Текст книги "Trouble in Paradise"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Off the right side of the boat, he saw the cove, down past the seaside restaurant with its big picture windows, bright and blank with reflected sunlight. He throttled back to idle and let the boat drift awhile with the wind and the chop. There was no sign of activity.

Nothing was happening on the island. He looked at his watch.

10:10. Macklin was scheduled to have set up by now on the island, and Macklin was big for schedules. Costa smiled a little. Or he says he is, Costa thought.

FORTY-THREE.

Jesse drove up to talk with Harry Smith.

He brought Suitcase Simpson with him and Anthony De Angelo Both of them wore vests and carried shotguns. If Travis Randall was afraid of the Indian, Jesse would be too.

"Stand by in the car," Jesse said.

"If I ' get scared, I'll holler."

Walking up the stairs to the front door of condo 134, he could feel the muscles tighten across the back of his shoulders.

He'd seen some scary gang bangers in South Central L.A." but there was something about the way Randall had talked about the Indian.

Mrs. Smith answered the door. Jesse was not in uniform, and she drew a blank at first. He showed her his shield.

"Jesse Stone," he said.

"Paradise Police."

Faye felt a stab of fear run the length of her gut.

"Oh, yes," she said.

"Chief Stone. What brings you here?"

"Well I was hoping to talk with Mr. Smith. Is he home?"

What did he want? Why was he here? The thing on Stiles Island had already started. How could it be a coincidence? She had to make him talk. She had to know.

"No, I'm sorry. He's not, may I help you with something?"

Faye noticed that there were at least two more cops below in the cruiser.

"I don't know," Jesse said.

"May I come in?"

"Of course."

She stepped away from the door, and Jesse went into the apartment. The wall opposite was all glass and looked straight out onto Boston Harbor, with the Boston skyline across the water. The doorway to the bedroom was ajar, and Jesse noticed that the ceiling was mirrored. Atta girl, Mrs. Smith. She was a good-looking woman.

Nice body, looked strong.

"Coffee?" she said.

"Or something stronger? I suppose I shouldn't say that, should I? You being a policeman on duty and such She did the fluttery housewife thing pretty well, Jesse thought, but if you paid attention there were a lot of little details that suggested strength, not flutter.

"Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Smith. May I sit?"

"Of course. Please call me Rocky."

"Short for?"

"Roxanne," she said.

Jesse nodded. Faye marveled at how she'd pulled "Roxanne" out of the air. What the hell would "Rocky" be short for?

"Do you know anyone named Wilson Cromartie?" Jesse said.

"Wilson Cromartie, no. I can't say I do," she said.

It was an easy lie for Faye because when he said the name, it didn't mean anything. Only as she was saying it over, did she realize that it was Crow.

"Maybe you don't know him by that name," Jesse said.

"He's an American Indian. Says he's Apache, calls himself Crow."

"I'm sorry, Chief Stone. I really don't know anyone like that."

Jesse nodded again. He was pleasant and easy speaking. But Jimmy had said he was more than he seemed.

"How about anyone named James Macklin?" Jesse said.

Jesus Christ. Faye felt the thrill of fear jag through her intestines. How much does he know?

"I don't think so," she said.

"You're not sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. It's just that you meet so many people..."

"A maroon Chevy van registered to Wilson Cromartie was parked underneath this condo Sunday night, and three men, one of whom appeared to be an American Indian, came out of this condo and got into the van and drove away."

He knows something's up, Faye thought. But he doesn't know what. If he knew what, he wouldn't waste time talking to me like this.

"They were here to see Harry," she said.

"I don't think he knew them very well."

"What were they here to see Harry about?"

"I don't know. They had some sort of business proposal. I believe Harry wasn't interested."

"What's Harry's business?" Jesse said.

Mrs. Smith smiled.

"He always says he's like a strapless gown no visible means of support," she said.

"I guess you'd say he was an entrepreneur. Real estate. Banking. Stocks and bonds. Buys a business, builds it up, sells it at a profit. I frankly don't pay a bunch of attention to my husband's businesses."

"Wilson Cromartie is a career criminal," Jesse said.

"He is? My God. I didn't spend any time with them, but he seemed perfectly nice when I let them in."

"I thought you should know," Jesse said.

"I'll tell Harry. Maybe he knows. Maybe that's why he wouldn't do business with them."

Jesse sat quietly looking at her. Everything she said was plausible. And Jesse didn't believe any of it. Something was going on. But he had no basis to arrest her or search her home or do anything else but what he'd done. He took a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Mrs. Smith.

"Please ask your husband to give me a call when he comes in," Jesse said.

She put the card down, face up, on the glass-topped coffee table.

"Of course," she said.

Jesse stood. She stood with him and walked with him to the door.

Driving out of the Navy Yard, Suitcase glanced at Jesse.

"Just the woman in there?"

Jesse nodded.

"So you didn't need us?"

"Nope, I was able to hold her at bay."

They were quiet as they drove toward City Square. Jesse sat beside Suitcase. Anthony De Angelo sat in back.

"You happen to fuck her, Jesse?" Anthony said.

"Not this time," Jesse said.

"Good to know there's someone," Anthony said.

He and Suitcase chortled lengthily as the cruiser turned onto the ramp and headed north over the Tobin Bridge.

Jesse said, "You guys have little interest in making sergeant, I assume."

This made both of them chortle harder, as the cruiser headed back to Paradise.

FORTY-FOUR.

Nothing had happened to her, and maybe nothing would. Harry and the Indian had paid no more attention to her as she lay on the couch. Two other men came in.

Would they do something to her? The taller of the new men had a red ponytail;

the other one was smaller and had his black hair slicked into a duck tail My Godt a duck tail Both men looked at her curiously.

"Dessert?" JD said to Macklin, Marcy felt the terror again, rippling through her like an electric serpent.

"Leave her alone," Macklin said.

"Shame to waste her," JD said.

"You touch her, and you'll have to explain it to Crow after we're finished," Macklin said.

JD looked at Crow. Crow glanced at him for a moment. JD made a motion that might have been a shrug or a shiver.

"She's safe with me," JD said.

"She better be," Macklin said.

"I'm going to ask her when we come back."

Marcy felt the serpent again. They had come in here and pointed a gun at her and tied her up and gagged her, but she had already begun to see them as protectors. She didn't want them to leave her with these other men. She made a noise.

"You breathing okay?" Macklin said.

She nodded.

"Want to go to the bathroom?"

Marcy shook her head.

"You're scared of these guys," Macklin said.

"No need. They won't touch you, will they Crow?"

"They won't," Crow said.

Marcy could hear in his voice what the two men heard, and she realized they wouldn't dare cross him. She felt grateful to the Indian.

"Sit tight," Macklin said to Fran and JD.

"Don't answer the phone unless it's me. Monitor the calls on the answering machine.

We'll be back in half an hour."

Mr. Smith and the Indian went out the door and Marcy was alone with the two strange men. They both looked at her silently for a moment and then ignored her.

The Stiles Island Patrol was part of a security company called Citadel Security, which was run by a former Marine captain named Kurt Billups. Billups dressed his men like drill instructors complete with campaign hats tilted sharply down over their noses. There were no fat, aging rent-a-cops on the Stiles Island Patrol. All his men were trim and neat. Their pistol belts were polished. Their shoes gleamed. The khaki shirts had military creases in them. The red and white Ford sedans they drove were always clean. Like most of the patrol, Michael Deering and Dan Moncrief were Marine Corps veterans. Deering had been to the Gulf. Moncrief had spent his full enlistment in San Diego. Deering was driving, and both were drinking the first coffee of the day as they came over the hill on Sea Street with the morning sun warming the car.

They were on the seaward side of Stiles Island, at the point farthest from the bridge. There was a long section of Sea Street reserved as green space by the resort planners. There were no houses on that section, and the trees came down to either side of the road.

Kids used it sometimes to drink beer and smoke pot. And people with dogs brought them here to let them run despite the Island leash law. This morning there was a maroon Chevy van skidded off the road, and a man lying in the street beside it. As Deering and Moncrief drove toward the scene, a man struggled out of the van and crouched beside the prone figure. Deering pulled over on the opposite side of the street, and he and Moncrief got out and walked across.

"What happened?" Deering said.

The man on the ground rolled over onto his back and shot Deering through the forehead. Moncrief didn't even get his hand onto his gun before the man on the ground shot him through the forehead too.

"Nice," Macklin said.

Crow got up, let the hammer down on his gun, dropped the magazine from the handle, methodically replaced the two rounds, slapped the magazine back up into the handle, and holstered the weapon. Then he and Macklin pulled the two dead men by their ankles into the woods. Macklin stripped the uniform shirt from Deering. Crow began to cover them with leaves and branches.

Macklin drove the patrol car into the woods on the other side of the street and piled boughs they had already cut to conceal it.

They got into the van together, Macklin driving, and pulled away. The killings and concealment had taken three minutes and eight seconds.

"Gatekeeper?" Crow said.

"Yep."

"Who you going to put in there?"

"On the bridge? Fran. He says he can blow the bridge from there."

"Perfect."

FORTY-FIVE.

Jesse was in the donut shop with Suitcase Simpson. Suitcase had two Boston cream donuts on a paper plate in front of him.

"Suit, those things will kill you," Jesse said.

"Then I'll go happy," Suitcase said and put half of the first donut into his mouth.

As he chewed, he fished in his shirt pocket and got out his notebook. Suitcase put the notebook on the counter and leafed through it with his left hand while he held the donut in his right, leaning over the counter so that it wouldn't leak onto his notebook.

When he got enough of the donut chewed and swallowed, Suitcase said, "I got some stuff on this guy Macklin."

Jesse sipped his coffee. It was 10:00 in the morning. The donut shop was almost empty after the early commuter rush, and the counter people were bustling around cleaning up napkins and newspapers and throwing away stray paper cups. A guy in a white apron and tee shirt brought out a big basket of new donuts, and the smell of them mixed happily with the scent of coffee.

"Macklin's a career criminal," Suit said.

"Mostly armed robbery. Got out of MCI Concord about six months ago. Done time in Arizona and Florida and Michigan. Got a girlfriend named Faye Valentine been with him as far back as we go."

"Description?"

"Better," Suitcase said and produced a mug shot.

"Harry Smith," Jesse said.

Suitcase nodded. He was proud of any detective work he did, even if it were simply back-checking. Jesse handed the picture back to Suitcase.

"Nice work, Suit," he said.

Suitcase's naturally high color deepened.

"There's more," he said.

"There's a notation that anybody got information on Macklin should contact a homicide detective at Boston Police Headquarters."

"Which you did," Jesse said.

"Yeah, I went to see him."

Jesse knew that Suitcase could have called, but the chance to go into the big city police station and talk with the big city homicide cop, man to man, was more than the kid could resist. It made Jesse want to smile. But he didn't. And it wasn't a bad thing for a young cop to be excited by the job. Suitcase took a moment to finish his first donut. He wiped some cream filling off the corner of his mouth.

"Sergeant named Belson," Suitcase said.

"Been trying to catch Macklin for ten, fifteen years, he said."

"Homicide cop?"

"Yeah. Says he knows Macklin murdered some people but he can't prove it, and he has taken, like, a personal interest."

"Macklin's his hobby," Jesse said.

Suitcase looked at Jesse with nearly blatant admiration.

"Yeah, that's just the expression Belson used. Hobby. Macklin is his personal hobby, he said."

Jesse nodded. He knew that Suit would file that phrase and eventually somewhere in his career would use it, and, because he was going to be a good cop, would in fact make somebody his personal hobby some day.

"He tell you about it?"

"Yeah. He says Macklin's a stone killer. Says there was a hostage situation in a liquor store heist couple years back in Brighton, before Macklin went to Concord. Robber held the clerk and two customers hostage when a silent alarm tripped and the cops showed up and caught him in the act. Store was in a mall, and they sealed off the front and the back. But he apparently found a way out by going through the cellar and up the stairs into one of those discount department stores next door. Nobody ever got a good look at the robber, except the hostages. When our side got in, the hostages were shot dead and the perp was gone."

"Belson thinks it was Macklin."

"Says he knows it was. Says a snitch he trusts told him off the record. But he could never come up with anything other than the snitch's word, and the snitch wouldn't testify."

"Scared of Macklin?"

"Terrified, Belson says. And even if he wasn't, it wouldn't be enough. It's hearsay."

"Why's he so sure it's Macklin?"

"He was in the area. They've established that. He's living good with no visible means. Weapon was a nine-millimeter handgun.

Not a rarity, but Macklin's gun of choice. And, Belson says, it's Macklin's style. He doesn't mind killing people. Back as far as Belson can trace him, he's solved his problems by shooting them.

Doesn't seem to bother him at all."

"Belson know anything about Wilson Cromartie?"

"No."

"Anything about Faye what's-her-last-name?"

Suitcase checked his notebook.

"Valentine," he said.

"Just that he knows that she's been with him a long time."

"Odd a guy like that is faithful," Jesse said.

"Maybe he ain't," Suitcase said.

"Maybe she is."

Suitcase was getting older every day, Jesse thought.

"Belson got any thoughts on what Macklin might be doing in Paradise?"

"Nothing legal. Belson's been chasing him for years, says he knows him better than he knows his wife. Says he's a crook because he's good at it and he likes the hours, but also because he's a thrill junkie."

Jesse nodded.

"Sorta like you said about him flirting with you," Suitcase said.

"Sort of," Jesse said.

"Belson says anything he'd be happy to help anyway he can."

Jesse nodded.

"And he said another thing," Suitcase looked a little uneasy and braced himself with a mouthful of Boston cream donut.

"He said if we got a chance to arrest Macklin and he were, ah, killed resisting, that wouldn't be a bad thing. He said it would be a very efficient thing."

Suitcase took another bite of donut.

"He asked me to tell you that too," Suitcase said.

"Sounds like Macklin has been his hobby too long," Jesse said.

"I asked him if it was personal," Suitcase said.

"And he looked kind of mad when I asked him, but all he said was that one of the hostages Macklin killed was twenty-two years old and pregnant."

Jesse nodded and finished his coffee.

"Well," Jesse said, "we'll keep it in mind."

FORTY-SIX.

When he got back to the station, Molly was waiting for him.

"Talk, lesse, alone?"

"Sure."

They went into his office and closed thl door. Molly was carrying a small notebook.

"You tell your ex-wife about Mrs. Hopkins trying to get you fired?" Molly said.

"Christ, what did she do?" Jesse said.

Molly smiled without any pleasure.

"She assaulted Mrs. Hopkins."

Jesse leaned back in his chair and stared at Molly without speaking. He was thrilled that Jenn cared enough about him to do that. He was annoyed that he would have to deal with it. He was depressed that Jenn was still so far out of control that she would assault someone. He was amused at the image of her in full assault.

"Where is she now?" Jesse said.

"Down the hall," Molly said.

"Cell number one."

Jesse nodded slowly. Molly couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Tell me about it," he said.

"Well," Molly said.

"Kay Hopkins at the women's Republican breakfast at the Village Room. She was supposed to give a report on her committee's findings about citizen participation in town government. It was in The Shopper's News, maybe that's where Jenn saw it. Anyway, she shows up. And when Kay Hopkins gets up to give her report, Jenn gets up and says," Molly looked down at her notes,"

"Before you give your report, maybe you ought to explain to these ladies why you are interfering with the police department in the performance of its lawful duties."" Jesse leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"

"Lawful duties,"

" he said softly.

Molly was still reading from her notes.

"And Kay Hopkins says, "The chair has not recognized you.

Please sit down and be quiet."" "Uh-oh!" Jesse said softly.

"You got that right," Molly said.

"Jenn calls her a bitch. Mrs.

Hopkins says something like "How dare you talk to me that way?"

And Jenn marches up and whacks her across the face and everybody starts screaming and pushing and shoving and people are trying to help Mrs. Hopkins and somebody calls us. Peter Perkins was there because he was in the nearest cruiser, and when he got there he saw it was a woman and asked me to come."

"And?"

Molly tried to control a smile.

"And it wasn't a pretty sight. Jenn had torn most of Mrs. Hopkins' blouse off and given her a bloody nose. Mrs. Hopkins has got blood all over her skirt and her bra, which looked, may I add, as if it had been laundered a couple times too often. Jenn's got blood all over her blouse. As far as I know she's not hurt. It's Hopkins' blood, I'm pretty sure. There were two or three women trying to hold onto Jenn, who was kicking people and, as I arrived, was actually head-butting Gertrude Richardson, who's the chairwoman or whatever they call her. Peter Perkins wasn't exactly sure what he was supposed to do and looked so grateful when I showed up. I thought he was going to kiss me."

"You get her calmed down?"

"No, not really. Peter and I had to pretty well wrestle her down, and I had to cuff her before we could get her under control. Thing is neither Peter nor I recognized her at first. I seen her on TV a couple times after Suitcase told me she was your ex-wife and she was a weather girl."

"Curiosity," Jesse said.

"Absolutely," Molly said.

"But, you know, her hair was mussed and her shirttail was hanging out and one of her high heels was broken off and she didn't look the same. But man can she swear.

She called Mrs. Hopkins stuff I haven't even heard around the station. And I've heard a lot around the station."

"Jenn was always a good swearer," Jesse said.

"She tell you she was my wife-ex-wife?"

"Yes. When we got her in the cruiser and were bringing her back. The restaurant is going to bring some sort of charge once their attorney tells them what it is. I think she broke a table and certainly some crockery. I can talk to the owner. I know her. I think she'll back off when she finds out the whole story."

"Mrs. Hopkins planning to press charges?" Jesse said.

"Oh, I imagine," Molly said.

"And she probably won't back off."

Jesse nodded as much to himself as to Molly.

"Be a surprise if she did," he said.

"How is Jenn now?"

"Scared I think," Molly said.

"But still mad as hell."

"She's sort of a television celebrity," Jesse said.

"The press showed up yet?"

"Not yet."

"She want to see me?" Jesse said.

"Yes."

Jesse took in a long breath.

"Okay, I'll go down and talk to her. Alone."

"Of course," Molly said.

She left the office. Jesse sat for a moment. Then he took a bottle of Irish whisky from his desk, poured some into a paper cup, looked at it for a moment, and then drank it. He crumpled up the paper cup and threw it into the waste basket. He put the bottle back in the desk drawer. Then he stood and walked down the corridor toward the holding cells.

FORTY-SEVEN.

Macklin left the real estate office at 9:35 and walked toward the guard shack at the bridge fifty yards away. Crow walked with him. J. T. McGonigle, who had been there the first time Macklin came to Stiles Island, was on duty again. He was not cut from Captain Billups' pattern.

He was what the captain considered "a civilian employee." While he had on the tan regulation uniform shirt, he wore no hat, and he carried no weapon. If there was trouble, he called the patrol.

Macklin spoke to him as he reached the shack.

"How you doing, Mac?"

McGonigle put his clipboard down. There were no cars coming in either direction.

"Good, Mr. Smith, whaddya need?"

"Just wanted to say good-bye," Macklin said and shot McGonigle in the forehead.

He stepped away as McGonigle started to fall. Crow stepped in and caught McGonigle on his shoulder and picked him up.

Fran, carrying a briefcase and a folding sign, came from the real estate office as soon as he heard the shot. As Crow carried J. T. McGonigle away, Fran, wearing the tan shirt of the dead Michael Deering, placed the sign in the roadway by the gate and slipped into the guard shack.

Fran took a small remote control mechanism that looked like a garage door opener from the briefcase and put it on the counter beside the clipboard. He brought out a cellular phone and put it beside the remote. He took a big stainless steel Ruger.357 Magnum revolver with a walnut handle from the briefcase and laid it beside the phone. Finally, he placed a pair of binoculars beside the Ruger.

Crow reached the real estate office and bent forward and allowed McGonigle's dead body to slide to the ground, where it was concealed by two decorative cedar shrubs behind the building. Then he went back into the real estate office and waited for Macklin.

JD was sitting at the desk, toying with two cellular phones on the desk in front of him, turning them idly, in slow circles.

On the couch Marcy was trying not to look at anything. Nicelooking woman, Crow thought. Macklin came back into the real estate office.

"Okay," Macklin said.

"We got the bridge secured. JD, you ready to kibosh the phones?"

"Five minutes," JD said, "from whenever you say."

"After you do it," Crow said, "what do I hear, I try to use the phone?"

"Busy signal," JD said, "either way. Calling in, calling out. People call, get a busy signal, hang up. Be a while before anyone catches on that something's wrong.

"Every minute we can buy, helps us," Macklin said.

He looked at his watch.

"I got seven minutes before ten. Crow and I are going to start rounding people up at ten-fifteen. I want the phone lines fucked by then."

"Easy," JD said.

"Once you fuck the phone lines, you can cut Marcy loose. But keep her here. She wants her purse, give it to her. I've already checked it. She can go in the lav and lock the door, she wants.

There's no window."

"Be easier to leave her like she is," JD said.

"Then I don't have to watch her."

"We want you to do it our way," Macklin said.

"Don't we, Crow?"

"We do," Crow said and held JD's look until JD looked away.

JD shrugged as if Crow didn't scare him, which Crow did. And both of them knew it.

"Sure thing," JD said.

Macklin picked up one of the cell phones and followed Crow out the door.

FORTY-EIGHT.

We've got to stop meeting this way" Jenn said when Jesse came in.

She was sitting on the cot, with her feet tucked up under her. Jesse left the cell door open and leaned against the wall opposite her. The cell was so small there was barely any space between them.

"I don't know what to say."

"I couldn't stand it," Jenn said.

"It's not fair-that bitch trying to take you down.

You're so good, Jesse."

"Thank you, Jenn."

"It's the truth. They're lucky to have you. She should be grateful. They all should be grateful."

"Actually Jenn, I'm a little grateful to be here. I almost flushed myself in L.A."

"I know. I helped with that."

"Maybe not as much as you think."

"Have I fucked you up again?" Jenn said.

Jesse smiled.

"God, Jenn, I don't know. I mean, thank you for caring and for standing up for me. But now you're in my jail, and I have no idea what to do with you."

"You could just let me go."

"Yeah."

"But if you did, then Mrs. Bitch Face could accuse you of favoritism."

"Yeah."

"What would happen if I weren't me?" Jenn asked.

"You'd call your lawyer, and your lawyer would arrange your release."

"I don't have a lawyer."

"I could ask Abby Taylor," Jesse said.

"Didn't you fuck her?"

"Uh-huh."

Jesse decided not to mention how recently. Jenn was shaking her head.

"No. I can't have her."

"Station got a lawyer?" Jesse asked.

"Yes. I suppose they'll have him out here as soon as they get wind of it. I may have made myself some trouble at the station."

Jesse smiled.

"Might be your big break," Jesse said.

"Jenn Stone, the fighting weather girl?"

"I better tell the station," Jenn said.

"Can I use your phone to call the news director?"

"Sure. You're free to go, Jenn."

"Won't you get in trouble, just letting me go like that?"

"If I do, I'll deal with it when it comes. I'm not going to lock you up."

Jenn sat for a moment without moving, and Jesse realized she was crying.

"Oh, shit," Jesse said.

"Here we are together, talking in a jail cell, Jesse," Jenn said.

"It's just so..."

"Not the way we first planned it," Jesse said.

"God, I've made such a goddamned mess of everything."

"It's not over," Jesse said, "until it's over."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means we're working on it, Jenn. When we're through working on it, we'll find out if it's a mess or not."

"I don't ever want to stop working on it," Jenn said.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You won't lose me," Jesse said.

"But I don't know. I don't know if I can ever be what you want me to be."

"I don't have any big rules about what you should be, Jenn.

Mostly I'm opposed to sharing you."

"I don't know," Jenn said.

"I just don't know."

"You will," Jesse said.

"I only know I can't imagine a world without you in it."

"I'm not going anywhere," Jesse said.

"I'm going to wait it out."

"God, I hope it's not a long wait," Jenn said.

"You seeing a shrink these days?"

"Dr. St. Claire gave me the name of two people-one in Chestnut Hill, one in Cambridge. I haven't called them. It's hard to go to a new shrink."

"I imagine it would be," Jesse said.

"You think I should go back into therapy?"

"Anything that will help you decide what you want to do, and then be able to do it, is a good thing," Jesse said.

"And you'll stay?"

"I'll stay," Jesse said.

"What if I get to a point where what I want doesn't include you?"

"Then I'll move on," Jesse said.

"And you'll be all right?"

"Jenn, I don't know if I'm going to be all right tomorrow. I can't possibly tell you if I'll be all right in six months or two years or whatever it takes."

"But you won't give up?"

"Not until you tell that you don't want me in your life."

"I can't ever imagine saying that."

"That seems like good odds to me," Jesse said.

"The other night was good."

"Yes," Jesse said.

They were both quiet for a moment. Then she stood, Jesse opened his arms, Jenn stepped into them, and he held her hard. He could feel the completeness surge up inside him. There was no logic to it; he simply knew when he touched her that she was not like other women. He kept his arms around her, fighting off the desire to squeeze too hard, while she pressed her face against his chest and cried softly but not, Jesse thought, hopelessly.

FORTY-NINE.

"You got a safe deposit box?" Macklin said.

The man was in designer sweat clothes that appeared as if they'd never been sweaty. His wife had on a tennis outfit, and she was standing rigidly still because Crow had the muzzle of the shotgun pushed up into the soft tissue under her chin. On the floor was a canvas duffel bag into which Macklin had dumped the cash and jewelry "You lie to me and your wife's brains will be decorating the ceiling," Macklin said.

He held his handgun casually in front of him, aimed more or less at the man's navel. The gun was cocked.

"I have one."

The man had iron-gray hair and a strong profile. He was the semi-retired CEO of something, and he was struggling to be brave and not succeeding. You can be brave, Macklin thought, with a gun in your face, though it's easier when there's no gun. But there's still nothing to do but what you're told.

"Paradise Bank?" Macklin said.

"Yes."

"Stiles Island branch?"

"Yes."

"Get the key."

The man hesitated. Macklin raised the handgun and placed the muzzle a half inch from the man's left eye.

"I'll count to three. Then your widow gets the key for us... One!"

"It's in my bureau drawer," the man said.

His voice wheezed out as if his throat was clogged with dust.

"I'll go with you," Macklin said, and he followed the man into the front hall and up the stairs.

"What are you going to do to us?" the woman said, her voice strained, her teeth clenched in parody of an upper-crust accent from the pressure of the shotgun.

"Nothing we don't have to," Crow said.

"You got a downstairs lav?"

"Yes."

"Let's see it," Crow said and lowered the shotgun.

They walked to the front hall and back toward the kitchen.

The woman indicated a door under the stairs next to the kitchen.

Crow opened the door. It opened outward. He looked in. It was a big lavatory with a wash basin and makeup mirror and no windows.

Macklin came back down the stairs with the man. He held up the safe deposit key so that Crow could see it.

Crow nodded and jerked his head toward the lavatory.

"Here," Crow said.

"Down this hall."

Macklin came down the hall and looked at the lavatory.