Robert B. Parker's Damned if You Do

by Michael Brandman

  Tears started to roll down his cheeks.

  “Does Emma know about this,” Donnie said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s so embarrassing. I’m her father, for God’s sakes. She shouldn’t have to be taking care of her father.”

  “It is what it is, Donnie. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  “If only Dolly were still alive, we’d still be here in the house and everything would be as it used to be.”

  Donnie took a soiled handkerchief from the pocket of his golf pants and dabbed his eyes with it.

  “So much for invincibility, huh, Jesse. All the years I spent as a CPA, making my living using my mind, and then it turns out that my mind is the first thing to go. God’s got some sense of humor, doesn’t he?”

  Jesse smiled.

  “It’s time to go back, Donnie.”

  “I don’t want to go back, Jesse,” he said. “I hate it there.”

  “Why would you hate it there?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes they’re not so good to me.”

  “How so?”

  “One of the guys there. He doesn’t like me. He does bad things to me.”

  “What kind of bad things?”

  “Sometimes he ties me to the bed. By my wrists and my ankles. He leaves me like that for hours.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He forces me to take the pills.”

  “What pills?”

  “The ones that make me sleep.”

  “At night?”

  “During the day, too. I’m confused enough as it is. The pills make it worse.”

  “Can you point this man out to me,” Jesse said.

  “I think so.”

  “You point him out to me and I’ll have a talk with him.”

  “How can that do any good?”

  “Because I’m the police chief, that’s how.”

  Donnie looked at him.

  “How many years did I do your taxes, Jesse?”

  “Except for this one, you did them every year since I’ve been in Paradise.”

  “And were you ever audited?”

  “Never.”

  “I guess I wasn’t so bad, huh.”

  “You were a wizard, Donnie.”

  Donnie smiled. Jesse glanced at his watch.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Get your sorry ass out of that chair and I’ll drive you back.”

  Donnie stood. Jesse noticed that he’d lost considerable weight from his nearly six-foot frame, which at one time had carried more than two hundred pounds. His once full face was now gaunt-looking, and he moved slowly, exhibiting little confidence in his step.

  “Jesus,” he said, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m as stiff as a board. I feel like I ran a marathon.”

  “You practically did.”

  “Did what?”

  “You must have walked nearly ten miles.”

  “I did? No wonder I’m so sore.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “It’s not going to get any better, is it, Jesse?”

  “I don’t know, Donnie. I keep reading about all these newfangled meds that are meant to arrest the progress of the disease. Anything’s possible. I wouldn’t give up hope just yet.”

  “That’s what Emma says.”

  “Me, too,” Jesse said.

  They headed for Jesse’s cruiser.

  “Where are we going again,” Donnie said.

  “Golden Horizons.”

  “Is Dolly there?”

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “Oh. Yeah,” Donnie said.

  Jesse took hold of Donnie’s arm and gently shielded his head as he helped him into the passenger seat and belted him in. He walked around the car to the driver’s side, got in, and together they drove away.

  The Golden Horizons Retirement Village was not, in fact, a village, but a two-building residential complex situated on a large knoll, parallel to Paradise Highway.

  The twin red-brick buildings were constructed during the real estate boom of the early eighties. Initially they filled the housing needs of the burgeoning population of newly arrived workers who preferred to live closer to the coast and didn’t mind the commute.

  Over time, as a result of the slowing economy, occupancy declined. Ownership of the buildings changed hands and the new management sought to revitalize the space by reconceiving it as a multipurpose retirement community, one that offered residents a choice of newly renovated apartments, assisted living accommodations, and a special care program for those in need of more intensive supervisory attention.

  A menu of luxury options was made available to all of the residences. Three meals a day were served in an upscale dining facility, and a variety of meal plans were marketed. Supervised recreational activities were promoted, offering personalized training and exercise regimens. Medical personnel were regularly on-site, and trained orderlies supervised the village twenty-four/seven. Movies were screened nightly, and live entertainment was occasionally presented.

  Donnie Jacobs had originally been housed in an assisted living apartment, but due to his deteriorating state of mind, Emma had recently moved him to the special care unit.

  Jesse parked in front of the main building. He helped Donnie out of the cruiser and they went inside.

  They walked through the lobby and past the sunroom, where a number of residents were gathered, either alone or in groups, involved in various games or activities. Visible through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, a group of residents outside was engaged in a yoga class.

  Donnie spotted one man in particular, sitting alone, staring blankly into space.

  “If that’s who I turn into,” he said to Jesse, “I want you to promise to put me immediately out of my misery.”

  “Have you a preferred method for such a course of action?”

  “I’m serious, Jesse. Don’t let me turn into a vegetable.”

  The office of the director, Dr. Benedict Morrow, was located a few steps from the sunroom. Jesse and Donnie entered the outer office and were greeted by Dr. Morrow’s assistant, Barry Weiss.

  “Donald,” Weiss said when he saw the two men enter.

  Barry Weiss was an affable man of considerable girth, reflective of someone who had never successfully disciplined himself when it came to food.

  “You found him,” he said to Jesse. “That’s a load off.”

  Weiss picked up the phone, punched in a number, and spoke a few hushed words into it. Then he put the phone down.

  He stood and extended his hand to Jesse.

  “Barry Weiss,” he said.

  “Jesse Stone.”

  “Where was he?”

  “At his house.”

  “His house?”

  “Where he used to live.”

  “Well, he lives here now. Perhaps I could escort him to his room and arrange for him to be cleaned up.”

  “Would you like that, Donnie,” Jesse said.

  “Would I like what?”

  “Mr. Weiss has offered to take you back to your room.”

  “Come with me, Donald,” Weiss said.

  He reached out and took Donnie’s arm. Donnie looked at Jesse for a moment, then he lowered his eyes and went out with Barry Weiss.

  As he was leaving, Weiss said, “Dr. Morrow will be along shortly. Hopefully we’ll see you before you leave.”

  Jesse watched them go. He was filled with an ineffable sadness. He breathed the conflicting odors of antiseptic and decay.

  Dr. Benedict Morrow emerged from his office. He was wearing a full-length white lab coat with his name stitched on the chest.

  “Chief Stone,” he said. “Benedict Morrow.”

  “Dr. Morrow,” Jesse said.

  “Call me Binky. Everyone does.”

  “Binky.”

  “I confess to the fact that I’m British. Displaced, perhaps, but still English to the core.”

  Morrow was middle-aged, soft looking, and self-conscious. It was as though the part o
f the director was a role he was playing and the performance was a taxing one.

  “How does he seem to you,” Morrow said.

  “Disoriented. Confused. He didn’t want to come back.”

  “A shame, really. Donald’s on a downward spiral. His cognitive abilities are failing. His connection to reality has become fragile. His wanting not to return is completely understandable.”

  “Is he treated well here?”

  “Everyone is treated well here. We regard our residents as family. We care for them with affection and consideration for their well-being.”

  “How is it that Donnie was able to simply walk away so easily?”

  “It’s not an uncommon occurrence, I’m afraid. We don’t want the patients to get the idea that they’re prisoners here. Although we have a security force, it’s not a hundred percent effective in securing those who don’t want to be secured. The new owners have identified this as a problem and are working with us in trying to find a solution.”

  Jesse nodded and stared at Dr. Morrow, which succeeded in making him uncomfortable. He started to fidget.

  “Well, if there’s nothing else,” Morrow said, “I’ll be getting back to my work.”

  “I’d like to say good-bye to Donnie before I leave.”

  “Of course.”

  Dr. Morrow picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  “Would you step into my office,” he said when his call was answered.

  Then he hung up.

  “One of our attendants will be with you presently,” he said to Jesse. “He’ll escort you to Donald’s room.”

  Morrow smiled. Jesse smiled. The two men shared an awkward silence as they waited for the attendant to arrive.

  A muscle-bound young man entered, dressed all in white: T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. His ID badge read Charles Dempsey.

  “Chuck,” Dr. Morrow said, “would you please show Chief Stone to Donald Jacobs’s room.”

  Dempsey nodded.

  “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Stone,” Morrow said.

  “Ditto,” Jesse said.

  Dr. Morrow smiled at Jesse, then went into his office and closed the door behind him.

  Jesse looked at Chuck Dempsey.

  “Can you take me to Donald’s room?”

  “Won’t make any difference.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Old fart won’t know who you are.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to see him just the same.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  They took an elevator to the fourth-floor special care unit, which reminded Jesse of a hospital ward, containing a grouping of individual rooms, all facing a nurses’ central station. A middle-aged woman sat at a desk in the station, talking animatedly on the phone.

  Dempsey escorted Jesse to Donnie Jacobs’s quarters, which was little more than a single-patient hospital room. The furnishings were impersonal and institutional. There was a hospital bed with bars on both sides, an overbed table on wheels, a cheaply upholstered armchair, a pressed-wood bureau, and a wall-mounted TV. There was a single lithograph copy of Vincent van Gogh’s painting Bedroom in Arles on one of the walls. A framed photo of a smiling Emma Jacobs sat on the dresser.

  Donnie emerged from the bathroom accompanied by an attendant who was dressed in the same white outfit that Chuck Dempsey wore. Same musculature, too.

  Donnie had shaved and showered and now wore a loose-fitting T-shirt and boxer shorts. Jesse noticed several black-and-blue marks on his bare arms. It appeared as if someone had repeatedly gripped him roughly.

  The two attendants stepped away from Donnie and headed for the elevators.

  “I came to say good-bye,” Jesse said to Donnie, who looked at him blank-eyed for several moments. Then he smiled.

  “Jesse,” Donnie said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “You’re going somewhere,” he said.

  “Just back to work.”

  “I don’t understand,” Donnie said.

  Jesse stepped up to him and gently touched his shoulder. Donnie shied away.

  “It’s all right, Donnie. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Donnie looked at him.

  “I know that, Jesse.”

  Pointing toward the elevators, Jesse said, “Is it one of those guys over there who gives you trouble?”

  Donnie looked around. Then he lowered his voice and said, “It’s the guy on the left.”

  “He’s the one? Chuck?”

  “Yes. Chuck. That’s him.”

  “I’ll come see you again soon,” Jesse said.

  “Will you ask Dolly to come see me, too,” Donnie said.

  Jesse looked at him.

  “You bet,” he said.

  Jesse Stone,” Gino Fish said when Jesse entered his office. “What an unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe the honor?”

  Jesse smiled. He also nodded to Vinnie Morris, who was leaning against the wall behind Gino’s desk, listening to an iPod through a pair of earbuds.

  “I need a favor,” Jesse said.

  “A favor? How unusual. Might I ask what kind of favor.”

  Jesse took the opportunity to sit on the chair in front of Gino’s desk. Gino had on a classic navy Ralph Lauren suit, a pale blue shirt, and a light gray tie that matched his sallow complexion. His piercing brown eyes saw everything and revealed nothing.

  “A kid got killed in a fleabag motel in south Paradise,” Jesse said. “In all likelihood by one of her customers.”

  “A prostitute?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah,” Gino said. “I don’t really see how I can be of any help to you, Jesse Stone. I don’t hold much truck with prostitution.”

  Although he was widely feared and was in no way hesitant to resolve issues violently, Gino had been known to decry the world’s oldest profession, which he considered soulless.

  Jesse glanced at Vinnie, who had been staring at him. Vinnie nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “The investigation has hit a dead end,” Jesse said.

  Gino didn’t say anything.

  “She was just a kid, Gino.”

  “Exactly what service is it that you want me to provide?”

  “I need to gain some traction. I need a start point. I’d hate to see this kid buried in an unmarked grave. Somewhere she must have a family that’s in the dark about her fate. I’d like to find that family and give it closure.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Gino stood.

  “I admire your good intentions, Jesse Stone. I wish I could help you, but, alas, it’s not in my power to do so.”

  “A name, Gino.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you,” Gino said.

  Vinnie came off the wall and escorted Jesse out of the building.

  On a whim, Jesse stopped by the youth center where Sister Mary John worked. He had met the sister some years back while investigating the disappearance of a Paradise resident, a runaway girl who had been living on the streets of Boston. Sister Mary John had been helpful, and she and Jesse had remained friends.

  Sister Mary John was the opposite of how one imagines a nun to be. She was nearly six feet tall and strikingly good-looking. Instead of a habit, she wore contemporary clothing, always stylish and hip.

  “The better for getting close to the girls,” she had said.

  Dark brown hair framed her angular face, softening the edges of her sharp features. Her pale green eyes radiated warmth and compassion.

  They sat in her small, cluttered office. Jesse was sipping coffee from a take-out cup. The sister drank from a water bottle.

  “I’m sorry it’s such a mess in here,” she said. “We’re just now on the threshold of the season.”

  “The season?”

  “Summertime. When every day brings with it a fresh batch of troubled strays, most of whom manage to find their way here. We do what we can, but money’s scarce and the need is gr
eat. Actually, it’s hell.”

  “How do you handle it?”

  “Stoicism. Prayer. Scotch.”

  Jesse grinned.

  “Why are you here,” she said.

  “I’m stymied.”

  “Stymied?”

  Jesse told her the story of the murdered girl at the Surf & Sand.

  “You think she might be a runaway,” the sister said.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I take it she wasn’t carrying ID.”

  “Correct.”

  “Prints?”

  “She’s not in the system.”

  “There are lots of them here, Jesse.”

  “And the chances of finding one?”

  “Slim to none. Particularly a dead one, God forgive me for saying it.”

  Jesse finished the last of his coffee. He looked around for a garbage can, found one, then tossed the empty cup into it.

  “You know how things stick in your mind,” he said. “How they can haunt you?”

  “More than I’d like to admit.”

  “I keep thinking that I knew this girl.”

  “And?”

  “For the life of me, I can’t figure it out. I was hoping you could help.”

  “By identifying her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a photo?”

  “A crime scene one. It’s not pretty.”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  “I’ll have it faxed to you.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Jesse. But I’ll do what I can.”

  “Police chief couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Nun could, though.”

  Jesse looked at her.

  “You do know that nuns love to be taken to dinner,” she said.

  “Is that mentioned in the Bible?”

  “I’d have to go look it up.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “Is there any chance you’re free for dinner,” he said.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she said.

  The next morning, on his way to the station, Jesse stopped in at Golden Horizons. Without announcing himself, he stepped into the elevator and rode it to the fourth floor. He entered the special care unit and headed for Donnie Jacobs’s room, where he found Donnie asleep in a wheelchair. He was wearing a white cotton bathrobe, the right shoulder of which had slipped off, exposing his bare arm.