“The hell you do,” Jesse said.
“I only know about you and about Jenn by listening to what you tell me about you and about Jenn.”
“And bringing to bear thirty years of training and experience to interpret what you heard,” Jesse said.
Dix smiled and tipped his head in acceptance.
“We won’t divert ourselves with the difference between knowing and interpreting,” Dix said. “Let’s just agree that my innocence is a fiction that is useful to the process.”
“Okay,” Jesse said. “What you know, if you’re a cop, is that what people say needs to be compared to what they do.”
Dix seemed to nod.
“So,” Jesse said, “Jenn left me to pursue her career but never quite let go, and has ricocheted between me and her career ever since.”
“What do you suppose her career represents to her?” Dix said.
“Represents?”
Dix again almost nodded.
“Sometimes,” Jesse said, “a cigar is just a cigar.”
Dix smiled.
“And sometimes it’s not,” Dix said.
They were quiet. The sunsplash on the wall had become longer.
“She started out trying to be an actress,” Jesse said, “and kind of morphed into a weather girl.”
“In California?” Dix said.
“No,” Jesse said. “Here.”
Dix nodded.
“I assume she came here because I was here,” Jesse said.
Dix nodded again.
“And then she morphed into a soft-feature reporter,” Jesse said. “She did a special on Race Week, few years ago.”
Dix waited.
“And then she sort of morphed into an investigative reporter when we had the big murder case last year.”
“Walton Weeks,” Dix said. “National news. How’d she draw that assignment?”
“Probably because she was my ex-wife,” Jesse said. “They figured it would give her access.”
“Did it?”
“Some,” Jesse said.
Dix waited.
“So I’m kind of tangled up in her career,” Jesse said.
Dix waited.
“And sometimes she exploits me,” Jesse said.
Dix didn’t move.
“And sometimes,” Jesse said, “it’s like she compromises her career because of me.”
Dix made no sign. Jesse didn’t say anything else for a while.
Then he said, “So her career and me are clearly tied together in some way.”
Dix looked interested. Jesse was silent again. Then he looked at Dix and spread his hands.
“So what?” he said. “I don’t know where to go with it.”
Dix was quiet for a long time. Then he apparently decided to prime the pump.
“What’s your career mean to you?” Dix said.
“Redemption,” Jesse said. “We already settled that in here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Redemption for being a drunk and a lousy husband…” Jesse said.
“And for getting hurt,” Dix said, “and washing out of baseball?”
“Yeah, that, too.”
“Being a good cop is your chance,” Dix said.
“To be good at something,” Jesse said. “I know, we already talked about that.”
They were quiet again. Jesse had done this long enough to know that the fifty minutes were almost up.
“You think her career is her chance at redemption?” Jesse said.
“I don’t know,” Dix said. “What do you think?”
“Weather girl isn’t much of a redemption,” Jesse said.
“How about investigative reporter?”
Jesse nodded.
“I just demeaned her a little, didn’t I,” he said.
Dix didn’t answer.
“I must be madder at her than I know,” Jesse said.
“Almost certainly,” Dix said.
“You think she’s after redemption?” Jesse said.
Dix looked at his watch, as he always did before closing the session.
“We’ll have time to think about that on our own,” Dix said. “Until next time. Time’s up for today.”
“Hell,” Jesse said. “Just when it was getting good.”
18.
Crow stood in front of a three-decker on an unpaved street that was little more than old wheel ruts overgrown with stiff, gray-green weeds. There were tenements on either side of the rutted street, the paint long peeled, the clapboards gray and warped with weather. A street sign nailed to one of the tenements read HORN STREET. Crow walked down to a sagging three-decker that blocked the end of the street. Over the skewed front door was a number 12.
A small path that might once have been a driveway ran around the tenement and Crow followed it, walking carefully to avoid the beer cans, fast-food cartons, dog droppings, used condoms, discarded tires, bottles, rusted bicycle parts, and odd bits of clothing and bedding that were strewn outside the building. Behind the tenement was a metal garage, which had been repainted without being scraped. The bright yellow finish was lumpy and uneven. The maroon trim, Crow noticed, had been applied freehand and not very precisely. A window in the side of the garage had a window box haphazardly affixed below it. The box was filled with artificial flowers. The garage door was ajar. Above the garage door was the number 12A.
Crow went through the half-open door into the garage.
Inside, there were six young men and a huge rear-projection television set. The young men were drinking beer and watching a soap opera. When Crow stepped into the garage they all came to their feet.
“Who the fuck are you,” one of them said.
“I’m looking for Esteban Carty,” Crow said.
“And I said who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Wilson Cromartie,” Crow said. “You Carty?”
“You ain’t a cop.”
The speaker was short, with shoulder-length black hair and a full beard. He was wearing a tank top and there were gang tattoos up each arm.
“Cops don’t come in here alone,” he said.
“I’m still looking for Esteban Carty,” Crow said. “And I’m getting tired of asking.”
“Hey, Puerco,” the long-haired kid said. “Wilson getting tired of asking.”
Puerco was big, with a shaved head, weight-lifter muscles, no shirt, and a round, hard belly. His upper body was covered with tattoos, including one across his forehead: PUERCO.
Puerco stared at Crow. He had very small eyes for so large a man. There was something else peculiar about his eyes, Crow thought. Then he realized that Puerco had no eyebrows. Crow wondered if it was a defect of nature, or if Puerco had shaved them so as to look more baleful.
“Getting tired of Wilson,” Puerco said.
“People do,” Crow said.
“Throw him the fuck out,” the long-haired kid said.
“Sí, Esteban,” Puerco said.
“Okay,” Crow said, “you’re Carty. I’m looking for Amber Francisco.”
Puerco stepped across the room toward Crow. Without appearing even to look at him, Crow hit him with the edge of his right hand on the upper lip directly below the nose. Puerco screamed. It was so explosive that none of the others had time to react before Crow had a gun out and pointed at them. Puerco went down, doubled up on the floor, his face buried in his hands, moaning.
“So,” Crow said. “Where do I find Amber Francisco.”
“I don’t know nobody named Amber Francisco,” Carty said.
“Girl who bought you the television,” Crow said. “What’s her name?”
“No bitch bought me nothing,” Carty said.
Crow lowered the gun and shot Puerco through the head as he lay moaning on the floor.
Esteban Carty said, “Jesus.”
No one else spoke or moved. Crow pointed the gun at Esteban Carty.
“Amber Francisco?” Crow said.
“Bitch bought me the TV name is Alice,” Este
ban said, “Alice Franklin.”
“Where’s she live?” Crow said.
“She lives in Paradise, man, her and her old lady.”
“Thank you,” Crow said. “I’ll kill anybody comes out this door while I’m in sight.”
Then he stepped through the door and walked away through the trash, toward the street.
19.
Molly came into Jesse’s office with Miriam Fiedler right behind her. Molly stopped in the doorway, blocking Miriam Fiedler from entering.
Molly said, “Ms. Fiedler to see you, Jesse.”
There was a glitter of amusement in Molly’s eyes.
“Show her in,” Jesse said. “You stay, too.”
Molly stepped aside and Miriam Fiedler brushed past her angrily.
“This woman is deliberately annoying,” she said.
“I doubt that it’s deliberate,” Jesse said. “Probably can’t help it. Probably genetic.”
“I find her impertinent,” Miriam Fiedler said.
“Me, too,” Jesse said.
Molly sat down to the right of Miriam Fiedler and behind her.
“Is she going to stay here during our meeting?” Miriam said.
“Yes,” Jesse said.
“I don’t want her here,” Miriam said.
Jesse nodded. Miriam waited. Jesse didn’t speak.
“Are you going to send her out?” Miriam said.
“No,” Jesse said.
“Chief Stone,” Miriam said, “may I remind you that I am a resident of this town, and as such am, in fact, your employer?”
“You may remind me of that,” Jesse said.
“Are you being sarcastic?” Miriam said.
“Yes,” Jesse said.
“I find it offensive,” Miriam said.
“Ms. Fiedler,” Jesse said, “it is standard practice in this office that Officer Crane be present when a woman is alone with any male police officers. She will stay as long as you are here.”
“Well, it’s a stupid rule,” Miriam said.
“Did you come to berate me?” Jesse said. “Or have you something substantive?”
“I wish to report several instances of Hispanic gang infiltration of Paradise,” she said. “Ever since that school was established on Paradise Neck…”
Jesse nodded.
“Specifically?” he said.
“Specifically,” Miriam said, “I have recently seen several Hispanic gang members on the street in downtown Paradise.”
“How recently,” Jesse said.
“In the last two days.”
“And how did you know they were Hispanic gang members.”
“Well, my dear man,” Miriam said, “you can tell just looking.”
“What did they look like?” Jesse said.
“Dark, tattoos, one of them was wearing some sort of hairnet.”
“Dead giveaway,” Jesse said. “How many did you see.”
“Two one day,” Miriam said. “And three yesterday, walking side by side, so that they took up the whole sidewalk.”
“Did they do anything illegal?” Jesse said.
“Well, they weren’t here to sightsee,” Miriam said.
“But you are not actually reporting a crime?” Jesse said.
“The press is investigating this, too,” Miriam said.
“I heard,” Jesse said. “Have they uncovered a crime?”
“Take that attitude if you wish,” Miriam said. “When they hurt someone, then you’ll act?”
“We’ll keep an eye out,” Jesse said.
“Maybe you can put Officer Simpson on the case,” Molly said. “Any assignment he has, he’s on top of it.”
Miriam Fiedler turned her head involuntarily to stare at Molly. Jesse saw it. He glanced at Molly. She was smiling sweetly at Miriam Fiedler. Jesse decided to look into the remark later.
“I am not empowered by law to run someone out of town,” Jesse said. “I wish I were. But we’ll be on the lookout.”
“Those children,” Miriam said. “They are the camel’s nose under the tent.”
“And it’s a slippery slope from there, I imagine,” Jesse said.
“Perhaps I should take my story to the media,” Miriam said.
“Perhaps you already have,” Jesse said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Jesse waved his hand.
“Well, whether I have or not,” Miriam said, “I certainly shall. And I expect a more sympathetic hearing than I get from you.”
“They are permitted to deal in allegation and innuendo,” Jesse said. “I am not.”
“I know what I saw,” Miriam said.
“We both do,” Jesse said. “Molly, could you show Ms. Fiedler out, please.”
20.
Crow sat in his rental car parked on a curb in the old town section of Paradise, where the houses crowded against the sidewalk. He had circled the block for more than an hour before a spot had opened up within view of the narrow old house on Sewall Street where Mrs. Franklin lived with her daughter. He sipped some coffee from a big paper cup. He wasn’t impatient. He had all the time necessary. No hurry. Crow couldn’t really remember ever being in a hurry.
A little after two in the afternoon, a big woman with a lot of coal-black hair came out of the house and started up the street. Her hair was a black that no Caucasian woman could achieve without chemical help. She probably wasn’t quite as heavy as she looked, but her breasts were so ponderous that they enlarged her. She wore large harlequin sunglasses.
Crow took a photograph from his inside pocket and looked at it and then at the woman. Could be. She passed the car barely three feet from Crow. Up close, her face was puffy and reddish. She wore too much makeup, badly applied. She would be older now, and, of course, the picture was a glamour shot, designed to make her look as good as she could. She was blonde in the picture. But that was easily changed. Probably her.
Crow made no move to follow her. He simply sat. In about twenty minutes she came back carrying a paper bag. As she passed the car, Crow could see that the bag contained two six-packs of beer. She went back into her house and closed the door behind her. Crow sat. At about 3:50 the front door opened again and a girl came out. She, too, had very black hair. But hers had a candy-apple-red stripe in it. She used black lipstick and a lot of black makeup around her eyes. She had on a mesh tank top and cutoff denim shorts and black cowboy boots with a red dragon worked into the leather.
Crow took out another picture and looked at it. It was a school picture taken several years ago. Again, the hair color had changed. The makeup was different. She was older. But it was probably Amber Francisco, aka Alice Franklin. She passed Crow heading in the same direction as her mother had, toward Paradise Square. After she passed, he watched her in the rearview mirror. At the top of Sewall Street she met three kids on the corner. They were three of the survivors from 12A Horn Street. One of them was Esteban Carty. The girl and the three men went around the corner. Crow tapped “shave and a haircut, two bits” on the tops of his thighs for a moment. Then he took a cell phone out of the center console and punched up a number.
“I found her,” he said. “Her and her mother. But in a couple minutes she’s going to know I found her. How you want me to handle it.”
“How’s she look,” the voice said at the other end of the connection.
“The kid?” Crow said.
“Of course the kid, I don’t give a fuck how Fiona looks.”
Crow smiled but kept the smile out of his voice.
“Looks fine,” he said.
“She pretty?”
“Sure,” Crow said.
“She’s fourteen now, sometimes they change.”
“She looks great,” Crow said.
“Fiona know about you?”
“Not yet. I assume the kid will tell her,” Crow said.
“She might. She might not. Can’t take the chance. Kill Fiona and bring me the kid.”
Crow took the cell phone from his ear for a moment
and looked at it. Then he put it back and spoke into it.
“Sure,” he said, and folded shut his cell phone and sat where he was.
21.
“You guys reestablish contact with Crow yet?” Jesse said.
He was in the squad room with Suitcase Simpson, Arthur Angstrom, Peter Perkins, and Molly.
“He knows he’s being tailed,” Suit said. “He loses us whenever he wants to. You know that.”
“I know,” Jesse said. “Just asking.”
“We been staking out his house,” Arthur said. “Figure he’ll show up there pretty soon.”
“Got a notice out on his car?” Jesse said.
“Car’s at the house,” Arthur said.
“Maybe he’s got another one,” Jesse said.
“Another one?”
“Leave the car at home,” Jesse said. “Take a cab, rent another car. Cops don’t have your number.”
“If he can spend that kind of dough,” Angstrom said.
Arthur was defensive by nature.
“Arthur,” Molly said. “This guy left here ten years ago with about twenty million dollars in cash.”
“He’s got that kind of dough, why’s he here working?” Angstrom said.
“Maybe likes the work,” Suit said.
“Maybe he owes a guy a favor,” Perkins said.
“Maybe he blew the twenty million,” Angstrom said.
Jesse shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Crow didn’t blow the twenty million.”
“How do you know,” Arthur said.
“He wouldn’t,” Jesse said. “Why don’t you call around to some local rental agencies, see if he rented a car.”
“Maybe he didn’t use his real name,” Arthur said. “Maybe got himself a whole phony ID.”
“Maybe,” Jesse said.
“But you want me to call.”
“I do,” Jesse said.
He looked around the squad room.
“Anything else?”
“You still want a cruiser at the Crowne estate when the buses arrive,” Molly said.
“Yep.”
“Arrival and pickup?”
“Yep.”
“That’d be you this morning, Peter,” Molly said.
Perkins nodded.
“Anything else?” Jesse said.
The Jesse Stone Novels 6-9 Page 22
