LITMIR.BIZ

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      SPECIAl AGENT 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?

      FORTY-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 years ago. Sanchez apparently had an eye for business, or the cops had an affinity for him. He probably gave his boss up to the cops.

      Jesus shook Donne’s hand. He didn’t say anything, just waited for Donne to explain.

      The story of the email and Jeanne came easily out of Jackson, like a waterfall. He spat the words out, and when he was done he was out of breath.

      “Holy shit,” Jesus said. He wiped at his nose. “Why are you here?”

      “Where else would I go?”

      Jesus shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and turned away from Donne. He headed up Dumont toward Douglass College. He stopped after a few steps.

      “Go home, Jackson. I don’t know shit.”

      For an instant, Donne believed him. He ground the heel of his shoe into the sidewalk and started to turn. But something tickled at the back of his neck. Maybe just a spark of his old instincts trying to fire up again. He froze.

      “You’re lying,” Donne said.

      Jesus tilted his head. “What you say?”

      “You heard me.”

      Now Jesus’s head started to shake. Back and forth slowly.

      “Don’t do this, Jackson.”

      “Do what?”

      Jesus turned back toward Donne, but he was looking further down the road. He waved. Donne turned his head. As he did, his gut tightened. A black car rolled toward them. Tinted windows, shiny rims.

      “I like you this way, Jackson,” Jesus said. “The new you. You’re happy, and this new girl, she seems good for you.”

      “How—”

      Again Jesus shook his head. “The old you rushed into things. Didn’t think. Fuck. You should be dead.”

      Donne didn’t say a word. The car rolled up and stopped at the curve.

      “I didn’t like the old me either. Scared. Talkative. Not no more. I buried him.” Jesus pulled the passenger door of the car open. “You should do the same. Old you comes back, it ain’t gonna be for long.”

      “It’s Jeanne,” Donne said. “They have her. And they said I have to help her.”

      “You don’t even know who they are. And you’re better off that way. Go home. Study.”

      “She might die.”

      Jesus got into the car and shut the door. He rolled the window down.

      “And how is that different from what you thought yesterday?”

      He rolled the window up as the car pulled away from the curb.

      

      THREE MINUTES.

      The parking meter had been expired for three minutes. The driver, who had exited the car thirty-three minutes ago, was nowhere in sight. Bill Martin tapped twice on the steering wheel, exhaled, and allowed himself a smile.

      Time to go to work.

      He grabbed the summons and got out of his car. After straightening his tie, he crossed the street and stopped at the Volvo—one that belonged to a Mr. Shaun Smith. Smith—Martin loved the alliteration—couldn’t be more than a sophomore and was probably getting used to parking on campus. And by getting used to it, Martin meant not doing it. The university had one of the largest private bussing systems in the country. Don’t try to goose the meter.

      People like Bill Martin were watching. And he was going to do his job.

      After writing down the license plate number, Martin started to fill in the rest of the summons. The scratch of pen against paper made his smile grow even wider. None of this newfangled computer crap. Pen and paper—the right way to do things.

      “Hey! Hey, wait!”

      Martin looked up from the pad. Shaun Smith was running away from College Avenue toward him. Two pieces of change

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