The Jesse Stone Novels 6-9

by Robert B. Parker

  “Was he with Reggie for long?”

  “You know how it goes with these guys,” Healy said. “They work for a while, they go away. They come back. We don’t have the resources to keep track of everybody, and low-life boppers don’t get all that much of our time. Best I can tell you, he’s been with Reggie the last several years.”

  “He ever work for Knocko?”

  “Don’t know,” Healy said. “You don’t like them being neighbors, do you?”

  “Coincidences don’t work for me,” Jesse said.

  “Me, either.”

  “But you got no explanation,” Jesse said.

  “No.”

  “And you a captain,” Jesse said. “What about Reggie?”

  “Reggie had a good piece of the action in the North End and Charlestown, Everett, Revere, Malden. We tag-teamed him with the Feds, turned some witnesses, and sent him away for five.”

  “You like working with the Feds?” Jesse said.

  Healy shrugged.

  “Lot of ’em ain’t really street cops,” Healy said. “But they got great information.”

  “They got the money to pay for it,” Jesse said.

  “And they do,” Healy said.

  He took a manila envelope out of his briefcase and put it next to Ognowski’s picture on Jesse’s desk.

  “Names and numbers are in there,” Healy said. “Read ’em at your leisure.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “When did he get out of jail?”

  “Twelve years ago,” Healy said.

  “Back in business?” Jesse said.

  “Sort of,” Healy said. “We can’t prove it yet. But as far as we can tell, he’s like some sort of warlord, you know. He gets a skim off every bet made, every whore bought, every joint smoked, every number purchased, every loan sharked. He gets this everywhere he used to run things. So he doesn’t have to do much, just be Reggie Galen, and the cash just keeps on coming.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “He has members of his staff,” Healy said, “go and collect it.”

  “Which was where Ognowski comes in.”

  “Yep. Got a bunch of Ognowskis,” Healy said. “They protect and collect, you might say.”

  “And Knocko’s got no part of it?”

  “Don’t know,” Healy said. “When you called you didn’t ask me about Knocko. He hasn’t shown up in the morning report anytime recent.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll find out something,” Jesse said.

  “You gonna talk to them?”

  “I’ll go visit Reggie, see what develops.”

  “Something you need to keep in mind,” Healy said. “I know it, and a couple of the OC boys mentioned it. Reggie’s a slick item. He’s quite pleasant, seems like a good guy, easygoing. But he ain’t. I don’t know if he’d kill a cop, but I don’t know that he wouldn’t. Depends on how bad he needs to, I think. I don’t know if he’s got a soul or not. But I know he’s got no conscience.”

  “How about fear?” Jesse said. “He got any of that?”

  “He can cause it, but no, I don’t think he’s afraid of much.”

  Jesse grinned.

  “Wait’ll he gets a load of me,” he said.

  Healy nodded slowly.

  “That’s what worries me,” he said.

  9

  THE TWO GATED ESTATES stood side by side on the open Atlantic side of Paradise Neck. They looked as if someone had flipped a picture. Both were rambling gray-shingled mansions whose focus was the ocean that broke against the foot of their sloping backyards. Each had a long driveway that curved up around the house to a parking area at the top. The driveways and parking areas were both cobblestone. Jesse couldn’t remember who had moved there first. Who was copying whom? The flower beds were similar. The shade trees were similar. There were blue hydrangeas growing near each front porch.

  The gate to Reggie Galen’s house was closed. Jesse stopped with the nose of his car at the gate. Inside the gate, on the left, there was a guard shack disguised as a small carriage house. One of its two doors opened on Jesse’s side of the gate, and a tall man with a good tan and salt-and-pepper hair came out. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and a white shirt with epaulets, with the shirttails out, over dark slacks.

  “May I help you?” he said.

  “My name is Jesse Stone,” Jesse said. “I’m the chief of police here in Paradise, and I am here to see Mr. Galen.”

  “What is your business with Mr. Galen,” the guard said.

  “Police,” Jesse said.

  The guard nodded thoughtfully.

  “I don’t think Mr. Galen’s much interested in police business,” the guard said.

  “You got a license for that piece?” Jesse said.

  “A license?” the guard said.

  “A license to carry.”

  “I ain’t carrying,” the guard said.

  “Yeah,” Jesse said, “you are, right hip, under the shirttail.”

  The guard looked at Jesse. Jesse looked at the guard.

  “May I see your gun license?” Jesse said.

  “Lemme call up to the house,” the guard said. “Tell ’em you’re coming.”

  “Sure,” Jesse said.

  By the time he had driven up over the cobblestones and parked in the turnaround beside the house, two guys in seersucker sport coats and pink Lacoste polo shirts were standing on the side porch. Jesse got out and walked toward them.

  “Chief Stone,” one of them said.

  He was a pleasant-looking man, about Jesse’s size. He was clean shaven and tanned and had a nice, healthy look about him.

  “Here to see Mr. Galen,” Jesse said.

  “Chief of all the police?” the other man said. “In this whole big town?”

  This man was younger and bigger, a bodybuilder with a crew cut and a tiny beard that occupied about two triangular inches below his bottom lip. Jesse looked at him for a moment without saying anything.

  “You have a gun,” the older man said.

  “I do,” Jesse said.

  “Generally we’re not supposed to let anyone bring a gun inside,” the older man said.

  “But there’s probably an exception for chiefs of police,” Jesse said.

  “I don’t see no reason for exceptions,” the younger man said.

  The older man looked at him and then at Jesse and rolled his eyes.

  “Normie,” he said. “It ain’t always wise to start up with the cops.”

  Normie snorted.

  “What kind of cop work you do?” Normie said. “Bust people for clamming out of season?”

  “What’s your name?” Jesse said to the older man.

  “Bob Davis,” the man said.

  “Can we stop horsing around with Joe Palooka here and go on in and see Mr. Galen?”

  “What’s that mean?” Normie said. “What’s he mean, Joe Palooka?”

  Bob smiled and shook his head.

  “The perfect combo,” he said to Jesse. “Stupid and aggressive.”

  “Hey,” Normie said. “Who you—”

  Bob looked at him and said, “Shhh.”

  Normie stopped.

  “Stay here,” Bob said to Normie.

  Then he looked at Jesse and nodded for him to head toward the porch door. Bob’s got a little clout, Jesse thought, as he followed him through the door.

  10

  REGGIE GALEN and his wife were having coffee together on their back deck, under a white awning, watching the iron-colored waves break against the rust-colored rocks at the foot of their lawn.

  “Chief Stone,” Bob said. “Mr. and Mrs. Galen.”

  Galen glanced up at Jesse and nodded. Mrs. Galen stood and put out her hand.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Rebecca Galen.”

  “Jesse Stone.”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I would,” Jesse said.

  She poured him some from a silver pot.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

 
“Both,” Jesse said. “Three sugars.”

  She gestured toward a chair.

  “Please,” she said.

  When he was seated across from Reggie, she handed him his coffee. Rebecca poured more coffee into her husband’s cup and a little more into her own. Then she sat down next to her husband and patted his forearm. Bob stood back a little and watched.

  “You can go, Bobby,” Reggie said.

  Bob nodded and left without a word.

  “I love Bob,” Rebecca said.

  Her husband grinned at her.

  “Maybe I better get rid of him,” he said.

  “No need,” Rebecca said. “I love you more.”

  “Whaddya thinka that,” Reggie said to Jesse. “Woman like her saying things like that to me.”

  “Glad to see you’re happy,” Jesse said.

  “Oh,” Rebecca said, “we are.”

  Reggie nodded. Rebecca was a knockout in white shorts and a black top. Dark hair cut shorter in the back than the front. Tan skin, big eyes, wide mouth. She was slim, but she looked strong. Reggie was tall and big-boned. He had a square face and an aggressive nose.

  “So,” Reggie said. “How’d you know my guy at the gate had a gun on his right hip?”

  “I guessed,” Jesse said.

  “And you guessed he was right-handed?”

  “Most people are, and he was wearing a watch on his left wrist.”

  “Wow,” Reggie said. “No wonder you made chief.”

  “It was nothing,” Jesse said.

  “What would you have done if you were wrong?”

  “I’da thought of something else,” Jesse said.

  “I’ll bet you would. Whaddya need?”

  “Petrov Ognowski,” Jesse said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead,” Jesse said.

  “Petey?”

  “Somebody shot him in the back of the head. Probably with a .22 Mag,” Jesse said.

  “When?” Reggie said.

  Jesse told him. Rebecca stopped rubbing Reggie’s forearm but left her hand resting on top of his.

  “Goddamn,” Reggie said. “I wondered where he was.”

  “Ognowski worked for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Security,” Reggie said.

  “Like Bob,” Jesse said.

  “Sort of,” Reggie said. “Bob’s, like, my guy. Petey was more like Normie and the guy at the gate. They took direction from Bob.”

  “And Bob takes direction from you?”

  “Me and Becca,” Reggie said.

  “You got any idea why Petey got shot?” Jesse said.

  “No,” Reggie said. “Let’s not bullshit each other. You know, and I know, I was in the rackets. You know, and I know, I done time. And you know, and I know, that everybody thinks I’m still in the rackets.”

  “Which he isn’t,” Rebecca said.

  “And if he were?” Jesse said.

  “I married him when he was,” Rebecca said.

  “And if he were again?” Jesse said.

  “I married him forever,” Rebecca said.

  “How long you been married?” Jesse said.

  He had no idea where he was going. But he had plenty of time.

  “Twenty-one years,” Rebecca said.

  “Wow,” Jesse said. “You’re older than you look.”

  “I was twenty,” she said.

  “Kids?”

  “No.”

  Jesse nodded and drank coffee.

  Then he said, “How’d you folks end up next door to Knocko Moynihan? Everybody thinks he’s in the rackets, too.”

  “I know,” Reggie said. “He’s married to Becca’s sister.”

  “And you’re close with your sister,” Jesse said.

  “Identical twins,” Rebecca said.

  “Close,” Jesse said.

  Both Rebecca and Reggie nodded.

  “Think Knocko knows anything about what happened to Petey?” Jesse said.

  “Might ask him,” Reggie said. “Knocko knows a lot.”

  “And you don’t,” Jesse said.

  Reggie smiled.

  “I know a lot, too,” he said. “Just not about this.”

  11

  THE PATRIARCH of the Bond of the Renewal dyed his hair. It was the first thing Sunny knew for sure as she sat in the kitchen of the Renewal House and drank some tea with him. Without sugar.

  “We don’t allow sugar in the Renewal,” the Patriarch said. “It’s a stimulant.”

  “And the tea is not?” Sunny said.

  “The tea is soothing,” the Patriarch said. “It quiets the soul.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Sunny said.

  The Patriarch smiled.

  He was wearing a white linen shirt and white linen pants with reverse pleats. There were tan leather sandals on his feet. He appeared to have had a recent pedicure.

  “You will probably find several of our practices amusing. But they all conspire to make us what we are.”

  “I’m hoping to chat with Cheryl DeMarco,” Sunny said.

  The Patriarch nodded. He was a smallish man with a smooth, pleasant face and some shoulder-length silver hair that must have taken some frequent color work to maintain.

  “Why?” he said.

  “Her parents want her to come home.”

  “You are a private detective?” the Patriarch said.

  “Yes.”

  “May I see something that says so?”

  “Sure,” Sunny said, and gave him something.

  He read and nodded.

  “You are not, I hope”—he wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips as if he’d encountered a bad smell—“a deprogrammer.”

  “No,” Sunny said. “Probably don’t believe in it, and if I did I wouldn’t know how to go about it.”

  “That’s a relief,” the Patriarch said. “I can understand why her parents would want her home. Most parents want their children home. But why not simply ask her. Why hire you?”

  “They think you are a bunch of whackdoodles,” Sunny said.

  “Whackdoodles,” the Patriarch said.

  “Whackdoodles,” Sunny said.

  The Patriarch smiled.

  “I must say, you are direct.”

  “Surely you must be used to it. A lot of people must think you’re odd.”

  He nodded.

  “They do,” he said. “And I find it puzzling. There’s nothing particularly odd in our teachings.”

  “What are your teachings,” Sunny said.

  “We believe in a pervasive benign spiritual presence in the universe. We feel no need to define it more exactly. We believe it is manifest in every aspect of daily life, if one will but pay attention. We oppose anything that clouds our perception of that spirit. We oppose anything that clouds our ability to connect to this spirit. We don’t drink alcohol or coffee. We don’t permit drug use, including nicotine. We don’t believe living creatures should suffer for us, so we are vegetarians.”

  “No sympathy for the poor turnip?” Sunny said.

  “You’re teasing, I know. But we are aware that without death, there can be no life. It is a central myth of most religions.”

  “Death and rebirth,” Sunny said.

  “Of course,” the Patriarch said. “Are you an educated person?”

  “I don’t know,” Sunny said. “I went to college.”

  “So, yes,” the Patriarch said. “We have to consume other living things, or we die. But we try to keep the consumption at the lower end of the chain of being.”

  He shrugged.

  “It’s the best we can do,” he said.

  “You haven’t mentioned your teachings on sex,” Sunny said. “It’s a hot subject with parents.”

  “Ah, yes,” the Patriarch said. “Sex.”

  “That one,” Sunny said.

  “Let me ask you what you believe.”

  “About sex?”

  “Yes.”

&
nbsp; Sunny smiled.

  “I like it,” she said.

  “Yes, most of us do as well. We believe in consenting adults. We believe in sex as an expression of affection, and we disapprove of sex as an expression of pathology.”

  “Well,” Sunny said. “I can certainly see why her parents are horrified.”

  The Patriarch looked genuinely startled.

  “You can?”

  “Sarcasm,” Sunny said.

  “Oh, excuse me,” the Patriarch said. “I am often too earnest.”

  “Better than the reverse,” Sunny said. “Where do you get your funding?”

  “I am quite wealthy,” the Patriarch said.

  “Is this your house?”

  “It is.”

  “How’d you get wealthy,” Sunny said.

  “I inherited my parents’ wealth,” he said.

  “No heavy lifting,” Sunny said.

  “My parents were a pretty heavy burden when they were alive,” the Patriarch said. “But no, I’ve never had to scramble for money.”

  “Parents can be a heavy burden even when they are no longer alive,” Sunny said.

  “So the psychiatrists would have you believe,” the Patriarch said.

  “But you don’t believe them?”

  “Psychiatry is superfluous,” the Patriarch said. “If we open our soul and simplify our life, the benevolence of the universe will flow into us.”

  Sunny nodded.

  “Would it be possible to speak with Cheryl DeMarco?”

  “Of course,” the Patriarch said.

  12

  SUNNY SAT WITH CHERYL and her boyfriend on the patio in the front of the house, where below them in the harbor sailboats bobbed at their moorings and fishing boats went purposefully. The boyfriend was a tall, husky blond kid with a blank, sincere face. He sat beside Cheryl and held her hand.

  “This here is Todd,” Cheryl said. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Nice to meet you, Todd,” Sunny said.

  Todd nodded a hard-bitten nod. He was there, Sunny realized, to prevent her from throwing Cheryl over her shoulder and dashing off.

  “Are you, honest to God, a private eye?” Cheryl said.

  She was small and soft, with a smooth, round face, no makeup, and straight blond hair that hung to her shoulders.

  “Honest to God,” Sunny said.

  “You got a gun?”