Death In Paradise js-3

by Robert B. Parker

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No.”

  Jesse was quiet for a time, sitting motionless in the straight-backed high school chair.

  “Well,” he said finally. “Hello.”

  Chapter Eleven

  They had lost 8 to 5. The field lights had been turned off and they were in the parking lot drinking beer in the semidarkness.

  “I was a month out of high school,” Jesse said. “And we were playing in Danville.”

  It was Jesse’s turn to buy the beer. It was in a green plastic cooler, buried in ice, in the back of Jesse’s Explorer. The rear door of the Explorer was up. Jesse’s glove was in the back of the truck, too, and the bases, and a green canvas bag with bat handles sticking out.

  “Had a third baseman, an old guy, twenty-eight probably, ancient to be playing at that level. He was a career minor leaguer, and knew it, and played I think because he sort of didn’t know what else to do.”

  The winning team was across the parking lot gathered around their beer cooler like hunters at a campfire. There was no hostility, but there wasn’t much interchange. After a game you clustered with your team.

  “Anyway, in the first inning there’s two outs, nobody on and their three hitter pops up a goddamned rainmaker to the left side. We were playing in a damn cow pasture and the lights were set too low and the sucker went up out of sight.”

  The smell of the lake was with them in the slow-deepening purple of the evening, and a few early explorers had arrived in advance of the inevitable insect swarm that would, as it always did, eventually force them to give it up and go back to the ordinary light of their homes.

  “I’m looking up trying to find it when it comes back into the light, and the third baseman says, ‘You got it, kid.’ And everybody trots off the field while I’m weaving around out there looking for the ball.”

  Everyone listened to Jesse quietly. They were men to whom such stories mattered. Men who would know why the story was funny. Men who could imagine the scared kid alone in the middle of the diamond looking up into the night for his first professional pop-up.

  “You catch it?” someone said.

  The younger guys listened most closely. Kids who would fall asleep in class, listening to Jesse talk about life in the minors, as if he were Socrates.

  “Barely,” Jesse said.

  Everyone laughed. They were happy with the story. They all knew that the better you were, the more you talked about your failures. Jesse was clearly the best player in the league, maybe good enough to have played in the majors if he hadn’t got hurt.

  “You win the game?” someone asked.

  “Don’t know. But I went two for four.”

  Everyone laughed again. Jesse had been there. They could laugh with him at the pretense that players cared only about winning. You played ball, you knew better.

  Jesse finished his beer. One more wouldn’t hurt. It was Lite beer anyway. You could drink a lot of Lite beer before you got drunk enough to show it. He plunged his hand into the ice-filled cooler and rummaged out another can. It had a round solid feel to it, cold in his hand.

  “You have a lot of groupies in the minors, Jess?”

  “Not enough,” Jesse said.

  “When I was playing football,” someone said, “we’d go into some town for an away game, they’d be waiting outside the visitors’ locker room.”

  “You score?”

  “During the game or after?”

  They all laughed.

  “After.”

  “A lot more than during,” the football player said.

  “What about AIDS?”

  “It was before AIDS,” the football player said.

  It was dark now. The kind of thick summer darkness that feels soft. Oddly the bugs hadn’t found them yet in thick enough quantity to drive them home.

  “I remember playing hockey in Helsinki,” somebody said. “Outdoor rink. Was so fucking cold the puck froze. One of our guys tees up a big slap shot from the blue line and the goddamned puck shatters.”

  People began to drift home. To wives. And children. And late suppers. And living rooms lit by the glow of a large-screen television.

  “You find out who killed that girl yet, Jesse?”

  “Not yet,” Jesse said. “But I went three for three tonight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I got twelve names,” Jesse said to Lilly Summers. “Kids gave their class rings to a girl.”

  “Makes last year’s class seem embarrassingly unromantic,” Lilly said.

  “Embarrassingly,” Jesse said. “Seven of these kids can account for their girlfriends’ whereabouts, and we’ve verified it.”

  “Which leaves you five.”

  “Four of them are supposed to be at summer homes with their parents, but we haven’t been able to reach them yet. One boy doesn’t know where she is.”

  “And her parents?”

  “Kid didn’t know anything about her parents,” Jesse said.

  “How could that be?” Lilly said. “What are the names?”

  “Boyfriend’s name is William Royce,” Jesse said.

  Lilly smiled. “Hooker,” she said.

  “And the girlfriend is Elinor Bishop.”

  “Oh dear,” Lilly said.

  “You know them.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You have an address for her?”

  “She called herself Billie. Yes, I have her address.”

  “Could you talk to me,” Jesse said, “about Hooker and Billie?”

  “How long do you have?”

  “If it’s a longish story we could do it over lunch.”

  Lilly smiled. She was wearing a pale yellow silk dress today.

  “What a very good idea,” she said.

  It was low tide. They sat in a small restaurant that looked out over Fisherman’s Beach at the gunmetal Atlantic rolling stolidly in onto the shiny sand. The ocean smell was strong. Even if you didn’t look at it, it was there in that mysterious way that the sea asserts itself.

  “I hope it’s not Billie,” Lilly said.

  “It’s going to be somebody,” Jesse said.

  They ordered iced tea and looked at their menus. Lilly ordered a house salad, dressing on the side. Jesse had a tuna fish sandwich.

  “Hooker Royce,” Lilly said, “is our All-American. Honor roll since first grade. Three sports, captain in all of them. All-state in football. Scholarship to Yale.”

  “And he’s handsome and self-effacing,” Jesse said.

  “How did you know?”

  “They’re always self-effacing and handsome.”

  “All of them?”

  “All the small-school heroes, it’s part of the heroism. The expectations of the town force it upon them.”

  “Even the handsome?”

  “Might be sort of circular. Probably wouldn’t be the town hero if he were ugly.”

  “Even if he were just as good?” Lilly said.

  “Maybe,” Jesse said.

  “Well, that’s cynical.”

  “Or observant.”

  She smiled at him. “Being observant would make you cynical,” Lilly said. “Wouldn’t it.”

  “You seem observant,” Jesse said.

  “I try.”

  “But you don’t seem cynical.”

  “I’m in the hope business,” Lilly said.

  “Education?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think you might be saving them?”

  “I have to think so, or hope so,” Lilly said. “Otherwise what have I done with my life?”

  Jesse sipped his iced tea and looked at her. Lilly’s eyes were almond shaped and dark brown, maybe black. Her skin was smooth. She wore quite a bit of makeup, but carefully.

  “What about Billie?” Jesse said.

  Lilly breathed deeply through her nose. It made her chest move.

  “Billie Bishop,” she said.

  Jesse was quiet. Lilly shook her head gently.

/>   “Billie was…” She stopped to think about it. “Billie was our town pump,” she said.

  “Don’t beat around the bush,” Jesse said.

  “I know. It’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?”

  “We used to say it when I was a kid,” Jesse said.

  “We all did,” Lilly said. “It says everything and nothing.”

  Jesse nodded. There were potato chips with his sandwich. Jesse ate one.

  “I’m more interested in everything,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Jesse looked at the ocean. It was uninterrupted here, stretching to Spain. In Jesse’s imagination, the Atlantic was a gray ocean. The Pacific had been blue.

  “Teachers hear things, and they gossip.”

  “I’m shocked,” Jesse said.

  Lilly smiled. “Billie,” she said, “was probably what we would have called, in less enlightened times, a nymphomaniac.”

  Jesse smiled. “Not a bad thing in a woman,” he said.

  Lilly looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Sexuality is not a bad thing in a woman,” she said.

  “It certainly isn’t.”

  “But frequent indiscriminate sex probably is,” Lilly said. “However outmoded the phrase, it at least served to identify sexuality rooted in something wrong.”

  “So does ‘town pump.’ “

  “Yes.”

  “And there’s something wrong with Billie?”

  “I think so. A school principal knows very little about the souls of her students.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “But I do know her external circumstances.”

  Jesse waited.

  “She is not a discipline problem in the sense of an angry rebellious teenager that we all think of in this context…”

  Lilly stopped suddenly and looked at Jesse again. Jesse waited.

  “I don’t know if I should be talking to you like this.”

  “It’s okay,” Jesse said. “I’m the police.”

  “You are not even one of our police,” she said.

  “True.”

  “There’s something so quiet about you.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “And it’s charming in a way I don’t exactly understand,” Lilly said.

  “Good,” Jesse said.

  “That it’s charming, or that I don’t understand?”

  “That I have your attention,” Jesse said.

  They were silent.

  “Yes, you do,” Lilly said finally.

  Jesse smiled at her. She smiled back. Then she let her breath out audibly.

  “Billie comes from a home,” she said, “that would be officially classified as ‘good.’ “

  “By which we normally mean two parents and some money.”

  Lilly nodded.

  “Anything wrong with the parents?”

  “Except that their daughter is a mess,” Lilly said. “I don’t know. I’ve never met them.”

  “Any of her teachers know them?”

  “They were invited to come in and discuss their daughter’s problems several times. But they never did.”

  “Siblings?” Jesse said.

  “Her older sister graduated this school with honors. There is, I believe, a younger girl as well.”

  “In school here?”

  “No. Still in middle school, I think.”

  “So aside from a tendency toward frequent indiscriminate sex, what kind of mess is she?”

  “She failed a number of courses, which is, as you may know, in today’s educational climate, not easy.”

  “She dumb?”

  “No. Extremely passive. Apathetic. She never speaks in class. Between classes she didn’t interact with other students.”

  “Didn’t?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve been talking about her in the present tense until you said she didn’t interact. Why the tense change?”

  “Hooker,” Lilly said.

  “She interacted with Hooker?”

  “Intensely,” Lilly said. “Have you met him?”

  “No, one of the other cops talked to him on the phone.”

  “He’s a lovely boy,” Lilly said.

  “So how did the school hero end up with the town pump?” Jesse said.

  “I don’t know,” Lilly said.

  “Maybe it was influenced by the nymphomania.”

  “There’s that cynical thing again,” Lilly said.

  “You have any idea where Billie might be now?”

  Lilly shook her head. They both stared out the window for a time at the ocean, always in motion, going nowhere.

  “If she’s missing, wouldn’t her parents have reported her missing?”

  “You’d think so,” Jesse said.

  “But they haven’t?”

  “Not that I can find out. Swampscott cops have nothing.”

  “Do you think the girl in the lake is Billie?” Lilly said.

  “Be my guess,” Jesse said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Saturday morning, a Swampscott patrolman named Antonelli took Jesse to visit Billie Bishop’s parents. The Bishops lived on Garland Terrace, off Humphrey Street, maybe half a mile away from the ocean. It was a two-story colonial house faced with brick. The shutters were dark green. The front door was white. Ivy had grown halfway up the front of the house.

  Mrs. Bishop answered the doorbell.

  The Swampscott cop said, “I’m Officer Antonelli, ma’am. Swampscott Police. This is Chief Jesse Stone from Paradise.”

  “Is there anything wrong?” Mrs. Bishop said.

  “Just a routine investigation, ma’am. May we come in?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  Maybe forty-two, a lot of blond hair, a lot of eye makeup. She might have been a cheerleader. Hell, Jesse thought, she might be a cheerleader. She was wearing jeans and a white tee shirt that hung down to her thighs. In blue letters across the front was printed PERSONAL BEST.

  “Hank,” she said into the kitchen, “there are some policemen here.”

  Hank appeared drinking coffee from a large mug that had the word mug printed on it.

  Everything’s labeled, Jesse thought.

  “Hank Bishop,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Just routine,” Antonelli said. “Could you tell us where your daughter is?”

  “Carla’s here,” Bishop said.

  A girl, maybe thirteen, was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Jesse smiled and nodded at her. She had no reaction. Antonelli looked at Jesse.

  “How about Billie?” Jesse said.

  “I have no daughter named Billie,” Bishop said.

  “Elinor Bishop?”

  “No.”

  Jesse looked at the cheerleader wife. “Mrs. Bishop?”

  She shook her blond head firmly.

  “No,” she said. “We have no Elinor Bishop.”

  “Do you have any other children?”

  “Yes,” Bishop said. “Carla’s older sister, Emily.”

  “And where is she?”

  “Mount Holyoke College,” Mrs. Bishop said quickly.

  “In the summer?” Jesse said.

  “Many students go to college in the summer,” Mrs. Bishop said. “Emily plans to graduate in three years.”

  Jesse was watching Carla. She was motionless in the doorway. Neither in the room, nor out of it. Her face was blank.

  “We have a young woman dead in Paradise,” Jesse said. “We have reason to believe her name is Elinor Bishop, and we were led to believe that she was your daughter.”

  “You were misled,” Bishop said.

  “You have no daughter named Elinor Bishop?”

  “We do not,” Bishop said.

  Jesse looked at Mrs. Bishop. She shook her head firmly. He looked at Carla in the doorway. She seemed stiff with immobility. Her face perfectly inanimate. Jesse nodded. With his head he gestured Antonelli to the door.

  “Thank you very much for your time,”
he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday nights he always spent with Jenn. Jesse looked at his watch: 4:20. He took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see if we can make this thing work out.”

  Molly was in the room, as she always was when they’d arrested a woman. She leaned against the wall beside Suitcase Simpson. Seated in front of Jesse in two straight-backed chairs were an unattractive man and woman who smelled strongly of alcohol. The woman had an evolving bruise on her cheekbone under her left eye. Her lower lip was fattening.

  “There’s nothing to work out,” the man said.

  He was a middle-sized man with a beard and curly black hair. It made what showed of his face look very pale. His aviator glasses were gold-framed and tinted amber.

  “It’s four-twenty in the afternoon and you’re both drunk,” Jesse said.

  “You never had a few drinks?”

  “And you were rowdy enough to cause the bartender at The Sevens to call us.”

  “We had a fucking argument,” the man said. “You never had a fucking argument with somebody?”

  “And when Officer Simpson arrived you were punching out your wife in the parking lot.”

  “I wasn’t punching her out,” the man said.

  “How many times did he hit you, ma’am?” Jesse said to the woman.

  The woman shook her head.

  “There’s some evidence on your face for at least twice,” Jesse said.

  “He didn’t hit me,” she said.

  Jesse glanced up at Simpson.

  “I saw him hit her twice with his right fist,” Simpson said.

  Molly said, “When Suit called it in I checked the computer. This is the third time they’ve been in here.”

  “Same occasion?” Jesse said.

  “Yes.”

  “And we let it go why?”

  “Mrs. Snyder wouldn’t file a complaint,” Molly said.

  “How about this time?” Jesse said to Mrs. Snyder.

  “He didn’t hit me,” she said.

  “Sure he did,” Jesse said. “Didn’t you, Mr. Snyder.”

  Snyder shook his head. “I didn’t hit her.”

  Jesse put his left elbow on the arm of his swivel chair and rested his chin in the palm of his left hand. He looked at the Snyders for a while without speaking, then he spoke to Molly.

  “There’s three times we know about,” Jesse said. “How many times you suppose it happened and we don’t know about it?”