Текст книги "Stone cold"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

“That you talking or the shrink?” Jesse said.

“It’s a conclusion we reached

together,” Jenn

said.

Jesse hated all the circumlocutions of therapy. He sipped the lucid martini.

“Why do you think I’m so

wonderful?” Jenn said.

“Because I love you.”

Jenn was quiet. She smiled slightly as if she knew something Jesse didn’t know. It annoyed him.

“What the fuck is wrong with that?” he said.

“Think about it,” Jenn said.

“Think about shit,” Jesse said.

“Just because you’re getting

shrunk doesn’t mean you have to shrink me.”

“You think I’m wonderful because you love me?”

“Yes.”

They were both quiet. Jesse stared at her defiantly. Jenn looking faintly quizzical.

After a time, Jenn said, “Not the other way around?”

Jesse nodded slowly as if to himself, then got up and mixed a new martini.

9

Jesse’s hangover was relentless on Monday morning.

He sat behind

his desk sipping bottled water and trying to concentrate on Peter Perkins.

“We spent two days going over that guy’s apartment,” Perkins

said. “We didn’t even find anything

embarrassing.”

“And him a stockbroker,” Jesse said.

“So what do you

know?”

Perkins looked down at his notebook.

“Kenneth Eisley, age thirty-seven, divorced, no children. Works

for Hollingsworth and Whitney in Boston. Parents live in Amherst.

They’ve been notified.”

“You do that?”

“Molly,” Peter Perkins said.

“God bless her,” Jesse said.

“Coroner’s through with him,”

Perkins said. “Parents are coming

tomorrow to claim the body. You want to talk to them?”

“You do it,” Jesse said.

“You pulling rank on me?” Perkins said.

“You bet,” Jesse said. “How

about the ex-wife?”

“She lives in Paradise,” Perkins said.

“On Plum Tree Road.

Probably kept the house when they split.”

“Seen her yet?”

“No. Hasn’t returned our calls.”

“I’ll go over,” Jesse said.

“Swell,” Perkins said. “I get to

question the grieving parents,

you talk to the ex-wife, who is probably delighted.”

“Not if she was getting alimony,” Jesse said.

“That’s cynical,” Peter Perkins

said.

“It is,” Jesse said.

“What’s the ME say?”

“Nothing special. Shot twice in the chest at close range. Two

different guns.”

“Two guns?”

“Yep. Both twenty-twos.”

“Which one killed him?”

“Both.”

“Equally?”

“Either shot would have done it. They both got him in the heart.

You want all the details about what got penetrated and stuff?”

“I’ll read the report. We figure two shooters?”

“Can’t see why one guy would shoot someone with two guns,”

Perkins said.

“Any way to tell which one shot first?”

“Not really. Far as the ME could tell they entered the victim

more or less the same time.”

“Both at close range,” Jesse said.

“Both at close range.”

“Both in the heart,” Jesse said.

Perkins nodded. “Gotta be two people,” he said.

“Or one person who wants us to think he’s two people,” Jesse

said.

Perkins shrugged.

“Pretty elaborate,” Perkins said.

“And it gives us twice as many

murder weapons.”

Jesse drank more spring water. He didn’t say anything.

“We got his phone records,” Perkins said.

“Anthony and Suit are

chasing that down.”

“Debt?” Jesse said.

“Not so far. Got ten grand in his checking account.

Got a mutual

fund worth couple hundred thousand. I’m telling you, we’ve got

nada.”

“Somebody killed him and they had a

reason,” Jesse said. “Talk

to people where he worked?”

“No. I was going to ask you. Should I call, or go in to

Boston.”

“Go in,” Jesse said.

“It’s harder to brush you off.”

“You did a

lot of this in LA,” Perkins said. “You got any ideas.”

“When in doubt,” Jesse said,

“cherchez la ex-wife.”

“Wow,”

Perkins said, “it’s great working with a pro.”

10

She was taking the photographs of Kenneth Eisley down from the big oak-framed corkboard in the office.

“Leave that head shot,” he said.

“Memories?” she said.

“Trophy,” he said.

She smiled, and handed him the pile of discarded pictures.

“Shred these,” she said. “While

I put up the new

pictures.”

He began to feed the discarded photographs through the shredder.

“What is our new friend’s name?”

she said.

“Barbara Carey,” he said.

“Forty-two years old, married, no

children. Her husband’s name is Kevin. She’s a loan officer at the

in-town branch of Pequot. He’s a lawyer in Danvers.”

“They happy?”

“What’s happy?” he said.

“They go out every Saturday night,

usually with friends. They go to brunch a lot of Sundays. The second picture up, they’re coming out of the Four Seasons.

They

don’t fight in public. They both drink, but neither one seems to be

a drunk.”

“They own a dog?” she said.

“No sign,” he said. “I think

they’re too busy being successful

young professionals to get tied down by a dog.”

“That’s good,” she said.

“I still feel worried about Kenny’s

dog.”

She glanced at the remaining photograph of Kenneth Eisley.

“Somebody will find the dog and adopt him,” he

said.

“I hope so,” she said. “Dogs are

nice.”

He fed the last photograph into the shredder.

“Kevin usually leaves the house first in the morning,” he said.

“She leaves about a half hour later, at eight-thirty.”

“That means she’s home alone for half an hour every weekday

morning.”

“Yes, but it’s a neighborhood where

everyone is home looking out

the window,” he said.

“So where will we be able to do it?”

“She does the food shopping,” he said.

“At the Paradise Mall,” she said.

She pinned the last of the pictures onto the corkboard with a small red map tack, then stepped back beside him and the two of them looked at thirty-five photographs of Barbara Carey going about the business of her public life.

“Big parking lot,” he said. “At

the Paradise

Mall.”

11

Molly Crane had a pretty good body, Jesse thought, for a cop with three kids. The gun belt always looked too big for her. She adjusted it as she sat in the chair across from Jesse’s desk.

“I’ve been doing a little off-hours

snooping,” Molly

said.

Jesse waited.

“Into the rape thing.”

“Candace Pennington,” Jesse said.

“Yes.”

“How you doing?” Jesse said.

“Well,” Molly said, “mostly

I’m just watching. I park outside in my own car, no uniform, and watch her come to school, and go home.

During lunch hour, I hang out in the cafeteria kitchen and watch. I know the food service lady down there, Anne Minnihan.”

“Find out anything?”

“Maybe,” Molly said. “There was

a moment this morning in the

cafeteria. Three boys sort of circled her and they stood and talked for maybe two minutes. They were all big and she was against the wall, and you could barely see her. One of them showed her something. The boys laughed. Then they moved away.”

“How did Candace react.”

“Scared.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. She was terrified, and … something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yes. I can’t quite say what. It was like whatever they’d shown

her was … horrifying.”

“Know the boys?” Jesse said.

“Not by name, yet,” Molly said.

“But I’d recognize all of

them.”

“Okay,” Jesse said. “We

don’t want to cause this kid any more pain than she’s already in. You need to ID these three boys without

them knowing it.”

“They were big, one of them was wearing a varsity jacket. I’ll

check the sports team photos in the lobby,” Molly said.

“Out of uniform,” Jesse said.

“Just a suburban mom waiting to

see the guidance counselor.”

“Hey,” Molly said.

“I’m not old enough to have kids in high school.”

“Vanity, vanity,” Jesse said.

“Cops can be vain,” Molly said.

“Sure,” Jesse said.

“You’re thinking especially if

they’re female, aren’t

you?”

Jesse leaned back in his chair and put his hands up.

He said, “I don’t have a sexist bone in my body, cutie

pie.”

“Anyway,” Molly said,

“I’ve lived in this town my whole life.

I’ll get them ID’d.”

“Okay, as long as you keep the kid in mind.”

“Candace?”

“Yes.”

“Hard to investigate a crime without anyone knowing it,” Molly

said. “For crissake, we can’t even talk to the victim.”

Jesse smiled. “Hard, we do at once,” he said. “Impossible takes

a little longer.”

“Oh God,” Molly said, “spare

me.”

Jesse grinned. “Just be careful of

Candace,” he

said.

“You’re very soft-hearted,

Jesse.”

“Sometimes,” he said.

12

Kenneth Eisley’s former wife had resurrected her maiden name,

which was Erickson. She worked as a corporate trainer at a company called Prometheus Plus, which was located in an office park in Woburn, and Jesse talked to her there, sitting in a chair made of silver tubing across from her desk. The desk too was made of silver tubing, with a glass top.

“Do you have any idea why someone might kill your former

husband?” Jesse said.

Christine Erickson laughed briefly and without amusement.

“Other than for being a jerk?” she said.

“Was he enough of a jerk to get himself shot?”

“Not that kind of jerk,” she said.

“He was a harmless

jerk.”

“Such as?” Jesse said.

“He thought it was important, I mean he actually thought it was

seriously important, who won the Super Bowl.”

“Everybody knows it’s the World Series that matters,” Jesse

said.

Christine looked blankly at Jesse for a moment. Jesse smiled.

Her demeanor was calm enough, Jesse noticed, but her movements seemed tight and angular.

“Oh,” she said.

“You’re kidding.”

“More or less,” Jesse said.

“What else was annoying about

him?”

Christine was wearing a dark maroon pantsuit with a white blouse

and short cordovan boots with pointy toes and heels a little too high to be sensible. She was slim and good-looking, with auburn hair and oval wire-rimmed glasses. Behind the glasses, her eyes were greenish.

“He believed the ads on television,” she said without

hesitation.

She’s talked about his faults before, Jesse thought.

“He thinks what matters is looking good, knowing the right

people, driving the right car, owning the right dog … Oh God,

what about Goldie?”

“He’s healthy,” Jesse said.

“Dog officer has

him.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“I was hoping you’d take him,”

Jesse said.

“Me. God no. I can’t. I work twelve hours a day.”

Jesse nodded.

“Can you find him a home?” Christine said.

Jesse nodded.

“You think I should take him,” Christine said, “don’t

you?”

“I do,” Jesse said.

“I can’t have him home alone all day, peeing on my

rugs.”

Jesse nodded.

“Well, I can’t,” Christine said.

“‘Course not,” Jesse said.

“Hell, he was never my dog. Kenny just bought him because he

thought they’d look good running on the beach together.”

“They do that often?”

“Five nights a week,” she said.

“Kenny was always obsessing

about his weight.”

“Regular?”

“Kenny? Oh, God, yes, he was a schedule freak. Same time for

everything. Always.” Suddenly she smiled a thin smile.

“I mean

everything.”

“Good to know,” Jesse said. “Do

you have any idea who would want

him dead?”

“Oh,” she said, “God

no.”

“Does he pay you alimony?”

“No. I got my house in lieu of alimony. Hell, I make more than

he does anyway.”

“Where were you last Thursday night?”

Jesse said.

“Me?”

“Have to ask,” Jesse said.

She glanced at her date book, then looked up and met his gaze for a moment. He could see her thinking.

She said, “I was in bed with Neil Ames.”

“All night?”

“We were together from five-thirty in the afternoon until nine

A.M. the next morning.”

“I’ll need to verify it,” Jesse

said. “Where do I find Mr.

Ames?”

“Two doors down,” she said.

“He’s the marketing

director.”

“Does he think the Super Bowl matters?”

Jesse

said.

“No.”

“What does he think matters?”

“Money.”

“No fool, he,” Jesse said. “Can

you tell me anything at all that

might shed light on Kenneth Eisley’s death?”

“Have you tried at work?” she said.

“Maybe he lost somebody’s

life savings.”

“As we speak,” Jesse said. “Any

other thoughts?”

“No.”

Jesse took a card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Christine.

“Anything occurs,” he said,

“call me.”

“Even if it’s not about the

case?”

“Sure,” Jesse said. “Maybe we

can schedule

something.”

Again the tight smile. Jesse smiled back. Then he went down the

hall to talk with the marketing director.

13

Jesse stood in the living room of Ken Eisley’s condominium,

listening to the silence. Jesse liked to go alone to places where victims lived, and visit for a while. Rarely did the silence whisper to him anything worth hearing, but that didn’t mean it

wouldn’t, and being there helped him think. The condo was a mirror

image of the one where Angie Aarons lived. On the living room floor, near the gas fireplace, was a big plaid dog cushion. On the low oak coffee table was a bottle of single malt scotch and two short thick glasses. Above the fireplace was a four-inch-thin wall-mounted television set that Jesse knew cost about $7,000. On an end table was a baseball enclosed in a plastic case. The ball had been signed almost illegibly by Willie Mays. To the right of the fireplace was a small maroon and gold replica model of an Indian motorcycle. In the kitchen was a set of stainless steel dog dishes in a black metal rack. There was a king-sized walnut sleigh bed and a large-screen television in the bedroom. On the bedside table were two copies of a magazine about men’s health and exercise. In the bathroom was a wooden container of shaving soap, a brush, and a double-edged razor. The razor and the shaving brush each had an ivory handle. A bottle of bay rum stood on the shaving ledge beside them. Everything was obviously new.

The fact that the marketing director had alibied Christine Erickson didn’t prove much, Jesse thought. There were probably two

people involved in the shooting. And each could be the other’s

alibi. But why? Jesse could find no reason for either of them to kill Eisley. According to Peter Perkins, Eisley was medium successful. He hadn’t made anyone rich, including himself.

But he

hadn’t put anyone in debtors’ prison, either.

He’d stayed about

even with a down market. Maybe he should go in and talk to people himself. Perkins was pretty good, but, like most of the department, he didn’t have much experience with homicide investigations.

In the den Jesse found another television and a big sound system. There was a gumball machine, a model of the original Thunderbird, a big illuminated globe, and some sort of glass slab filled with water through which bubbles rose endlessly. The world according to Sharper Image.

There were no photographs. There were no books. Jesse went to Eisley’s front porch and checked the mailbox. There was a J.

Crew

catalogue. Peter Perkins had the checkbook, bills, credit card receipts kind of evidence. He was perfectly competent to evaluate it. What interested Jesse was the emptiness. Except for the dog cushion. There was no hint that anyone lived there and enjoyed it.

It was monastically neat. If their timeline was right, Eisley had come home from work, put on his sweats, and gone out for a run with the dog. But there were no clothes draped on a chair or across his bed. Whatever he had worn he had carefully hung up, or put in the laundry bag. His shoes were lined up on the shoe rack in his bedroom closet. The refrigerator was nearly empty. The CD player seemed ornamental. Jesse smiled in the dead silent house.

Not even a picture of Ozzie Smith

…

Jesse moved slowly from room to room again. He didn’t open any

drawers or closets. He didn’t pick up any artifacts, he simply

moved slowly through the house. He saw nothing, smelled nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing that would even hint at why someone had wanted to put two bullets into Kenneth Eisley’s chest. The kitchen

wall beside the back door had a doggie door cut into it, that led to a fenced run in the backyard.

Maybe I should get a dog.

Jesse had no yard. What would the dog do all day? He sat for a few more moments, then stood and left the empty condo, and locked the door behind him.

14

When Jesse came back to the station Molly was at the front desk,

talking on the phone. She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger, holding the other three fingers straight.

“Does that translate to ‘I’ve

ID’d the three boys’?” Jesse

said.

Molly nodded.

“When you get a break on the desk,” Jesse said, “come see

me.”

Then he went on into the office and closed the door and called Marcy Campbell.

“You free tonight?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Can you come over to my place?”

“I’d be foolish not to,” Marcy

said.

“We can order in,” Jesse said.

“Chinese?” Marcy said. “You know

how erotic I get when I eat

Chinese.”

“Or when you don’t,” Jesse said.

Molly knocked and came into the office and lingered politely by

the door until Jesse hung up. Then she sat in the chair across from him, adjusted her handgun so it didn’t dig into her lower back, and

looked down at her notebook.

“Bo Marino, Kevin Feeney, Troy Drake,” she said.

“The three boys you saw hassle Candace.”

“Yes.”

“Got anything more?”

“Not yet.”

“You got a plan?” Jesse said.

“I’m going to haunt them,” Molly

said.

“You do have to work here sometimes,”

Jesse said.

“My time,” Molly said.

“Company time too,” Jesse said,

“when we can spare you. It is

company business.”

“It’s woman’s business,

too,” Molly said.

“I understand that.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Molly

said. “I’m not sure any man

does.”

“I don’t like rape much either,”

Jesse said.

“No. I’m sure you don’t. But you

haven’t lived with it since

before you even knew what it was.”

“Because it’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“No,” Molly said. “There are

several things worse. It’s one

reason women submit to it, it’s better than the alternative.”

“Like death,” Jesse said.

“Or torture or both. But rape is the thing your mother was

scared of. It’s the possibility that you have not only known but

felt, since little boys peeked up your dress.”

“You knew we did that?” Jesse said.

“Any woman has always known she is the object of sexual interest

from almost any man, and that almost any man, if he chooses, can force himself sexually upon her.”

“You ever been raped?” Jesse said.

“No. But almost any woman has had more sexual attention from

some man than she wanted. We all know about duress.”

“Not all of us are, ah, duressful,” Jesse said.

“No. But you know what they say – you have to judge what the

enemy can do, not what he might do.”

“Are we all the enemy?”

“Oh, God, no,” Molly said. “I

love you, Jesse … And my

husband …” She paused. “He’s

my best friend, my lover, my

…” She shook her head. “But there are things women know that

men may never know.”

“Which is why you’re all over this rape case like ugly on a

toad.”

“Yes.”

“Men may know things women

don’t,” Jesse said.

“I’m sure that is so. But rape is one of the things we know,”

Molly said.

Jesse nodded. “Control might become sort of an issue for some

women,” Jesse said.

“If they are with a controlling man,”

Molly said.

“You do a lot of thinking,” Jesse said.

“For an Irish Catholic

cop.”

“An Irish Catholic married female mother of three kids

small-town cop,” Molly said.

“Exactly,” Jesse said.

“So,” Molly said, “I’m

going to haunt them.”

“Just do everything right,” Jesse said,

“so if they did do it,

we don’t lose them.”

“I know.”

“And don’t forget that these may be high school kids but they

are bigger and stronger than you are.”

“It’s a thing women never, ever

forget,” Molly

said.

“Duh,” Jesse said. “I guess

that’s pretty much what you’ve been

telling me.”

“Pretty much,” Molly said, and smiled at him. “Don’t get

nervous, though. I won’t keep telling you.”

15

The woman’s body lay on its side, at the far end of the parking

lot in the Paradise Mall. Her head was jammed against the rear tire of a silver Volvo Cross Country wagon. A shopping cart full of groceries stood nose-in against the black Audi sedan next to the Volvo. Jesse sat on his heels beside Peter Perkins and looked at her.

“Two in the chest,” Perkins said.

“Look like small-caliber to

me.”

“Just like Kenneth Eisley,” Jesse said.

“At first look,” Perkins said.

“Keys were in her hand,” Jesse said.

“And she dropped them when

she was shot.”

“She probably popped the rear gate with the remote on her key

chain,” Perkins said. “Rear gate is unlatched but not

open.”

Jesse looked at the unemptied shopping cart. Behind them several

people, attracted by the blue lights on the patrol cars, stood in silence, held away from the crime scene by Simpson and deAngelo. In the distance a siren sounded.

“That’ll be the EMTs,” Perkins

said.

“She doesn’t need them anymore.”

“No,” Perkins said. “But they

can haul her away.”

Jesse nodded.

“So,” he said. “She food shops

in the market. And checks out and

wheels her cart out here … This her car?”

“I assume so.”

“Try her keys,” Jesse said.

Wearing gloves, Perkins picked up the key chain and pointed the

remote at the Volvo and clicked the power lock. The lights flashed and the door locks clicked. He unlocked the doors the same way, then dropped the keys into an evidence bag and made a notation on the label.

“Okay, so she comes out here to her car

…” He looked

around the parking lot. “Which is way out here because the lot is

full.”

“Friday night,” Perkins said.

“It’s always like this on a Friday

night?”

“Yeah. Worse before a holiday.”

“She pops her rear door,” Jesse said,

“to put her stuff away,

and gets two in the chest. She maybe lived five more seconds and turned half away before she died, and fell, and her head jammed up that way against the rear tire.”

Perkins nodded.

“That’s how I’d read

it,” he said.

The mercury floods in the parking lot gave everything a faint bluish tinge. In other parts of the lot cars were looking for spots and waiting for people to load their groceries and pull out so that they could pull in. If they saw the blue lights they didn’t react,

and having places to go, went.

The Paradise emergency response wagon rolled in to a stop and Duke Vincent got out. He knelt beside the woman and felt for a pulse. He knew, as they all knew, that he wouldn’t find one.

But it

was routine. It would be embarrassing to take a living body to the morgue.

“Can we move her yet?” he said to Jesse.

Jesse looked at Perkins. “You all set?” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve chalked the outline.”

“Okay, Dukie,” Jesse said.

“She got a name?” Duke said as they loaded her into the back of

the wagon.

“Driver’s license says Barbara

Carey.”

Vincent nodded. “You noticed she got shot just like the guy on

the beach,” he said.

“I noticed,” Jesse said.

“Just thought I’d mention it,”

Duke said, and got in the wagon

and drove away.

The people gathered to watch began to drift away. Suitcase Simpson came over to stand with Jesse and Peter Perkins.

“Whaddya think,” he said.

He spoke to both of them, but he looked at Jesse.

“Well, there was money still in her

purse,” Perkins said. “She

was still wearing her rings and necklace.”

“Unless it was a random shooting,” Jesse said, “the killer, or

killers, had to follow her here. Even if they knew she was coming here to shop, they’d have no way to know where she’d

park.”

“Which means they drove,” Simpson said.

Jesse nodded.

“And if they drove, they’d park near where she parked and sit in

the car and wait for her to come out,” Jesse said.

“Peter, you and

Suit and Anthony get the license numbers of any cars that could see her car from where they were parked.”

“You think the killer could still be here?” Simpson

said.

“Don’t know,” Jesse said.

“Let’s see.”

He jabbed his forefinger toward the parked cars.

“You bet,” Perkins said.

Jesse went to his car and called Molly on the radio.

“Got a woman shot to death at the mall,”

he said. “Driver’s

license says she’s Barbara Carey, Sixteen Rose Ave. See if she’s

got a next of kin.”

“If there is, do I notify?” Molly said.

“I’ll do that,” Jesse said.

“No,” Molly said. “I can do

it.”

“Okay,” Jesse said. “Let me

know.”

Among the few people still watching, a husband and wife held hands and whispered together.

“Who’s that talking on the

radio?” she said.

“Chief of police, I think.”

“He’s cute,” she said.

“I didn’t notice,” he said.

“What are the other cops doing,” she said.

“Taking down license plates.”

“My God,” she said.

“They’ll find our names.”

“So,” he said.

“They’ll find a hundred other names

too.”

“Do you think they’ll question

us?”

“It’s a small-town force,” he

said. “I doubt they’ve got the

manpower.”

“Be kind of exciting if they did,” she said.

“Yes.”

“What would we say.”

“We’d say we came here to pick up some groceries,” he said.

“Which we did.”

“I thought I might have an orgasm right there,” she said,

“standing beside her putting grapes in a bag.”

He smiled and squeezed her hand.

“Up close and personal,” he said softly.

16

“For Christ’s

sake,” Marcy said. “You can’t have

someone to dinner and just plonk three cartons of Chinese food on the table.”

“Of course you can’t,” Jesse

said. “I just wanted to see if you

knew that.”

“Yeah, right,” Marcy said.

She was looking through his kitchen cabinets.

“You can make us a cocktail,” she said.

“While I set the

table.”

Without asking, Jesse made each of them a tall scotch and soda.

Holding two wineglasses, Marcy said, “What wine goes with

Chinese food?”

“Probably a muscular cabernet,” Jesse said.

“Do you have any?”

“No.”

“What have you got?”

“Black Label scotch, Absolut vodka, Budweiser beer.”

Marcy nodded and put the wineglasses away. She put the cartons of food in a low oven and brought her drink over to the couch.

“How’s it going with Jenn?” she

said.

Jesse shrugged.

“That well?” Marcy said.

“She came over the other night and cooked me dinner,” Jesse

said.

“Good dinner?”

“Fancy,” Jesse said.

“She’s taking cooking

classes.”

“Was the evening all right?”

“Sure,” Jesse said.

Marcy was quiet, holding her glass in both hands, sipping.

“This works out very well for her,” Marcy said

finally.

“What?”

“This arrangement. She has you when she wants you.

If she gets

in trouble you’re there. If she needs sympathy or support or understanding you’re there. If she wants to see somebody else,

she’s free to.”

“That’s probably true,” Jesse

said.

“What do you get?” Marcy said.

Jesse went to the kitchen counter and made himself another drink. He brought it back and stood and looked out his picture window at the harbor.

“I’m in this for the long haul,

Marce.”

“Which means?”

“Which means, I love her, and I’ll stick until she proves to me

that there’s no way to fix things.”

“And she hasn’t?”

“No.”

“Does she say she loves you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to make you mad, but have you thought she might

just be manipulating you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And she’s not,” Jesse said.

Marcy sipped minimally at her scotch.

“Have you seen that shrink lately?”

“Dix? I see him.”

“Do you talk about this?”

“Some.”

“Am I getting too nosy?” Marcy said.

“Yes.”

Marcy took a big swallow of her drink.

“I heard about another murder in town,”

she said. “Up at the

mall.”

Jesse nodded.

“Any luck with it?”

Jesse shook his head.

“How about the other one, the man on the beach?”

“Nope.”

“Well,” Marcy said,

“it’s a long season.”

“Yes.”

They were quiet for a bit. It was full evening, and past where Jesse stood by the window, across the dark harbor, they could see the lights of Paradise Neck and Stiles Island. There was no traffic in the harbor.

“Talk to me a little about rape,” Jesse said.

“Rape?”

“Yes.”

“It’s never really been necessary in my case.”

Jesse smiled.

“Molly’s working on a rape case. She says it’s every woman’s

fear.”

“Well …” Marcy paused. Her

drink was empty. She held it

out and Jesse went to mix her another, and made himself one too.

“I would guess that most women are not unaware of the

possibility.”

Jesse nodded.

“What’s the worst thing about

it?” Jesse said. “When you think

about it.”

“It’s not that I wake up every day

worrying about

rapists.”

“I know,” Jesse said. “But if

you think about it, what would be

the worst part.”

Marcy put her feet up on the couch and shifted so she could look

more comfortably across the harbor. She drank some scotch, and swallowed and let her breath out audibly.

“If he’s not hurting you

physically,” Marcy said, “I suppose

it’s being degraded to a thing.”

“Tell me about that,” Jesse said.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You’re not some kind of a pervert, are you?”

“I don’t think so,” Jesse said.

“Tell me about being a

thing.”

“Well, you know, it’s a woman being used against her will for a

purpose in which she has no part. Hell, the guy’s using her to jerk

off.”

“Or something,” Jesse said.

“Literally or figuratively,” Marcy said,

“you’re a

thing.”

“It’s not about you,” Jesse said.

“No,” Marcy said. “It is

entirely about the rapist and you don’t matter.”

Jesse nodded slowly. He walked from the window and sat on the couch beside Marcy. They were quiet. Marcy leaned her head against Jesse’s shoulder. He patted her thigh.

“This isn’t just about the

rape,” Marcy said after a while. “Is it.”

“No.”

“It’s also about Jenn,” Marcy

said.

Jesse nodded.

“Sometimes I think everything is,” he said.

17

Jesse was in the parking lot of the Northeast Mall, talking to Molly on a cell phone.

“Where is she now,” he said.

“Just coming out of Macy’s.”

“She alone?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone around you recognize?”

“No. This is the time.”

“Okay, pick her up and bring her.”

Molly didn’t actually have a hold on Candace when they came out

of the vast shopping sprawl, but she walked close and a little behind, herding her with her right shoulder like a sheepdog.

“Hop in,” Jesse said, when they reached him.

“What do you want?” Candace said.

“We’ll talk about it when you get

in,” Jesse

said.

Molly opened the door, Candace got in, Molly closed the door.

Through the open window she looked at Jesse. He shook his head.

“Is that smart?” Molly said.

“Probably not,” Jesse said.

“I’ll take it from

here.”

Molly shrugged and nodded and walked away. Jesse knew she disapproved. Sexual harassment was an easy charge to make against a male cop alone with a woman. Jesse put the car in gear.

“You want to slump down so nobody sees you,” Jesse said, “I

won’t take it personally.”

Candace sat with her back to the car window.

“What do you want?”

“To talk,” Jesse said. “The

elaborate stuff is to make sure no

one sees you talking to me.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t care. But I was under the

impression you

did.”

Jesse pulled out of the parking lot and went north on Route 114.

“Where are you taking me?”

“There’s a Dunkin‘ Donuts up

here,” Jesse said. “We’ll have a

cup of coffee.”

“I don’t want to talk with you.”

“I know,” Jesse said. “But I

think you have to.”

They were quiet while Jesse drove through the take-out window and got two coffees and four cinnamon donuts. Jesse carefully opened the little window in the plastic top of both cups and handed one to Candace. He sat the donuts on the console between them, leaning against the shotgun that stood in its lock rack against the dashboard.