Текст книги "Sea Change"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

He had always assumed it was what everyone felt when they looked at the person they loved. Why worry about it now?

Was he looking for something to worry about?

“Oh Jesse,” she said. “I have great news. They’re doing an S E A C H A N G E

hour-long special at the station on Race Week. And I’m going to be the on-camera host and do the voiceover, too.”

“Wow,” Jesse said.

“It’s not just some feature for the six o’clock news,” she said. “It’s a full-hour feature and the company plans to syn-dicate it.”

“That’s great, Jenn.”

“I’ll be here every day with the crew. I’ll have input. Jesse, this is a really big break for me. We’re owned by Allied Broadcasting, and they have stations in most of the major markets.”

Jesse went around the desk and bent over and kissed her.

She put her arms around his neck, kept her mouth pressed against his and let him pull her from the chair when he straightened up. They held the kiss a long time. When they broke, Jesse exhaled audibly.

“When’s it being broadcast?” he said.

“Well, in syndication it varies by market. But we’re hoping to show it next year around Race Week,” Jenn said.

Jenn kept her arms around his neck and her body pressed against him.

“So you have a whole year to edit and do whatever you do,” Jesse said.

“Yes. Lay in the narration, the music track, enhance the pictures, spruce up the sound. A lot of work, and it gives you an idea of how much hope they have for this, that they’d give us so much time.”

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“A year,” Jesse said.

He felt the press of her thighs against him, of her breasts.

He felt the miasmic press of emotion that he always felt.

“Not really a year. They need it finished in December for the syndication deal.”

“Still a lot better than editing this afternoon for on air tonight,” Jesse said.

They let go of each other.

“Here,” Jenn said. “Sit in your chair. I just couldn’t wait to tell.”

Jesse sat behind his desk. Jenn took a chair on the other side.

“You need a place to stay up here?” Jesse said.

“When we worked late, I was hoping to bunk in with you.”

“That’ll work,” Jesse said.

Here was something to worry about.

“I know you’re not so sure you want to live together full time,” Jenn said.

“I’m not sure what I want,” Jesse said. “Except you . . .

exclusively.”

She nodded.

“Well, I won’t be here every night,” Jenn said.

“One night at a time,” Jesse said, and smiled. “They know you used to be married to the chief of police?”

“I think so. Truth is, I think it’s one reason I got the job.

They figure it’ll give me extra access. I mean I’m a fucking weather girl, you know?”

3 0

S E A C H A N G E

“People like you, Jenn.”

“As long as you do,” Jenn said.

“I love you.”

“Does that mean you really, really like me?”

“I think so,” Jesse said.

3 1

7

Arthur Angstrom came into Jesse’s office with a leathery gray-haired man that Jesse didn’t know.

“This is Mr. Guilfoyle,” Arthur said. “Runs a small boat rental operation out of Ned’s Cove. Says one of his boats is missing. Don’t seem like much, except for that floater, so . . .” He shrugged.

Jesse nodded.

“Thanks, Arthur,” Jesse said. “Have a seat, Mr. Guilfoyle.

Tell me about your boat.”

“A little day sailor, twelve feet long. Marconi rigged, no jib. Centerboard.”

S E A C H A N G E

Jesse nodded as if he understood, or cared.

“And when did it go missing.”

“Woman rented it from me last month,” Guilfoyle said.

“Never returned it.”

“How long did she rent it for?”

“Just the day. These boats sleep no one, you know? Nobody rents them overnight.”

“Do you have the woman’s name?” Jesse said.

“Sure,” Guilfoyle said. “I don’t pass these things out like samples. I got a credit card and a driver’s license. But the thing is, my boat is down in Nelson’s place. In among the other boats.

Nelson didn’t even know he had it, until one of the kids that works for him tried to put one of his own boats away and there was a boat in the slot. He recognized my ID number on the bow and called me. For crissake, she didn’t even clean it out.”

“What was in it?”

“Trash. Half a loaf of bread, some plastic cups, paper napkins all soaking wet, some moldy cheese, couple apple cores, empty wine bottle, some rotten grapes. Didn’t even put it in the damn bag.”

“Where was the bag from?”

“Ranch Market, in town. Like somebody bought stuff for a picnic.”

“Just lying on the floor of the boat,” Jesse said.

“Yeah.”

“Who’s Nelson,” Jesse said.

“Paradise Rentals,” Guilfoyle said. “He’s the big guy in the business, right over here off the town wharf.”

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Jesse nodded.

“I know the place. You think she made a mistake, took it back to the wrong place?”

“How do you do that?” Guilfoyle said.

He wore a pink striped shirt and white duck trousers with wide red suspenders. The shirt was unbuttoned over his chest, as if he were proud of the gray hair.

“I mean he’s here, I’m way the hell down the other end of the harbor. He’s got a hundred boats. I got fifteen. He’s short and fat.”

“And you look like Cesar Romero,” Jesse said.

“Yeah, right. So how does somebody make that kind of mistake.”

“Hard to figure,” Jesse said.

“Plus I got her damn driver’s license. I always hold it until they bring the boat back.”

“You have that with you?” Jesse said.

“Yeah. The credit card slip and her license.”

Guilfoyle took a brown envelope out of his hip pocket and put it on the desk in front of Jesse.

“Kid’s sailing the boat over to my place. I got to charge her credit card for all the time it’s been gone, you know.”

“That’ll be up to you and the credit card company,” Jesse said. “I’ll need to hang on to the license for a few days.”

“What if they want some kind of proof ?”

“I’ll make it available,” Jesse said. “I just want to see what happened to the woman.”

“Something happened?”

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“Yep.”

“I don’t want to get involved in no trouble,” Guilfoyle said.

“Don’t blame you,” Jesse said.

“But you think I might?”

“Not unless you’re what happened to her,” Jesse said.

“It’s that dead girl they found floating down by the wharf.”

“Don’t know if it is or not,” Jesse said.

“But if you look at the picture on her driver’s license . . .”

Guilfoyle paused.

Jesse was shaking his head.

“Oh,” Guilfoyle said.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Guilfoyle.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want no trouble over this. I just want to get paid for the time my boat was missing.”

“And I wish you well on that,” Jesse said.

“I’m going to talk with a lawyer.”

“That’ll be swell,” Jesse said.

Guilfoyle looked at him. Jesse looked back.

“Don’t lose that license, either,” Guilfoyle said.

“Okay,” Jesse said.

Guilfoyle lingered.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Jesse said.

Guilfoyle hesitated another moment, then went.

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8

I t was a Florida driver’s license. The photo was not flattering. But it showed that she was blond and thirtyish. Kind of cheap-looking, Jesse thought, and smiled. It was something his mother would have said. What the hell does it even mean? Mostly a matter of hair and makeup, probably. Her name was Florence E.

Horvath. Her address was in Fort Lauderdale. Her date of birth was February 13, 1970. Jesse took the license and credit card to the copy machine, made a copy of each and took the copies to the front desk and gave them to Molly.

“Call Fort Lauderdale,” Jesse said. “Tell them we have a body that might be this woman, see what they got on her, or S E A C H A N G E

what they can get. Dental records would be good. Then call the bank that issued this credit card and see what you can get—history of purchases this month and so forth.”

“I know you’ll explain this to me later,” Molly said.

“Being chief means never having to explain,” Jesse said.

“Might mean making your own coffee every morning, too,” Molly said.

“I’ll explain this to you later,” Jesse said.

Molly turned to the switchboard. Jesse went back to his office and looked in the phone book. There was only one Horvath listed in Paradise. He called. There was no one there named Florence, nor did they know anyone named Florence. He called the Florida Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles, waded through a long menu of options, finally got someone in enforcement and arranged to have some blowups of Florence Horvath’s driver’s license photograph sent to Paradise. The he got up and went into the squad room where Peter Perkins was drinking a Diet Pepsi and reading the Globe sports section.

“You get through with the sports page,” Jesse said, “see if you can scan this license picture into the computer and send it over to Forensics. Ask them if it could be the floater.”

“Condition of the body,” Perkins said, “I don’t think they can tell much.”

“Ask them if anything here rules Florence out.”

“Okay, Jess,” Perkins said and folded the paper and put it on the conference table. “You’re the chief.”

“Yes I am,” Jesse said.

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In the hall outside the squad room he saw Suitcase Simpson come in herding three college-aged kids, all of whom were drunk.

“I want a lawyah,” a blond kid kept saying. “I got right to a lawyah.”

“What’s up,” Jesse said. “A riot in day care?”

“They were pissing in the watering trough in the town common,” Simpson said.

“Put them in a cell,” Jesse said, “and call their parents to come get them.”

One of the kids was wearing plaid shorts and a muscle shirt he was too skinny to sustain.

“What charge,” he said. “Can’t lock us with no charge.”

“Inadequate potty training,” Jesse said. “Go on down there with Officer Simpson, and when you get sick try to puke in the hopper.”

Simpson herded them ahead of him toward the cell corridor. They were saying they weren’t drunk. There was no need to call their parents. They were being picked on for being kids. This was harassment. There was a mention of police brutality, then the door to the cell corridor closed and shut it off.

As Jesse walked past the desk, Molly said, “Fort Lauderdale says they’ll send a patrol car over to check on the address, and they’ll see what they can find on her. Like who her dentist is, or was. Bank will send us a copy of her last statement, and a printout of the credit card charges for the period since the statement.”

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“Thank you,” Jesse said. “You ever piss in a watering trough?”

“That what Suit busted them for?”

“Yep.”

“I am a mother and a wife, and an Irish Catholic,” Molly said. “I don’t piss at all.”

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9

T hey were eating pepper and mushroom pizza at the little table on Jesse’s balcony, with the strong salt sea smell of the harbor drifting pleasantly around them on the soft July air. Jenn had a glass of red wine. Jesse was drinking a Coke.

“When we’re together,” Jesse said, “what do you feel coming from me.”

“I feel strong vibes that I should undress and lie down,”

Jenn said.

“Really?”

Jenn was about to bite the point off a pizza slice. She stopped and looked at him with the pizza poised in front of her.

S E A C H A N G E

“You’re serious, aren’t you,” she said.

“Yes.”

Jenn put the pizza slice back on the plate.

“Well, I . . . you know I don’t think much about stuff like that,” she said.

“I been talking with Dix about it,” Jesse said. “I need help with it.”

“Well, I mean, I know you love me.”

“Yes.”

“And I love you,” Jenn said.

“Perfect,” Jesse said.

“We’ve been together for a long time,” Jenn said.

“Sort of,” Jesse said.

“I mean, even at our worst and most separate we were connected.”

“Yes,” Jesse said.

“And we are more than two people who fuck.”

“Yes,” Jesse said.

“Which,” Jenn said, “is much better than being two people who don’t.”

“So you don’t mind about the undressing and lying down.”

“I like it,” Jenn said.

“And you don’t feel objectified.”

“Ob—what?” Jenn said. “Christ, you’re getting like whats-isname, Hamlet. You think too much. We are much more than the damn missionary position and we both know it.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with the missionary position,” Jesse said.

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“A little unimaginative, maybe,” Jenn said.

In the harbor there were lights showing on the bigger boats moored farther out. Cocktail on the deck, supper cook-ing in the galley, the running lights of a small tender boat creeping soundlessly across the black water like a firefly. Jesse drank some Coke. Caffeine. Any stimulus is better than none.

“Dix and I talked about how sexually charged our relationship is,” Jesse said.

“And that’s a bad thing?” Jenn said.

She poured herself a half glass more of red wine.

“Maybe you’re supposed to sexualize our relationship.

Ever think about that, Hamlet boy? Maybe it has to do with you loving me more than the spoken word can tell.”

“Well,” Jesse said, “there’s that.”

4 2

10

H ealy hiked his pants up at the knee when he sat, to keep the crease. He had on a

tan poplin suit and a coffee-colored snap-brim straw hat with a wide brown headband. His plain-toed cordovan shoes gleamed with polish.

“On my way home,” Healy said. “Thought I’d stop in, see what’s happening with your floater.”

Jesse pointed over his shoulder at the photo.

“That her?” Healy said.

A blowup of Florence Horvath’s driver’s license was stuck on a cork board to the left of the window behind Jesse’s desk.

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“That’s her, Captain,” Jesse said. “Florence Horvath, thirty-four years old, address in Fort Lauderdale. She had her teeth cleaned a month ago and charged it on her credit card. We called the dentist, got the dental records, forensic people compared them.”

“You’re lucky,” Healy said. “Lot of floaters are such a mess we never do figure out who they are.”

“Got nothing to do with luck,” Jesse said.

“Right,” Healy said. “It was crack police work that some guy walked in and handed you her driver’s license and credit card.”

“And,” Jesse said, “we didn’t lose them.”

“Got me there,” Healy said. “Now that you know who she is, do you know why she’s up here?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m only a state police captain,” Healy said, “not a chief of police, like you, but since you found her in the water and since this is Race Week, could there be a connection?”

“I got a couple of people checking the yachts in the harbor, see if any of them are out of Fort Lauderdale.”

“Or even docked there in the last three weeks,” Healy said.

“If she came on a yacht.”

“If,” Healy said. “How about the airlines?”

“No Florence Horvath on any of them.”

“Not just from Florida,” Healy said.

“From anywhere,” Jesse said.

“Molly been working her ass off,” Healy said. “How about a car.”

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“Nope.”

“Rental car?”

“None of the big agencies, at least, have her in the computer,” Jesse said. “We haven’t gotten to the Rent-a-Lemon yet.”

“Nothing on her credit card to indicate a rental.”

“Could have several credit cards.”

“True.”

“Hotels?” Healy said.

“What is this,” Jesse said, “a quiz?”

“Trying to learn police work,” Healy said.

“She’s not registered in any of the area hotels.”

“Including Boston?”

“Including Boston.”

“Anybody in town she might be visiting?” Healy said.

“One family named Horvath. I called them. They never heard of her.”

“Doesn’t mean they didn’t kill her.”

“We don’t know if anyone killed her,” Jesse said. “Could just as well be an accident for all the forensics we got.”

“Sure,” Healy said. “She fell overboard and drowned and no one noticed.”

“For all we know,” Jesse said, “she fell off the Queen Eliz-abeth on her way to Liverpool and the currents brought her in.”

“You think so?” Healy said.

“No,” Jesse said.

“Usually when someone is missing for the length of time 4 5

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she was in the water,” Healy said, “somebody wonders where she is.”

“That’s true whether it’s murder or not,” Jesse said.

“But if she were traveling, and the only person who knew her was the person she was traveling with, and that person killed her . . .” Healy rolled his hand.

Jesse leaned back in his swivel chair and grinned at Healy.

“It was a quiz, and we both aced it,” Jesse said. “Sure, I’m with you. I think she was murdered.”

“But you have no proof,” Healy said.

“Hell no,” Jesse said. “Not yet.”

“She might have arrived by bus,” Healy said.

“Yeah, and she might have hitchhiked. I got twelve people in this department including me. We’re dancing as fast as we can dance.”

Healy smiled.

“You got a homicide. I’m the commanding officer of the state homicide unit.”

“So you’re offering to help?”

“I am.”

“Never too big to give the little guy a hand,” Jesse said.

“Exactly,” Healy said.

“Just as long as we’re clear on whose case it is.”

“It belongs to all of us,” Healy said, “who love truth and justice.”

“Like hell,” Jesse said. “It belongs to me.”

“Oh,” Healy said. He shrugged. “Okay.”

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11

J esse was on the phone to a detective in Fort Lauderdale named Kelly Cruz.

“Your floater was a woman of means,”

Kelly Cruz said.

“Really?”

“Un-huh, family owns a bunch of health food markets all over the South. Plum and Partridge.”

“Cute,” Jesse said.

“It’s even cuter,” Kelly Cruz said. “Family name is Plum.”

“Not Horvath,” Jesse said.

“Nope, that’s a married name,” Kelly Cruz said. “She’s had several.”

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“You know the husbands?” Jesse said.

“Not yet,” Kelly Cruz said. “But she was divorced most recently from a guy named Lawton Horvath.”

“What do you know about Lawton?”

“White, blond hair, even tan, slim, good at golf and tennis, pretty good at bridge, no visible means of support.”

“When’s the last time Lawton saw her?” Jesse said.

“When they got divorced. He got the house and a cash settlement. She moved here.”

“Worked out nicely for Lawton,” Jesse said. “He with anyone now?”

He could hear the laughter in Kelly Cruz’s voice.

“Attractive young heiress, recently divorced, with a thing for older men,” she said.

“We may have stumbled across his means of support,”

Jesse said.

“We’re law officers,” Kelly Cruz said. “We’re probably too suspicious.”

“What else you know about Florence?”

“Soon as she moved to Fort Lauderdale she joined the East Bay Yacht Club,” Kelly Cruz said. “Started hanging out at the bar there. Bartender says she was making a lot of friends fast.”

“Male friends?”

“Yep.”

“Got any names?”

“Not yet, you know, it’s not really our case,” Kelly Cruz said. “I’m the only one working it.”

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“Understand,” Jesse said.

“I found something sort of interesting when I tossed her condo. I’ll FedEx it to you, you gimme a FedEx number.”

“Tight budget in Fort Lauderdale,” Jesse said.

“Like I say, it’s not our case.”

Jesse gave her the Federal Express number.

“What are you going to send me?” he said.

“Videotape. Florence and two guys having sex together.”

“Amateur?” Jesse said.

“Far as I can tell. She’s having sex with both of them at the same time,” Kelly Cruz said. “Looks uncomfortable as hell to me but she seemed happy with it. Kept turning to smile into the camera. Sort of proud.”

“As well she should be,” Jesse said. “You got anything else?”

“I got a call into her family but so far nothing back. I’m working on the earlier husbands, but so far no names. She used to live in Boca. I’ll check around up there. Not too many people knew much about her around here.”

“It’s ten or fifteen miles, isn’t it?” Jesse said. “You sure the budget will stand it?”

“Good, be a northern wiseass,” Kelly Cruz said. “It encourages us down here in the swamps.”

“Just a little light-hearted banter,” Jesse said.

“Is that what it was,” Kelly Cruz said. “You hotshots learn anything up there?”

“We’re in the middle of a series of yacht races up here,”

Jesse said. “Race Week.”

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“Oh boy,” Kelly Cruz said.

“Three of the yachts are out of Fort Lauderdale,” Jesse said.

“Hot damn,” Kelly Cruz said. “I’m only a detective for five years, but that might be a clue.”

“Might be,” Jesse said. “They are owned by the following, you got a pencil?”

“I’m ready.”

“Thomas Ralston,” Jesse said. “Allan Pinkton. Harold Berger.”

“Addresses?”

“All in Fort Lauderdale,” Jesse said and read them off.

“Never heard of any of them,” Kelly Cruz said. “But they probably never heard of me, either. I’ll check them out. They may not be home, of course, they may be up there taking part in the excitement.”

“You seem negative, Detective Cruz,” Jesse said, “about yacht racing.”

“Don’t mean to,” Kelly Cruz said. “Must be at least as exciting as watching a miniature golf match.”

Jesse was silent for a moment.

“Well, no,” Jesse said slowly. “It’s not that much fun.”

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C hannel 3 Action News set up downtown in Paradise, in the parking lot behind the Ranch Market. There was an equipment

truck, and an air-conditioned mobile home to house production, wardrobe, and makeup and Jenn. Jenn had a small dressing room in it, with her own bathroom. A maze of hookups ran around the trailer and across the parking lot.

“I can even take a shower,” Jenn said.

“Always wise,” Jesse said.

A stocky strong-looking woman came in without knock-ing. She had short gray hair and Oakley sunglasses and seemed, even standing still, to be in a hurry.

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“Marty,” Jenn said, “this is my . . . friend Jesse Stone.

He’s the police chief here. Jesse, this is Marty Freeman, my producer.”

“Stone?” Marty said. “Same name as yours.”

“We used to be married,” Jenn said.

“Nice to meet you,” Marty said. “Come on, Jenn, got to use all the light we can.”

Jenn was in full makeup. She kissed Jesse, very carefully, on the mouth, and went out after Marty. Jesse watched as she went away. She had on a dark blue top and white pants, and expensive sneakers. Very yacht-y. The pants fit her well, and Jesse watched her backside twitch as she walked away. He was seeing her sexually again. Was he supposed to? Christ, who wouldn’t see her sexually? He looked around the small dressing room. There was a small closet with several changes of clothes. He could smell her perfume. He knew that when she took a shower and toweled off, she would spray scent in the air and walk into it naked. He wondered how many other men knew that. He imagined them watching her, as he had.

A group of them. Faceless, nameless, somehow triumphant.

Laughing and elbowing each other like players in a bad farce.

She smiled at them. Soon she’d have sex with them. He could hear himself breathing. That’s it, he thought. That’s the bastard. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s not love.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His face looked ordi-nary, the way it always looked. He spoke to the image in the mirror.

“Man,” he heard himself say. “I need a drink.”

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E verybody’s in the squad room,” Molly said.

“Alert and ready to examine evidence.”

“Video come in from Fort Lauderdale?”

Jesse said.

“How’d you guess?”

“Male intuition,” Jesse said. “Who’s in the cars?”

“Martin and Friedman,” Molly said. “Not happy.”

“And the other eight members of Paradise’s finest?”

“In the squad room,” Molly said. “Waiting for you. Prob -

ably sent out for popcorn.”

“You want to watch it?”

“I’m a cop,” Molly said. “I need to see it, I’ll see it.”

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“You don’t need to see it with eight lecherous loud-mouths,” Jesse said. “Stay on the desk. There’s something you need to see, you can watch it alone later.”

Molly was silent for a moment.

“I’m part of the department, Jesse,” Molly said softly. “I don’t want everyone else to know something I don’t know.”

Jesse said, “Somebody has to be on the desk, Moll.”

She nodded. Jesse turned toward the squad room.

“I’ll watch it later,” Molly said.

“Absolutely,” Jesse said. “You can use the VCR in my office.”

Molly was silent for another moment. Then, just as Jesse was opening the door to the squad room, she said, “Thank you.”

Jesse said, “You’re welcome,” and went in.

The cops were gathered at the long table. The VCR and monitor, which were on a small metal cart, had been wheeled into position at the foot of the table. The screen was glow-ing. Jesse’s chair at the head of the table was empty, and in front of it was the padded mailer from Kelly Cruz. All of the cops were drinking coffee and someone had brought a cup for Jesse. He peeled the lid off as he sat down.

“No Jujubes?” Jesse said.

“We was going to get a keg of beer,” Suitcase Simpson said. “But we figured you’d be prudish about it.”

“Remember, the woman in this tape is dead,” Jesse said,

“and she may be the victim of a crime. We are looking at evidence. Try to notice something other than her snatch.”

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Somebody said, “Yes sir!”

Jesse opened the mailer, took the cassette down to the other end of the table, put it in the VCR, picked up the remote, walked back to his chair, sat down and pointed the remote at the VCR.

“To serve and protect,” he said and clicked play.

There was a naked woman, shot from behind. She was having sex with a man who lay on his back beneath her on a bed, or sofa, or something with a blue-and-yellow stripe. As the camera watched, another man walked into the shot and mounted her.

The cops around the table cheered. Simpson was the youngest of them.

“Jesus,” he said. “Front and back.”

The woman turned, sandwiched between the two men, and smiled widely at the camera. It was clearly Florence Horvath. She was a lot better-looking than her license photo.

Jesse smiled to himself without pleasure, Or any other time I’ve seen her. Clearly she wanted to be recognized. She kept looking back at the camera as she enjoyed her double penetration, which enjoyment she was at pains to display. Jesse didn’t enjoy it much. I can’t define pornography, he thought.

But I know it when I see it, and pro or amateur, this is it.

After about two minutes’ running time, the cops began to talk. Pornography gets boring quick, Jesse thought.

“Between wives,” Arthur Angstrom said, “I used to date a woman, wanted me to bring a friend. I told her I could never get it up with another guy involved.”

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“I heard you couldn’t get it up anyway, Arthur,” Peter Perkins said.

“Give you a list of satisfied customer, you want,” Arthur said.

“Look at the weapon on that guy,” Buddy Hall said.

“Jesus,” Suitcase said, “if that’s a penis, what am I walking around with?”

The film ended after about eight minutes with Florence apparently having an historic orgasm while the cops laughed and bantered. Jesse wondered if the banter covered any dis-comfort. He didn’t enjoy porn very much. But he didn’t mind it much unless it was gross. Jesse had always thought heterosexual anal sex verged on gross. Nothing in Florence’s home movie had changed his mind about that.

“Didn’t see any clues,” Peter Perkins said. “Maybe we should play it more.”

“Did you look at the guys?” Jesse said.

Nobody said anything.

“Okay, we’ll run it again,”Jesse said.

Around the table the cops groaned. Perkins had been kidding. Most of them were bored with it already.

“Look at the guys, this time,” Jesse said. “Maybe we’ll see one again.”

Jesse rewound the tape. And rolled it. The cops watched again, looking at the men. Jesse noticed they were quieter.

Less uncomfortable, maybe. Jesse looked, too. There was nothing in the film to tell him where it was shot. Just a bed-5 6

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room. Or at least a place with a bed. There was a hint of decorative brass. The room looked small. Could be a boat.

When the tape had finished, Jesse said, “Okay, Peter, you’re the evidence specialist. Take the tape and get some head shots made of the guys. May as well get one of Florence, too. It’s better than her license photo.”

“Guys at the lab will love this,” Perkins said.

“Just make sure it comes back,” Jesse said.

“You don’t think they’ll make a dupe?”

“Of course they will,” Jesse said. “But I want the original in our case folder.”

“Yessir.”

Perkins started to remove the tape from the VCR.

“Leave it,” Jesse said. “I’ll give it to you after lunch.”

“Gotta look for more clues, Jesse?”

“Chief Jesse to you, pal. Go relieve Molly on the desk. Tell her I want to see her in my office.”

Perkins saluted and the cops filed out. Jesse took the tape and went in his office. In a moment Molly came in. Jesse put the tape into the office VCR.

“You know how to run this?” Jesse said.

“No.”

“Okay, I’ll start it and leave.”

Molly nodded. Jesse punched up the tape and went out.

He closed the office door behind him and leaned on the wall near it. He smiled to himself. Porn guard.

When Molly came out she said, “That was disgusting.”

5 7

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“Yes,” Jesse said. “It was.”

“Did the guys like it?”

Jesse shrugged.

“They pretended to. In fact, I think they probably found it a little disgusting, too.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“You going to get head shots made?”

“Peter Perkins is going to take care of it,” Jesse said.

Molly nodded. “Thanks for letting me watch it alone,” she said.

Jesse shrugged.

“You’re a nicer guy than most people know,” Molly said.

Jesse smiled at her. “Let’s not let that get around,” he said.

5 8

14

W hen Jesse went to meet Jenn for lunch she was finishing a long Steadicam walk-and-talk the length of the town pier with the sail-dappled harbor in the background. Jesse walked down and stopped beside Marty the producer. She picked up a pair of earphones that were hanging on the back of a fold-ing chair and handed them to Jesse. He put them on. He could hear Jenn.

“What draws them here,” she was saying. “What brings them from all over the Atlantic coast to converge here . . . in Paradise . . . for Race Week.”

The director who had been staring at the monitor yelled R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“Cut.” And as Jenn looked up at him with her hands on her hips, he yelled, “Keeper.” Jenn nodded as if to say It better be, and came up the dock toward Jesse. He applauded silently as she came. When she reached him, Jenn kissed him.

“I smell Emmy,” Jesse said.

“You smell something,” Jenn said and took his hand. “I’m sick of the Gull. Is there someplace else? Quick? Good?”

“We could walk up to Daisy’s,” Jesse said. “They bake all their own bread.”

“Let’s,” Jenn said.

“So what does draw them?” Jesse said as they walked up Washington Street. “Top-flight police work?”

“Probably that,” Jenn said. “And a full month of booze and sex.”

“Anybody sail?” Jesse said.

“Not in the evening,” Jenn said. “I mean, wow! Like Mardi Gras.”