Текст книги "Night passage"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Praise for the Jesse Stone novels by “America’s mystery maestro” (Forbes) . . .

Night Passage

“Jesse Stone is a complex and consistently interesting new protagonist.” —Newsday

“The reigning champion of the American tough-guy detective novel, heavyweight division . . . The man has rarely composed a bad sentence or an inert paragraph. [Night Passage] proves no exception.”—Entertainment Weekly

“Stunning.” —Houston Chronicle

“A fast-paced, character-driven tale that practically reads itself.” —The Raleigh News & Observer

“A first-rate, engrossing book.” —The Florida Times-Union

“A genuine page-turner.” —Hartford Courant

High Profile

“Crisply etched characters . . . smooth, lean prose. There is a level of narrative tension—and plain polished professionalism—below which Parker is incapable of descending. High Profile will repay a quick read with . . . the wit, suspense, and psychological sophistication readers who know Parker’s work happily associate with him.” —The Boston Globe

“It’s easy to overlook how fine the writing is because Parker’s style rarely calls attention to itself, going down so easy that you can forget you are reading. His books are not so much read as inhaled.” —The Associated Press

“Parker’s most complex, ambitious novel in years. Great reading from an old hand who hasn’t lost his touch.” —Booklist (starred review)

“Robert B. Parker’s books . . . are always delightful page-turners. High Profile is no exception.” —The Tampa Tribune

“The [Jesse Stone] series deserves its own praise. Highly recommended.” —Library Journal

Sea Change

“A stunning performance by Parker.” —The Providence Journal

“A triumph.” —Boston Herald

“Crackles with wisecracks.” —Forbes

“Parker is dead-on here . . . the story swirls from whodunit into an absorbing whydunit.” —Booklist

“Strong enough to rank near [Parker’s] best.” —Kirkus Reviews

Stone Cold

“If Spenser is the invincible knight, the timeless hero of American detective fiction, then Jesse Stone is the flawed hero of the moment, a man whose deficiencies define his humanity . . . You want to cheer.” —The New York Times Book Review

“First-rate . . . Parker is in roaring good form in this one.” —The Boston Globe

“Moves like a speeding bullet. Parker doesn’t waste a word.” —Orlando Sentinel

“Parker illuminates the dark-cornered minds of sociopaths. Prose as clear and potent as a fine vodka.” —Entertainment Weekly

“Parker adroitly manages to keep the suspense quotient high.” —The Washington Post Book World

Death in Paradise

“[Parker’s found] the pitch-perfect voice for a guy who is straining every muscle to cut down on the booze, hang on to his new job as police chief and not get rattled by the body of a teenage girl.” —The New York Times

“One of the master’s best . . . A page-turner . . . as good as it gets.” —The Washington Post Book World

“Dead-on.” —St. Petersburg Times

“Hard-hitting . . . and brutally frank . . . Death in Paradise is a tough, clear-eyed, sardonic look at life and the raw deals it can dish out.” —The Providence Sunday Journal

Trouble in Paradise

“This book is so good, there’s not enough R’s in terrific.” —The Kansas City Star

“Tough and tight.” —Publishers Weekly

“A blast of the page-turning energy [Parker’s] famous for.” —New York Post

“You’ve got to like Stone . . . Harks back to Spenser and, before him, Sam Spade.” —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“Parker’s plot is built like a smooth-running Ducati engine.” —The Sunday Newark Star-Ledger

“Parker’s new series continues explosively . . . Parker does an excellent job of building tension and weaving several subplots into an explosive finale.” —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

THE SPENSER NOVELS

Sixkill

Painted Ladies

The Professional

Rough Weather

Now & Then

Hundred-Dollar Baby

School Days

Cold Service

Bad Business

Back Story

Widow’s Walk

Potshot

Hugger Mugger

Hush Money

Sudden Mischief

Small Vices

Chance

Thin Air

Walking Shadow

Paper Doll

Double Deuce

Pastime

Stardust

Playmates

Crimson Joy

Pale Kings and Princes

Taming a Sea-Horse

A Catskill Eagle

Valediction

The Widening Gyre

Ceremony

A Savage Place

Early Autumn

Looking for Rachel Wallace

The Judas Goat

Promised Land

Mortal Stakes

God Save the Child

The Godwulf Manuscript

THE JESSE STONE NOVELS

Split Image

Night and Day

Stranger in Paradise

High Profile

Sea Change

Stone Cold

Death in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise

Night Passage

THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

Spare Change

Blue Screen

Melancholy Baby

Shrink Rap

Perish Twice

Family Honor

THE VIRGIL COLE/EVERETT HITCH NOVELS

Blue-Eyed Devil

Brimstone

Resolution

Appaloosa

ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

A Triple Shot of Spenser

Double Play

Gunman’s Rhapsody

All Our Yesterdays

A Year at the Races

   (with Joan H. Parker)

Perchance to Dream

Poodle Springs

   (with Raymond Chandler)

Love and Glory

Wilderness

Three Weeks in Spring

   (with Joan H. Parker)

Training with Weights

   (with John R. Marsh)

Night Passage

Robert B. Parker

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

NIGHT PASSAGE

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

G. P. Putnam’s Sons hardcover edition / September 1997

Jove mass-market edition / November 1998

Berkley mass-market edition / July 2001

Berkley premium edition / February 2008

Copyright © 1997 by Robert B. Parker.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-0-425-18396-0

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

Contents

Cover

Praise for Robert B. Parker

Also by Robert B. Parker

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

For Joan:

Anywhere you are is Shangri-La

Chapter 1

At the end of the continent, near the foot of Wilshire Boulevard, Jesse Stone stood and leaned on the railing in the darkness above the Santa Monica beach and stared at nothing, while below him the black ocean rolled away toward Japan.

There was no traffic on Ocean Avenue. There was the comfortless light of the streetlamps, but they were behind him. Before him was the uninterrupted darkness above the repetitive murmur of the disdainful sea.

A black-and-white cruiser pulled up and parked behind his car at the curb. A spotlight shone on it and one of the cops from the cruiser got out and looked into it. Then the spotlight swept along the verge of the cliffs and touched Jesse and went past him and came back and held. The strapping young L.A. patrolman walked over to him, holding his flashlight near the bulb end, the barrel of it resting on his shoulder, so he could use it as a club if he needed to. The young cop asked Jesse if he was all right. Jesse said he was, and the young cop asked him why he was standing there at four in the morning. The cop looked about twenty-four. Jesse felt like he could be his father, though in fact he was maybe ten years older.

“I’m a cop,” Jesse said.

“Got a badge?”

“Was a cop. I’m leaving town, just thought I’d stand here awhile before I went.”

“That your car?” he said.

Jesse nodded.

“What division you work out of?” the young cop said.

“Downtown, Homicide.”

“Who runs it?”

“Captain Cronjager.”

“I can smell booze on you,” the young cop said.

“I’m waiting to sober up.”

“I can drive you home in your car,” the young cop said. “My partner will follow in the black and white.”

“I’ll stay here till I’m sober,” Jesse said.

“Okay,” the young cop said and went back to the cruiser and the cruiser pulled away. No one else came by. There was no sound except the tireless movement of the thick black water. Behind him the streetlights became less stark, and he realized he could see the first hint of the pier to his left. He turned slowly and looked back at the city behind him and saw that it was almost dawn. The streetlights looked yellow now, and the sky to the east was white. He looked back at the ocean once, then walked to his car and got in and started up. He drove along Ocean Avenue to the Santa Monica Freeway and turned onto it and headed east. By the time he passed Boyle Heights the sun was up and shining into his eyes as he drove straight toward it. Say goodbye to Hollywood, say goodbye my baby.

Chapter 2

Tom Carson sat in the client chair across the desk from Hastings Hathaway in the president’s office of the Paradise Trust. He felt uneasy, as if he were in the principal’s office. He didn’t like the feeling. He was the chief of police, people were supposed to feel uneasy confronting him.

“You can quietly resign, Tom,” Hathaway said, “and relocate, we’ll be happy to help you with that financially, or you can, ah, face the consequences.”

“Consequences?” Carson tried to sound stern, but he could feel the bottom falling out of him.

“For you, and if necessary, I suppose, for your wife and your children.”

Carson cleared his throat, and felt ashamed that he’d had to.

“Such as?” he said as strongly as he could, trying hard to keep his gaze steady on Hathaway.

Why was Hathaway so scary? He was a geeky guy. In the eighth grade, before Hasty had gone away to school, Tom Carson had teased him. So had everyone else. Hathaway smiled. It was a thin geeky smile and it frightened Tom Carson further.

“We have resources, Tom. We could turn the problem over to Jo Jo and his associates, or, depending upon circumstance, we could deal with it ourselves. I don’t want that to happen. I’m your friend, Tom. I have so far been able to control the, ah, firebrands, but you’ll have to trust me. You’ll have to do what I ask.”

“Hasty,” Carson said. “I’m the chief of police, for crissake.”

Hathaway shook his head.

“You can’t just say I’m not,” Carson said.

“You don’t make the rules in this town, Tom.”

“And you do?” Carson said.

His face felt stiff as he spoke and his arms and hands felt weak.

“We do, Tom. Emphasis on the ‘We.’ ”

Carson was silent, staring at Hathaway. The mention of Jo Jo had made him feel loose and fragmented inside. Hathaway took a thick stationery-sized manila envelope from his middle drawer.

“You aren’t much of a policeman, Tom, and it was just a sad accident that you learned things. But you did, and you were right to come first to me. I’ve been able to save you so far from the consequences of your knowledge.”

“What if I went to the FBI with this?”

“This is what I’m trying to forestall,” Hathaway said. “Other people, people like Jo Jo, would prevail. And your family . . .” Hathaway shrugged and held the shrug for a moment, and sighed as if to himself, before he continued.

“But we both know, Tom, you are not made of that kind of stuff. The better choice for you, and I’m sure you recognize this, is to take our rather generous severance package. We’ve found you a house, and we’ve contributed some cash to help you in relocation costs. The details are in here.”

“What if I promise not to say a word about anything, Hasty. Why can’t I just stay here. You’d have a chief of police that won’t give you any trouble.”

Hathaway shook his head slowly as Carson spoke. He smiled sadly.

“I mean, you know, the next chief,” Carson said, “might be harder to deal with.”

Hathaway continued his sad smile and slow head shake.

“I am trying to help you, Tom,” Hathaway said. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

“I’m no troublemaker,” Carson said. “How can you be sure you won’t just get a troublemaker.”

“We have already chosen your successor,” Hathaway said. “He should be just right.”

He held the envelope out toward Tom Carson and, after a moment of empty hesitation, Carson reached out and took it.

Chapter 3

Jesse drove out Route 10 past Upland, where he picked up Route 15 and followed it north to Barstow, where he went east on Route 40. He didn’t turn on the radio. He liked quiet. He set the cruise control to seventy and kept a hand lightly on the steering wheel and slowly settled into himself and allowed his feelings to seep out of the compacted center of himself. He no longer had a badge. He’d turned it in with his service pistol. There was no wedding ring on his left hand. He smiled without pleasure. Turned that in too. It made him feel sort of scared to be without a badge or a wedding ring. Not quite thirty-five and no official status anymore. With his right hand he fished in the gym bag on the front seat beside him until he found his off-duty gun, a short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38. He arranged it near the top of the bag, where it would be easy to reach, and he let his hand rest on it for a time. It made him feel less insubstantial. He stopped at a truck stop outside of Needles, sat at the counter and had orange juice, ham, eggs, potatoes, wheat toast, and three cups of coffee with cream and sugar. It made him feel good. The place was full of truckers and tourists, and he was alone among them. No one paid any attention to him. They were going where they would and he was on his way east. He went to the men’s room and washed his hands and face. Back in the car, cruise control set, he felt a small freshet of excitement. It was afternoon now, the sun was behind him. Shining on what he had left. The road spooled out ahead of him, straight to the horizon, nearly empty. Freedom, he thought, and smiled again, no badge, no ring, no problem. You look at it the right way and that’s freedom. He nursed the excitement as long as he could, trying to build on it.

He stayed the night in Flagstaff, 250 miles north of where he had been born, and went to the motel bar for supper. He ordered scotch on the rocks and a chicken breast sandwich on a croissant. There were a couple of guys in plaid shirts and those little string ties they wore in places like Arizona, the kind with the silver hasp where a knot should be. Both bartenders were women wearing white shirts and black ties and short red jackets. One was a fat blond woman, the other a more slender dark-haired Hispanic girl who would be fat in five more years. Beyond the bar was a room with tables and a dance floor, and the setup for a disc jockey. No one was in the room yet. An unlit piece of neon script over the disc jockey stand spelled out “Coyote Lounge.” He sipped a little scotch, felt the cold heat spread from his esophagus. A tall well-built man in his thirties came into the bar wearing a big Stetson hat and earphones. He seemed to be bouncing slightly to music that only he heard. He had on a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tight jeans and two-toned lizard-skin cowboy boots. The tiny tape player was tucked into his shirt pocket and the slender cord ran up under his chin. He looked as if he’d just come from a shower and a shave and his cologne came into the bar ahead of him. Clubman, maybe. Jesse watched him. There was nothing particularly interesting about him except that Jesse watched everything. The cowboy ordered a nonalcoholic beer and when it was served he left the glass and picked up the bottle and carried it with him as he walked along the bar looking everything over.

“When’s that dancing start?” he said to one of the bartenders.

He spoke loudly, perhaps because he needed to speak over the music in his ears. He drank his nonalcoholic beer from the bottle, holding it by the neck.

“Nine o’clock,” the Hispanic girl said. She had no accent.

The cowboy looked around the bar at Jesse, at the two guys in plaid shirts drinking beer, at the two bartenders.

“Anybody know a happening place around here?”

One of the beer drinkers shook his head without looking up. Nobody else even acknowledged the question. Everybody knows it, Jesse thought. Maybe it’s how loud he talks. Or how he looks like a model in one of those western-wear catalogs. Or the way he walks around in the little backwater bar, like he was strolling into the Ritz. Whatever it was, everyone knew he was a guy who, encouraged by an answer, would talk to you for much too long. The cowboy nodded to himself, as if his suspicions were confirmed, and walked into the empty dance hall and walked around it, looking at the caricatures of dapper semi-human coyotes hanging on the walls. Then he put his half-finished bottle of nonalcoholic beer on the bar, surveyed the bar again, and walked out.

“Takes all kinds,” the blond bartender said.

A jerk, Jesse thought. A good-looking jerk, but just as lonely and separate as the homely ones. His sandwich came. He ate it because he needed nourishment, and drank two more scotches and paid and went to his room. Nothing was going to happen when they opened up the dance floor that Jesse wanted to watch.

In his room he got the travel bottle of Black Label out of his suitcase and poured some into one of the little sanitary plastic cups he found in the bathroom. The walk down the hall for ice seemed too long so he sipped the scotch warm. He didn’t turn on the television. Instead he stood at the window and looked out at the high pines that rimmed the hill behind the motel. He’d grown up in Tucson when The Brady Bunch was hot, and while it was only four or five hours away, it could have been another planet. Tucson was sunlight and desert and heat, even in January. Up here they had winter. It was 7:45, getting dark. He was still in the same time zone. Jennifer would be home from work. Actually she’d probably be fucking Elliott Krueger about now. He let the images of his wife having sex roll behind his eyes as he stared at the now-dark windowpane and sipped his scotch. His reflection in the windowpane looked somber. He grinned at it, and raised his glass in a toasting gesture. Go to it, Jenn, fuck your brains out. It’s got nothing to do with me. The bravado of it, buoyed with the scotch, made him feel intact for a moment, but he knew it was scotch, and he knew it was bravado, and he knew there was nothing behind the smile in the empty window.