Текст книги "Sea Change"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

Jesse nodded.

“I thought you were in Europe,” Jesse said.

The twins looked at each other.

“That’s what we told the parents,” Claudia said.

They both giggled.

“Partying,” Corliss said.

“Where?”

“In New York.”

“Manhattan?” Jesse asked.

“No, no, Sag Harbor.”

“All summer?”

Both girls giggled.

“Staying with friends?”

“Ohhh yes,” Corliss said.

“Could I have a name?” Jesse said.

“Name?”

“Of the friend you stayed with.”

“Why?”

“Better to know than not know,” Jesse said.

“You think we did something bad?” Claudia said.

“Ohhh yeah,” Jesse said, and smiled.

The twins giggled again.

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“Well, we didn’t do anything bad to Flo,” Claudia said.

“Of course not,” Jesse said. “Where were you staying on Long Island?”

“Well,” Corliss looked at her sister.

“We were at a guy’s house in Sag Harbor.”

“Name?”

“Ah, the guy that owned the house was, ah, Carlo.”

Jesse nodded and waited. Corliss looked at her sister again.

“What was Carlo’s last name?” she said. “You remember?”

Claudia frowned cutely.

“Funny name,” she said, “like it was part of his first name.”

Corliss frowned cutely. Jesse waited.

“Like Coca-Cola,” Corliss said.

“Carlo Coca,” Claudia said.

“C-O-C-A?” Jesse said.

“I guess,” Claudia said.

Both twins looked pleased. Jesse wrote down the name.

“Got an address?” Jesse said.

“Oh,” Claudia said, “I don’t know.”

She looked at Corliss.

“On the beach,” Corliss said.

“Phone?”

They both shrugged. Jesse nodded.

“Well, we’ll find him,” Jesse said.

“He may not remember us,” Corliss said.

Jesse smiled at them.

“Hard not to,” he said.

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“You can’t tell our parents,” Claudia said.

“They’d have a shit fit,” Corliss said.

“I have no reason to tell your parents,” Jesse said.

“They think we’re still their little baby virgins,” Claudia said.

“How did you hear of Florence’s death?” Jesse said.

“One of our friends called,” Corliss said.

“The friend knew where you were?”

“Not really, she called on our cell phone.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kimmy,” Corliss said.

“Kimmy Young,” Claudia said. “Why?”

“I’m a cop,” Jesse said. “I like to know stuff.”

“We were thinking maybe we should hire some kind of private detective,” Corliss said.

Jesse nodded.

“You know?” Corliss said.

Jesse nodded again.

“I mean this is like a small town,” Claudia said. “You know?”

“I do,” Jesse said.

“So you won’t be like, insulted?” Corliss said.

“No.”

“But we don’t know how to go about it,” Claudia said.

Jesse nodded.

“Talk with Rita Fiore,” Jesse said.

He wrote the name and phone number on a piece of yellow paper and handed it to Claudia.

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“Criminal lawyer at a big Boston firm,” Jesse said. “Use my name. I’m sure she can put you in touch with someone.”

“We, ah, forgot your name,” Corliss said.

Jesse took a card from the middle drawer of his desk and handed it to Corliss.

“She’ll be, ah, you know, she won’t talk about us to anyone,” Corliss said.

“Soul of discretion,” Jesse said.

They nodded.

“Are you planning to stay awhile?”

“Until our sister’s killer is brought to justice,” Corliss said.

“Before you leave here this morning, give Molly your address.”

“Is that the policewoman out front?”

Jesse smiled. Molly would bite them if they called her that.

“At the desk,” he said.

“Okay. We got a nice suite at the Four Seasons. With a view.”

“In Boston,” Jesse said.

“Un-huh,” Corliss said.

“Did anything bad happen to Flo before she died?” Claudia said.

“Hard to say.”

“I mean did anybody hurt her?”

“Can’t tell,” Jesse said. “You think someone would?”

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The twins looked at each other.

“Not really,” Corliss said. “But she ran with a weird crowd sometimes.”

“Names?” Jesse said.

Both twins shook their heads.

“Oh, we don’t know that,” Claudia said.

“We don’t know any of them really,” Corliss said.

Jesse took the sex video head shots from a drawer and put them out on the desk where the Plum twins could see them.

“Know either of these gentlemen?” Jesse said.

They did. Jesse could tell by the way their shoulders froze when they looked. They both shook their heads at the same time.

“No,” Claudia said.

“No, we don’t,” Corliss said.

Jesse took out three other pictures.

“One of these Florence?” Jesse said.

They looked.

“Course,” Corliss said.

“That one,” Claudia said.

“You didn’t even know which one she was?”

“I did,” Jesse said. “I wanted to be sure you did.”

They both stared at him silently for a moment.

Then Claudia said, “Jesus Christ.”

Corliss said,” Don’t you trust anybody?”

“Trust,” Jesse said, “but verify.”

“What’s that mean?”

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“It’s a reference to Ronald Reagan,” Jesse said.

“That president?”

“Him,” Jesse said.

“Well, I think it’s mean not to trust us,” Claudia said.

“You’re right,” Jesse said. “I’ll never do it again.”

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20

After the twins were gone, Molly stuck her head in the office door.

“Steve Friedman called in,” she said. “Got a couple of kids shoplifting in Waldo’s Variety Store.”

“What did they take?”

“Skin magazines.”

“Tell Steve to confiscate the magazines, let the kids sit in the cruiser for ten minutes to scare them, then kick ’em loose. No lectures.”

Molly grinned.

“That’ll be hard for Steve,” she said.

“I know. Tell him I said so.”

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“No parent notification?” Molly said.

“No.”

Molly was still grinning.

“How were the twins?” Molly said.

“Vague,” Jesse said.

“You survive with your virtue intact?”

“So much sex,” Jesse said, “so little brain.”

“You learn anything useful?” Molly said.

“Mostly I learned that they know more than they are say -

ing, and that they conceal that fact badly.”

“What do you think they know?”

“They know the two guys in the sex video,” Jesse said.

“They say so?”

“No.”

“What did they want?”

“I don’t think they quite know,” Jesse said. “They asked me to recommend a private eye.”

“To help us on the case?”

“Un-huh.”

Molly rolled her eyes.

“There are some good ones,” Jesse said. “I sent the little darlings to Rita Fiore, told them she could recommend.”

“Can she?”

“Probably. I know she uses some guy in Boston that’s supposed to be good.”

“You think they were serious?”

“I don’t think they’ve been serious in their whole vapid life, either one of them.”

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“And you sent them to Rita,” Molly said, “so you could call her in a while and asked if they showed up.”

Jesse smiled and pointed a finger at Molly.

“You’re mastering my technique,” Jesse said. “When I leave, you can be chief.”

“Fat chance,” Molly said. “I better get on the horn to Steve. He’s probably already started his lecture.”

“Cruel and unusual punishment,” Jesse said.

“Wading through the skin magazines would be cruel enough,” Molly said.

“Not if you’re an adolescent boy,” Jesse said.

“You would know,” Molly said and left the office.

Jesse stood and walked to the door.

“Be sure Steve brings in the confiscated magazines,” he said.

9 9

21

J esse was on the small balcony off the living room, drinking club soda, with his shirt

off, when Jenn came home. It was hot, but the air off the harbor was cool and as the sun went down it got cooler. When they had been married and worked in Los Angeles, Jesse and Jenn had lived in one of those old bunga-lows in Hollywood, with an overhanging roof and a big front porch. Jesse used to like to sit out on the front steps of the porch in his undershirt and drink beer and feel the air.

She kissed him gently when she came in.

“I’ll join you,” she said. “Thank God it’s evening.”

S E A C H A N G E

She went to the kitchen and got some white wine and brought it with her to the balcony and sat in the other chair.

It was late enough to be dark. Jenn sipped her wine. Many of the boats in the harbor showed lights, particularly the big yachts farther out. The black water moved quietly below them. In daylight there was usually some trash floating on it. In the darkness it was unmarred. Barely visible, its presence announced mostly by its dark movement.

“Domestic,” Jenn said after a time.

“That’s us,” Jesse said.

“I mean it,” Jenn said, “as a good thing.”

“I know,” Jesse said.

“Just sitting together,” Jenn said. “At the end of the day.”

“Maybe I should buy a couple of rocking chairs,” Jesse said.

“And a shawl,” Jenn said.

Jesse looked at his glass.

“Nothing like a bracing club soda,” he said, “at moments like this.”

“You still miss it,” Jenn said.

“Every day.”

“Is it a physical craving?”

“No, never quite has been a craving,” Jesse said. “It’s just, I like it and I miss it.”

Jenn smiled.

“Like me,” she said.

“No,” Jesse said. “You’re a craving.”

They were quiet for a time. There was a dim sound of mu-1 0 1

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sic from among the moored boats in near shore. Across the harbor, they could see the running lights of a powerboat moving silently along the inner shoreline of the Neck.

“Glad I’m ahead of Johnny Walker,” Jenn said after a time.

Jenn drank the rest of her wine and went to pour a second glass. Jesse drank some soda, and put his feet on the balcony railing. He crossed his ankles. The running lights of the powerboat turned silently and began to trace the causeway at the south end of the harbor. Jenn came back.

“You know,” Jesse said. “Craving is pretty much all about the craver and nothing about the cravee.”

“No shit,” Jenn said.

Jenn had kicked off her shoes. She put her feet up on the balcony next to his. It made her skirt slide up her thighs.

Jesse felt the surge of desire. What was that about? He’d seen her naked a thousand times. He’d had sex with her a thousand times. Why did he feel this way because her skirt slid up her thighs? He’d always assumed such feelings were the result of normal masculine humanity.

“I’m leering at your thighs,” Jesse said.

“Good.”

“You want to be desired, you dress sexy, you look sexy, you want to be seen as sexy. We both know that.”

“And we both know you are making something out of nothing, Looney Tunes,” Jenn said. “You’re supposed to get riled up looking at my thighs, for crissake. You’re supposed to leer.”

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“Looney Tunes,” Jesse said.

“It’s like we don’t have problems anymore,” Jenn said.

“And you’re trying to invent some.”

Jesse wished he had a drink. He shrugged.

“Anyway,” Jesse said. “It was a loving leer.”

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22

M olly came into Jesse’s office and stood in front of his desk.

“I called the registrar at Emory,” she

said. “The Plum sisters haven’t been students there since first semester last year.”

“I assume they didn’t graduate.”

“No, they left school after first semester of their junior year.”

“Did they say why?”

“They didn’t say anything. They just ceased to be there.”

Molly smiled.

“They didn’t get the boot or anything?”

S E A C H A N G E

“No. Just stopped going.”

“Take all their belongings?” Jesse said.

“I don’t know. I can check back.”

“Please,” Jesse said.

Molly went out. Jesse picked up his phone and called Kelly Cruz in Fort Lauderdale.

“Know anything new about the Plum sisters?” Jesse said.

“Models of decorous southern behavior,” Kelly Cruz said.

“Decorous?”

“I’m taking a night course,” Kelly Cruz said, “at the com-munity college. So far that’s what I’ve learned.”

“Who says they’re, ah, decorous?” Jesse said.

“Mom and Dad.”

“You check with anyone else?”

“Not yet,” Kelly Cruz said. “I told you, this isn’t the big one on my caseload, you know? This is yours.”

“And here’s what I know,” Jesse said. “The Plum girls haven’t been in Europe looking at art. They’ve been in Sag Harbor, Long Island, partying. And they dropped out of Emory last fall.”

“But did they do it decorously?” Kelly Cruz said.

“I think we need to know more.”

“Wonder what else the parents don’t know?” Kelly Cruz said.

“Or do know and aren’t saying. What do you know about the three yachts registered in Fort Lauderdale?”

“Thomas Ralston, Allan Pinkton, Harold Berger,” Kelly Cruz said.

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“Wow,” Jesse said.

“Thank you,” Kelly Cruz said. “Berger is up there with his wife and three children. Pinkton has his grown daughters and their husbands aboard, along with their combined four children, and his wife.”

“How about Ralston.”

“Owns the Sea Cloud, ” Kelly Cruz said. “He’s single, up there with some guests.”

“Find anything on Harrison Darnell?”

“Family money,” she said. “Been rich for a couple genera-tions. Real estate development. Never married. Playboy rep-utation. No record.”

“Never married,” Jesse said.

“Everyone concurs that he’s straight, and actively so.”

“Hence the playboy rep,” Jesse said.

“Hence,” Kelly Cruz said.

“How about Darnell? Any connection between him and Ralston?”

“They’re about the same age,” Kelly Cruz said. “Single playboys who live in South Florida and own yachts which they sailed up to Paradise for Race Week. They could easily know each other.”

“Or not,” Jesse said.

“Or not,” Kelly Cruz said. “I’ll look into it.”

“How about the ex-husbands?”

“Aside from Horvath? Can’t find one of them. He’s not in the area, wherever he is. The other one is convinced she was a nymphomaniac.”

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“I don’t think we use that term anymore, do we?” Jesse said.

“This guy does, with an accent. He’s an Argentine polo player.”

“When were they married?”

“Nineteen ninety-four, ninety-five,” Kelly Cruz said.

“Divorced?”

“Nineteen ninety-five,” Kelly Cruz said. “Sex life was hurt-ing his game.”

“Tired all the time?”

“That’s what he says.”

“He get a nice settlement?” Jesse asked.

“Yes.”

“You know where he’s been the last couple of months?”

“Playing polo. Every day. In Miami. I checked the papers.

He was there.”

“There’s polo writeups in the papers down there?”

“You know what papers to look in,” Kelly Cruz said.

“Okay. So he’s not a prime suspect.”

“Too bad, I was hoping I’d need to interview him more.”

“Didn’t you say you had kids?”

“I did, but no husband.”

“And rich polo players make notoriously good fathers,”

Jesse said.

“Notoriously,” Kelly Cruz said.

“What you need to do,” Jesse said, “is see if there’s a connection between Ralston and Darnell. And I think you need to pressure the parents. There’s too much going on that we don’t understand.”

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“No more Miss Nice Girl?” Kelly Cruz said.

“Exactly.”

“Okay, I need to do that,” Kelly Cruz said. “What do you need?”

“I need to get a look at their boats,” Jesse said.

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23

Y ou go on the boat without a warrant,”

Molly said, “nothing you find can be used as evidence.”

“I don’t have enough for a warrant.”

“Not even Judge Gaffney?” Molly said.

Jesse shook his head.

“Marty Reagan says the new DA is very careful.”

“So he won’t even ask,” Molly said.

“Right.”

“So what’s the point of going aboard?”

“Better to know than not know.”

“Even if you can’t use it.”

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“Can’t use it in court,” Jesse said. “But maybe it’ll point me toward something I can use.”

“Be good to know if they’re viable suspects,” Molly said.

“It would,” Jesse said.

“Be good to know if they weren’t viable suspects,” Molly said.

“Also true,” Jesse said.

“So you could start looking someplace else.”

“Um-hm.”

“Of course, it’s illegal,” Molly said.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Jesse said.

Molly nodded slowly.

“You cut some corners, Jesse.”

“Sometimes you have to, if you’re going to do the job right.”

“So you do something wrong to do something right?”

“Sometimes,” Jesse said.

“I’m not sure Sister Mary Agnes would agree,” Molly said.

“Sister Mary Agnes a cop?” Jesse said.

Molly smiled.

“She taught Philosophy of Christian Ethics at Our Lady of the Annunciation Academy.”

“Certainties are harder to come by,” Jesse said, “in police work.”

“But there’s a danger, isn’t there,” Molly said, “that you start cutting corners and you end up doing bad, not good?”

“Yes, there is,” Jesse said.

“Do you worry about that?”

“Yes,” Jesse said, “I do.”

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“But you’ll do it anyway.”

“Sometimes,” Jesse said. “I trust myself to keep it clean.”

“Pride goeth before a fall is what Sister Mary Agnes would say.”

“Sometimes,” Jesse said, “it goeth before an indictment.”

Molly smiled at him.

“I guess, if I’m going to have somebody bending the law on me,” she said, “I’d just as soon it be you.”

“Better than Mary Agnes?”

“Sister dealt mostly in theory,” Molly said.

“Like when they do marriage counseling,” Jesse said.

“Do I hear anti-Catholicism?”

“No,” Jesse said, “anti-theory-ism.”

Molly smiled again. “You better hide your tracks,” she said, “in case you do get them in court. You don’t one of those fruit from the poisoned tree things.”

“You’re still taking those law courses,” Jesse said. “Aren’t you.”

“One a semester,” Molly said.

“Different than Philosophy of Christian Ethics?”

“Just as theoretical,” Molly said.

“But more commonly applied,” Jesse said.

“By people like us,” Molly said.

“You’ll be DA someday.”

“I was thinking more about president,” Molly said. “How are you planning to search the boat without getting caught.”

“Everybody,” Jesse said, “goes to the Stiles Island Clambake.”

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“Second Saturday in Race Week,” Molly said.

“Which is tomorrow,” Jesse said.

“Midpoint of Race Week,” Molly said.

“Was Race Week ever just a week?”

“I think so,” Molly said, “but sometime back when my mother was in high school it started expanding at both ends.

The small boats the first two weeks, the big yacht races the second two. With the clambake in the middle.”

“But they still call it Race Week,” Jesse said.

“Race Month just doesn’t sound right,” Molly said.

“But it is the social occasion. Everybody goes.”

“Except me, this year,” Molly said. “I’m right here three to eleven. Applying legal theory.”

“And I’ll be out in the harbor,” Jesse said, “committing piracy.”

“Shiver me timbers,” Molly said.

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24

T he caterer’s clambake crew started Friday afternoon, digging a hole two feet deep and fifteen feet across. They lined it with rocks, built a bonfire on top of the rocks and let it burn, feeding it through the night with hardwood. In the morning, when the fire had burned down, they spread seaweed over the rocks and then began layering in clams, lobsters, corn on the cob, potatoes and thick Portuguese sausages. They repeated the seaweed and the food layers until the pit was full. Then they put on a final layer of seaweed, and stretched a tarpaulin over the pile while the hot stones made the seaweed steam, and the food cooked.

Another crew set up a vast striped tent with a pole peak at R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

either end, from which flew Paradise Yacht Club banners. A full bar set up underneath it, and beer kegs chilled in huge tubs of ice. By two-thirty in the afternoon the island was already crowded. People came from the harbor in their own small boats, or were ferried by the Paradise Yacht Club launch.

People from town drove over the causeway and parked where they could. A four-man police detail would try to manage the traffic, and later, the clambakers.

Jesse stood beside Hardy Watkins, resting his elbows on the low cabin of the harbor boat, as it idled near the outer harbor. Through the binoculars, Stiles Island was a swarm of tan legs, white shorts, tank tops, big hats, long dresses, pink cotton, blue ribbon, floral patterns, yellow linen. The smell of the bake drifted to him, edged with the smell of fresh spilled beer.

Jesse moved the glasses back to the Lady Jane, where a woman came over the side and joined others in the small launch. It might have been Blondie Martin. The launch pulled away from the Lady Jane and ran in a big smooth curve toward the Stiles Island dock.

“That’s nine,” Jesse said. “The boat should be empty.”

“You want to come in from the other side,” Hardy said.

“Yes.”

Hardy opened the throttle gently and the harbor boat moved quietly through the small harbor chop, behind the screen of moored yachts, to the far side of the Lady Jane. He throttled back and let the boat drift in against the side of the yacht, and held it there.

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“You see anyone heading for the boat,” Jesse said, “give me a shout. If we get caught, I’ll lie, and you’ll swear to it, that I just went aboard thinking there was someone home, and was about to leave when I found there wasn’t.”

“We doing something illegal?” Hardy said.

“We are.”

“I was hoping it would be something better than this.”

Jesse went effortlessly over the side, and onto the deck of the Lady Jane. Away from the low idle of the harbor boat, Jesse heard music coming from Stiles Island. There was no sound on the yacht.

“Hello?” Jesse yelled.

No one answered.

He walked into the cockpit and stopped beside the helm.

“Hello?”

No one answered. He went down the short wide teak stair-way. It was a big boat, but there was no extra space. Jesse paused for a moment and yelled once more. No answer.

Everything was built-in. Dining table, seating for six, bar, galley, a big plasma television screen, polished hardwood and shiny brass. A small corridor off the back of the dining room had staterooms along either side. Each had a built-in bed and bureau. The master suite had its own head. There were several other facilities tucked in among the staterooms. Jesse counted sleeping for more than nine, though it probably depended somewhat on gender and relationship. Everything looked neat and cozy and expensive and luxurious. The table was set. There were flowers in small crystal vases. Jesse won-1 1 5

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dered how it was in thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds with a six-foot sea running. The thought made him smile.

The boat was empty. After his walk-through, Jesse began to search each space. He began with the master bedroom. Most people hid the most incriminating stuff, Jesse knew, in their bedroom. Or stateroom, or whatever the swabbies called them.

There were women’s clothes and toiletries as well as men’s.

There were sex toys in the top bureau drawer under some neatly folded sport shirts. One of the toys was a massager which was held onto the back of the hand with springs and imparted its vibration to the hand. Jesse remembered that when he was a small boy in Arizona, his grandfather had used one like it for scalp massage. Jesse smiled. Or maybe not. In the bottom drawer of the same bureau, among a lot of exotic woman’s underwear, was a stack of videotapes held together with a thick red elastic band. Jesse picked them up and took off the rubber band. The tapes were numbered with a Magic Marker, but there was nothing else to say what they were. Jesse glanced around the bedroom. In a wall cabinet was an entertainment center which included, Jesse was sure, a videotape player. Jesse studied the equipment. There seemed to be a computer involved. After awhile he shook his head.

Defeated by technology.

If I try this, I will fuck it up, and they’ll know I was here.

He glanced around the room. He didn’t see anything that would help. He went to the closet and opened the bifold doors. The clothes were hung neatly and carefully spaced.

Men’s and women’s. On the top shelf were several long-1 1 6

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billed caps and a stack of videotapes. Jesse took them down.

They were unmarked, and, he realized, unopened. He went back out and up the stairs to the helm and navigation area, and found a Magic Marker, one of several, in a beer mug on the shelf by the steering wheel.

He took it back downstairs, took out the stack of numbered videotapes, slipped one from the middle, number five, took the wrapping cellophane off the new video, marked it number five, slipped it in among the others marked tapes, put the red elastic back around them and put the real number five inside his shirt. He put the other new videos back where he’d found them, crumpled the cellophane that he’d removed and put it in his pocket.

Let’s hope it’s not his kid’s confirmation.

Jesse went through the other rooms, and found a lot that was titillating, but nothing that was useful. Then he went back and sat and looked at the master bedroom. He thought about the tapes. It could all be in there. How hard could it be? He studied the entertainment center.

Okay, this is the remote.

He studied the many buttons. Some had arrows or squares or two bars, or dots. Some were labeled. He found a switch that was labeled all on. He found no other switch that said all off.

So this must be the one, all on/all off.

He pressed it. The set clicked on, the screen brightened.

And in a moment there was a picture. Jesse studied it for a moment. He was looking at a small shower. He clicked the 1 1 7

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button that read CH. He was looking at a bed. The plaid spread looked familiar.

For Christ’s sake. It’s on the boat. The bastard’s got the place wired.

Jesse stood and walked to the bedroom with the plaid spread. He placed a pillow in the middle of it and went back to the master bedroom. The bed on the screen now had a pillow in the middle of it. Jesse went back, replaced the pillow and stood in the small bedroom looking at the ceiling. There were small recessed lights in the ceiling. Jesse examined them in the low ceiling. He could find nothing unusual. He went back to the master bedroom and clicked the channels.

Each shower and each bedroom could be accessed on the screen, including the master bedroom. Jesse went and turned on one of the showers and came back. He could hear it.

Sound and Picture.

He went back and shut off the shower. Then he went to the master bedroom and pressed the all on button. The screen went black. Jesse whistled to himself softly. Master technician!

Has to be through the ceiling lights. The fact that I can’t figureit out means nothing. I can’t even play the fucking VCR. He put the remote carefully back where he’d found it. He looked around. Everything looked the same as it had.

Jesse went up on deck and over the side onto the harbor boat. Hardy eased it away from the Lady Jane, and curled it inconspicuously back in toward the town wharf, moving slowly among the moored sailboats.

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25

T he videotape player in Jesse’s office was simplicity itself. It didn’t do anything but play, and required only the ability to push the play and stop buttons on the remote. Jesse put in tape number five and clicked pla .

y

It was a red-haired woman with slim hips and, Jesse spec-ulated, enhanced breasts. The videotape showed her naked in a variety of activities: taking a shower, shaving her legs, washing her hair, putting on makeup, changing clothes, having various and inventive sex with Harrison Darnell. The tape was a long one and repetitive. Showers, sex, changing clothes, sex, showers, clothes.

Jesse sat quietly at his desk watching. He felt like a dirty R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

old man, alone in a room watching sex videos. It was exciting for about a minute. The pleasures of voyeurism. A moment of discovery. Jesse could not remember seeing a naked redhead before. And then the increasing boredom as the scenes became repetitive. There was sound, but little to listen to, except the sex with Darnell, which was so noisy that Jesse muted it. Somewhere in the middle of the tape the redhead got a perm. What had been longish wavy hair became short curly hair. Otherwise she continued to shower and change clothes and have sex with Darnell.

The tape ran an hour. The boredom was penetrating. Jesse forced himself to watch it. When it ended he rewound it and sat quietly in his office for a while. He was pretty sure what was on the other tapes. Blondie probably had her own tape.

What if tape number five had been Florence Horvath. Then he’d have a choke hold on the son of a bitch. Jesse shook his head. He was guessing. Darnell may not have known Florence Horvath. Florence Horvath might have fallen off the Stiles Island Causeway and drowned. Darnell may have lied just because he didn’t want to be bothered. Guys like him would be too busy to be involved in a homicide. Had nude film to watch. Jesse sat for a moment doodling the yellow legal pad on his desktop. Why would Darnell kill Florence?

Why would he go to such voyeuristic lengths to get nude movies of women he saw naked regularly? Sick bastard.

The door opened a crack and Molly looked in.

“Got some time?”

“Sure,” Jesse said.

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26

M olly brought in Sam Holton and his wife and daughter.

“You know Sam,” Molly said.

“From softball,” Jesse said. “Lotta stick, not much foot.”

Sam said, “Hi, Jesse.”

“This is his wife, Jackie, and his daughter Cathleen. Cathleen says she’s been raped.”

“I’m sorry,” Jesse said.

Cathleen nodded. She was a tall, robust, dark-haired girl with big breasts and long legs. She looked about twenty-five. Her mother was thin and small and pale-skinned, with R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

narrow lips and small eyes which looked bigger behind thick glasses. Nobody said anything.

“Says it happened onboard a yacht named the Lady Jane, ”

Molly said.

Thank you, Lord.

“Tell me about it,” Jesse said.

“I already told her,” Cathleen said.

“Tell me,” Jesse said gently.

“Go ahead, Cathleen,” her father said.

“Sam, it’s embarrassing,” Jackie said. “She already told the woman.”

Jesse looked at Molly.

“Rape kit?” he said.

“Inconclusive. Signs of penetration, but no semen, no evidence of force.”

“You saying I lied,” Cathleen said.

“No, honey, inconclusive doesn’t mean you lied.”

“He wore a rubber,” Cathleen said. “Naturally there’s no sperm.”

“Who?” Jesse said.

“She doesn’t know for sure,” Molly said. “She thinks it was the boat owner.”

Jesse nodded.

“Could you pick him out of a lineup?” Jesse said.

“Absolutely,” Cathleen said.

“Good,” Jesse said. “How’d you happen to end up on the yacht?”

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S E A C H A N G E

Cathleen looked down and didn’t answer.

“She met one of the crew,” Molly said, “at the Dory. He offered to show her the boat.”

“How old are you, Cathleen?” Jesse said.

“Seventeen,” she said. “Ill be eighteen in September.”

“What happened when you got to the boat?” Jesse said.

Cathleen looked irritated.

“I can’t talk about stuff like that in front of them,” she said.

Sam looked at his hands, folded in his lap. He was a thick man, a landscaper in town. As he got older he’d put on weight but he still looked like someone who’d worked all his life. Jackie glared silently at everyone. Her thin self was tight with anger.