When we started talking about her today, Donne just got real uncomfortable. She knew there was extra money coming in. The way he talks about her, just seems like the kind of girl that could get real unhappy if she knows what we do. And he loves her.”

“Fuck.” Carver drank some tea. “There is no room for wives on this team. If she knows, she might say the wrong thing to the wrong person. We’d be fucked.”

“Yeah.”

“So what do we do about this?”

Martin spread his hands. “Up to you, boss.”

Carver chewed on his pen. “How do you think the kid would react if she disappeared?”

Martin looked over his shoulder. By now the coffee shop was completely empty, except for the two of them. Even the counter person seemed to have gone in the back for something. Carver always had impeccable timing.

“If she just disappeared, I don’t know. If the guy who made her disappear got away I think we’d be all Donne would have. You know, track down the guy. That O.J. stuff. But realistic.”

Carver took a sip of tea, ignoring the steam the drifted from it. Answered a couple of across and one down. “He’d have no choice but to play ball. As long as he never found out who set it up.”

“That’s my guess.”

Carver nodded. “What’s a five letter word for hitman?”

* * *

Monty wasn’t hard to find. Bill Martin made a few phone calls, left a couple of messages, and about an hour later his beeper went off. They set up a meeting down by the Raritan for seven o’clock.

Martin had only heard stories of Monty, stuff talked about on coffee breaks and drinks after your shift was over. Detectives said they’d call in Monty when they needed to take care of those cases they knew were never going to get to a jury. When they knew who the killer was, but they didn’t find the right evidence. Shit like that. Martin had never needed the guy until today.

It was raining on the river, like it always did in March. Martin squinted across the way toward an old white house. It had been there for as long as Martin could remember, and each time he came down to the river, down to the boathouse which held the Rutgers Crew Team’s equipment, he watched it fall apart a little more. He could see the big flecks of paint peeling now, the screen door that hung by one hinge. He guessed no one lived there anymore. At least no one who cared.

Martin ran his hand through his graying hair, glad he still had all of it, but wishing it was still the jet black it once was. It had been a long time since he first set foot on the banks here. He lit a cigarette.

Two headlights rolled in his direction stopping about three feet in front of him. The door opened and a short black man got out.

Martin couldn’t see him that well with the headlights in his eyes, and the guy didn’t move from behind the door.

“You Martin?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“ID.”

Martin pulled his badge and held it in the air.

“Tell me what you want.”

Martin did. Gave it all to him, the whole plan. Then he dropped a duffel bag on the floor, money he’d gotten from Carver before he came here.

The car pulled away with the money, and Martin turned and looked at the house across the river once more.

* * *

Nothing happened for the next few days. Martin and Donne worked day shifts, mostly paperwork. The office wasn’t busy. A couple of days Martin could tell Donne came in high, probably just weed. The kid did it every once in a while when they weren’t actually working a case. Martin didn’t care. He was the one who got him started with the shit after all.

Friday night was the night it was going happen. Martin was sure that Donne’s girlfriend would be home watching some sitcom. That’s what Donne said she liked to do after a week of teaching. A night to herself. Monty would come in and put two in her, leave the scene. Make sure it looked like a murder. The kid would turn to Martin.

“So you’re saying that she teaches three college classes during the week, grades a couple of papers, and has—what—two office hours, and by Friday night she’s tired?” Martin asked.

Donne shrugged. “Yeah, she’s tired. Jeanne can do what she wants. She wants to stay in, she can. She wants to go out, that’s fine too. She’s a grown woman.”

“Kid, you’re way too easy-going.” Martin laughed.

The drove down George Street past the C-Town. Quiet night Martin thought. They were required to work two night shifts a month under Carver’s rules. Nights were dangerous and he didn’t want one group of partners to take all the risk. Usually there were some gangbangers out dealing on a Friday to some college kids. Those were always fun to break up, get on the bullhorn and watch the frat boys scatter. But tonight there was none of that.

Donne shifted in his seat, looked a bit restless. Martin wanted to call him kid, but after tonight he wouldn’t be a kid anymore.

“Quiet,” Donne said.

“Yeah.”

“Give it another hour and call it a night?”

“What’s with you?”

“I don’t know, you got me thinking about Jeanne. We haven’t had a night in a while.”

Shit. “What’d I tell you? Tough to be a cop and get married.”

“I’m going to ask her tomorrow.”

“You sure she’ll say yes?”

“She’d better. She helped pick out the ring.” Donne laughed.

“You guys are real old-fashioned.”

“Times change.”

“Let’s see if Jesus is out tonight.”

Jesus Sanchez was a small time dealer who acted more like a gossip columnist than anything else. He told Martin and Donne what they wanted most of the time. Guy was a great source.

They found him on the corner of Somerset and Paterson Street. He was leaning against a mailbox watching traffic go by. Scrawny bastard, with a pencil-thin moustache, and a line of hair around his chin. He wore sweatpants and a thick black parka that looked like a burnt marshmallow. He waved at the unmarked car.

Martin rolled the window down.

“Shit. What the fuck, yo? You out on the streets tonight?” Jesus said.

“Yeah, why?” Martin said.

“I ain’t talkin’ to you. Jack, what you doin’ out tonight?”

“What do you mean?” Donne said.

This is not good. I shouldn’t have brought him here, Martin thought.

“Fuck. The word on the street is you pissed somebody off.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, yo. All I hear is someone gonna off you and the woman sometime soon.”

“When did you hear this?” The color drained from Donne’s face.

Poor kid.

“I don’t know. Half hour ago? Hour? One of the guys buyin’ said something I think. Or was it… Yo, I don’t remember. I just know you gotta be careful.”

Donne looked at Martin. “We have to go. Now.”

“Yeah, yo. Get the fuck outta here.”

Martin rolled up the window and pulled away from the corner. He was screwed. He didn’t think ahead. He just wanted Donne away from the house tonight.

The clock read twenty after nine. The hit was supposed to happen at nine thirty. If he drove slow enough, they’d be too late.

“Step on it!” Donne said, as if reading Martin’s mind. Martin did as he was told, and accelerated.

They pulled up outside the house, and Martin noticed the car he’d seen nights earlier parked on the corner. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside the car.

Donne mumbled, “Oh, my God.”

Martin turned to see the front door of the house swinging open, rattling in the wind. It reminded him of the door of the house on the river, hanging open.

Donne was out of the car before Martin had even put it in park. Before Martin could even tell him to be careful. He darted across the street, gun out. Kid was going to get himself killed.

Martin made his way across the street, never calling for backup. This was bad enough. Have two or four dopey patrolmen pull up to help you out with your own hired hitman was not a good idea. He pulled his gun and he stepped in the doorway. Donne and the girl lived on the second floor of a two family house. Looking up the flight of stairs, Martin didn’t see anything. He heard the thump of footsteps across the floor.

As Martin began to climb the steps, he heard Donne yell, “Freeze!” Martin sprinted the rest of the flight.

Martin spun through the doorway into a living room. Donne had his gun trained on the small black man from two nights before. Monty had already dropped his gun on the floor, hands in the air. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the cops had set this up and knew this was his way out.

“You—” Monty started to say, seeing Martin.

“Shut the fuck up!” Donne said. “Where’s Jeanne?”

Martin aimed at Monty. “Go check on her,” he said.

Donne ran down a hallway. Martin listened and heard a woman say, “Jackson?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Monty asked Martin.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No, asshole. We had a deal. You set me up.”

Martin pulled the trigger. Monty dropped to the floor, blood pouring from his chest.

The rest moved in slow motion. Martin holstered his weapon, realizing somewhere this was the second time he’d fired it in two months. Donne came out of his bedroom looking down the hallway, then pushed Jeanne back inside so she wouldn’t see. Martin heard someone crying. He kicked Monty’s gun away from the body. He watched Monty’s chest rise and fall two more times, listened to the sucking sound as air struggled with the wound. Then the whole body relaxed, movement stopped completely.

* * *

First two patrolmen showed, called in by the neighbors who heard the gunfire. Within a half hour, two homicide cops, another several patrolmen, the ME, and Carver had crowded into Donne’s home. Carver pulled Martin aside, into the stairwell. No one else was around.

“What happened?”

“Jesus told Donne about the hit. Monty pulled his gun on me.”

“Damn it,” Carver offered. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Martin patted Carver on the shoulder. He walked over to check on the kid. Donne had his arm around Jeanne, dirty blonde hair mussed, bags under her eyes from over an hour of crying. She rested her head on the kid’s shoulder.

“Hon, you okay?” Martin asked.

She nodded.

“Who set this up, Bill?” Donne asked.

Martin took a long look at the kid. Thought about telling the truth. Wondered what would happen to him if he did. “Who do you think?” he asked.

Donne took a deep breath. Kissed Jeanne on the forehead. “Brockington,” he said.

Martin smiled. “Going to be tough to find enough evidence to make it stick.”

“It’s been tough to make things stick before.”

“Yeah it has.”

“Never stopped us.”

“Nope.” Martin didn’t think it would be too hard to set the guy up. Maybe find a snitch. Maybe Jesus. “Take care of Jeanne. I’ll get started on the paperwork.”

Martin turned, and headed toward the door.

“Bill?”

Martin turned back toward Jackson.

“Thank you. Another one I owe you.”

“Anytime, kid.” Martin smiled.

He made his way down to the street. It was cold. A frost was going to settle on the ground, with luck the last before spring. One of the cops was trying to tune his car radio to a college basketball game. Martin was going to ask him the score, but he felt a tug at his shoulder. Carver.

“Leo,” Martin said.

“Walk with me, Bill.”

They walked around the corner, stopping across from an abandoned loft on Sanford Street, next to a used car dealership. The flashing lights from the police cruisers still reflected off the house windows on the corner.

“How long do you think we’ll have to lay low before we try this again?” Carver asked.

Martin pulled a cigarette from the pack, fired it up. “Are you kidding?”

Carver’s look proved he wasn’t.

“This is done. Things have changed. He’s not going to talk. He’s going to do everything in his power to keep her away from this. As long as she lives his mouth is shut.”

“You sure?”

Martin smiled through the smoke. “Trust me.”