Free When One Man Dies by Dave White Page B

on anything,” Blanchett said. “To be honest, I don’t think he did anything. Just wrong person to follow, wrong time.” A pause. “Why are you interested?”
    Martin expected the question.
    “Guy’s a scumbag. He fucked up our whole department a few years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised he was caught up in a murder or two.”
    “Oh. He doesn’t have the best record as a PI either, does he? Been involved in a lot of shit.”
    “Follows him around. Too bad you couldn’t put him away.”
    “Sorry I can’t help you out.”
    Martin laughed and said, “Maybe next time.”
    Hanging up, he thought, I’m glad he got out. Leave him to me.
    When he came back to his office with a cup of coffee, Jesus Sanchez was sitting at his desk.
    “How’d you get in here?” Martin asked. Get the fuck out of my seat, he thought.
    “What you mean?” Jesus balanced a pen on his outstretched index finger. “I just walked in. How you think?”
    Martin shook his head. Just what he needed. He finally gets an important case, and this known drug dealer just strolls right into his office. He could almost hear Kevin Haskell yelling for his demotion. “This is a hell of an office you got here. I only got some litter and empty boxes at mine.” Jesus laughed like he was one of Johnny Carson’s writers. “Then again, my office be a street corner.”
    Straightening his tie, Martin thought it was a good time to look professional. Christ, what if someone wanted to check on him?
    “What do you want?” he asked.
    “Man, it’s time I help you out. I talked to Michael Burgess.” The pen fell from Jesus’s finger to the ground. He bent to pick it up.
    Martin didn’t want to wait, moved around the desk, grabbed Jesus by the collar, and yanked him up.
    “Yo, man, what the fuck?”
    “Worry about the pen later.” Martin was nose to nose with Jesus, but he kept his voice calm. Talking as if he were a happy telemarketer. “Tell me what Burgess said.”
    “He said he would talk to you. Though I don’t know why.” Jesus pulled himself from Martin’s grip and straightened his collar. “Must be my charming personality.”
    Jesus told him to expect a phone call from Burgess to set up particulars. He actually used the word particulars, which told Martin that Burgess must have told him to say that. Didn’t matter. This case was finally getting somewhere.
    “Thanks, Jesus.” Martin patted him on the back.
    Jesus stood to leave, made it to the door, when a thought hit Martin. As much as he hated to admit it, Donne was not a stupid man. He would make connections. In fact, Martin wanted him to. He wanted to cross paths with Donne again. But he didn’t want Donne ahead on the case.
    “Just do me a favor. If Jackson Donne runs into you, you tell him none of this. You do not connect him with Burgess.”
    Jesus shrugged. “Whatever, yo.”
    As he left, Martin thought about it. He didn’t trust Jesus any farther than he could throw him. The guy was an informant and a drug dealer, plain and simple. He’d bend to anybody.
    Martin had to talk to Donne himself. Before Donne even thought about going to Jesus.

Chapter 17
    Jacob’s Jazz was on a small street off Route 535. I didn’t Google it; I called information and they gave me the address. A small bar, smoky and loud, with a ton of people standing in the back and sitting at small tables. I grabbed an empty stool at the bar as a small guy in thick black-framed glasses stepped away.
    After ordering a Brooklyn lager, I turned to see Tracy fiddling with her saxophone as her bass player soloed. The drummer, stationed directly behind Tracy, was using brushes, the song slow, melodic, even with the solo going on. A guitar player strummed chords. Tracy was the only woman onstage. When the bass player finished, he got a round of applause from the audience as Tracy picked up the melody again. I didn’t recognize the song.
    I swiveled on the seat, looking around the crowd. Most of the patrons were black,