Not Even Past Read Free Page A

picked up his iPad and touched the screen a few times. “Which one?”
    Donne exhaled and said, “The one you report a kidnapping to.”
    The guard looked up. “Excuse me? Did you call the police?”
    “I’m a former private investigator. I know the routine. It’s easier to go right to the source.”
    The security guard put down the iPad and unbuttoned his suit jacket. Donne kept his hands at his sides.
    “How long has this person been missing?”
    “I’m not sure,” Donne said. “For the last six years, I thought she was dead.”
     
    S PECIA l A GENT Fullbright’s office was overdecorated. The guy wanted you to know he was from New Jersey. There were framed autographed pictures of Fullbright with Martin Brodeur, Yogi Berra, and Jon Bon Jovi. Next to those were vinyl copies of Springsteen’s Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town , also framed and autographed. Sports pennants for the Devils, Seton Hall, and the New York Giants hung from the ceiling. His desk, though, was clear. No memorabilia. No photos. Just files and a desktop computer.
    Fullbright, sleeves pushed up, tie loosened, stood behind his desk. Donne sat across from him, feeling completely underdressed in his jeans and Pearl Jam T-shirt.
    “Do you have the email?” Fullbright asked when Donne was finished telling him the story.
    “I do.” He pulled out his phone and handed it to Fullbright, with the text message open. “And the text message.”
    Fullbright looked at the text. “Can’t do anything with this. Where’s the email?”
    “I need to access it on your computer.”
    “Like hell. Just pop it up on here.” Fullbright shook the phone.
    “It’s Outlook. Doesn’t really work well on the phone.”
    Fullbright shrugged. “Apple sucks anyway. Listen, Mr. Donne, you don’t have much to go on here.”
    Donne’s nostrils flared. He knew where this was going.
    “Let me show you the email.”
    Fullbright nodded. “Our tech guys will take a look if your forward it to me. Just don’t send me a virus.”
    “This isn’t funny.”
    Fullbright put his hands in his pockets. “Jeanne Baker, by your account, has been dead for six years. There is a record of that. The medical examiner signed the death certificate. We have it on record here.”
    “I saw the video. I saw Jeanne.”
    The special agent nodded. “Someone is messing around with you, Mr. Donne. Someone with a sick sense of humor.”
    “If—”
    “Forward me the email, Mr. Donne. I promise you I will look into it.” Fullbright went into his desk, came out with a business card. Slid it across toward Donne. “Has my email on it too.”
    Donne took it and stood up. He left without thanking Fullbright. Why thank a guy you’ll never hear from again?
     
    F ORTY-TWO MINUTES later, Donne was parked in front of his apartment again. He looked up at his building. Kate wasn’t looking out.
    There was one contact Donne hadn’t lost track of. He got out of the car and walked south on George Street. Traffic eased the closer he got to the theaters. It was the midpoint of New Brunswick. Here, the fancy restaurants and college pubs faded. Houses with faded siding and broken windows started to appear. Only residents and campus buses traveled this part of town. The city was expanding, and expanding in this direction, but the gentrification was slowed by the economic collapse. The university and Johnson & Johnson had been unable—or unwilling—to jump-start it again.
    Eyes were on him because he didn’t fit in. Even if they couldn’t see his face, they could see his skin color. He was either buying or busting.
    It took only five minutes before Donne heard his name being called. He whirled to his left to see Jesus Sanchez limping up Dumont Street.
    “What the hell are you doing here, man?” Jesus asked as he crossed the street to Donne.
    Jesus had ascended the ladder. After some cops had knocked off his boss, Jesus took over and now wasn’t a street dealer anymore. That was three