Текст книги "High profile"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

30

Jesse stood with Sunny Randall, leaning on the railing at the town wharf, looking down at the dark water. The day was overcast again, and the wind off the water was cooler than it should have been in May. Jesse was very aware that their shoulders touched. On her leash, Rosie sat at Sunny’s feet in her bull-terrier sit, with her rear feet splayed and her tongue out. She too appeared to be interested in the harbor.

“Where’s Jenn,” Jesse said.

“Spike’s with her,” Sunny said.

“They get along?” Jesse said.

“Sort of. Jenn seems sort of uneasy with him. But it’s hard not to like Spike.”

“You getting along?”

Sunny nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “And no, we haven’t talked about you.”

“Thought never entered,” Jesse said. “Making any progress on who did it?”

“That’s why I wanted to talk,” Sunny said. “Right after I started taking care of her, we were eating lunch and I spotted a guy who seemed to be watching us through the window. I pointed him out to Jenn, and she said no, that was not the man.”

Jesse nodded. Rosie spotted a seagull and stiffened, motionless, looking at it. The seagull went about his business.

“But the thing is,” Sunny said, “I’ve seen him twice again. The last time I saw him I tried her again and she said no, and didn’t seem to remember that I’d pointed him out before.”

Jesse stared for a while at the water moving against the stone base of the wharf. Then slowly he raised his eyes and looked across the harbor at the neck. It was still morning, and the strength of the sun out of the east made him squint even through the overcast.

“Shit,” he said after a time.

“Yes,” Sunny said.

Jesse looked up at the overcast, and rolled his neck as if to stretch out a cramp.

“Well, at least someone’s actually following her,” he said.

“Yes.”

Rosie held the seagull in her laser-like stare. The seagull had flown up on a pier piling and was staring back at Rosie.

“You ever notice that Rosie and the seagull have similar eyes?” Jesse said.

“Beady?”

“I guess,” Jesse said.

Sunny smiled.

“But soulful,” she said.

“In Rosie’s case,” Jesse said.

“Exactly.”

They were quiet. The seagull flew away. Rosie watched it briefly, then turned her blank attention to the harbor, where the gray water was calm and the upright masts of the sailboats were nearly still.

“This Walton Weeks thing is burying me,” Jesse said.

“I know. It’s okay. I’ll take care of Jenn.”

“We need to know if she actually was raped.”

“I know.”

“I can’t get away from the Weeks thing.”

“I’ll find out about the rape,” Sunny said.

“Could the stalker be someone different than the rapist?” Jesse said.

“Seems crazy,” Sunny said.

“Why would she refuse to ID him if he was the rapist?”

Sunny was looking at the harbor, too.

“Don’t know,” she said.

“Didn’t she tell us the rapist was stalking her?”

“She told you that,” Sunny said.

“And she told me she didn’t know him before the rape.”

“Yes.”

“But that she recognized him as the rapist when he was stalking her.”

“Yes,” Sunny said.

“Any sign of anyone else stalking her?”

“No.”

“You have a plan?” Jesse said.

“Spike and I have been discussing one,” Sunny said.

“We want her safe,” Jesse said. “But we want him for the rape, too.”

“I know. If Spike had a talk with him, I’m sure he’d stop with the stalking. But, like you, I don’t want to scare him away. I want to know what’s going on.”

“Maybe you could get them in a room together,” Jesse said.

“That’s what Spike and I are talking about.”

“And?” Jesse said.

“I need to know she can do it. That it won’t traumatize her worse than she already has been.”

“If she was traumatized at all,” Jesse said.

“Something happened,” Sunny said. “I may not know her like you do…but something happened.”

“Yes,” Jesse said. “I think so, too.”

At the open end of the harbor, a lobster boat plodded in around the outer tip of Stiles Island.

“She asked me to get her a gun,” Jesse said.

“I have several,” Sunny said.

Jesse nodded.

“You can issue her the license.”

Jesse nodded again.

“But,” Sunny said, “you’re not sure she should be walking around with a gun.”

“No,” Jesse said. “I’m not.”

“It should be her call, Jesse.”

“She doesn’t even know how to shoot,” Jesse said.

“I can teach her.”

“You think she should have one?” Jesse said.

“Believe her story for a moment,” Sunny said. “Think about what that might be like. Would you like to face an overpowering enemy with no gun?”

Jesse nodded. The lobster boat had rounded Stiles Island now and was moving stolidly along the shoreline of Paradise Neck.

“And if we don’t believe her story?” Jesse said.

“Something has happened to her,” Sunny said. “She feels she needs a gun.”

“And maybe she needs to be trusted.”

“Skeptically,” Sunny said.

“We think we might want to be together, you and I,” Jesse said.

“And here we are worrying about one of the people who may keep us from being together,” Sunny said.

“It’s hard work,” Jesse said.

“But we need to do it,” Sunny said.

Jesse looked at her. He felt the pull of her. But it was not the same kind of pull Jenn exerted. Nothing was. There was no other feeling like the one Jenn caused. Obsessions are fearsome.

“Okay,” Jesse said. “Give her a gun.”

Sunny smiled.

“I already did,” she said.

31

Healy pushed through the crowd of reporters outside the Paradise police station.

A reporter held out his microphone and said, “Who are you, sir?”

“The Pied Piper,” Healy said. “When I leave, I want you all to follow me out of town.”

He went in through the front door and closed it behind him.

At the desk Molly said, “Hi, Captain.”

“Hello, darling,” Healy said.

“Officer Darling,” Molly said. “Chief Stone is in his office.”

Healy grinned at her and went down the hall. In Jesse’s office he went straight to the file cabinet and got some coffee. Then he sat down and crossed his legs.

“Thought I’d stop by,” Healy said, “on my way to work, see how fame was affecting you.”

“I think I’m opposed to freedom of the press.”

“King Nixon might have agreed,” Healy said.

“Okay,” Jesse said. “It has its place.”

“Just not here,” Healy said.

“Exactly.”

“You know anything I don’t know?” Healy said.

“Probably,” Jesse said. “But not about Walton Weeks.”

“How ’bout Carey Longley?”

“Less,” Jesse said.

“She’s thirty years old, from New Jersey. Her father’s an executive with Curtiss-Wright,” Healy said. “Her mother’s a housewife. Two older brothers, both work at Curtiss-Wright. She was married to and divorced from a guy who works for her father.”

“So how come nobody has contacted me?” Jesse said.

“They all disowned her,” Healy said. “They’re very religious. When she divorced their handpicked husband and went off to work for Walton Weeks, and live sinfully, they all agreed she was no more.”

“They don’t like Walton?” Jesse said.

“They felt him to be an embodiment, I believe the phrase was, of the Antichrist,” Healy said.

“Gee,” Jesse said. “He didn’t seem so bad, watching him on tape.”

“That’s because you’re not as, ah, Christian as they are.”

“Probably not,” Jesse said. “What’s your source?”

“Jersey state cop,” Healy said. “Named Morrissey. Want to talk with him?”

“Maybe,” Jesse said. “She have children?”

“No.”

“Is Longley her maiden name or married name?”

“Married.”

“What was her maiden name?” Jesse said.

“Young, and I think you’re supposed to call it her birth name.”

“Sure,” Jesse said. “Her ex-husband disown her, too?”

“Yep.”

“Everybody—father, mother, brothers, ex-husband.”

“Sinful is sinful,” Healy said.

“I wonder if one of them killed him for embodying the Antichrist, and her for carrying his baby.”

“And they shot them instead of stoning them to death?” Healy said.

“Just a thought,” Jesse said.

“It’s not a bad one,” Healy said. “Except according to Morrissey they all had alibis for the time she died.”

“So does everyone else,” Jesse said.

“Ex-wives?” Healy said.

“Yep. And the researcher and the manager and the lawyer.”

“How about his bodyguard?” Healy said.

“Lutz? The day the ME says they died, the house dick at the hotel says Lutz had breakfast in the dining room, hung in the lobby all morning with a newspaper. He ate lunch in the dining room. Sat in the lobby, chatted up the doorman, used the health club, had a couple drinks in the bar, ordered room service for dinner and a movie and made two phone calls. He never left the hotel.”

“Sounds like he wanted to be able to prove he was there,” Healy said.

“It does,” Jesse said. “And he was.”

Healy nodded. Jesse turned the coffee mug slowly in his hands. Healy was neat and quiet in the chair across from him. Tan summer suit, blue shirt, tan tie with diagonal blue stripes, snap-brimmed summer straw hat with a big blue band.

“Two people murdered,” Jesse said. “One of them famous. And no one appears to care at all.”

“Except the first wife,” Healy said.

Jesse nodded and looked out the window at the transmitter trucks parked near the station.

“And the Fourth Estate,” he said.

“I don’t think they care about Carey and Walton,” Healy said.

“No,” Jesse said. “Of course they don’t. They’re just subject matter.”

Healy nodded.

“Ellen Migliore,” Jesse said. “Who’s divorced from Walton twenty years or more. She’s the only one.”

“I wonder why she cares?” Healy said.

“Something ulterior?” Jesse said.

“Doesn’t hurt to think about it,” Healy said.

“No,” Jesse said. “It doesn’t.”

“Except then it leaves nobody who cares,” Healy said.

Jesse looked at his coffee cup for a moment. Then he looked up at Healy.

“You and me,” Jesse said. “We care.”

“We’re supposed to,” Healy said.

32

Jonah Levy held his office door for Jesse and waited until Jesse was seated before closing it and going to his own desk.

“Dix called me,” Dr. Levy said, “on your behalf.”

“Good,” Jesse said.

“He says you are a very smart man.”

“He would know,” Jesse said.

“How can I help you?”

“Did you treat Walton Weeks?” Jesse said.

“Myself and my colleagues.”

“For infertility?”

“Yes.”

“Successfully,” Jesse said.

“I gather that he had fathered a child before his death,” Levy said.

“Yes. With Carey Longley.”

“We worked with her as well,” Levy said.

He was a small man in a gray suit and white shirt. His hair was receding. His glasses had gold rims. His tie was flamboyantly red and gold.

“What was the problem,” Jesse said.

Levy examined one of his thumbnails for a moment.

“Mr. Weeks rarely ejaculated,” Levy said.

“He was impotent?”

“No. He had no trouble erecting. He had trouble ejaculating.”

“So,” Jesse said. “He could do the deed, but he couldn’t, ah, finish it off.”

Levy smiled.

“One could put it that way,” he said.

“Did he ever?” Jesse said.

“Infrequently. Too infrequently, it seems, to give him much chance of engendering a child.”

“That’s it?” Jesse said. “Just that? No biomechanical obstruction, no physical dysfunction, just didn’t finish?”

“Just didn’t finish,” Levy said. “Had it been something physical, it might well have been easier to fix.”

“Why?” Jesse said.

“Why didn’t he, ah, finish?”

“Yes.”

Levy leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and smiled at Jesse.

“How much time do you have?” Levy said.

“I don’t need to be board-certified,” Jesse said. “A concise summary would work.”

Levy closed his eyes and pursed his lips and tilted his head back and thought for a moment.

Then he said, “You are, I assume, familiar with ambivalence.”

Jesse smiled.

“My old friend,” he said.

“Weeks wanted a child,” Levy said. “And desperately did not want to share it with a woman.”

“That’s it?”

“There’s never an it,” Levy said. “There are always several its. There were issues of power—if he could arouse a woman sexually, he had power. If she could cause him to ejaculate, she had power. There was rage against all the women who had failed to give him full sexual release.”

“Whom he punished by not achieving full sexual release,” Jesse said.

“And punished him by denying him what he wanted.”

Jesse whistled softly.

“Craziness has a nice symmetry, doesn’t it,” Jesse said.

“Often,” Levy said.

“Can we say concisely why he was like this?”

“Not really,” Levy said. “No surprise—it had to do with his mother and his childhood encounters with women. Certainly his mother sexualized their relationship.”

“She molest him?”

“In the conventional way?” Levy said. “Probably not. But because of the inappropriate nature of their relationship, sex became the ultimate expression of love and, because it was his mother, horribly frightening. And it remained so, lodged there in his unconscious, all his life.”

“So what happened?” Jesse said.

“To bring him here?”

“Yeah. He’s fifty, he’s had three wives, a million women, no kids. What made him come to you all of a sudden?”

Levy looked at his thumbnail again. He didn’t answer. Jesse waited. Finally Levy looked up at Jesse.

“I don’t know.”

“Wow,” Jesse said.

Levy smiled.

“We don’t like to say that much.”

“I say it all the time,” Jesse said.

“I’m saying it more often,” Levy said, “than I used to. Clearly, it had to do with the woman.”

“Carey Longley,” Jesse said.

“Yes.”

“He wanted to have a baby with her.”

“Yes,” Levy said. “They talked of buying a home together.”

“Where?” Jesse said.

“In Paradise,” Levy said. “Unless they were being metaphorical.”

“What about his current wife?”

“It is my impression he had given her no thought. He was entirely consumed with this relationship.”

“Ain’t love grand,” Jesse said.

Levy smiled. The two men sat quietly for a moment.

“What do you think about love, Doctor?” Jesse said.

“I remain agnostic about love,” Levy said. “But there is clearly a connection between…there clearly was a connection between them that seemed to have been lacking in other instances.”

“What made her special?”

“I don’t know,” Levy said.

“Did he have an explanation?”

“He simply said that he loved her, and had never loved anyone else.”

“You talk with her?”

“Yes.”

“She deserve it?” Jesse said.

“I don’t know that deserve is an issue in these kinds of situations,” Levy said. “She seemed to reciprocate.”

“So it wasn’t because she was, for lack of a better word, better than all the others?”

Levy looked at Jesse for a moment.

“No, often in these matters, flaws are the appeal.”

“How about in this case?”

“I don’t know,” Levy said.

“But if you weren’t agnostic about it, you could probably say that we love who we love whether we should or not, even though there are more suitable people to love.”

“Are we still talking about Mr. Weeks?” Levy said.

Jesse was silent for a moment. He could feel his heartbeat; he was aware of his own breathing. Then he smiled at Levy.

“No,” Jesse said. “We’re not.”

33

It was a little after noon. Jesse and Suit were having sandwiches and coffee at Daisy’s Restaurant. Daisy herself was being interviewed by a woman in front of a television camera.

“Still news?” Jesse said to the waitress.

“Now it’s follow-up,” the waitress said. “You know, how has the discovery of a body in your Dumpster affected your business and your life.”

“I thought Daisy hated the press,” Suit said.

“I guess she don’t,” the waitress said. “We got rhubarb pie for dessert. You want me to save you some.”

“Please,” Jesse said.

“The poor bastard,” Suit said.

“Weeks?”

“Yeah, he finally finds the girl of his dreams and she’s finally pregnant and somebody comes along and dumps them both.”

Jesse nodded.

“Might be a connection,” Jesse said.

“Maybe the wife?” Suit said. “Jealous?”

“Maybe,” Jesse said.

They ate for a moment in silence, watching Daisy talk to the reporter on camera.

“You know the one thing is bothering me?” Jesse said.

“Just one?” Suit said.

“One of many,” Jesse said. “They, together, had an appointment with Dr. Levy two weeks before they were killed. And they didn’t show up.”

“No cancellation?”

“No. Just never appeared. Levy’s office called them and no one answered.”

“Where’d they call?” Suit said.

“Hotel,” Jesse said.

“Here? In Boston?”

“Yeah, the Langham.”

“Except for the time,” Suit said, “you’d think that was because they were dead.”

“You would,” Jesse said.

“Except the ME says it was only a few days before we found them,” Suit said.

“Depending on the body’s environment,” Jesse said.

“You mean somebody maybe tried to fool us?”

“I don’t mean anything, Suit. I’m grabbing at every straw that floats past. I want to know how long they were at the Langham. I want to know when they were last seen.”

“Didn’t Lutz say he’d seen them last walking up Franklin Street,” Suit said.

“He said the doorman had seen them walking up Franklin Street,” Jesse said. “And, you know, he never exactly said when that was.”

“I could ask him,” Suit said.

“Let’s just keep track of him for now,” Jesse said, “while I give it all some thought.”

“We could have some pie,” Suit said, “while you were doing that.”

“I’ll need the energy,” Jesse said.

34

Jesse sat on the edge of Marcy Campbell’s desk while she ran through her files.

“It is a booming real-estate market,” Marcy said. “I have sold more houses already this year than I sold all of last.”

She picked up a sheet of paper, glanced at it, put it back in the folder.

“I keep track of everything bought and sold in the last twelve months,” she said.

“Sold by you?” Jesse said.

“Sold by anyone,” Marcy said. “I like to keep track.”

“How’s your love life?” Jesse said.

“Busy, but we could always share a moment,” Marcy said. “Where are you with Jenn?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re still serious about her,” Marcy said.

“I am, and another woman as well.”

“And you’re serious about her.”

“Yes.”

“Which are you more serious about?” Marcy said.

“I don’t know.”

She put the folder away and took out another.

“Drinking?” Marcy said.

“Not bad, I’m drinking less than I’d like to.”

“Don’t we all,” Marcy said. “Want me to lock the office and pull down the shade?”

Jesse smiled at her.

“Rain check?” he said.

“Of course,” Marcy said. “What are friends for?”

“I think I know,” Jesse said.

Marcy grinned.

“Seriousness not required,” she said and shook her head. “No Walton Weeks.”

“How about Carey Longley?”

While Marcy looked, Jesse walked to the front window of the small office and looked out at the narrow street that led to the harbor. The houses were close together. There were no yards. The front doors were separated from the street only by a narrow sidewalk. The street was too narrow to permit parking, and as Jesse stood there, no cars passed. Two hundred years ago it must have looked much the same.

“No Carey Longley,” Marcy said. “I do have a Carey Young.”

“Bingo,” Jesse said without turning around. “Maiden name.”

“They didn’t want anyone to know,” Marcy said.

“Trying to be private,” Jesse said.

“And dying very publicly,” Marcy said.

“Where’s the property?”

“Stiles Island,” Marcy said. “Outer side. Private beach, six rooms. Four-point-two million.”

“For six rooms?”

“That’s what it says.”

“You sell it?” Jesse said.

“No. Ed Reamer, at Keyes Realty.”

“Have an address for the house?” Jesse said.

“On the sheet,” Marcy said.

She stood and walked to the window and stood beside Jesse and handed him the sheet. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Life’s pretty hard,” she said. “Isn’t it.”

“It is,” Jesse said.

“Want a hug?” Marcy said.

“I do,” he said.

35

It was a one-story stone house with a cedar-shingled roof. The living room occupied the entire front, all glass facing the ocean. There was a big fireplace on the right-hand end wall with a raised hearth. The kitchen was green granite and stainless steel. There were two bedrooms, each with a full bath, and a room with a smaller fireplace, which was probably going to be a den. The house was empty. The flagstone floors gleamed with a new finish. The walls were newly painted. There was no furniture, no rugs, no drapes, no china, no crystal, no toothpaste, no towels, nothing to suggest human life. Like seeing a person naked, Jesse thought.

He stood in the silent living room and stared out past the patio, and across the small silver beach, at the gray Atlantic Ocean. Here along the North Shore, the ocean was cold, Jesse knew, even in the summer. It took fortitude to swim in it. Jesse walked the length of the room. There was no place in the room where you couldn’t see the ocean.

They would have put the dining area here, Jesse thought. Near the kitchen. And in the winter, they would have had a big fire in the fireplace and had drinks from the built-in wet bar, and watched the spray splatter against the thermopane during a storm. This would have been Walton’s office. With the nice bay window looking at the ocean. This would have been the master bedroom, nice skylight. This one would have been the kid’s room. Jesse stood in the room feeling, suddenly, the thwarted reality of the ten-week fetus. He walked into the kitchen. A big range hood over a built-in barbecue. A pantry off the rear wall, with a walk-in refrigerator. The dream house. Every convenience. The dream must have seemed so close. Reach out and take hold of it. All of it. Wife and child. At long last, love. A walk-in refrigerator!

Jesse went in. The room was maybe eight by eight, with shelves along the three walls. There was nothing stored there. The shelves were empty. The compressor was shut off. The windowless room was warm. There was a thermostat on the wall. It was set to thirty-five. Jesse turned the switch on. Somewhere he could hear the compressor begin to run quietly. Soon he began to feel cold air. He walked around the empty space and saw nothing. He went back to the thermostat and shut it off and left the refrigeration room.

He stood for a time in the living room, listening to nothing, feeling the emptiness. Then he went outside and walked down to the beach and looked at the water. It was restless and active on the outer side of the island. There were whitecaps. The tide was high and there wasn’t much beach above the reach of the waves. The way the coastline curved, there were no other houses in sight, and he couldn’t see the road from where he stood.

He took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.

“Molly,” he said. “I’m at Five Stiles Island Road. Send Peter Perkins out here with all his stuff. Tell him he’s going to be looking for blood.”

“Whose blood?” Molly said.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Has it to do with Walton Weeks?” Molly said.

“I don’t know yet.”

“But it might?” Molly said.

“Or it might not,” Jesse send. “Could you see if you can find Peter Perkins.”

“Yessir,” Molly said.