Live Till I Die

By John O'Rourke

Live Till I Die introduces August Nolan, a tough yet soft-spoken New Jersey ex-state cop turned PI who when not working a case is often found nursing a Jack Daniels at Amanda's, his favorite Hoboken watering hole. Nolan's latest assignment, which he's juggling with a couple of cheating spouse cases, is to investigate Hoboken's charismatic young mayor, suspected of graft in a lucrative construction contract scheme.

 

As Nolan digs in, he connects the mayor to a major smuggling operation and a suspicious car accident the night an attractive campaign worker went missing. The PI's persistence quickly draws the ire of a crime syndicate as well as from some in law enforcement, and trouble follows. A live-and-let-live attitude won't stop Nolan from unleashing his formidable fighting skills when a young protégé and his family become targets.

 

Live Till I Die features a strong cast of characters, colorful Hoboken background, romantic tension and action scenes that keep the pages turning. Investigative technique and bartender's wisdom are freely dispensed. This is detective fiction in the vein of Robert B. Parker's "Jesse Stone" and "Spenser" novels, but with an arguably harder edge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John O'Rourke
• Release date: Aug 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798987589953

John O'Rourke

John E. O'Rourke was born in Pequannock, New Jersey, and raised in the Passaic County town of Wanaque. He is a twenty-six-year retired veteran of the New Jersey State Police. During his distinguished career, he conducted hundreds of criminal investigations ranging from criminal trespass to murder. O'Rourke has authored the books, Jersey Troopers: Sacrifice at the Altar of Public Service, New Jersey State Troopers: 1961–2011: Remembering the Fallen, The Jersey Shore Thrill Killer: Richard Biegenwald, Mystery, Millions & Murder: The tragic Kidnapping of Exxon's Sidney Reso, Cold Case: A Murder Mystery.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Summer 2019

THE SUMMER WIND brushed against my face, as I enjoyed the evening on Hoboken’s Washington Street. Boutique shops, cozy taverns, and fine restaurants, with comfortable outside dining are plentiful here. The street is lined with brownstones, and accented with 1800s-style lampposts, benches, and post clocks. I sipped on my Jack Daniels behind an intimate table outside my favorite restaurant, Amanda’s, reflecting on the fact that not long ago, one could not speak so fondly of Hoboken.

What was once a blue-collar town known for its longshoremen and Maxwell House and Lipton Tea manufacturing plants, had transitioned to an upper-class community popular with high-salaried New York City bigwigs. Situated across the Hudson River from Manhattan, several years ago some smart thinking developers began building condos and restoring brownstones here in Hoboken. The PATH train takes ten minutes to get into Manhattan, making where I live an attractive location. I, however, am not a Wall Street bigwig, nor am I an executive; I’m an ex-cop from Jersey. I sell my gun as a P.I. and lay my head in the Yellow Flats section of town, not far from where I was dining tonight.

The ice in my drink had melted sufficiently so I took a healthy swallow. I spotted a female jogger heading my way. I admired her dedication to fitness. As she passed by, I appreciated the vibrant energy she exuded.  I couldn’t help but notice she was quite attractive, perhaps in her mid-thirties or early forties.  I continued honing my observation skills watching her pass by, that is until I was interrupted.

August, you going to order or not? asked Joe.

Joe, come on. You know I like to sit for a while and relax before ordering,

I know, Joe said, but I have more tables than usual tonight; Sally is sick. People are starting to come out of the woodwork with this nice weather.

Amen, I said. It was a long winter and a short spring, Joe. Bring me a New York strip medium-rare, and a baked potato. Hold the greenery.

Joe was right, the seating was filled inside and out. For me, it had been a long day. I had been mentoring a young assistant of mine, showing him the ins and outs of P.I. work. Marty Belinski was a good kid; he wanted to be a cop and was hoping to take the upcoming civil service examination. Marty was a graduate of John Jay College across the river with a degree in Criminal Justice. He needed guidance, so I took him under my wing. He was green. Real green, but with some training and experience he might be an able aide; that is until a local police department hires him. Marty didn’t seem to have an interest in the state police, and I didn’t push it. I had left the Outfit, as troopers call it last year, and was beginning to grow my client list. I supplement my workload by helping an old trooper buddy who pushes cases my way.

Mike O’Brien retired a good five years before I did and had a decent practice as a private cop. O’Brien took any case that came his way; I was more selective. He was good, but he couldn’t handle the more complex jobs. However, his business was taking off, so he needed assistance. O’Brien charged $125 an hour and paid me $75 to do the work. I give Marty the cases and pay him $20 an hour. I pocket the rest. Not bad for an ex-cop. The complicated cases O’Brien knew he couldn’t handle he pushed my way. For his efforts I gave him a 15 percent finder’s fee. It was a sweet arrangement, one which benefited both of us.

My steak had arrived and was cooked perfectly. The piano player began singing Fly me to the Moon, and he sang it well. About halfway through my steak, I ordered another Jack Daniels. By now the sun had begun to set and a slight breeze was coming off the river which chilled my bones, so I asked Joe to light the propane heater next to my table.

An old couple sitting two tables from me had finished their meal and were replaced by a woman I found stunning. My sense of observation was always at work, and after a long career as a cop how could it not be? My attention to detail was finely tuned, as well; she wore a gray skirt that curved around her hips. Her shirt was blue silk, fitted to provide hints of what lay underneath. Her legs were long and punctuated by stylish charcoal high heels. With brown eyes, shoulder length hair and chocolate skin, she was hard to miss. Especially for a trained observer such as myself.

I finished my steak and sat comfortably under the heater watching the glow of the Manhattan skyline as I waited for Joe to bring coffee. As I did, I noticed two men on the sidewalk admiring the woman. I smiled, thinking to myself she was hard not to admire. The taller and better looking of the two tried to spark up a conversation, but she wasn’t buying it.

Joe arrived with my cup of coffee, and I took my eyes away to thank him. I mixed a little whole milk in and stirred. I glanced over to see how the conversation was going and could see the guy wasn’t making any headway. He looked as if he was being rude, and the woman looked annoyed. I sat watching for a minute or two, trying to convince myself not to get involved. However, the man didn’t feel the vibe she was giving off and was relentless. When he leaned in too close, I stood and took a sip of my coffee before walking over.

Evening, ma’am, I said. Are these gentlemen bothering you?

Well, this guy is, she said pointing to the taller man.

Sir, I said politely, can I ask you to please leave this lady alone? It’s pretty clear she’s not interested.

Screw you, asshole, the man said moving toward me, causing his booze breath to pass under my nose.

As always, I kept my composure. This is a nice establishment and quite frankly you’re making a fool of yourself.

Moving even closer to me the guy said, Who the hell do you think you are? He put his hand up to push against my chest and I instinctively placed a pinky lock on him. I did this by applying pressure across all four of his fingers with most of the force being against his pinky. As he grunted in pain, I grabbed his shoulder with my free hand to gain control of him, applying increased pressure to his pinky. This caused him to stand on his toes and wince visibly. I asked him again politely to leave. He was more understanding this time and shook his head in the affirmative. I released the hold I had on him and waited for a haymaker, which sometimes follows. It didn’t. He just walked away calling me a jerk-off.

Turning to the woman, I got a good look into a pair of wide-set brown eyes accentuated by purple eyeshadow. Her face didn’t have a blemish, and I noticed long fingers with silver nail polish as she toiled with her hair. I apologized for the commotion and couldn’t tell if she was appreciative or appalled.

What’s your name? she asked softly.

August Nolan.

Tell me, Nolan, do you come here often?

As a matter of fact, I do.

Then maybe we’ll meet again, she said. I’d ask you to join me, but I’m waiting for someone.

Tell me, how do I increase the odds?

The odds?

Of us meeting again.

Well, this Friday is a good bet, she said.

Okay, I’ll play the odds.

You do that, August Nolan.

As I walked back to my table, I couldn’t hide the smile on my face. Joe looked at me and winked. I was never smooth with the opposite sex and had recently been burned. I’m a bit rusty, I thought to myself as I laid money down for Joe, but this had gone well. I looked over at her again and caught her eye.

What’s your name? I asked.

She smiled. I’ll tell you Friday night.

A mystery. I smiled back. That’s my bag.

She laughed and said, What’s that supposed to mean?

I’ll tell you Friday.

She was strong and confident without being pushy. I liked that almost as much as her long legs.

Chapter 2

I WALKED TO my office, checked my voice messages, and cleared my desk before heading upstairs to my apartment. It was convenient having an office with an apartment upstairs. I poured a stiff glass of Jack and stared out my kitchen window. In the distance, I could see the Empire State Building illuminated in green and white. After a few minutes of sipping on my drink, and pondering life, I turned off the light and went into my bedroom, flipping on CNN.

It had been a long day navigating Marty through a surveillance gig. He was slow to learn but was getting it. I closed my eyes and laid listening to Anderson Cooper complaining about the President. The rhetoric was familiar and became secondary to my plans for tomorrow. As I mentally ran through my to-do list, I could hear a car driving by and late-night strollers talking and laughing. Their voices began to drift away from me when I saw Rich bring a perp into the cell and take the handcuffs off his prisoner. Sit the fuck down! Rich yelled. Whatcha got? I asked. Probable trigger man in the Newark gang shooting last week, he replied. There was strange laughter and music in the background and suddenly I was holding Rich’s lifeless body. A moment later, I heard a beeping sound. I sat up quickly with sweat pouring off my forehead. I reached over and hit the off button on my alarm clock.

I stumbled across my living room and jammed my toe on an end table before reaching my coffee pot. Damn, that hurt. Cursing my clumsiness, I put eight spoonsful of Maxwell House into the percolator and plugged it in before heading to the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

I let the warm water run over my shoulders and down my back. It felt good. After toweling off I wiped the moisture from the mirror to get a look at myself. I had noticed a gray hair the other day and was searching for more. Thankfully, there weren’t any. It’s a small tribute to vanity, I guess, but at 40, I’m not ready to go gray.

Marty arrived at 7:30am to hand in his report and the pictures he’d taken. I’d taught him how to prepare a case folder and he’d done a pretty good job with this one—an infidelity case where the wife was having sex with the landscaper. The pictures were revealing and indicated the landscaper was quite good in the brush. Marty did a great job catching every angle. Since the job was from Mike O’Brien, it was O’Brien’s responsibility to break the news to the husband. Our work was done. I cleaned up Marty’s grammar and typos, scanned the report and emailed it to O’Brien. The case file Marty had prepared was put in an envelope with the printed report and put in the U.S. mail.

Marty and I sat in the kitchen sipping coffee and going over the next two jobs I had lined up. These, too, were O’Brien cases. One an infidelity case, the other a hidden asset investigation.

How many of these infidelity cases do I have to handle? asked Marty.

As many as come in, I said. They’re helping you develop your snooping skills.

Hah, hah, he said with no trace of humor. They’re turning me off to marriage.

Just remember, kid, I said. Happy wife, happy life.

So what went wrong with your marriage, August?

That’s a discussion for another time.

After refilling our mugs, I pulled two files and went over the details of the first case with Marty. I planned to have him help with both cases, but I’d start him on the infidelity job.

Marty was to snoop on a Mr. Mark Harris, from Cedar Grove, New Jersey—a CPA in his late 50s. Apparently, Gloria Harris believes her husband is having an affair. The information gathered indicates that Mr. Harris normally works from home during the mornings and then heads to his office in Montclair, New Jersey around lunchtime every day. She believes he is being unfaithful and wants proof to support her suspicions. This is a good starting point, I said to Marty before kicking him out the door.

Next, I reviewed the hidden asset file from the firm of Lawson, Bradley, and Dunn, which had requested an asset search on Mr. Dillman Sullivan of Chester. Sullivan is involved in a civil suit and the plaintiff believes he is withholding assets. Sullivan is a developer of high-end properties in and around Morris County, New Jersey. His company, the Sullivan Group, is well known in the northern part of the state.

I put on gray slacks and a blue collared dress shirt with a gray sport jacket and strapped my .357 Smith & Wesson on my left ankle. I opened the door and the outside heat hit me in the face like a right hook. It was humid and the day was heating up fast. I walked to the parking garage on Bloomfield near 15th and fired up my ’67 Corvette Stingray. I love this car, a white convertible with a long hood and flip up headlights, chrome rims, thin-line red wall tires and black leather seats. A 4-speed manual shift with a chrome handle, and the steering wheel is wood with chrome bracing. Quite a different ride from a Ford Crown Vic.

* * *

I pulled onto Frank Sinatra Drive and thought it appropriate to flip on the Sinatra channel. It was an old car, but I’d had a Sirius radio installed. I turned to Siriusly Sinatra, but a Perry Como song was on, so I switched to 70s on 7 where Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s Takin’ Care of Business was playing—a more appropriate tune for beginning my day. A bright blue sky created a nice backdrop for the NYC skyline to my left. The sun was glimmering off the Hudson River as I passed Frank Sinatra Park. The wind passing over the river cooled my face as I turned west onto 4th Street and headed toward I-78.

My destination was Chester Township to go over the public records on the Dillman Sullivan asset case. Chester is a beautiful rural community of large homes. I parked my car outside the small town hall building. It was nice not to have to struggle to find a parking spot. Several hours were spent going through old books and flirting with a clerk who seemed willing and able to help. The time had moved fast. When I looked at my pocket watch I couldn’t believe it was quarter past one. I discovered a company with the interesting name of Dillman Contractors, LLC. Could Sullivan be so foolish? I wondered.

I said goodbye to the clerk, taking her name and number should I require her services in the future. I headed for lunch, stopping at a local Chester watering hole off Main Street. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a chicken cheesesteak and a Jack Daniels. There, I reviewed my notes. As I was reading my cellphone rang.

Nolan, I said.

This is George Adams of Clinton, Willow, and Clinton, Attorneys at Law.

Yes, how can I help you?

Mr. Nolan, on behalf of the firm, I would like to hire your services. Are you available later this afternoon to discuss?

I made the appointment for 5:30pm at their offices in Weehawken and hung up. I enjoyed my sandwich and ordered a tall glass of water to go with my Jack. By the time I walked to my Vette the temperature was pushing 95. I headed east. As I drove, I called Marty to see how he was making out.

How’s it going, kid?

Not good, Marty said. I’m sitting outside the shopping mall.

Okay, I said. Did he just walk in?

No, he’s been in there about an hour.

Marty, you can’t just sit outside. How do you know he’s not meeting someone inside or having lunch at the food court? You’ll never know if you don’t follow him.

I didn’t think of that.

I sighed before launching into a lecture. You don’t need to be a seasoned detective to figure out what two people are doing at a hotel, Marty, but not everything is going to be handed to you. Sometimes it takes close surveillance to piece everything together. You just can’t sit outside.

* * *

It was quarter to four when I got back to my office. I couldn’t help it but I was still annoyed at the thought of Marty sitting there in his beat-up Toyota Camry twiddling his thumbs at the mall. After checking my voice messages, I went upstairs to my apartment and laid on the couch to get some rest before heading to my meeting.

The drive to the law offices of Clinton, Willow, and Clinton was quick with little traffic. I parked in an underground garage across the street. The building was one of the nicer looking scrapers in Weehawken. The firm was located on the top floor with generous views of the Hudson River and New York’s skyline. I walked down the hall and had to be buzzed into the reception area. An elderly woman with a pinched face glared up from her desk at me.

May I help you? she said in an annoyed voice.

August Nolan to see Mr. Adams.

Do you have an appointment? she challenged.

I do.

Take a seat and I’ll tell Mr. Adams you’re here.

A minute later I was waved into a conference room and told without any warmth that Mr. Adams would be in momentarily. The air conditioning was pumping heavily, chilling my bones for about ten minutes before Adams walked in. He was an average looking man in his mid-30s, about 5’10" with a potbelly, his clothing a bit disheveled. I’ve seen my share of seedy defense attorneys, and that’s how I pegged him.

Mr. Nolan, I’m George Adams. I appreciate your coming on short notice, he said putting his hand out to shake my hand.

My pleasure, Mr. Adams, I said uncomfortably shaking his soft grip. How can I help you?

First, Mr. Nolan, I will need you to read and sign this document. It’s a non-disclosure agreement—you’re familiar? I found his tone mildly condescending.

Sure, I’ll sign your NDA, I held my hand out.

I scanned and signed the document before sliding it back to Adams across the shiny maple conference table.

Mr. Nolan, the firm is looking for information centered on Mr. Stephen Gathering of Hoboken.

Mayor Gathering? I raised an eyebrow.

That’s right, he said. What we need you to do, Mr. Nolan, is dig up dirt on Mr. Gathering.

Dirt? Is that a legal term? I smiled.

Adams didn’t return my smile. Mr. Gathering is rumored to be taking graft for zoning privileges in Hoboken.

"Really, and