Robert B. Parker's Damned if You Do
Page 8
“She didn’t register that day.”
“Why not?”
“Because when she showed up, I offered her the bungalow free for a month if she would take me on.”
“You offered her the bungalow at no charge for a month?”
“So’s I could get some free nookie,” Sloan said.
“But it didn’t happen,” Jesse said.
“I was supposed to get it after she was done with her other business.”
“But she died before you could?”
“Yeah.”
“And you chose to keep this information secret.”
“Hey. What’s a guy to do? I didn’t actually do anything with her. I certainly didn’t kill her.”
“Did you see the person or persons who visited her?”
“No.”
“And you expect me to believe you,” Jesse said.
“She was here when the bar was open. I was busy with the customers. I didn’t see anything.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.”
“Can I tell you something, Jimmy?”
“What?”
“If for any reason I find out that you’re lying to me, you’ll regret it. It’ll become personal.”
Sloan didn’t say anything.
“Are you lying to me, Jimmy?”
“No. I swear it, Jesse. I didn’t see anyone coming or going.”
“Were there any strangers in the bar on the days she was here?”
“None.”
Jesse sighed. He stood and headed for the door.
“You’re some kind of ball buster, you know that, Jimmy?”
“Thank you,” Sloan said.
“It wasn’t meant as a compliment,” Jesse said.
Jesse’s back was to his desk. He was seated with his feet on the sill, staring out the window.
“Captain Healy returning on line two,” Molly said.
“Use the intercom,” Jesse said.
“What intercom?”
Jesse sighed, turned his chair around, and picked up the call.
“I may have had a breakthrough on Janet Becquer’s cryptic code,” he said.
“Okay.”
“During my sleepless night, I surmised that the SS reference in the datebook was to Surf and Sand.”
“Where her body was found?”
“Yes.”
“The bungalow place?”
“Yes.”
“What a dump. At one time it was nice. Now it’s a dump.”
“There were four references to SS in the datebook. Three were preceded by the initial T and one by the initial N.”
“So?”
“So I’m thinking that the T was Thomas Walker.”
“And the N?”
“Fat Boy Nelly.”
“Why do you think this?”
“Because it makes sense, given that she had been dealing with both of them.”
“So you think Janet Becquer met with both Walker and Fat Boy at the Surf and Sand?”
“I do.”
“Three times with Walker and once with Nelly?”
“Yes.”
“Can you confirm these meetings?”
“Not yet. I’ve called Nelly a number of times, but he hasn’t returned my calls.”
“You think he’s ducking you?”
“He could be.”
“And Walker?”
“He knows I’m onto something, but he isn’t certain what. He pretty much terminated my access to him after our last meeting.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I need to see both of them again.”
“For confirmation?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I’ll figure out a way.”
“I’m sure you will. Just don’t get killed in the process.”
“Your concern is touching,” Jesse said.
“Listen, Jesse, these two morons are in the early stages of a conflict that’s bound to escalate. Gino Fish or no, neither of them is going to want to involve himself any further with some small-town police chief.”
“I have my ways.”
“Allow me to repeat, try not to get killed in the process.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jesse said.
Jesse took the Acela Express to Wilmington, Delaware, and cabbed it to the Federal Building, arriving in time for his meeting with Deborah Rothenberg, the state’s attorney assigned to the Amherst Properties case.
Like more than half of all U.S. publicly traded companies, Amherst was incorporated in the state of Delaware, and although the state was well known for being corporation-friendly, it took its responsibility as watchdog over all types of corporate malfeasance seriously.
Rothenberg had been with the D.A.’s office for more than twenty years and was known as a tough-minded prosecutor. She was a handsome woman, conservatively dressed in a black Ann Taylor pantsuit. She wore metal-rimmed bifocal glasses. She and Jesse squeezed into her cluttered office, which offered a view of the Delaware District Courthouse located directly across the street.
“Amherst Properties, right,” Rothenberg said, rummaging around on her desk until she found the proper folder.
“Yes,” Jesse said.
She glanced briefly at the file, then focused her attention on Jesse.
“What is it you want to know?”
“Why charges were never pressed.”
“May I speak frankly,” she said. “Off the record, so to speak?”
“Of course.”
“Amherst is in the business of acquiring mid-range senior-citizen facilities and operating them at bare-bones financial levels. They market dwellings and services that appear to be consistent with the industry standards, but they charge considerably less than standard prices. Their slogan is: ‘Pay less, get more.’”
Rothenberg shifted in her seat and leaned forward.
“When we were considering whether or not to file charges,” she said, “we looked into a number of the Amherst properties. What caught our attention was their constant care facilities, the fastest-growing segment of their business, one that provides services to a special-needs clientele.
“What we found in these units was a great many individuals who had been simply parked in them, either by family members or estate conservators.”
“What do you mean parked?”
“The country is currently experiencing a significant spike in the number of aging citizens who are childless. Boomers mostly, individuals who chose to eschew the traditional family life and remain unmarried with no kids. As a result, more and more of these heirless elders are being admitted to managed care facilities without the participation or supervision of any loved ones. So long as their savings accounts qualify and they have the proper insurance, they’re looked upon by outfits like Amherst as cash cows, all primed and ready for milking.
“Which is not to say that the various Amherst facilities didn’t inherit a number of pre-existing residents who had family. It’s that their business plan is taking them in a different direction, one in which the desired demographic is now comprised mostly of singles who will ultimately wind up in their special care units. Which allows each facility pretty much free rein to do as it pleases.”
“Meaning?”
“What caught our attention at Marlborough was that it was operating its special care unit with insufficient staff. Patients there were frequently found alone and sedated. Some even tethered to their beds. By charging less, they’re forced to cut corners elsewhere, and unburdening themselves of the cost of supervisory personnel is a great place to start. Particularly when there’s no one around to call them on it.”
“What did you do?”
“We made a formal complaint. As soon as we did, however, we were set upon by a battery of Amherst lawyers who sought to assure us that what was taking place at Marlborough was an anomaly. That any and all irregularities would be immediately corrected.”
“Were they?”
> “Literally overnight. Additional staff suddenly showed up. New protocols were introduced. Everything changed.”
“So you didn’t press charges.”
“There weren’t any charges to press.”
Jesse sat silently.
“I believe that this is just the tip of the iceberg,” Rothenberg said. “The AARP is now setting its sights on facilities such as Amherst. They believe that it, and others like it, are becoming increasingly more responsible for the cruel and inhumane treatment of elderly people who are incapable of defending themselves. And it’s only going to get worse.”
“They won’t get away with it in Paradise,” Jesse said.
“Don’t underestimate these goniffs, Chief Stone. They’re super-rich and super-lethal.”
“We’ll see,” Jesse said.
Jesse entered the unmarked building and approached the desk, behind which sat a strikingly handsome young man, dressed in a full-length white caftan, his yellow hair worn shoulder-length and his large brown eyes agleam with mischief. He appeared to have a mouthful of gum, which he was chewing enthusiastically. He looked up when Jesse approached.
“Hello,” he said, still chewing.
“Hi,” Jesse said.
“In what way may I help you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Fish,” Jesse said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t.”
“Mr. Fish isn’t in.”
Jesse didn’t say anything. The young man pulled a Kleenex from the box on his desk, turned sideways, and spit his gum into it. He dropped it into a wastebasket. Then he took a tube of lip gloss from his pocket and ran it over his lips. He looked up at Jesse as if he were seeing him for the first time.
“You’re still here,” he said. “I thought I told you that Mr. Fish wasn’t in.”
“You did. And in such a convincing way, too.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Have you a name?”
“A name?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“My name.”
“Exactly.”
“Shenandoah.”
“First or last?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Your name’s Shenandoah?”
“Yes.”
“Is that your first name or your last name?”
“Oh, I get it.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“First or last?”
“First.”
“Good. Shenandoah, would you be so kind as to tell Mr. Fish that I’m here.”
“I vaguely remember already telling you that he wasn’t in.”
“We both know that’s an untruth, don’t we, Shenandoah,” Jesse said.
“I don’t believe that I got your name,” Shenandoah said.
“It’s Jesse. Jesse Stone.”
“Ah,” he said. “Jesse Stone. Are you by any chance a lip reader, Jesse Stone?”
“A lip reader?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t rightly say that I am.”
“Well, read my lips anyway,” he said. “Mr. Fish isn’t in.”
“May I tell you something, Shenandoah?”
“Like what?”
“Something just between the two of us.”
Shenandoah nodded.
“Either you reach over and press that little button on the phone there and inform Mr. Fish that I’m here, or I’m going to cite you for obstructing a police officer in the performance of his duty and clap you in irons.”
Shenandoah stared at Jesse.
“Why didn’t you say so,” he said.
Jesse pointed to the phone. Shenandoah picked it up and pressed the intercom button. He announced to whoever answered that Jesse Stone was here to see Mr. Fish. After several seconds, the buzzer on the door that led to Mr. Fish’s office was activated.
“That was great fun, Shenandoah,” Jesse said, winking at him. Then he pushed open the door and went inside.
• • •
He crossed to the desk where Gino sat engrossed in The Boston Globe. His familiar bellow erupted.
“Jesse Stone,” he said, lowering the paper.
“Hello, Gino.”
Leaning against the wall behind Gino’s desk was Vinnie Morris, listening to his iPod. Jesse looked at him and signaled his greetings. Vinnie nodded in return.
“Another unexpected visit,” Gino said.
“Couldn’t be helped,” Jesse said.
Gino motioned for Jesse to sit.
“Coffee,” Gino said. “Or if you’d rather, scotch.”
“I’m good,” Jesse said. “Thanks just the same.”
“How may I be of service this time?”
“I’m grateful for the help you provided in arranging for me to meet Clarice Edgerson. And Mr. Walker.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“I need to see them again. Or, rather, I need to see Mr. Walker again.”
“Ah,” Gino said. “I’m sorry to say that I can be of no further assistance regarding Ms. Edgerson or Mr. Walker.”
“Because?”
“Let’s just leave it at that, shall we, Jesse Stone,” Gino said.
“This is about a murdered girl.”
“I’m well aware of what it’s about.”
“And you won’t help?”
“I believe I’ve made myself clear.”
“The state police believe that a territorial struggle between Thomas Walker and Fat Boy Nelly is about to erupt.”
“I’ve heard that rumor,” Gino said.
“My gut tells me that the dead girl is at the root of it.”
“Allow me to recommend milk of magnesia for your gut issues,” Gino said as he stood. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Jesse Stone.”
Gino nodded to Vinnie Morris. Vinnie turned off the iPod and escorted Jesse out of the office. He walked Jesse to his car.
“Beacon Hill,” Vinnie said.
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“Number seventeen. The Edgerson residence.”
Jesse nodded.
“Thanks, Vinnie,” he said.
“De nada,” Vinnie said.
He started to head for the building, then stopped and turned back.
“Jesse,” Vinnie said. “This shit is about to get ugly. I’d keep that in mind if I were you.”
Jesse nodded. The two men smiled briefly.
Then Vinnie went back inside.
You used to be a cop, right,” Jesse said.
“Right,” Dix said.
“I want to talk cop talk.”
“You mean you didn’t come for treatment?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you didn’t come for treatment?”
“Yes.”
“You want to talk about a case?”
“I do.”
“I’ll have to charge you just the same,” Dix said.
“I figured,” Jesse said.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“The murder.”
“The murder of the prostitute?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“The deeper I dig and the more I uncover, the curiouser it all becomes.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t trust anything any of them are telling me.”
“Who?”
“Thomas Walker. Fat Boy Nelly. Jimmy Sloan. Gino Fish. All of them.”
“Okay,” Dix said.
“They’re all hiding something. They’re lying and withholding. Everything I get from them is either inconclusive or subject to reinterpretation. Nothing is as it appears.”
Dix didn’t say anything.
“Walker and the Fat Boy are antagonists. Nelly believes that Walker’s out to kill him. Walker believes the same of Nelly. Each of them met with the dead girl at the Surf and Sand. Walker three times. Nelly once. I think they were vying for her.”
“Vying?”
“To repr
esent her.”
“Represent her how?”
“Make her a part of their organization,” Jesse said.
“You mean each of them wanted to pimp for her.”
“Yes.”
“Go on,” Dix said.
“I believe that she managed to became the fulcrum in this conflict between them.”
“You think she was the cause of Walker and Nelly’s antagonisms?”
“Not the cause. The catalyst.”
“Okay.”
“Both of them want to be top dog. But their methods are diametrically opposed. Nelly sees Walker as an anachronism, a throwback to times past. He sees himself as the future. He’s wired up and fired up.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s part of the technological revolution, and he believes that technology is the pathway to the future.”
“For prostitution?”
“Especially for prostitution.”
“And how does Walker see it?”
“Differently.”
“So how did the girl fit in?”
“The girl was the touchstone. The prize. By making them court her, she managed to force each of them to define himself. To sharpen their respective messages in an effort to win her.”
“And,” Dix said.
“I believe one of them murdered her.”
“Because?”
“That’s what I don’t know.”
“And you plan to find out.”
“I do.”
“And you’ll piss people off in the process.”
“More than likely.”
“Which will place you in some danger.”
“Possibly.”
“But you’re going to go forward regardless.”
“I am.”
“I see.”
Dix stood and walked over to his coffeemaker. He poured himself a cup. He offered one to Jesse, who declined. He returned to his desk and sat down.
“Do you have any advice,” Jesse said.
“You’ll want to watch your ass.”
“That’s your advice?”
“The best that money can buy.”
“And at such reasonable prices, too.”
“Which I’m thinking of raising.”
“Good luck with that,” Jesse said.
When Jesse arrived at District Attorney Aaron Silver’s office, he was greeted by the assistant D.A., Marty Reagan.
“It’s amazing how I can predict when you’re going to show up here,” Reagan said.
“How’s that,” Jesse said.