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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Gary drives my old Ford Taurus. Polly sits in the front seat next to him. I’m spread out in the back. Every pothole hits me like a dagger. I close my eyes and ride it out. Polly fills me in as we drive. I text Marty and Molly that I am fine and will be back soon. I don’t tell them my destination. Neither are very happy with me. They are made no happier when I inform them that I’m with my students.

“His name is Brian Powell,” Polly says in that voice she must have learned watching old Law and Order episodes. “He’s fifty-four. Been in and out of the joint since he was eighteen.”

Gary frowns. “Joint?”

“What?”

“Did you really just say ‘joint,’ Polly?”

“I’m using common vernacular.”

“Common for who? Bugsy Siegel?”

“Whom,” she says.

“What?”

“Common for whom, not who—”

“Guys,” I say. Then: “When was Powell in Sing Sing with Tad Grayson?”

“Nine years ago,” Polly says.

“And how long has Powell been free?”

“Same answer.”

“Nine years?”

“Yes.”

“Long time.” I think about that. “Any arrests since then?”

“Not even a parking ticket,” she says, aping another line from old TV shows. “Powell got off parole in 2021. He’s worked in a price club warehouse in Bloomfield for the past six years.”

We take the Lincoln Tunnel out to Route 21 and cross over Mulberry. As we pull onto Goble Street, I see Debbie and Raymond. Raymond is wearing cotton briefs—what we used to call tighty-whities—over his jeans and a shower cap on his head.

From the backseat, I say, “Uh, what are they doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on the place,” Gary says.

“Raymond?”

“He fits in,” Polly says.

“So out of place he’s in place, if you catch my drift,” Gary adds.

I guess they have a point.

“They’ve been watching the block since six,” Polly says.

“Six this morning?”

“Yep.” Gary steers toward the curb. “If Powell left, they would have followed him. Raymond’s an early riser. Big morning guy. Did you know that?”

We pull into the spot in front of the address. We are in the southern part of Newark’s Ironbound district, about a mile from the Prudential Center, where the New Jersey Devils play.

“Apartment C,” Polly says. “First floor on the right.”

The building is a converted two-family rectangular structure with beige aluminum siding that isn’t pretending to be anything but beige aluminum siding. The architecture and design are pure no-nonsense functionality. You couldn’t make the facade more conformist without traveling back in time to a 1980 East Bloc country.

Debbie and Raymond come over to me.

“See anything?” I ask.

“A total smoke show of a hottie lives across the street,” Raymond informs me. “Has an ass that makes me want to open a proctology practice for one.”

“Gross,” Debbie says. “And she wasn’t a smoke show.”

“Was so,” Raymond insists. He takes out his phone. “Like the great Sir Mix-A-Lot would sing, ‘I wanna get with ya, and take your picture.’ So I took a few. And video. Look, Kierce.”

Debbie shakes her head. “She was a six.”

Raymond is offended. “A six?!”

“A seven tops.”

“Hey, don’t go disrespecting my future ex-wife.” Then to Kierce: “Smoke Show walked by an hour ago, but my heart is still beating.” Raymond opens the top two buttons of his shirt. “Here, feel for yourself.”

He juts out his chest toward me, which I guess is preferable to a lower alternative.

“I’m good, Raymond.”

“Kierce?” he says, buttoning back up.

“What?”

Raymond leans conspiratorially closer. “Can you loan me money, you know, for a ring?”

“A ring?”

“When Smoke Show comes back, I want to propose. The ass was that ripe.”

I sigh and tell everyone to stay on the other side of the street, but when I cross toward Powell’s residence, Gary follows me. He is wearing his customary golf shirt, this one way too fitted so it looks like he’s smuggling a bowling ball. The shirt’s logo is a foot with wings on it in a color so orange Gary could double as a parking cone.

“You should have backup,” Gary says in way of explanation.

I shake my head. “All of you watch too much TV.”

We get to the door. I knock. No answer. I knock again. Still no answer.

From behind us, Polly reads a message from her phone: “Powell hasn’t shown up to work this week.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“We sent two of the Three Dead Hots down to the warehouse.”

“Which ones?”

“I can’t tell them apart,” Polly says. “Anyway, they flirted with some workers during a smoking break.”

Gary looks at me. “Should we bust the door down?”

“No, we shouldn’t bust the door down.”

A familiar car makes the turn and hurries down the street. It’s Marty. I should be surprised, but I’m not. He pulls in front of Powell’s residence, gets out, and slams the door hard to make some kind of point.

Raymond shout-whispers from across the street. “Kierce,” he says, pointing at Marty. “Smoke Show is back.”

Debbie rolls her eyes. “That’s a man, dumbass.”

Marty storms toward where I’m standing on the stoop. “What the hell, Kierce?”

“How did you find me?”

“Molly has your location on her Find My Phone.”

“Oh,” I say, “right.”

Marty is not hiding his annoyance. “What’s going on? You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

“The guy who was following Molly, the one with the scraggly long hair you said we couldn’t find.”

Marty sighs. “I never said we couldn’t—”

“He lives here. They”—I sweep my arm to indicate Gary, Polly, Debbie, and yep, Raymond—“found him.”

Raymond shouts, “You’re welcome, Smoke Show.”

I shake my head at Raymond. He holds his hands up in apologetic surrender.

“His name is Brian Powell,” I tell Marty. “And he was cellmates with Tad Grayson at Sing Sing.”

Marty’s eyes widen. “Wait, what?”

Gary steps forward. “There’s no answer at the door, and Powell didn’t show up for work.”

Marty looks toward me. I turn and knock on the door again as if to confirm Gary’s words. I try the knob. The door is locked. Marty steps forward and knocks on the door too. Like his knock is official and that’s going to work better.

“Mr. Powell,” Marty shouts. “This is the police. Please open this door.”

We wait. I press my ear against the wood. Nothing.

Marty says, “This isn’t my jurisdiction. Let me call the local Newark precinct and see if we can get someone over here to assist us.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Golfer Gary says. Then he snaps his finger as though he’s come up with an idea: “Besides, I hear someone inside screaming for help.”

Marty looks confused. “What?”

“There it is again,” he says. Gary is obviously making this up. There are no screams. There are no sounds at all. “It’s an emergency. He’s in trouble. Break down the door. Can’t you do that when you hear someone screaming like that?”

Marty puts his hands up. “Just wait—”

“I can’t,” Gary says. “Not when someone is in danger.”

And then without warning, Gary rears back more athletically than I would have imagined and kicks the door with his heel. The wood splinters, and the door gives way, banging open. Raymond whoops and applauds. Debbie claps too. Gary bows.

Marty and I stand there for a moment, too stunned to move, then Marty says, “Everyone wait out here.” He looks hard at me. “Including you.”

“Yeah no,” I say to him.

Marty knows better than to push it. “Okay, but the rest of you stay out here.”

“Wait,” Raymond says, nudging Debbie. “That’s not Smoke Show. That’s a man.”

Marty steps in. I follow. The lights are off. The shades are all pulled down. We move in slowly. Marty has a gun on his hip. He doesn’t take it out, but he keeps his hand on it, just in case. It is hot in the apartment. The air is stale, still, heavy. It feels like we’re walking through a beaded curtain.

We veer into the kitchen, but by now we both sense what we will find. You can just feel it. It isn’t woo-woo and I’m sure there is an actual scientific explanation. But we both just know. It isn’t so much a smell, though that’s there now, as a texture, a forced stillness. You always know before you find it and actually confirm it with your eyes, as though some kind of spectral figure is tapping you on the shoulder and beckoning you to follow.

We find Brian Powell in a kitchen chair, his head flat on the table, his long hair congealed in the massive amount of blood.

Marty calls it in and tells me to wait outside. I listen. My students are hushed. When I’m out on the stoop, I call Arthur and fill him in. He tells me not to say a word to the police or anyone else until he arrives. I don’t. I move across the street and encourage my students to leave before the police arrive. There is nothing against the law with doing that. I have their names and contact information and can provide them if necessary. They disperse, though Raymond vows to come back to woo Smoke Show.

Golfer Gary agrees to stay with me because I will need a ride up to the Solemani Recovery Center soon to see Caroline Burkett, the cohost of that now-notorious New Millennium party.

Marty looks a little piqued when he comes out. He is a good cop and a better man. He doesn’t handle scenes of violence well. His empathy is not well served here. I still remember the way he looked at me after PJ fell off the roof because of my negligence. I think his disappointed face hurt me more than that police inquisition.

When Arthur arrives, he says to Marty, “Don’t talk to my client. He’s not answering any questions.”

“It’s okay,” I say to Arthur. “Marty?”

“Bullet to the back of the head,” Marty says.

Just like with Nicole. I take deep breaths.

“A gun was left behind. I assume it’s the murder weapon. Ballistics will tell us if it’s a match with the bullet we pulled out of you. We will also be coordinating this murder investigation with the Newark Police. We’re already looking into the obvious.”

“That being?” I say, just because I want to hear him say it.

“That Tad Grayson is behind this all. That he shot you and killed Victoria Belmond and his former cellmate Brian Powell.”

I check my watch. “I have to go.”

“Back to the hospital?”

I shake my head. “Not quite yet.”

“Kierce.”

“I’m visiting Caroline Burkett. She was at the party the night Victoria Belmond was kidnapped.”

“Then I’m sure the FBI spoke to her back then.”

“She’s a Burkett, Marty. You think Judith would have let her say anything incriminating?” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Let me do this. Then we can worry about my little flesh wound, okay?”

Marty looks at Arthur. They are both tall men, and my standing between them makes us look like a bar graph with a dip in the economy. “I know you want to play hardball,” Marty says over my head, “but Kierce is going to have to give a statement.”

“I know,” Arthur says. “He’ll give one later. With counsel present. Right now, he has someplace he has to be.”

Marty lets loose a deep breath. Still looking at Arthur and over me, he says, “It’s all a little too neat, don’t you think?”

“What is?” Arthur asks.

“That Tad Grayson would hire his cellmate.”

“I’m not following,” Arthur says.

Marty shrugs. “It’s just that it’s pretty stupid, don’t you think? If Tad Grayson is behind this all, why would he be dumb enough to hire someone we could so easily trace back to him?”

Arthur nods in agreement. “Not just someone in the same prison as him,” he adds. “But his actual cellmate.”

“Exactly,” Marty says. “It’s all just a little too convenient.”

Now they both look down at me. I say nothing.

“One of my most respected colleagues represents Tad Grayson. She worked hard to get his conviction overturned. She wouldn’t do that unless she truly believes someone is innocent.”

They both look at me again and wait.

“I have to go,” I say, and then I get in the passenger seat of Gary’s car.